Framed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Martin kicked at the springy turf with the heel of his shoe and stared in the direction of the house. Its squareness and the two tall chimneys were outlined blackly against the darkening sky. He walked towards it, his hands in his pockets. Pressing his forehead against the kitchen window he saw Dorothy sprawled in her high-backed chair over which a knitted patchwork blanket had been thrown to disguise the threadbare fabric. Voices from the radio reached him faintly but Dorothy was sound asleep, her mouth partly open, her knees apart and one of the cats curled into the cradle made by her skirt.

  George, the Jack Russell, bristled then relaxed when he saw it was Martin. The greyhound did not stir. She was going deaf.

  Martin had let himself in with his own key and helped himself to a ten-pound note from his mother’s purse then left her a note in his rounded block capitals to say he had done so. ‘I’ve lent ten pounds. Martin,’ he wrote on the back of an envelope. There were six other banknotes of the same value in her purse so he knew he was not leaving her short. He kissed Dorothy gently on the forehead and made sure the lock on the back door clicked shut behind him.

  Beads of sweat formed on his skin as he trudged across the scrubby slopes until he reached the main road into Camborne. There, in one of the pubs, he had spent all but a few pence of the ten pounds before he was bought a drink by a man whose name he could no longer recall. It was after midnight before he’d got back to the van and he’d fallen asleep, fully clothed, on top of his bunk. When he opened his eyes it was daylight and his head was thumping.

  Barry Rowe’s shop was in a prominent position in Penzance. He made his living producing greetings cards which sold throughout the country as well as locally. He also stocked maps and films and other bits and pieces that appealed to tourists. In the summer he kept the shop open until trade dropped off because the season was so short yet, surprisingly, he also made a reasonable income during the winter. Much of what was on display was based on the work of local artists or, at least, depicted local scenery. Rose Trevelyan provided him with two things: original watercolours, which he reproduced, and a sense of joy whenever he was in her company. She also photographed landscapes which he sold on to postcard companies.

  He had known her since she first arrived in Cornwall, having just completed three years at art college. She had come to study the Newlyn and St Ives artiste for six months before taking up a career but she had never gone back. Oils had been her favourite medium and she’d initially sold one or two each year through the cafés and galleries which served as outlets, although photography had taken over now.

  It had been love at first sight on Barry’s part. He would never forget the day she bounced into the shop, her long flowing hair burnished copper by the sun which streamed through the open door. Her enthusiasm and vitality were almost tangible. Then she had been pretty; now, with maturity, she had become more than that.

  Barry pushed his glasses up his nose. Every pair he had ever possessed worked loose and the habit, so strongly ingrained, caused him to do so when there was no need. He knew he was no great catch. His hair was greying and rather thin, his shoulders were stooped and he was underweight but his devotion to Rose had not ceased. He was long over the pain he had felt when David Trevelyan had walked into his shop to buy a birthday card. Rose had been there at the time and Barry bitterly regretted telling David that the artist was standing behind him. The look which Rose had given David had been identical to the one he had given her a few short months previously. With that simple introduction Barry had known that his chances were nil.

  When David died Barry had been genuinely distressed because he had liked and admired the man and knew that he had made Rose happy. Shamefully he struggled to stifle the thought that Rose might now come to accept him as more than a friend. It had not happened. Then Jack Pearce arrived on the scene. At least Rose hadn’t dropped him completely in favour of the arrogant Inspector Pearce.

  At precisely one o’clock Rose walked through the door, surprising Barry who was used to her tardiness. He grinned. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said to Heather who was the latest in a long line of temporary or part-time assistants.

  ‘Oh, I expect I’ll cope,’ she said wryly, rather liking the serious man for whom she worked.

  ‘We’re going out?’ Rose had only expected to collect payment for some work.

  ‘Just up the road for a quickie. There’s something I want to discuss with you so I thought you might as well buy me a pint.’

  ‘Fair enough. As long as you’re about to hand me an envelope containing a cheque.’

  ‘Mercenary bitch.’

  Rose laughed. ‘It’s taken you long enough to find that out.’

  They strolled up to Causewayhead and entered the London Inn. The front bar was busy where a group of fishermen who had landed that morning, along with their women, had been making an early start. Rose acknowledged the ones she knew before following Barry around to the small back bar where he was already ordering their drinks. Rose handed over the money.

  ‘Okay, I’ve kept to my side of the bargain.’ She held out her hand.

  Barry shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out the cheque which Rose had been expecting.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, glancing quickly at the figure before stuffing it into her shoulder bag. It had taken her a long time to become businesslike about her transactions. Initially she had imagined a sponsor or agent would deal with the monetary side of things. Her financial position was now secure but without her work she would be lost. The house had been paid for upon David’s death and the capital from his insurance policies paid the bills. What she earned gave her freedom. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’

  ‘How are you at wild flowers?’

  ‘I can tell a daisy from a buttercup.’

  ‘Honestly, Rose, you know what I mean.’ He wished she would not grin at him in that way, it always made him want to kiss her. ‘I’m talking about notelets, the usual, ten to the box and packaged nicely.’

