by Jane Jackson
Why did she always seem to be saying no, blighting her mother’s happiness? Yet what choice did she have? When she had tried the alternative, agreeing to her mother’s ideas and spontaneous schemes had precipitated a nervous collapse. Not only had her father been furious, calling her foolhardy and thoughtless, she had also incurred the wrath of her Uncle John, who was Neil and Catherine’s father and the family physician.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Louise forced a smile. ‘I just thought – but never mind. As you say, there’ll be plenty of time.’ Patting her daughter’s hand she withdrew her own. ‘When Mary arrives, ask her to join me here, will you?’
‘I have to go down to the village, but I’ll tell Violet. No, she’s up with Granny. I’ll tell Kate and Patrick. In any case, I’m sure she’ll know where to find you.’ She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. The fine skin looked like crumpled tissue paper.
‘Grace, I’ve just thought of something. We didn’t know the boys would be home in time for your birthday. Why don’t we make it a proper celebration? What would you say to a dance? I’m sure there are any number of people we could invite.’
Why do you do this? Why do you make me feel so ungrateful? Grace straightened up. ‘Oh no. It’s sweet of you, Mama. But, really, I’d rather not. I’m hopeless at dancing. Besides, you’ve only been out of bed just over a week. You ought not to overdo things.’
Louise sighed deeply. ‘Oh well, if you say so, darling. It’s your day so it must be just the way you want. Dinner then: a special dinner for family and close friends.’
Grace forced a smile. ‘That will be lovely.’
‘You are my dearest girl. I rely on you utterly. You know that, don’t you?’
Grace kissed her mother again, noting the grape-coloured shadows under her eyes. Please no more illness for a while. There was so much to do and never enough time.
‘I’d better go. You’re sure you’re warm enough?’ She could remember as a child seeing her mother’s hair tumbling almost to her waist, thick and shining like spun gold. Now it was the dull silver of smelted tin.
‘Darling, it’s delightfully cosy in here. I can enjoy all the afternoon sun and be safe from the wind.’ She turned her head once more to the window. ‘This is such a beautiful view. Now the trees have their lovely new leaves you can hardly see the mine at all.’ She waved her daughter away. ‘Off you go then. I’m sure you have lots more important things to do than fuss over me.’
As Grace climbed the steps to the garden entrance, the door opened.
‘Mary! I’m so glad to see you.’
Short, rounded, unmarried and in her late thirties, Mary’s friendship with Louise had begun at a garden party ten years previously when they fell into conversation beside a plant stall and discovered a shared passion for gardening. It had flourished despite the fifteen-year age gap and the difference in family circumstances.
Mary favoured muted colours, so was often overlooked in company except by those who knew that her self-effacing manner allowed her to observe without attracting attention.
‘Grace, my dear.’ Mary grasped the outstretched hands. Her voice was low-pitched and musical. Today it held a hint of laughter and her hazel eyes danced. ‘I can imagine how it has been since the letter arrived.’
Grace made a wry face. ‘Everyone is thrilled and excited. We knew they were coming back sometime this month. But to hear this morning that they would actually be home today was rather a shock.’
‘How is your mother?’
‘She’s – exactly as you might expect.’ Grace’s glance swept from the straw boater sitting squarely on neatly coiled brown hair, the fitted jacket and long skirt of smoke-grey gabardine over a pin-tucked white blouse with a lilac bow, to polished black boots. When she really looked she could see the beautiful cut and elegant line of Mary’s clothes. If more than four people were present Mary seemed to become invisible. Yet she possessed great charm and a wicked sense of humour.
‘Mama’s so looking forward to seeing you. She’s in the folly. I have to go to the village but I shouldn’t be long. Will you stay?’
‘Until you get back? With pleasure.’
‘No, I meant will you have dinner with us. Stay and welcome the boys. I know Mama would be delighted.’
‘It’s sweet of you, Grace. But I think not.’
Though not surprised at the refusal, Grace fought down disappointment.
‘Tonight will be a family occasion,’ Mary smiled.
