Buried in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  In jeans and shirt and a heavy knitted sweater, she found some old woollen socks which had holes in the toes but were nonetheless warm and put them on before stuffing her feet into the leather hiking boots she wore for most of the winter. Not only were they comfortable but they were a necessity as her outdoor work often took her over rough terrain.

  At eight thirty she dialled Laura’s number and was answered by a yawning female voice.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ Laura was usually an early riser.

  ‘No, I was up, but we didn’t get to bed until two. We had some friends over and – you know how it is. How did it go, with Nick? He’s not there, is he?’

  ‘No, Laura, he isn’t here,’ Rose said firmly. ‘Nor was he last night.’

  ‘Don’t get teasy, you know I have to know. Why’re you ringing, can’t you make it this morning?’

  ‘Actually, I need a favour. Is Trevor busy today?’

  ‘If you call lying about with the newspaper before wandering off to the Star for a lunchtime drink busy, then yes, he is. What’s the problem? Surely not the car?’

  ‘No. The central heating boiler.’ The car was relatively new, bought with a legacy of a thousand pounds an old friend had left her. It had replaced the yellow Mini which had been a gift from David and which she had hung on to for far too long for sentimental reasons. Now she was the proud owner of a blue Metro which started first time and had only had three previous owners. Mike Phillips had gone with her to choose it, claiming he knew about such matters. It seemed he did – doctor or no doctor, he had proved he knew almost as much about the internal workings of the combustion engine as he did about the patients upon whom he wielded his scalpel.

  ‘No problem, I’ll bring him with me. See you later.’

  Rose hung up. She had known Laura since they were in their early twenties but it felt as if they had always known one another. There were times when Laura would preface a remark with something along the lines of ‘Remember Miss so-and-so who taught us in the third year?’ or quote the name of a school-friend as if they had actually been to school together. Laura had never left Newlyn and had vowed that she never would. Before marrying Trevor she had travelled but she had always been glad to return. It had shocked her when her boys, one by one, had moved away.

  Rose had finally been accepted. She had, after all, married a Cornishman and kept his name and she had not tried to impress but had made a slow integration into the community. Doreen Clarke, a more recent friend, once told her, ‘You’m all right, maid, you don’t give yourself no airs and graces like they London people.’

  Rose did not bother to explain that she came from Gloucestershire and had lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by verdant English countryside and cows and sheep, and that trips into Swindon or Cheltenham were a rare treat. Her father had been a country farmer who had lived through the good times before BSE and European intervention; he had hunted with hounds and had, so her mother told her, been on a protest rally against the anti-hunting campaign. Rose found it hard to believe that her conventional, rather self-effacing father had put himself so much in the limelight. He had retired whilst still in his fifties and sold the farm. He and his wife had then bought a small stone cottage with a manageable garden and spent the intervening years doing all the things they had not had time for before. Rose saw the problems other people her age had with elderly parents who were frail or senile and knew she was lucky. On the other hand she suspected a lot of it was to do with their attitude. They did not believe themselves to be old or incapable of doing anything they chose. There was, she had long ago realised, no point in discussing her past at all with Doreen, who would not recognise the difference between London and the Gloucestershire countryside because anyone from across the Tamar was ‘one of they’ and therefore a Londoner.

  As Rose loaded the washing-machine, changed the bed and tidied up, the sun came up, a wintry yellow but promising another fine day. She finished some paperwork until the washing-machine had ended its cycle then piled the clothes into a basket and took them outside to hang on the line she had strung from the shed to the highest branch of a tree. Towels flapped in the breeze coming off the sea, an easterly breeze, she noticed, no wonder it was colder.

  The shed at the back of the garden had been cleared out and the rubbish taken to the dump. Anything serviceable she had given to the charity shops in Penzance. With a Calor gas heater installed and the door and windows made draught-proof, it was where she had recently taken to working if the light was right. At other times, if she wasn’t painting in the open air, she used the attic which she had had converted many years previously. One half had been partitioned off to use as a dark-room for her photography work, although it was little used lately, and the other half with the sloping window in the roof was perfect for colouring her sketches as it was at the side of the house and therefore faced north.

  The last item of clothing had been pegged firmly to the line just as she heard the familiar voices of Trevor and Laura, who had arrived on foot. Their faces were pink and they were both in heavy jackets. Laura, despite her height and thinness, was typically Cornish in appearance. She possessed deep, dark eyes and naturally rosy cheeks and her long dark hair, loose today, flew about her face in untidy clumps. She had never been able to control the natural wave. Trevor was an inch shorter than his wife, his face weathered with lines radiating from his brown eyes. His hair, too, curled and was worn long although of a lighter brown than Laura’s. Through the beard he had not shaved off in all the years that Rose had known him, his lips were red and full. A tiny silver cross dangled from his left ear.

  ‘What’ve you broken this time, Rose?’ were his words of greeting.

  ‘The boiler won’t light. It just went out. I didn’t touch it,’ she added defensively although she had fiddled with it that morning.

