Betrayed in Cornwall (2 page)

Etta’s house, like many others, was perched on the side of a hill. The front upstairs rooms overlooked the roofs of the properties below, affording a view of the sea. Seven years previously she had had the attic converted into a bedroom. It was now where Joe slept, leaving two rooms free for guests.

Breakfast was over. Although the windows and the back door were open the air was too still and oppressive to disperse the smell of bacon and sausages which lingered in the kitchen. Etta stepped out on to the paved area where garden furniture and terracotta pots of flowers stood. In her arms was a plastic basket containing wet towels. Sheets and pillowcases churned in the washing-machine. She mounted the three concrete steps leading up to the ground which had been levelled and grassed by Ed. Tall flowering shrubs bordered the lawn and provided privacy. In its centre stood two Cornish palms. Their fronds, which tapped like rigging on the masts of ships in the lightest of breezes, were totally still and silent, as was the house. Her guests had gone out for the day and Sarah was still in bed. She would surface when there was no more work to be done then disappear without saying where she was going.

I should insist upon knowing, Etta thought as she pegged the towels to the rotary line which was hidden behind the
shrubbery. It just seemed too much of an effort. As far as Sarah was concerned, everything she said and did lately was wrong. Joe had never been like that. Deep down she understood that Sarah was flexing her muscles. Neither child nor woman, she both resented and wished to emulate her mother. I hope Rose can sort her out, she thought, turning with a smile when she heard Joe’s voice.

He hugged her, keeping his arm around her shoulder as they went into the house.

Sarah stood in the kitchen wearing a short housecoat and an even shorter nightdress. ‘Is there any bread?’ she asked.

‘It’s in the bin, where it always is. Please clear up after yourself. I have to get some shopping.’ How different they are, she thought, as she picked up her purse and car keys.

The term had not officially ended but Sarah had sat her end-of-year exams and only needed to attend school occasionally. One more year and she would be off to university. Maybe then they could become friends again. Maybe then she could sort out her own life.

Rose stood back and folded her arms, satisfied with the oils which were waiting to be collected. It had taken her almost thirty years to achieve her ambition, her own exhibition.

Fate rather than lack of talent had been responsible. Originally from Gloucestershire, Rose had come to Cornwall after finishing at art college. She had met and married David Trevelyan, a mining engineer, and had lived in Newlyn ever since. After his death she had rebuilt her life and, since that time, encouraged by friends and fellow painters, she had concentrated less and less on watercolours and photography and returned to her favourite medium which was oils.

Geoff Carter had told her that the gallery could cater for sixty guests for the first night’s private viewing. Rose had sent out printed invitations but there had been far fewer than sixty. The people she wanted to come were those who were most dear to her. Geoff had suggested it might be an idea to ask some of the influential people in the area but Rose had declined. This was
so special to her that buttering up strangers who might be useful would spoil the evening.

That her parents were coming was her greatest pleasure. She had no other family, the other guests were her closest friends. Barry Rowe in particular. She had known him ever since her arrival in Cornwall. He ran a gift shop which specialised in the work of local artists and craftsmen. For many years Rose had painted wild flowers and village scenes which Barry reproduced as greetings cards and notelets.

During her marriage art had become more of a hobby than a career, although she managed to sell her work via Barry and cafés and tea-shops which displayed her paintings on their walls. When David died Rose had discovered that she could manage financially but she had needed something to occupy her time and had taken up photography as well.

Barry Rowe, thin, stoop-shouldered, slightly balding and with glasses which perpetually slipped down his nose, had been in love with Rose since the day they had met. Unmarried himself, he had stood by her through good times and bad, never giving up hope that one day they would be together. Not once had Rose given him any indication that she felt more than friendship for him, but that did not deter him. Perversely, he had liked and admired David Trevelyan and had helped Rose through the terrible months following his death but he had been sick with envy when, five years later and as fully recovered as she would ever be, she had started seeing Jack Pearce, a detective inspector in the Devon and Cornwall police.

