Snapped in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Then Friday. How he looked forward to it these days. Gordon was wrong, he loved the four and a half hour journey, relaxing on the train with a drink and a sandwich, the evening paper and a book. It was a kind of no-man’s-land, between the city and work and the slow, easygoing atmosphere of Cornwall. He had a regular booking on the Golden Hind from Paddington which reached Redruth just after ten. Gabrielle met him in the car – Dennis had no need of one in London – and dropped him back for the first train on Monday morning.

  He would, he decided, make it up to her this weekend, take her out somewhere special, maybe, instead of playing golf.

  With a wedge of Stilton and a couple of crispbreads serving as his evening meal he poured one more drink and took it with him to bed.

  2

  Eileen Penrose and her sister, Maureen, were sorting piles of clothing and bric-à-brac into appropriate groups ready for the church jumble sale on Saturday. It was a task they had once taken on several years previously and it had become expected of them that they would continue with it each year.

  ‘Just look at this,’ Maureen said, holding up a dirty shirt between thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s only fit for the bin. I’d be ashamed to send it.’

  Eileen sniffed disdainfully and pushed her limp dark hair back off her face with a thin hand.

  ‘Still,’ Maureen continued, used to her sister’s uncommunicative ways, ‘Mrs Milton did us proud. I knew we’d get some good stuff from her.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The lady of the manor.’

  ‘Come on, Eileen, it’s all in a good cause. Besides, you don’t object when she asks you to help out, you said yourself she pays generously.’

  Eileen sniffed again and folded some sweaters roughly. The church hall was musty and smelt of old clothes. Motes of dust danced in the wedge of sunlight shining through the open door, but at least the building was cool. Eileen had no wish to discuss Gabrielle Milton.

  ‘Look at this top, we’ll get at least two pounds for it.’ Maureen put the knitted garment with its leather appliqué work on a hanger where it would be more prominent. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against her, she’s quite nice really. Well, you should know that better than me, you see more of her.’

  Eileen’s face had reddened. Maureen decided to drop the subject because she knew exactly what her sister’s problem was.

  Eileen Penrose’s husband, Jim, was dark-haired and handsome and his deep brown eyes hinted at seduction. Women were easy in his company; he teased them and made them laugh and they enjoyed the mild but meaningless flirtation. He was not unfaithful to Eileen, partly by choice but also because if he so much as propositioned another woman it would be all over the village before she had time to answer. Eileen had lived there all her life and must have known it, yet she carried her jealousy almost to the point of obsession.

  In early February, not long after the Miltons had moved in, Jim had been called out in his capacity as a heating engineer to make some adjustments to the central heating boiler. ‘You should see what they’ve done to the place,’ he told Eileen after that visit, ‘it’s terrific. Wood block hall and carpets up to your knees.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ Eileen wanted to know, interested only in the woman, not her possessions.

  ‘She’s a looker, I’ll say that for her. She could be on the telly.’

  That was enough for Eileen Penrose and when Mrs Milton rang a second time her lips were compressed with rage as she handed the telephone to Jim.

  Both Maureen and Jim had tried to reason with her, to explain that Mrs Milton’s needs were genuine. No work had been done on the heating system since it had been installed by the previous owners and several of the radiators were leaking where the joints had rusted. Maureen realised she would be wasting her breath explaining to her sister that women like Gabrielle Milton would not be interested in the likes of Jim Penrose.

  ‘She’s having a party, some sort of big posh do.’

  Maureen waited, smiling to herself, knowing how the game was played. If she asked any questions Eileen would clam up.

  ‘A week Saturday. All her London cronies, I suppose. She’s asked me to help out,’ Eileen volunteered.

  ‘What about Doreen?’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be there as well. One of us to serve drinks, the other to see to the food. Finger buffet, she calls it. Whatever that might mean.’

