Framed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Progress, she thought. What has it brought us but people in a hurry with their fast cars and their televisions and computers which were called, she believed, technology communication? ‘Communication!’ she spluttered. ‘They things does the opposite. Nobody talks any more, not proper. Just tap, tap, tap in they machines. Bleddy tusses.’

  She was still at the table, deep in thought, talking aloud as she often did lately. A knock at the door jerked her into alertness. Tap, tap, tap. The sounds were real, not an echo of her thoughts. She was surprised to notice it was now completely dark. ‘I’m coming,’ she called as she pulled a cardigan around her shoulders and wondered if her visitor had returned.

  Peter Pengelly worked on the railways and enjoyed the life although he was not sure how he felt about privatisation. He had recently been promoted to senior conductor on the Inter-City line from Penzance to Paddington although he never completed the whole journey. Mostly the trains changed crews at Plymouth or Exeter. They could manage on what he earned but with two school-age children it wasn’t easy, at least according to Gwen.

  ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ he had asked more than once. ‘Just something part-time. You’ll probably enjoy it, it’ll get you out of the house.’

  ‘I don’t want a job, I want to be a proper mother.’

  He knew this was not the real reason. Gwen hankered after a life where money was no problem and where she could lord it over others. But she did not want to have to work for it. Sadder still, she had no real friends. Lately he had pressed her harder but she had given him one of her cool glances and made him feel inadequate again.

  ‘There isn’t much point now, is there? Your mother won’t last for ever. Think about it, Peter, it’ll make such a difference to our lives. We can have a bigger house and when all her bits and pieces have been sold –’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he had hissed in exasperation, dropping his mug in the washing-up bowl before leaving for work.

  ‘I’ll never live out there. Never!’ Gwen had shouted after him, almost in tears. All she had ever wanted was a life to make up for her miserable childhood and Dorothy Pengelly was the only thing standing in her way.

  That same morning Gwen drove into Truro and bought some new underwear. To her mind Peter was a highly sexed man and she thought she knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

  At home, an hour before she was due to collect the children from school, Gwen pulled the flimsy garments out of their plastic carrier and admired them. Her figure was good enough that they would flatter her. Once the children were in bed she would shower and dress in her new things then come downstairs, the lacy garments covered only by her thigh-length robe.

  Rose finished the day’s work early and returned home at four. The light was blinking on the answering machine. She dropped her camera cases into an armchair and flicked the switch.

  ‘Rose, dear, is that you? It’s me, Dorothy. Can you bring some milk with you tomorrow? Oh, be quiet.’

  Rose grinned. The short, sharp barks were unmistakably those of George, the Jack Russell. The greyhound, Star, whose name had been shortened from her racing name of White Star Dancer, did nothing but sleep or rest her lean, greying muzzle on your lap.

  ‘Anyway, if it’s not too much trouble. I’ll see you all right when you get here.’

  Rose knew better than to refuse the money. She had no idea of Dorothy’s financial position but had learned her lesson some time ago when Dorothy had expressed her views on charity. She had, on that same occasion, rather slyly asked Rose’s opinion of a painting which hung on her bedroom wall. It was an original Stanhope Forbes and there were, she had hinted, one or two more by various members of the Newlyn School. She had come by them by way of her mother who had mixed with the artists and who had, according to Dorothy, known one or two of them intimately. In those days they had been regarded as bohemian and rather shocking with the women drinking and smoking as well as the men and with their unorthodox lifestyles. Now, of course, they were regarded with admiration. Rose wondered just how intimate the relationships between Dorothy’s mother and the painters had been and whether Dorothy might actually be the daughter of one of them.

  The picture she had been shown was badly in need of a clean but Rose’s experienced eye saw immediately that it was worth a lot of money. It had struck her at the time that this might be Dorothy’s way of saying that she could well afford to pay for her shopping. After that incident Rose had taken stock of the contents of Dorothy’s house and had realised that amongst the outdated junk there were some good pieces of furniture but her interest in antiques was limited and therefore she had no idea what their value might be. However, it was Dorothy’s company she enjoyed, not her possessions. She decided to ring her back.

