The night Diana Devlin goes missing, July 1940
In the hushed hours of deep night, the cove looks just as it did a few hundred years ago, when men gathered on its shore to lure unlucky ships on to the rocks. Some say if you’re that way inclined, sensitive to the flimsiness of what separates then from now, you can still hear the groan of timber on rock, the pitiful cries from the decks. You can see the treacherous, bobbing lamps, and the surrender of white sails sinking beneath the waves.
The blackout has returned Breakheart Cove to the seventeenth century. The civilizing lights that usually shine from houses dotting the cliffs have been snuffed out by dense-woven fabric that takes an age to put up as dusk creeps in. At Penhallow Hall, thirty-three windows must be covered as the sun sets.
Further up the coast, the war is more in evidence. There are two new pillboxes along the cliff path beyond the village of Vennor – one disguised as a tiny cottage, complete with cheery curtains of blue gingham. Further on still, straining against its steel cables, is the bloated outline of a barrage balloon. But back at Breakheart Cove there are no rolls of barbed wire to keep out the enemy. This small breach of the coastline has been forgotten by the war machine swinging into action elsewhere.
Out at sea, a bell-topped buoy is caught by the rising swell and chimes mournfully. And, as if in reply, the church bell just around the headland at Vennor begins to toll. It hasn’t been rung for nearly a year now, not since war was declared the previous September, and it’s never been rung at night.
The sound comes to people first in their dreams, but it’s too urgent to be absorbed into sleep for long. Along the coast and in the crooked, tightly packed lanes of Vennor, lights begin to go on. Teeth are put in, shoes are put on. Disbelief settles into fear. The invasion has begun. The Germans must be coming, they say to each other. The Germans must be here. But wait. There’s something strange on the beach at Breakheart Cove, where steep steps rise to the path above. As the storm clouds part briefly, the moon illuminates wax- pale limbs, awkwardly splayed. She doesn’t move, not as the rain begins to fall on her open eyes, or as the sea foam creeps and spreads, darkening the sand as it edges closer. It pulls back with a reluctant sigh before it can reach her, but the next set of waves are more determined. The distant thunder rolls for a last time as the water finally lifts and takes her.
Five hours later
At dawn, in the deep silence of the boathouse, Rose is reading someone else’s diary, her eyes moving fast across bold strokes that have bled into thick, creamy paper. The last entry was written yesterday, probably not long before the party guests began to arrive, forcing Penhallow out of its habitual solitude. The ink is only hours dry.
She closes the book with infinite care and stands on shaky legs. The last embers of her anger have been doused by clammy dread, like water filling the mouth of someone about to be sick.
‘Oh, Diana,’ she whispers. ‘What have you done?’ But she thinks she knows, even as she says the words.
Speaking aloud alters the weight of the air around her. The boathouse, silent again but for the creek water lapping beneath the floorboards, no longer feels empty. Her eyes flick to the armchair and, for an instant, she sees Diana curled there, safely asleep under one of the airmen’s jackets. But when she blinks she’s alone again, the charge gone out of the room.
She knows in her heart that Diana left last night, while the bomber’s moon still silvered the garden and the wind beat the sea into mist against the rocks. After what had happened at the party, it wouldn’t have taken much to lure Diana down to Breakheart Cove, she who can never resist the dark pull of danger.
'It wouldn’t have taken much to lure Diana down to Breakheart Cove, she who can never resist the dark pull of danger.'
Six weeks earlier
Sunday, 9th June: Diana Devlin’s diary
Starved as I am of any amusement, I begin this diary in desperation. I can think of nothing else to fill the endless hours. The quiet here is maddening. There is nothing but the sound of the sea hurling itself against the cliffs and the lonely cry of a gull. It makes one almost long for the air- raid siren.
I last kept a diary as a child, when time unwound as agonizingly slowly as it does here. I burnt that little book later, afraid someone would find it, but it was useful at the time. The accumulating words weighed me down when I felt I might float away or vanish into nothing. Perhaps they will have a similar effect here, where I increasingly find myself at the mirror, checking I haven’t disappeared.
That I’m here at all is Mother’s doing. Who else? I think a small part of her truly believes that exiling me to the very ends of England will transform me into someone better, but most of her simply wanted me gone.
‘For God’s sake, why the bloody land girls?’ I asked, when she first made the announcement. ‘Anything but them, with their fawn breeches and chilblains. Can you honestly see me mucking out stables and yanking at udders? Aren’t the Wrens rather more my speed?’
She smiled then, small eyes glittering, and I realized the old girl still had some fight left in her. The Women’s Land Army was a stroke of genius; she’d signed me up for the only war work guaranteed to be posted outside London.
I believe she dreamt up the scheme from her darkened bedroom, a damp flannel pressed to her forehead as the sirens began to echo through the streets and people turned their faces apprehensively upward. I imagine she didn’t even wait for the all-clear before she began the letter sealing my fate.
It was prescient timing, I’ll say that for her. That same afternoon, Jack Beresford had persuaded me down into the cellar of his family’s enormous, dust-sheeted house, which had been abandoned for the duration, the decent art and furniture dispatched to the country. Jack had looked so suave in his RAF uniform when he called, wings and signet ring glinting in the sun, that the subsequent fumbling and apologies among the wine and cobwebs were all the more dispiriting.