  ‘It’s been done to death.’

  ‘Yes but they’re popular and I was thinking of a different angle.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘This time with an appropriate background, something simple, say a cliff or a disused tin mine, something which shows where the plant can be found with the location printed on the bottom. Take a look at this.’ He slid a sheet of paper across the table and pointed at it with a thin finger. ‘See, like this. Western Gorse, common enough down here and in Wales, I believe, but rare elsewhere and there’s –’

  ‘All right, all right, I get the drift. You’ve obviously done your homework,’ Rose interrupted before he could get too carried away, as he tended to with new projects. ‘But isn’t it a bit late in the year to be starting on something like this?’

  ‘Aha, that’s where you’re right. I have done my homework. Most of the plants on the list flower until October. If you’re not too tied up with other work you could make a start and finish the rest in the spring.’

  Rose was impressed. Scrawled in Barry’s untidy hand were the names and locations of over twenty wild flowers. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Usual rate?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘October? I might get wet feet.’

  ‘Honestly, woman. Okay, plus five per cent.’

  ‘It’s a deal. Now I can’t sit around all day drinking, I’ve got to go. Things to do, you know.’

  Barry shook his head, grinning at her cheek. He rarely indulged in more than one or two pints, Rose enjoyed a drink far more than he did. The smile faded as she walked away and he was left to wonder if Jack Pearce was on her agenda.

  Since the time Fred Meecham had taken over the shop in Hayle he had spent an hour or so with Dorothy Pengelly at least once a week. But that was before Marigold’s illness had taken hold and he had discovered his secret might not be safe. Despite the difference in their ages they got on well. It had started when Dorothy had given up the car a
nd begun sending in an order for heavy goods such as a case of cat or dog food which he delivered free of charge. A strange kind of friendship had developed. He knew she did not buy everything from him but he did not resent it. He understood how much she enjoyed her trips to Camborne or even Truro with Jobber Hicks.

  It was Dorothy to whom he had confessed that his wife had run off with a rep from a biscuit company who used to call at the shop. ‘She took all she could carry,’ he had told her, ‘but she didn’t take the boy.’ Fred had been left to bring Justin up as best he could. Five years later, at the age of sixteen, Justin, too, had left home.

  ‘Where did they go?’ Dorothy had wanted to know.

  ‘To hell as far as I care.’ Fred had left it at that. He had tried hard to make the marriage work. Divorce was against his religious principles but Rita had gone away, waited the stipulated period and filed the papers without any resort to him.

  He thought about what Dorothy had said a few years afterwards, when Marigold had moved in. ‘Time you took over your own destiny, Fred. It’s all very well your sister running your home and helping out in the shop but a man like you needs a wife.’

  He had nodded and smiled and gone on to talk about the chrysanthemums he grew in the small garden behind the shop. Dorothy had made a joke about them being the wrong sort of flower, they ought to have been Marigolds.

  She had been deeply sad when he came to say that Marigold had been diagnosed as having cancer. ‘It’s so unfair, she’s so young.’

  ‘I’d spend every penny I’ve got to find a cure,’ Fred had continued. ‘Every bloody penny. I want the best treatment money can buy.’

  Dorothy had reassured him that she was probably getting it anyway and that he would be wasting his time by paying for private care.

  But Fred had not been able to let the matter go. ‘I could send her to America. You read about people who get sent to specialists over there and get cured.’

  How hopeful he had been in the early days of the disease. He had had an estate agent look over the shop and give him a valuation but even with his savings and any other money he could scrape together he knew he would never get Marigold to the States.

  Was it too late? Wasn’t there something he could do? Of course there was. He should not have allowed the pessimistic thoughts to arise.

  Most days his staff would mind the shop whilst he paid a mid-day visit to Marigold in the hospital but he always spent a couple of hours with her again in the evenings. He pulled on his jacket. Tonight, once she became too tired to bear his company any longer, he would make his final attempt.

  Fred Meecham locked the shop door knowing that things would turn out all right.

  2

  It had taken Martin most of Thursday to recover from his hangover. He spent the morning cleaning the caravan and washing out his socks and underpants. It was therapeutic, a way of cleansing himself, ridding his mind of the shame he felt at disgracing himself. They were chores which would have taken most people far less time but he always worked slowly and methodically, never undertaking more than one simple task at a time. He polished the windows inside and out, using newspaper soaked in vinegar as he had seen his mother do. As the morning wore on the chill of the past few days evaporated under a hot autumn sun. Martin removed the long seat cushions which doubled as mattresses at night and lugged them out to air, propping them against rocks.

  In the afternoon he walked down to Hayle and cashed his unemployment cheque then bought a bagful of groceries, enough to last him the weekend. He got a cheap cut of meat, a loaf of bread and some fresh vegetables. It was after three when he had finished and he realised that he had enough money left over to repay his mother and just still be able to have a drink. Just one, he told himself. Hesitating only briefly he crossed the road, walked past the lane he should have taken to go home and went into the pub.