  ‘It’s Rose,’ she said when Dorothy finally came to the phone.

  ‘Sorry to keep you, dear, but I was trying to find they blasted cats. Wild, they be, I don’t know why I bother with ’un.’

  Wild is right, Rose thought, they would as soon scratch and spit as be touched. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. A bit tired but the blasted wind kept me awake last night and my shoulder aches. Trouble is, I always fall asleep listening to the radio of an evening then when it’s time for bed I toss and turn all night. Makes me teasy, it does. But you don’t want to be listening to my moaning.’

  Rose frowned. She knew Dorothy refused to consider the possibility that she might be ill. Not once in her life had she been troubled by anything other than minor ailments and she would not give in to them. No doctor had set foot in her house and a midwife had delivered her sons in the wooden-framed bed upstairs.

  ‘How’re the grandchildren?’

  ‘Don’t see ’em much, really,’ Dorothy admitted without self-pity. ‘Gwen leads what she calls a busy life, though how that can be with washing-machines and all is beyond me. They’re both at school now, and, selfish old woman that I am, I’ve never volunteered to look after them. Real modem kids they are, into the telly and computer games. They’d be bored silly out here with nothing but fresh air and God’s own country all around ’em.’

  Rose laughed. She heard the irony in the words. She knew that Dorothy’s own children had been content to make their own amusement and had been allowed to run wild over the uninhabited countryside. In his teens Peter had taken to going to friends’ houses but Martin had always remained content with his surroundings. Dorothy had shown Rose the treasures she still possessed; small things which Martin had carved out of wood although some of them were unrecognisable as objects.

  ‘Martin’s bin drinking more’n’s good for him,’ Dorothy said as if she had read Rose’s mind. ‘It’s not so much that which bothers me, my husband liked a drop hisself. Ah, well, not much to be done about it. How’s that young man of yourn?’

  ‘Jack?’ Rose laughed. ‘He’s not exactly young, and he isn’t mine.’

  ‘Got shot of him, have you?’ Dorothy cackled down the phone.

  ‘No. We still see each other.’

  ‘Time you was married then. I can’t understand you. With me it were all or nothing. Sorry, maid, take no notice of me.’

  ‘It’s all right. Really it is.’ Dorothy knew that for Rose, too, it was all or nothing. It had been with David. ‘I still don’t know how I feel about Jack.’

  ‘Early days yet, it’s not hardly a year, is it?’ Dorothy contradicted herself. ‘You’ll know, right enough. One day you’ll wake up and say he’s the right one or he isn’t. My, my, listen to that. Can you hear it down your way?’

  Rose could. The wind had strengthened and an unexpected rattle of rain hit the window. ‘Yes. I hope the electricty doesn’t go off again.’ It was a common problem. ‘I must go, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing ’e, maid.’

  Rose hung up. She could already smell the familiar mixture of dogs and cigarettes and Pear’s soap which was Dorothy.

  In the attic which she had had converted into a dark-room Rose d
eveloped two rolls of film and left them hanging in the drying cabinet prior to taking prints from them. Jack was coming over. He said he was tired and fancied a quiet night in but he was prepared to provide supper in the form of an Indian takeaway and some alcoholic refreshment Rose had taken pity on him and had offered to cook provided he brought the drinks.

  ‘And will I get to rest my weary head on your pillow?’ Jack had half teasingly wanted to know when he rang her. Despite his brashness and his inability to deal with certain matters tactfully he made up for his deficiencies with his offbeat humour and Rose was aware that his show of masculine superiority was only a disguise for his need for reassurance. Jack Pearce, she thought, was as vulnerable as the next man. But do I really want a vulnerable man? was a question she often asked herself.

  A crack of thunder made her jump and the rain became a torrent of water which streamed down the side of the house, taking with it mud from the flower beds. The tide was high. By now the waves would be breaking over the Promenade. Rose did not know whether she preferred the vibrant colours and heat of the summer or the violent but spectacular storms of winter.

  She showered and washed her hair and changed into a dress, spraying her wrists and neck with perfume which Jack had bought for her last Christmas but which she rarely remembered to use.

