Jenny had drunk all that was offered and had filled up on the food, which solved the problem of that evening’s meal. Leaving the gallery she had decided to go and see Nick, a decision she would not have taken with less alcohol inside her.
In the shadows of the old, cramped buildings she felt buoyant. Not one, but two choices, she thought, and clutched her woollen charity shop coat closer to her as she made her way through the deserted streets. Her long skirt flapped around her ankles as the wind funnelled down the narrow alleys she had to negotiate to reach Nick’s house. The night held no fears for her; not once had she felt afraid in the place of her birth. It wasn’t late, a little after nine thirty, but she had passed the area where there were pubs and restaurants. Now there were only quiet lanes, each one becoming narrower and narrower and progressively steeper and darker.
Behind the tiny paned windows of the cottages the occasional light showed through thin curtains or those not tightly pulled together. She shivered, pleased to see Nick’s porch light shining in welcome. From inside she heard his voice and stood, undecided, before knocking. No other voice replied so she assumed he must be on the telephone, which was near the front door. She lifted the metal ring and let it drop. The dull thud reverberated through the street. Nick let her in, smiling and nodding his intention that she should sit down. He closed the door behind her whilst cradling the telephone receiver between ear and shoulder. ‘Okay, I’ll see you then. Bye,’ he said, giving Jenny no clue as to whom he had been speaking.
‘Jenny? What brings you here?’
She would not beg but she wanted to make her position clear. ‘I was lonely. I wanted to talk to someone. Well, you, really.’
‘Drink?’ Nick turned his back and opened the door of an old-fashioned sideboard from which he produced a cheap bottle of brandy. ‘Of course we can talk, there was no need for us to fall out at all.’
Jenny thought this was a good start. She took the brandy glass and sat down on the sagging sofa which he had still not got around to replacing and on which they had made love many times. The thought made her maudlin. ‘I miss you, Nick,’ she said, already aware that she would beg if absolutely necessary. ‘What went wrong?’ She bowed her head submissively. ‘Please tell me.’
Nick frowned. If he told her, she would become even more insecure than before; if he didn’t, she would think he wanted her back. ‘Nothing really went wrong, we just weren’t suited.’
‘How can you say that?’ Her voice was raised. ‘We were everything to each other.’
‘Jenny, listen. This might come out all wrong, but if I was everything to you, you had a strange way of showing it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nick swirled the brandy in his glass and kept his eyes averted. ‘I kept you, Jenny, and I didn’t resent that one bit. I was fully aware of your financial position. However, despite my earning both our keep, it was still me who looked after this place and cooked most of our meals.’
‘Oh, Nick, I’ll cook for you. I’m quite a good cook, you know. And I’ll do the cleaning.’
He was embarrassed, not for himself, but for this proud girl who was metaphorically on her knees before him. There was no option but to be cruel. ‘It wasn’t just that. You never forgave me for going to London alone. That was business, I couldn’t have spared the time to entertain you as well. For months after I returned you accused me of all sorts of things. I, apparently, was allowed no freedom, whereas you had as much as if we weren’t together at all. Jenny, you, of all people, know how everyone gossips. There were other men during the time you were with me. That bloke who came down from Cheshire, the one you claimed you were posing for—’
‘I did pose for him.’
‘Accepted, but that’s not all you did. He made it pretty obvious in the pubs he drank in. No, Jenny, I’m more than happy to remain your friend and I’ll do anything I can to help you, but that’s as far as it goes.’
‘Because of Rose Trevelyan.’
‘No.’ He paused. It was true, but since they’d split up he’d used Jenny. He now saw how stupid he had been.
‘I suppose she cooks you meals before she lets you screw her.’
Nick stood and walked over to where she was sitting. For a split second Jenny thought he was going to hit her. She flinched but she knew that Nick would never hurt her. He took her by the elbow and lifted her to her feet. ‘You’re going home now, Jenny. You’ve had far too much of Stella’s excellent wine. Let’s both forget this ever happened.’
