by Rachel Ennis
Family Matters
A Polvellan Mystery
Rachel Ennis
The sudden death of her husband costs Jess Trevanion her family home in Truro. Returning to Polvellan, the village where she grew up, she buys a small neglected cottage and sets up her own business. As her friendship with first love, boatbuilder Tom Peters, is rekindled, her confidence is rocked by revelations about her late husband.
The night of a concert by Polvellan choir, Jess and Tom discover a desperate and frightened young couple hiding in the church hall. With secrecy vital and time running out, can they help the stowaways reach safety?
‘Rob, that’s unfair.’ Jess’s grip on the phone tightened. Realising her knuckles were aching she swapped the phone to her other ear and flexed her fingers. ‘I’d love to have Helen for the day. I just can’t manage this week because –’ There was a click. ‘I have commitments too,’ she finished to the sound of the dialling tone.
Anger flared but quickly faded as she replaced the receiver. He sounded stressed and exhausted. Drunks, car smashes, overdoses, fights, and broken bones: the demands on A&E would be non-stop and it was still a week until Christmas Eve.
But her accounting work wasn’t a hobby. Nor were the family trees she compiled. They were paying jobs. She needed the money and had given her word. Though she understood the reason for Rob’s short temper, being on the receiving end of it wasn’t pleasant.
Hearing Tom’s familiar knock lifted her mood. She hurried to open the door.
‘Come in.’ She stood back, happy to see him. Springy fair hair now threaded with silver had been tamed with water and a comb. His dark brown waxed jacket was unzipped revealing a navy crew-neck sweater over a checked shirt and clean jeans. ‘You look smart.’
‘I can scrub up when I need to.’ He grinned, his teeth white against his weathered tan. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘Hello, my bird.’ His lips were soft and warm and he smelled of soap and fresh air. He straightened. ‘Don’t mind do you?’
‘A kiss? No, I don’t mind. It was nice.’
‘I don’t want to mess up this time.’
‘You didn’t mess up. We were young and wanted different things.’ Jess touched his face lightly then crossed the open-plan living room to the kitchen area. ‘We’d better get going. The concert starts at seven thirty and it’s almost ten to. It’ll be a push to get all the food plated up and the crockery set out before the singing starts. Will you bring those?’
He lifted the two shopping bags filled with plastic containers off the worktop.
‘Dear life, Jess. How many are you feeding?’
‘That won’t go far. There are thirty in the choir – thirty-three if you include Margaret the accompanist, conductor Dennis, and our soloist Morwenna. They all eat like gannets after a concert. At least half the village will stay for a cup of tea and a chat. But Viv has promised sandwiches. Morwenna said she’d pick up three dozen splits, and Gill is bringing sausage rolls and a fruitcake. Knowing her she’ll have persuaded some of the WI to donate quiches and tray-bakes.’
‘Good job the rain’s stopped,’ Tom said. ‘People don’t like coming out in the wet. How many tickets have sold?’
‘All of them. Because it’s for charity Gill wouldn’t have let anyone leave the post office without buying one even if they can’t come.’
As Jess went to fetch her pink padded jacket from the hook behind the door, Tom dropped the bags and got there first, holding it so she could push her arms into the sleeves. She felt his hands rest briefly on her shoulders.
Scarred, callused, gentle hands. A man she could trust. But was she ready? Was it too soon? Returning to the village where she had grown up had helped her move on from the shock of Alex’s death and the shattering discovery that he had left her with a re-mortgaged house and no money. She had known Tom since they were children. He’d been her first love. But they had spent nearly three decades apart and people changed. She had. There’d been no choice.
Zipping up her jacket she pulled a pink knitted hat over her cropped curls, picked up the basket holding a deep round cake tin, two jars of jam, and a large tub of cream. As Tom stepped outside she switched off the light.
‘How did it go today?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘I wasn’t asking out of politeness.’ She locked the door.
‘I know, bird. But it’ll take a while and there isn’t time now.’
