Framed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  ‘What were we saying, dear? Oh, Gwen. Well, let me think.’ She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered her voice conspiratorially. Rose knew more coffee would be required.

  Jobber Hicks had taken it upon himself to become Martin’s mentor. Dorothy was gone and the boy needed someone and, of all the people in the world, the two of them would never forget her. When he used to visit Dorothy, Martin was often absent or, if he did appear, soon took himself back up over the hill. Of course, in later years he had taken to living in the van and Jobber had seen even less of him. Star had settled down quite quickly but she, like Jobber, was getting on a bit. He felt there ought to be more he could do for the son of the woman he had loved. Yes, he thought, I did love her. It was the first time he had verbalised his feelings. Before, he had described her to himself as a fine woman, a strong one, and the only one he had wanted to marry. Perhaps if he had expressed his feelings rather than merely pointing out the benefits of their getting married things might have turned out differently. It was time to make amends.

  The more he thought about it the more certain he became that his idea was a good one. The outcome would depend on Martin but he intended asking him if he would like to bring the van down to the farm. Jobber could find work for him, something manual, something which would not confuse or intimidate him. George could move into the farmhouse if Martin didn’t want him in the van and they could, if Martin was willing, share some of their evening meals together. It would be company for them both. He did not want to admit that he wanted someone he could talk to about Dorothy.

  Jobber had made up his mind but he was afraid to ask in case the answer was no.

  Mike and Barbara Phillips lived in a rambling house out near Drift Reservoir. The façade was shielded from the narrow road by a hedge of evergreen shrubs but few cars or people ever passed the place.

  Rose got out of the taxi and walked towards the front door, which was open. Light flooded from the house, spilling on to the uneven path and turning the leaves of the hydrangea beneath the windows a purplish blue. Its flowers had turned from pink to green and many were already dry and browning. The sound of music and conversation and clinking glasses made her realise how much she had been missing. She was just about to ring the bell when Barbara appeared in the doorway, chic in a straight silvery dress which would have made most people look shapeless. Her blonde hair was wound into a complicated chignon.

  ‘Rose! Wonderful to see you. Have you come alone?’ Barbara peered down the path before kissing her. ‘Good. I’m glad.’ She stepped back. ‘My, my, you look great. What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the new clothes.’ Rose smiled. There was a light in her eyes which had not been there for some time. She felt good in the muslin skirt with its black satin lining which caressed her bare legs as she walked. Tucked into it was an emerald silk blouson. Her auburn hair lay in soft waves around her shoulders and there were gold hoops in her ears, gold sandals on her feet. Under her arm was her gift.

  She followed Barbara into the lounge which was softly lit. More than twenty people had arrived before her. Rose recognised several faces and, during the short journey across the room, was introduced to several more. ‘Ah, here’s the birthday boy.’ Barbara laid a possessive hand on Mike’s arm. Of medium build and with short brown hair and glasses, he was not good-looking but there was an air of gentleness about him and a kind curve to his mouth. He, too, kissed Rose and said how pleased he was to see her.

  ‘About Dorothy – I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Rose did not want to spoil the mood of the evening. ‘Here, this is for you.’ She handed him the parcel. ‘Happy birthday.’

  Mike turned to find a space in which to unwrap it. Placing it on a small side table he carefully removed the shiny paper and pulled away the tissue then he stood back. ‘Oh, Rose,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Rose, I never knew. Look, Barbara.’

  Barbara came to his side and frowned before straightening up. ‘Did you do this?’ Rose nodded. ‘Stella, come over here a minute,’ Barbara called, waving an impatient hand to a black-haired woman in the corner. ‘And you, Daniel.’

  The couple approached them but no introductions were made until the painting had been examined.

  Within three or four minutes Rose knew that her life had changed. Stella Jackson, whose own work was highly rated and who was rarely without an exhibition somewhere, expressed her genuine admiration, as did Daniel Wright, who was her husband and a sculptor. Daniel whistled through his teeth. ‘It’s terrific, Rose. Have you always painted?’

