Caught Out in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  That afternoon she had been the only person there and was therefore able to park in the limited space in the gateway by the stile. The sun had been slurring then, too, and she had almost finished the sketch when a cloud passed over the sun and she got the feeling she was not alone. When she looked around there was no one there and no other car had stopped. Her hair had prickled her scalp and she had had to stop herself from rushing back to the car. The moment soon passed but she had never forgotten it. Something indefinable had been at work.

  By the time she got home the heating had come on, giving the house an even more welcoming feeling than usual. She hung up her jacket, removed the spool of film from the camera and replaced it with a new one. After a cup of tea she would finish the Morrab Garden palm, filling it in with colour.

  While the kettle boiled she checked the answering machine. There were two messages. The first confirmed her booking for a table for three at seven at the Ocean Palace, the second was from Doreen. ‘I need to see ’e, maid. It’s not desperately urgent but I’d like a word. I could come over about four. My afternoon lady’s in bed with flu so she’s asked me just to do the downstairs today. I’ll come anyway. If you’re out, then you’re out and if you’re busy I’ll push off again.’

  Fat chance of that, Rose thought as she grinned. But she wanted to speak to Doreen so it might as well be today.

  It was nearly half-past four when Doreen did arrive. She rapped on the glass of the kitchen door. Like Rose, and all her friends, she used the side entrance, off the drive where she parked, rather than walk around the narrow path to the front door which, through lack of use, had a tendency to stick.

  Rose had finished in the attic. She had used a delicate wash for the palm with a background that merely suggested a blue sky and other foliage. She had also had time to develop the roll of film, which was now pegged up to dry. When Doreen knocked she was in the sitting-room studying one of her numerous plant books, determined to name the palm tree. She got up and went to let her in.

  ‘If you’re busy, I won’t stop,’ she said in her forthright way and, as always, without any form of salutation.

  ‘I’m not, as it happens. I’ve done all I can for the moment.’ There might even be time to make prints of the negatives before it was time to get ready to go out. David had converted part of the attic into a darkroom. There, Rose had taught herself the techniques of developing and printing and was now an expert in both sides of photography. She plugged in the kettle again. Doreen never refused the offer of a cup of tea, neither did she ever come empty-handed.

  ‘I’ve brought you some of Cyril’s brussel sprouts. Cambridge, I think he said the variety was called. Anyhow, they’re early ones. We’ve had some, they be ’ansome. Cyril says the other ones aren’t any good until later, after a bit of frost, not that we get much of that down here. And there’s one of my lardy cakes. I know how you do love ‘en.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rose suppressed a smile. She rarely ate sweet things. What Doreen meant was that she would expect some, suitably warmed up and spread thickly with butter, with her tea.

  ‘If you remember, I was talking about Susan Overton the other day. Well, little Katy isn’t right yet, Rose. The doctor can’t find anything the matter with her but even I can see the change in her. It’s as if she isn’t the same person any more. I can’t bear to see such a lovely family being so miserable. He’s suffering, too, is Simon.’

  ‘That’s odd. I was going to ask you about them. I’ve been thinking so much about Beth and, well—’ she stopped. It was impossible to mention to Doreen what she feared. It would probably do more harm than good.

  But it was Doreen who voiced the fears. ‘It’s a wicked world, maid. I was wondering if Katy had been interfered with. Perhaps I’m as wicked as some of they out there for even thinking it, but it does happen. And, like you say, with that other small chiel missing it makes you wonder if there’s some pervert around.’

  Rose sighed. ‘It had crossed my mind, too.’ She placed the teapot on the kitchen table before removing the slices of lardy cake from the oven. Their appetising doughy smell rose from the heat. Doreen took a piece and smothered it in the rich, gold local butter Rose bought from a farm shop. It melted into the yeasty texture. She took a bite before speaking again. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I mean, how does anyone go about finding out such things?’

  The shrewd look which Doreen gave her told Rose what was coming next. ‘You could mention it to Jack Pearce. Casual like, when you’re talking about this, that and the third thing. He’ll know if there’s anyone like that around in the area. They have these lists now, I believe. Will you do that, maid? Will you ask him? Just a hint, like. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Okay.’ She had half intended to do so anyway. Having told Doreen she would mention it, she had to keep her word.

  Neither of them mentioned the subject again. They had said all that needed to be said. There was no point in dwelling on it. The conversation turned to more personal matters. Doreen’s jaw dropped when Rose told her about Barry and Jenny. ‘He’s got hisself a woman? I’d never have believed it less’n you’d told me. Well I never. I always thought it was you he was after. Of course, I could see he had no chance. And there’s no need to blush, girl, some things are obvious to others. Still, you’ve got Jack, and a good man he is, too. Don’t ask me how you did it. You’ve got your looks and your figure, I’ll grant you that, but I wish you’d take my advice and wear a frock more often, or, at least, a skirt. And I don’t mean that skimpy little denim thing you wear in the summer. You’d never catch me in jeans or trousers.’

