by Gloria Cook
‘It’s pretty sound, I’d say. I was there the other afternoon. Susan was home and I had a cup of tea with her. It’s very well done up inside, she’s got some good pieces of furniture.’
‘Oh, you didn’t mention it, Mark.’ Faye made her voice sound light. Nor had Susan mentioned it. He got on well with her, hopefully not too well.
‘Maureen was tearing about in the lane in a cart made from old pram wheels. I thought it looked a bit dangerous, so I took the liberty of taking her home and pointing it out to Susan. She was really grateful. I fixed the wheels tightly and even managed to fit some brakes. Can’t say how pleased I was, first time I’d been able to do anything useful in a long time. I guess I forgot until now that I’d been there, the old memory not being too good. Maureen’s such a delight. I don’t think Susan has a clue what she gets up to with the twins and little Pearl,’ he said fondly.
‘How do you know what Maureen does?’ Faye hid the heaviness in her heart. Mark never mentioned Simon. He played with him occasionally, but not for long.
‘She tells me.’
‘She does?’ Now she had to keep her jealousy in check. ‘She’s always whispering to Uncle Tris too, and he’s very fond of her.’ This wasn’t a lie. Her uncle often singled Maureen out and she responded to him eagerly. It stood out miles that he adored Susan and was using kindness to her daughter to impress her, although he genuinely doted on Maureen; she was an easy child to get along with, cheerful and bright.
They reached the crossroads. A new white-painted metal signpost had been recently erected. The direction they had come from indicated Hennaford, two miles. Straight across indicated a route that would lead eventually to Redruth, and the left was the short distance to Zelah, then Truro at six miles away. They turned right – it led on to Taldrea, Goonhaven and Perranporth – and they started up the steep Greet Hill. They passed the first tied cottage; the usual whitewashed affair, where laundry for a family of five fluttered gaily in the breeze. Watching Mark closely, she went on, ‘So Susan invited you inside for tea? I’m a bit surprised. She’s usually so reserved. What did you talk about?’
‘This and that. You, mostly.’
‘Oh?’ Faye was cheered. ‘Why?’
‘We were saying how grateful we are to you. Susan’s happy in her job and she’s delighted that you and Tristan treat Maureen the same as the other children. We both admire you.’ He strode along without bothering to keep his walking boots out of mud or cattle fouling, wiping his hand down his sweater when it got dirty with moss and grit from prodding into a dry stone wall. Faye frowned. He gave Susan a lot of extra laundry, for he cared nothing about smartness. ‘Oh, sorry, I’m too used to… different conditions. It alters your values.’
‘It’s all right,’ she smiled.
‘You’re too kind,’ he smiled back. ‘You come from a nice family. Tris has told me about your father, how he was killed while working as a saboteur with the French Resistance. You must be very proud of him.’
‘I am. He worked first as an S.O.E. Then he was betrayed by a member of the Vichy, his wireless operator was shot. He could have come home, but he chose to fight on with the maquis. He did a lot of brave things and was shot by the Germans just before D-Day. I think they had respect for him for the daring things he did, although if he’d lived they would have tortured him for information. We didn’t really have a good relationship. After my mother left him and took me to America he disowned me.’
‘I’m sorry, that must have been rough.’
‘It was, very. I came to England before the war, to train for the ballet. I grew too tall, but I wasn’t quite good enough anyway. The academy was evacuated to Scotland. I left when I was old enough and worked as a secretary on a large estate.’ With her face on fire, she admitted, praying it wouldn’t put him off her, but she felt it important he knew the truth, ‘I, um, had an affair with the laird. He was a dashing sort. I was infatuated with him. He’s Simon’s father. He was estranged from his wife but didn’t intend to get a divorce. I don’t suppose it would have worked out anyway.’
‘But you have a wonderful little boy,’ Mark said matter-of-factly.
‘Yes. Some people think I’m brave for not making up a lie about being widowed; it would have been easy enough with the war on. Sometimes I wish I had; not everyone approves of me, of course, and it makes things difficult.’
‘That’s a great pity. All new life should be celebrated. Never regret your decision, Faye.’