  ‘Yes, but not like that.’

  No one commented because they suspected what had happened – that Rose, like many artists, had become side-tracked along the way.

  Stella was rounding up others to view the work. ‘Are there any more?’ she finally asked when Mike went to find a safe place for it.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Stella nodded. ‘When there are, come and see me.’ She wrote down her telephone number, then grinned. ‘Come and see me anyway. We’re in St Ives.’

  ‘I know.’ It was Rose’s turn to smile at the woman’s modesty.

  ‘We’ll have coffee, or something stronger. Now, let me introduce you to Nick Pascoe.’

  The evening passed so quickly that Rose couldn’t understand why people were beginning to leave. Glancing at her watch she saw it was after one thirty and rang for a taxi. Despite the wine she felt sober and clear-headed although she over-tipped the driver in her euphoria. It was hard to recall that it had been Mike’s celebration rather than her own, but that was what it had felt like.

  She ignored the messages on the answering machine and got into bed, not really wanting to take off her new clothes and spoil the magic of the evening.

  Fred Meecham survived the weekend although he could not recall what he had done during the few hours that the shop had been closed. The world had become an alien place, or else he was an alien in it.

  Monday arrived, bringing rain which swept depressingly across the harbour. It gurgled along the guttering and ran down the drainpipes noisily; appropriate weather for a funeral. In retrospect he could not recall attending one where it hadn’t been raining, with the congregation huddled beneath dark umbrellas and the church smelling of damp wool. Or perhaps it just seemed that way.

  He could not face the drive. It would have seemed disrespectful to turn up in the delivery van but he didn’t accept any of the many offers of a lift. For the first time in years Fred organised himself a taxi.

  He was numb, physically and mentally, but beneath that numbness lay fear and guilt. How wrong he had been to assume that the two deaths would close a chapter of his life. Other agencies were at work, dangerous ones. Rose Trevelyan for one, and Gwen Pengelly for another. Gwen with her avarice and her dislike of her mother-in-law, Gwen with her ambition and her pushy ways who would stop at nothing to lay her hands on Dorothy’s money. And he had heard rumours about Martin, that the police wanted to question him again because he had easy access to the house and all that was within it. Why couldn’t people believe that Dorothy had just decided to end her life? Dorothy had acted strangely on his last visit. Furtively was the word which came to mind. Someone had been there ahead of him, that much he guessed by the two cups and saucers on the draining-board. Dorothy only ever offered him a mug. Things were going on which Fred didn’t understand and had no chance of understanding until Marigold was laid to rest and the sedative the doctor had given him had worn off.

  The taxi driver was local and therefore made no attempt at conversation. What could he say to a man who was about to bury his sister, one to whom he had been exceptionally devoted? His passenger sat in the back which also precluded the opportunity to hold a proper conversation. He accepted the fare and the tip with a nod and a thank you and asked if Fred wanted collecting.

  ‘No. I…’ Fred shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter what happened afterwards. He walked up the path towards the church. Organ music floa
ted through the open doorway. He was almost overcome by the number of people standing around outside, nearly all of whom were his customers. Tears pricked behind his eyes. The cards of condolence had been one thing, this was overwhelming.

  He nodded to acquaintances who stood back to let him pass as he entered the church. He sat in the front pew to which he was directed, his hands between his knees, quietly waiting. Most of the mourners remained outside, some of them enjoying a last-minute cigarette as if they thought it might be their last. Fred understood what such occasions did to people and he did not blame them. He dreaded the finality of the ceremony ahead but at the same time wished it to be over. As far as he could tell none of Marigold’s relatives were present. There was no reason for them to be, it would have been strange if they had known. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gwen Pengelly. He did not like her and he almost asked her to leave but a scene would be unthinkable.

  As one the congregation turned when the organ music changed and they were asked to stand. At the back of the church was Rose Trevelyan.