  Rose glanced at the digital clock on the electric display unit of the gas cooker. Doreen could go on in this manner for hours. She needed to find a tactful way to ask her to leave. ‘Actually, as soon as I’ve had a shower I will be changing into a dress. Jack’s taking Dad and me out for dinner tonight. I’ll mention what we’ve talked about if there’s an appropriate moment.’ Rose stood, pleased to note that Doreen had taken the hint and was already reaching for her padded jacket which was draped over the back of her chair.

  ‘If he comes back for coffee make sure you give ’en some of my lardy cake,’ were Doreen’s parting words.

  Geoff Carter was working late. There had been a leak in the roof of the annexe to his gallery where slates had come off in a gale and the builders had now left. They had needed fine weather in which to complete the job and the rain had held off until half an hour ago. The gallery itself was all chrome and glass and housed the works of local artists, including Rose Trevelyan. The annexe had yet to be modernised.

  Twice married and divorced, Geoff admitted that he was a womaniser. When he first met Rose he had tried to get her into bed. Now he was thankful that she had not been interested. Their business relationship had developed into friendship as well, neither of which would have worked for long if sex had been involved because the affair would not have lasted.

  Geoff had also persuaded Rose to take on the extra pupils who would not fit into the classes of another artist. These classes were held in the annexe; Rose’s being held on a Wednesday night. That week’s class had been cancelled because of the water dripping through the arched roof.

  Satisfied that the place was habitable, Geoff went back into the gallery. He checked his appearance in one of the many mirrors, which were placed to convey a feeling of more space than there actually was. He was not vain but he knew he had worn well. His greying hair was worn longer than was usual for a man of his age. It was swept back and rested just below his collar. His brown eyes were full of humour and held an invitation to any woman who looked at him. Although he only sold paintings he encouraged young artists and dressed as they did. His vaguely bohemian appearance was the only hint of his great disappointment that he, himself, was a failed artist.

  Right then he would have enjoyed Rose’s company. He didn’t like the winter with long hours of darkness; she would have cheered
him up. There was something soothing about her; something that suggested everything would be all right in time. He dialled her number and was pleased to hear her voice rather than a recorded one. ‘Rose, the roof’s finished. You can tell your lot that there’ll be a class next week.’

  ‘Good. Thanks for letting me know.’ She had showered and washed her hair but was still wrapped in a towel.

  ‘Can I take you out to celebrate?’

  ‘Not tonight, Geoff, I’m already going out.’

  Jack Pearce, the bastard, he thought with a touch of envy. An artist going out with a policeman, it didn’t seem right somehow. ‘Another time then?’

  Rose detected the plaintiveness in his voice. Men were like children at times. ‘Yes, another time.’

  Geoff Carter switched on the alarm system and locked up. He was only vaguely aware of the car that was passing slowly down the lane but when he looked up he certainly noticed the attractive woman who was driving it, even though it was dark. She, in turn, noticed his undisguised gaze and, looking startled, accelerated down the street.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to that one,’ he muttered as he pocketed his keys and turned up the collar of his corduroy jacket against the rain.

  Barry Rowe was preparing a meal in his flat above the shop. How right Rose had been about decorating it. For far too long he had let it go. And now it was a pleasure to cook in the completely refitted kitchen which a firm had come to measure up then planned to perfection for convenience and space.

  Barry, whose culinary skills were limited, was grateful for the fact that Jenny was not a fussy eater. What he felt about her, he wasn’t yet certain. It was too soon to tell where the relationship was going. What surprised him was that it had started at all.

  Jenny had come into the shop looking for a birthday card knowing that everything he sold was in some way produced by local artists and craftsmen. Her granddaughter, baby Polly, had been with her at the time and had managed to tip her pram over and bang her head. Barry offered the use of his first aid box and it had started from there. He had met Rose, too, in his shop not long after she came to Cornwall, a short time after he had started the business when he had no idea if he could make a go of it.

  He pushed his glasses into place and continued slicing chicken for the stir fry. The shop. How ironic that it was in the shop that he had also introduced Rose to David. It had taken him a long time to realise that Rose would never be his.

  When David died, Barry had grieved for his friend but somewhere in his subconscious was a spark of hope that now she was free she might turn to him, might even need him. But it had become apparent that Rose didn’t need anyone, not even Jack Pearce. What she felt for Jack was on some other level.

  He heard Jenny’s footsteps on the flight of metal stairs which led to the flat from the back of the building and went to let her in.

  ‘It’s started to rain,’ she said as he took her damp mac.

  ‘So I see.’ He felt only the slightest pang that it was Jenny and not Rose with whom he would be sharing his meal.

  ‘They still haven’t found that little girl yet,’ Jenny remarked as she took off her coat. ‘God knows what the mother must be going through.’

  Barry nodded. He couldn’t even begin to imagine her feelings; all he knew was that Rose was involved and would remain so until the final outcome, whatever it might be. ‘Would you like a drink? I think I’ve got almost everything.’ He realised he had been influenced by Rose. At one time he would have gone to the pub if he fancied a pint.

  ‘Wine for me, please.’ Jenny sat down, smiling, as she watched him struggle with the corkscrew. He was a nice man and she thought she might already be halfway in love with him.