‘My biggest regret is my father not knowing about Simon. I came down to Cornwall hoping to build up a relationship with him, but he went off for his training and never came back. I should have brought Simon down with me from the start, but I was only nineteen, unsure of myself, and at the time I was afraid my father would shun both of us.’ She couldn’t prevent tears wetting her eyes over her father’s coldness, and then at how during his undercover training he’d realized he loved her. He’d written to tell her so and how he wanted so much to see her and be a proper father to her. With the secrecy of his future mission paramount, she’d been unable to receive the letter until after his death. She filled Mark in on the facts. ‘He was a very troubled man. He’d wanted to fight in the Great War, but an accident prevented it and he became bitter. When my mother left him she was pregnant, but the baby was actually my Uncle Alec’s, Aunt Emilia’s first husband. I loathed my father for denying his son, my brother, but I didn’t know the truth then. Oh,’ she wiped her tears away with the heel of her hand. ‘Yes, I do belong to a nice family, but one with a chequered history. I take comfort in knowing my father died doing something he believed in. And I think he would have accepted Simon and even been proud of him.’
Mark touched her arm. ‘Thanks for confiding in me. I’m sure if he’d made it back he would have been a changed man because he’d have had you and Simon to live for.’
‘That’s what I intend to tell Simon when he’s old enough.’ Faye was uplifted. She and Mark had consolidated a closer friendship. She would like him to talk about his life. He never mentioned Justine, but she must be on his mind often, for they wrote and phoned each other regularly.
Near the top of the hill were the next two adjoining cottages. Here thick woods towered up on either side of the road. The hedges were high and the trees were bent over them forming a canopy, at times blotting out the sun, making the stretch seem dark and chilly, only allowing the sun to sparkle through here and there. Mark looked up, blinked and shook his head, trying to dislodge disturbing memories. It wasn’t unbearably hot and steamy here, but it did remind him of the terrible marches through the jungle. Not looking where he was going, his foot hit a large loose stone and he stumbled. The torment of the thick tangles of Thai overgrowth meant he’d never stayed firmly on his feet for long. He looked down, not seeing dusty tarmac now but treacherous snake-infested jungle floor. He looked up and saw not glimpses of a gentle sun under an English sky above elms and oaks but an unmerciful burning orb peeking spitefully through wild out-of-control trees and creepers. Midges and thousands of other insects were feasting on his skin, leaving bites that stung and itched unmercifully. At all costs he must try to keep his eye on the men as they marched mile after exhausting mile to work on the railway. If any fell behind, Thai bandits would creep out like ghostly shadows and murder would be certain. A tropical storm lashed down out of nowhere, drenching him to the bones, flailing his burning sore flesh, making visibility non-existent and turning the ground knee-deep in mud. Each step took an enormous effort. Each breath in the choking steam had to be fought for.
He slowed down and slowed again. Faye watched him. He was dragging his feet, as if they were too heavy to bear him along, each step a terrible strain that was draining the essence out of him. ‘All right, Mark?’ His face was tense and knotted with pain, his shoulders drooping. He was like a man suddenly twice his age. She could see he was suffering some dreadful flashback. She took his hand, knowing he couldn’t feel the comforting pressure, knowing he couldn’t hear
her voice. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry. We’ll keep going until we’re out in the sunlight again. It’s not far.’
They cleared the trees and Faye led him into the middle of the lane, hoping he’d become aware of the light and the sun. She was so absorbed with him she was unaware of a van being driven along the road, albeit slowly and carefully. The driver tooted the horn. She jumped in fright and pushed Mark into the hedge. The driver stopped in a passing place and got out, clearly worried. ‘Miss Faye, you didn’t see me. Are you all right? Is he hurt?’
‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘We’re both fine, I think. I’m sorry, Jim.’ It was the local builder, Jim Killigrew, who lived in Ford House, just below Ford Farm, where he had formerly worked as a labourer. In his early forties, a well-built, fair-haired individual, he had lost his left arm in the Merchant Navy after the torpedoing of his ship. He managed to drive his old green van and go about his work with the aid of a false limb with a double hook. ‘This your guest, former Lieutenant Fuller, then? Poor bugger. Anything I can do?’
