by Bea Green
The canvas coverings of the stalls were flapping vigorously in the wind. Elinor hoped it wouldn’t blow any harder because the stalls didn’t look terribly robust.
St Merryn Church was in Treveglos, which was about a quarter of a mile outside the village of St Merryn. The distance, though, hadn’t stopped people turning up for the second-hand book sale.
A coated and scarfed crowd, like a flock of grazing sheep, were surrounding the stalls. It was busy. Trust a book sale in the middle of a Cornish winter to be a big event, thought Elinor.
She wasn’t terribly keen on crowds and tended to avoid them if she could, so she hung back and watched from a distance. Leo, of course, had been greeted within minutes of arriving, and was busy talking to some of his cronies.
‘Hello. You’re Leo’s niece, aren’t you?’ said a lady standing next to her.
Elinor turned and peered at the woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, and whose raven black hair was shaped in a neat 1920s bob. She was wearing a stylish bright-red thick duffle coat and a pair of knee-high brown leather boots.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Elinor, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. ‘Should I know you?’
‘No, no, of course you wouldn’t know me. Everyone in St Merryn, though, knows Leo and we all knew he had a niece visiting. He’s not been seen around the village as much as usual. You’re obviously keeping him busy!’
‘Actually, Leo does his own thing. He’s always been a bit of a loner, in that respect. But it’s been really lovely staying with him. I’m grateful to him for letting me.’
The lady stuck out her hand to shake Elinor’s.
‘I’m Jane Fairfax, the vicar of this church.’
‘Oh! Wow,’ said Elinor inanely, shaking hands with her. ‘You do the services at this church?’
‘Yes. Even though, sometimes, there’s only fifteen of the congregation attending. Which can make singing the hymns a bit of a challenge, to be honest with you. It’s a very small parish, especially in the winter. But there’s lots to love about this old church.’
‘I know. I love it. It has such a nice atmosphere to it.’
‘I can show you around just now if you like, and tell you some of its history. It’s open today.’
‘Thanks, I’d like that... I’ll just tell Leo where I am.’
Elinor had a quick word with Leo, and then walked to the front entrance of the church with Jane.
Before they went in Jane pointed to the church tower.
‘Of course, back in Norman times, our tower was what one chronicler described as “short and stumpy”,’ said Jane. ‘They subsequently made the tower bigger, in an effort to make it look more grandiose. In the 15th century, I think it was. Personally, I think they overdid it, because it looks far too big next to the original church. A simple case, I think, of men overcompensating for other things...’
Elinor giggled. She’d never met a feminist vicar before, but there was a first time for everything.
‘You might think it odd that the church isn’t actually in St Merryn, but in the Middle Ages the community around here was totally farm-based. All the ancient pathways, and rights of way, centre on the church. I’m sure Leo would agree with me on that point. He seems to know most of the pathways around here.’
‘Yes, he does. He’s like a walking map.’
They strolled up the aisle of the church, Jane’s boots clipping briskly on the hard floor.
‘The most beautiful part of this church, in my view, is the seven pillars and these gorgeous Gothic arches. They’re made of Cataclews Stone, quarried from Trevose Head. You can see Trevose Head from your house, can’t you?’
Elinor nodded.
‘And the font is beautiful too. It’s made from the same stone. You can see the twelve apostles on it,’ said Jane, walking up to it and touching it fondly. ‘Most people praise the carved roof of the church. It’s called a wagon roof, for obvious reasons. But for me, the ancient stone they’ve used for the arches, pillars and font is what makes this church special. This stone will last longer than any other part of the church.’
‘Are you fundraising for the ceiling of the church?’ asked Elinor, bending her neck back to look up at it.
‘No, thankfully, the wood inside the church is still in good condition. We need the money to repair the exterior roof. A lot of the slates are starting to crumble and disintegrate. Unfortunately, the Church of England has more important priorities, and we’re having to rely on the good faith of the people who value this church to help us raise the money needed.’
‘Wasn’t it a bit risky, holding a book sale outdoors at this time of year?’
Jane laughed.
‘If the weather had been rotten, they would’ve set up their stalls in our church hall. However, at the moment the church hall is set up for the Christmas pantomime rehearsals. So it would’ve been inconvenient, to say the least, to move everything out of the way. God’s blessed us in that respect,’ Jane said, smiling.
Elinor didn’t say anything. She hadn’t seen much sign of God’s blessings in this last year of her life, and was inclined to feel bitter towards people who claimed they were real.
20
‘You wouldn’t believe, would you, that this insignificant little Cornish church would’ve had connections with Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean, but it does. Incredible as it sounds, there’s evidence North Cornwall traded with what was then called Byzantium, many hundreds of years ago.’
‘That’s utterly weird. It would’ve been such a long journey for them to make. You have to wonder why they bothered to come here.’
‘Tin. The Byzantines wanted Cornish tin. Apparently, after the Romans left Britain, the Anglo-Saxons dominated the South East of Britain. They were considered barbarians,’ said Jane humorously. ‘But the Byzantines still had a healthy trading relationship with the Kingdom of Dumnonia.’
‘Dumnonia?’
‘Dumnonia, basically, was Cornwall, Devon and a part of Somerset and Dorset, all put together into one kingdom. It was the kingdom the legendary King Arthur belonged to.’
‘Well, everyone’s heard of King Arthur. But Dumnonia? What a bizarre name. I’ve never heard of it before,’ said Elinor, fascinated.
‘I know, it’s a really odd name,’ agreed Jane.
