Framed in Cornwall (2 page)

Fred had offered his soul in return for Marigold’s health. All he had ever desired was someone loyal and kind, someone worth loving, someone worth living for. Whilst many paid lip service to the familiar words of the litany Fred silently communed with God. He had suffered and he had paid the price of his sins. She
would not pay the price of hers, he had seen to that, but without her he was nothing.

Dorothy Pengelly’s younger son, Martin, had just passed his thirty-fourth birthday but looked much younger. He knew what people said about him, that he was simple, that he wasn’t all there, and it hurt. Worse, it made him self-conscious and confused in strange company, which only served to perpetuate the myth. Alone he was a different man. Only his mother understood him fully and accepted him as he was. In return he loved her unconditionally.

Martin lived in a caravan which had been abandoned some years ago. Technically he was a squatter but it was unlikely anyone would return to claim it now. He had been out walking one day when he first discovered it about a mile from his mother’s house. It was on rough ground, surrounded by clumps of bramble and obviously uninhabited. Many times he had returned but it remained empty and was becoming dilapidated. One day he had plucked up the courage to try the door. It was unlocked but the handle was stiff. On closer inspection he saw why it had been abandoned; it was fit only for the scrap heap. To Martin it was a challenge. He spent a month making repairs which may not have been aesthetic but which were effective. A few weeks later, when he was certain no one was going to lay claim to the van, he packed up his belongings and moved in, knowing that his mother would be pleased at this first step towards independence.

His income came solely from government benefits because despite his efforts to find work there was nothing at which he was able to succeed. The few employers who had given him a chance mistook his insecurity and shyness for stupidity and he had been asked to leave.

The caravan was comfortable and equipped with a battery-operated radio, Calor gas for cooking and heating, an oil lamp and a pile of pornographic magazines which he bought surreptitiously when he went to Truro. To Martin the women were not sexual objects but real people who would not laugh at him and
snigger behind his back in the way in which the local girls did. His only downfall was drink. He couldn’t handle it in the way other men seemed to. When he had money he walked into Hayle or Camborne and drank pints of cider and let his mouth run away with him. It allowed him to feel normal, part of a society from which he mostly felt excluded. When people spoke to him when he had drink inside him he was neither tongue-tied nor confused but he always suffered for it the next morning.

Once a month Peter, his brother, would invite him for Sunday lunch. No one particularly enjoyed these visits, least of all Gwen, Peter’s wife, but none of them seemed capable of breaking with tradition. The invitations had originally been extended to please Dorothy because she had suggested it would be good for Martin and there was her inheritance to consider. Martin had not known how to refuse. He felt uncomfortable in the almost sterile atmosphere of Peter’s house but his niece and nephew enjoyed the hour he spent with them, playing, before they ate.

He had woken yesterday unable to remember quite when Mrs Trevelyan was coming to see his mother; the days were all the same to him. But she hadn’t turned up. It would have been nice to have a friend of his own but where would he find one?

By the evening the air was heavy and oppressive. Martin studied the horizon as dusk fell. Tomorrow it would rain and there would probably be thunder. He sensed it and it made him restless but he had no money for a drink. Dorothy would lend him some, she often did. It was never begrudgingly, never handed over with anything other than a simple ‘of course’. He always paid her back. This was one of the reasons why he was her favourite, one which Peter, who was encouraged by Gwen to push for all he could get, could not understand.

Martin kicked at the springy turf with the heel of his shoe and stared in the direction of the house. Its squareness and the two tall chimneys were outlined blackly against the darkening sky. He walked towards it, his hands in his pockets. Pressing his forehead against the kitchen window he saw Dorothy sprawled in her high-backed chair over which a knitted patchwork blanket had been thrown to disguise the threadbare fabric. Voices from the radio reached him faintly but Dorothy was sound asleep, her
mouth partly open, her knees apart and one of the cats curled into the cradle made by her skirt.

George, the Jack Russell, bristled then relaxed when he saw it was Martin. The greyhound did not stir. She was going deaf.

