Rosemary Aitken

by Flowers for Miss Pengelly

  Jenkins refused to be deflected from his theory by this inconvenient fact. ‘But think about it. What else could it be – the girl is exactly of an age to have been Royston’s child and Broadbent says that he was famed among his friends for his conquests among the fairer sex. “A weakness for fillies – with two legs or four – that’s what ruined him” – according to one acquaintance, it said in the report. What could be more natural than for him to have a fling with some attractive woman that he came across down here?’

  ‘What would Royston have been doing in these parts? And how would he “come across” poor Pengelly’s wife, who lived out at Penvarris all her days? It would be a wonder if she ever came to town, except on market days.’ Alex was unaccountably annoyed. ‘Hardly going to meet this dashing Royston for a fling, when she’s been tramping miles along the lanes and she’s got a basketful of eggs and butter on her arm. Anyway, is there any evidence that he’d been here before – even supposing that the corpse was his?’

  ‘We’re still not positive it was,’ Jenkins said, carefully answering only the last enquiry. He had taken his nether garments off by now and was padding in his stockinged feet across the floor to put his trousers underneath his mattress where he ‘pressed’ them overnight. ‘Broadbent thought it might be, but he’s changed his mind and now he thinks it was most likely one of Royston’s friends – but even so, he might have been asking for your Effie around town because he’d heard she was in line for this inheritance. Hoped to beg or borrow some of it, perhaps, or lure the girl into a liaison of some sort.’

  Alex stared at him in disbelief. ‘Broadbent told you that?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Jenkins said, sitting on his bed to brush his boots. ‘He pretends to think that the enquirer simply latched upon her name because he heard it mentioned in the town – but I don’t believe that for a moment. No,’ he breathed on the leather and buffed it with his sleeve. ‘This money is at the back of this affair – you take my word for it.’

  Alex stood up and he too began to strip. ‘Well, I don’t believe your theory about Effie’s parentage. I can’t see that Royston would pick a country girl – with no city manners and no doubt married young – even if he had the opportunity.’

  Jenkins had got into bed and blew his candle out, pulling the bedclothes up around his neck. ‘Why not? I expect she was pretty, like her daughter is!’

  Alex pulled his shirt off. ‘Well, where would he meet her, even if she were? A girl like that would likely have started down the mine as soon as she was eight or nine years old. And how would he ever have learned that she’d borne his child? I doubt if she could write, except perhaps her name! I don’t suppose she ever went to school – it wasn’t free in those days and times were very hard.’ He splashed fresh water from the jug and rinsed his face and neck.

  ‘Only a penny.’ Jenkins was in a stubborn mood tonight. ‘Hardly a fortune for her parents, even then.’

  ‘That just shows how little you understand! It was a lot of money for a miner, then – and it’s most unlikely they’d have scraped it up, especially for a girl.’ If Jenkins could be dogged, Alex could be, too. ‘And she’d be brought up strictly Methodist – just like Effie is. What would a handsome roué see in somebody like that?’ He rubbed his teeth with a dentifrice and rinsed his mouth.

  ‘He might have done it out of devilment.’ Jenkins still refused to let the matter drop. ‘According to Broadbent he was notorious – his friends say he could charm the witches from the waves.’

  ‘Well, he would have to cast a spell or two himself, to be Effie’s father!’ Alex was quite vexed. He climbed into his night-shirt. ‘I told you, she’s a Pengelly through and through, the very image of her father and her aunt. Well, of course she is. What else would you expect? You’re inventing mysteries where there are none. Anyway, I don’t know what it’s got to do with you. It isn’t even much to do with me, now that we’ve decided not to meet again. So will you let it rest?’

  He blew out his nightlight and got into bed, turning his face towards the wall, although it was a long time before he got to sleep. Perversely, when he did, he dreamt of Caroline.

  Walter was sick and tired of lying uselessly in bed. It had seemed like a week of Christmases at first, staying lazy, tucked up in the warm, while the house and street were full of other people going to work. But that had quickly palled. Now when he heard the footsteps and the daily grumblings – ‘Mornin’ Arry – damty cold and wet today!’ – instead of revelling in the chance to rest, he found he was wishing he was out there with them, in the rain, with a mine to go to and a job to do.

