Buried in Cornwall (4 page)

There was a whoosh from the laundry room. Rose and Laura exchanged a complicit glance. Trevor had fixed it. Water gurgled in the radiators and just the sound of it made Rose feel warmer. ‘A well-earned coffee,’ she said, handing him a heavily sweetened mugful. ‘Do you want more milk?’
Trevor shook his head. The job had only taken minutes but over the years Rose had learnt that Trevor was offended if she offered remuneration. Instead she repaid him with a packet of tobacco or a few cans of his favourite beer.

He sat at the table and got out the makings of a roll-up, scattering tobacco as he did so. Not a man for conversation unless it was necessary, he left the talking to the women. Years at sea had taught him to keep his own counsel. Cooped up in a confined space with a crew from whom there was no escape until you landed had made many a man taciturn. He listened, all the same, and took in all he heard.

‘Rose,’ he said, licking the adhesive strip of his cigarette paper and dextrously twisting it around the tobacco, ‘what happened yesterday?’ He looked into her face with his shrewd brown eyes.

She sighed. ‘You might as well hear it from me as from anyone.’ The explanation already sounded tired to her own ears.

‘That’s just about how I heard it.’ Trevor inhaled and blew out smoke with his eyes half closed.

‘You didn’t say anything to me, Trevor.’ Laura was indignant. She flung back her hair as if she had suffered the worst possible affront. Not knowing things, for Laura, was unbearable and
for her husband to withhold information was an unthinkable insult.

‘No. Not till I heard it from the source. Strange goings-on, that. Where was this?’

Rose told him. Trevor shook his head. ‘It was no echo then.’

‘No.’ Rose wished everyone would stop discussing it, but only because she was still convinced that what she had heard was real. However, the area had been searched thoroughly, and she could only question her sanity.

Trevor crossed his legs and folded his arms, one hand with the cigarette hovering over the ashtray Rose had placed before him. ‘You might be artistic, but I wouldn’t call you sensitive or fanciful. If it wasn’t an echo or a trick of the wind and no one was found, then there still has to be an explanation.’

Rose was later to recall those words and to see that she ought to have made more of them. ‘That’s just it, Trevor, but I can’t come up with an answer. At least you know me well enough to realise I believed what I heard at the time.’

He shook his head and the wavy hair moved with it. ‘The way I see it is like this, if you’re not breaking things you’re landing yourself in trouble. Were you accident-prone as a cheel?’

Rose slapped his arm affectionately, knowing
he was sending her up. ‘No. I’ve never even broken a bone.’

‘Well, mind you don’t now. Take my advice and keep away from they places. If you’re right, and I’m not saying I disbelieve you, then there’ll be trouble in it for you somewhere along the line. You know what you’re like, Rose Trevelyan.’

What he said made sense but she had no intention of letting her friends know that she planned to return to the mine tomorrow. That painting was good, too good to relinquish now, she had to finish it. Pouring more coffee, she listened to Laura’s plans for Christmas.

‘Are you sure you won’t come to us? You know we’d love to have you. Besides, it’ll be such a houseful one more won’t matter, and the boys worship you.’

That was, Rose thought, putting it a bit strongly, but she did get on well with them.

‘Come on, girl, if you want a hand with the shopping.’ Trevor stood up. Like many local families they did not possess a car. If the men were at sea they didn’t travel far when they returned home and there were ample buses into Penzance and from there to other places. There were also enough people who did have transport and who were prepared to offer lifts. They
walked down the path in single file and waved before disappearing from view.

Rose knew that many villages and small towns comprised the same mix of pubs and small shops which served the locals, but in Newlyn there was a difference. It was in both the people themselves and the one thing which bound them together: the sea. The sea and its produce and the dangers it held, proven by the tragedies which, when they occurred, affected not one person but many in such a close-knit community.

She rinsed the mugs and inverted them on the draining-board before glancing at the sky, which could change in seconds. There were still no clouds. She slipped on a jacket, picked up her large leather handbag and went outside. The walk along the sea front would do her good and she could change her library books on the way up to Penzance. Breathing in the clean air, she made her way down the hill, waving to a fish buyer as she passed the market. It was busy but the auctioneer’s voice could be heard above the clattering of fish boxes.