Jess led the way down the narrow garden path to the road. ‘Will you take Mary-Louise out tomorrow?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Depends on the forecast. I’ll need to drive her hard to test the new rig. But I’m not risking it if there’s a gale blowing. The owner is coming down next week. I want him happy so I can get paid.’ He hesitated. ‘Like to come out with me would you?’
‘Sailing?’ The streetlight outside the village shop was off again. The air was cold and clear and against the inky sky stars twinkled like scattered diamonds. One was very bright. ‘Tom, it’s the middle of December.’ She shivered.
‘Put an extra vest on. Come on, girl. It would do you good to have a few hours away from figures and research.’
Briefly tempted Jess remembered Rob’s phone call. ‘I can’t. I’ve got an accounting job and a family tree to finish before Christmas. Ask me again in April.’
‘It’ll go in my new diary, in red,’ he promised.
He stepped in front of her forcing her to stop then leaned down and kissed her cheek again. ‘How did I ever let you go?’
‘Hey, no kissing in the street.’
His teeth flashed as he grinned. ‘How about later?’
‘Don’t push it.’
‘Got to. I don’t want anyone else snapping you up.’
‘Tom, I’m forty-eight and a grandmother. There won’t be a queue.’
‘Go on, lovely you are.’
‘Stop it! If Gill or Viv hear you they’ll be choosing flowers and planning the reception. I know it’s been two years. But sometimes it feels like it all happened yesterday.’
‘Sorry, bird. I don’t mean no harm.’
She smiled at him. ‘I know. And your interest is very flattering –’
‘Flattery be bug – blowed,’ he corrected hastily as they crossed the yard to the village hall’s back door. ‘I meant every word. I want another chance, Jess. But I can wait.’ He pushed a key into the lock.
She nudged him. ‘You always say the right thing.’
‘I’m working on it.’ He bumped her arm gently. ‘And you.’ Inserting the key he turned it both ways. ‘I don’t know why we bother with a lock.’
Jess stepped inside and pressed the switch on the wall at the bottom of a narrow staircase with bare wooden treads. ‘Harry will have been in to switch on the heating. I bet he forgot to lock up again when he went over to the pub.’
Two neon strips flickered and filled the kitchen with bright light. To the left of the kitchen door a narrow wooden staircase led up to a tiny landing and a storage room.
Jess set her basket on the worktop that ran round two walls with cupboards below. A sink with double-draining board stood beneath the window. Between the kitchen and the main body of the hall a wide serving hatch with closed folding doors was set into the wall above the work surface.
‘Give me a minute to fill the urn and I’ll give you a hand to carry down the screens and the lectern.’
‘They’re too heavy –’
‘Not with two of us.’
As Tom started up to the storeroom Jess opened a cupboard, took out a large plastic jug, and held it under the tap. Tipping the water into the urn she refilled the jug.
Tom stopped on the staircase. ‘Jess!’ he hissed. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?
’ She turned off the tap.
‘Someone’s up there.’ He pointed to the ceiling, his voice low.
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard a girl moaning and a bloke trying to quiet her.’
Jess stared at him trying not to laugh at his obvious discomfort. ‘Do you think they’re …?’
‘How should I know?’ Their eyes met.
‘Well, whoever it is they shouldn’t be up there,’ Jess had lowered her voice to match Tom’s. Tipping the second full jug into the urn, she flicked the switch on the wall and refilled the jug once more. ‘Up you go then.’ She nodded towards the stairs. ‘Margaret needs the screens and Dennis needs the lectern. Stamp your feet and cough loudly. That should give them time to make themselves decent.’
He gripped the worn banister, visibly reluctant. ‘Why me?’
‘You’re a man, you heard them first, and you’re already on the stairs.’
‘God, you’re a hard woman.’
Her smile was wry. ‘I wish.’
At the sound of another muffled moan he grinned. ‘Remember the old boatshed?’
‘I remember the smell. Musty canvas, old rope, varnish, seaweed, and mud.’
‘Happy days though.’
‘Another life. Tom, you have to get them out.’
Clearing his throat loudly he thumped up the wooden treads turning to glare over his shoulder as she snorted, trying to smother a giggle. On the small landing at the top he hesitated then rapped on the wooden door.