  ‘It’s a few extra pounds in your pocket.’ Maureen was unable to understand how Eileen could work for, and take money from, someone she so obviously despised. Maybe it was a way of keeping an eye on Gabrielle. She shrugged and glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, that’ll do for today. I could do with some fresh air.’

  Maureen locked the door and pocketed the key and told Eileen she’d pick her up at nine on Saturday morning when they could finish the last few bits.

  The salad was ready, the salmon brushed with oil ready to go under the grill. As Rose waited for the new potatoes to boil she was surprised to notice she was already half-way down the bottle of wine. She had better take it more slowly. The condensation on the bottle was no longer a mist but had gathered in droplets and run down the sides leaving a wet circle on the kitchen table.

  It’s the weather, she excused herself, although she was aware that it was more than that and that she was desperately trying to keep other thoughts at bay. The kitchen was stuffy with the heat from the cooker. She lowered the gas and took her drink outside. She felt the warmth retained in the metal bench through the fabric of her skirt.

  People shouldn’t die in the summer, she thought, it doesn’t seem right.

  But her thoughts were really more specific. She meant David, David whom she had wanted never to die at all. It was four years now yet the pain was not far from the surface. She missed him more than she imagined possible even though she had had months in which to prepare herself. There were still times when she expected him to walk through the door; when suddenly in the street she thought she heard his voice; when she would say to herself, I must tell David that. Tall, easy-going and loving, he had died in the prime of his life, wiped out as if he was of no consequence. The anniversary of his death was in two weeks’ time.

  Rose pushed her hair behind her ears, dry now after her shower. She felt a tightening around her skull, the beginning of a headache caused possibly by the wine, but hopefully, by the way the clouds were banking up, by an impending storm. There was a sulphurous yellow glow in the distance.

  Recognising her mood and knowing the danger signs, she had two alternatives: work or ringing Laura. She opted for work, but first she must eat.

  The wine was returned to the space for bottles in the fridge; she might finish it later. A brilliant flash of blue-white light illuminated the kitchen, followed by a loud bang. Within seconds the sky darkened further; rain hammered on the windows and bounced off the bonnet of the car. Rose took herself up to the attic which served as a dark-room and developed Mrs Milton’s film.

  Engrossed in what she was doing she took several seconds to realise the telephone was ringing and she had not set the answering machine. With the film drying it was safe to switch on the light. She wiped her hands and went downstairs.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan? I’m sorry to bother you in the evening, but I was wondering if you’d like to come over a week on Saturday. We’re having a bit of a do. Family and a couple of friends from London, but really it’s for the people I’ve met down here. I know we hardly know one another, but, well …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Rose immediately guessed that the invitation was issued out of loneliness and not because a last-minute replacement was required.

  ‘Thank you. I’d love to come,’ she heard herself replying before she had given herself a chance to think about it. ‘What time?’

  ‘Any time after eight. I’ll look forward to seeing you. Oh, I’ll see you before that, won’t I? With the proofs. No, wait, bring them with you, Dennis can have a say in the choice then and it’ll save you a journey.’

  Rose agreed to do
so, then hung up. A party. She had not been to one since David died – and what would she wear? When did she last buy herself something new? And whom could she take? Gabrielle had said to bring a guest if she wished. Rose shook her head. Ridiculous, she felt like a teenager going on a first date. Barry Rowe. She’d ask him. There was, she realised, no other male who came to mind.

  Once she had cleared up in the dark-room, Rose poured out some more wine and dialled his number. Barry made no pretence of checking a diary or hesitating. He had known Rose since she first came to Cornwall and did his best to sell her work. Since David’s death he had been her only escort. He had always hoped to become more than that but there seemed to be no romantic attachment on Rose’s side. At least they shared similar tastes and found a sort of comfort in each other’s company.

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Barry told her. ‘God, it’s not evening dress or anything, is it?’

  Rose laughed. ‘No, Gabrielle said it’s informal.’ Although that still left her in some doubt as to what would be suitable attire. What the invitation had done was to take her mind temporarily off the looming anniversary. She finished the conversation by promising to bring in the water-colours she had completed.

