Caught Out in Cornwall (9 page)

‘But I only saw the kitchen. And it was dark, don’t forget. Perhaps unhappy females subjugate their emotions with housework.’

Rose smiled at the idea. ‘Very philosophical. Some might, but I certainly wouldn’t dream of doing so.’

Geoff grinned at her, ‘I’ve noticed. Not that I’d call you a slut; you’re the sort that blitzes
the place once a week but it’s still bugger the cobwebs.’

‘Charming. I’m nowhere near that bad. But who was it who said something along the lines that life’s too short to stuff a mushroom?’

‘Germaine Greer, or one of her ilk. But there’s nothing wrong with your cooking, Rosie.’

She bit back a retort and, instead, said quietly, ‘Please don’t call me that, Geoff. My name’s Rose.’ Rosie had been David’s name for her. The only other person allowed to use it was Barry Rowe who had introduced her to David and who had picked up the habit from him. ‘I must go. Thanks for the cheque.’ She picked up her bag from the floor and stood. ‘Things to do. At least it’s stopped raining.’ Through the glass frontage people could be seen passing with their umbrellas now furled and, although the pavements shone wetly, sunlight was reflected in the shop windows opposite.

With much to think about Rose walked uphill towards the Bristol & West Building Society where she paid in the cheque. The staff there knew most of their customers so they exchanged some smalltalk. Then she crossed over to the greengrocer’s with its bright displays of fruit and vegetables set out on stalls on the pavement.
Because of the large selection she always bought more than was on her list. The shop also sold jars of exotic pickles and chutneys and loose, dried fruit. These latter items were added to the vegetables in her bag. She would make the cake tomorrow. Christmas was only about six weeks away. Thankfully, unlike in some towns and cities, no lights or decorations were as yet in evidence and in Newlyn and Mousehole the switching on ceremonies were not held until into December. Surely, she reasoned, if the whole commercial nonsense began too soon, with Father Christmases on every street corner, the magic would soon be lost for many children.

The wind was stiffening and already the pavements were beginning to dry. As she waited by the bus stop for a gap in the traffic wide enough to enable her to cross back over the road, Rose glanced down the steep hill which led to Penzance harbour. How different the view was from earlier. The sea was now a cobalt blue, topped with thousands of small, white-capped waves. Light dazzled from its surface. In the gap between the buildings which lined both sides of the road, she caught sight of the familiar blue hull of the
Gry Maritha
as she made her way to St Mary’s bearing the necessities of life for the
islanders who lived on the Isles of Scilly. In the winter it carried a few passengers, too, but Rose had never made the trip at that time of year. She had heard it was a very rough crossing in the winter. Naturally she had been over to the Scilly Isles on the Scillonian, but that was now docked for repairs. It always made its last trip of the year at the end of October.

There was a gap in the traffic. As she finally managed to cross the road she saw, in the distance, the rain clouds moving out to sea, drifting over towards the Lizard Point where a rainbow began to form an arc.

Now that her shopping was completed, with the additional purchases of dried fruit, the bags weighed heavier than she had anticipated. The plastic handles cut into her hands as she made her way up Causewayhead, where more fruit and vegetables were displayed on stalls in the street, along with cut flowers and hardware and pottery.

The only vehicles allowed access during shop hours were those delivering goods. There were no pavements and the uneven surface was slightly slippery in the parts which were still damp.

She was grateful when she finally reached the car park and was able to offload her bags into the boot of the car.

Once home, she unpacked the food and made a sandwich. This, and a mug of coffee, she took up to the attic where the almost finished oil stood on an easel beneath the north facing windows. The light was perfect to inspect it properly. Yes, the colours were just right. Without vanity, Rose saw that you could almost feel the texture of the granite cottages in the foreground. She even imagined she could smell the almond aroma of the flowering gorse. ‘You’ll do,’ she told it as she bit into the granary bread which she had filled with cheese and salad. But she swore as a slice of tomato slid down her front and on to the floor. That would not have happened to Carol Harte, she thought. Carol would have been seated at a table with a plate in front of her.

Rose sat on a canvas painting stool. Obsessional. Both Carol and the man she was seeing shared the same trait. So what? she asked herself as various ideas formed in her mind, ideas she would not be sharing with Jack.

