Buried in Cornwall Page 2

  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 bl
ack 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?’

  ‘You’re learning. You’re beginning to recognise what’s good and what isn’t. How do you tell?’

  Rose frowned. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.’

  ‘Then you’re probably right. Can you finish this?’ Nick indicated the beef in black bean sauce.

  ‘No, I think we over-ordered.’ There was still a dish of spare ribs hardly touched.

  ‘Shall I get the bill?’

  ‘Yes. Look at the time, it’s almost eleven thirty. We’ll split it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ This was definitely not something Jenny would have offered to do. Another plus point to Rose Trevelyan.

  The waiter arrived to clear their dishes. ‘Do you think you could put the ribs in a take-away container, please?’

  Across the table Nick’s jaw dropped. ‘Have you got a dog?’

  ‘No, they’re for me, unless you want them.’

  His laughter caused heads to turn. ‘Do you ever waste anything?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Besides, if I wake in the night I’m always hungry.’

  ‘You eat them cold?’

  ‘I do. You should try it sometime.’ She pursed her mouth in amusement. ‘I have other habits you might find disgusting.’

  ‘Please, spare me them tonight. Let’s get your coat. Taxi home or shall I walk you?’

  ‘A taxi, it’s miles out of your way.’ Rose stopped, her arms half in the sleeves of her coat. ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend in Penzance.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  The waiter rang for a taxi and they stood in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs out of the wind until it arrived. Clutching the tinfoil container of ribs, Rose was thinking about his throw-away comment. Had he already arranged to stay with this friend or had he been expecting to go home with her? He had offered to walk her back. Too late now for speculation, she thought as the familiar shape of a Stone’s taxi hove into view. Nick opened the back door then felt silly as she got into the front passenger seat and greeted the driver by name. ‘Thanks. I really enjoyed this evening,’ she said, winding down the window. ‘My treat next time.’ Then, wishing she had not been so forward, she asked the driver to take her home.

  She walked up the steep path which led directly to the side door of the house, which was set into the cliffside. To reach the front door she would have had to turn right and pick her way in the dark along the uneven path, alongside which overgrown shrubs sloped down to the road. Like her friends, Rose rarely used this door and after the last heavy rain she discovered that the wood had swollen. Letting herself into the kitchen, she was thinking what a strange sort of day it had been. Still that lingering cry echoed in her head. Perhaps she was going mad or her imagination had been working overtime, although she could not recall thinking about anything other than her work when she had heard that eerie sound. The embarrassment lingered and Jack Pearce’s reminder had been unnecessary. And what had Nick said about anyone knowing where she was? What on earth had he meant by that? Was there someone who wanted to scare her or make her look a fool?

  Too tired to care, she went upstairs and got ready for bed, taking one last look at the bay and the lights of Newlyn harbour below. The moon was partially obscured by a cloud but there was still light enough to undress by. No one could see in: passing cars or the unlikely pedestrian at that time of night would be too low down beneath the overhang of her garden and any seaman would need a high-powered telescope if they had a sudden desire to watch a middle-aged widow undressing.

  Rose was wary about returning to the mine but more work was required on the painting. Stella had seen it in its early stages and had confirmed Rose’s own opinion that it was good. She could not abandon it because of some imagined noise but there would not be time tomorrow. Laura, whom she had been neglecting, was coming for coffee and there was Stella’s preview in the evening. There were also a few things she needed to do in Penzance.

  There was Maddy, too, another of the St Ives crowd, whom Rose felt she would like to know better. She sensed they shared something in common, something deeper than mutual acquaintances although she had not yet worked out what. Madeleine Duke was self-supporting and could turn her hand to many things. She made ceramics and pottery and was skilful at textile printing, and she sold her goods from a little shop in a back lane in which she worked as she waited for custom. She had placed a small sign on the street corner, propped against one of the tiny cottages which made up the village of St Ives. Rose had to admit that it was a beautiful place. The sand was fine, the colour of clotted cream, and the sea, beloved by surfers, was bluer than the Aegean. If you arrived by train the breath-taking view was framed by a fringe of palm trees at the side of the line. But to live there was another matter. Unable to move for tourists in the summer, Rose would have felt claustrophobic. St Ives had its fishing history but Newlyn was still very much a working village, no quaintness unless you knew where to look for it, nothing but the concrete edifice of the fish market and the ice factories. Most visitors drove straight through on their way to the picturesque village of Mousehole.

  There was at least another half-hour until daylight when Rose opened her eyes at seven. Switching on the bedside lamp she pulled on the towelling robe she used as a dressing-gown in the winter, tied the belt and went d
ownstairs, shivering. Something must be wrong with the heating. It was timed to come on at six and although it was set at a temperature low enough only to take the chill off the air, it was missed that morning. She opened the door off the kitchen which led into what had once been the larder or pantry but now served as a laundry and store-room. The light had gone out on the boiler.

  ‘Damn it.’ Rapidly losing patience, she saw that it needed more skill than she possessed to get it to work again. Laura’s husband, Trevor, was home from sea and there was little in the way of engines or appliances that baffled him. She’d ring before Laura came and see if he could help her out. Meanwhile coffee was needed. Filter coffee, she decided. Whilst it was running through the machine she went into the lounge and knelt in front of the grate. There were a few embers beneath the ashes of the logs – with a bit of luck she could get the fire going quickly. Stuffing newspaper concertinas in its midst and adding a few bits of driftwood which she had picked up from the beach and which burned so well and so brightly because they were seasoned and salty, she lit a match. The flames caught immediately. Adding a few lumps of coal she waited until they, too, caught then balanced a dry log on top. Sitting back on her heels she felt the heat on her face as she listened to the snapping and hissing of kindling and solid fuel while the sparks flew up the chimney.

  Outside the sky was clear, the last of the stars less brilliant as dawn approached. The moon had set an hour ago. The hydrangea bushes with their spiky twigs were bare but had borne new shoots since October and, she had read, there were camellias flowering in a nearby country house garden. As if to prove the clemency of the weather there was a jug of narcissi, flown over from Scilly, on the mantelpiece and the first daffodils would soon be appearing in bud in the shops of Penzance. There was no hint of a frost. It probably wasn’t much colder outside than inside the house at the moment. Bank, post office, library, hairdresser’s, she reminded herself. A twice-yearly trim was something she endured rather than enjoyed.

  Sporadic spluttering from the kitchen told her that the coffee was ready. It was rich and strong and just as she liked it. Gratefully she sipped the first mouthful, her hands clasped around the mug for warmth. Thankfully the immersion heater was independent of the boiler and she was able to have a bath.