‘I won’t forget!’ she shouted from outside the closed door. ‘I won’t forget,’ she repeated in time to her hurried, stumbling footsteps as the tears ran down her face.
Ten minutes after she left the telephone rang. It was Maddy. ‘Nick, have you seen Jenny since the opening?’
‘Yes. She just left here.’
‘Ah, I thought so. I was upstairs looking out of the window and I saw her go by coming from your direction. She looked pretty wild, if you ask me. Is she okay?’
‘Yes, I think so. She’s much tougher than she lets people believe.’
‘I just thought I’d check. Hey, why don’t you come over tomorrow? I’ve got four mackerel here which I’ve cleaned, seems a shame to freeze them. Any time after seven would suit me.’
‘I’m not sure, Maddy. Can I let you know in the morning?’
‘Of course. No problem.’
Nick hung up. Life was strange. He had been speaking to Rose when Jenny arrived, although she hadn’t sounded all that thrilled to hear his voice. The brief conversation had ended by Rose telling him that she was busy until the following weekend. Now Jenny wanted to come back into his life and Maddy, out of the blue, had invited him around for dinner. ‘All or nothing,’ he muttered, recalling the many months of his life when there had been nobody.
Rose had intended to telephone Barry Rowe upon her return from the gallery but after Nick’s call, which had unsettled her for some reason, she had decided to leave it until the morning.
‘Rosie! I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you. You’re almost a stranger these days.’
She pictured his lean, stoop-shouldered frame, a bony hand pushing his heavily framed glasses up his nose as he answered the phone in the shabbiness of his small flat. He claimed to like where he lived although he could easily have afforded somewhere far nicer. Was he dressed yet or was he wearing the rough woollen dressing-gown with its silky girdle that she had seen hanging on the back of the bathroom door? ‘I wondered if you’d heard about …?’
‘Your most recent escapade? Of course I have, you know how fast news travels here. At least it didn’t come to anything. Wait a minute, that’s not why you’re phoning, is it? Don’t tell me that you, in your indomitable way, think there’s more to it?’
‘No. I made a mistake.’
‘Jesus! Did I hear right? Is this the Rose Trevelyan I’ve known and, well, known for many years? An admission of error, no less.’
Rose smiled. He may have stopped in time but she knew what he had almost said. But had she made a mistake? Logic told her yes but her instincts said no. ‘I’m trying to forget it. Anyway, the reason I’m ringing is to invite you for dinner tonight.’
‘I’ll be there. Seven thirty okay? I’ve got to go to the Camborne factory at five.’
‘Fine. See you later.’
The forecast had proved to be correct. The sun was rising in a cloudless sky, the air was fresh and clear with a hint of an offshore breeze. Rose went out to the car. It was still a pleasant surprise to turn the car key in the ignition and hear the engine catch immediately. She hesitated before putting it into reverse gear and backing down the drive. I have to go back, she thought. I have to finish that painting.
She barely noticed the drive or the other traffic but anxiously chewed her lip, wondering if she was a fool for being so nervous or a worse one for returning to the old mine. She parked, aware of the sudden silence as she cut the engine, then headed to where she had sat two days a
go. Nothing had changed except that some of the scrub had been flattened where the tyres of the emergency vehicles had crushed it. The bracken was crisp, more russet than brown, but the undergrowth still showed signs of green. Lichen-covered rocks, hidden in summer, began to show through as the plants died down. Rose stared at the old engine house, now in ruins, then across to where the adit of the mine lay. She listened but there was no sound apart from the whisper of the bracken and the sighing of the wind as it swept over the bleak landscape and through the bare, twisted trees which had bent to its will and stood no higher than Rose herself. She shook her head. It had to be a trick of acoustics, she thought as she set up her easel and began to work.
Was it Stella, or had Maddy originally suggested this particular location? she wondered. And did it mean anything?
