This doesn’t mean I love Neil any the less or that I want to forget him. The opposite feels true: here I can find a side to him I hadn’t always known. I decided on Rosecraddick because Neil loved Cornwall. In this seaside village where he spent childhood holidays and where he learnt to sail and kayak and climb and all the other active and outdoorsy things he loved to do, a new Chloe is going to take shape. I don’t know her yet but it’s time I made her acquaintance. In a small way she’ll keep Neil alive by being here. A branch of his family came from Rosecraddick and it seems circular and right that I’ve returned to their roots. My mother thinks this is weird but she’s never really understood me and, besides, her idea of making a change is deciding not to watch EastEnders.
So now I can walk on the beach and picture Neil as a small child scrabbling over rocks, armed with a bucket and fishing net. I’d loved the teenager and the man, but I’d not known the boy. Here I’ll catch glimpses of him, scrapbook images of another time and half-memories as shifting and dreamy as the sky reflected in the rock pools. I’ll see him again, I’m certain of it, but in Cornwall this feels like a comfort rather than a curse.
Anyway. Logs. Where might they be? A narrow path winds past the gravestones and weeping angels to the edge of the headland and the South West Coast Path. I could be wrong but I don’t think there’s a log store in that direction. To the left of the house is the church, dreaming in the sunlight today, and beyond this is the lane to Rosecraddick village. The latter is tucked into a valley hemmed by hills, all deeply wooded and still. In the summer I’d been struck by how green and leafy it all was, but today the trees are a tangle of bare branches; looking through them from one of the bedroom windows, I spotted the roof of Rosecraddick Manor, as vulnerable as a scalp when the hair has fallen away.
I push this idea out of my mind. I must stop thinking like this. Worm-cast beaches and fishing trips. Barnacle-embossed rocks. Sandy picnics. Skinny brown limbs sticking out of shortie wetsuits. These are the images I want to focus on. The happy times, not the last painful days.
“Hello there! Can I help you?”
I spin round. A red-haired woman in her late thirties and wearing a dog collar and ecclesiastical shirt smiles at me over the gate.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m Sue Perry, the vicar here – and at several other churches in the parish too, for my sins! You look a little lost?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you.” I hold out my hand, not wanting to appear rude. “I’m Chloe Pencarrow. I’m renting the Rectory.”
As I say this I’m struck by an irrational arrow of guilt. By rights it’s the round-faced Sue Perry with her twinkling Mrs Tiggy-winkle eyes and mop of auburn curls who should be living here. I think the letting agent said that the New Rectory’s a modern house on the far side of the village, which seems a shame. This is a romantic, if exposed, spot.
But the Reverend Sue Perry doesn’t appear put out in the least. Instead her smile grows even warmer and my hand, clasped in both of hers, is given a vigorous shake.
“Aha! I did hear on the village grapevine that a glamorous London artist had taken the place. You look surprised I know this?”
“How do they know I’m an artist?” I ask. The glamorous bit takes me aback too. I don’t think I’ve worn make-up since Neil died (constantly removing tear-smudged mascara soon became tiresome), and my hair hasn’t been cut since I had enough of it tumbling into my eyes and took the kitchen scissors to it. Let’s just say I’m a better artist than I am hairdresser. Glamorous I am not.
Sue Perry laughs. “Believe me, MI5 has nothing on local intelligence – although I suspect the truth of the matter is far more mundane. The postmistress’s son works for your removal company and saw your easel! The rest they’ll have made up in the pub and the local shop. You’ll be painting nudes and chopping your ears off by teatime!”
“They’ll be very disappointed when they realise how boring I am. And anyway, I paint landscapes and buildings mostly.”
The vicar grins. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story! Welcome to Rosecraddick and village life. Seriously, though, if there’s anything you need or would like to know, then please feel free to ask me. I’m up at the church all the time and you’re very welcome there.”