  ‘I’ll take a look.’ With the familiarity of an old friend Trevor let himself into the house and went straight to the boiler and removed its cover. The two women followed. Rose shut the door and put the washing basket on the draining-board before getting out milk and sugar. She reached for the tin of biscuits she kept for guests, knowing that Trevor would eat some. Laura, too, had no mean appetite but she never gained an ounce of weight. Rose was also naturally slender but tended not to eat at all at stressful times.

  There was a whoosh from the laundry room. Rose and Laura exchanged a complicit glance. Trevor had fixed it. Water gurgled in the radiators and just the sound of it made Rose feel warmer. ‘A well-earned coffee,’ she said, handing him a heavily sweetened mugful. ‘Do you want more milk?’ Trevor shook his head. The job had only taken minutes but over the years Rose had learnt that Trevor was offended if she offered remuneration. Instead she repaid him with a packet of tobacco or a few cans of his favourite beer.

  He sat at the table and got out the makings of a roll-up, scattering tobacco as he did so. Not a man for conversation unless it was necessary, he left the talking to the women. Years at sea had taught him to keep his own counsel. Cooped up in a confined space with a crew from whom there was no escape until you landed had made many a man taciturn. He listened, all the same, and took in all he heard.

  ‘Rose,’ he said, licking the adhesive strip of his cigarette paper and dextrously twisting it around the tobacco, ‘what happened yesterday?’ He looked into her face with his shrewd brown eyes.

  She sighed. ‘You might as well hear it from me as from anyone.’ The explanation already sounded tired to her own ears.

  ‘That’s just about how I heard it.’ Trevor inhaled and blew out smoke with his eyes half closed.

  ‘You didn’t say anything to me, Trevor.’ Laura was indignant. She flung back her hair as if she had suffered the worst possible affront. Not knowing things, for Laura, was unbearable and for her husband to withhold information was an unthinkable insult.

  ‘No. Not till I heard it from the source. Strange goings-on, that. Where was this?’

  Rose told him. Trevor shook his
head. ‘It was no echo then.’

  ‘No.’ Rose wished everyone would stop discussing it, but only because she was still convinced that what she had heard was real. However, the area had been searched thoroughly, and she could only question her sanity.

  Trevor crossed his legs and folded his arms, one hand with the cigarette hovering over the ashtray Rose had placed before him. ‘You might be artistic, but I wouldn’t call you sensitive or fanciful. If it wasn’t an echo or a trick of the wind and no one was found, then there still has to be an explanation.’

  Rose was later to recall those words and to see that she ought to have made more of them. ‘That’s just it, Trevor, but I can’t come up with an answer. At least you know me well enough to realise I believed what I heard at the time.’

  He shook his head and the wavy hair moved with it. ‘The way I see it is like this, if you’re not breaking things you’re landing yourself in trouble. Were you accident-prone as a cheel?’

  Rose slapped his arm affectionately, knowing he was sending her up. ‘No. I’ve never even broken a bone.’

  ‘Well, mind you don’t now. Take my advice and keep away from they places. If you’re right, and I’m not saying I disbelieve you, then there’ll be trouble in it for you somewhere along the line. You know what you’re like, Rose Trevelyan.’

  What he said made sense but she had no intention of letting her friends know that she planned to return to the mine tomorrow. That painting was good, too good to relinquish now, she had to finish it. Pouring more coffee, she listened to Laura’s plans for Christmas.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come to us? You know we’d love to have you. Besides, it’ll be such a houseful one more won’t matter, and the boys worship you.’

  That was, Rose thought, putting it a bit strongly, but she did get on well with them.

  ‘Come on, girl, if you want a hand with the shopping.’ Trevor stood up. Like many local families they did not possess a car. If the men were at sea they didn’t travel far when they returned home and there were ample buses into Penzance and from there to other places. There were also enough people who did have transport and who were prepared to offer lifts. They walked down the path in single file and waved before disappearing from view.

  Rose knew that many villages and small towns comprised the same mix of pubs and small shops which served the locals, but in Newlyn there was a difference. It was in both the people themselves and the one thing which bound them together: the sea. The sea and its produce and the dangers it held, proven by the tragedies which, when they occurred, affected not one person but many in such a close-knit community.

  She rinsed the mugs and inverted them on the draining-board before glancing at the sky, which could change in seconds. There were still no clouds. She slipped on a jacket, picked up her large leather handbag and went outside. The walk along the sea front would do her good and she could change her library books on the way up to Penzance. Breathing in the clean air, she made her way down the hill, waving to a fish buyer as she passed the market. It was busy but the auctioneer’s voice could be heard above the clattering of fish boxes.

  Library, bank, post office, hairdresser’s, she reminded herself again as she reached the level surface of Newlyn Green.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stella Jackson paced the honey-coloured, highly polished sanded boards of her living-room floor, cigarette in hand. Daniel Wright, her husband, ignored her. He was used to the first night nerves from which she suffered as much in St Ives as in one of the big London galleries. And tonight they were to be honoured by the presence of a well-known art dealer. Daniel was not alone in adrniring his wife’s work as well as the woman herself and was therefore unable to understand her insecurity. It was some years now since he had stopped trying to reassure her; this anxiety was part of her, something which she had to endure and which, he realised, helped her artistically. If she lost the desire to improve, to be the best, if she took her talent for granted, it might slide into mediocrity. In many ways they were worlds apart but their marriage worked and they allowed one another plenty of freedom.