Grace knew that only too well. Family occasions always tied her nerves in knots. It was why she had wanted Mary to dine with them.
‘I certainly hope to see them soon, perhaps at your birthday dinner? You are having one, I hope?’
‘It seems so. But that’s not for another week. You must come before then.’
‘I probably will. Talking of your birthday dinner,’ she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘No doubt Louise will seat me next to John Ainsley?’
Grace’s ever-present anxiety immediately increased. ‘Would you prefer she didn’t? I thought you got on well with him.’
‘My dear Grace, don’t worry so.’ Mary gave her hand a reassuring pat. ‘John and I are the greatest of friends. He has no wish to marry again and knows I have no desire to change his mind. However your dear mother continues to harbour hopes. Heaven knows why. Do you think she will prevail upon the new minister to come? I understand she’s taken quite a shine to him. He does seem a very pleasant young man. A little withdrawn perhaps. But I expect he’s still settling in. I’m sure he will have found you an enormous help.’
‘Yes. I – I hope so. I’m sorry. I really must go. Will you excuse me?’ Her face on fire, Grace bolted into the house.
Chapter Three
Seated at her easel in her favourite spot in the garden, a paint-smeared smock buttoned loosely over her muslin blouse and blue calico skirt, Dorcas Renowden slowly straightened on her stool.
A she drew back, the detail over which she had taken such care blurred into patches of colour without shape or definition.
She released a slow sigh determinedly ignoring momentary panic. She would go and see John Ainsley. No doubt he would scold her for not coming sooner. But he would understand why she had delayed, how desperately she had hoped it might be merely a matter of working too many hours at a stretch on the fine detail that made her work so sought after.
Rinsing her brush in the jar of cloudy water she wiped it on a rag. Behind her bees droned in a lilac bush heavy with purple blossom. The sun was warm on her back, the air heavy with the lilac’s sweet scent and the dark loamy smell of moist earth.
For months she had been telling herself it would pass and everything would be normal again. When she had begun tripping over things and misjudging distance she had attributed it to carelessness, or age. But she was only fifty-six. She did not feel old.
The cottage stood alone on the edge of the Damerel estate, about half a mile from the village. It had been her home for twenty-eight years. Hal had been born here. She had not wanted to come but had been in no state to fight. Now she could not imagine living anywhere else. She relished the solitude and the privacy that allowed her to live as she pleased and paint for hours if she chose.
It had been a rewarding life if not an easy one. She had much to be grateful for. Hal was doing well in South America, his clear firm handwriting easy to read as he described progress and setbacks in developing the new pump.
Loath to see him go she had understood why he could not stay. His quarrel with Henry had been too deep, too bitter: one bound by tradition, the other impatient for change: neither prepared to give an inch. Age and youth, past and future. It was inevitable they should clash. Loving them both, it had crucified her to see them at each other’s throats.
Closing her eyes she lifted her face to the sun. She would say nothing until she had consulted John.
Her basket slung over the handlebar of her bicycle, Grace pedalled hard. The breeze caught the wide brim
of her straw hat and would have blown it off but for the ribbons tied beneath her chin. On either side of the road the hedgerows were lush with new growth. Bluebells, red Campion and the white flowers of wild garlic splashed the grass with bright colour.
Blowing from the northeast the wind carried the faint unceasing roar of the stamps. Day and night they worked, some driven by waterwheel, others by the huge beam engine, crushing the tin ore to powder. A century ago rich veins of copper had made Cornwall one of the wealthiest places on earth. More than six hundred beam engines had worked on mines whose names were legendary for the quality and amount of ore they produced.
But the discovery of vast deposits in South Australia, Canada and Chile at the same time as the lodes in Cornwall were pinching out had signalled catastrophe. Villages were abandoned as mines shut down, and many miners risked long dangerous weeks at sea to seek work abroad. Those who remained had found work in the tin mines. But tin lay much deeper. In mines without gigs or cages the only way down was by ladder. The climb up to grass after an eight-hour shift proved too much for some. Nearly every week another woman mourned a husband or son who had fallen to his death.