Rose had known all this but could not allow Barry to dominate her life, which he had a tendency to do if she was not firm. She supposed she was thinking of him particularly because of the promise that she had made Etta Chynoweth that she would speak to her daughter. ‘Leave well alone,’ she could hear Barry say, although he would be wasting his breath. But when and how to do it without making it appear too obvious to the girl? Well, problems like that tended to sort themselves out. Rose went downstairs to wait for Geoff Carter.

The water in the bay was now azure beneath the strong sun. The colours were more vibrant, the light so different from
anywhere else that numerous artists were drawn to the area. On days such as today Rose felt she might have been looking out of a window somewhere in the southern Mediterranean.

The kitchen door was wide open but no air circulated. The lawn might be patchy and uneven and in need of a cut but the shrubs and flowers survived regardless, thanks to the temperate climate and plentiful rain.

Geoff’s van came up the drive and stopped behind her Metro. It was specially designed to carry paintings. In the back were racks, wooden slats behind which oils or watercolours framed in glass could be safely transported. Rose was not quite sure what she felt about Geoff, although she had to admit she had not known him long enough to judge him fairly. Sometimes she wondered if he was making a pass, at others she thought that she was simply reading too much into the most simple statements. Time would tell, she supposed, wondering if she was in the least interested.

‘Hi. Excited?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow as Rose went to greet him.

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Come on in. Have you time for a coffee?’

‘Regrettably, no,’ he said.

Which might mean anything, Rose thought. Together they wrapped the canvases in hessian and loaded them into the back of the van. Geoff slammed the sliding door and its tinny echo reverberated in the still air. He wiped his head with a spotless handkerchief and said he would see her tomorrow. His words were accompanied with a wink, confusing Rose further.

By lunchtime the house was spotless so she set about preparing the evening meal. Fresh fish from Newlyn, naturally, had been her mother’s request. Trevor, who had landed that morning, had hung a bag of fish on the kitchen door handle, knowing that Rose would be up long before the sun reached it. It contained several megrim and a crab, which must have been given to him because he and his crew fished for flat fish all year round. The crabbers only worked between Easter and September. Like many fishermen’s wives, Trevor’s wife, Laura, often complained there was no room in her freezer for anything else but fish.

Tomorrow she need not think of food. After the viewing, her parents were taking her out to eat. Once everything was ready she made coffee and took it out to the garden to drink. Sitting on the metal bench, she felt the sun warming her bare arms and face. Already she had a tan, which surprised most people because of the colour of her hair. She had tied it back whilst she dealt with the food but now pulled it free of its band. Her skin, nearly always devoid of make-up, was fresh, and the lines and the few stray strands of grey in her hair added character rather than aged her. She would, she realised, look very much like her mother in another twenty years’ time. And in approximately another hour she would see her. She sighed with contentment and sat looking at the bay as she drank her coffee.

To her left was Newlyn harbour but only a few masts rose above the piers. Although they did not fish as a fleet most of the fishermen were taking advantage of the tides and the weather. Directly ahead was St Michael’s Mount with a history stretching back to the days when the Phoenicians probably came to trade for tin. Rose loved reading about the history as well as the legends and folklore of Cornwall. She had particularly enjoyed a book about the Mount, once a stronghold of the Royalists, and how it had been defended furiously by them until they had been overcome. Because of their bravery they had been allowed to surrender as soldiers, not as prisoners. But not before his own men had had to restrain the Royalist leader, Sir John Arundel, a man then in his eighties, from blowing the whole thing up in protest. Rose smiled at the recollection as she looked over towards the Lizard Point, the southernmost tip of the country which formed one arm of the huge haven of the bay. No landmarks were visible and, in the distance, its darkly silhouetted outline looked like a sleeping monster. Around the Mount were yachts with red sails and she could hear the engine of a trawler as the sound carried across the water before it came into sight.

When the telephone rang she assumed it would be a message to say that her parents, Evelyn and Arthur Forbes, had been delayed but it was Laura Penfold, who would ring or call in for a chat at any time of day.

‘Did you get the fish? I told Trevor to knock, but you know what he’s like.’

