The Chain Garden (7 page)

When he visited as a physician and not a shareholder he ignored lunch: fuelled instead by cups of tea and coffee. During the quiet spell after two o’clock, when the afternoon shift had started down and the early shift were still on their way up to grass, he used the time to file away each man’s record card. These were kept in an oblong tin box to which only he had a key.

After that he worked on notes to add to the report he intended sending to Parliament. To ensure it was read and acted upon with the urgency it deserved, he would have to by-pass the barrier of civil servants and government minions, and place it directly into the hands of someone with the authority to do something. Perhaps Catherine might be able to help him.

He became aware of shouting followed by the approaching thud of heavy boots, running. The door burst open to reveal a dust-caked miner still wearing his hardened felt hat; its stub of candle attached to the front with a lump of sticky clay. His jacket, shirt and trousers of coarse sun bleached drill were tattered and stained reddish-brown by the tin ore. But the wet splash across his thighs was scarlet.

‘Come quick, Doctor. ‘Tis Paul Moyle. He started coughing on the ladder. We got ‘n up to grass but he collapsed. Bleeding something awful he is.’ The miner clattered out with John close behind him.

Paul Moyle lay on his side, eyes closed, his knees drawn up. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth to pool, obscenely bright and frothy, on the bare ground. Someone had removed his hard hat and skullcap. Sweat-darkened hair clung damply to his scalp and forehead.

Around him his work-mates crouched or stood silent and frowning. John sensed their unease and growing anger. Similar scenes were becoming all too frequent.

‘Fainted did he?’ A miner enquired with a trace of anxiety.

‘Best thing if he have,’ another grunted. ‘Poor bugger couldn’t get no breath. Choking he was.’

John crouched beside the young man whose face beneath its dark-brown coating of sweat-smeared dust was pale and waxy. At least he was still alive. But a lung hemorrhage at his age did not bode well.

‘How are us going to get ‘n home?’ someone demanded.

‘I’ll take him,’ John said. ‘Did any of you want to see me? If there’s anything urgent –’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ a miner broke in.

‘Don’t you mind about us. ’Tis Paul who need you now, doc.’ A rumble of agreement greeted this statement.

‘Thank you. Will someone bring–’ But they had already anticipated him and two men at the rear were already striding towards the shed.

By the time they returned with the pony and trap, Paul had opened his eyes. Clearly in shock, he seemed barely aware of his surroundings. As another miner fetched one of the blankets that had covered the wooden table, two more helped the young man up and John wrapped the blanket around him. He was lifted gently into the trap where he hunched against the wooden seat, ash-faced and shaking.

‘You’ll be all right, boy,’ one of his workmates said gruffly. ‘Coughed too hard you did. Prob’ly strained something. We’ve all done it.’

His was the only attempt at encouragement. The others hadn’t the heart. They didn’t need John to tell them there was very little chance Paul would ever return to the mine.

With the young man slumped against his shoulder John guided the trap into Miner’s Row, scattering the playing children. They stood in the gutter, pressed against grubby cob walls, watching in silence as he passed. Except for one grave-faced little girl in a calico dress and grubby pinafore. No more than six years old, she was clasping the hand of an even grubbier toddler.

‘Hey, that’s my da!’ her tone was accusing. Her expression reflected bewilderment and fear.

John leaned down keeping his voice low. ‘Run and tell your mother that daddy’s not very well and the doctor is bringing him home.’

The little girl whirled round, dragging her brother who pulled against her, squealing in protest. She yanked his arm and his head jerked backward, his wail choked off by a gasp. Jumping over the gutter she dived into a small yard, hauling her brother after her.

‘Ma! Nan! Come quick!’

John could hear a baby crying inside the cottage.

‘For God’s sakes, Polly, what’s wrong now?’ A thin careworn young woman emerged from the back door wiping her hands on a rag, her faded blouse and skirt covered by a piece of sacking that served as an apron. ‘I told you …’ She stopped. John saw the blood drain from her face. ‘Oh no, no, no. Jesus, no.’ Dropping the rag, she started forward but after two uncertain steps she stopped, clinging to the wooden gatepost as she swayed.

Her cries brought an older woman out. John recognized her. Martha Tamblin had been widowed a year ago when her miner husband died aged forty-four, another victim of lung disease. As she realized what she was seeing she froze, her jaw dropping in dismay.

