Tucked away behind a row of trees at the top of Windmill hill, sits a whitewashed cottage overlooking Travone Bay known to the locals as Malie Point. Its front completely symmetrical, two wide bay windows stand either side of the two smaller ones nestled between them. The grey slate tiles perch jauntily in rows along the roof. The door, painted a deep navy blue, is tucked away to the side of the house, a tattered welcome mat sits invitingly on the doorstep; a pair of my old muddy wellies perched neatly beside it. The cottage sits comfortably surrounded by a maze of narrow lanes and wild hedgerows that snake their way down the hill, past the village church and corner shops on the sharp bend, winding past new holiday lets and developments- designed to give slick city highfliers a slice of a more sedate way of life during the weekends- before coming to a stop where the road ends and the beach begins.
I loved our cosy topsy- turvey bungalow growing up. The bottom floor is shaped like an upside down L, The front door opening to the entrance hall corridor that houses three smaller bedrooms and a bathroom at the end of the hall. Directly to the right, another corridor leads to the master bedroom and Nan's study before opening out into a spacious, airy kitchen, the sliding glass doors leading out onto the veranda adorned with vines, fruit and the twinkle lights that hadn't been removed since my 18th birthday party. The veranda offers a bird's eye view of Nan's precious garden; her pride and joy. She'd squeezed flowers into every crevice of the garden; a wildness and a freedom to the garden that I'd always loved. Flora and Fauna had to battle it out at Malie Point, nudging each other for that little bit of extra room. Some had over spilled from their pots and wound their way up and along the trellises. I used to think of it as a secret little jungle just waiting to be explored like the Amazon; my own little corner of the world. I'd spend hours helping Nan dig the flowerbeds and planting seeds whilst waiting and hoping they'd sprout new life in the months to come. The entire property was enclosed by a line of trees where I'd hung lamps, lights and wind chimes over the years. When the sun was at its highest the best place to sit was in the right hand corner near the circular stone patio made from mosaic so Nan had placed a rickety metal table and chairs. It was where Qaseem liked to sit quietly in the mornings reading the morning papers as he sipped his coffee; a few precious minutes of peace before starting his day.
The top floor had always been the part of the house that I loved the most. The sloping roof space had been converted into a cosy lounge, with long sofa's lining the entire length of one wall, a small log burner the only focus on the wall opposite. At the end, another patio door opened outwards onto a small balcony, where I'd sit and listen to the waves and watch the flickering light from the lighthouse in the distance. Whilst my childhood in London had been traumatic and unstable, my life in Cornwall was an idyllic contrast. Although we didn't have a lot of money, I never wanted for anything. We holidayed locally, travelling from coast to coast in Nan's battered old car spending the days walking or cycling along endless beaches. One day I was a rogue pirate searching for seashells and other oddities washed up by the shore lines, the next a fisherman hunting for crabs in rock pools or fishing off the sea harbour wall. Other times I pretended to be a shop keeper practising my maths skills helping Nan sell her jams and preserves at the local markets and stalls. I never lacked for company as both the B and B and Padstow always managed to attract an array of colourful characters as they past through looking for some peace and relaxation.
When Nan originally purchased the property, just after Grandad died, two small stone bungalows, identical in their layout, had stood in their place. She'd brought both with the idea to live in one and convert the other into basic but comfortable accommodation for weary travellers in the hope of making some money in the process. With time, word soon spread and a steady stream of guests arrived to take advantage of the idyllic setting. When they left, after several days or sometimes weeks of relaxation, good food and hearty sea air, they would hopefully look and feel a whole lot better. Nan encouraged her guests to take advantage of the outdoors, knowing instinctively which route would suit each guest so they took maximum enjoyment from the miles of coastal walkways that stretched around the headland to the neighbouring beaches. Failing that, she recommended the best painting and photography spots or, for the adventurous types, persuaded them to try surfing, paddle boarding and other water sports down on the beach (something she'd failed to ignite in me since I had a fear of open water.)
As time when on and more and more visitors poured in, Nan decided to branch out even more. I was barely twenty and had just returned from my first assignment as a war photographer in Afghanistan and couldn't get the harrowing things I'd experienced out of my nut. When I'd returned, a fellow fragged soldier in tow, Nan had the bright idea of turning the B and B into a retreat. She had even managed to secure a contract with the Ministry of Defence. They'd asked her to set aside a considerable number of weeks per year for military personnel until eventually she had enough returning customers to dedicate the retreat to them entirely. The only proviso was that I wasn't allowed to ask questions. So I didn't.