Martin had let himself in with his own key and helped himself to a ten-pound note from his mother’s purse then left her a note in his rounded block capitals to say he had done so. ‘I’ve lent ten pounds. Martin,’ he wrote on the back of an envelope. There were six other banknotes of the same value in her purse so he knew he was not leaving her short. He kissed Dorothy gently on the forehead and made sure the lock on the back door clicked shut behind him.

Beads of sweat formed on his skin as he trudged across the scrubby slopes until he reached the main road into Camborne. There, in one of the pubs, he had spent all but a few pence of the ten pounds before he was bought a drink by a man whose name he could no longer recall. It was after midnight before he’d got back to the van and he’d fallen asleep, fully clothed, on top of his bunk. When he opened his eyes it was daylight and his head was thumping.

Barry Rowe’s shop was in a prominent position in Penzance. He made his living producing greetings cards which sold throughout the country as well as locally. He also stocked maps and films and other bits and pieces that appealed to tourists. In the summer he kept the shop open until trade dropped off because the season was so short yet, surprisingly, he also made a reasonable income during the winter. Much of what was on display was based on the work of local artists or, at least, depicted local scenery. Rose Trevelyan provided him with two things: original watercolours, which he reproduced, and a sense of joy whenever he was in her company. She also photographed landscapes which he sold on to postcard companies.

He had known her since she first arrived in Cornwall, having just completed three years at art college. She had come to study the Newlyn and St Ives artiste for six months before taking up a career but she had never gone back. Oils had been her favourite
medium and she’d initially sold one or two each year through the cafés and galleries which served as outlets, although photography had taken over now.

It had been love at first sight on Barry’s part. He would never forget the day she bounced into the shop, her long flowing hair burnished copper by the sun which streamed through the open door. Her enthusiasm and vitality were almost tangible. Then she had been pretty; now, with maturity, she had become more than that.

Barry pushed his glasses up his nose. Every pair he had ever possessed worked loose and the habit, so strongly ingrained, caused him to do so when there was no need. He knew he was no great catch. His hair was greying and rather thin, his shoulders were stooped and he was underweight but his devotion to Rose had not ceased. He was long over the pain he had felt when David Trevelyan had walked into his shop to buy a birthday card. Rose had been there at the time and Barry bitterly regretted telling David that the artist was standing behind him. The look which Rose had given David had been identical to the one he had given her a few short months previously. With that simple introduction Barry had known that his chances were nil.

When David died Barry had been genuinely distressed because he had liked and admired the man and knew that he had made Rose happy. Shamefully he struggled to stifle the thought that Rose might now come to accept him as more than a friend. It had not happened. Then Jack Pearce arrived on the scene. At least Rose hadn’t dropped him completely in favour of the arrogant Inspector Pearce.

At precisely one o’clock Rose walked through the door, surprising Barry who was used to her tardiness. He grinned. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said to Heather who was the latest in a long line of temporary or part-time assistants.

‘Oh, I expect I’ll cope,’ she said wryly, rather liking the serious man for whom she worked.

‘We’re going out?’ Rose had only expected to collect payment for some work.

‘Just up the road for a quickie. There’s something I want to
discuss with you so I thought you might as well buy me a pint.’

‘Fair enough. As long as you’re about to hand me an envelope containing a cheque.’

‘Mercenary bitch.’

Rose laughed. ‘It’s taken you long enough to find that out.’

They strolled up to Causewayhead and entered the London Inn. The front bar was busy where a group of fishermen who had landed that morning, along with their women, had been making an early start. Rose acknowledged the ones she knew before following Barry around to the small back bar where he was already ordering their drinks. Rose handed over the money.

‘Okay, I’ve kept to my side of the bargain.’ She held out her hand.

Barry shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out the cheque which Rose had been expecting.

‘Thanks,’ she said, glancing quickly at the figure before stuffing it into her shoulder bag. It had taken her a long time to become businesslike about her transactions. Initially she had imagined a sponsor or agent would deal with the monetary side of things. Her financial position was now secure but without her work she would be lost. The house had been paid for upon David’s death and the capital from his insurance policies paid the bills. What she earned gave her freedom. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’

‘How are you at wild flowers?’