John’s heartbeat quickened as he wondered how he would cope with the young miner and two hysterical women. But after her momentary horror Martha straightened up, sucked in a deep breath, and took charge.

‘Come on, Ellie.’ She gripped her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Go on in and get the bed ready. I’ll help doctor with Paul. Polly? Listen, my bird. Run next door and ask Mrs Kessell if she’ll mind Mark and Meggy for half an hour. Tell her your da have been took bad.’

John’s admiration was tinged with relief as they half-carried the young man into the dark and cluttered cottage. At least Ellie Moyle was blessed with a capable mother. But with a sick husband and four young children, how would she manage financially? He steered his thoughts onto the immediate medical problems.
The rest was not his concern.

Chapter Seven

As the gate hinges squeaked Dorcas sat back from her painting. Rinsing her brush she picked up a rag and wiped the fine bristles, waiting for her visitor to follow the path round the side of the cottage. It was too early to be Henry. But those who knew her well enough to call without an invitation also knew where to find her on sunny days.

The back garden covered nearly half an acre. Will Treneer came by once a month to do any heavy work. The rest she managed by herself. The noisy hinges offended Will, but she refused to let him oil them. The squeak acted as a warning. If she felt like being sociable she remained outside. If not, the few moments’ notice allowed her – and Henry if he were with her – time to retreat into the cottage. Though the situation at the mine meant his daytime visits had grown increasingly rare.

Today she remained where she was. Alongside her easel a small folding table held the paraphernalia of her painting. On a tray at her feet two tumblers flanked a glass jug covered by a circle of bead-edged muslin. Though she missed his company, his absence relieved her of the need to tell him about her failing sight. He would have to know eventually. But with so many demands on him already she was reluctant to add another worry, especially one he could do nothing about.

Removing her glasses Dorcas rubbed the bridge of her nose where they had rested. It wasn’t until she took them off that she realised how heavy they were. Her vision blurred uncomfortably so she quickly replaced them, flexing shoulders stiff from concentrated effort. Her gaze roamed over the garden committing the shapes and colours to memory. Last month misty with bluebells, the grass in the orchard was now bright with buttercups.

A slender figure appeared hesitantly around the side of the cottage.

‘Grace! How lovely to see you.’ Henry’s elder daughter was one of the few people whose company Dorcas welcomed. She had watched Grace grow from a self-effacing child into a sweet-natured hard-working young woman taken for granted by her family.

She knew Grace always had, and probably always would, consider herself her sister’s inferior. No one would argue that Zoe was the more beautiful, or that her voice was remarkable for its sweetness and purity. But Zoe was as cunning as she was gifted, using her undeniable charm to acquire whatever her selfish little heart craved.

In contrast Grace was kind, willing and helpful to everyone. It irritated Henry.

‘Why?’ he had demanded of Dorcas as he shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I accept it’s our Christian duty to look after those less fortunate. Though some of them might find better fortune if they got off their backsides and made a bit of effort. Nor do I begrudge any of the vegetables or fruit she takes to retired staff or the sick and elderly in the village. But why is she forever visiting those flea-ridden hovels behind the forge or down by the quay? When she’s not there she’s in Miner’s Row cleaning up after some sour old widow who won’t see Christmas. Why?’

‘Have you asked her?’

‘Of course I have. She says it gives her a sense of purpose. She’s wasting her time. She’ll never change them. Do you know what she said?
We have so much and they have so little.
I told her straight, we’ve got what we’ve got because
I’ve
worked for it, and damned hard too, just like my father did, and his father.’

Understanding that his anger sprang from fear, frustration, and the crushing weight of his responsibilities, Dorcas did not argue. Instead she soothed him and with long-perfected skill diverted his attention to other things. She recognised what Henry did not: that in trying to help wherever she perceived a need, Grace was trying to expiate guilt at being the cause of her mother’s ill health. It was not her fault and she should never have been allowed to believe that it was. But Dorcas could say nothing to Grace. To do so would admit knowledge she should not have, and provoke questions whose answers would cause untold damage to people she had no wish to harm.

‘Am I disturbing you? Please say if it’s not convenient. I can always come back another time.’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ Dorcas smiled up. ‘Come and sit down. Will you have some lemonade?’ She reached down for the jug by her stool. Filling a glass she offered it to Grace who hesitated.