  He stared at the embroidered text hung on the wall. ‘Count your blessings.’ Well perhaps he should – if you knew exactly what your blessings were. How many times had he complained, across the years, of having not a minute where he could sit and think – and now he was cursed with quite the opposite! He’d become a useless thing, a stick of furniture: that was the worst of it. Even small children had their chores to do, and the white-haired old men who hobbled round on sticks, too old and sick to work, at least had company – they met up every day, either in the Miner’s Arms or on the bench outside – and he could hear their high-pitched cackles as they shared their memories.

  He could not even read. There were no books in Madge’s house, not even a text on mining like he had at home; only a huge Bible – far too big to read in bed. He had counted the different patches on the patchwork quilt, read that damty text until he was in danger of wearing out his eyes, and set himself a hundred sums to do (mostly concerning rocks and dynamite) but it was no good at all. He was chafing to be up and doing and he told his sister so.

  ‘If I ’ad some crutches I could come downstairs a bit. Sole the shoes or something – like you said before.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Walter. The doctor said that it would be another week at least. Count yourself lucky and try to get some rest.’ She picked up his cup and saucer and looked down at him. ‘Though if you’re really fretting, I could find some chores for you.’

  And she had done her best: bringing him onions to thread onto a string, a heap of washing to fold and damp for ironing and today – more humiliating still – standing a wooden chair beside his bed, and showing him how to loop a skein of wool across the back to keep it taut while he wound it inexpertly into a ball. ‘And when you’ve finished that one, you’ll find a dozen more inside that paper bag. Save me no end of time when I am knitting socks.’

  He nodded. It was mind-numbingly tedious and he wasn’t sure it saved her anything – it took so long to bring things up and show him what to do – but at least it was better than staring at the wall. But it was woman’s work, and he was not sorry, a little later on, to hear her calling cheerfully upstairs. ‘Walter, can you hear me? You’ve got a visitor. Fellow from the mine. I’ve got the soup on boiling and I can’t leave the stove. Is it all right if I send him up?’

  Dear Heaven! That would be Captain Maddern, calling round again, as he had done several times this week. He couldn’t let a fellow-miner find him winding wool, like a great girl. ‘Half a minute!’ Walter took the current wool-skein off the chair and stuffed it in the basket out of sight. He would likely cause a tangle, he realized that of course, but that could not be helped. He dropped the basket down beside him on the floor and leaned back on his pillows in a manly pose, before he called back down. ‘All right, Cap’n, I’m ready for you now.’

  But it wasn’t Jack Maddern who came up the stairs: it was Artie Kellow’s boy. He had obviously just come from the mine, although he was dressed in ‘walking-home’ clothes now and he’d clearly taken pains when washing and changing at the ‘dry’ – even his boots were dusted as he stood there at

  the door, turning his grey cap nervously between his big scrubbed hands, his broad, good-natured face the colour of his newly slicked red hair.

  ‘Evenin’, Mr Pengelly, sir,’ this apparition said. ‘Or I should say, “good afternoon”. I was on the early shift today –
thought I’d call by and see how you were getting on.’

  Walter murmured, ‘Kind of you, I’m sure,’ but his mind was working overtime. What on earth was this young miner doing here?

  Kellow coughed and made a gesture towards the empty chair. ‘Is it all right if I . . .?’

  ‘Of course, young fellow. Sit down, sit down do!’ Walter said with sudden guilty heartiness. It occurred to him that something must have happened at the mine to bring Peter Kellow calling, so he added anxiously, as the young man pulled the chair up closer to the bed, ‘News then, is there?’

  Peter shook his head. ‘Nothing in particular. Just thought you’d like a call, keep you up to date with how things are down there. Jack Maddern told me he’d been in once or twice – did he tell you that there’d been another fall along that seam? No one hurt though, that time – which is just as well. On the look-out for it, I suppose, after what happened to you and poor old Tom.’

  ‘How’s the Richards boy then?’ Walter heard himself enquire, though he tried not to think about that eyeless socket more than he could help.

