INVENTING EMILY / Chapter 1

INVENTING EMILY CHAPTER 1 As soon as he telephoned, I knew Dad had made up his mind to buy that bloody awful house. It was bad enough that he had decided to retire to Cornwall - I mean, the back of beyond! - but then to go and saddle himself with that old monster was sheer stupidity.
     He was trying his best to sound casual, waffling on about how difficult it was to find a property that was exactly right, how compromises had to be made, and how one shouldn't be put off just because a few repairs were required - a whole array of excuses to justify what he intended to do anyway.
     But eventually he got around to what he had been leading up to.
     Did I recall the farmhouse he had mentioned the last time he called? The one that was standing empty?
     Oh yes. I remembered it. How could I forget? Sounded a real dump.
     Well, he had had another look. It was on the Lizard Peninsula, near Poltesco. 'You remember Poltesco, Julia. That's where we used to park the car when we went for walks along the coastal path.'
     A statement of fact as far as he was concerned. Oh yes, I agreed - not seeing any point in disillusionment - of course I remembered Poltesco.
     We had family holidays in Cornwall regularly when I was small, and if pushed I might have been able to dredge up the fact that they were on the Lizard, but that was as far as it went. The last time we went must have been at least fifteen years ago - I could only have been about twelve! And at twelve who cares what sodding village it was where you parked the car?
     But I couldn't tell Dad that. He seemed to believe that those holidays were the high spot of family life.
     'So, Poltesco...' I went on, pleasantly, just to show willing. 'Had it changed?'
     Apparently not. Although how would he remember anyway? We were in rose-tinted-spec territory now. Reality had flown out of the proverbial.
     Then I got the full blow-by-blow account.
     As I would doubtless remember, Poltesco was a hamlet, not a village. A few houses at the foot of a leafy valley where there was a stream which ran out into the sea. Then he was telling me all I never wanted to know about bloody watercourses. The stream was called the Poltesco River because, although it only looked like a stream, as it discharged straight into the sea, it was technically a river, which, according to him, was very logical when you came to think about it.
     There was no stopping him now. In full parental educational mood - you would think I was still at school.
     It was a delightful stream - even if it was a river - which carved its way down to the sea, meandering through thickets of bamboo and almost tropical vegetation, creating a microclimate of its own with dragonflies and tadpoles and stuff. Then it ran out across a pebble beach at Carleon Cove where he had seen gulls bathing in the fresh water.
     So that's where the house is, I interjected in order to curtail the biology lesson.
     But apparently not. It wasn't actually at Poltesco - although it probably was technically as far as the Post Office was concerned - but it sort of overlooked Poltesco. I was to imagine a lane leading off the road that followed the valley. Well, more of a track really. But quite picturesque in its way. Very rural. The local farmer used it a lot.
     You mean tractors, I said, trying to dispel an image of mud squelching under ginormous tires. My God! If he bought the bloody place I was going to have to visit him!
     Well yes, tractors, naturally. But there were no wheel ruts. Well not what you would call ruts. And anyway there were stones laid down where it might get a bit muddy.
     Muddy? One recollection I did have of Cornish holidays was the rain. Incessant rain. Even horizontal rain. And he thought the lane might get a bit muddy? Washed away, more sodding likely.
     'So the house is up this lane then?'
     'Yes, that's right.'
     He sounded pleased that I had followed his verbal perambulations.
     'And it overlooks Poltesco?'
     Apparently I was right again. The lane climbed up the side of the valley, passing behind a wooded area which was National Trust property, and then at the top there was the house with - according to him - 'a fine view of the sea and the headlands towards the south.'
     He made it sound very picturesqe, but an alarm bell had begun to ring.
     'So the house is high up?'
     Oh yes, it was high up.
     'In the wind?'
     Well, yes, sort of, if the wind came off the sea.
     'So it's exposed.'
     Well, not exactly exposed. There were lots of trees. And had he mentioned the rooks?
     Now he was going to tell me about his precious bloody rooks. Anything to change the subject. Oh, reality! Wherefore art thou, reality!
     Lots of rooks it seems. A whole damn rookery in his back garden. And he expected me to visit him? With those feathered monstrosities flying around? He knows I hate birds. And they are going to crap all over the car.
     But he seemed to have forgotten that I had a phobia about birds. Apparently the behaviour patterns of rooks were jolly interesting. He was sure I would like them.
     Where he got that idea from, God alone knew. I only hoped some local farmer would come along and shoot them all before I had to go near the place. But Dad was always a romantic: he never had his feet on the ground. Or at least that's what Mum says, although of course the last thing one wants to do is take sides. I'm sure the breakup was down to half-a-dozen of the one and half-a-dozen of the other.
     But it was amazing the big deal they made of the divorce! Bloody years before they got it sorted out! Although I suppose that's a generation thing.
     Anyway I had the questions lined up. Someone has got to be practical in this family!
     What about a survey? Was there enough equity in the place so that he would recover the costs of repairs? - another of those little drawbacks he was being so slow to discuss. It was quite obvious from what he had said the first time he mentioned the house that it was virtually derelict.
     'So...' I started, girding myself for all the evasions that were to come.
     But then I realized that Dad was speaking again, blurting something out as if he had been holding it back until then. Something else he was embarrassed about telling me. And no wonder - he was talking about a ghost.
     A ghost? He had to be off his trolley!
     'What do you mean - a ghost?' But he was oiling his way out of it. Apparently it wasn't a real ghost - whatever that was supposed to mean - Just a joke really. Ha! Ha! But he thought he had better mention it.
     Mention it? You can't just mention ghosts! People expect an explanation! I certainly did!
     'Dad! What on earth are you talking about?'
     But I never got an answer to that. Wasn't it just typical that John would choose that moment to turn up? There he was, letting the door slam as usual, calling out 'Hi, Julia! Have a good day?' with that big grin on his face - sometimes John can look really stupid.
     And of course Dad must have heard the door slam which didn't help the situation. Dad's voice had become very opaque as it always did whenever the subject of John came up. I am sure Dad hasn't really come to terms with the fact that I have a partner. But then marriage was everything to his generation. And for bloody ever. Jesus, what a life!
     And naturally Dad was taking full advantage of John's arrival and was winding up the conversation, which was infuriating as he hadn't explained anything at all about his stupid ghost, and John was being even more infuriating by pointing at his watch because we were supposed to be going out. Well, he wasn't going to get away with that! One more prod at his sodding watch and he was going to get the telephone directory wrapped around his ears!
     'Give my best wishes to John, Julia,' said Dad smoothly. 'Bye now.'