Rose did. He was one of the most taciturn men she had ever met, speaking only in answer to a question or when he had something to say. ‘I did. Thank him for me.’

‘Have your parents arrived yet?’

‘No. I’m expecting them any minute.’

‘I won’t keep you then. See you tomorrow night.’

Rose hung up, smiling. How like Laura to telephone about nothing. The smile widened as she heard a car turn into the drive.

It was several months since Rose’s parents had visited, but they hadn’t altered. Evelyn Forbes was fractionally taller than her daughter and held herself well. She was wearing a pale blue cotton shirt-waister which she had managed not to crease during the journey. Her hair, once the same shade as Rose’s, had faded but it was still soft and was held back from her forehead by a narrow velvet band. She ought to have looked like a relic from the fifties, but Evelyn had a certain style which succeeded in conveying modernity.

Arthur was five inches taller than his wife and had been lean throughout the whole of his life. Deep lines etched his face which had never lost the colour acquired from working out of doors. Until he had become bored with the ever-increasing government restrictions upon farmers it was the way in which he had earned his living. He understood exactly what the fishermen were going through. Having made enough money to retire, he had done so before the time came when he would need to plough his profits into a losing venture. The farm had been sold and he and his wife had moved to a cottage in the Cotswolds where the garden had been Evelyn’s idea of a dream.

Emotional tears filled Rose’s eyes as first her mother then her father hugged her. ‘How’s my girl?’ Arthur asked with a lopsided smile. To him Rose was still a girl and would always be one.

‘I’m fine. And you both look so well.’ Rose was lucky in that neither of her parents was infirm. They lived a life fuller than
many people half their age. As an only child she had not been spoiled but she had been treated as someone special with an independent mind. It had come as a surprise to the Forbeses when she had decided to train as an artist but the decision had been hers alone and they had accepted her choice of career without question.

‘We’re so very proud of you,’ Evelyn said. ‘We’ve been telling absolutely everyone.’

‘Your mother even went to the trouble of buying a new outfit for tomorrow night, and you know how rarely that happens these days.’

‘Honestly, Arthur, you do fuss. I have plenty of perfectly nice clothes. You’d think I went around dressed like a pauper,’ she added to Rose.

‘Like me, you mean?’ Rose glanced down at her summer uniform which consisted of jeans and a T-shirt or a denim skirt and a sleeveless blouse. That afternoon it was the latter.

Arthur looked away and her mother blushed. They had never been able to understand why such an attractive woman paid so little attention to her appearance. In the winter she wore ancient jeans or cords and faded shirts and when she worked outdoors they were topped by baggy jumpers and a waxed jacket. Some of the clothes had been David’s and she felt happy in them. But when she did dress up she could look stunning.

‘Come into the kitchen and we’ll have some coffee. Have you had lunch?’

‘Yes, we stopped at Exeter services.’

They sat at the kitchen table catching up on news while they waited for the kettle to boil. The Forbeses had been abroad since Rose had last seen them and they had brought a packet of photographs for her to look at. Evelyn got them out of her leather shoulder bag, hoping she had remembered to remove the rather saucy one Arthur had taken of her when she had stepped out of the shower unaware.

Once they had unpacked their small case Evelyn suggested they went for a walk. ‘Just to be out in this weather is wonderful, but the views make me so envious of you. I know it’s pretty
where we are, but the sea is such a wonderful colour I could gaze at it for ages.’

‘I still do. I never get used to it. Come on, let’s make a start.’

Rose’s parents were active and she had guessed they would want to walk after being in the car all morning. They took the cliff path to Lamorna and she hoped it would not be too far for them. Hot and tired, they did not arrive back home until after six. The terrain had been hard going, the paths narrow or steep or both. But the views had been worth it. They had rested for a while, sitting on an outcrop of rock whilst the Forbeses exclaimed anew at the clarity of the air and the spectacular blue of the sea. The gorse was in flower and added its heady scent to that of the scrubby grasses which they trampled beneath their feet. They had filled their lungs with clean air which would help to make them sleep.