‘It’s so wonderful to be home again. It’s just like the old days. Nothing’s changed,’ said Helena, surveying the room in one swiff glance while she lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly, savouring the first rush of nicotine. Her mother had barely aged in the last few years. She was an agile sixty-year-old with plump honey skin that seemed too lubricious to dry into lines and the shining eyes of someone blessed with a strong constitution and good health. If it hadn’t been for her greying hair that she twisted into an untidy bun and the matronly clothes she wore, she wouldn’t have looked a day older than fifty. Her father’s hair was now a dignified silver which softened his craggy features and made him look less like the swarthy smuggler he had resembled when it had been black. He still said little but observed everything. When he did speak everyone listened.
‘It’s lovely to have you back,’ Polly enthused, her ruddy cheeks hot from the excitement of seeing her child and grandchildren again. ‘I’ve got the perfect friends for Federica and Hal.' she added happily. ‘Do you remember the Applebys?’
Helena looked at Toby. ‘What, that mad family who live at Pickthistle Manor?’ she replied, smiling at her brother because as children they had always tried to engage old Nuno Appleby in conversation whenever they saw him because he was Polperro’s most entertaining eccentric. He had been in his early sixties then, walking on the balls of his feet with a very straight back, nodding his tortoise-shaped head at people as he passed them as if he were mayor. He had been born in Cornwall and yet, because he had spent much of his youth in Italy studying art, he spoke with a pseudo-Italian accent and had changed his name from Nigel to Nuno. He lived in Pickthistle Manor with his daughter Ingrid, an avid bird watcher, and her writer husband Inigo and their five wild children.
‘Well, they’re not mad, dear, original perhaps, but not mad,’ Polly replied.
‘Original!’ Jake chuckled, grinning a lopsided smile that revealed one crooked wolf’s tooth. ‘And I usually count on Polly to say it like it is.’ He laughed.
‘Ingrid and Inigo have five children,’ said Polly, ignoring her husband. ‘Let me see, there must be one or two compatible with Fede and Hal.’ She squinted her pale blue eyes as she tried to remember them.
‘Well,’ interrupted Toby, ‘Sam must be about fifteen, so he’s no good.’ He recalled the rather arrogant boy who rarely spoke to anyone and always had his nose buried in a biographical dictionary.
‘Goodness no, I’m talking about Molly and Hester,’ said Polly.
‘Ah yes. Molly must be about nine and Hester seven,’ said Toby. ‘Perfect playmates. They both go to the local school so it could work very well.’
‘That would be nice for Fede,’ said Helena, watching her children who now laughed happily, playing with the presents Ramon had given them.
‘Lucien and Joey are little, Hal’s age more or less,’ Polly added. ‘I think we should invite them over for tea sometime soon.’
‘I remember Ingrid,’ Helena laughed, ‘just as crazy about animals as you, Toby. If there was a wounded creature within five miles she’d find it, box it and nurture it back to health in her airing cupboard.’
‘Well, if they weren’t wounded they pretended to be, that airing cupboard was like the Ritz,' Toby chuckled. ‘Do you remember those flea-ridden
hedgehogs she kept in the scullery?’
‘And the goose who was so vicious they couldn’t use their kitchen for a week until its leg had recovered. You can hardly talk with all your insects installed in five-star incubators,’ Helena added, grinning at her brother.
‘She still spends most of the day on the cliff painting seagulls,’ said Polly. ‘She paints beautifully.’ She sighed in admiration. ‘Mind you it’s all at the expense of those dear children who live like gypsies.’
‘Rather grand gypsies, Polly,’ Jake interjected wryly.
‘Yes, grand gypsies, but they run wild. Ingrid’s so vague and Inigo spends all day locked in his study writing or tearing through the house grumbling about everything. Best to stay out of his way I always think. Still, they are charming children even though there’s not an ounce of discipline to share between them.’
‘Do you think they’re the right sort of children for mine?’ Helena asked anxiously, flicking her ash into the bin.
‘Of course they are. Federica could do with a little freedom,’ said Polly, remembering how Federica wasn’t allowed out of her front garden without the supervision of a maid or her mother. Police patrolled the streets and the