Framed in Cornwall Page 4

  The sounds were coming from the kitchen. Rose hurried towards them then stood in the doorway trying to make sense of the scene before her. Dorothy lay on the floor, her head cradled in Martin’s lap. It was Martin she had heard. He was gently rocking his mother and making crooning noises as tears ran down his face. Star was asleep in her basket and George, normally so volatile, whimpered quietly, curled up in Dorothy’s armchair.

  ‘What’s happened? What’s happened to her?’ Martin asked Rose, seeming unsurprised to see her there.

  ‘I don’t know, Martin. Have you called an ambulance?’

  He shook his head. Rose quickly took over. She bent over Dorothy and touched her. She was stone cold and her eyes were slits, the half-moons of her irises dull. Dorothy Pengelly was dead. Rose knew that at once. It was too late for an ambulance but she was not qualified to presume that. She rang for one anyway. Mike Phillips, she thought, Mike who had cared for David, he would tell her what she ought to do. No wonder Dorothy had been pale the other day, she had obviously been ill. Too late, Rose wished she had taken Jack’s advice and sent a doctor anyway.

  One of the hospital switchboard operators bleeped Mike and he came to the phone quickly, knowing that Rose would not disturb him unless it was necessary.

  ‘Mike. My friend … Dorothy … oh, Mike, she’s dead.’

  ‘Stay calm, Rose. Have you rung for an ambulance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s her GP?’

  ‘She doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Look, I think you ought to call the police as well. The paramedics’ll probably do it anyway. If she’s always been fit the police surgeon will want to take a look at her.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’ Rose replaced the receiver feeling stupid to have telephoned but it had been reassuring just speaking to him.

  Martin had not moved, he was still rocking Dorothy. She wondered whether she ought to make him some strong sweet tea but felt a sense of repugnance at the idea of moving around Dorothy’s kitchen and using her things whilst she lay there on the floor.

  It seemed a long time until she heard a vehicle turn into the driveway although it could not have been more than a few minutes. The police arrived first. She had contacted Camborne station as it was the nearest.

  One of the PCs made a quick examination of Dorothy and nodded to his colleague who turned away and spoke into his lapel radio. Martin ignored them all.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘A friend. Martin’s her son.’

  They all stared at him. ‘There’ll be a doctor here soon. I think the lad needs attention too.’

  The ambulance arrived, its siren shattering the subdued silence. The crew assessed the situation and saw that their services were unnecessary.

  By the time the police surgeon had joined them the kitchen was crowded. ‘There’ll need to be a PM,’ he told Rose, realising that Martin was in no state to take in anything. ‘I’ll arrange for her body to be collected. Is there anywhere Martin can go?’

  ‘He can come back with me.’

  ‘Good. And I suggest you get his GP to have a look at him.’

  Rose nodded. It would have to be her own. He could not be left alone now and she could not begin to think what the loss of his mother would do to him.

  ‘We’ll need to ask you some questions,’ one of the officers said. ‘And Mr Pengelly in due course.’

  There was little Rose could tell them. She described the scene as she had come upon it and they were told they could leave. ‘What did she die from?’ Rose asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Heart maybe?’ The surgeon shrugged. He wasn’t sure but there was a smell of alcohol and an empty paracetamol bottle which one of the police officers had picked up and shown him discreetly. The post-mortem would show if his suspicions were correct. It was not for him to blab to all and sundry that Dorothy Pengelly had taken her own life.

  With the help of one of the policemen she got Martin to his feet. Taking his arm she led him out to the car. Tall and big-boned as he was, he allowed himself to be gently settled into the front passenger seat. Rose took a quick look at him as she started the engine. His dark hair grew long over his collar, his face was tear-stained and his brown eyes were unseeing but Rose did not think he would do something stupid, like trying to jump out of the car while it was moving. ‘Martin?’ she tried tentatively, touching his arm. ‘We’re going back to my place. You can stay the night with me.’ Her voice was firmer now. She had to take control, not let her own grief surface until she was sure Martin was all right. There were still some of David’s things in the airing cupboard, it was ironic that it had taken another death for them to be put to use. Driving home she was glad that they would not be there to see Dorothy’s body taken away.

  When Martin finally spoke his words frightened Rose. ‘She’ll be all right soon, won’t she?’ he asked, making it clear that he had no idea of the finality of it.

  ‘She’s dead, Martin,’ Rose said quietly, but she could not bring herself to say that she would never be coming back. Once they were safely at home she would try to get through to him.

  She parked on the small concrete patch at the top of the path alongside the house and let them in. In her handbag were Dorothy’s spare keys which the police had told her to take as someone would need to feed the animals. She had told them that Martin lived elsewhere and that there was another son who needed to be informed. Thankfully, that would not be her job. As she placed the keys on top of the fridge tears filled her eyes. Shock had worn off and she felt the loss of her friend badly. With her back to Martin she waited until she was more in control until she turned to face him. She had noticed there were four keys on the ring, two Yale, two Chubb, and realised that she had two identical sets. Presumably Peter would have a third.