Mortification washed over her again as she recalled the false alarm she had raised. Uneasily she worked, mixing oils on her palette and lining up the scene using the wooden end of a brush. An hour passed and she became absorbed in what she was doing, fascinated with the ruins as they stood in silent testimony to the proud mining history of Cornwall. A kestrel, which she recognised by its long tail, distracted her for more than ten minutes as it soared then hovered high in the sky, head down in typical manner as it searched for prey. Three times it plummeted but Rose did not think it caught anything. She shook her head. There would be no exhibition like Stella’s if she didn’t get a move on. Swirling the brush in the colour she had mixed for the brickwork which was in shadow, her arm jerked and paint splashed her jeans. ‘Dear God, no.’ Her voice was strangled as she jumped to her feet. A scream had pierced the air. She swung around, terrified. Had she been mistaken before, there was no doubt about it now. Her hands shook and her legs felt weak. It was hard to judge where it had come from yet it did not contain the thin quality which open air ought to have given it. And, more to the point, what to do now? Impossible to ring for assistance, the only help she could expect would be in the form of men in white coats come to take her away. Rapidly she packed her things, leaving the wet painting on the easel. Then, sick with fright and aware of the risk, Rose picked her way towards the engine house feeling like an actress in a horror film when the audience will her not to go into the empty building. She stood still, listening. Nothing, not a sound except her thumping heart and ragged breathing.
She looked in every direction but there was no sign of life other than the kestrel, now further away looking for richer pickings.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she said. ‘I must be going mad.’
Panic overcame her. Staggering and half tripping, she turned and ran, grabbing her equipment and throwing it into the back of the car, remembering just in time the wet canvas which she placed, face up, on the front passenger seat. Her foot slipped off the clutch and she reversed jerkily before starting to make her way home.
Never was she so relieved to see her house looking so normal at the top of her drive. It was a little after two and already the sun was less bright. It would set by four o’clock. Not caring what time it was or what anyone might think, the first thing she did was to pour a gin and tonic. If Jack Pearce walked in and called her an alcoholic she wouldn’t care. Gin slopped on to the worktop as the bottle clinked against the glass. Ice slipped on to the floor. Rose left it there and took a large sip before switching on all the lights.
The shaking began to lessen but it was an hour before she felt able to clean her brushes and the palette knife and stand the canvas against the wall in the attic studio out of the way of the central heating. Since she rarely used the room now she had turned off the radiator. Thank goodness for the down-to-earth solidity of Barry Rowe, she thought as she lit one of the five cigarettes she allowed herself each day and sat down at the kitchen table to finish her drink and to plan what to cook him for dinner. Something special, she decided, to make up for her neglect. The crab season was over but she had some which she had frozen earlier in the year. She got it out of the freezer, it wouldn’t take long to thaw. White and dark meat. She could mix it with soft cheese and make pate with crudites. This would be followed by lamb kebabs marinated in lemon juice, olive oil, garlic and some of Doreen Clarke’s redcurrant jelly. Served with rice and a green salad it would appear to have taken more effort than it really had. Rose knew that concentration on the food was a way of subduing the thoughts that wanted to rise to the surface; if she kept calm a perfectly logical explanation would come to mind.
As she crushed the garlic its pungent aroma overrode the fruity smell of the redcurrant jelly which was melting slowly in a small saucepan. Rose enjoyed cooking and the automatic, familiar gestures as she moved around her kitchen soothed her. Outside the night clouds began to gather and soon it was completely dark. Once the table was laid, the pate in individual dishes in the fridge and the rest of the meal ready to cook, Rose went upstairs to change.
She was sitting quietly listening to some music when Barry arrived, his head jutting forward as if he was unsure of his welcome. Rose kissed his cheek, accepted the bottle of wine he had brought and asked him to open it.
‘You look a bit pale, you’re not going down with something, are you?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
He stood, arms folded, and studied her face. ‘Rose, tell me what’s happened.’ It wasn’t a question.