‘Come on. Time to go. You shouldn’t even be here.’
Jess heard him open the door. There was a pause. ‘What –?’ He broke off as a man’s voice pleaded.
Curious, Jess crossed to the staircase still holding the knife she was using to slice the cinnamon-flavoured fruit loaf she had baked the previous day. She saw Tom back out, one hand raised.
‘Stay … Don’t … I’ll …’ Pulling the door closed he bolted down, stopping when he saw her. ‘Jess, you need to get up here.’
‘They need to leave. Gill and the others will be arriving any minute.’
‘They aren’t going anywhere. Not without an ambulance. She’s pregnant. I think the baby’s coming.’
‘Now?’ Dropping her knife onto the worktop Jess raced up the stairs. At the top he opened the door and stood back to let her pass.
Near the far wall, in a cleared space among the stacked hard-backed chairs, tables, and two decorated Chinese screens, a young Asian man was kneeling beside an old sofa. He was unshaven. Black hair curled on his wet shirt collar. The lower legs of his trousers and his shoes were soaked. Two coats tossed over a wooden chair dripped onto the bare boards beside two sodden rucksacks. He looked up, his face haggard with exhaustion and anxiety.
‘Please help us. Farah – the baby – it’s not due for three weeks.’
Jess looked from him to the sofa where an olive-skinned, dark-haired girl swathed in a thick grey cardigan over a rust-brown tunic and trousers lay on her side, clutching the young man’s hand. There were dark shadows beneath her closed eyes as she panted for breath. She looked very young and very tired.
The girl’s face tightened and she moaned. As she turned on the sofa Jess saw her swollen belly. She turned to the young man. ‘I’m Jess. This is Tom.’ She crouched beside the girl. ‘Farah? Do you think your baby’s coming?’ The girl nodded.
‘What’s your name?’ Tom asked the young man who hesitated. ‘We’ll help, but we need to know what to call you.’
‘Khalid. I am Malik Khalid Khan.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Birmingham.’ He must have seen the shock in their exchanged glance. ‘We’re not illegal, we were born in Britain. So were our parents. But they still follow the old traditions.’
‘Khalid,’ Jess said, ‘Farah should be in hospital. Tom, there’s no mobile signal here. Go back to my place and phone for an ambulance –’
‘No!’ the young man shot to his feet.
‘Steady,’ Tom warned. ‘Calm down.’
‘You don’t understand. If Farah goes to hospital there’ll be records, paperwork. No one must know where we are.’
‘She’s in labour,’ Jess said. ‘She needs medical attention.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Khalid’s tone was anguished. ‘But the risk’s too great.’
‘What risk? What are you talking about?
‘If they find us they’ll kill us.’
‘Who will?’
‘Farah’s father and brothers. That’s why we’re trying to get to France.’
‘Kill you? Come on. Why would they do that?’
The young man straightened up. ‘You think I’m making this up? Don’t you read the papers? Haven’t you seen the reports about honour killings on TV? For each one on the news there are many more that are hushed up and never investigated.’ He rubbed his face as if to banish the fatigue and strain etched on it.
‘Farah and I met at college and we became close. Her family didn’t know. They wouldn’t have permitted –’ He stopped, took a breath. ‘They arranged her marriage to a man they’d chosen. Her refusal to accept it dishonoured both families. Friends helped us escape to London. We found work and a place to live. We thought we were safe. But someone betrayed us. Her family will not forgive or forget. If we’re found … Please. No hospital.’
Jess heard the back door open. Tom peered down then came back in. ‘Gill and Morwenna.’
Khalid gripped Jess’s arm. ‘You can’t –’
She covered his hand with her own. ‘I have to. There’s a concert tonight in the hall. Those ladies have come to help prepare refreshments. They’re bound to guess something’s going on.’
With a reluctant nod he knelt by the sofa and smoothed wet strands of hair off Farah’s forehead. She bit back a groan.
Jess turned to Tom. ‘I’ll tell Gill and ask her to fetch Annie Rogers. Annie was a midwife,’ she explained to Khalid.
