Framed in Cornwall (9 page)

‘I’ll be going to the funeral,’ Doreen continued. ‘I’m sure most of Fred’s customers will be there. I wonder if he’ll close the shop that day, too? Out of respect, like. Dear me, it’s ages since I’ve been to one, do people still wear black? Doesn’t seem right somehow, not for someone so young. She was only in her forties.’

‘Wear whatever you feel comfortable in, Doreen,’ Rose answered, allowing her chatter to drift over her head. Face to face she enjoyed her company but it was often difficult to end a telephone conversation. Rose finally replaced the receiver. Having met Fred on so few occasions she wondered if it was appropriate to send a message of condolence. On the other hand they had both been friends of Dorothy so there was a mutual, if tenuous bond. She got out a pen and some paper.

Twice during the course of the day Rose heard the telephone ringing but she did not bother to answer it – she rarely did if she was working. There were many jobs to catch up on and she wanted them all out of the way before she sat down and made some serious plans, which she intended doing that evening.

Later she carefully rewrote the note to Fred Meecham, realising as she did so what the many people who had written to her during her bereavement had gone through. Almost satisfied she put down her pen. The phone rang again. Unthinkingly she reached out a hand and picked up the receiver, resting it between her shoulder and her ear. ‘Hello?’ she said cheerfully.

‘Keep out of it. Just keep out of it or you’re dead.’

‘But …? Who are you?’ But the line had been disconnected. Rose sat very still as she tried to work out if she had heard that voice before. She did not think so. And keep out of what? Dialling 1471 she learned that the caller had withheld their number. She was not easily frightened but that evening she turned on the lights before they were strictly needed.

Fear turned to anger. She would not be intimidated by anyone, least of all an anonymous caller. Despite her intentions not to do as Jack had requested and speak to the Pengelly family, she changed her mind. Whoever had threatened her knew something which could only be connected with Dorothy’s death. But why the threat? What had she done to induce it? Nothing, as far as she knew. Not yet.

The unexpectedness of his mother’s death had shocked Peter Pengelly more than the event itself. When Gwen had told him, he had had to get out of the house. The overwhelming grief he felt was genuine, worsened by his sense of guilt. None of this hit him at first. Since then the police had been back, wanting to know if Dorothy had complained of feeling ill or depressed or if she had expressed any financial worries or any worries whatsoever. Shamefully Peter had admitted that they did not see much of his mother.

For the first time in his life he viewed his childhood days objectively. He had never been as close to his mother as Martin and, since the day he had started school, he had steadily grown away from her. He wondered if this was because Martin had remained at home for another two years and therefore he was jealous or if he had always suspected his brother was the favourite.

As a child and a young man Peter had found his mother odd, even eccentric, although he wasn’t sure why. She was a good deal older than most of the mothers who collected their children from school, some no more than girls themselves who had married at sixteen or seventeen. Peter could have borne the age discrepancy if Dorothy had not gone out of her way to disregard generally held opinions and to distance herself from his friends’ mothers who huddled in groups outside the school gates.

On the death of his father her grief had seemed disproportionate. His limited experience of such things told him that people quietly wiped away the tears and suffered stoically until a normal life could be resumed. Not so his mother. She had sobbed and screamed and shouted, waving her fists in the air and railing against God. Now and then she had thrown things, but never at her sons. With them she had been loving and understanding. In the privacy of their home Peter was able to shut out these scenes
by going to his room. To drown out the sounds he would play his transistor radio loudly and pretend it wasn’t happening. He did not know how to cope with such an excess of pain.

Martin had either been impervious to it or had instinctively known how to deal with it. He would remain at his mother’s side, quietly playing with his toys or struggling with homework he could not understand. When Dorothy was calmer he would climb on to her knee and stroke her face.

It became embarrassing for Peter at school. Dorothy had inherited their father’s car and she had learned how to drive it. Instead of coming in on the bus to meet them she would sit behind the wheel, parked some distance away safely out of reach of any words of sympathy that might have been offered. This alienated her from the other mothers further.

Then one day, as if some dramatic catalyst had occurred whilst they were all asleep, Peter came downstairs to find his mother cooking a proper breakfast and humming as she did so. Neither his father nor God were mentioned again and an old photograph of Arthur Pengelly, which Peter had not known existed, appeared on Dorothy’s bedside table, framed in wood.

And now she was gone and he could understand what she must have felt but it was too late to tell her so. Bitterly he wished he had spent more time with her, told her that he loved her, because now he realised that he did. All those years she had lived up at the house, alone after Martin left, and he had no idea what went on in her head or if she thought of him at all.

