A Brighter Tomorrow

by A Brighter Tomorrow (retail) (epub)

  ‘You all know that when Uncle Albert died he left his studio and paintings to me,’ she said evenly, trying to ignore the little lurch of her heart at mentioning his name.

  ‘So does that mean Lily has to sell up to fund your little scheme?’ Seb jeered next. ‘You’d better watch out, Mother. It looks as if we might all have to move out of Killigrew House as well.’

  ‘Shut up, Seb, and don’t be ridiculous,’ Skye snapped. ‘Nobody has to go anywhere, and if you would kindly keep your stinging remarks to yourself for a minute, I’ll tell you what I have in mind. I have a large collection of Albert Tremayne’s paintings still in store. They belong to me, and I have the absolute right to do what I like with them. Is anybody about to dispute that?’ she said, looking directly at Seb. He pursed his lips mutinously, and said nothing.

  ‘Then what I propose is that I sell them and put the money towards buying out Bokilly Holdings, including the old cottages. Nick has already checked that I can get it all at an acceptable price. I am not going to bother you with the details, because this will be solely my business. I’m not asking anyone for any money, and nor do I want any partners.’

  Her voice shook a little as she continued, because it suddenly seemed like such an enormous leap in the dark. And they could well think her a complete madwoman for even considering buying a virtually played-out clayworks.

  ‘What I do want your approval on is this,’ she went on. ‘Once the clayworks are in my control, I propose renaming it Killigrew Clay. What do you think?’

  Please approve, she begged silently. Please say you feel as charmed by the idea of preserving our past as I do…

  Seb snapped, ‘I’m sure you and your man have already got it all sewn up between you, so if that’s all we’ve come here for, we might as well have stayed at home.’

  ‘I think it’s a simply marvellous idea, Skye,’ Lily said. ‘People are always interested in the old ways.’

  ‘Yes, but all that will have to wait until the war is over. We’re hardly likely to get hundreds of visitors right now. And meanwhile, I must stress to all of you that the idea of this scheme goes no further than these four walls. The important thing is to regain control of the clayworks.’

  ‘But it’s something that I’m sure the townspeople will approve of when they hear,’ Lily went on. ‘And it’s good that the name of Killigrew Clay will live on after all.’

  ‘You always had a clever brain on you, Skye,’ Adam put in approvingly. ‘Anything to breathe new life into an old industry has my approval, and once Sebby gets his old skills back, I know he’ll see the sense in it.’

  ‘You can speak for me as well now, can you?’ his partner scowled at once. ‘I might have lost some of my slickness, but I can still think for myself.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ David Kingsley said angrily. ‘Can’t you give this idea a chance?’

  Seb’s voice oozed sarcasm and innuendo then. ‘Oh well, we all know why you’d think it so wonderful, don’t we?’

  Skye could see that Nick was more than ready to grab him by the throat and throw him out, and before it all got completely out of hand, she rapped on the table and called the meeting to order.

  ‘Then if we’re all agreed, I intend to arrange for an art expert to put a reasonable price on the paintings before offering them at a public sale. We shall need advertising to attract people from farther away than Truro and St Austell, but I’m sure David will see to all that.’

  She went on before Seb could open his mouth again.

  ‘So I can now tell you that I have made a nominal bid for Bokilly Holdings, subject to our approval here today, and Nick says it will be held as a true and faithful offer until the sale of the paintings goes through.’

  ‘See?’ Seb burst out. ‘It’s just as I said. It was all cut and dried before we even came here.’

  ‘And it’s just as my girls always used to say, Sebby Tremayne. You were a prize pig when you were a child, and you’re an even bigger pig now – oink oink,’ Skye flashed back at him, so fast and so unexpectedly, even to herself, that his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

  Then she saw his slow grin and heard his grudging hand-clap, and she was suddenly laughing back, and the atmosphere in the room palpably changed.