Reaching the top of the hill that sloped gently down to the village Grace was glad to stop pedalling. In the dappled shade of tall sycamores the breeze still had a bite and she shivered inside the bronze wool jacket she had buttoned over her white high-necked blouse. Her long skirt of bottle green serge had seen better days but there hadn’t been time to change it. Once she had made sure Becky was all right she would still have time to bathe and put on something more appropriate before the twins arrived.
Approaching the chapel she felt her heartbeat quicken. Heat climbed her throat to her cheeks and even her ears burned. Drawing level with the big square two-storey building she couldn’t resist a sidelong glance. One of the blue-painted double doors stood open. But because of the frosted glass screen at the back of the pews to protect the congregation from draughts she couldn’t see who was inside. Then she heard the triumphant blare of the organ as Mrs Nancholas practised the hymns for Sunday’s service.
The village’s main street was busy. Women chatting by the village pump as they waited their turn to fill large stoneware pitchers glanced up as Grace braked and dismounted. ‘Afternoon, Miss Damerel,’ they chorused.
‘Good afternoon,’ Grace smiled back, aware that every detail of her appearance would be noted and commented on as soon as she was out of earshot. Aware too that while they appreciated her visits to the sick and elderly – though being Henry Damerel’s eldest daughter it was expected – they positively doted on Zoe.
From the age of five Zoe had entranced the chapel congregation singing solos. She always wore impractical gowns of silk and lace quite unsuitable for sick visiting, only ever drove through the village on her way to somewhere else, and never put herself out for anyone. Long before she had gone to London Zoe had behaved like a star and the village had loved her for it.
Grace steered past the butcher’s van gleaming with a fresh coat of daffodil yellow paint. The huge grey mare harnessed to the shafts waited patiently while the butcher leaned out over the open half-door at the back of the enclosed van with a parcel of bones.
‘There you are. Lizzie. Make some lovely broth they will. Afternoon, Miss Damerel, ‘andsome day.’
‘It certainly is, Mr Rawling.’
The butcher gave a brief whistle and while he chopped meat the grey mare walked on to the next group of cottages.
Stale beer and old tobacco wafted out of the Red Lion, and the powerful smell of fermenting malt, hops and yeast issuing from the adjoining brewhouse caught in Grace’s throat as she turned into Back Lane.
Propping her bicycle against the hedge she lifted her basket off the handlebars. Known in the village as Miner’s Row, the small cottages were built of whitewashed cob and had tiled roofs that shed slates in every gale. Those that faced south opened onto a small patch of garden with a brick privy. They caught the sun. But the north-facing ones were always dark and needed a fire burning all year round to keep out the damp. Their gardens and privies were on the other side of the cobbled lane.
Lifting her skirt, Grace stepped across the brick-lined gutter into a small yard there a lean-to housed a copper with a firebox underneath, an iron mangle with thick wooden rollers, and a tin bath hanging from a six-inch nail hammered into the wall. A small outward-opening window covered with a scrap of lace curtain faced the yard. This was separated from its neighbour by a four-foot wall. The brown paint on the wooden front door was dull, cracked and curling.
Grace knocked then pressed the tongue to lift the rusty iron latch. The door was bolted. She leaned close.
‘Becky, it’s Grace.’ She heard muffled coughing then silence. ‘Becky, I know you’re in there.’
‘I don’t want no callers today, Miss,’ a voice quavered.
Grace leaned forward again. ‘Let me in, Becky. I’ve got some news.’ Still nothing happened. Grace played her trump card. ‘I expect Ernie will be out in a minute to see what’s going on.’
Through the door she heard the old woman shuffle closer, coughing. Then the bolt was drawn back, the latch rattled up and the door opened a few inches.
Red-rimmed watery eyes in a lined grey-yellow face peered out. Beneath a grubby woollen shawl clutched around thin shoulders Grace glimpsed a stained nightgown.
‘You didn’t ought to have come.’ Each breath was a struggle not to cough. ‘I don’t want to see no one.’