Arthur was in his spacious kitchen slowly and methodically preparing the evening meal. Not yet fully adept at catering, he knew the task would take him most of the afternoon. Evelyn, as he had always known, had spoilt him. On the farm
they had shared the work; the greater part of the outdoor work being his, although Evelyn had always turned a hand when it was lambing or calving time or if one of the workers didn’t turn up. Until they had sold up and moved they had never been fully aware of just how much time they had put into the livestock, just how much of a tie they had been.

Once they had moved to their Cotswold house, Evelyn had continued to do most of the housework and cooking. Arthur now felt ashamed he had not done more to help her. Perhaps if he’d … No, it wouldn’t do to go down that road. Guilt would not bring her back. And if their GP was to be believed he had told Arthur that his wife must have been suffering symptoms for some time. ‘And her daughter takes after her, they’re both as stubborn as hell and won’t confide in anyone,’ he muttered. He often found himself talking aloud or arguing with a presenter on the radio. He was not yet used to living alone.

Once more he consulted the recipe book and wondered how women could chat whilst flitting around their kitchens and making cookery look so easy.

With three bedrooms and a separate lounge and dining room, the house was really far too
big for him but Arthur had known that when he moved it would have to be somewhere completely different from the cosy home he had shared with his wife. Here, the large rooms with their high ceilings provided a contrast with their beamed Cotswold place and he had deliberately tried to create a more masculine environment. But it was also an investment. He lived on very little; it was something Rose would be able to sell at a good profit when his time came to join Evelyn.

Evelyn’s things had been disposed of before the move, but not even Rose knew that he had kept her favourite nightdress and her hair brush in which a few strands of her hair remained. Sentimental old fool, he told himself, as he tasted the beef and wine casserole; a meal he had been led to believe was simple. But all that chopping and adding things at various times had taken an age. The carrots and shallots had been added, the mushrooms would follow in half an hour, then the whole thing would go in the oven to finish cooking.

He laid the table for four, using the dinner service they had had for years. He folded the paper serviettes but they refused to stay in the wine glasses the way they had done for Evelyn. Shrugging, he placed them on the side plates
instead, then weighted them down with the butter knives.

Rose did not know that he had also invited Barry and Jenny. He hoped it would be a pleasant surprise. She hadn’t mentioned anything in their recent telephone conversations but he was aware that Beth’s disappearance was very much on her mind and that she was probably more involved than she had led him to believe. Hopefully, the evening’s entertainment would prove to be a distraction. Arthur had contemplated asking Jack but that would have been taking a risk. If the two of them had argued, neither of them would have been comfortable, and nor would he have been.

He listened to the news. There was no mention of Beth. It was almost as if she had never existed.

‘Michael was here?’ Carol wondered if her mother could hear her heart thudding. It seemed to pound in her ears and her mouth was dry.

‘You must’ve known he would come.’ Alice watched her daughter carefully. ‘Only you could have given him the address.’

Carol’s face reddened. ‘Yes. I saw no reason not to. He is Beth’s father and he loves her. It would have been cruel to refuse under the circumstances.’

‘Does he ring you often?’ Alice ran a hand through her short grey hair. She was on the verge of collapse but she had to be strong for Sally. What was going through Carol’s mind? Alice knew that closed expression and prayed that there wouldn’t be some sort of scene if Michael arrived while Carol was still there.

Sally appeared fresh from the bathroom. She now wore clean but worn jeans, a shirt and a sweatshirt. Her short, blonde hair had been spiked up with either mousse or gel but she hadn’t bothered with makeup. It would only have exacerbated the ravages of grief which showed plainly in her face. ‘Hello, Carol. How are you?’

Carol hugged her briefly. ‘I’m fine,’ she said avoiding her mother’s eyes. ‘More to the point, how are you?’

Sally laughed, but no humour was intended. ‘Me? I really don’t know any more. It’s just like, well, if Beth’s dead, then I might as well be, too.’

‘No, Sally, you mustn’t think like that. You mustn’t ever think like that.’ Alice said quickly. She could not contemplate losing her daughter as well as her granddaughter. For the first time in her life Alice confronted the truth. Sally was her favourite child and maybe that’s where Carol’s problems stemmed from.

The bell rang shrilly. The three women froze although they knew it had to be Michael.

It was Carol who went to let him in. Alice and Sally did not hear their brief exchange in the hallway but Michael seemed vaguely rattled as he greeted them both.

‘Let me take your mac,’ Alice said. ‘You’re soaking.’