“Thanks,” I say, although I can’t imagine I’ll be popping in to worship. Where did all my hours of praying and bargaining get me when Neil was ill? If God exists, He wasn’t listening to me. It’s hard not to feel bitter.
“So how are you settling in at the Old Rectory?” Sue asks, tactfully changing the subject. “Is there anything you need?”
“There is actually. I’m hunting for the log store because I need to get the range lit before I freeze.”
She nods sympathetically. “I bet it’s Baltic in that old house. Thank goodness the C of E had the sense to put me in something modern with central heating! It’s bad enough trying to heat the church. The log store should be around the back but don’t get your hopes up. I can’t imagine anyone’s filled it in recent months. The last tenants left at the end of the spring.”
My heart plummets. Hot-water bottles and chilblains here I come. Or maybe I’ll have to start burning the furniture?
“No time like the present to have a look though,” says Sue. “I’ll show you where it is if you like?”
I nod gratefully and she lets herself in through the gate and threads her way around the back of the house, towards a shed tucked away at the bottom of the garden. I have to carry logs from there? Seriously?
I’ll have arms like The Rock.
“It’s empty, I’m afraid,” says Sue, after poking her head inside. “Hardly surprising but not much fun for you. I’ll give you the number of Larry the Log.”
“Larry the Log?”
“The local lumber merchant. You can order a load now – or if it helps, I’ll call him for you? He might even deliver today if the vicar asks him nicely.” She touches her dog collar and winks. “There are some advantages to this job, you know!”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll last long without heating.”
“You look as though you could do with a hot drink, if you don’t mind me saying so. Your lips are practically blue. I’ve got a kettle and a fan heater in the vestry, and my mobile’s there too. Why don’t we have a coffee and I’ll call Larry?”
I’m dying for some caffeine and the thought of thawing out is also very welcome, so I follow Sue back through the garden and across the graveyard to the church, listening to her chat away about the village and the people who live there. By the time I’m sitting in the vestry, with my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee and a pile of chocolate biscuits in front of me, my head’s spinning with it all. While Sue makes a call on my behalf, I glance around with interest. A cassock hangs on the back of the door, the desk is piled high with books and papers, and the little heater Sue mentioned coughs out dusty puffs of hot air. The room is small and cosy and there’s a cork board on the wall bursting with bright snapshots of Sue, together with a smiley man wearing wire-framed glasses, a chubby-faced little boy and their adorable curly-haired dog. The pictures make a striking collage of a happy life.
I surf a wave of grief. Neil and I will never have pictures like this. There will never be a cute toddler with Neil’s dimples and my wild curls, and there will never be a family shot of us out walking with our dog. There will never be first days at school. University graduations. Weddings and christenings. These dreams are dead.
“Right. That’s sorted. Larry will deliver a load of logs this afternoon,” Sue says, ending the call and looking pleased. “Is that all right with you?”
I suppose I ought to check the price, but right now it could be a million pounds and I wouldn’t quibble. Grief’s viper strike has robbed me of any coherent words and I can only nod.
“That’s Tim, my husband, and the cheeky monkey’s Caspar, our son,” Sue explains proudly as she follows my gaze. “The dog�
�s called Molly and she’s a poppet. Much easier to live with than the other two and far better behaved. You’ll have to come over for dinner and meet them.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’d like that.”
“I can’t cook to save my life,” she warns. “We’ll have to get pizzas in. They’re all Cas will eat at the moment anyway, although by the time I get my act together and invite you properly he’ll probably be onto the next fad! You know how kids are.”
I might have been a teacher but my students were in their teens. I haven’t a clue about toddlers and probably never will have now. The viper strikes again and I flinch. Luckily, Sue’s too busy flipping through her desk diary to notice.
“Drat. I’m booked solid this week. Can I let you know when I have a window?”
“Of course.” Is it wrong of me to be a little relieved? I’m not sure I’m up to other people’s happiness yet.
