Plotted in Cornwall (2 page)

There were fields now, some green, the grass fattened by the rain, others brown, ploughed, where the daffodils grew, the bulbs already planted. The buds would be picked in January, earlier than elsewhere
because of the temperate climate, then sold in shops throughout the country. For the locals there were often daffodils at Christmas. The sea lay ahead. It was never grey not even on such a day but full of colours which changed with the light which many artists had tried to capture over the decades. Some had been successful. Rose was one of them. She reached the outskirts of Penzance and headed towards the town centre before taking the road along the seafront which led to Newlyn and home. Her home for thirty years. But would it have been so if she had not married David who was a Cornishman? So many people wanted to share this different way of life – the slowness, the intimacy, the lack of worldliness which was a throw-back in time – yet few truly adjusted and some were never accepted. Too many wanted all this and more, they wanted to incorporate all the things they were supposedly getting away from.

The wide sweep of the bay was to her left. The rain had eased, only a light drizzle dotted the windscreen. On the horizon a band of yellow light pushed the greyness upwards, which meant inland, taking the rain to other parts of the country. Rose had learned the signs. Ask a fisherman, she
thought, ask a farmer or anyone else whose livelihood depends on the weather and they’ll give you a far more accurate forecast than any meteorologist sitting in front of a computer in Bristol. Those that are left, she thought sadly, hoping that Laura’s husband, Trevor, would never have to decommission his trawler because he knew no other life than the one he had learned from his father and grandfather. But Cornwall isn’t yet the giant theme-park the government wants it to become while the Spanish trawl British waters and French farmers supply our shops and supermarkets, while fishermen’s families starve and the last farmer declares himself bankrupt or commits suicide, Rose thought angrily, echoing what many others also thought. For that’s the way things are going. She was angry with herself, too, because she had no way of stopping it.

She crossed Newlyn Bridge and turned left, passing the fish market, now closed for the day, all business concluded by the middle of the morning, then continued on up the hill.

Home, she thought, pleased to be there. She swung the car into the steep drive at the side of the house and parked at the top of it. There were things to do: a picture to frame,
one roll of film to develop up in the attic which doubled as a studio and darkroom but was used far less lately. Most of her work was done outdoors.

Rose shook the kettle, decided there was enough water in it and plugged it in. Whilst it boiled she checked the answering-machine next to the telephone which stood on a table behind the living-room door. There were no messages. Arms folded, she looked out from her high vantage point over Mount’s Bay. It had stopped raining and a watery sun had turned the sea silver. I was right about the weather, she thought with satisfaction as she heard the click of the automatic kettle switching itself off.

She recrossed the narrow hallway and made tea, sitting at the kitchen table to drink it. She wasn’t hungry, she was too excited to eat, but she rarely ate much in the day. Her evening meal was something she always looked forward to. A glass of wine first, of course, and several with it. Louisa and Wendy, Wendy and Louisa. ‘I don’t know what to make of them,’ she muttered as she reached for her handbag and removed the cheque. Not a joint bank account, then. The name printed on it and the signature belonged to Louisa Jordan.
Perhaps the house and contents were hers and she had taken in her unmarried sister when the husband left her.

‘Leave it, Rose, it’s none of your business,’ she could hear Barry Rowe telling her with that funny frown and his perpetual habit of pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. Well, maybe she would find out and maybe she wouldn’t. Carrying her refilled mug of steaming tea across the flagstoned hallway she dialled Laura Penrose’s number, unable to wait to tell her the news. And then, she decided, she ought to do those chores and some paperwork and, if she felt really virtuous, the ironing…

Rose grinned as she put down the phone. There wouldn’t be time for the ironing. Trevor had gone to sea that morning so Laura had invited herself over for supper. ‘I’d better come round and help you celebrate. I’ll bring the necessary liquid refreshment,’ she had told Rose. ‘You can dig out some of the fish you’re stockpiling even though I’m sick of it myself.’