  Tomorrow the police wanted to question Martin. Rose owed it to Dorothy to ensure that he was ready and able to face up to their questions. She pulled out a chair and sat next to him.

  ‘Peter,’ he said before she had a chance to begin. ‘You have to tell Peter.’

  Rose nodded. It was a good sign. He understood that his brother needed to know which meant he was aware that something was dreadfully wrong. ‘The police will go and see him, there’s nothing to worry about.’ Useless words, Rose knew better than most. But there were no words which could ease the pain or change the situation. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Dorothy had mentioned her anxiety on this count but these were exceptional circumstances. She barely remembered the three days after David’s funeral when she had locked herself in the house, refusing to answer the door or the telephone as she sat drinking one bottle of wine after another, unwashed and without food. The long months of nursing and the final days spent at the hospital had taken their toll. Only then did she allow herself the indulgence of obliteration. It was Laura who had finally shouted at her through the letter-box, saying that if she didn’t open the door she’d break the bloody thing down. If Martin now needed the temporary comfort of alcohol she would not deny him it.

  ‘I’d like some tea, please. Can I smoke?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ She got out the only ashtray she possessed and placed it on the table. Rose smoked occasionally but no longer got through a packet a day. As she made the tea with shaking hands she wondered if Dorothy had left a will. As far as she was aware there were no relatives other than her two sons. It was an uncharitable thought but she hoped that Peter and his wife did not hold another set of keys because she suspected they might remove anything of value before probate had been finalised.

  Impossible to work now. Even if she’d been up to it Martin needed someone to be with him. He was, she realised as she placed his tea before him, the same size as Jack but he appeared to have shrunk somehow.

  Catching sight of her wrist-watch she saw it was already mid-afternoon. Without asking if he was hungry Rose made some sandwiches but Martin did little more than take a few mouthfuls and crumble the bread between his fingers. His
grief was plain to see but he seemed ill at ease. Rose watched him as she tried to eat her own sandwich. She had a habit of skipping meals and recently her jeans had become looser. She kicked off her canvas shoes and hooked her hair behind her ears. She must eat to encourage Martin although she gagged on the bread, and then she had to get him to talk.

  Without warning he stood up. ‘I think I killed her,’ he said. ‘I want to go home.’

  At that moment the telephone rang. ‘Sit down, Martin. I won’t be a minute.’ Rose went to answer it, too dazed to think straight. It was Doreen Clarke, a woman she had met some time ago when she had been commissioned to take photographs of the house of a wealthy family. Doreen cleaned other people’s houses and was a great source of gossip, a pastime for which she was renowned. But surely even Doreen couldn’t have heard the news yet?

  ‘Rose, dear,’ she began, ‘I was wondering if you’d open the Christmas bazaar for us this year? I know it isn’t until December but you can’t leave these things until the last minute. Only, you see, we tried to get whatshisname, the MP, but he’s got other commitments and we can’t find anyone else who’s willing.’

  Despite everything Rose felt a flicker of amusement. The two women’s initial dislike of each other had mellowed and turned into mutual respect until they had finally become friends. Doreen now considered her to be a minor celebrity but it was apparent that she was by no means first choice for the job. ‘What’s the date?’ Rose flicked through her diary knowing that she had nothing booked that far ahead. ‘Yes, that’s fine. But I hope people won’t be disappointed, I’m sure no one will know who I am.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Doreen assured her firmly. ‘I’ll make sure your name’s on all the posters and in the adverts in the paper. Here, why don’t you bring along some of your stuff? You might make a sale or two?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Doreen, I’ve got a visitor at the moment, I’ll have to go. Thanks for asking me.’ Rose replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. Martin hadn’t moved. He remained standing behind his chair, his large-knuckled hands gripping the back of it, his eyes staring. For a second Rose wondered if he was mad.

  ‘I don’t think you ought to be alone, Martin. Why not stay here tonight?’

  ‘Please, Mrs Trevelyan, I want to go home.’

  ‘I’ll drive you, but first you must tell me what you mean.’ Martin was frightened. Perhaps Dorothy had still been alive when he found her and he now realised he ought to have called for help.

  ‘I told ’un.’

  ‘Told who, Martin? I don’t understand you.’

  ‘They men.’

  ‘What men?’ She couldn’t guess how the police would deal with him.

  ‘In the pub.’ He clamped his mouth shut. ‘I want to go home.’

  Rose hesitated then nodded. He was in shock, he didn’t know what he was talking about. Dorothy had told her how he drank too much, it was highly unlikely he’d remember anything he’d said to someone in the pub. Assessing him she saw that perhaps he was better on his own. Men like him, used to solitude and uncomfortable in other people’s homes, would heal quicker if left alone. Tomorrow she would go and talk to him again.

  Reluctantly she drove him back, praying that she was doing the right thing. Martin had been so close to his mother that she feared for his state of mind. If anything happened to him it would be on her conscience for ever. Already she had ignored the advice to get a doctor to see him. It would be pointless, a doctor couldn’t bring Dorothy back, nor could he ease Martin’s pain. All he could do was prescribe pills to blot it out temporarily. Besides, she tried to reassure herself, she could not force a grown man to remain under her roof.