The bungalows were joined and converted into the whitewashed two story cottage that stands today. I'd insisted on keeping the original layout; with the downstairs being extended out to hold more bedrooms. The loft lounge remained the same; with the welcomed addition of a small library and various hidden nooks and window spaces that were turned into quite reading areas. The veranda became a communal area, with the garden stretching out to encompass the couple of acres of land that lay beyond the properties original boundary. Tucked in the left corner at the back of the property was an old outhouse that I had converted into a mini studio and darkroom. The garden was tended so that we became self-sufficient in terms of the fruit, vegetables, herbs and poultry that we kept. The guests, making good use of their military training, often helped out with the chores and cooking responsibilities, so that Nan was left with very little to do. Many a long, lazy summer night were spent sat around open fires and barbeques, the sounds of war stories, punctuated with laughter and comradery, floated along the breeze through my window sending me to sleep every night. I never resented the seemingly endless stream of visitors that invaded my home. At first, I thought I'd be more protective and territorial of the place that had provided me with much peace and stability. I only had to look at the soldiers exhausted faces and clouded, dead eyes to know that they deserved a safe place to land as much as I did; if not more. Individuals come and go. Just when I got to know one of them they'd move on, not to return for another year or so. That was just the way at Malie Point.
One particular individual came and never really left- Qaseem. He'd been at Malie Point for almost as long as I could remember and had been a steadfast presence in my life ever since. The only real father figure I'd ever had. A former English Literature teacher in Kabul, he'd been left devastated after the Taliban had killed his wife and daughter and had fled to England. He spent some time wandering aimlessly around the country teaching here and there until he had been drawn to the Cornish area thanks to his love of the poet John Betjeman. From there he had somehow found his way to us at Malie Point. He'd stayed for a number of years but the yearning for his homeland had never really left him and he'd returned to Afghanistan when I was in my late teens. He began working alongside the British Army and spent some time as a translator with the ANA thinking he could do more good before coming back to England for good and helping Nan set up the retreat. I've fond memories of his retellings of famous stories and poems. He'd even been the one to buy me my first camera. A Polaroid that I had adored. He and Nan were…close you might say. He was great company for her. They had found a kinship in each other that had started as respect and gratitude but deepened into adoration through the years. Despite being polar opposites, they somehow balanced each other out and remaining kindred spirits right until the very end.
I remember when I received the phone call from Qaseem at my flat in Cirencester urging me to come down to see Nan like it was yesterday. When I arrived, I'd been shocked at how frail she had looked. I'd seen her only a few weeks before and she'd looked almost normal, if a little tired. Although she was too weak to talk, she knew I was there. I'd carefully lay on the bed next to her, squeezing her bony hand carefully in my warm one, trying hard to keep the tears at bay. It was then that she had gathered the strength to smile down at me with warm green eyes that so mirrored my own. Her cracked lips ghosted across my forehead in a barely there kiss. "My little trouper," she'd whispered. She'd always call me her little trouper. A gentle reminder that no matter what life threw at me I never gave up. I was a fighter. When I got kicked down, I'd get right back up, dust myself off and keep on going. Nothing and no one kept me down for long. Qaseem stood faithfully in the doorway, his eyes filled with anguish at being unable to offer any comfort or fix the situation like he was so used to doing. Despite everything, Nan passed away quietly not long after I'd arrived. The local doctor, who I hadn't realised had been in the room, was quick to confirm time of death. In that moment something broke within me and I felt the chord that had tethered me to Nan and Malie Point physically snap deep within my chest. I'd lost the warmth and security that had sustained me ever since I'd left my parents behind. In that moment I'd never felt so alone or adrift.
Within minutes I had pushed myself to my feet and made for the front door, the pounding of my feet loud on the pavement as I'd torn down the road not thinking about where I was going. All I knew was that I needed to get away. My feet carried me along the familiar winding path that led to the beach. Reaching Travon road, I passed the surf shop, the cliff top houses and out onto the headland. My lungs burned, desperate for oxygen but I pushed on up the coastal path until I came to a familiar bench. Collapsing, I finally let myself succumb to my grief. It was ironic that the evening had turned out so beautifully. The sky was clear, alight with thousands of stars twinkling mockingly down at me as if they relished in my grief. I don't know how long I sat there, the only sounds that filtered through my consciousness were the slow hiss of the waves as they crashed repeatedly against the jagged rocks below. I don't remember how I got back to Malie nor do I remember falling asleep. All I do know was that when I woke up I was angry.
In the days that followed I was ashamed to admit that I directed most of that anger at Qaseem. "You should have told me she'd gotten worse. She was my Nan," I yelled and threw things in an attempt to vent my anger. I was hurting and wanted him to feel the betrayal and rawness I was feeling. "She'd been sat in the garden only a few days ago Molly. Nobody could have predicted how fast things would go downhill. Had I known I would have called you. I tried but your Nan wouldn't let me. What is it you English say, stubborn as a mule? That was your Nan." My initial anger and fear slowly trickled away leaving me feeling too drained to keep up the pretence any longer. Calming a little, I sat burrowed against his side on the sofa listening as he talked. I'd always taken great comfort in Qaseem's presence growing up. His broad chest and calming tones had been a wonderful balm whilst I fretted over some teenage angst- or bemoaned the unfairness of a decision Nan had made; convinced as I was that she was doing it purely to ruin my life. Typical teenage girlie stuff. He was the wise one, the voice of reason in our house often stepping in to play the peacemaker before either of us said something we'd regret. He said very little but when he did speak you always felt as if you were coming away having learnt a valuable life lesson.