Which meant, Rose knew, making more of an effort than usual. But Laura was worth it. Laura was her friend, and had been since they were young women. They had survived so much together: Laura’s marriage and the
births of her three sons and, in turn, their own marriages and the births of grandchildren; and Rose’s marriage and David’s death. But no Trevelyan children. It had never happened and by the time David became ill Rose had no longer cared. She was glad that there had been no distractions, nothing to take her attention away from him, especially at the end. They had been lucky in that they understood one another but allowed each other space. Yet how different we were, she thought. David was a big man in body and heart, a tidy precise man, a mining engineer, in the days when mines still existed in Cornwall. Rose was untidy, happy to live life in a muddle, rarely bothering to dress up. ‘The eternal art student,’ David had once called her, but not minding.

But she had dressed up that morning: gypsy skirt, feminine blouse, short, tight-fitting black jacket and long boots. Prospective clients would not have been impressed with her usual attire. Laura would be surprised to see her thus dressed and not in jeans. Laura, who it was hard to believe was out of her thirties, let alone a grandmother. But they had both worn well, she realised as she opened the freezer door.
The fish would thaw in no time. She forgot the invoices waiting to be sent out and started preparing a lime and basil marinade for the plaice and a spicy sauce for the prawns.

Joel Penhaligon enjoyed the weekly art classes. There he could live for the moment, his brain, eyes and hand working in coordination, everything else forgotten. He also enjoyed walking, being buffeted by the wind, so he should have been happy as he made his way from the bus station over Ross Bridge and along by Penzance harbour on Wednesday evening. Fewer craft were moored there now that it was winter.
Scillion
III
had stopped her daily crossings to and from the Scilly Isles a fortnight ago. Only the blue hulk of the
Gri
Marita
ran now, carrying food and supplies to the islanders, and the occasional passenger who could stomach the rolling swell where five channels of water met once the coastline was left behind.

But Joel was troubled. His mother knew it but said nothing. He was aware of her love for him, but his father always came first. Joel wondered why this should be when the man was a bully.

‘I’m firm but fair,’ Roger Penhaligon was fond of saying. But Joel did not think he was being fair to his son.

Roger had married Petra when he was almost thirty and she only nineteen. Joel suspected he had needed a younger woman, one whom he could mould. He was their only child. Or maybe I’m just cynical, he thought as, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, he trudged up the deserted narrow cobbled lane behind the Dolphin Inn. He turned right and carried on up a steeper hill to where the classes were held.

‘I must have it out with him, make my intentions clear and face the consequences,’ he muttered, his words carried away by the freshening wind.

As he reached the studio he had an idea. He would enlist the help of the one person who had faith in him. And he would ask her that night. Joel stepped into the comparative warmth of the barn-like room. It was the annexe to a gallery but worlds apart from
the building next door. The gallery had polished wood floors and was all white and chrome. There were plate-glass windows and cleverly concealed lighting. The current exhibition by a Mousehole artist was of modern art. The walls were adorned with vibrant swirls of colour on canvas while the small alcoves housed work by other local artists, including Rose Trevelyan.

But in the studio the sash windows, set high in the wall, rattled and the hollow sound of the wind reverberated behind the bricked-up fireplace. Ancient cast-iron radiators, thick with layers of institutional cream paint, gurgled and provided what warmth there was, but not enough to combat the draught which swept across the floor with each strengthening gust of the predicted Force 8. There was no dampness, no sign of the previous day’s rain. The wind had dried the roads and pavements by morning.

November, the onset of winter, Joel’s favourite season. It would bring storms to the coast and ships to the sanctuary of the wide arms of the bay. The class began; Joel settled down to work.

His tutor walked slowly behind the semicircle of chairs in which eleven other
people sat, their heads bent in concentration. ‘That’s good, Joel,’ she said, leaning over his shoulder. And he knew that it was and that she had meant it. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the praise and carried on drawing.

‘Can you spare a minute?’ he asked when the two-hour class was over.

‘Of course.’

Joel explained his predicament and wondered if he sounded as immature and sullen to the woman in front of him as he did to himself. At least she was listening.

‘Yes. If you think it’ll help, I’ll do it,’ she said, surprising him by her ready agreement.

Joel’s step was much lighter as he made his way back to the bus station. He began the journey home in the brightly lit bus. Once they’d left Penzance only darkness surrounded them. The bus’s headlights picked out hedges and fields as it wound its way towards St Just. Before it reached its destination Joel alighted on the main road and walked down a narrower road to where he lived. The imprint of the red tail-lights remained on his retinas for several seconds.