He had walked from the guesthouse where he had taken a room on an indefinite basis. In November, the proprietors were glad of the trade. They had asked his reasons for staying. ‘Family problems, I’d rather not talk about it,’ he had told them, apparently satisfying their curiosity. Either that, or they were tactful because they hadn’t questioned him further. ‘What’re the police doing?’ He addressed the question to Sally. He wanted to be alone with her, to try to offer what little comfort he could, but he would not risk her reaction in front of an audience.

Sally put her hands to her face and shook her head. She didn’t want to say it, but Michael deserved the truth. ‘They called off the search this morning.’

‘They’ve what?’

‘They rang earlier. Oh, they’re still making their enquiries, but they’ve covered all the ground they can think of.’

‘Who’s in charge of the case?’

‘A man named Pearce. Inspector Pearce. He’s based at Camborne.’

‘Look, I think I’d better go. You and Michael have things to talk about.’ Carol glanced at her watch. She had just over twenty-four hours to decide whether to leave John or to live with the consequences of staying. Marcus had made that extremely clear.

‘I’m going to speak to him. May I use the phone?’

‘Of course.’ Sally pointed to a table in the corner of the room upon which it stood.

Carol frowned. Michael had not bothered to acknowledge the fact that she was leaving.

‘Goodbye, Carol,’ Alice said, not liking the expression on her face. But she didn’t receive an answer. 

Rose was in the garden when Laura arrived. She was, as usual, on foot and slightly breathless. She and Trevor, like quite a lot of locals, did not possess a car. Many fishermen were happy to travel a hundred or more miles out to sea, but once back on land few of them left Cornwall. ‘You’re caked in mud,’ she commented with the wry smile of a woman who did not have a garden and who could not understand anyone wishing to mess around in one. ‘Still, you always were a grubby thing. If it’s not earth it’s paint. Why don’t you leave that and let me buy you a drink? The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere or other.’

Rose had been pulling up the weeds, which, like a lot of the flowers, continued to flourish until late in the year. The wind had dried the grass but the soil was still damp so the groundsel and dandelion shoots came out easily enough. She had also cut back the fuchsia which grew so abundantly in West Cornwall and still bore flowers, even though her father had told her not to do so until February. There was a ‘Mrs Popple’ with its vivid scarlet and purple flowers which now stood taller than Rose, and the more subtle ‘Beauty of Bath’, the palest of pink and white.

Rose got up from her kneeling position and rubbed her back. ‘I’m going out to dinner. If I start drinking now I won’t be able to stand the pace.’

‘Jack’s seen you pissed before.’ Laura stood, hands on her thin hips, her head on one side, grinning at her friend. She could see by the look on Rose’s face that she would be able to talk her into it.

‘I’m not going out with Jack. Dad’s invited me over to his house for a meal.’

‘Well, he’s seen you the worse for wear as well. Come on, let’s have a bit of fun.’

‘Honestly Laura, I do not, as you so vulgarly put it, get pissed, just a bit merry at times.’

Laura, whose laughter was more of a screech, scared off a herring gull who had been perched on the roof of Rose’s shed, eyeing her as she dug and waiting for the chance to swoop down for the worms. At some point in their evolution they had learnt to copy the blackbirds and stamp on the grass with alternate feet to bring them to the surface. With their scavenging ways and enjoyment of the junk food dropped in the streets, Rose wondered if they would recognise a herring any more.

‘If it’s just you and Arthur you can afford to come out now. He’s not a big drinker. And I’ve got a bit of gossip for you.’ If that didn’t do it, nothing would.

Rose chewed her lip. ‘Okay. You win. But I’ll have to get cleaned up first.’

Laura waited in the sitting-room. She stood in the window recess watching the activity in the bay. There were always more small boats out on a Saturday; solitary fishermen who had to work in an office all week and yachts with their blue or white sails engaged in whatever it was they did out there. Laura may have been married to a fisherman but her experience of the sea was limited to a couple of trips on the Scillonian, one of which she had never forgotten. It had been
a summer day and the sea was calm. But once the land was out of sight the boat – which had no stabilisers because of the lack of depth of the sea near the islands – had hit the spot where five channels of water merged. Trevor had stood at the bar, a drink in his hand, quite unconcerned by the pitching and tossing. Laura had only just made it down the stairs to the toilets before she was sick. How her husband went out in far worse conditions than that was beyond her. She could never decide whether fishermen were brave or foolish but it was the way in which they earned their living and, until recently with all the decommissioning, a way of living which had been passed down through the generations.

