Framed in Cornwall (6 page)

As he tried to come to terms with the future he realised that the past did still matter. He had imagined that once he was alone again he would not care. Instead of wishing himself dead, hoping that he, too, could join Marigold as quickly as possible, a strong sense of survival was emerging and, with it, a need to protect everything he had fought so hard to attain.

Some time during the small hours he took himself to bed. He slept uneasily and dreamed of Dorothy. It was her he saw in that hospital bed, not Marigold. There was blood on the sheets, seeping slowly and brightly down across the counterpane, but Dorothy was smiling, mocking him. Clutched in her hands were bundles of fifty-pound notes, around her were his customers making the same sounds they made in his shop, muttering the same banalities, avoiding the word cancer as if it was contagious. ‘How is she?’ they would whisper as if by speaking quietly they could lessen the horror. He saw in their faces pity and sympathy but also relief that it wasn’t themselves or one of their own who was suffering.

In the dream they, too, mocked him as if they could see into his soul and knew the secrets hidden there. Everyone seemed to be there, huddled around that bed, standing or sitting, admiring the flowers on the locker, yet still there was room for the nurses and the doctor who came rushing to Dorothy’s bedside as a long, soft ‘Oooh’ was breathed in unison. Dorothy had flung the bloodstained money at Fred before falling back,
her mouth open as she died. Rose Trevelyan stood at the head of the bed, smiling.

The money floated weightlessly above their heads like confetti taken by the wind. His customers reached up, trying to grab it, ignoring Fred who became aware that he was invisible. They were as one; he was, as always, on the outside. He walked through the heaving mass of bodies without feeling contact.

When he woke he was sweating although a chill breeze blew through the window he had forgotten to close. His mouth was dry and it took him several seconds to realise that it was a dream and that, although Dorothy had really died, Marigold was still alive, but he rang the hospital just to make sure.

He prayed as he dressed: Please, God, not today, don’t take her away from me yet. As he fastened his tie he nodded slowly as if responding to some unheard voice. Good. It wouldn’t be today.

The bathroom cabinet seemed bare now since the hospital had asked him to bring in all of Marigold’s medication when she was admitted. There had been so much of it as the long days passed. He had kept it there although it was not as convenient as beside her bed but he didn’t want her room to look like a sick room. By her bed had been flowers and a pile of the romantic novels she liked to read. Only she hadn’t read much lately, her arms were too weak to hold the books. Fred had gone back to the library and exchanged them for paperbacks. Marigold had smiled and thanked him and had finally explained that she couldn’t see too well. Each day added to the burden of her infirmities and the doctor had told him it was only a matter of time.

‘How long?’ Fred had asked.

‘Days. Maybe less.’

He was going straight there. Days. Fred wanted every second with her. When it was over would be the time to think about the other things, to think about what Dorothy had said. But Dorothy was dead; when Marigold died too he would be the only one who knew.

Like most people, Doreen Clarke learned of Dorothy’s death within twenty-four hours and spread the news as quickly as she had come to hear of it. On Sunday she was going to visit her sister in the village of Paul and Rose had invited her around for coffee first. Gossip though she was, Doreen was tempted to cancel the arrangement because, knowing how close to Dorothy Rose had been, she did not want to be the one to break the news if she hadn’t already heard. It was her husband, Cyril, who talked some sense into her, saying she could not turn her back on a friend and, besides, young Jack Pearce would’ve put her wise.

Rose was ironing when she arrived. It was one of those deceptively warm September days when it seemed as if summer was beginning rather than ending. A vivid blue sky arched high over Mount’s Bay, framing the Mount itself. Beneath it the sea shimmered as silver ripples skimmed its surface. Ozone hung in the air with the ever-present tang of fish. Even the gulls were quiet.

Rose had the back door open; her face was flushed with the heat of the iron. She was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt. Doreen studied her for a second, aware of how much younger than herself Rose looked although there was less than a year’s difference in their ages. Doreen favoured sensible skirts and jumpers and her straight grey hair was cut level with her chin.