Jack’s dead now, poor old thing, lost somewhere beneath the frigid waves of the North Sea. My first kiss, and he no longer exists. When I heard, I wished I’d been a little more generous – let him do what he wanted. He was better than most of them.
Mother turned scarlet when she caught me coming in from seeing him that last time. She might be as blind as a bat but she has the nose of a bloodhound. She said I reeked of drink, but I think what she could really smell, what terrified her enough to send me packing, was Men with a capital M. Or perhaps Lust. Either will have terrified her. Still, she’s won this latest battle. Her last words, just before she slammed the door of the cab taking me to Paddington? ‘Diana, you’ll find that war, like death, is a great leveller.’ I tried to reflect on this rare pearl of wisdom while waiting on the platform for my train, head held high while everyone else was kissed and wept over, but all I could think was that it would never have occurred to her to pack me some sandwiches.
So here I find myself, banished to deepest, dreariest Cornwall, home of mead and piskies, where the locals glare and mutter under their breath when you encounter them in the lanes, and a round of sea shanties in the Mermaid passes for entertainment.
My billet is no less strange, though admittedly more civilized. I appreciate I’ve got off lightly with Penhallow Hall. I might have been sent to some Cold Comfort Farm sunk in mud and misery, where dull-eyed farm boys would have tried to mount me in the woodshed. Instead, I take my meals among the polished rosewood and silver of the formal dining room and sleep on a feather bed. There’s electricity and hot water. We don’t have to rise at dawn to plough fields or catch rats. The work is mostly weeding, planting vegetables and pruning. Even I can manage that. And yet . . . There’s something of the subtle nightmare about this house – where everything seems in order but still you’re compelled to dart from room to room, certain that grief and menace lurk somewhere, if only you keep looking. Our troubled host, Eleanor Grenville, seems perpetually on the verge of tears. Even on the good days she has the ground-down air of someone smiling bravely through exquisite suffering. It’s impossible to approach her without giving fright, however much throat-clearing one does.
The source of this internal horror may have something to do with her redoubtable mother, whose great age and confinement to an invalid’s chair have not diminished her iron grip on the place. One of the things I’ll remember about Penhallow is the unrelenting thud of her cane on the floor whenever she demands attendance. Some nights that sound reverberates along the hallways of my dreams, beating out a rhythm as I try to find my way out.
I do have some company. There’s another girl here and room for one more. I say girl: Rose is hardly that at thirty- two. In truth, I haven’t quite pinned her down yet. She fancies herself as something of an artist, with her sketch- book and wild hair, but in his photograph, her husband couldn’t look more ordinary. Frank is somewhere in the Atlantic with the navy but before the war he managed Rose’s father’s shop. Yesterday, I asked her if she was looking forward to going back one day and she gave me such an odd look. I think she secretly dreams of staying in Cornwall, scraping together the rent on a tiny cottage by selling sweet little watercolours. Rose never has a bad word to say about anyone but I’ve seen her face in unguarded moments.
The gong has just sounded for dinner, so I must rouse myself to go down. The insistence on this tradition is laughable. It’s as if we were carefree young things at a house party in 1928, dressed in our beaded finest and waving our crystal saucers at the butler for more Pol Roger. Instead, we have a scraping of butter to last a week and mud under our nails. At dinner, we have Eleanor trailing off in the middle of a sentence and Rose worrying whether she’s holding her knife correctly.
The gong-basher is Payne, Penhallow’s sepulchral retainer. A woman who makes Mrs Danvers seem jaunty. She appears both ancient and child-like (albeit a child in mourning), her poker-straight grey hair held back with a black velvet ribbon and her feet in house slippers, which allow her to creep silently about. The combination is dis- concerting, to say the least.
She’s been clutching her breast and dropping glasses ever since rumours began circulating about a Canadian airbase being built nearby. On the day she found out she was apoplectic, eyes bulging and hands trembling at the thought of all the brawling, drinking and pillaging that would ensue.
I can’t think of anything better than a bit of life in this cut-off place. I’m under no illusion that a Canadian airman will sweep in and save me, or indeed be any more adept at seduction than poor Jack Beresford. I just like it when things are shaken up. One good thing about this dreary war is that it encourages people to break the rules. To do extraordinary things they would never dare contemplate ordinarily. I welcome the thought of that. When one is as hopelessly bored as I am, one relishes a bit of danger. It takes one’s mind off oneself. And that’s always a relief.
More about the book
ONE OF RED MAGAZINE'S TOP TEN BOOKS . . .
'Wonderfully atmospheric and utterly engrossing. I hardly moved until I had read to the very last word' AJ Pearce, author of Dear Mrs Bird
'A beautiful and intriguing page-turner, where the secrets of the past cast long shadows. Cornwall springs to life in vivid colour' Dinah Jefferies
In the hushed hours of deepest night a young woman is found washed up on the rocks.
Was it a tragic accident? Or should the residents of Penhallow have been more careful about whom they invited in?
In the midst of war three women arrive seeking safety at Penhallow Hall.
Each is looking to escape her past.
But one of them is not there by choice.
As the threat of invasion mounts and the nightly blackouts feel longer and longer, tensions between the close-knit residents rise until dark secrets start to surface.
And no one can predict what their neighbour is capable of . . .
In a house full of strangers, who do you trust?
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