‘What about you?’

‘I have another glass here.’ Realising Grace would assume a guest was expected and that she was intruding, Dorcas quickly thought up an explanation as she poured the cloudy liquid containing fine curls of lemon peel. ‘I can guarantee a wasp or fly will try to drown itself so I always bring out a spare.’

‘Thank you.’ Leaning back on the rustic seat Grace drank deeply. ‘Oh, that’s delicious. If I’d known today was going to turn out quite so warm I’d have worn something lighter.’ She stretched out neatly shod feet revealing fine wool stockings below a long skirt of navy serge then hooked one finger into the collar of her high-necked blouse.

‘My dear girl, undo a button or two before you suffocate. There’s no one to see you. Even if there were you would not get a second glance. Not while I sit here with bare feet and no corset.’

Visibly relaxing, Grace unfastened two buttons and pulled the fabric away from her skin. She rolled the glass against her perspiring forehead. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. It’s kind of you to say you’re glad to see me even though I’ve interrupted your painting.’

‘No you haven’t. I had stopped for a rest. Besides, you can’t leave without telling me why you came.’

‘I want to ask you a favour. I’ll understand if you prefer not to, but I was wondering if you might be willing to contribute to the summer fair?’

‘In what way? Money?’

‘No. Not on a stall either,’ Grace added quickly. ‘The same ladies have been looking after the same stalls for years, and – well –’ She gave a wry shrug. ‘You know how it is.’

‘I do indeed.’

‘So what I thought – I know it’s a lot to ask –’ She took a deep breath and her next words tumbled out in a rush. ‘Would you be willing to give one of your paintings for the raffle? It’s for a really good cause. All the money raised is going to the poor of the village.’

‘Grace, forgive me, but who are these people? The poor you speak of?’ She had listened to Henry’s baffled complaints. Now she wanted to hear Grace’s explanation.

‘There are a few elderly farm workers, and some old folks who don’t have children to look after them. But mostly it’s the families of miners who are too sick to work, and women whose husbands have died in accidents or of lung disease.’

‘I see.’ Dorcas thought for a moment. ‘I’ll give you a painting if you want. However, I have a better idea. Can you organize an awning for me? Or an open-sided tent? And two chairs?’

‘Yes, I’m sure I can. Why?’

‘What if I were to draw portraits, pencil sketches, each one taking ten minutes? We could charge – I don’t know – how about sixpence? That’s more than people would pay for a raffle ticket, yet it’s affordable to everyone. I’ll supply the paper. All the money will go to your charity.’

Astonishment, delight and gratitude chased across Grace’s features. Her eyes glistened as she shook her head. ‘I –I never expected – What a wonderful idea. It’s so kind of you.’

‘My dear, it’s little enough compared to what you are doing every day.’

Grace blushed. ‘That’s different. I’m not like you. I don’t have your wonderful gift.’ Setting down the empty glass she jumped to her feet and refastened her blouse. ‘I must go. I’ve taken up far too much of your time.’ She glanced round, and yearning shadowed her face. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’ Then the smile was back. ‘Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful –’

‘Enough,’ Dorcas interrupted smiling, and waved her away. She heard the hinges squeak then the gate banged shut.
No gift?
‘Oh my dear,’ she murmured. ‘If only you knew what a rarity you are.’

With a deep sigh Dorcas gazed at the garden she had first seen almost thirty years ago. It had looked very different then: overgrown and neglected.

She hadn’t wanted to come here. But an apparent conspiracy of events had forced her to leave her waterfront cottage in Falmouth.

The only child of feckless artists, she had been left at home the day they joined friends for a boat party. Too much wine and insufficient care had piled the boat onto rocks drowning everyone on board. She was fifteen, penniless and alone in the world when Zander took her in.

To help her come to terms with her loss he had allowed her a corner of his studio and told her to paint her memories. Revealing unsuspected talent the results had astonished him. And he, who had always refused to teach, began to instruct her in technique.

Spending all their time together they had quickly grown close. Despite her youth her careless upbringing had made her self-sufficient. She brought him an eagerness to learn, honesty, and a passionate nature. She was his muse, model, pupil and mistress. He gave her a home, his adoration and, when she was eighteen, he married her. Loved, protected and fulfilled as an artist she accepted childlessness with equanimity.