Library, bank, post office, hairdresser’s, she reminded herself again as she reached the level surface of Newlyn Green.

Stella Jackson paced the honey-coloured, highly polished sanded boards of her living-room floor, cigarette in hand. Daniel Wright, her husband, ignored her. He was used to the first night nerves from which she suffered as much in St Ives as in one of the big London galleries. And tonight they were to be honoured by the presence of a well-known art dealer. Daniel was not alone in adrniring his wife’s work as well as the woman herself and was therefore unable to understand her insecurity. It was some years now since he had stopped trying to reassure her; this anxiety was part of her, something which she had to endure and which, he realised, helped her artistically. If
she lost the desire to improve, to be the best, if she took her talent for granted, it might slide into mediocrity. In many ways they were worlds apart but their marriage worked and they allowed one another plenty of freedom.

Daniel had been commissioned to produce a sculpture for the gardens of a government property in London. Twice he had travelled up with plans and then the model from which he would work. It was now under way. The basic shape had been formed and sat in his studio wrapped in damp cloths. It would take months to complete and he couldn’t afford a mistake. Some days he didn’t touch it at all but merely stared at the plans and his initial drawing. Then he would run his hands over the clay. When he could feel in his fingertips the form which would finally emerge and picture it as well as he knew his own body, then he would continue. For now he was happy enough to offer whatever support he could to Stella at the private viewing of her exhibition.

The flat over her gallery in St Ives had once been a net loft. They had moved there from Zennor five years previously, although Daniel still preferred the old granite house despite its relative inconvenience. The loft had been partially renovated before they moved in but they
had decided to leave the rafters in their original form rather than build a ceiling. They sloped up to the roof, forming an apex and creating a sense of spaciousness. The decor appeared very casual but the effect had taken Stella a long time to achieve as she searched for just the right material for cushions and curtains and the rugs that were thrown over the settees. The television and video recorder were hidden in a cupboard built into the wall, as was their collection of CDs and the player. Against the longest wall was a dining-table made of oak, with matching chairs. It was second-hand but had cost more than the modern equivalent they had looked at. Basic wooden shelving, made by Daniel, held their numerous books. At the bottom were the heavier, glossy tomes containing pictures of the great works of artists and sculptors. Above were dictionaries and reference books, while the top three shelves held novels. It was an eclectic collection. Many of the paperbacks were Penguins with their original covers and priced at half a crown or less. The edges of the pages were orange with age and the books still retained the smell peculiar to the roughish paper on which they were printed.

The kitchen was small and adjoined this room. It was extremely functional, space being at
a premium, and had been designed by a seafaring friend who had worked within the limitations of a ship’s galley. The bedroom and bathroom had not required much improvement; the latter some modernisation, the former only redecoration. The previous occupants, who had carried out the initial conversion, had had their main rooms downstairs.

The gallery ran the length and breadth of the building with only a small cubicle blocked off for office-work and a kitchenette alongside it. A selection of Stella’s new paintings, carefully framed and kept from the public eye, were now hanging on the walls and the six-foot removable partitions she had erected down the centre. Daniel had placed an order with the wine merchant, hired glasses and made sure there was at least one spare corkscrew and some whisky for those who didn’t drink wine. There were also soft drinks and plates of food which were covered in foil and waiting in the fridge. There had been produced by Julie Trevaskith, the daughter of Molly who did their cleaning. Julie was at Cornwall College learning the catering trade. To earn some spending money she helped out in the gallery during the holidays.

‘Want to go for a walk, burn off some of that
nervous energy?’ Daniel asked, irritated by her restless pacing.

‘No.’ Stella shook her head, causing the straight black hair, cut to chin length, to swing. It looked unnatural, it was as dark as a string of jet beads except for a shock of grey springing from the crown. She was lean and willowy and dressed mainly in black but always with some splash of brilliance. Today, over the black ski-pants and satin tunic top she had slung a shawl of scarlet and emerald. The green was reflected in the huge ear-rings which dangled against her neck. She looked at Daniel and smiled. ‘I know you’re doing your best, I can’t help it.’

