PHOTOGRAPHS

Today, as part of her research for her next book, Emily has decided to attempt Saffron buns, a local delicacy given to schoolchildren on their yearly Sunday School outings. The pinch of tiny exotically golden strands slips through her fingers into the sticky dough.

Why would such an expensive ingredient be used in what had been such a poor county? She would have to find out if the saffron crocus was grown here, or did it signify a connection with the Arab world? She was aware that people presumed the link was way back when Cornwall traded tin with the Phoenicians, but was that valid? On her travels she remembered seeing and tasting saffron, sold in volcanic heaps in noisy, colourful Middle Eastern markets, far from the damp, green Cornish countryside. Trying to cook local recipes and researching their origins would give some credence to her new publication.          

Busy baking, Emily hears a knock at the door – strange for anyone to come through the wood to her cottage uninvited, apart from the postman. She takes off her apron, smooths down her dress and answers it.

‘Oh, it’s you – nice to see you again. Do come in.’

Anneke leans down to remove her muddy boots and steps inside. ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I wanted to ask you something.’ She seems excited but apprehensive, clutching a large brown envelope.

‘Of course. Would you like some tea? I’ve just made some saffron buns which should be ready in a few minutes.’ Emily is delighted to have some company.

I’ve really come to ask you about these.’ Anneke places the envelope carefully on the pine table. ‘When I was cleaning the ballroom – not been touched for years, the curtains are in tatters and all the furniture needed a good polishing – the drawer of that long cabinet fell open – I think it needs repairing – and out fell these photographs. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them, I’ll put them back, but I thought you might be able to tell me who these wonderful people are.’ Embarrassed and guilty, Anneke glances at Emily for reassurance.

As Emily picks up the first photograph, memories come flooding back; the ballroom, 50 years ago, full of family and friends for Edward and Margaret’s wedding reception.

‘There I am, with the other bridesmaids, gosh how we hated those dresses! There was me, that’s Edward’s cousin Clarissa, and two very badly behaved little girls, relatives of Margaret’s, of course.’

‘So this is Mr and Mrs Clemens’ wedding? I didn’t recognize her, but yes, you can see, the same lovely smile and beautiful hair, and so very slim.’

‘She did train as a dancer, never made anything of it though, and her hair does have help now.’

The couple gaze out of the faded photograph, forever laughing ecstatically, the groom gallantly lifting his wife’s train as she leans down to throw it over her arm to begin their first dance. Her curls tumble out of a formal chignon, soft around her sweet and spirited face. He is tall with a crisp nautical beard and the air of a man who has everything he ever desired.

‘And her husband, so handsome!’

Emily grumpily agrees, ‘He certainly was. There were so many girls he could have married.’

She bustles off to fetch the tea and buns. It was all flooding back, Margaret’s arrival and Edward’s immediate delight in meeting her. She had brought laughter and gaiety to the house but also a certain frivolous vulgarity. Edward no longer had time for Emily’s friendship once he had a beautiful wife.

She carefully arranges the teacups and pot with the saffron buns on a tray, straightens up and, trying hide her feelings, carries them through to the sitting room.

‘I’d known him longer than any of them. We spent so much time together as children, but when she arrived – she was at finishing school with Clarissa – no one else stood a chance. He was bowled over. And of course, his mother saw the advantage of her father’s money coming into the family, so she encouraged it. She never really liked her though, not the same class you see. Her father was in manufacturing. 

Anneke finds the English obsession with class perplexing, in Holland, success in manufacturing would be admired, but not here. Emily picks up another photograph, creased at the edges as if it had been constantly handled. A stout Shetland pony with a chubby little boy astride, beaming, his legs hardly long enough to reach the stirrups and beside him a tall, pale girl on a grey Arab, relaxed and smiling, in a meadow of buttercups on a sunny spring morning.

‘That’s Roly and Jo.’

Anneke recognizes Jo’s same fearless, confident look, the same elegant nonchalance. ‘But who is Roly?’

Emily shifts in her chair and sniffs, pouring out tea and offering buns. ‘He was Jo’s little brother. She adored her when he was little and she him, but as he got older it was so obvious that Margaret preferred him, and that was hard for Jo. She tried to discipline him, no one else did. Edward was always away, and Margaret just let Roly do whatever he liked. He got in with the wrong crowd, non-stop parties – well, Margaret always liked big parties, you should have heard the noise from the big house. I couldn’t sleep sometimes. But then…’ Emily purses her lips and leans closer to Anneke, ‘He always drove too fast – Margaret had bought him a sports car for his 18th. There’d been a party that night at Tregethlan. He careered off the road just by that corner at the bottom of the drive, hit a tree and that was it. Lucky no one else was hurt. He was probably off to town to a nightclub, drunk as he often was. You know how Margaret likes a tipple. He took after her.’

‘That’s terrible. I knew that Mr Clemens had died, but to lose a son too. Jo and her mother must have been heart broken.’

‘Margaret never got over his loss. She adored him, they were so alike. Jo is more like her father. I don’t think she and Margaret have much in common. They never seemed very close and now you never see them together.’

Anneke leans back and takes a sip of tea. The photographs showed such happy times, the perfect couple, lovely children, without a care in the world. How could it all have gone wrong?

Her own childhood had been erratic, never knowing when her mother’s partners would change or when they’d move from one commune to another tiny apartment anywhere in Europe. How she would have adored a little brother to share sunlit mornings, and a real father who loved her.

The saffron bun is warm and fragrant but rather solid. ‘I think they’re supposed to be quite heavy.’ explains Emily. Anneke savours home cooking – something she had never known, but Emily’s baking is rather strange. The ginger cake had been unusual too.           

Politely, she answers, ‘Thank you so much, may I have the recipe? I’d love to make some for Mrs Clemens. What I can’t understand is why Jo and she don’t get on. You’d think this would have brought them closer.’

‘That’s families for you.’ smiles Emily smugly, for once not regretting that she has none.

*

Chapter 16