Buried in Cornwall (2 page)

Rose had no intention of driving as she had already had a glass of wine and there would be more drinks with Nick, but thanks to Jack Pearce it was now too late to walk. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried she could catch the next bus; failing that it would mean a taxi. She was surprised to feel anxious that she might be late.

Just as Rose reached the nearest stop the lights of the bus appeared over the brow of the hill. She shivered, glad she had not had to wait. I’m soft now, she thought, recalling the weeks of snow and ice she had regularly endured as a child. The slightest drop in temperature and the inhabitants of West Penwith complained that it was freezing. However, she admitted, handing the driver the exact money, by local standards it was cold. She sat at the back of the small single-decker and unbundled her winter coat from beneath her. She did not want to crease it. It was
a recent acquisition, pure wool in a rusty colour which, with her hair resting across her shoulders and the tan boots below, made her as autumnal in appearance as the countryside. Rose rarely bought new clothes. When she did, she looked after them excessively well for about three months then they received the same treatment as older items: they were thrown over the backs of chairs, dropped on to the bed or even left to slide off their hangers in the walk-in cupboard which served as a wardrobe.

She shifted again, trying to keep the material smooth, and caught the eye of a rheumy old man with a stick. She smiled but he turned away, clearing his throat and hawking into a tissue. Rose averted her eyes.

The bus lumbered down the hill and towards Penzance. Along the Promenade was a continuous string of plain lights which were now a permanent fixture. They went well with the new Victorian-type lamp-posts. The festive lights were already strung in Penzance and would be shining brightly. There were only two weeks until Christmas and she had made no plans. Other years, since David’s death, her parents had arrived and taken over. Last year she had spent in the company of Jack Pearce. They had enjoyed
a quiet day by themselves. Rose had cooked a joint and Jack had provided champagne, wine and whisky. In the evening Laura and Trevor had joined them and they had played cards and got merrily tipsy. There would be no Jack this year and she had persuaded her parents they were not to cancel their own plans.

Despite the distance between them, they kept in touch regularly by letter and telephone and knew their daughter well enough to understand that the past was behind her and that even if she was alone her memories could no longer make her sad. Laura Penfold, her best friend, had invited her for lunch but Rose would not dream of imposing when Laura’s own family were coming to stay. ‘They’re arriving on Christmas Eve and leaving on the 27th,’ Laura had said. ‘Just right. Not long enough to try my patience.’ Rose knew the Christmas Day procedure in the Penfold household: Laura would do all the preparations in advance but it was Trevor and their daughters-in-law who cooked the meal, allowing Laura to go to the pub with her three sons. They had all moved away, none having followed their father into fishing. Perhaps it’s just as well with the way things are going, Rose thought, as the bus pulled in opposite the post
office. She alighted and thanked the driver then crossed the road, stopping at the top of the street to glance in the window of Dorothy Perkins. Across the road a shaven-headed model stood in the window of a boutique. Posed with its legs wide apart, knees bent inwards and an aggressive grimace on its face, it caught Rose’s attention. She stood back and studied it, wondering why ugliness could sometimes be appealing as well as eye-catching.

A vicious wind caught the hem of her coat and lifted her hair as she rounded the corner and made her way down Chapel Street to the Admiral Benbow. Upstairs in the bar Nick Pascoe was half seated on a tall stool, one foot on the ledge below the counter. A pint of beer stood in front of him. He rose as she approached, swept back his hair with his long, narrow fingers and leant over to kiss her cheek. Apart from shaking hands at Mike’s birthday party it was the first tactile gesture on either side yet it felt perfectly natural. ‘Wine?’ he asked.

‘Please. You’re sure this starts at seven forty-five? There’re people going in already.’

‘Positive. Don’t panic. I didn’t think to book anywhere to eat, I’d forgotten about the Christmas party crowds.’

‘Oh, we’ll get in somewhere. It’s Wednesday, it shouldn’t be a problem.’

They sipped in silence for a few minutes. Nick made a roll-up and lit it, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Rose, is something bothering you?’