  Jack had telephoned on Sunday morning but Rose’s cool tone discouraged him from making the conversation more personal. The Pengellys, Bradley Hinkston and anyone else, she said, were now his concern. Mentioning the party and the new acquaintances she had made, Rose hoped that she had thrown out enough hints for him to realise that the affair was coming to an end. All that remained was for her to see him face to face and tell him so but she despised herself for postponing it.

  Her clean sweep as far as work was concerned was almost complete. Rose decided to emulate Doreen and clean the house before starting on the garden and the shed. Many of the summer flowers needed tidying and the grass required cutting. The final task, getting rid of the junk that had accumulated over the years, would be a painful pleasure. She knew there were still some of David’s things in the shed but there was also a lot of rubbish. Once it was empty Rose would paint there. There were windows in the front and side, filthy now, but they could soon be washed, and they overlooked the bay. If she could succeed a second time, as she had with the one simply entitled ‘Storm’ which she had given to Mike, she would venture further for scenery.

  Tired and grimy with soil and dust and cobwebs, Rose longed for a shower and a large gin and tonic. She had just undressed when the telephone rang. If it was Jack she would tell him there and then. The female voice was unfamiliar but Gwen Pengelly had kept to her word. She had rung to give the details of Dorothy’s funeral. ‘It’s on Wednesday. Two fifteen at Truro Crematorium.’ Rose did not ask the outcome of the inquest when Gwen said that the body had been released for burial.

  ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ She replaced the receiver and stood looking at it for several seconds. For Dorothy’s sake she hoped there would be more than the direct family and one or two friends in attendance. Two funerals in one week, she thought sadly. Tomorrow Marigold was to be buried. Because Dorothy would have gone had she been alive, Rose decided to go in her stead. It was the least she could do.

  In the shower Rose washed her hair and soaped herself twice but dirt was ingrained in the skin around her nails. Wrapped in her robe, her hair still wet, she sat in the window with a drink thinking of landscapes she wanted to paint. It was a peaceful evening and Rose enjoyed her own company. When she saw the black clouds building up in the night sky it seemed one might be directly above her. Remembering the telephone calls had shattered her tranquillity.

  Because of the downpour dawn was a long time coming. Newlyn was a blur through the wetness. The forecast promised more of the same. There were no appointments for that day and there would be fewer and fewer if her new venture succeeded.

  There was nothing black in Rose’s wardrobe. After David’s funeral she had vowed not to wear the colour again. She chose a brown suit and matching shoes, which hardly seemd to matter as whatever she wore would be covered by a raincoat.

  Seated at the back of the church she concentrated on the other mourners. Gwen Pengelly was there, which was surprising.

  When the service was over and Marigold’s body had been committed to the ground she stood alone, half hidden by a tree, watching the vicar move from group to group and exchange a few words with each. Fred Meecham, she concluded, was going through the motions. Numbness allowed him to accept handshakes and whatever words of comfort he was being offered. The disbelief and misery in his eyes moved her. Rose trod carefully across the slippery grass and touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Mr Meecham, I’m Rose Trevelyan. I met you a couple of times at Dorothy’s house.’

  She waited, puzzled at his odd expression, as if recognition was slow in coming yet she knew he had seen her earlier. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I remember. Thank you for coming.’ Fred did not question her reasons for doing so. Rose put his peculiar manner down to despair.

  ‘I’m so sorry. You’ll miss her dreadfully.’

  Fred nodded slowly. ‘You don’t know how much. I loved her,’ he added forcefully, glaring at Rose. ‘I loved her from the moment I first saw her.’ He bit his lip. ‘I – oh, please excuse me, everyone seems to be leaving. Are you coming back to the hotel?’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ Rose would be an intruder amongst the people who had known Marigold better.

  Fred nodded again, looking relieved that she had refused. Just in time she stopped herself from mentioning Dorothy’s funeral. Under other circumstances Fred would have wanted to be there but she doubted he would be able to face it this week. She patted his arm once more as she turned to walk away then wished she hadn’t when he flinched.