The gate was open and lights blazed from the house. The evergreen shrubs in the front
garden swayed wildly and the weathervane creaked on the rooftop. He let himself in. The house was warm and smelled of polish which Petra Penhaligon’s cleaning lady used to excess. Wednesday was one of her days.

‘Is that you, Joel?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m in the kitchen.’ Petra smiled at her son. ‘Are you hungry? I’ve saved you some chicken casserole.’

‘I am. Thanks.’ He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a stool then sat at the breakfast bar in the large kitchen. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘At a meeting.’

Joel sighed. He should have guessed. His father owned a chain of caravan sites all supervised by managers. He rarely needed to visit them so had volunteered his services to many committees and filled his time by serving on them. ‘I wanted to speak to him.’

‘What about?’

Joel pushed back his dark hair. ‘About my future.’

Petra Penhaligon folded her arms and pursed her lips. She had once been fragile and fair but, like many attractive blondes, with the passing of youth her looks and colouring had taken on a faded quality.
Without make-up she seemed washed out, anonymous. ‘There’s plenty of time for that. You’ve got almost another year at school yet.’

I’m wasting my breath, Joel thought. Whatever I say she’ll agree with my father.

A car crunched over the gravel and headlights swept across the kitchen ceiling. Petra’s face lit up. The front door opened and closed and Roger Penhaligon came into the kitchen bringing with him some of the chill from outside.

‘How did the meeting go?’ she asked as she spooned a large helping of chicken and vegetables into a dish for Joel.

‘Oh, you know how it is. A load of old women, some of them.’ He smelled of whisky and cigars. He was a big man, over six feet and heavy from good living. The buttons strained across the waistcoat he wore under his suit jacket.

They’re rich, Joel thought, rich enough that they could help me, but they won’t, not unless I conform to their plans for me. He didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer, nor did he want to take over his father’s business, he wanted to paint. That was all he had ever wanted.

‘What? Art college?’ his father had said
scornfully, even though he was smiling, when Joel had first mentioned it. ‘Are you telling me your happiness lies in hanging around with a load of scruffy hippies?’

The comment was typical of his father’s attitude. A staunch right-winger and a bigot, that’s what he is, Joel had thought, and still did, not understanding him.

‘It’s what I want to do.’

‘Plenty of time to decide, Joel. Let’s not rush things.’

That had been a year ago but his mother had said the same thing tonight. Each time he mentioned it the response was evasive or along the lines that he’d never be able to afford to keep himself.

He looked at his father’s implacable face as he sat at the farmhouse table at the other end of the kitchen and read his mood. There would be no discussion that night, Joel’s views would not be countenanced.

Roger Penhaligon’s skin was flushed and his jowls quivered as he gave Petra a brief outline of what had taken place that evening.

I don’t understand it, he didn’t make any fuss about the evening classes, he even paid for them, Joel thought. Maybe he hoped they would get the idea out of my system.
But they had only made him more determined to persevere. ‘I’d like you to meet someone,’ Joel said abruptly

‘What, now?’ Roger looked around the kitchen as though there might be a person in their presence he had not noticed.

‘No. Soon.’ Don’t let me down, he prayed. He rarely spoke to his tutor, except about his work, but there was something about her which suggested she would help if she could.

‘A girl?’ Roger grinned. That was an interest he could understand.

‘A woman, actually. I’ll let you know when I’ve made the arrangements. I wanted to make sure you’d both be here. How about Friday, around five?’ Head averted, he was still aware of the glance exchanged between his parents. Let them wonder, let them think what they liked. One day he would show them. One day they might even be proud of him.

‘Suits me,’ Roger said with a shrug of bafflement.

‘Good. Thanks. I think I’ll go up now.’ He put his plate in the dishwasher and said goodnight. He was tired, pleasantly so, and his stomach was full. He knew he would sleep soundly. There was the clink of a
bottle on glass as he left the room. Whisky for his father.

His mother’s cat, a long-haired pedigree, sat on the second from bottom stair washing itself. As Joel passed it it hissed. He ignored it; the dislike was mutual. Upstairs he walked to his bedroom at the end of the gallery. It was large, as were all the rooms in the house which had once belonged to a high-ranking naval officer with five children. The place was an extravagance for three of them but at least it ensured privacy. His parents enjoyed entertaining but Joel never invited anyone back. His mother would fuss and his father embarrassed him, although he didn’t know why.