He had used Gwen and the children as an excuse, as a reason for being too busy to visit. He loved them, too, of course. Gwen could be overpowering at times and usually got her own way. She also had a far greater need for sex than he did, which wore him out. Her insecurity in such matters was exhausting. He tried not to disappoint her but it was difficult at times, and he knew she bought the underwear because she thought it would please him. He did not have the heart to say it didn’t matter, that he did not expect her to be like a film star all the time. He would have liked to come home one day and find her in a pair of jeans, her hair tousled, like other young mothers. He suspected Gwen
was compensating for what she considered to be his own mother’s sloppy ways, trying to prove what a good wife she was by comparison. She had nothing to fear, there was no competition.

He had walked miles on that Friday evening, tiring himself physically but unable to still his thoughts. Very quietly he had let himself into the almost silent house. The children were in bed but a few faint sounds came from the kitchen. He had sat in his armchair in the small lounge and leant back against the cushions. Without warning his throat began to ache and hot tears filled his eyes. He had not cried for years and he wondered if his own tears were a substitute for the ones neither his wife nor his children had shed. It was a sad reflection on them all that they had hardly known their grandmother.

Gwen had opened the door, a dishcloth in her hand. ‘I thought I heard you come in,’ she said gently. ‘I’ve kept our meal hot.’ She hesitated in the doorway. Peter’s shoulders were bowed and she did not know how to go about comforting him because she was afraid of another rebuffal. She was glad the children could not see him like this. ‘Peter?’ She advanced slowly.

Reaching out blindly he had pulled her to him, sobbing wetly into the thin cotton of her dress. Without warning his grip tightened and Gwen fell on top of him. Before she could protest he had tugged at her buttons and pulled the dress open.

‘Peter,’ she had protested, but it was useless, he had pinned her down and was inside her, moving frantically as if the act could expurgate all the guilt and sorrow he felt. Gwen was too stunned to struggle. It had never been like that before.

When it was over Peter sat up and ran a hand through his hair without looking at her. ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Just like you’ve always wanted my mother dead.’ He turned to see her face, her mouth open in horror. Getting to his feet he adjusted his clothes and left the house again with no idea where he was going.

Tireder still, he had walked fast and without thought, trying to numb all emotions. Heedless of the dewlike moisture which clung to his clothes he headed towards the soft white sand of the
Towans and walked down to the water’s edge where it was damp beneath his feet and the soles of his shoes left impressions in the sand. It seemed as if he might walk straight into the sea.

The rhythmic slap of the shallow waves against the beach had soothed him. The tide was receding and through the still night air the calls of oystercatchers feeding on the estuary carried over the water. Two gulls huddled nearby, facing the breeze, shifting slightly as he approached.

Not once had he wished his mother harm. Yet look what he had just done to Gwen, proving he was capable of violence. His face reddened with shame. ‘Goddammit!’ he shouted. ‘I should have revelled in my mother’s differences.’ All he had done was to pretend they had not existed.

It was very late by then and Gwen would be worried. Peering at the luminous dial of his watch he saw it was after midnight. He had to face her at some point so he began the long walk home, his footsteps dragging through the dunes. Below him the harbour lights winked. The drizzle had eased but in the distance a fine mist hung beneath the lights of the bypass. By the time he got home he felt a tiny surge of optimism. It was not too late to become a decent human being.

Gwen had been too shocked to cry or to question Peter’s behaviour, which was beyond her comprehension. As soon as he had left she went upstairs to shower, glad that both children were asleep. Feeling dirty and defiled she let the hot water run over her body for fifteen minutes yet she had to admit that Peter was right in a way. She was sexually demanding but she had been brought up to believe that that was what men wanted, that if you were not available and willing they would find someone who was. Her father, when he had hit her, used to say that it was for her own good, that it was because he loved her. Gwen had grown up requiring endless proof that she was loved and desirable.

There would be no repeat performance that night. Her hair damp and wearing only an old T-shirt of Peter’s, she had gone back downstairs to wait. She was anxiously chewing the skin around her nails when he returned. Whatever happened the
police must not find out about that evening. If they thought that Peter was a violent man what else might they think? Gwen decided she would never mention it.

When Peter came into the kitchen she felt as though she had been holding her breath. He looked her up and down and took in the unmade-up face, the bare feet and the tatty T-shirt. She had not blow-dried her hair and it lay flat against her skull. Never before had she looked so young and so vulnerable. ‘Oh, Gwen,’ he said, reaching for her and pulling him to her. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Let’s forget it, shall we? I’ll make us some tea.’