“I’ll pop your number into my phone,” she continues, pulling it from her pocket with a flourish. She taps at it, a frown deepening between her brows. “This thing is so complicated! I can hardly work it. So, what’s your number?”
I reel off my mobile number, which isn’t nearly as impressive a feat as people seem to think it is. I had to give it out so often when Neil was ill that the digits are seared into my memory.
“Chloe—” Sue looks up from the screen. “Sorry, I have a brain like a sieve today. What did you say your surname was again?”
“It’s Pencarrow.”
“That’s a local name, isn’t it?” Sue enters the name into her phone. “Are your folks from here?”
“Pencarrow’s my married name. I think a branch of my husband’s family lived here a long time ago. Distant cousins, maybe?”
If Sue wonders where my husband is, she’s far too professional to ask. She doesn’t even check my left hand, where my wedding band and engagement ring still have pride of place.
“We’re all cousins here! And Pencarrow’s definitely a local name. I’ve seen it on the war memorial and I think it’s on the stained-glass window in the south transept too. Quite a few of the family’s lads were lost in both wars. The Pencarrows didn’t have a good time of it back then, that’s for certain. They were very unlucky with their sons.”
The Pencarrows haven’t had a great time since either. Neil was the last of his family to bear the name and there won’t be any sons to follow him now.
“That’s so sad,” is all I say.
“You should check the war memorial out. Family history and all that,” says Sue. “It’s a good walk and the view’s stunning.”
“The war memorial on the headland, you mean?” I can see the granite cross from the Rectory; grey and unyielding, it’s as much a part of the landscape as the rock it’s hewn from. The sight of it makes me feel unbearably sad. It’s as though the losses of all those who looked out over the sea and prayed for their loved ones’ safe return have seeped into the landscape with the rain and the years. The memorial serves as an eternal reminder that grief isn’t exclusive.
“That’s right. They’ll be laying a wreath there for the Armistice and we’re having a service of remembrance in the church this weekend as well. It’s always very moving.” Sue drains her coffee and places the mug on the summit of a paperwork mountain. “Did you want to see the window? I’m sure your surname’s there somewhere.”
St Nonna’s is a small church with a sense of quiet watchfulness and peace. Although I’m still angry with God, its atmosphere makes me think, with some surprise, that I could spend time in here. The prayers of centuries hang in the stillness, and the light pouring through its stained-glass windows warms the flagstone floor. The hairs on my forearms stir.
“Here we are.” Sue pauses at the furthest end of the south transept. Above us is a beautiful window depicting a scroll edged with poppies. The simple white war graves stretch into infinity and above these a yellow sun beams from an azure sky. Upon each gilded ray, the name of a local man has been lovingly inlaid in black glass.
“To the glory of God and the memory of the men of Rosecraddick who gave their lives in the Great War 1914–1918,” I read out loud.
My goodness. There must be over thirty names here, a huge amount of young men culled from a small village. Of course, I know about the First World War from things I learned in school, and from bits and pieces I happen to have read or seen since then: Wilfred Owen, trenches, mud, War Horse. Yet seeing such blunt evidence of an entire generation being wiped out is shocking. These young men were sons, husbands, sweethearts and brothers. They laughed and cried and trembled and were alive. People loved them and mourned them and they were real, as real as Neil had been, but now they’re just names on a pretty window in an obscure Cornish church.
My eyes flicker over the names until I spot the one I’m searching for. There he is, halfway down the rays listing the fallen: Gem Pencarrow. Poor Gem. He was still only a teenager. He wasn’t much older than my A-level students, those awkward almost-adults who straddle a confusing hinterland of childhood and their shadowy future selves. At that age they glow with a potential they won’t understand or even know they possess until it’s gone and too late. As teenagers they still looked to me for guidance and reassurance. Some of them could barely complete their coursework to deadline or make it to school on time, yet Gem Pencarrow, this young man with my husband’s blood in his veins and maybe even with the same blue eyes and deep dimples, went to war, faced unimaginable horror and lay down his life for King and country.
