A Cornish Stranger (4 page)

‘Jaunty?' Gabriella touched her arm.

‘Yes.' Jaunty frowned.

‘I asked if you wanted any fruit this morning?'

‘Prunes, dear.' Gabriella was lovely and always had been, ever eager to please. But something had happened to her, something that wasn't good. Jaunty sensed it, but Gabriella never spoke of it – whatever it was. Everything was always ‘fine', which said nothing at all. And though Gabriella worked like a demon on her music, it was not her singing but her music. When Jaunty listened it was beautiful and sad, but it wasn't enough to sustain a passionate woman – and Gabriella was passionate, Jaunty knew it.

She was, what, thirty? Jaunty wasn't sure. She could be younger or older. Jaunty should know Gabriella's age. Her daughter-­in-law had gone into labour a month early and it was so cold so it must have been winter. Philip, dear Philip . . . He had still been at sea on a rig somewhere and her daughter-in-law had died by the time he'd reached her. Heartbreaking.

Jaunty puzzled how some events like Alex threading flowers through her hair in the summer of 1939 were so clear, but the date her only grandchild had been born had disappeared. Her mind was too full. A life too long does that and the brain picks and chooses what it wants to hold on to. She had no control. She still had her wits, but not all her memories, and certainly not all that she sought to keep. No, her devious mind had selected the memories to hold tight to and who was she to tell it it was wrong.

Gabriella placed a bowl of prunes in front of her. ‘Is there anything in particular that you want to do today?'

Jaunty raised an eyebrow. ‘Run a marathon?' Gabriella knew there was little that Jaunty could do any more because taking anything but a few steps was too painful. However, Gabriella was putting a bright face on it as she had always done, and her smile lit the room.

‘The day is fine so I will sit on the terrace and watch the birds,' Jaunty said. How they tormented her with their freedom. But this was not new. They had done this since the day she was plucked out of the sea by a fisherman and brought to Falmouth, to live thereafter in a cage of her own making.

‘Are you sure?' Gabriella wrinkled her nose again.

‘Please stop that! You will give yourself unnecessary lines.' Jaunty sucked some air into her lungs. She knew she shouldn't snap, but her fuse had never been long. Her mother's cautionary words about appearance and freckles echoed in Jaunty's mind. Gabe mustn't be so careless with hers.

As Gabriella cleared the plates, Jaunty noted her granddaughter appeared almost hollow, a skeleton of the woman she used to be. Gabriella thought she was doing the right thing by coming here; she was good like her father and grandfather had been. But deep inside something had altered her. She lived alone and Jaunty knew she was lonely, which was one reason why she was here.

But an old woman was not the company she needed. Jaunty's fingers moved around the rim of the teacup, enjoying the delicate feel of something that, although beautiful, was robust enough to hold its scalding contents. Could Gabriella become strong again or would she let whatever had happened defeat her? Jaunty sighed inwardly. She herself had become resilient, but she had lost so much that wholeness was never possible, not when you were not who you said you were.

‘Wrinkles are good. Look at yours.' Gabriella smiled and those beautiful eyes glinted with laughter.

‘I am an exceedingly old woman and I have earned mine. Gabriella, you are a woman in your prime – your face is as important as your voice or your hands.'

Gabriella lifted her chin then turned away. This argument had been raised too many times. She hadn't listened then and Jaunty knew she was a fool if she thought her granddaughter would now. She was a woman – a broken woman – not a child. Gabriella had matured into someone as stubborn as Jaunty had been. It would do her good to remember that, but her mind refused to accept it. Jaunty wanted Gabriella fixed and as whole as she could be.

 

The dew soaked the bottom of Gabe's jeans as she walked through the overgrown grass to reach the studio. The morning chorus was still in full voice despite the late hour and although the studio was only two hundred feet from the cabin, it felt to Gabe as if it was in a different county or even country. It was a place of magic. Blank canvases, sheets of paper, pieces of wood and even old cereal boxes were transformed into paintings of blue, green, grey, black, purple. Jaunty portrayed the water in every colour on the chart, each shade reflecting a mood, a moment, an emotion.