  ‘Come on Sebby, let’s get home while we’m all in a good mood for once,’ Betsy said comfortably, and as they got to their feet, Adam called them back.

  ‘Come up to the pottery again soon, Seb. I could do with you to show Butch a thing or two at weekends.’

  Skye held her breath, wondering if this was going to light the tinderbox again. But to her surprise, Seb shrugged and said he’d think about it.

  ‘Why not?’ he added, with a spark of his old arrogance. ‘If the master can’t teach the pupil how to throw a pot, it’s a poor do. I daresay I’m still good for something.’

  Chapter Eight

  The plans weren’t the kind that could be settled quickly, and another Christmas had come and gone before negotiations with Bourne and Yelland could be properly concluded. To Skye’s regret, none of her own brood had got Christmas leave, and the house would have seemed appallingly empty but for the noisy evacuees, who definitely filled a void, she thought guiltily.

  But by now, thinking ahead to the way the clayworks might one day be given a different face for future generations to enjoy, Skye was filled with an energy she hadn’t felt in years. No other company had shown the slightest interest in buying out Bokilly Holdings, since all were feeling the same pinch with the closing of foreign markets and the fall in prices for china clay.

  In the end, the growth of the amalgamated company had been its downfall, since they were unable to provide enough work now for the numbers of clayworkers needed to keep them in production. And pittance though the sale price was – in terms of the vast turnover of the business in other years – to find the necessary funds, Skye knew she couldn’t put off sorting through Albert’s paintings any longer.

  The room where they had been stored since they had been bequeathed to her and brought from his old Truro studio to New World had been locked and out of bounds for many reasons – not least because Skye knew that once she saw the many beautiful images of her mother, she would be reminded again of the creepy and possessive love Primmy’s brother had felt for her.

  Seeing the pictures would unleash the memory of the unfulfilled love that Skye had felt in her soul was slowly and incestuously being transmitted to herself, because of her uncanny likeness to Albert’s sister.

  It was an obsessive love that had saddened Skye even while it repelled her. Sometimes she even thought keenly that this much-admired family beauty and likeness was more of a curse than a blessing.

  But if her visionary project was to go ahead, there was no help for it, she told herself briskly. She had arranged for an art expert to come to the house in early February, with the sale already being advertised for the end of March. Bourne and Yelland had agreed that they would dispose of the spring despatches of clay and then the transaction would go through.

  And before any of that happened, the paintings needed to be aired and properly displayed for the art expert’s assessment and costing.

  ‘You can’t put it off any longer, darling,’ Nick told her, knowing her reluctance to even enter the room.

  ‘I know. It’s just that so much of my life is bound up in that room and those paintings.’

  ‘It’s not your life, Skye. Whatever life Albert and Primmy led, it was theirs. It belonged to them and not to you. You have to believe that and let it go. We’ve discussed this a million times, and I can’t believe it’s been festering inside you all these years.’

  ‘I can’t believe it either,’ she murmured. ‘I never expected to be still so affected after all this time.’

  She shivered, wondering if you could ever really rid yourself of the past, or if aspects of it would always be there to haunt you when you least expected it.

  ‘I know I’m being an idiot,’ she went on
slowly. ‘So I’m going to go up to that room right now and unlock the door. And then I’m going to go inside and dispel those ghosts for ever. And I’ll take a duster with me,’ she added practically.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No thank you. When were you ever interested in dusting?’

  She gave him a half smile and headed for the stairs before she lost her nerve completely. It was only a room, for God’s sake.

  Only a roomful of memories…

  * * *

  The stuffiness inside hit her the moment she entered the room. It smelled old and musty, almost choking her, and for a moment her heart balked, because it was so much like Uncle Albie’s studio had been when they had finally had to clear it out after he died. It was almost as if he was still here…

  She forced the windows open, their hinges stiff with disuse, and let in the cool February air. She leaned against the windowsill, pressing herself against it without realising that she did so, facing the sheet-covered groups of paintings that were stacked like shrouded ghosts around the room.