Her head jerked up. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud or was he telepathic?
‘You’re involved in something, Rose, I know it.’
‘No. Not involved. Oh, it’s ridiculous.’
‘You didn’t go out there again?’
‘I had to, Barry. The painting’s good, I know it is. In fact, I’m certain it’s the best I’ve ever done. I couldn’t not finish it because of some wild auditory hallucination.’
Barry shrugged and pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘The mind can play strange tricks.’
‘Yes. You’re right. Perhaps I need a holiday.’
‘I could do with one myself.’
Rose turned away to put the skewered lamb and peppers under the grill, unprepared to follow up the obvious hint. ‘It won’t be long.’
They were halfway through the meal. Rose was struggling to eat as Barry regaled her with stories about his customers and complimented her on the food. He knew something was very wrong and was hurt that she wouldn’t confide in him, but to press her would be a waste of breath, she would dig her heels in further. All he could do was to offer assistance if she required it. ‘Rose?’
She looked up and tried to smile. He was a decent man, solid and dependable, and she often wished she had been able to offer him more. He could also be irritating, domineering and possessive, she reminded herself as the telephone rang causing her to jump. She went to the sitting-room to answer it. It was Nick. Rose shuffled backwards, trailing the lead in one hand, and, with the heel of her shoe, nudged the door closed behind her. This is silly, she thought, there was no reason she shouldn’t receive a call from whomsoever she pleased. However, she had to take Barry’s feelings into consideration. Nick asked how she was. Rose wondered why he was ringing again. Only last night she had told him that she was busy. Was he the sort of man to pester, not to take no for an answer? If so, there was no future for them. That was not the sort of relationship she wanted. A more sinister thought crossed her mind. He knew she had been going back to the mine that day – had he called to find out her reaction to what he may have known would happen?
‘No, I haven’t,’ she answered, puzzled, when Nick asked if she’d seen Jenny. ‘Not since we were at Stella’s. Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Probably nothing. She came to see me afterwards. Rose, I ought to have told you sooner, we were once …’
‘Yes. I thought so. You don’t have to explain, Nick.’ And she meant it. At least he was being honest with her.
‘Well, good. Anyway, as I was saying, she came up here wanting to make a go of things again. It was all over more than six months ago and there was no chance of my agreeing. In
retrospect I see I could’ve been kinder. She was in a bit of a state when she left. Maddy rang me to say she’d seen her running down the road in tears.’
Rose couldn’t see where this was leading.
‘I felt bad about it. I mean, I loved the girl once. Did you know she’s staying in a squat?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Well, nor did I until today. I went down there. The crowd she shares with haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. We know she was all right when she left my place. I’m probably worrying about nothing, Jenny can look after herself. If she was that upset she may not have fancied facing her friends.’
‘But why would I have seen her?’
‘Oh, God. Look, I just thought, well, she made one or two insinuations about us. She was drunk and upset. I thought she may have come to see you, to persuade you to give me up or to put you off me. Besides, you’re out and about a lot, I thought you may simply have run into her somewhere.’
‘No, Nick, I’m sorry. The last time I saw her she was still at Stella’s.’
‘Okay, thanks anyway. I expect she’ll turn up when she’s got whatever it is out of her system. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’ he asked with a question in his voice.
Rose hesitated. ‘I’ve got a dinner guest.’
‘I see.’
No, you don’t, she thought, but was not prepared to explain.
‘Rose, can I still see you next Saturday? We could make a day of it, go to Truro and shop and have a meal.’
She was surprised that she didn’t hesitate in agreeing. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she said. And that was as much encouragement as Nick Pascoe was getting. If he was so worried about Jenny, a girl, or woman, with whom he had once been close, one who now chose to live or sleep wherever she pleased, then he must still care for her. It was none of her business. She still loved David and always would. You don’t necessarily stop caring for someone just because you’re no longer together, she reminded herself.
Buried in Cornwall Page 5