‘He just needs to be kept quiet. I’d be grateful, Jim, if you stayed for a while, just in case he needs to be driven back to the house.’
‘Of course.’ Jim peered at Mark from sympathetic blue eyes. ‘Must have been pretty bad for him. He’s as thin as a yard of pump water; bloody crime, it was. We could put him to sit in the van.’
‘Yes, thank you. No! He’d be even more confused to come round in a strange vehicle. He’s not been too bad lately. Hopefully, he’ll come out of it soon. If we just stay still for a while.’
Five minutes passed. ‘How’s the family, Jim?’ He had married a retired Methodist minister’s daughter, and years ago they had adopted two orphans.
‘Fine, thanks. Alan’s rebuilding a porch in Goonhaven. I’ve just dropped him off. He’ll cycle home. Martha’s happy working at the bank in Truro. Elena’s the same as always, running about doing good deeds. She’s really content, even putting on weight. We’re lucky, Miss Faye. I got back nearly intact, nothing wrong in my mind, not like this poor bloke.’
‘I’m pleased all is well for you, Jim. And the business? I know you’re shortly to start on something for my cousin Tom. I’m about to look over all my tenants’ houses. None of them have indoor lavatories or bathrooms. That’s not acceptable any more. When I know the requirements, would you be interested in the work?’
‘Be more’n happy to, Miss Faye. We can come to an arrangement about a job lot. Ah, look, Mr Fuller’s coming round. Shall I go on my way? Don’t want to embarrass him.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Jim. Also, could you not mention this to anyone except Elena?’
‘Will do. Hear from you in due course then.’ Jim drove off, whistling ‘Kalamazoo’.
‘Ohh…’ Mark stretched out his arms. ‘Did I switch off?’
‘Just for a minute or two,’ Faye replied. ‘Want to go back?’
‘No, really. Faye, I’m sorry if you find what happens to me a bit too strange.’
‘Not at all, Mark.’ Sensitively, she carried on walking and spoke of it no more. ‘Look there, through the trees, you can see Rose Dew, it’s reputed to be haunted. It gives everyone the heebie-jeebies, even from here it make me feel shivery.’
‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ Mark said in all confidence.
‘You’ve been there?’ She gazed at him as they started down the meandering hill.
‘I’ve looked over it a couple of times. Nothing worried me there.’
‘So you don’t think it’s haunted?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Faye shivered, glad she could feel the warm sun on her back. The castle in Scotland where she’d lived and worked had been haunted by a legendary amount of ghosts, of people who all had, apparently, met tragic deaths. She had seen or heard nothing unusual herself, but the atmosphere had occasionally been dark and grim, as if itself a premonition of something brooding in the air waiting to pounce. ‘What do you mean? I wonder if Susan finds it creepy living nearby.’
‘She does at times, she forbids Maureen to play there.’ Again, Faye was narked at his easy references to Susan, and that he knew more about her daily help than she did. ‘The first time I approached Rose Dew I saw an old man. He was standing quite still beside the cottage. He could have been anyone, of course, someone out for a stroll. I called to him. He didn’t answer. I thought perhaps he was deaf, or some crotchety old local who considered me a trespasser. The more I climbed up towards him the less distinct he became. It was like those dreams you have when the more you try to get close to someone the further they are away. Then he disappeared.’
‘What? You mean one moment he was there and the next he was gone?’ Faye looked about, fearful she’d see a strange figure.
‘Yes. I could have blinked, I suppose, but he couldn’t have walked away that quickly. And I’m convinced I didn’t look away, because there was something compelling about him.’ Mark was totally unconcerned about the possibility of having seen a ghost. He was sure he’d seen the ghosts of his dead friends and other servicemen, and of coolie peasants also forced to work on the Burma-Thailand railway. He had heard stories of ghosts from other men, too, most of whom were now dead themselves. Sometimes it had brought comfort – a mate bringing a goodwill message. Some chaps had thought the visions to be hallucinations brought about from starvation or the variety of dangerous fevers. To Mark it had been a fact – someone had died and had appeared as a ghost, part of them lingering on for some reason.