  One step at a time, she told herself shakily. Uncover them slowly, just one at a time…

  ‘What yer doin’ up there, Mrs Pen?’ she heard Daphne’s raucous voice yelling up the stairs, making her jump, making her feel sick at the unexpected sound of another voice.

  Skye tried to call back at her to stay downstairs, but the words didn’t come out, and the next minute Daphne’s footsteps were inside the room, followed by Butch’s much heavier ones. The children stood, goggle-eyed and saying nothing for a moment.

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell,’ exclaimed Daphne, predictably. ‘Did somebody die in ’ere?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Butch, nudging her violently. ‘Can’t yer see Mrs Pen’s upset about somefing?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Skye said, automatically reassuring them as she had done for so long. ‘I just have to sort out these paintings. I told you about them.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us they was ’ere,’ Daphne complained. ‘You said they was going ter be in some sale. Can we ’ave a look then?’

  Before Skye could stop her, she had lifted one of the dust sheets and pulled it away from the stack of paintings. She stared at it, not saying anything for a moment, while Butch simply gaped.

  ‘Christ-church,’ he finally said, awestruck, and forgetting how he tried very hard not to swear in front of his idol. ‘Is that you, Mrs Pen?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked in a cracked voice. ‘Do you think it’s me, Daphne?’

  ‘Nah,’ the girl said. ‘It’s somebody else who looks like you, but it ain’t you.’

  ‘Why not?’ Skye said, surprised at her perception. She looked at her mother’s image fully now.

  Primrose Tremayne had been so beautiful, in an ethereal, yet utterly bohemian and free-spirited way that had captured more than one man’s heart, as Skye well knew. They had always been compared as mirror images of one another, and Wenna in particular had inherited all the Tremayne looks too, so what was it that this streetwise child saw that wasn’t evident to other people? The need to know overtook all other emotions.

  ‘She’s dead, and you’re alive,’ Daphne said positively, after a few moments of cocking her head on one side like an inquisitive little bird. ‘This one ain’t lived ’ere wiv us, has she? She looks diff’rent, like somebody from a long time ago, and – well, she just ain’t you. She’s that lady in the picture in the drawing room, ain’t she?’

  ‘She looks like you,’ Butch said hastily. ‘But you’re prettier,’ he added, with an enormous blush reddening his cheeks, at which Daphne hooted with laughter.

  It was a sound that was out of place in here, thought Skye angrily. This room was a reverent place, a sacred place, dedicated to the memory of her mother and another lifetime.

  And just as instantly, she knew how ludicrous she was being. It was just a room that needed airing, and which needed to be sorted out for the sale of her uncle’s paintings. The memories would still be in her heart, and they didn’t need this stuffy mausoleum of a room to keep them safe.

  ‘Now you’re both here, you can help me,’ she said, after drawing a deep, steadying breath. ‘We need to uncover the paintings carefully, so mind you don’t scratch any of them. Then we need to arrange them so that the expert can see them all and say how much he thinks they’re worth.’

  ‘I bet it’ll be a lot,’ Daphne said sagely. ‘Pounds and pounds, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Even more than a hundred,’ Butch echoed, at which Daphne hooted again and told him he was dafter than usual if he thought a few old paintings could be worth so much.

  * * *

  Skye was staggered when the art expert told her how much he thought the paintings should fetch. Albert Tremayne’s work had grown in value since he died, and the fact that much of his work portrayed the same woman only added to its appeal to collectors.

  Primrose Tremayne’s beauty had an air of mystery about it, and she had obviously meant a great deal to the artist. The art expert said as much to Skye, and then paused, as if hoping to hear more – but he waited in vain. Just how much Primmy had meant to Albert was a secret that she might guess at, but that no one else would ever know, Skye vowed.