  Depressing the bar, Rose waited for the dialling tone, then rang Laura. ‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘I’ve been asked to a party.’

  ‘Oh? Anyone I know?’

  ‘A lady called Gabrielle Milton.’ Rose waited. Laura, born and bred in Newlyn, knew everyone, and the gossip surrounding them, for a ten-mile radius.

  ‘Milton?’

  ‘Mm. She lives near Gwithian.’

  ‘Must be a newcomer.’

  ‘Relatively.’ Rose smiled. ‘Anyway, I’m taking Barry.’

  ‘Ah, the ever faithful Barry Rowe. Rose, why don’t you go on your own? New people, new friends, you might …’ Laura stopped, suddenly remembering the date and how tactless she would sound if she suggested it was an opportunity to meet a new man. ‘Well, buy something exotic and have a great time. And if you need a chat, I’m always here.’

  ‘I know. Thanks.’ Rose did know. Laura had been the one to get her through the bad times after David died. ‘Why don’t you come up for a meal? Tomorrow? If Trevor’s not home.’

  ‘Great. I’ll bring the hooch.’

  Rose hung up. She had a nagging feeling of guilt but realised David would not mind the fact that she had something to look forward to. It was selfishly gratifying to Rose that Laura’s husband was a fisherman, away for days on end. It meant Laura, unlike some women, had evenings free which they could spend together without worrying about being late or having a meal on the table. Her solitude, Rose realised, had changed her.

  It was a mystery how her and David’s lives had meshed so well. He was a mining engineer, methodical and tidy in all he did. Rose was scatterbrained and messy. Over the years they had had together they had adopted some of each other’s ways until a middle path was formed. And David, forward-looking in all things, had been adequately insured. The mortgage was paid up upon his death; she had a small pension and her own business was gradually building up, now she was putting more effort into it. Rose supposed she had treated it more like a hobby until necessity deemed it otherwise.

  Could she, she wondered, spare half a day to go into Truro to find something to wear? It would probably be worthwhile. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans and casual clothes, her manner of dressing a remnant from her student days, encouraged by the informality of her surroundings. Her hair, still shoulder-length and straight, either flowed loosely or, more latterly, in deference to the passing years, was tied back or twisted and held in place with a toothed, sprung clip.

  It was still too early to go to bed. Restless, the storm noisily making its presence known, and her anticipation mixed with sadness, Rose put on some classical music. It usually soothed her, allowing her thoughts to drift. Leaning back in the shabby chintz armchair she closed her eyes. Sometimes it seemed like yesterday she had stepped off the train at Penzance station and begun walking to the lodgings her parents had insisted she booked before she set off. Resting against the rails near the open-air swimming pool she had understood why artists flocked to the area. The colours of both sea and sky were unbelievable and she knew she would feel at home.

  Her parents had financed her for six months after she had finished college. When the money ran out she started painting in earnest. She did not want to leave.

  Barry Rowe came into her life soon after. Rose had gone into the shop from which he sold the cards his small firm produced and asked if he would be interested in any of her work. He had liked it and said so. On a future visit she met David. He was looking for a birthday card and happened to choose one which Rose had originally painted.

  ‘The artist’s standing behind you,’ Barry Rowe had said, grinning.

  ‘Oh?’ David had turned around and something passed between them. Rose could never recall exactly how it was that they ended up having a pub lunch – one of them must have started a conversation. A year later they were married.

  Rose opened her eyes. The wind had dropped, apart from the occasional squally gust, and the rain had eased, or ceased altogether. Her neck was stiff and the music had finished. Glancing at the small carriage clock on the low stone mantelpiece she was amazed to see that it was two thirty. It was the best and deepest sleep she had had for some time.