Since that day she had not allowed herself to imagine what it must be like to be on a trawler in a fullblown storm. Several times she had been on the one of which Trevor was skipper, but only when it was moored in Newlyn harbour. The galley was impressive. There were holes in the wooden table in which the crew could put their mugs. In fact, everything was designed so that the cook could prepare meals without his equipment falling about or burning himself. It was the sleeping quarters which horrified her. A continuous bench lined the accommodation.
Above it was a sort of tunnel with round holes spaced about six feet apart. The men slid into these holes and slept, covered with a duvet, in coffin like surroundings. It must be terribly claustrophobic.

She turned as she heard Rose come into the room. ‘Ah, you’re ready. You certainly look a tad cleaner. Let’s go.’

They didn’t walk right down to Newlyn but stopped at the Red Lion, the nearest pub to where Rose lived. It was one of six which served the local community and, like most of them, remained open all day.

‘What’ll it be? It’s my round as I talked you into coming.’

‘A bitter shandy, please.’

‘My, my, we are being careful.’ Laura ordered and paid for their drinks. They stood at the bar near the fire which roared in the grate although the weather had turned milder. ‘Out with the gossip, then.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to wait. Well, you know the Bradley twins, Bradley, that is until they got married.’

Rose nodded. They were almost the same age as Rose and Laura and were identical. Plump and pretty, they had short ginger curls, blue eyes
and freckles which made them appear girlish. Rose had never been able to tell them apart. Both of them had married at the same time and had had their two children each almost in tandem. There had been a quarrel some years previously, although she couldn’t recall what it was about. Jean had married well, Janet’s husband was nearly always unemployed. Perhaps the issue had been money. It was the only difference in their lives. ‘What about them?’

‘You won’t believe this but I saw Janet the other day and she said Jean’s always been jealous of her.’

‘Why? They’re so very much alike. And, if anything, it should be the other way around.’

‘Precisely, which is why it makes it more intriguing. But don’t you remember them at school? They were always in fierce competition with one another.’ She paused. ‘Of course you don’t.’ Laura had known Rose for so long that she often forgot they had not grown up together. ‘Anyway, there’s Jean, with her lovely house and plenty of money, in a far better situation than Janet, but Jean has run off with Janet’s layabout husband.’

‘What?

‘There, I knew you wouldn’t believe it.’

‘But it’s not just that, the money side. I was thinking of it from the husbands’ point of view’ Rose laughed, seeing the peculiarity of the situation. ‘They’re identical, for goodness sake. Why would Robert choose his wife’s twin to have an affair with?’

‘If he did make the choice. If Jean was jealous, she may have made a play for him.’

‘Or he might have thought he’d get a part of her share of any divorce settlement.’

‘How cynical, Rose, my sweet. But you might be right.’ Laura swallowed the last of her vodka and tonic. ‘Another one?’

‘One more. But only the one. I’ll buy.’ Rose got out her purse. What Laura had described was a strange situation but she had seen what jealousy could do to families, even when there was no reason for it. When a member of your own family turned on you it could be far worse than if it was someone you barely knew.

The barmaid served their drinks then retreated to the corner where she was in deep conversation with some other customers. There was the click of pool balls from the table where two men were playing. Rose watched them for a moment but her mind was really elsewhere.

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘The thing is, Laura, I can’t tell them apart. How will I know which one to commiserate with if I happen to see one of them in the street?’

‘Good point.’ Laura had the same problem. It was easier when they were together, there were minute differences in their appearance, but apart, it was virtually impossible to guarantee getting the name right. ‘Best not to say anything then.’

As gossip went, it was not as juicy as it could have been but it still intrigued Rose.

Laura sensed that Rose was ready to go home so she did not try to persuade her to stay. ‘Have a nice evening,’ she said as Rose pulled on her jacket and made for the door. ‘And give Arthur my love.’

‘I will. See you soon.’

Rose walked home slowly. It was a perfect winter’s afternoon. The sun shone, although without any real warmth. Already it was lower in the sky than it had been a week or so ago. The coastline was visible for the whole of its sweeping length. The water in the harbour had turned a milky blue and a trawler chose that moment to turn in through the gaps, seagulls following in its wake. For several minutes she stood and wondered how it would be possible to capture that exact shade of translucent blue on canvas.
Come on, she told herself, there’s the ironing to do before you start getting ready to go out, real work will have to wait.