Peter nodded. ‘That’d be nice.’

Gwen pulled away from him and in a businesslike way got out the cups and saucers. The temptation to tell him what she had done had completely disappeared.

Two days later things were back to normal until the police had returned with their questions. Peter, grey and old-looking, had only shaken his head when they mentioned the word suicide. Gwen had become hysterical and if one of the detectives hadn’t calmed her down he was sure he would have slapped her. Peter’s guilt increased with the knowledge that his mother had been unhappy enough to take her own life. He was unable to see in which direction the questions were heading.

Rose stretched then sat up in bed, brushing the hair out of her eyes as she squinted at the alarm clock. Seven thirty-five. She had had a good night’s sleep after all. Sliding back down under the duvet she felt warm and comfortable, until she remembered the telephone call and what she had determined to do.

She slipped out of bed and went downstairs to make tea. The sun slanted in through the sitting-room window where the curtains were never drawn. Rose could not bear to shut out that view. As the kettle boiled she scanned the sky with its promise of a fine day, although she knew how often those promises were not fulfilled. The warning horn of a beamer boomed out as it negotiated the gap between the two piers and left the harbour.
Out in the bay it gathered speed, bowing and dipping, spray flying along its sides although the sea was cellophane smooth from where she stood.

The kitchen was cool. Only when the sun was setting did the golden rays reach the side window. Rose poured boiling water on to the tea leaves in the pot and lit the grill to make toast. She had never possessed a toaster and guessed that she and David must have been the only couple not to have been given one as a wedding present. Sadly she got out the last jar of orange marmalade, one of a batch which Dorothy had made and given to her.

Opening the door to enjoy the weather Rose realised how few such days were left before the storms of winter set in for real. After the rain the grass was verdant once more. She stood and watched a blackbird who, head on one side, was also watching her as he finished his business of stamping on her unkempt lawn to bring the worms to the surface. She smiled. He must have been hungry for her presence did not deter him. Finally he succeeded in his task. Watching him eat reminded her that Barry Rowe was cooking her a meal that evening. It was quite a while since she had been to his flat.

Rose took her breakfast upstairs and ate it in bed, having drawn back the curtains and opened the window fully in order to watch the beamer’s progress. It was already passing in front of the Mount. She cursed when the phone rang as she had to go downstairs to answer it. She kept meaning to get an extension for the bedroom.

‘Rose, it’s Jack. I’ve got to cancel, I’m afraid. There’s someone off sick and they want me to go in. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘It’s okay. Really.’ Wednesday. She had completely forgotten they were supposed to be spending the day together. You don’t love him, girl, Rose told herself, you’ve got to do something about him. Yet she had remembered her date with Barry. Barry she did love, but as a friend, one she would not let down if she could possibly help it.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Yes …’ Jack paused, unsure what to say. ‘Well, goodbye then.’

Rose knew she had not sounded disappointed. She shrugged. There was no point in encouraging him.

She ran a bath and whilst it was filling opened the cabinet to get out a new bar of soap. On the shelf were the disposable razors she had bought for Jack because she did not want to see his own where David’s had once lain. Or so she had thought. Now she realised that was not the sole reason, it was also because Jack’s own razor in her bathroom would have smacked of a permanence she did not want. Is that how I see Jack, too? she thought. As disposable?

She bathed quickly and tidied the kitchen, throwing more washing into the machine in case the weather held. ‘He’s got a nerve,’ she said aloud, unfairly blaming him when she knew she could have called a halt to the relationship at any time. And then to suggest she had a word with the Pengellys on the feeble pretext that she was offering condolences – who did he think she was? He had said that Peter and Gwen had already been questioned but he would be interested in her opinion. She would do it but on her own terms, for herself but, more importantly, for Dorothy. Then she would have to decide whether or not to mention any of it to Barry whose reaction she could predict. The threatening telephone call was still on her mind. Only Jack and Barry were aware of her suspicions. And Martin. She stifled the thought. Barry would not have discussed them with anyone so how could anyone know what was on her mind? Laura? No, not Laura and not Doreen Clarke either. Besides, she was sure it was a man’s voice. It didn’t make sense, it was as if someone was already outguessing her. Foolish, maybe, to ignore the threat but her stubbornness dictated that she would try harder to find out why Dorothy had died.

One of the wild flowers listed by Barry grew close to the Hayle estuary. Rose took this as a sign. She would call upon the Pengellys because she had reason to be in the area. Jack had told her that Peter worked shifts but had taken some compassionate leave and was almost certain to be at home. She had met him only once; Gwen she had never met.