Jaunty, too, altered the second she walked through the ­studio door. Her grandmother was like a patchwork quilt made of pieces of fabric discarded by others as unworthy of keeping, but salvaged by Jaunty, and in her they became stunning. Jaunty's nose was positively patrician, her hair was now white and downy but had been thick and black. Those eyes now somewhat clouded had been bright cornflower blue. But it was her voice, especially when she was painting, which didn't fit her gypsy-like grandmother at all. When she was lost in her work her voice was cut-glass with impeccable diction, if she was interrupted and answered a question. But when she spoke in public, when she was aware of people near, her voice softened, her vowels became rounder. Only when she was transported by her art did she sound like an old-fashioned
BBC
newsreader.

There seemed to be something about Jaunty's hands flying across the canvas or paper that removed a filter, or maybe added one. Her hands never stilled when she was working, even if she held no brush, no palette knife, no charcoal. It was as though her movements were her brainwaves, creating the magic that would transform the canvas.

Gabe closed her eyes and saw the flash of movement that always preceded each stroke of the brush. It was as if Jaunty was taking a practice swing in golf. Gabe smiled at the image in her head. Jaunty and golf didn't go together. Philip, her ­father, had loved the game; indeed, a golf course was where he'd met Gabe's mother and she wondered when he had learned to play. There were so many things she didn't know. Maybe she should ask Jaunty now, before it was too late. In the past she had hesitated because it had felt like poking an open wound that had never healed. But time was running out. If she didn't ask now, she would never know.

The door to the studio didn't open when Gabe released the latch. She wondered if it might be locked, but a shove with her shoulder released it. Inside, dust covered all the surfaces and the scent of turps still lingered in the air. Canvases were stacked against the far wall. When had Jaunty last been in here? Gabe looked around, noting the neatness, and it didn't feel right. Yes, there was still paint splattered on the floor and even some on the ceiling, but it was old. The room looked like a museum exhibit, down to the half-finished painting on the easel.

The painting was obviously Jaunty's work, but while the subject was right, the colours were wrong. Gabe touched the heavy brushwork on the canvas. It was hard, which meant it was at least six months old, and grey muddied the deep purple. Gabe fought the sadness welling up inside as she studied it. Jaunty's paintings always stimulated deep emotions in her, but this one spoke of despair, of loss. Shivering, Gabe turned away.

The studio was dry with only a hint of moisture around the skylights in the ceiling. Dampness was always an issue beside the river, and even in high summer the night storage heaters were supposed to kick in, but sometimes didn't. This year they had obviously been doing their work well.

Gabe sat on the single divan bed in the far corner and looked out through the ceiling-to-floor windows that faced north on to the river. She had spent so many hours curled up here while Jaunty painted, totally absorbed in the work, oblivious to Gabe's presence. Gabe stroked the needlepoint cushion that lay on the bed. She had made it at school and had given it to Jaunty the first Christmas they had been alone. Gabe swallowed. Christmas was a few months off. Would Jaunty make it?

These thoughts weren't helpful. Gabe rose. The studio was fine and she could set up her keyboard and piano in here so as not to disturb Jaunty. She glanced at her watch. The delivery van was due any time now. Once her things were here she could begin to re-establish normal life with its rigid practice routines. But as she stepped out of the studio and pulled the door closed behind her, she wondered why she bothered any more.

 

The crocosmia Gabe placed in a black plastic vase brightened the slate gravestone. This place featured in so many of her thoughts. When she was little, she and her father would visit regularly and talk to her mother, but for too many years she had been coming here on her own. Gabe looked at the sunlight falling through the trees. It was so quiet here. She squatted down and ran her fingers over the letters. Jaunty had never visited the grave with her; she lived by putting the past firmly away. Gabe frowned. Maybe she should try and adopt that way of living too. The past was written and couldn't be altered, so she must let it go, yet it had changed her. She sighed. What would she have been like if her mother had lived? If her father had been on leave when the rig went up? She shook her head. Leave it. Wasted thoughts.