‘And you say he was old?’
‘It’s the impression I got.’
‘What were his clothes like?’
‘Just dark.’ He thought about it. ‘A working man’s clothes. The elderly in the village might know of any deaths there. Agnes would probably know. Could simply be some old soul who passed away peacefully in his sleep and likes to come back and take a look at his garden. He wouldn’t be too pleased with its current state, though. It’s a mess of overgrowth. Needs a few trees cut back from it, too, before the place can be made habitable again.’
Faye was frowning. ‘I don’t think I’ll have anything done to it except pulled down for safety reasons.’
‘Oh, you can’t do that.’ Mark shook his head. ‘The cottage is quite sound. The roof needs new slates and it needs up-to-date plumbing, of course. Homes are needed, Faye, there’s a chronic housing shortage.’
‘I know that,’ Faye said, considering his opinion, which had been delivered in a typical officer’s tone, direct but not patronizing. She was pleased he was feeling in control of things. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll talk to Uncle Tris about it.’
They had arrived at the entrance to Little Dell and followed the stony, rutted track. ‘This must prove an awful trek for Susan while coming and going in wet and wintry conditions. I’ll see about a proper path being laid up to her door.’
‘I observed something while in her kitchen, or rather there was something I didn’t see,’ Mark said, his eyes on the little planked front door, which was pleading for fresh brown paint.
‘Oh, what was that?’ Just how much interest was he taking in Susan and her life? Faye then had a thought that was both wrong and selfish but which she did nothing to shake off: she must think of ways to keep him and Susan apart.
‘There were no photos of her husband. A widow usually proudly displays photos of her dead warrior husband in uniform, but there’s none of Lance Dowling inside, not even a wedding snap. That can only point to one thing. Susan was very unhappily married, to the point that she can’t bear having a photo of her husband on display even after his death. Must be why she’s so guarded, why she’s not interested in men. It’s a shame that an attractive young woman as she is seems resigned to a lonely life. Sorry, I’m sounding like a gossip-monger, aren’t I?’
‘Not at all, I’m interested in Susan’s welfare.’ And in what might happen between her and the man at her side. With polite and caring friendship from an unpretentious man as Ma
rk, and who showed affection for her daughter, Susan might be led to notice him. But he wasn’t the only man in that category, and before she could put a brake on her tongue or consult commonsense, Faye blurted out, ‘So is Uncle Tris. He dotes on Maureen and is quite taken with Susan.’
‘He is?’ Mark made a face. ‘You mean in the sense of…? But he’s old enough to be her father.’
‘That shouldn’t matter. Susan is mature, and my uncle is in no way a Don Juan.’
They reached Susan’s garden, cultivated with early vegetables. Mark made no more mention of her.
Faye was thinking what to say next when she was suddenly knocked off her feet. She screamed shrilly. A dark shaggy creature ran away from her and shot off towards Rose Dew. Fear clutched her every nerve. She had been attacked, by some fearsome being.
‘Faye!’ Mark helped her up. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I – I don’t think so.’ Her eyes were rooted in fear up the track to the forsaken cottage, which was just in view. It was surrounded by shadows. ‘We should get away from here. I wonder if Susan would prefer to live somewhere else?’
‘Why?’ Mark was giving her a clean handkerchief. ‘Faye, what’s the matter? You seem really scared.’
‘I was just attacked by a monster. A ghost.’ She was incredulous he was taking this so lightly.
‘No, you weren’t.’ He couldn’t help smiling. She looked like a sweet, frightened girl. ‘It was a stray. I’ve seen him about a few times. I keep a biscuit in my pocket just in case, and he knows that. He trusts me now. He must have been creeping up to me then ran and skidded in his eagerness to get something to eat that he didn’t have to forage for. It’s only a dog, Faye. He must be more scared than you are.’ This was the worst moment of her life. She had made a complete fool of herself. She rubbed at her dirty jacket and trousers. ‘I must look a mess.’