  The working day was coming to a close and the traffic heading in the opposite direction was building up. Although there was little on her side of the road she got stuck behind a tractor piled high with bales of hay. It turned sharply into a farm gateway, the rear end of the trailer swinging behind it. The clouds were moving faster, building up from the west until they were banked in a grey mass. Rose wound up the window as the wind changed direction. On the slopes the heather was beginning to flower. Walking through it, hand in hand, were a couple. Had Martin ever had a girlfriend? she wondered. It would have been nice if there was someone other than herself to comfort him. She doubted his brother and his wife would trouble themselves.

  Stopping as near to the caravan as she was able she watched him climb slowly up over the rough ground, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply at his sides. She had no idea what was going on in his head. For a second she had a maternal urge to run after him and hold him tightly but it would embarrass them both. When he had disappeared over the brow of the hill she turned the Mini around and went home to find another message on her answering machine. It was Barbara Phillips, the wife of Mike Phillips whom she had rung earlier in the day. ‘Rose, are you there? Never mind. It’s me, Barbara. Mike told me what happened. You poor tiling. Give me a ring when you can. Look, I know this isn’t a good time but I’m having a bit of a do to celebrate Mike’s fiftieth. Saturday week. You’ve got to be here, and I won’t take no for an answer. Ring me when you can. We’ll be thinking of you.’ Dear Barbara, who had during that awful year gently but persistently encouraged her to go out more but who now did so forcefully. Here was a chance to meet new people. I’ll go, Rose thought. Alone. No Jack and no Barry.

  Barry. Suddenly she remembered that she was supposed to be meeting him that evening for a long-standing dinner date. She would not ring him to cancel, it would be too hard breaking the news over the telephone. Let him come, then she would tell him.

  There were three appointments in her diary for the next day. Rose did cancel them. Tomorrow she must make sure Martin was all right and she needed time for herself, time to grieve for Dorothy. It had not really hit her yet. Aimlessly, she wandered around the house which she loved and where she had always been so happy. What had happened to her youthful dreams? Was the woman who drew and painted wild flowers and pretty bays for commercial purposes the same girl who had had such high hopes for herself? Having gained a place at art college and having been told she had talent, her ambition had been to make a living in oils; wild, dramatic oils of rugged seascapes and rocky promontories. After a brief flirtation with contemporary art she knew it was not for her. Rose’s work was representational, alive and real.

  She hadn’t given herself a chance. Just because her initial attempts had not created a storm didn’t mean she could not have improved. Few artists were instantly recognised, many not at all. Up until David had died she had painted one or two oils each year, after his death there had been only one. And now Dorothy’s death had shown her how tenuous the grip on life was. It was time she made some changes.

  Jobber Hicks had been farming since the day he left school at fourteen and by that time had already completed his apprenticeship by way of the various tasks he was allocated each evening and which he did as soon as he had changed out of his uniform. Only then could he wash and sit down at the table with the rest of the family and eat the large meal his mother prepared for them every day. Of the five children he was the only one who had remained on the farm. When his father died he had taken over his role. By that time his mother had been dead for five years.

  The money that Harry Hicks had scrupulously saved had been divided equally between the children but Jobber’s three sisters and brother showed no interest in making any claim on the farm itself. They were all married and comfortable in their different ways and they knew that if the property was sold Jobber would be out of work and have nowhere to go. They were not interested in a fifth of its worth because the whole place had fallen into disrepair since Mrs Hicks’s death and the land surrounding it belonged to the Duchy anyway. The deeds were transferred to Jobber and he began the long task of renovating the farm.

  Jobber was also the only one to remain single. From his youth he had always hankered after Dorothy Pengelly, or Trelawny, as she had been then. She was diff
erent from the other girls he knew, having guts and spirit from an early age. When her husband died his hopes were renewed. He waited for a decent interval then began to woo her in his own steady way. Dorothy disappointed him by saying that she had no intention of marrying again, one husband had been enough. Jobber never knew how close to saying yes she had been. He had had to content himself with the farm and her friendship but he had wanted more.

  His work usually took up ten or more hours a day so he employed a married woman to come in and cook and clean. During school holidays she would bring her small daughter whom Jobber would sometimes take out with him. He was touched by her devotion and by the way she would slip her hand in his without prompting.

  He had been christened Joseph Robert Hicks but when Florrie, the baby of the family, first began to speak she could not master his names and ran them into one. Jobber, she had called him and the name had stuck.

  He sat in the kitchen in an armchair beside the range which burned all year to serve the back-boiler and the ovens. He was ashamed, he could not remember when he had last cried, but Dorothy’s death had rocked his world. His own mortality did not bother him, death would come at some point and occasionally it seemed welcome. But how he would miss those jaunts into Camborne and being able to go up to the house and discuss all manner of things with her. The last time he had seen her he had had the strong impression there was something she wanted to tell him.