‘Hello, both.' She glanced around to make sure she was alone. No one, just a robin jumping about then fluttering on to the headstone. She touched the stone again. ‘I'm worried about Jaunty.'

The bird tilted its head as if it was listening, even understanding. It flew from the stone and landed by the flowers, even closer to her. ‘Is there anything beyond death?' She laughed. ‘I must think there is because here I am talking to a robin and a gravestone.' Jaunty wouldn't talk about God – or death, for that matter. She had said there couldn't be a God, but she never said why. Gabe knew there had to be a reason Jaunty felt this way. Whether there was a God or not, Gabe was grateful to all the musicians who had composed glorious works evoking the power, the glory, and the love of God. Without the composers' genius the world would be less beautiful. Their music, their words, made her life worth living. Gabe watched the robin fly off.

One last glance at the grave and she closed the gate behind her, intent on booking lessons at the sailing club after she stopped in the village shop. She pulled the shopping list out of her pocket as she walked down the lane to the store. A multi-coloured butterfly landed in the hedge and Gabe stopped and tried to remember the name for it. It flew away and she set off again, wishing her memory were better for things like this.

‘Gabriella, how wonderful to see you!' Mrs Bates was puffing her way up the hill. ‘In fact, it couldn't be better timing.'

Gabe frowned, but before she could ask why the older woman had taken her by the arm and was leading her down the hill. ‘This couldn't be more fortunate.' She turned to Gabe just before they crossed the square. They seemed to heading for the village hall. ‘It's so wonderful that you're back. Jaunty will perk up no end now that you're here.'

‘Thank you, but why are we going to the hall?'

‘You still play the piano?'

Gabe nodded.

‘Well, Max's car broke down near Goonhilly and he has just rung to say he won't be back in time to hold the rehearsal.'

‘I'm not sure I'm following you. Max who?' Gabe tilted her head, studying Mrs Bates and hoping for some clue as to what was happening.

‘Max Opie. There's a rehearsal for the fund-raising concert for cancer research that's going on next week. We're all so excited about it and it's for such a good cause. Of course, you'll have heard about poor little Jeremy Smith and how he was rushed to London for treatment?'

Gabe stopped just inside the outer door to the hall. The last time she'd been in here was for the summer jumble sale a few years ago. Inside she saw a group of teenagers and some younger children. One of them was playing scales on an old upright piano. A tall boy covered in spots was on his phone and another one was staring at the ceiling. One blonde girl was shuffling through music and glancing through the French windows towards the square while a small girl stuck close by her. In all there were twenty that Gabe counted.

‘No, I hadn't heard, Mrs Bates, and I'm not sure how I can help.'

‘But of course you can help. They need someone to play while they sing. I remember your singing so well, my dear. It's a shame that the programme is all sorted otherwise it would have been wonderful to have you join them.'

Gabe sent up a silent prayer for the small miracle of a pre-printed programme. The last thing she wanted to do was to try and tell Mrs Bates that she wouldn't sing.

‘Hannah, can you show Gabriella what needs playing and she'll be able to help.'

The blonde girl turned from the window.

‘Gabriella's very clever and composes music for a living.' Mrs Bates gave Gabe's arm a little squeeze and disappeared.

Hannah came forward with a big smile. ‘Hi, sorry about Mrs Bates, but we really would be grateful if you could accompany us while we practise.'

Gabe looked at all their faces and their eyes were intent on her. Phones were shoved in pockets and headphones removed. They were keener than she would have initially guessed. She looked at her watch. The sailing club would have to wait for another day. ‘OK,' she said, ‘show me what you were working on.' Gabe followed Hannah to the piano and they all gathered round. Gabe sifted through the sheets; Faure's Requiem, beautiful. She wondered who would be singing the solo, ‘Pie Jesu'.

She looked up. ‘I don't know who is doing what so I will have to rely on you all.' They nodded and were soon assembled on to the stage. The youngest child stayed by her side.

‘Before we begin, can you tell me where the concert will be held?' Gabe ran her fingers over the keys while she studied the faces on the stage.

‘Manaccan church,' the young girl said.

‘Will you have any other instruments accompanying you besides the organ?'