In bed he studied what he had drawn earlier that evening, holding the sketch-pad at arm’s length. They had been working on figures, the human form. He had drawn a seated girl, her hands clasped around drawn-up knees, her head on one side. It was good. It was Miranda. He had drawn her from memory. He smiled. His poor tutor. He had seen the efforts of two of his fellow classmates and knew she was wasting her time with them. ‘It doesn’t really matter, though,’ he said aloud. ‘They’re enjoying themselves anyway.’

Reaching out he switched off the bedside light and lay down beneath the warmth of the duvet, his hands cupped behind his head. The room was in total darkness. There was no moon, and no streetlights that far out in the country. Joel liked the dark, it enabled him to think. And think he must if his parents weren’t going to finance his future studies. There were student loans, of course, and he could always get a part-time job. He listened to the wind as it moaned through the trees and the familiar, sometimes irritating tap of a branch on the window.

It was at such times that he missed Miranda, his cousin who had been more like a sister. It was over a year since she had disappeared and no one had heard from her since. It hurt Joel that she had not contacted him, that there hadn’t been a single telephone call or postcard to say that she was well and happy. Had Miranda still been around she would have stood up for him, faced down his father and told him where he was going wrong. Miranda feared no one. Well, he had to rely on someone else now. She’ll come, he reassured himself. She’s the sort of person who keeps her word. But that didn’t necessarily mean she’d have any success.

‘I liked her,’ Louisa said as she began to clear the dining-room table on Wednesday evening. Her movements created a draught. The flame of the oil lamps flickered behind their yellow glass globes and made her shadow dance on the wall.

Wendy sipped the last of her wine and got up to help. ‘Mm, so did I. Do you think she’ll do a good job?’

Louisa shrugged as they carried the dishes through to the kitchen. They washed up themselves, there was more than enough for their cleaning woman to do. Louisa filled the sink and dropped in the cutlery. ‘We can only go by her other work. There’s something powerful about her scenery. She really knows how to capture it. However, we agreed we wanted an unknown in the portrait world. It would be wonderful if we were one of the first to commission her and she becomes recognised. Besides…’ She stopped, and began to scrub a plate vigorously.

‘I know,’ Wendy said, touching her arm. ‘I know, Louisa, but we have to try not to think about it. We’ve made a new start here.’

‘It hasn’t stopped the memories, though. It’s hard, you know. There isn’t a minute
when I don’t wish I could turn back the clock and make things have happened differently.’

‘You’re not to blame. The situation should never have been tolerated for so long. Be patient, give it another year and maybe you’ll realise that this was all for the best.’ Wendy picked up the warm, dry tea-towel which had been hanging over the brass rail along the front of the Cornish range. Starting anew, getting used to the inconvenience of no electricity had been a way of putting the past behind them, especially for Louisa. But they had adapted and now they were settled and comfortable there was little to divert them except for shopping trips and the odd morning at the hairdresser’s. They were resourceful women, they had hobbies and they both read, but Wendy knew that Louisa still had the nights to endure, nights like this when the wind swept over the moors as if it sought revenge, when only the gnarled gorse with its spiky thorns stood up to it. Yet it had been a hot summer’s day when Louisa’s life had changed and, because of what followed, so had Wendy’s.

Wendy went from room to room checking that the windows were secure and the fires safely damped down. A local farmer delivered
logs, a sideline of his, and the coal merchant came once a month. Kindling they gathered themselves, from the moors, which provided little, and from country walks when they drove to wooded areas and filled plastic sacks with sticks and small branches. Wendy smiled wryly. The endless quest for kindling had become almost an obsession. But it gave them exercise and the bending was good for her stiff hip.

Louisa wiped every surface clean, rinsed out the dishcloth and hung it over the tap. The previous occupants had been responsible for the installation of running water. Without it she would never have considered the purchase. She sighed. There was nothing to do now but to go up and read. They had chosen the oil lamps carefully, ensuring they were heavy and solid-based, not liable to tip over or be knocked over easily. The fire risk was minimal, especially as the house was built from Cornish granite. It was the future which kept Louisa Jordan awake, not regret for the past, that and missing the rest of the family. If only she could have foreseen what would happen she could easily have prevented it. But it was too late and she would never forgive herself for the damage she had done to more than one person.