  Arthur Forbes had bathed and shaved and taken trouble over his appearance despite what Rose had said. It would be far too easy to let himself go and he knew there were times when he was in danger of doing so now that there was no one living with him to care how he looked. Why should I worry when my daughter manages to be so popular when half the time she dresses like one of those New Age travellers, he thought with a wry smile.

  The doorbell rang. Rose had a spare key to his house but she would never presume to use it unless there was an emergency. She would have hated anyone walking into her own home unannounced. ‘Oh, very smart,’ she said as she took in the tweed jacket, sharply pressed trousers and the turtleneck sweater.

  Arthur held her shoulders and kissed her cheek. Rose reminded him so much of Evelyn when she was younger.

  ‘It’s raining so Jack’s brought the car.’

  Arthur lived in a 1930s house in one of the side roads set back from the seafront. The houses, built on the side of a hill, were tiered and all had views of the bay. ‘No point in moving to Penzance if I can’t see the sea,’ Arthur had commented at the time he was studying estate agents’ details. It was too far from the restaurant to walk without getting soaked, especially as the wind had risen again and waves were sweeping over the Promenade. St Michael’s Mount was obscured by the rain. In such weather even walking on the opposite side of the road was no guarantee of not getting hit by a wave, and the sand and weed that came with it.

  Jack was waiting in the car. He didn’t look very happy. Perhaps it was because of the missing child but Arthur thought it was more likely something his daughter had said or done. For once he was wrong.

  Jack was thinking as he sat in the car. They had made the relevant enquiries and discovered that Sally Jones was not claiming benefits for herself and the child. So how was she managing to live? She had said that she had had no contact with Poole for years. But Poole had been uncontactable that day so the matter would have to wait until the morning. Jack was determined to relax and enjoy the evening. No one could work properly when stressed.

  According to Poole, Sally had convinced him it was better for them all if Beth never knew him. And if Sally met someone else Beth could treat that man as her father. ‘It nearly broke my heart but I began to see that she might be right,’ he had continued. Were those sentiments genuine or were they just an excuse for Poole to start a new life unencumbered by a child? And what to do about Sally Jones? Perhaps there was some private income they did not know about. There were other things on his mind, too, but they could wait. He didn’t want to spoil the evening for Rose and Arthur.

  Arthur and Rose hurried towards the car and got in. Jack drove off. ‘We’ve time for a quick drink,’ he said once he’d manoeuvred the car into a space in one of the side roads near the restaurant.

  ‘Suits me,’ Arthur said, willing to go along with whatever they wanted.

  They walked the short distance to the Dock, a pub Arthur had not been in before. It was busier than they had anticipated, but they wouldn’t be there for very long.

  ‘Do you both know everyone in Penzance and Newlyn?’ Arthur asked when Rose and Jack had greeted several people. Some they knew jointly, others, individually.

  ‘It sometimes seems like it. You will, too, Dad, in a little while.’ She hoped she was right. She had already found someone to introduce him to the captain of one of the bowls clubs, which he hoped to join.

  Several more customers arrived. They drank up quickly and went back out into the rain but the Ocean Palace was almost next door. They sat by the fire whilst they ordered their food from the extensive menu. Then they were taken to their table which was up a short flight of stairs. The interior was on several levels and the decor was reminiscent of a Spanish restaurant rather than a Chinese one.

  Not once throughout the meal did Jack refer to Beth although Rose guessed she was uppermost in his mind. And he had not relaxed. She could see by the way in which he held himself and the grim expression on his face when he was unaware he was being observed.

  ‘That was delicious, Jack. Many thanks,’ Arthur said as he wiped his mouth with his serviette. ‘My turn next time.’

  Rose smiled at him. Her father had a dread of not paying his way. ‘If you’re ready I’ll run you both home.’

>   The rain had eased to a steady drizzle and the tide was ebbing. The waves were less fierce but it was not a night to be at sea.

  They dropped Arthur outside his house and Jack made sure he was safely in with the lights on before carrying on to Newlyn.

  ‘Do you want some coffee? Only if you do, Doreen insists you have a piece of her lardy cake.’ Because Jack was driving Rose and her father had drunk most of the wine. ‘Or if you prefer, I’ve got some of your favourite whisky.’

  By offering him spirits he knew she was also offering him a bed for the night. ‘Whisky sounds wonderful.’

  Jack parked behind Rose’s car in the drive whilst she unlocked the kitchen door. It was still quite early, not long after nine o’clock; there would be time to talk. Rose could sense that that was what Jack wanted but had refrained from doing so over the meal.

  They took their drinks into the sitting-room and sat either side of the fireplace. Rose sat in the armchair David had always occupied. She had done so since shortly after he died. She wondered if it was a subconscious act to prevent anyone else from doing so. Despite the wind and rain it was still quite mild. The fire remained unlit as the central heating was on and it would have been overpoweringly warm. The table lamps, with their pink shades, gave the room a cosy glow. Because of the pattern of raindrops on the window the view was obscured, no more than a blur of lights and a glint of sea. St Michael’s Mount had totally disappeared.