  Jack could be unpunctual when his job prevented him from being otherwise but tonight he arrived on time, sprinting around the side of the house to the kitchen door, the entrance which all her friends used. She let him in, water dripping from him on to the floor.

  ‘See, I didn’t forget.’ He kissed the top of her head as he placed a bulging bag bearing the logo of an off-licence on the table. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ He nodded towards her short-sleeved dress.

  ‘Not really.’ But soon the dress would be put away for the winter. The evenings were noticeably pulling in and twice in a week she had had to close the bedroom window at night. Jack did look tired but it did not detract from his dark good looks. In jeans and shirt and raincoat, left unbuttoned, his powerful body was shown to advantage. Beside him Rose felt tiny and was never able to get over her surprise at the way in which he seemed to fill a room. But Jack was also trying to fill the life she was building without David. She wasn’t quite sure how she had allowed it to happen.

  The following morning Rose told Jack she was going to visit Dorothy. ‘I’m worried about her. She was a bit pale last time I saw her.’

  ‘Can’t you get her GP to call in and see her?’

  ‘I doubt if she’s got one. Besides, she’d be furious. God, look at the time. Push off, Jack, I’ve got loads to do.’ He was not on duty until the afternoon but she didn’t want him under her feet any longer. She was already regretting letting him stay.

  ‘Is that all the thanks I get for my superb performance last night?’

  ‘Oh, Jack.’ He had meant it as a joke but she knew he tried to please her in every way. What was missing was on her side alone.

  ‘I do believe you’re blushing, Mrs Trevelyan. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.’ He bent to kiss her but something in her eyes warned him not to. ‘It’s all right, I’m going. Unwillingly, but I’m going. I’ll give you a ring later.’

  She nodded and watched him leave, his bulk blocking the light from the kitchen window as he passed it.

  It was going to be one of those days. No sooner had she washed the dishes which had been left after the previous night’s meal than Laura’s figure replaced Jack’s, although hers was of different dimensions. She too was taller than Rose but thin, naturally so. As she bounced up the path her corkscrew curls bobbed around her shoulders, restricted as they were by a towelling band.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long,’ Laura said, laughing because she had seen Rose’s dismayed expression. ‘I know you’re busy but as I was passing I thought I’d let you know that film we said we’d see is now on in Truro. Fancy going some time?’

  Rose did not point out that it would have been easier to telephone but she did understand that on Trevor’s first day back at sea Laura felt the need for company. Her three children were grown up and had left home. Two of them had made her a grandmother which, looking at Laura, seemed hard to believe.

  ‘Yes. But not tonight. You might as well put the kettle on now you’re here.’

  ‘You obviously had company last night‚’ Laura said as she nudged Rose out of the way and ran the tap. ‘Was it the ever faithful Barry Rowe or the delectable Jack Pearce?’

  For the second time that morning Rose blushed. Laura had not failed to notice that there were two sets of crockery and cutlery on the draining-board and had probably guessed the reason why the dishes had not been seen to until just now.

  ‘No need to answer, your face says it all.’ Laura grinned again and creases formed in the tight skin of her face, but instead of ageing her they had the opposite effect. She reminded Rose of an oversized imp.

  Rose did not begrudge her the time. Her friend had seen her through the months of David’s illness and the awful year which had followed his death. Not once had she told her to pull herself together and she had listened patiently throughout the stage where repetition becomes monotonous and most people get bored. For half an hour they chatted amiably then Laura said she must go.

  Bradley Hinkston and Roy Phelps, his associate, had paid a visit to Hayle where they had taken bed and breakfast accommodation at a pub. Two days after their conversation with Martin Pengelly they were on their way back to Bristol where the business was based. Roy was driving the van although Bradley was none too comfortable in the passenger seat, preferring the comfort of his Jaguar.

  ‘It was worth it, then?’ Roy took his eyes off the motorway winding ahead of them for a split second. The van had no radio and Roy was not a man at home with silence.

  ‘Oh, yes. It was defintely worth it. The old dear’s got a treasure trove there.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Roy’s thin-lipped smile.