The tiresome chore was done whilst she listened to Radio 4. When she’d put the ironing board back in its place in the larder she changed stations to listen to the local news on Radio Cornwall. There was no mention of Bethany Jones. Perhaps the local press had covered the story but she hadn’t bought a paper for several days. It was four days since she had seen Beth. So very much could have happened to a little girl during that time. Rose felt sick. Why didn’t I realise something was wrong, she thought. Why didn’t Beth make a fuss? But the answer was obvious, the man was someone whom she knew. In which case, why hadn’t Jack found him yet? Surely the family would have provided the names and addresses of everyone they had ever had any contact with, no matter how minimal it might have been.

And had Jack managed to find a way to speak to Susan’s daughter, Kate? All these things were going around in her mind as she showered, scrubbing at her nails to remove the stains left by the earth from her gardening.

She put on a taupe skirt with a matching
jacket and a silk vest of a slightly lighter shade. Her hair she left loose. Once her makeup was on she painted her nails a pale ginger colour and sat in the sitting-room, admiring the view until they were dry. Since the last time she had looked out of the window, a salvage tug had anchored in the bay. They sometimes stayed for weeks, just sitting there until a job came along or they had to go to Falmouth to refuel. It must be a very boring, if well paid, job, she decided. It was now dark and the tug was fully lit and made a lovely picture. I could try that, Rose thought. Why not? It would be an entirely new view of the bay with the Mount only there as a dark backdrop. Her fingers itched to pick up a pencil and start sketching but there wasn’t time. It would have to wait.

The taxi arrived on time and she was driven to her father’s house. He must have been watching for her because he opened the door before she had had a chance to knock. ‘You look lovely. Come on in and have a drink.’

Rose looked up at him questioningly. She could hear voices.

‘Barry and Jenny. I invited them, too. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. You know how much I like them.’

They were seated in the large lounge where
a fire burned in the grate and small lamps lit the scene. Despite her father’s attempts at masculinity he had still managed to produce a room that was welcoming in the evenings.

Arthur poured his daughter a drink and handed it to her. ‘We’ll eat in about half an hour if that’s all right with everyone. I just hope it’ll be all right.’

‘Of course it will,’ Jenny told him with a smile.

Rose watched the woman with whom Barry had become involved, although she wasn’t quite sure to what extent. It was not a question she could, or would ask him. She was almost the same height as him, with a rounded body that was not quite plump. Her fair hair was curly. Parted on one side it hung to just below her shoulders. She was not classically beautiful, not really even pretty, but her smile made her face come alive. It was a smile that no one could fail to respond to. She, too, had dressed with care in deference to the age of their host who, they imagined, expected such things.

As for Arthur; Rose had always thought he looked a great deal like the Duke of Edinburgh, not that he thought so himself. He laughed whenever she mentioned the fact.

‘Have you heard any more about Beth?’ Barry
asked, knowing it would be pointless to avoid the subject. He failed to notice Arthur frowning at his question.

‘No, and the press seem to have stopped reporting anything.’

‘That poor mother. She must be going through hell,’ Jenny added, unable to imagine her own feelings if anything happened to Polly. Nichola had vowed she would never marry so Polly might be the only grandchild she ever had.

‘I don’t understand it. If what you saw is any indication, Rose, then the child knew the person who took her. Surely they ought to be able to find him.’

‘I was thinking exactly the same earlier, Dad. But Jack knows what he’s doing.’

Arthur sighed. ‘I suppose so. I’m just worried you’ll take matters into your own hands again. You’re such a worry at times, Rose Trevelyan.’

Rose smiled. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Jack. I don’t want two men like that in my life. Shall I pour us some more drinks?’

‘Yes. Please do. I’ll see to the rest of the meal.’ Arthur left the room knowing that Rose had wanted the subject to be changed. But why? Was she making plans that she had no wish for him to be privy to? It wouldn’t surprise him in the
least, although what she could do that the police couldn’t was beyond him.

‘Mm,’ he said with satisfaction as he entered the kitchen and smelt the richness of the casserole as it reheated in the oven. The potatoes were roasting nicely and the vegetables wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. He wondered if he ought to have made a starter but decided that might have been too ambitious for his first attempt at entertaining people other than his daughter. Besides, there was plenty of fruit and cheese and enough casserole for two helpings each if they wanted it.

‘That was excellent,’ Barry commented when they had eaten, although he didn’t quite manage to disguise his surprise. ‘You’ll have to give me some tips.’

‘Thank you.’ Arthur reddened slightly. He was thrilled it had all gone so well.