  Maggie Anderson chewed the corner of her mouth in frustration. It was the third time Dennis had let her down recently. His excuse was pressure of work but she knew by his tone he was lying. Gabrielle was safely out of the way, there was nothing to fear as long as they avoided places where Dennis was known. He refused to take her to the flat – which, she supposed, was understandable. His wife had chosen and furnished it and had lived there with him. But Maggie hoped she wasn’t losing her hold over him.

  Ten years younger than Gabrielle and her opposite in looks and temperament, she believed she was exactly what Dennis needed, especially if he was to stay at the top. A suitable partner was an advantage: a partner who was attractive and witty and fun, yet knew where to draw the line. One who enjoyed socialising, something Gabrielle seemed to have given up. It was unfair on Dennis to expect him to attend functions and entertain clients on his own. Once or twice she had partnered him, introduced as a colleague. She knew enough about the trade to be able to converse knowledgeably albeit not in depth.

  She stood in front of the mirrored wardrobe in her bedroom, dressed ready to go out. Dennis had left it very late to cancel. Tomorrow he would be off to Cornwall again. Maggie was fed up with weekends spent alone. He had mentioned the party, only, she guessed, because he was surprised at Gabrielle initiating it. That was the following weekend. Maggie smiled at her reflection, satisfied with what she saw. ‘Why not?’ she said aloud. ‘Indeed, why not?’

  ‘Oh, Rose, it’s just you,’ Laura said when she arrived, breathless from hurrying up the hill in the warm evening air. The storm of the previous night had only provided temporary relief. ‘Here.’ She placed some wine which had been in her woven bag on the table as was their custom when they ate in one another’s houses.

  ‘Do you think it’s dressy enough?’ Rose held the outfit in front of her and looked at it doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. No one goes mad these days.’

  The skirt was of pastel swirls, chiffon over a silky underskirt, the long, loose matching top of chiffon only. Beneath it she would wear a pale blue silk vest the same colour as in the pattern. ‘I suppose if I put my hair up?’

  ‘Rose, you’ll look lovely. I wish you’d stop worrying. Where’ve you hidden the corkscrew this time?’ Laura had pulled open a couple of drawers, knowing things could not usually be found in the same place twice. Discovering it beside the bread bin she yanked out the cork, holding the bottle inelegantly between her knees. ‘What shoes are you wearing? Don’t tell me, you forgot. You can borrow my white sandals, I’ve only worn them twice.’

  ‘Thanks, Laura.’

  The
same size feet was all they had in common physically. Laura was several inches taller than Rose, and thinner, her hair cut level with her ears, the dark curls awry. Laura hated her hair but Rose always pointed out that people paid a lot of money to have theirs done that way.

  Wineglasses at hand, they settled down for an evening of serious conversation and gossip, and, in an hour’s time, some food.

  3

  The weekend had passed unnoticed. That is, for Rose, the days were the same as any other. She took advantage of the weather and continued with outdoor work apart from a quick job in Penzance on Saturday morning. The mother of a boy about to start secondary school wanted a professional photograph of him in his new school uniform. ‘Before he ruins it,’ she had added with a resigned expression.

  Barry took her to the cinema on Sunday evening but they parted immediately afterwards. Then, with the weekend behind her, Rose found the rest of the week slipping by. She gave the following Saturday afternoon up to pampering herself: a bath, instead of a shower, and a coat of pale gloss on her fingernails. Her hands, she realised, could have been better taken care of but, despite rubber gloves, photographic chemicals had taken their toll.

  At eight fifteen there was a toot from the main road. Rose did not recognise the car. Peering harder she saw Barry getting into the back seat.

  Picking up her handbag she went to join him. ‘A taxi?’

  ‘No.’ The driver laughed. ‘Barry here’s conned me into driving you over. You’ll be coming back in a taxi, though.’

  Rose turned and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Sorry. This is Geoff, works on the printing side.’

  ‘Ah.’ And probably Geoff had been responsible for printing the rather formal greeting in Gabrielle’s Christmas cards. She had remembered to bring the proofs with her. ‘Hello. Nice to meet you at last.’