He smiled back, wondering how a woman with slightly crooked teeth and a bit of a squint could be so sexy. Apart from her lissom body, there was something about her face which made men look twice. Maybe it was the bone structure or the fact that the two flaws, if they could be so called, cancelled each other out. It did not matter that her breasts were small, the whole effect added up to a beauty similar to that of a panther. Daniel wanted to take her to bed right then but she was too uptight to contemplate an act which might actually relieve her tension.

‘I’ve asked a few people for drinks before we officially open.’

He liked the way she said ‘we’ although it was her gallery and her work on show. He tended to exclude her from his own artistic efforts, not letting her see anything until it was finished. Stella was far better at sharing than himself. ‘Who’s coming?’

‘Maddy, Jenny, Barbara and Mike and Rose.’ She counted them off on her fingers.

‘No Nick?’

‘He can’t make it until later.’ Stella smiled her feline smile. ‘I didn’t tell Rose he was coming.’

‘She’ll know, won’t she? I thought they were seeing each other.’

‘They are, as you put it, seeing each other, but I think that’s as far as it goes. Don’t start matchmaking.’ She pointed a slender finger at him. Like the other seven it was bedecked with heavy silver rings and her nails, long and carefully filed, were scarlet, without a chip, the polish gleaming beneath its coat of clear varnish. No one would realise it had taken her an age to remove the paint from her hands and nails and wrists. Her lips, in the same shade, were pursed as she recalled it was Daniel who had paired Jenny off with Nick and that had turned out to be a disaster. It was now
far enough in the past that it was safe to have them under the same roof.

‘I won’t. Cross my heart.’ He did so as he stood up and stretched. ‘Ought I to change?’ He looked down at his brown cords. The nap on the knees had disappeared but his Viyella shirt with its tiny brown and white checks was perfectly presentable as was the matching brown V-necked sweater.

‘You know I don’t mind.’

‘I think I will, trousers, anyway. You look so smart.’

She turned to hide a smile. Stella knew that had she insisted he tidy up he would have refused, stating that people must take him as he was.

‘Hey, take it easy.’ He patted her shoulder. Stella had jumped when the door bell chimed.

‘Someone’s early.’ Brushing the cold metal of the rail with her hand she went down the circular wrought-iron staircase to see who it was. ‘Jenny! It’s unlike you to be so punctual.’

‘I was hoping Maddy would be here. She’s always the first to turn up.’

‘Maddy? No, you’re the first. You should’ve called for her on the way.’

Jenny put on her helpless face, her head on one side. ‘I need a job.’ She still modelled for artists,
clothed or unclothed, having the sort of looks which transposed well to canvas, but it was by no means a full-time job and many couldn’t afford to pay her at all. Sometimes she was rewarded with a meal or a painting that didn’t sell or a few drinks in one of the pubs.

‘Well, I don’t see how Maddy can help. Oh, come on up. You look as if you could do with a drink. I certainly could but I promised myself I wouldn’t start until someone arrived.’

Jenny smiled behind her back, knowing the state her hostess needed to work herself up into before she could begin to enjoy the evening. ‘I just thought she might like someone to work in the shop. She could spend all her time at her craftwork then.’

‘Be realistic, Jenny. All right, she’s doing okay in the run-up to Christmas, but January and February? Even in the summer she just scrapes by.’

‘I know. But I’m desperate, anything’s worth a try. I don’t suppose you …’

Stella raised her hands, palms facing forward. Her face was stern. ‘No chance, Jenny. Sorry.’ Stella could have afforded to employ the girl but for some reason, when Jenny was involved, there was always trouble. She wasn’t dishonest or rude,
she was just one of those people who was always caught in the vortex of other people’s problems and managed to exacerbate them. But Stella was honest enough to admit that the main reason was that Jenny Manders found it difficult to keep her hands off other women’s men. The door bell rang again. ‘You’ll have to help yourself. On the side there.’ Stella indicated the drinks that were kept for their personal use before clattering down the stairs to admit Mike and Barbara Phillips and Rose whose cars had converged in the car-park simultaneously.