‘She’s been retired twenty years,’ Tom whispered in Jess’s ear.
‘Giving birth hasn’t changed and she’s delivered scores of babies. Besides, if we can’t call the paramedics we need her. Let’s get the lectern down. You can come back for the screens while I tell Gill and Morwenna.’
Before he could reply, Farah compressed her lips, her face contorting as she writhed on the sofa.
Glancing back, Jess saw Khalid kiss her hand then press it to his chest as he stroked her face, murmuring reassurance.
‘Bloody hell,’ Tom muttered.
‘You said it.’ As they carried the lectern carefully down the narrow staircase, Jess heard the strain in Morwenna’s voice.
‘Mother wanted me to stay home.’ She removed a plastic rain hat from her frizzy perm, hung up her coat on one of the pegs near the door, then tugged her black cardigan down over plump hips swathed in a long black skirt. Beneath the cardigan she wore a silky white blouse that emphasised her high colour. ‘She’ve known for weeks that I’m singing solos tonight. I told her she didn’t need to come but I had to.’
Catching Jess’s eye Tom shook his head. ‘Has Brenda Crocker ever seen a happy day?’
‘Hello, Morwenna,’ Jess called over Tom’s head. ‘Did you bring the splits?’
‘On the worktop,’ Morwenna pointed. ‘Start slicing and spreading shall I? My stomach’s in uproar. I’ll be better if I’m doing something.’
‘First will you fill the kettle and boil it?’ At the bottom of the stairs they put the lectern down. Tom ran back up and moments later walked one black-painted folding screen onto the small landing. After fetching the second he quickly closed the door. While he carried each one down, propping them against the banister at the bottom, Jess crossed to the postmistress. Still wearing her heather tweed coat, Gill unloaded four two-litre bottles milk from one basket. From the other she was lifting out cake tins.
‘Harry’s out the front unlocking the doors. Reeking of whisky he is. I thought the rain might put people off. But they’re co
ming early to get the best seats. The village do dearly love a carol concert.’ She glanced sideways at Jess.
‘All right, bird?’ Her smile faded to a frown. ‘What’s wrong?’
Laying a hand on Gill’s arm, Jess called over her shoulder. ‘Morwenna? Can you come here a minute?’
Morwenna put down the tea caddy and joined them. Keeping an eye on the back door that led outside to the covered way and the stage door Jess spoke quickly. ‘There’s a young couple upstairs in the props room. They aren’t local. The girl is pregnant and the baby is coming.’
Morwenna’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘What, now?’
Jess nodded. ‘I think so. But she can’t go to hospital.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re hiding from people who would hurt them.’
‘Haven’t they got family?’
‘It’s their families they’re running away from. Gill, we need Annie. Could you –?’
‘On my way.’ Pulling a scarf from her pocket, Gill tied it over her freshly set hair as she hurried to the door.
‘Morwenna, will you make a pot of tea?’ Jess blew out a breath and turned to the worktop. A muffled groan made them both look up.
‘What if people hear?’ Morwenna whispered, lifting the brown teapot of a shelf beside the sink.
‘We’ll have to make sure they don’t.’ Jess started transferring mince pies from a plastic container to a large blue china plate. ‘If people have started arriving there’ll soon be plenty of noise and chatter in the hall. Once the concert begins we need you to give it all you’ve got and encourage the audience to join in the choruses.’
Panic crossed Morwenna’s face. ‘But there aren’t no song-sheets.’
‘It’s a carol concert, Mor,’ Jess reminded her with a smile. ‘People know most of the words by heart.’
‘’Course they do.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t mind me. ’Tis just – what with Mother and now this –’
‘The choir will carry them through any verses they aren’t sure of.’ Jess opened a jar of homemade strawberry jam and began spreading it onto the sliced splits.
Downy as a peach, Morwenna’s round face was flushed with excitement and unease as she unscrewed the top on a plastic bottle of milk and peeled off the silver foil. ‘Sing my heart out, I will. But you know what the village is like. Nothing stays secret for long.’