‘I can tell a daisy from a buttercup.’

‘Honestly, Rose, you know what I mean.’ He wished she would not grin at him in that way, it always made him want to kiss her. ‘I’m talking about notelets, the usual, ten to the box and packaged nicely.’

‘It’s been done to death.’

‘Yes but they’re popular and I was thinking of a different angle.’

‘Go on then.’

‘This time with an appropriate background, something simple, say a cliff or a disused tin mine, something which shows where the plant can be found with the location printed on the bottom.
Take a look at this.’ He slid a sheet of paper across the table and pointed at it with a thin finger. ‘See, like this. Western Gorse, common enough down here and in Wales, I believe, but rare elsewhere and there’s –’

‘All right, all right, I get the drift. You’ve obviously done your homework,’ Rose interrupted before he could get too carried away, as he tended to with new projects. ‘But isn’t it a bit late in the year to be starting on something like this?’

‘Aha, that’s where you’re right. I have done my homework. Most of the plants on the list flower until October. If you’re not too tied up with other work you could make a start and finish the rest in the spring.’

Rose was impressed. Scrawled in Barry’s untidy hand were the names and locations of over twenty wild flowers. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Usual rate?’

‘Of course.’

‘Oh.’ Rose chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘October? I might get wet feet.’

‘Honestly, woman. Okay, plus five per cent.’

‘It’s a deal. Now I can’t sit around all day drinking, I’ve got to go. Things to do, you know.’

Barry shook his head, grinning at her cheek. He rarely indulged in more than one or two pints, Rose enjoyed a drink far more than he did. The smile faded as she walked away and he was left to wonder if Jack Pearce was on her agenda.

Since the time Fred Meecham had taken over the shop in Hayle he had spent an hour or so with Dorothy Pengelly at least once a week. But that was before Marigold’s illness had taken hold and he had discovered his secret might not be safe. Despite the difference in their ages they got on well. It had started when Dorothy had given up the car and begun sending in an order for heavy goods such as a case of cat or dog food which he delivered free of charge. A strange kind of friendship had developed. He knew she did not buy everything from him but he did not resent it. He understood how much she enjoyed her trips to Camborne or even Truro with Jobber Hicks.

It was Dorothy to whom he had confessed that his wife had run off with a rep from a biscuit company who used to call at the shop. ‘She took all she could carry,’ he had told her, ‘but she didn’t take the boy.’ Fred had been left to bring Justin up as best he could. Five years later, at the age of sixteen, Justin, too, had left home.

‘Where did they go?’ Dorothy had wanted to know.

‘To hell as far as I care.’ Fred had left it at that. He had tried hard to make the marriage work. Divorce was against his religious principles but Rita had gone away, waited the stipulated period and filed the papers without any resort to him.

He thought about what Dorothy had said a few years afterwards, when Marigold had moved in. ‘Time you took over your own destiny, Fred. It’s all very well your sister running your home and helping out in the shop but a man like you needs a wife.’

He had nodded and smiled and gone on to talk about the chrysanthemums he grew in the small garden behind the shop. Dorothy had made a joke about them being the wrong sort of flower, they ought to have been Marigolds.

She had been deeply sad when he came to say that Marigold had been diagnosed as having cancer. ‘It’s so unfair, she’s so young.’

‘I’d spend every penny I’ve got to find a cure,’ Fred had continued. ‘Every bloody penny. I want the best treatment money can buy.’

Dorothy had reassured him that she was probably getting it anyway and that he would be wasting his time by paying for private care.

But Fred had not been able to let the matter go. ‘I could send her to America. You read about people who get sent to specialists over there and get cured.’

How hopeful he had been in the early days of the disease. He had had an estate agent look over the shop and give him a valuation but even with his savings and any other money he could scrape together he knew he would never get Marigold to the States.