  Daniel had been commissioned to produce a sculpture for the gardens of a government property in London. Twice he had travelled up with plans and then the model from which he would work. It was now under way. The basic shape had been formed and sat in his studio wrapped in damp cloths. It would take months to complete and he couldn’t afford a mistake. Some days he didn’t touch it at all but merely stared at the plans and his initial drawing. Then he would run his hands over the clay. When he could feel in his fingertips the form which would finally emerge and picture it as well as he knew his own body, then he would continue. For now he was happy enough to offer whatever support he could to Stella at the private viewing of her exhibition.

  The flat over her gallery in St Ives had once been a net loft. They had moved there from Zennor five years previously, although Daniel still preferred the old granite house despite its relative inconvenience. The loft had been partially renovated before they moved in but they had decided to leave the rafters in their original form rather than build a ceiling. They sloped up to the roof, forming an apex and creating a sense of spaciousness. The decor appeared very casual but the effect had taken Stella a long time to achieve as she searched for just the right material for cushions and curtains and the rugs that were thrown over the settees. The television and video recorder were hidden in a cupboard built into the wall, as was their collection of CDs and the player. Against the longest wall was a dining-table made of oak, with matching chairs. It was second-hand but had cost more than the modern equivalent they had looked at. Basic wooden shelving, made by Daniel, held their numerous books. At the bottom were the heavier, glossy tomes containing pictures of the great works of artists and sculptors. Above were dictionaries and reference books, while the top three shelves held novels. It was an eclectic collection. Many of the paperbacks were Penguins with their original covers and priced at half a crown or less. The edges of the pages were orange with age and the books still retained the smell peculiar to the roughish paper on which they were printed.

  The kitchen was small and adjoined this room. It was extremely functional, space being at a premium, and had been designed by a seafaring friend who had worked within the limitations of a ship’s galley. The bedroom and bathroom had not required much improvement; the latter some modernisation, the former only redecoration. The previous occupants, who had carried out the initial conversion, had had their main rooms downstairs.

  The gallery ran the length and breadth of the building with only a small cubicle blocked off for office-work and a kitchenette alongside it. A selection of Stella’s new paintings, carefully framed and kept from the public eye, were now hanging on the walls and the six-foot removable partitions she had erected down the centre. Daniel had placed an order with the wine merchant, hired glasses and made sure there was at least one spare corkscrew and some whisky for those who didn’t drink wine. There were also soft drinks and plates of food which were covered in foil and waiting in the fridge. There had been produced by Julie Trevaskith, the daughter of Molly who did their cleaning. Julie was at Cornwall College learning the catering trade. To earn some spending money she helped out in the gallery during the holidays.

  ‘Want to go for a walk, burn off some of that nervous energy?’ Daniel asked, irritated by her restless pacing.

  ‘No.’ Stella shook her head, causing the straight black hair, cut to chin length, to swing. It looked unnatural, it was as dark as a string of jet beads except for a shock of grey springing from the crown. She was lean and willowy and dressed mainly in black but always with some splash of brilliance. Today, over the black ski-pants and satin tunic top she had slung a shawl of scarlet and emerald. The green was reflected in the huge ear-rings which dangled against her neck. She looked at Daniel and smiled. ‘I know you’re doing your best, I can’t help it.’

  He smiled back, wondering how a woman with slightly crooked teeth and a bit of a squint
could be so sexy. Apart from her lissom body, there was something about her face which made men look twice. Maybe it was the bone structure or the fact that the two flaws, if they could be so called, cancelled each other out. It did not matter that her breasts were small, the whole effect added up to a beauty similar to that of a panther. Daniel wanted to take her to bed right then but she was too uptight to contemplate an act which might actually relieve her tension.

  ‘I’ve asked a few people for drinks before we officially open.’

  He liked the way she said ‘we’ although it was her gallery and her work on show. He tended to exclude her from his own artistic efforts, not letting her see anything until it was finished. Stella was far better at sharing than himself. ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Maddy, Jenny, Barbara and Mike and Rose.’ She counted them off on her fingers.

  ‘No Nick?’

  ‘He can’t make it until later.’ Stella smiled her feline smile. ‘I didn’t tell Rose he was coming.’

  ‘She’ll know, won’t she? I thought they were seeing each other.’

  ‘They are, as you put it, seeing each other, but I think that’s as far as it goes. Don’t start matchmaking.’ She pointed a slender finger at him. Like the other seven it was bedecked with heavy silver rings and her nails, long and carefully filed, were scarlet, without a chip, the polish gleaming beneath its coat of clear varnish. No one would realise it had taken her an age to remove the paint from her hands and nails and wrists. Her lips, in the same shade, were pursed as she recalled it was Daniel who had paired Jenny off with Nick and that had turned out to be a disaster. It was now far enough in the past that it was safe to have them under the same roof.