‘No!’ She was astonished. It was astute of him to realise anything was wrong, but she had been trying to forget her earlier foolishness. There was no time to tell him now, maybe later, after the music had worked its magic. She checked the time. ‘Ten minutes. Shall we walk over?’

Nick downed the last two inches of beer. He wore jeans again, his best pair, Rose assumed, as they weren’t threadbare nor were they covered in paint splashes. Over them was a fisherman’s jersey with the collar of a pale blue shirt poking over the top. He wore no jacket so probably had a T-shirt underneath as well. Rose blinked in surprise. She had been undressing him mentally.

Nick took her arm as they mounted the steps to the broad-fronted church, whose interior was more ornate than its outward appearance suggested. It was filled with the rustlings of programme sheets and muted conversation. Discreet coughing continued until the orchestra filed down the far aisle. The musicians took their
places in front of the altar and began to tune their instruments.

Only once did Rose look at Nick. He had his eyes half closed as a Mozart piano concerto washed over them. This was followed by a movement from Beethoven’s Second Symphony and then a soprano whose pure notes filled the church and made Rose shiver. The fourth piece was by a composer of whom Rose had not heard. To her ears the music sounded discordant and she wasn’t sorry when the interval came. They left the church as Nick wanted a cigarette, then, giggling like teenagers, they dived over the road to the Turk’s Head where they just managed to get a drink before it was time to return.

‘Enjoy it?’ Nick asked when the concert was over.

‘It was lovely. I should make the effort more often. There’re so many things going on if you bother to look. I usually get to see one of the male voice choirs every month or so, though.’

‘Ah, you can’t beat hearing Cornishmen sing. Can you sing, Rose?’

‘Not a note.’

They were heading up the hill along with many of the audience who would be making for one of the car-parks. ‘Where’re we going?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Chinese as we’re up here now?’

They decided upon the nearer of the two almost adjacent restaurants, both situated on the first floor above other premises. It was surprisingly busy but they were given a window seat. ‘So, let’s hear it. What has upset my painter in oils?’ Nick asked, having recalled his earlier impression of Rose’s strange mood.

Unsure of the significance of the possessive pronoun – was he making fun of her because she was only just finding her feet whereas he had been established for years, or was it a sign of affection? – she felt awkward and almost kept her counsel. But knowing how the grapevine worked he would hear within a short time anyway. Feeling the heat in her face, Rose said, ‘I did something incredibly stupid. I was so … Ah, well. I must’ve been wrong.’

Nick was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded. He raised a hand and rested his index finger against his lips. ‘And from that short garbled paragraph, the penultimate sentence, if you don’t mind me pointing out, lacking a complete predicate, I’m supposed to deduce exactly what piece of stupidity you have been engaged in.’

Rose smiled. He
was
making fun of her now. ‘All right, I’ll explain. I was out painting. I heard a scream. It came from near an old mine shaft. I went to investigate. I heard a second scream. I ran back to the car and rang the police from my mobile phone. The emergency services turned up in force.’ She shrugged. ‘They didn’t find anyone.’

‘Most comprehensible, and not a sub-clause anywhere.’

‘Pedant.’ Rose was playing with her chopsticks as the waiter arrived with the wine Nick had ordered. She opened the menu and studied it, choosing her main dish immediately because she knew that if she hesitated she would keep changing her mind.

‘Seriously, though, if you did hear a scream you did the right thing. I didn’t know you had a mobile phone,’ He raised an eyebrow but Rose did not take the hint and give him the number. Nick placed a hand over hers but only to stop her fiddling. He removed it as soon as he saw the closed expression on her face.

‘No. Well, I mostly forget to take it out with me.’ As with the time-operated light in her hall, it was Jack who had suggested she got one.

‘It was handy today.’

Rose snorted. ‘Handy to have everyone arrive a bit sooner, that’s all.’

‘Yes, but when you’re out by yourself at night, it’s safer.’

Rose chewed the side of her mouth. He was right, of course. The West Country, for so long always a step behind and a reminder of a more gentle age, was now no stranger to crime and seemed to be catching up with everywhere else. ‘So, I’m walking up Causewayhead and about to be mugged or attacked and I say, “Hold on a minute while I get out my phone to ring the police”?’