His sudden death when she was twenty-five had been a far greater blow than losing her parents. Soon afterward she left St Ives, sickened by propositions from men who, blind to her annihilating grief and judging her solely on her unconventional appearance and lifestyle, considered her fair game. Women who had admired her devotion to Zander now turned their backs. She was alone and therefore a threat.

Zander left her all his paintings. But his house and studio had to be sold and the proceeds split between a son and daughter of whom she’d been unaware. They arrived for the funeral accompanied by a solicitor, all three tight-lipped with disapproval.

Selling all but two of his paintings she had moved to a rented cottage just above the Town Quay in Falmouth. There she had nursed her grief, painting delicate watercolour land and seascapes, and occasional studies of local faces rich in character. Signing her work with a simple DR she had sold it through a small gallery in Arwenack Street.

Two years later she had met Henry. In Falmouth on business he had also been looking for a birthday present for Louise. Dorcas had arrived at the gallery with a batch of paintings when he walked in. The attraction was instant and mutual. He had asked if she had any other work he might see and she had invited him back to her cottage. She was twenty-seven, he was twenty-four and the first man she had allowed across the threshold.

Theirs was a fiery relationship: their most frequent clashes over his insistence that she needed protection, which she interpreted as jealousy. She laughed at his fear that she might find someone free to marry her. She had been married. What she had shared with Zander could not be repeated. Nor did she wish to try. She enjoyed her independence.

Her pregnancy came as a shock to them both. Fearful for her wellbeing after an outbreak of enteric fever from contaminated well water, Henry wanted her to move. Though touched by his concern she wanted to remain where she was. But once her pregnancy began to show people’s attitude to her changed. Once more she was made uncomfortably aware of the price of her freedom.

A fire at the gallery destroyed several of her paintings. Days later she received an eviction notice from solicitors representing the owner of her cottage. Exhausted and at her wits’ end she turned to Henry. Within a week he had brought her here. He would explain her presence by letting it be known she was newly widowed: her late husband his closest school friend. All she needed to do to forestall possible questions was to change the spelling of her name from Renaudin – which might be recognised – to Renowden.

Henry had been with her the night Hal was born. He had brought his doctor, who was also his brother-in-law, to assist her. Since that night John Ainsley had become her trusted friend and confidante. Grateful for her adored son Dorcas had ensured there were no more children. She grieved that it was necessary for Hal to believe his father dead. But that was the price of avoiding a scandal that would hurt too many people.

The gate hinges squeaked again, rousing her from her memories. Hearing heavy footsteps she smiled. Settling her glasses more comfortably she rose from the garden seat and went to meet her lover.

‘What a day!’ Henry blew out a long breath. Lifting her hand he pressed it against his cheek.

‘I’m covered in paint,’ she warned.

‘I don’t care.’ As he drew her hand down his face so he could kiss her palm she felt the roughness of beard stubble. ‘Just touching you makes me feel better.’ He let her hand fall but kept hold of it as he studied her. ‘You’re wearing glasses. When did you get those?’

‘Last week.’ Pulling them off, she rested her head against his.
Not now. Not yet.
‘I need a little help for close work. It’s one of the hazards of growing older.’

Henry’s arms enfolded her, pulling her against him. His body, strong and stocky, was as familiar to her as her own. ‘You’ll never be old. You’re still as beautiful as the day I first saw you.’ He buried his face in her hair. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to give me strength.’

‘You’ll always have me, Henry.’

‘Let’s go inside.’ He kissed her temple. ‘I want to hear what you’ve been doing.’

She thought of the letter from Hal. Maybe she would show him later. ‘Grace came by. I’m going to help at the fair.’

Holding hands they crossed the grass to the door. ‘You’re never going to run a stall? That would put the old biddies in a flutter.’

‘Not a stall. I had a better idea.’ She led the way into the living room and he closed the door behind them.

As he entered the long greenhouse and inhaled the smell of warm moist earth and vegetation, Bryce was bombarded with memories. Richard and Percy were in the top section of the main shrubbery checking the formation of roots on plants they wanted to propagate by layering. He should have been with them, but hadn’t the strength or the will to resume the role he had played in the past: the cheerful wise-cracker, always ready with a quip. Soon they would ask what was wrong.
How could he tell them?
He couldn’t tell anyone. To put off the moment he had volunteered to remain behind and pot up cuttings.