Grace pushed gently, opening the door wider. The smell was appalling. But years of visiting similar cottages had taught her to breathe shallowly and not think about it. ‘Rose was worried about you.’
‘Better if she minded her own business.’
‘If you let me in I can close the door. Before Ernie comes out.’
‘Nosy old sod,’ Becky said with a flash of her old spirit. ‘You can’t fart without him peering over the wall.’
‘Becky!’ Grace bit her lip so as not to laugh.
‘Beg pardon, Miss, I’m sure. But it do get on your nerves.’
‘He’s only trying to help.’
‘I don’t want no help from he.’ Becky shuffled painfully across a once-spotless kitchen now squalid from neglect. ‘He isn’t putting one foot over my step.’
‘Well, if that’s the way you feel there’s nothing more to be said. Though it does seem a shame. At least he would be company.’
‘Company, is it? What would we talk about? The grandchild he’s going to have? While my boy, who Betty Lawry was promised to, lies in the ground alongside of his father. Both of them gone afore their time. Twenty-five Jimmy would have been. ‘Tis no age to go, not like that, all skin and bone and spitting up blood. As for that Betty: didn’t take she long, did it? Jimmy was hardly cold in his grave afore she took up with Will Treneer.’ Her bitter outburst was cut short by a paroxysm of coughing that shook her frail body like a terrier shaking a rat.
Having heard it all before Grace said nothing. What comfort could she possibly offer? There were more widows and bereaved parents in these cottages than any other street in the village.
More men worked at the mine than in the boatyards or surrounding farms. Proud of the skills that placed them high above mere labourers and were reflected in their earning power, the miners paid dearly, sacrificing their health and too often their lives in the narrow shafts deep underground.
With an arm around heaving shoulders as fragile as a bird’s, Grace guided the sick woman to the wooden rocking chair beside the range. With the only bedroom in the cottage occupied by his parents, Jimmy, like so many others along the row, had slept on a narrow bedstead against the back wall of the kitchen. Rumpled blankets and a flattened pillow showed that Becky had been sleeping in it, perhaps for warmth, but more likely because climbing the ladder-like stairs required more strength than she possessed.
Seizing a scrap of rag from the debris on the wooden table Grace passed it over, looking away as Becky spa
t into it then sank into the chair and lay back, exhausted.
‘What’s this here news, then?’ she muttered without opening her eyes.
Not yet fifty, Becky Collins looked twenty years older. The bronchitis that affected many of the villagers, especially those living in this lane, exacerbated by the mild wet winter and a spring that had seen more wet days than dry.
‘The twins are coming home today. We had a letter this morning.’
‘They are?’ Interest flared briefly in the watery eyes. ‘Your ma will be glad to see them back safe.’
Grace scanned the cluttered table. As well as a teapot with a knitted cosy, a breadboard on which lay the stale curled crust of a loaf, a jug covered with a beaded circle of cheesecloth and some knitting, the table held a large enamel basin. Bits floated, soggy and unrecognisable on grey scummy water that half covered plates, bowls and cups. In this basin, Grace knew, Becky washed her face and her dishes and prepared her vegetables. The cottage had no sink.
A big dresser filled most of the wall inside the door. China plates stood upright at the back of the shelves. Cups hung from hooks along the front. The lower shelf was crammed with sepia toned photographs in painted wood frames. Several were of stern-faced elderly couples in stiff poses. Others showed a younger Becky with a baby; a little boy on a beach, barefoot and laughing as he held up a streamer of kelp, a youth in shirtsleeves and long trousers, and a young man with an arm over his father’s shoulders, both of them smiling.
Though she had seen them many times Grace’s throat tightened. She turned to the range. About to reach for the blackened kettle she noticed the sodden foetid pile of rags inside the fender and swallowed hard.
Hooking the cover off the top of the stove she poked the ash, relieved to see a few red embers. Cornish ranges could be very temperamental. A few sticks on top of the coal in the scuttle indicated Becky’s intention to rebuild the fire. But she had lacked the strength.