Waiting for the funeral left me desolate and numb. I'd become restless, unable to sit still for long. There was too much jitterbug in my nut. I knew I was fretting about what was to happen next. What would happen to the retreat? Would Qaseem stay here and keep it running? Did I even have a right to ask it of him? What about my mother? Would she make a suddenly appearance or not? In all honesty I wasn't sure I was ready to see her again after all this time. Not with my wounds still so open and raw. I needed time to heal, to fix the chinks in my armour before I could face her. Even the house seemed to be in mourning. I'd never know Malie Point to be so quiet and still. I was thankful that the residence had chosen to stay on for the funeral. Malie Point would have lost its soul completely if everyone had left. I wandered aimlessly from room to room my fingers ghosting over Nan's collection of trinkets and keep sakes- a lifetime of memories. Nothing looked or felt right now she was gone. It was if all the joy and life had left the place when she had. Feeling the walls slowly begin to close in with all my unanswered questions I grabbed my camera bag and retreated to the beach.
It had been one of my favourite childhood haunts-the nook above the cliff top bench that overlooked one of the bay's picturesque beauty spots. The nook was a natural carved hollow on the side of the cliff, forming where the gravel path fell away to meet the grassy slope below before dropping into the sea. It was plenty big enough for me to sit in and supported my back perfectly. The beauty of the hollow was this: I could see anyone seated on the bench below me, but nobody could see me- hidden amongst the overgrown grass and rushes- unless they were looking directly above them. It was perfect. Having rediscovered my old Polaroid camera in a box under the stairs- complete with a role of working film- I spend the days until the funeral returning to the nook above the cliff, taking photos of the sea and the various dog walkers strolling along the winding paths. On the second day a man appeared on the footpath. I didn't recognise him but assumed he must be a newcomer to the retreat. He had an air about him. The sort of person you can't help but feel drawn to the minute he walked into a room. His presence was magnetic. I couldn't work out his age as his face was obscured by a dark beard. He limped toward the cliff edge pausing for a minute to stare pensively into the horizon, hands on hips, body taught and muscles rippling with tension before he lowered himself heavily onto the bench; the aged wood screaming in protest as it took his weight. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a warn book, the spine cracked with age and the title barely visible as he began to read. I found my eyes drawn to his long fingers as they traced the words on the page, his lips barely moving as he mouthed the words. He clearly knew this book well. He lingered on the bench for an hour or so, only moving to turn a page before he returned the book to his pocket and making his way slowly and steadily back the way he had come.
He returned to the same spot at the same time the next day, and the next, with military precision, right up until the funeral. I remained hidden, watching, fascinated. His eyes looked down as they roved over the pages so I could only get the occasional glimpse of his face and eyes when he glanced up at the sky- captivated like a moth to the flame. He had tired eyes, I could see that much at least. They were edged with sun-scorched lines as if he's spent a significant amount of time in the sun wearing sunglasses. Every day he wore a similar outfit. A cap worn backwards masked his hair, only the occasional dark wisp visible at the base of his neck. A faded hoody and jeans worn low on his hips covered his legs and arms so I had no way of knowing whether his skin was tanned from the sun. The only interesting thing about his appearance was the boot that encashed his left leg. A war injury perhaps?
By the final day he was almost finished with his book when he did something surprising and completely out of the blue. He began to read aloud. As his smooth voice carried across the wind like velvet, the words seemed to resonate with something deep inside me. I sat frozen, mesmerised by the oddly familiar words that flowed like honey from his lips. As his last words fell away and he stood up one last time, I could have sworn his head tiled inquisitively in my direction as if he was checking to see if I was listening. I was grateful for his quiet presence, he had inadvertently brought me comfort during the worse week of my life. In the coming months I'd often think of him- his words a calming influence. My man o' the cliffs. It wasn't until much later that the piece of the puzzle fell into place and I could place the book he had been reading. It was one of Qaseem's favourites. Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.
The Church of St Saviours, Padstow, was filled to the rafters with people. The building was too small to accommodate for everyone who wanted to say their goodbyes, leaving many standing in the aisles and pouring out through the doors into the courtyard. The service was heart felt and funny, the reverend having captured Nan's personality and colourful life perfectly having known her for so long. Afterwards, when everyone had decamped to the Well Parc for a few drinks, Qaseem had told me he would be staying on to help run the retreat until the details of the will were finalised. I didn't ask for any details beyond that- my attention caught by a flash of blonde hair and the way the air suddenly felt heavy with a scent that I felt I knew but couldn't quite place. I frowned and sighed in frustration as I tried to identify the base note but it was like trying to capture a grain of sand as it slid between my fingertips. I barely saw Qaseem after that. It was a cowardly thing to do I know, but I was still smarting from being lied to. A small rational part of my brain knew deep down that Qaseem wasn't at fault but sometimes grief can make you selfish. I left soon after with a stiff goodbye. One thing I knew for sure; no matter what happens, one day I'd return to Malie Point- for good.