  ‘What’s she like? A proper Janner if her son’s anything to go by.’

  Bradley’s arms were crossed. He raised a hand and smoothed his cheek with a forefinger. ‘No. Oh, she’s got the accent, all right, but I don’t think much escapes Mrs Pengelly’s notice.’

  They had reached the M5 and both were anxious to be back in the city. Since his divorce Roy had lived alone, over the shop, an arrangement convenient to them both and to Bradley’s insurers who were pleased to have the rooms over the business occupied. The premises were not the sort that generally passed for an antique shop. There were no oddments of china, no broken chairs and no boxes of junk scattered on the floor. The items he sold were genuine and well cared for. Mostly they consisted of large pieces of furniture along with the occasional bit of porcelain or silver. Everything was displayed under bright lights and there were grilles which pulled down over the windows at night. Roy was never sure if any of Bradley’s deals were crooked because he was not privy to them all, like the Pengelly woman, for instance. Still, it was best not to ask. One or two sales a week were enough to keep them both but they usually made far more than that. ‘What if she talks?’

  ‘Oh, she won’t talk, sunshine, I can guarantee that.’

  They reached the outskirts of Bristol and were heading for the centre just as the rain that was sweeping from the west hit them. They drove past Temple Meads Station and continued on to the shop where they unloaded what they had managed to purchase in Cornwall.

  ‘Fancy a drink before I drop you off?’

  Bradley nodded as he padlocked the door grille. ‘A gin and tonic would go down a treat. I can’t be long because I promised the wife I wouldn’t be late tonight.’ His voice was cultured, his manner urbane. ‘All in all a good trip, wouldn’t you say?’

  Together they walked quickly through the city streets. The shops were closed but the traffic was still heavy. The rain hit the pavements with a steady hiss and the drops bounced up again. They began to walk faster.

  After a single gin Bradley g
lanced at his watch and said it was time he was going. Roy drove him to his house in the suburbs which, he estimated, was worth more than he would ever be able to afford. He bore no grudges because he liked the man with his silvery hair and the twill trousers he favoured who was so very different from himself but who treated him like a father. But he felt unsettled that day. Within him was a sinking feeling that Bradley might have gone over the top back there in Cornwall. He wished he would confide more in him. No, he amended, there had been no need for confidences. Roy knew exactly what Bradley had planned to do.

  Bradley’s wife welcomed him with an absent-minded kiss on the cheek before carrying on preparing a tray of canapés. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, ‘but you can use the bathroom first.’

  Bradley went upstairs anticipating an excellent meal.

  As he shaved for the second time that day and got ready to receive their guests he mentally listed the deals he had made during his visit to the West Country and calculated how much money they would make. The Cornish, he thought, are a strange lot. But strangest of all had been the time he had spent in the company of Dorothy Pengelly.

  3

  Rose intended making a start on the wild flower sketches after she had seen Dorothy. She drove out of Penzance and joined the dual carriageway, taking a left at the roundabout.

  The rain had eased off but the road was still wet and drops of moisture clung to the long grass in the verges, glittering in the sunshine. Behind her was St Michael’s Mount, Rose caught a glimpse of it in her rear mirror, and around her was countryside. It would be a nice day after all. But something was wrong, Rose knew it. David had once said she was more superstitious than the Cornish and that her sixth sense was developed enough for her to be classed as one of them. Please let him be wrong, she prayed as she neared Dorothy’s house.

  There was no ferocious barking from George as she swung into the drive nor did Dorothy come to the door at the sound of the Mini’s engine. A car passed on the main road, but other than that there was silence. Not even a bird sang. Anxiety gripped her as she approached the front door. On the grass to one side of her a crow, busy shredding something with its beak, paused to glance at her then hopped a few paces away before flying off. The front door was slightly ajar. Rose stopped, her heart beating faster. She could hear something now, some faint sound coming from within the house. It might have been someone in pain. At least she would be able to do something about it if Dorothy had fallen over. She knocked and called out but there was no response. Pushing open the door she called again. ‘Dorothy? It’s me. Rose.’