I’m so moved I can’t speak. Seeing my own surname – my husband’s name – on the roll call of the dead is a jolt. It strikes me that Neil was proof that life does go on after death, which is ironic really. But time’s sands shift and raw losses do heal. I must hold onto this thought because there’s comfort in it. I send a silent thank you to Gem Pencarrow.
“It makes you think, doesn’t it?” says Sue quietly. “I know it’s decades since the Great War ended, and all these young men would have been dead by now anyway, but that fact doesn’t hide the ugly truth that they were robbed of their lives way before their time.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. Nothing soothes the wrongness of a life snatched away too soon.
“And, of course, here’s Kit’s memorial.” Sue points to the next window. “That’s the one all the visitors want to see. You’ll probably meet quite a few of them over the summer months. They tend to come on something of a pilgrimage, armed with their poetry books!”
I turn my attention to the adjacent stained-glass artwork. This one’s different, in that it depicts a single young man in uniform, as golden-haired as any saint and standing in a field of poppies and lambs. With his rifle laid down amongst the flowers beside him, he holds an open Bible loosely in his hands. His eyes are fixed upon the skies and a glorious sunset flames around him like a halo. Angels reach out to raise him up to heaven, where a solitary daisy – plain white and out of place against the explosion of crimson and gold – floats all alone in the top left-hand corner.
“It’s stunning,” I say, and Sue looks pleased.
“I think so too, even if others find it a bit OTT,” she says, stepping back and narrowing her eyes critically. “Then again, that was what the family wanted. I’m not convinced it’s a true representation of Kit. Most young lads I know aren’t thinking about angels and heaven!”
As an artist I’m struck by the flamboyance and the hints of budding art deco in the gold and crimson rays of the sun. My teacher’s eye picks out the homage to the Pre-Raphaelites in the angelic figure of the young soldier, as well as the hints of apotheosis as he ascends to the angels. The imagery of lambs, blood-red poppies and a Christ-like figure whose life is laid down for the good of Man is pretty much what I’d expect for this period. I’m perplexed by the daisy though. I can’t recall daisies being significant to First World War iconography. Apart from that, the lead work around this one seems rather clumsy, as though it was added in haste as an afterthought. But why? What woul
d it signify?
Now, this is the sort of mystery that intrigues me. I’m always interested in the symbols and messages one finds in artwork.
“Should I have heard of him?” I ask, having the feeling I’m missing something. This window is as large as the first one and far more ornate, yet it’s dedicated to just one man, Captain Christopher Rivers, rather than the fallen of the parish. Swirling writing at the foot of the stained glass reveals that Captain Rivers was lost in 1916. I rack my brains but I still have no idea who he was or why visitors might make a pilgrimage to see this window.
“It depends how keen you are on English literature,” Sue says. “Kit Rivers was a war poet and Rosecraddick’s most famous son. Don’t feel bad if you haven’t heard of him though. I think he’s quite minor in comparison to Wilfred Owen and co. I certainly hadn’t come across Kit until I arrived here – but then again I’m a terrible philistine. I read the Bible and celebrity magazines, but that’s about it!”
I trawl through my foggy A-level literature knowledge but draw a total blank. The English teachers at school would be bound to know, but apart from the usual trio of Owen, Sassoon and Brooke I can’t recall any other war poets. That’s actually quite a shocking admission.
“Drum Flares? Smothered?” Sue offers. “I think those are the best known. I’ve got a book somewhere; I’ll see if I can dig it out for you. There’s stuff on Wiki too, I’m sure, and the village shop sells pamphlets. We’re pretty proud of Kit Rivers here.”
I study the window. The winter sunlight catches it and turns Kit’s hair to pure gold.
“A window like this one must have been very expensive,” I remark, and Sue nods.
The Letter Page 3
