A Cornish Stranger by Liz Fenwick Page B

and she’d felt a thousand eyes watching her. She wondered if they watched her still from this distance. Could fairies see that far?
    â€˜Jaunty, where are you?’ her granddaughter asked.
    She smiled. ‘Away with the fairies, dear.’
    Gabriella shook her head, smiling in turn. She couldn’t hide her love, and Jaunty didn’t believe she deserved it. If – when – Gabriella knew the truth, would she feel the same?
    â€˜When you came down did you consider how you would get back up?’
    â€˜No.’ Jaunty shook her head. ‘I don’t suppose you found some muscled handsome young man on your travels today?’
    â€˜No such luck.’
    Jaunty shook her head. She doubted Gabriella would know what to do with one if she did. It was such a waste of beauty and youth. Her granddaughter stood with her jeans splattered in mud. Did Jaunty have a washing machine? She couldn’t remember, but she must. She frowned. Her memory was disappearing. Was this how it happened? Information departing in random haphazardness?
    â€˜I suppose it’s a good thing you’re so slight these days,’ Gabriella said, looking Jaunty up and down.
    â€˜Before you pick me up like a piece of luggage, let me tell you that I don’t want to go yet.’ Jaunty crossed her arms again.
    â€˜Just when would you like to go?’
    â€˜Shall we have a picnic supper here like we used to?’
    Gabriella smiled and her eyes twinkled. Jaunty was reminded again of the girl’s beauty.
    â€˜OK.’
    Jaunty was content. Now that Gabriella was onside, her granddaughter would do all in her power to make it a magical evening. Jaunty looked to the sky. It promised to be a beautiful sunset – and the fairies would approve.
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    Digging through the shed, Gabe found the barbecue and some charcoal. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, because it would require a fair bit of work, but it was a beautiful evening and a simple meal of sausages and salad should be manageable if the charcoal wasn’t too damp. Seventeen years ago she had done this with her father. He was on leave and he’d spent a magical six weeks in summer with her here. It had been the last time she’d seen him, and it was a fun and happy memory, a memory to repeat with Jaunty.
    With a bag full of equipment and a bottle of rosé wine, she made her way carefully down to the quay, telling herself that she must remember a torch on the next trip. Jaunty should be light enough to carry as she was so small now, but Gabe had the feeling that they wouldn’t be leaving until the sun had long set and the tide was fully in. The path was tricky enough in daylight but in darkness it could be hazardous.
    â€˜There you are.’
    Gabe felt Jaunty’s scrutiny.
    â€˜Good, you brought wine. Did you remember the corkscrew?’
    Gabe placed her burdens down and looked at her grandmother. ‘Don’t need it. It has a screw top.’
    â€˜Will the wine be drinkable?’ Jaunty squinted doubtfully at the bottle.
    Gabe shook her head. ‘Yes, many good winemakers now prefer screw tops to corks.’
    Jaunty folded her arms across her chest and Gabe laughed. She supposed that at ninety-two you had a right to be stuck in your ways and Jaunty had always been particular about her wines, although she had never explained how she knew so much about them.
    Before setting up the barbecue, Gabe opened the wine and handed Jaunty a glass. Her grandmother’s glance was fixed on the river as if she was expecting someone. This, of course, was ridiculous because Jaunty had always kept to herself. She communicated with the world only as necessary: the shop, the postmistress, the doctor, the bank, the gallery and Mrs Bates, who knew everyone and everything. And Jaunty never left Cornwall. She hadn’t done so even for Gabe’s graduation. Gabe had been the only one without any family there to cele­brate their