  ‘Don’t underestimate the worth of these paintings, Mrs Pengelly,’ he went on. ‘In fact, a provincial town is hardly the best place to stage such an important sale.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Mr Hatch,’ she replied, ‘but I don’t think that showing them in some London gallery is advisable in these hazardous days, do you?’

  He gave a slight smile. ‘I assure you that not all of London has shut down because Mr Hitler sends over his regular messengers of death,’ he said delicately. ‘And the city is quickly recovering from the darkest days of the Blitz.’

  ‘All the same, the sale will take place in Truro,’ she said quickly, not wanting to be reminded of that time, and finding herself beginning to loathe the oily man. ‘Truro is where my uncle lived and worked, and if people wish to attend the sale, they must come here.’

  ‘As you wish, dear lady,’ he said with a small stiff bow. ‘Then, when it is all arranged, if you will allow me to have the full details I will gladly distribute them to collectors outside the area who would be interested.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Skye. ‘I’ll see that you’re informed.’

  She couldn’t wait for him to leave, and she told Nick vehemently that she had no intention of advising him of the sale, and that she hoped the paintings would all stay in Cornwall where they belonged.

  ‘That would be very short-sighted of you, darling,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘You want to sell the paintings, and he’ll know where to find the keenest buyers. You can’t afford to be sentimental over this, Skye.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘So you would prefer all the best families in the area to buy one of your mother’s portraits as a collector’s item, and risk seeing them every time we’re invited out to tea?’

  ‘You’re exaggerating, aren’t you? When do we get invited out to tea by all the best families?’

  But she knew she was going to cave in. What he said made sense. She had her own paintings of her mother, and they were her own choice, and very different from the stack of them they had discovered long ago in the late Albert Tremayne’s studio.

  She had shut those paintings out of her life for so long, and until that moment she had never fully realised that the reason for it was because she couldn’t bear to see the variety of expressions Albert had drawn out of his sister.

  Whether or not Primmy had truly known he was in love with her, somehow Albert had dragged every ounce of sensuality out of her to put on to canvas. In his own twisted way, he had manipulated her for his own lecherous needs, and Skye knew she never wanted to see those paintings again.

  But did she really want other people to see them too, and forever speculate about the artist and the sitter?

  ‘Nick, tell me honestly. What do you see when you look a
t those portraits?’

  She was desperate to know, and afraid to hear the answer.

  ‘I see a lovely woman, of course.’

  ‘And nothing more? No – I can’t find the word I’m looking for. No concubine – or – or—?’

  ‘Darling, all I see is a woman who was painted many times by the artist who happened to be her brother, and found himself a ready sitter. The fact that there are so many of them and that he’s captured her in so many moods is the only thing that makes it intriguing.’

  She had to believe it. Had to believe it, otherwise she would feel she was exposing her own mother to whispers and gossip. And it wasn’t the first sale of Albert’s work. They had gone through this before, and to her knowledge there had been no questions in people’s minds. She was letting this whole thing get out of proportion, and it was time to stop.

  She needed money, and her uncle’s paintings gave her the means to find it. End of problem.

  * * *

  There was no doubt that the first few months of 1943 saw the start of new hope in everyone’s mind that the war was being turned in the Allies’ favour. The Germans had surrendered to the Red Army in Stalingrad; Berlin had been bombed in daylight for the first time, proving that the RAF could penetrate deep into the enemy’s heartland; American troops were driving back Rommel’s forces in Tunisia, and Prime Minister Churchill announced that the sound of church bells could be resumed around the country now that the fear of invasion was past.

  In early April, Wenna Pengelly’s friend and pianist sought her out in their ENSA practice room.

  ‘Have you heard the latest, Pengo? We’re detailed to perform at an American army base next weekend. The GIs need a bit of cheering up, being so far from home,’ she said gleefully, ‘and I reckon we’re just the gals to do it.’

  ‘You would think so,’ Wenna said. ‘And no, I hadn’t heard. Where is this base?’