The kitchen was filled with the aromas of domesticity, of coffee and clean cotton clothes, the starchy steam of the iron and the toast Rose had made herself eat earlier.

‘Come in, Doreen. I’m glad you’re here, I hate this job.’

‘Don’t we all,’ Doreen replied as Rose unplugged the iron. She saw at once that Rose knew. Her friend’s face was drawn and there were dark circles beneath eyes which had recently shed tears. Doreen clutched her large black handbag to her
stomach with both hands as if for protection. ‘So you’ve heard about Dorothy. Poor old thing, I could hardly take it in.’

‘Yes, I know. I was there. On Friday. I brought Martin back with me but he didn’t want to stay. He was here when you rang, actually.’ Rose chewed a thumbnail hoping that Doreen was not offended.

Doreen nodded. She did not need further explanation, she could imagine how upset Rose would have been. ‘Poor lamb. Real fond of his mother, he was. I wonder what’ll happen to him now? Still, the other one’ll be pleased, no doubt. Probably rubbing his hands with delight, if you ask me.’

‘Have a seat, Doreen, for goodness’ sake.’ Rose busied herself with cups and saucers. Doreen knew the Pengellys better than Rose did because she lived in Hayle herself, but Rose did not want to discuss them, nor did she mention that Jack had been pumping her for reasons why Dorothy might have killed herself. Doreen could read it for herself in the
Cornishman
after the inquest.

‘That Gwen thinks she’s better’n all of us, got her heart set on a big house, that one has. I hope she’s disappointed, that’s all I can say. Fat lot of attention she paid her mother-in-law when she was alive, I don’t rightly know if she even took the kids out to see her. Wouldn’t surprise me if Dorothy left the lot to a dogs’ home. Serve ’er right, it would.’

Dropping a sweetener into her cup and placing the sugar bowl on the table for Doreen, Rose was barely listening. She could have predicted the conversation. All she knew, all she instinctively felt, was that the police report was wrong. But what could she do about it?

‘I’ve heard she’d got a few good bits and pieces up there,’ Doreen continued confidentially, leaning forward to speak as if there was a chance of being overheard. ‘Well, you’d know more about that than me, you being an artist and all. Wouldn’t surprise me if that Gwen doesn’t go up there and help herself because I don’t suppose Martin realises what her stuff’s worth.’

Coming from Doreen it sounded callous but the same thought had crossed Rose’s mind, although Martin had reassured her when she dropped him home. ‘Ma had three sets of keys. I’ve got one. I’ll need it to feed the dogs.’ So, surprisingly, Rose was
in possession of the only other keys. Had Peter not been trusted with them? He had not contacted her to ask for a set and she was glad if what Doreen said was correct. It’s none of your business, she chided herself and offered Doreen more coffee by way of changing the subject. As they drank it Doreen caught Rose eyeing the ironing still waiting to be done.

‘It’s all right, dear. Violet’s expecting me any time and she gets in a right to-do if the dinner’s served up late. I’ll be on my way if I can get the car out of the drive. I don’t know how you do it.’ Doreen patted her hand. ‘Give me a ring later.’

Rose watched her rounded figure plod down the path and out to where she had parked the ancient vehicle which took her from one cleaning job to another. Apart from Cyril’s pension it had been their only income since the mines had closed. With a sigh Rose picked up the iron. No sooner had she finished one blouse than a shadow fell across her. It was Jack.

‘Can I come in?’ He looked sheepish.

‘Yes. If you want coffee help yourself. I’m awash with it.’

He did so and sat down, uninvited. ‘Look, Rose, I apologise if I upset you, but are you really convinced she wouldn’t kill herself?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

Jack stretched out his long legs and stroked his chin. ‘We’ll have to wait for the inquest but we’re making discreet inquiries.’

‘Oh?’ Rose continued ironing, annoyed that he should turn up unannounced.

‘Mm, very discreet because there was no sign of forced entry and from all accounts nothing seems to have been taken. Her purse was there with money in it and—’

Rose stood still. ‘You mean you believe me?’