Stella frowned. ‘Barbara, you know Jenny, don’t you?’ Her life was hectic and there were occasions when she couldn’t remember which of her friends and acquaintances already knew each other.

‘Yes. Nice to see you again.’

Rose grinned at Jenny and accepted a glass of wine. Two would have to be her limit as she had come in the car. She knew nothing of Nick’s three-year affair with Jenny, only that there had been someone until six months ago. These were new friends, more personal details had not yet been exchanged, although the basics of their lives were no secret.

‘Ah, here already.’ Daniel had changed and
shaved. He greeted their guests whilst keeping an eye on Stella who was now chain-smoking. He liked the Phillips. Mike was a surgeon at Treliske hospital in Truro and his wife worked there as a physiotherapist. Rose Trevelyan was another woman he admired, and not only for her looks. She was a survivor. He wondered how Stella would fare if she did not have his constant support.

Maddy was the last to arrive. Her accent instantly placed her as an ‘outsider’, as someone from the Home Counties who had moved to Cornwall in search of the simple life, where she believed her dreamy manner and craftwork would be more appreciated. Having arrived only three years ago she was still considered to be an outsider, although she had made friends amongst the locals. Barbara, never less than elegant, smiled at Maddy’s chosen ensemble. Over thick black tights she wore brown lace-up boots and a billowing smock in royal blue with embroidery across the tight-fitting chestband which flattened her curves. Beneath the smock was a striped T-shirt in olive green and white, over it a quilted jacket in squares of differing colours. On her head was a Paddington Bear hat with a large red flower stitched to the side. Long hair cloaked her
shoulders. It was fair with a slight wave but of the dryish texture which did not shine even when newly washed. She resembled a character in a nursery rhyme.

Stella, a cigarette balanced in the corner of her mouth, replenished their drinks. Rose put her hand over her glass. ‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Sure? Okay. I’m beginning to feel better already, Rose. You wouldn’t believe what these evenings do to me.’

Rose nodded. Stella didn’t know how lucky she was to be hosting one. Turning to speak to Barbara and Mike, acquaintances once, then firm friends from the start of David’s illness when Mike had been his consultant and Rose’s confidant, she studied Maddy Duke. Rose had met her at Stella’s on several occasions and had found her to be amusing company, if a little zany, but beneath her cheerful exterior Rose guessed there was hidden pain.

Daniel circulated with the wine bottles but Rose told him she was saving her rationed second glass for the official opening.

‘How’s it going?’ Mike Phillips, in causal trousers, shirt and sweater, finally got a chance to speak to Rose. He looked tired.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I can see you’re fine, I meant the painting. Your oil has pride of place in our lounge. Did Barbara tell you?’

‘No. I’m flattered.’

‘How typical. We’re the ones who’re flattered. We had no idea you were that good.’

‘Hidden talent,’ Maddy said, joining them with a glass containing what appeared to be neat Scotch. ‘I bet we don’t know of half the local painters with hidden talents.’

‘We?’ Jenny had joined them. By her tone it was obvious she resented Maddy counting herself as one of them.

‘I do think of myself as local, you know. I felt at home from the minute I came here.’

Rose sensed an animosity which she had not noticed between the two women before.

Jenny chewed the inside of her lip but said nothing. Instead she played with her thick black hair, which hung around her face like a frame. Her skin was good and her eyes were large and luminescent but it was her mouth which attracted. Full and pink, it hinted at both innocence and sensuality. She was about to move away and speak to Stella when Maddy asked Rose how Nick was. Jenny hesitated, her shoulders stiff. Rose replied that she had no reason to suppose he was other
than well, but she had seen the give-away gesture and guessed that there had once been something between Nick and Jenny – and still might be, she thought, not liking the feeling this produced although she and Nick were no more than friends and there was certainly no commitment on either side. She decided to ignore her feelings and enjoy the rest of the evening although she continued to be aware of the vaguely hostile undercurrents in the room.

A few minutes later they all went downstairs and Stella unlocked the door. Guests were by invitation only. Stella stood at the front to welcome them into the brilliantly lit showroom whose lights now spilt out into the blackness of the narrow street. Earlier Stella had hurried her friends through the darkened gallery, allowing them no chance to glimpse her work.