‘Now who’s being pedantic? You know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘Well, it’s heavy, I could always use it as a cosh.’

Nick shook his head, smiling as the waiter brought several dishes and arranged them on the hotplates. Nick indicated that Rose should begin before he helped himself to food. Having tasted it he nodded approvingly then continued, ‘It could’ve been the wind.’

‘No. I can’t expect you to believe me but it was a scream. A woman’s scream. Oh, let’s forget it, it’s one of those things that happen round here, that’ll never be understood.’

‘Did anyone know where you were going today?’

‘What difference would that have made?’ Rose, her carefully loaded chopsticks halfway to her mouth, felt a fleeting panic.

There was a strange expression on his face as he said, ‘I’m not sure.’ He paused. ‘I just wondered.’

‘I told Stella and Daniel. In fact, I think it was Stella who originally suggested the scene. I’m so grateful to them, Nick, they’ve really taken me under their wing. They’re all so nice. I expected, well, I’m not sure, not jealousy, I’m nowhere in their league, but perhaps resentment at a new face amongst the recognised.’

‘We’re not like that, Rose. I’m surprised you should have thought so.’

‘I apologise, I meant no offence. It’s just that after coping on my own for so long and allowing myself to settle for second best …’ She shrugged again and pushed her hair back over her shoulders, tucking it neatly behind her ears so as not to get it in the way of the food as she leant over the bowl.

Nick remained silent. He guessed wrongly that she had been suffering from a lack of confidence. Having lost the husband she had loved deeply
and with whom she had been so happy that her talent had taken second place, she must have needed courage to change direction so late in life. He was annoyed for having underestimated her. It had been easy for him, he had been one of the lucky ones, his work had been shown and bought almost from the beginning. Unlike Rose he had not married, although there had been several longstanding relationships. The last one had ended six months ago. Jenny was an artist’s model, one of those wild-looking creatures with olive skin and a tangle of black hair and eyes that could seduce with a glance. Nature, he thought, could be very deceptive. Jenny had wanted nothing more than to settle down and have babies and she had believed Nick would oblige on this score. After three years she had flung her few possessions into a bag and walked out, slamming the door, shouting recriminations about her wasted youth and his having used her. Initially too stunned to retaliate, Nick had remained standing in the kitchen, spatula in hand, and continued to fry the mackerel that was to have been their supper. Used? he had thought. She lives with me free of charge, off my earnings, and eats my food which I generally end up cooking. If she’d got out the hoover once in a while it might have helped. He had flung down
his cooking implements and rushed to the door. ‘Used?’ he bellowed down the narrow alley from the cottage door, much to the astonishment of locals and holiday-makers alike – although the latter had probably lapped it up as a piece of local colour. ‘Who’s used who, I wonder?’ But Jenny had already disappeared around the corner.

Rose was completely different. She was lovely but more mature, she had known pain and had learnt to deal with it and he admired what little he had seen of her work. He sensed that she would not play games, that whatever occurred between them she would be straight with him. That would make a change from Jenny’s prevarications. And, he realised, as he watched her picking expertly at the dishes with her chopsticks, she did not feel the need to talk constantly.

‘What?’ Rose looked up just in time to catch his grin.

‘You’re enjoying that.’

‘I am.’

There was no way he was going to say he had also been thinking how much he desired her. But were these things enough? And why was he even thinking them? It was far too soon to tell how or if the relationship would develop. At least he would like her as a friend, if nothing else.

‘I’m going to Stella’s exhibition tomorrow. It’s the opening, she invited me.’

‘Then you’d better not drive. She’ll press wine on you till it’s coming out of your ears.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a hardship to me.’

‘Wait and see.’

‘I can’t say I’ve noticed she drinks a lot.’

‘No, that’s the point. She doesn’t. It’s nerves.’

‘Stella?’

‘I know. Hard to credit. But it’s the same every time she has a new show. She’s always terrified each one’ll be the last.’

‘Right now I’d settle for one.’

‘Then you’ll need more canvases. How many have you done now?’

‘Oh, several decent ones. It’s odd, the ones I liked least have sold. You’re grinning again. What is it this time?’