‘I’m not saying that, I’m simply saying that nothing points to it being anything other than suicide except that she wasn’t registered with any local doctor and it wasn’t paracetamol which she swallowed. And it seems a bit extravagant to find a doctor out of the area if you intend taking your own life because there’re enough drugs behind the counter of any chemist’s shop to do the trick.’

‘So?’

‘So, is there any chance of you nosing around? You know the family.’

‘I see. Once more I’m supposed to do your job for you.’ She flung her hair back over her shoulder angrily.

‘Oh, Rose, you’re always so defensive. I thought you’d be pleased. Do as you wish. I really came here to see if I could buy you a drink. I thought you’d need cheering up.’

He is very handsome, Rose thought, and I’m attracted to him, but if he can irritate me this much now, how much worse would it be if the relationship were more serious? She unplugged the iron, wondering if the job would ever be done. ‘All right then, but somewhere local.’

‘The Star?’

‘The Star’s fine.’

They made no overt signs of affection in public, it would have been out of character for them both. Instead they strolled down the narrow pavement of the hill in single file, stopping for a minute to watch a fishing-boat turn in through the mouth of the harbour. There was a cat’s cradle of masts alongside the north pier and the smell of fish was stronger there.

The bar was basic, designed for working men who came in in their boots, but the walls were covered with photographs of local boats, the sea sweeping over their bows or engulfing them altogether, white spume flying, seagulls in their wake.

Rose knew many of the customers, as did Jack, who had been to school with some of them, and they were both at ease amongst these men. Their lives were dangerous but their living depended on the sea. They were loud, boisterous and often crude but this was one of their pubs and if others didn’t like it they could leave. To the uninitiated the events which took place in the local bars would seem bizarre but Rose knew she would never be happy anywhere else.

They stayed for two drinks then Jack offered to walk her home. He noticed there was more colour in her solemn face. ‘I’ve got next Wednesday off, fancy going out somewhere for the day?’ He sometimes got the impression that she was about to say she didn’t want to see him any more but she said yes, if a little distractedly, and he said he would pick her up at ten.

At her kitchen door he hesitated. Rose’s head was bowed as she unlocked it. ‘Thanks, Jack. ’Bye.’

‘Yeah. See you.’

Rose closed the door and leant against it. ‘Oh, Dorothy,’ she whispered as she tried to stem the tears. Life seemed such a mess at times. Barry and Jack, both demanding her attention, Martin, left basically on his own, and Dorothy dead. ‘Oh God.’ She had not rung Barbara back and she was supposed to be going out with Laura that afternoon. At least she could sort one day out. Picking up the phone she chatted briefly to Barbara saying she was all right and that she would love to come to the party. How callous it sounded but Rose knew she had to start living properly, she had to start making things happen. Barbara sensed her need to be alone and did not keep her talking.

‘Laura? It’s me. Look, do you mind if we don’t go today? I’m really not up to it.’

‘Of course not. Want me to come over instead?’

They had planned to go to a car boot sale which was one of Laura’s current crazes, then to a film in Truro.

‘I, uh …’

‘Rose, I’m coming anyway. I won’t stay long, I just want to see for myself how you are.’ Laura hung up. From the tone of her friend’s voice she feared she might be slipping into a similar depression to the one she had suffered after David’s death.

Although it wasn’t far, Laura took the car, parking it untidily in the drive.

‘What’s it all about?’ she demanded as soon as she arrived, dressed in ubiquitous leggings over which she wore a long silky shirt. Her hair was curling wildly around her shoulders. ‘It’s not just Dorothy, is it?’

Rose shook her head. ‘No. It’s everything.’

‘Then sit down and tell Auntie Laura all about it.’

Rose did so, pouring out her fears that someone had murdered Dorothy and that Martin, who was confused, would get the blame and Gwen and Peter inherit everything. ‘Jobber phoned me this morning. He’s keeping an eye on Martin. I meant to go over myself but he doesn’t know me that well.’