  Peter made a doubtful face. ‘Sad business that was. Lost that eye of course, and the other one is damaged, never be the same, though they think he’ll have a bit of sight in it – enough to work up at the shaking-tables, perhaps, or even fetching for the carpenter. Don’t know what will come of the poor lad otherwise, but they had a whip-round for him at the mine, in any case – and the Miners’ Friendly has made a contribution too, so that will help the family manage for a little while.’ His ears had turned an even brighter shade of pink. ‘I saw Mrs Richards in the street, in fact, when I was coming here tonight. Says she means to come and have a word with you herself.’

  Walter gave an inward sigh. I’ll bet she does, he thought. And I have no excuse to offer her. All those years of training and experience – and what do I bring her family, but injury and loss? He shook his head. ‘Poor woman, she must blame me for drilling where I did.’

  Peter stared at him. ‘Course it was devastating for her, losing Tom like that, and she blamed everyone at first – but what she said to me was, when she thought it out, if it was not for you she would not have Jimmy either. Wanted to come and thank you, is what she said to me – and as for the bad rock, don’t blame yourself for that. Everybody knows that was an accident. If you didn’t spot it no-one could have done. Cap’n Maddern told me once that I should study you, because you could read rock better’n anybody else he ever met. You remember that new stope that they were going to cut . . .’

  And they were still talking mining when Madge came up the stairs. ‘Walter Pengelly, are you still chattering? I declare, you’ve got less sense than Farmer Crowdie’s goose! Supposed to be resting, that’s what the doctor said, and here you are, holding an audience like the King and Queen.’

  Peter Kellow had turned pink again. ‘I’m some sorry, Mrs Martin, I don’t mean to wear him out,’ he said earnestly. He was already on his feet and edging to the door. ‘Only thought he might like a bit of gossip from the mine.’

  ‘And so I did,’ Walter retorted, sticking up for him. ‘It’s my ankle that I’m resting, not my tongue. Won’t hurt my leg to have a bit of chat. In fact, I do believe it’s done me good. Give me something sensible to think about.’ He smiled at Peter.

  ‘Some glad to hear it!’ Peter pulled his cap out and seemed about to jam it on his head. ‘Well, I’ll be off then!’ But he didn’t go. Instead he hesitated for a moment at the door, then seemed to pluck up courage and turned back again. ‘Be all right if I came again, some time?’

  Madge looked at him coldly and replied, as though Walter wasn’t there, ‘That’s kind of you, I’m sure. But I can’t see why you’d want to do a thing like that. ’Tisn’t as if you were working in his pare. Young man like you – haven’t you got a family of your own, will want you home?’

  Peter had turned scarlet but he held his ground. ‘Thing is, Mrs Martin, I feel involved in this. I was the one they sent into Penzance to tell Miss Effie about the accident and bring her back out here on Crowdie’s cart. Didn’t seem right to come in with her then, but stands to reason that I wanted to enquire.’

  Walter looked thoughtfully at him. Effie, eh? And today was Thursday, by his reckoning. Was that why Peter Kellow was so interested in his health, all of a sudden? Well, it had to happen some day – Joe was right in that. And if it did happen, Effie could do worse. Nice boys, the Kellows, all hard-working like their dad. He said, casual-like, ‘Well it’s nice of you. Matter of fact, Effie generally belongs to come herself on Thursday, but she couldn’t do, this week – cause she took that time off to come and see me and so she had to work this afternoon in lieu. Be here next week, I should think, and I’m sure she’d want to thank you, if you happened to look by.’

  Young Kellow had turned the colour of iron water from the mine. ‘I’ll come in again then – let you know what’s happening down the mine. If Mrs Martin doesn’t think I’ll wear you out, that is.’

  ‘I suppose so!’ Madge gave a doubtful sniff. ‘Since Walter says you can. I have to say you’ve brightened him a bit. A bit of company won’t do him any harm.’