  For several minutes Rose sat behind the wheel of the car and waited as people drove off. The rain had started again, becoming heavier until it was beating a tattoo on the roof. Fred’s words came back to her again and by the time she had realised their possible implication the windows had misted over. ‘I loved her from the moment I first saw her,’ he had said. Of course, Marigold was a good deal younger than Fred: it could be that he, as an older brother, had loved her from the minute she was born. But Rose did not think so, and she was also beginning to believe that Doreen’s idle gossip may have contained a grain of truth.

  Many siblings, after death or divorce, lived with one another. Fred’s wife had deserted him long ago and, according to Doreen, the same thing had happened to Marigold. ‘But I wonder?’ Rose muttered as she turned the ignition key and thankfully heard the engine splutter into life. Instead of going home she turned left when she reached the main road and pointed the Mini in the direction of Truro.

  ‘You’ve got to tell him, Rose.’

  ‘Why should I? It’s only guesswork.’

  ‘Come off it, you wouldn’t have told me if you really believed that.’ Laura pushed back her dark curls which were hanging loose about her shoulders. They were sitting in Laura’s living-room in front of the log effect gas fire. Rose had gone there upon returning from Truro. Outside it was almost dark although it was not much after six o’clock. Staccato bursts of squally rain hit the windows.

  Laura had known that Rose was going to Marigold’s funeral as well as to Dorothy’s and she had been worried that too many reminders might be harmful so she had insisted that Rose came over for a meal and some wine afterwards. They were sipping a good claret and the effects of that and the warmth from the fire were relaxing. But Rose was not in the least depressed, if anything she was animated.

  ‘I could have been mistaken. Doreen could have been mistaken.’

  ‘You’ll come to a bad end, as my mother was fond of telling me. Oh, wait a minute, I get it. It’s not that you don’t think it’s important, it’s because you don’t want Jack to know what you’re up to. Am I right?’

  Rose’s face was hot. Laura was a little too perceptive. ‘Jack doesn’t come into things any more.’

  ‘But you haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘No.’

  There was silence as Laura digested this information. ‘All right, let’s leave Jack out of it. What makes you think it’s anything to do with D
orothy Pengelly?’

  Rose sighed. ‘I’m not saying it is, it’s just that I feel there’s some connection. Something which ought to be obvious but I’m buggered if I can see it.’ She wanted to change the subject and wished she had not brought it up in the first place. But Laura was her friend, the one person in whom she could confide completely. All she had been able to discover were negatives but to Rose’s mind that proved something because there were far too many of them to be pure coincidence.

  ‘I’ll see to the food, it should be almost ready,’ Laura said, glancing at Rose and seeing that she was in a world of her own.

  Rose was thinking about Fred Meecham. He had been born in Truro. Dorothy had told her that and Doreen Clarke had been able to supply the details of which street he had lived in. Fred was a churchman and never missed a Sunday service, logical then to make inquiries at the church nearest to Fred’s old address. It had taken no more than twenty minutes to go through the parish register and find Fred’s christening recorded. Both his parents had been buried in the churchyard. Marigold was younger man Fred so she used his dates as a starting point, working forwards from there. Marigold’s name did not appear. Rose went back over the entries and checked the name Heath. Marigold had not been married there either. The incumbent vicar was unable to supply any information because he was new to the district.

  Three times Rose checked the register but there was no entry for Marigold Meecham or Marigold Heath. She had thanked the vicar and complimented him on his place of worship then returned to Newlyn and Laura’s house.

  Either Marigold had not been christened or Fred was being economical with the truth when he said that she had spent the whole of her life in Truro until she had moved in with him. But so what? And is it any of my business anyway? she asked herself. Then why had Doreen said, ‘If they’re related, then I’m the Queen of England.’ The expression had made Rose smile. Someone less queenlike than Doreen was hard to imagine. ‘You’ve only got to look at them, no way’re they brother and sister. Now listen to this,’ she had continued, ‘and don’t forget, I never repeat nothing ’less I’m pretty sure of my facts.’ This had given Rose cause to hide another smile.