‘Well, you can trust Jobber to see he’s all right.’

‘I know.’

‘And?’

‘Oh, Laura, it’s Jack.’

‘Yes. And dear devoted Barry, no doubt.’

Rose smiled weakly. ‘How well you know me.’

‘Just tell ’em both to bugger off. You’re usually quite good at that sort of thing.’

And although Laura had promised not to stay long it was over two hours before she left and Rose was decidedly more cheerful.

It had been a dreadful weekend for Gwen and Peter Pengelly. Peter had arrived home on Friday to find his wife white-faced and almost incoherent. ‘I’m sorry,’ she kept repeating although he didn’t know why. She had never liked his mother. ‘I didn’t want to contact you on the train – I mean, there was nothing you could do until you got home.’

He understood that. He’d have had to stay on the train anyway, even if they found another conductor to join it.

‘Do the children know?’

‘No, I thought it’d be better coming from you. They’re next door. I didn’t want them to overhear.’ Gwen wondered how they would react to their first encounter with death although they had not known their grandmother very well. She had given no thought to Martin or to Dorothy’s pets, her only concern was for Peter and how this would affect them all. Herself especially. Especially, she thought, after what she’d done.

Nothing mattered to her but her own family. From the time her own mother had died and left her and her brother in the care of a brutal, drunken father she had vowed that when she got married things would be very different. Peter, she adored, and she had made a career out of caring for the children and maintaining the solidarity of her family. Nothing was going to get in the way of that or stop her achieving her ambitions of a better life for all of them.

Only one thing nagged at her conscience. Peter was unaware of the visit she had made and it had to remain that way. Surely out there no one would have seen her car? But it was too late
now to alter things, what had happened had happened and it just meant the money came to them sooner. I’m strong, she thought, strong enough for all of us. I must keep telling myself I didn’t kill her and everything will be all right.

There had been no easy way to tell him. She had told the police she would do it herself, that he would want to hear it from her.

Peter’s eyes were still wide with shock, he hadn’t taken it in at first. ‘When? When did she die?’

‘They think it was some time last night.’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘No, not Mum, she can’t be. It’s a mistake. Mum was fitter than most women half her age.’ He sank into a kitchen chair.

‘It’s true. They think it was probably her heart.’ Gwen reached over and touched his hand.

‘Don’t.’ He jerked it away as if she’d struck him. ‘Don’t. Just leave me alone.’

Startled, she drew back. Peter had never spoken to her in such a way.

‘Oh God,’ he muttered as he staggered to his feet. ‘Oh, God, what have we done?’ All the guilt rose up. ‘We never went to see her, she hardly knew her grandchildren.’

No, Peter, what have I done? Gwen thought, ignoring his outburst. Visiting her more often wouldn’t have prevented what had occurred on Thursday. ‘Peter, wait.’ Gwen watched in horror as he left the house, slamming the door behind him. It was the first time he had rebuffed her and it hurt all the more because her tactility had not been sexual. Suddenly the future was uncertain. This was a time she should be sharing with her husband but it seemed he did not need her.

‘Is anything the matter?’ Louise Hinkston whispered to her husband as she served the cheese course after dinner. They had guests again. Louise was very fond of entertaining and Bradley could usually be relied upon to ensure they were entertained. He had a fund of amusing anecdotes but he had been quiet throughout the meal.

He winked at her but did not reply. At the time, perhaps because of the influence of his surroundings, the oddly captivating atmosphere of a county where anything seemed, and often was, possible, he had not given much thought to the requests made of him. Only when he was back in familiar territory did he start to feel concerned. Bradley was not a man to worry unduly, his philosophy was that problems were simply there to be solved. Monday would be time enough to sort it out. And sorted out it must be. He was still unsure what Mrs Pengelly’s motives had been and he could not afford to damage his reputation. What had happened could not be undone. He hadn’t wanted to hear all the details but she did not spare him. If they find out, if they find out, he kept thinking.