  So she hadn’t put two and two together, like he had, Walter thought – never saw that it was Effie that the boy had come to see! Just as well, or Madge might have forbidden him to come, and it had been nice to talk to someone who knew life underground, for Joe only brought home news that reached the surface-men. He said, with feeling, ‘I would be glad to see you, Peter, any time at all! Enjoyed our bit of chat.’

  It was enough to make his sister say, a little grudgingly, ‘Well, come back if you want to, but keep it short next time. I don’t want him exhausted. I’ve got enough to do, to keep him occupied, without him wanting nursing all the time.’ She turned to Walter. ‘And that reminds me, what’s happened to my wool? I thought you were going to wind it up for me.’

  You would think that she would have more sense than to say that right out loud, in front of company! But Peter Kellow – mercifully – had felt himself dismissed, and had already pulled his cap on and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Blanche Weston was just walking past the Anchor Inn when she saw the familiar figure coming out of it.

  ‘Why, Mr Broadbent, what a happy accident!’ she cried, waving her folded umbrella in salute. (It was not entirely an accident, in fact; she had timed her arrival for the sort of time he might have finished breakfast and be ready to go out and she had already walked round the block three times.)

  He saw her approaching and doffed his bowler hat. ‘Miss Blanche!’ He seemed delighted, making her turn pink. (Pity, when she had purposely picked out her dark-red gown and coat; she must look like a petunia!) But he looked quite approving as he went on, affably, ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Did you have something you wished to say to me – some information that might be of help?’

  She had been practising her answer all the way from home – a tiny detail or two that she could offer as excuse – but now that she had actually met him face to face her wits deserted her. Instead of the pretty little speech that she’d prepared she found herself stammering, ‘Well, not really, no. I simply happened to be passing this way, that is all.’ As soon as she had said the words she wished devoutly that she could call them back.

  It was absurd. The Anchor Inn was right beside the sea and apart from rope-makers and riggers and that sort of thing there was nowhere in the area she could be heading for.

  Broadbent must have known that but he swept a little bow. ‘Well, I shall count myself most fortunate. Indeed if you’ve completed your business hereabouts perhaps I could escort you back into the town?’

  It was more than she had dreamt of; all she had envisaged was a brief, polite exchange. But to walk her back into Penzance! What a thrilling thought! She was torn between the guilty temptation to agree and the near certainty that they would be observed and someone would mention her foolishness to Pearl. However, Mr Broadbent – ‘Josiah’ as she called
him to herself – would be returning to London very soon, and having spent such pains in running into him she could not let him go without regretting it. Pearl could be dealt with later.

  She gave him a smile, painfully aware of her enormous teeth. ‘That would be delightful – though perhaps we could walk up through the alleyway, rather than the street? That way we are less likely to be seen – people talk so in a town like this!’

  He twinkled at her. ‘In that case, may I tempt you to some tea instead? There is a little tea room up there on the way, which will just be open at this time of day. I have frequented it once or twice before – and can recommend the tea and toast. Perhaps you would care to step inside where we can talk without being subject to so many prying eyes?’

  ‘Really, Mr Broadbent! That’s very kind of you. But do you think it wise? On such short acquaintance?’ Blanche was all aflutter. She had never taken morning tea, alone in male company, in all her thirty years. But sadly propriety must be observed, so she added, ‘After all, we’ve scarcely met. I should not care to give the wrong impression if my sister – for instance – should come to hear of it.’ She knew that she had gone that ugly pink again. ‘I am quite sure that she would not approve.’

  He looked at her shrewdly. ‘Then we must take care it does not come to her attention,’ he replied. ‘The tea shop is the very place. If you would care to take my arm . . .?’ She thought his touch would brand her very flesh as he guided her gently up the alleyway she’d been referring to. In fact it was a good thing that she did have his support, for it was cobbled underfoot and rather treacherous, though obviously she had not known that when she spoke – it was so dark and narrow it was not a route she’d ever used before.

  Halfway up there was a junction where it crossed another lane, and there, indeed, stood a little tea shop, though it seemed that it was closed. There was a printed notice saying so, but the door was half-open and through the window-glass you could see a waitress in a black uniform getting down the chairs, which had clearly been placed upside-down on tables overnight.