  Glancing around he was relieved to see that there were only three other people present, none of whom he recognised. The two men he had spoken to on his previous visit must have gone back to wherever it was they came from. They had not been local but he could not place their accent. Martin had not set foot outside Cornwall and things which occurred on the other side of the Tamar Bridge were of no interest to him. He decided they had been holiday-makers and left it at that.

  He jangled the coins in the pocket of his jeans and resisted the temptation to buy a second pint of cider. He felt worse rather than better for the one he had drunk.

  The walk home helped to clear his head. Instinctively his feet picked their way through gorse roots and scattered stones. For a big man he moved lightly and easily and all the walking kept him fit. He stowed his groceries in cupboards in the caravan then walked down to the house.

  ‘What’s up, son?’ Dorothy asked as soon as she saw his face. No answer was necessary, the way he was trembling and refusing to meet her eyes said it all.

  ‘Nothing, Ma.’

  ‘You’ve bin drinking again.’ It was a statement. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and studied him carefully before turning to stir something simmering in a pot. ‘You’ll end up in trouble if you don’t look out.’ Martin was not dishonest, nor was he a fighting man, but he was easily taken advantage of, especially when he had drink inside him. How unalike her boys were. Peter was much the brighter but he lacked compassion. Martin was insecure, easily hurt and quickly ashamed yet he intuitively offered comfort whenever it was needed.

  Peter imagined that, because she insisted on his repaying loans, she thought the less of Martin. This was far from true. She was trying to teach him a set of values and how to look after himself financially, preparing him for the time when she would no longer be around. ‘Well, now you’re here you may as well eat with me. Cut some bread, son.’

  Martin got out a loaf and hacked off four thick slices then they sat down to eat. Saliva filled his mouth as he took the first mouthful of beef stew. The remains from yesterday having been reheated, the flavours had mingled appetisingly. They ate in companionable silence; they were close enough not to feel the need to make inconsequential conversation.

  When they had finished Dorothy cleared away the plates and made tea. She wished she knew what was troubling her son.

  ‘Anyone been here?’ Martin asked so abruptly that she jumped and the tea leaves on the spoon scattered over the wooden draining-board instead of into the pot.

  Dorothy bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said hesitantly for there were some things she did not want Martin to know, not just yet. ‘But Mrs Trevelyan’s coming tomorrow. Why?’

  ‘Oh, ’er’s all right. I mean anyone else?’

  ‘No. You know only Fred Meecham and Rose come, and Jobber Hicks to give me a lift now and then. What’s got into you, Martin?’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ He avoided an answer but seemed to be relieved as his shoulders unhunched and he pushed back a lock of brown hair. He drank his tea and thanked his mother for the meal then left by the back door, heading up over the rough ground in the direction of his caravan where he intended getting his head down for at least eight hours.

  Dorothy remained at the table, her hands clasped around her pint mug as if she was cold. She felt vaguely sick. She had never lied to Martin before. There had been a visitor and she now understood what had brought that particular person to her door. Martin had not been able to keep his mouth shut. However, inadvertently he had done himself a favour and now Dorothy was returning it by keeping quiet.

  Outside the night enveloped the house like a cloak. All that could be heard were the familiar creakings of the building. Through the kitchen windows the outlines of boulders became shadowy shapes until they merged completely into the blackness. Clouds hid the stars and there was no street-lighting for a long way. In a couple more days she would need to light a fire. There was a good supply of wood stacked against the side of one of the outbuildings. Martin had cut it for her in the spring and left it there to weather. Fresh wood with the sap still running burned longer but was no good for
giving off heat. Dorothy smiled. She liked the winter when gales made the windows rattle and the wind relentlessly but unsuccessfully pounded away at the house which had stood undamaged for the best part of two hundred years. Only once had she needed someone to come and replace a couple of roof slates.

  When the dark evenings arrived Dorothy took herself to bed early and read, her mind always partly aware of the screaming elements outside. When a strong westerly brought rain it lashed against the bedroom window but the sound was comforting, a part of all she had ever known. She would lie contentedly beneath the sheet and blankets and the patchwork quilt her mother had stitched and give thanks for her life.

  She was, she realised, a woman of extremes. She liked summer and winter, understood only good or evil and had no time for people who dithered because they couldn’t decide the best thing to do. Everything in life was black or white to her and this outlook reflected both her character and her surroundings. She loved the harshness of the scenery outside and could never have lived in one of the picturesque villages which attracted tourists. Even as a girl she had avoided crowds, walking the cliff paths alone or with friends from the village. They would lie amongst the rough grasses and the thrift, its pink flowers bobbing in the soft breezes, and plan their futures, futures modelled on their parents’ lives. They knew only open spaces and the moods of the Atlantic Ocean as it battered the coastline or caressed the golden sand. Time was measured by the storms and the baking heat of summer. Their food came from the sea and the surrounding farms, their bread from their mothers’ kitchens and their only entertainment was listening to the stories passed down through the generations or hearing one of the choirs sing in the church.