Jane and Elinor looked silently up to the stained glass window. It was strangely peaceful inside the church, even though you could hear the rumble of the book fair outside.
They had both sat down on a pew. Jane had her long legs stretched out in front of her, with her ankles crossed. She didn’t remotely look like a vicar. Elinor had even begun to wonder, for a moment, if she’d been taken in.
‘This church is called St Merryn, some think, after the Byzantine saint, St Marina,’ added Jane, after a moment. She obviously felt she’d drifted away from her original mandate of explaining the church to Elinor. ‘She was a young girl, who was executed for her faith in Jesus, in the city of Antioch. Around about 300 AD.’
She took out a tissue and wiped her nose, which was dripping in the chilly air of the church.
‘And they think St Ives was named after a young girl called Ia, who was another Byzantine martyr,’ she continued. ‘So basically this church and the town of St Ives were named after two girls from what is Turkey today but was actually Greece back in those times. Two feisty, rebellious young girls who became saints. No doubt about it, they must’ve been as bloody-minded as my fifteen-year-old daughter is today.’
Jane sighed sadly, and looked down at her wedding ring, as though reminding herself of her family. Elinor was curious to find out more about Jane’s cryptic references to her daughter, but she felt it would be rude to ask.
‘I sometimes think they knew how to honour and respect women better in those days,’ continued Jane, after a moment. ‘Especially when I think of how long it’s taken for
the Church of England to accept women as vicars.’
‘I agree with you. It’s taken far too long,’ concurred Elinor, again surprised at Jane’s candour.
Elinor thought for an instant about the curious historical links between North Cornwall and the Byzantines.
‘So you’re saying the Byzantines influenced the people of Dumnonia, to the extent they named two places in Cornwall after two of their saints? Doesn’t that sound a bit improbable?’
‘Not really. The Byzantines seem to have had a good relationship with the people of Dumnonia. They’ve found archaeological evidence, in Devon, of their beach parties.’
Elinor chuckled at the bizarre notion of these two ancient civilisations having a beach party together.
‘It’s true!’ laughed Jane, anxious to prove her point. ‘Apparently, there were great celebrations when the Byzantines arrived. Not surprising, really, when you consider they were bringing Byzantine wine with them.’
‘Byzantine wine?’
‘Yes, they traded Cornish tin for Byzantine wine. It’s hilarious to think that’s how much our ancestors prized their wine.’
21
Jane and Elinor walked back out into the sunshine. Most people had moved away from the stalls and were gathered around the tea trolley, which was serving refreshments near the church hall. Several people were holding hot mugs of tea and coffee, or were finishing up crumbs of scone and jam.
‘Next time you’re walking near Constantine Bay, you should have a look for the ruined church and holy well of St Constantine,’ Jane said, as they stood at the door of the church. ‘It’s worth a visit. You’ll find them on the edges of Trevose Golf and Country Club.’
‘That’s odd. Leo’s never mentioned it.’
‘Most locals probably take it for granted. But it’s very picturesque. Supposedly, as legend has it, Constantine, a Cornish landowner or king in the 5th century, was stopped from killing a stag by a man called Petroc. When he tried to kill Petroc he was paralysed – until Petroc prayed for him. Subsequently, so the story goes, Constantine converted to Christianity and built the church and well.’
‘There are so many myths and legends around here. It’s very confusing,’ complained Elinor, her mind boggling with all the historical facts.
‘But of course. There’ll always be legends here! You’re in the land of Tintagel, after all. The home of King Arthur, Merlin and the Round Table. The Celts have always loved myths and storytelling... Are you going to come and have some coffee?’
‘Actually, now it’s quiet I’m going to have a browse through what’s left in the bookstalls. Thank you so much for telling me all about the church.’
‘Not at all. It’s been lovely to meet you, Elinor. No doubt we’ll meet again,’ said Jane, with a smile.
Jane turned and headed towards the refreshments. Several parishioners caught sight of her and moved forward to speak to her. Elinor was suddenly glad Jane had had a bit of breathing space with her in the church. It couldn’t be easy to be at the constant beck and call of her churchgoing flock.
She walked to the bookstall and started sifting through the boxes.
To her surprise, quite a few of the books were very salacious. Elinor started to wonder what kind of a double life some of these pious churchgoers were leading.
Under a mound of rather tatty paperbacks she found a very small hardback book of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. She didn’t have much patience for reading the classics but this book attracted her. Its pages were edged in gilt, and the book itself was bound in beautifully preserved red fabric. She put it to one side and continued her search with renewed enthusiasm, hoping there’d be other treasures to be found.
She’d gone through three more boxes before she finally came across a book she’d read. Elinor had what she herself would call popular taste, liking books that were enjoyable but which didn’t challenge her too much intellectually. She found an old copy of Circus, an Alistair MacLean book. A bit dated but still a good read. Today’s equivalent would probably be a Jack Reacher thriller.
Elinor was already getting a feel for the generation of book readers in this church. She had still to find a book written in the last five years in one of the boxes...
She was starting to weary of browsing. She looked up to see if she could spot Leo anywhere. From the start, he seemed to have vanished into the St Merryn community gathered there. After looking around for five minutes, she finally spotted him carrying dirty mugs into the church hall to be washed.
‘We’ll be wrapping it up soon, love. Book sale finishes in twenty minutes,’ said an old woman, who’d been shuffling backwards and forwards on the same spot, trying to keep warm.
Elinor nodded, rather relieved. There was nothing like a prolonged browse in a yard sale to wear you out. But she already had a bargain hunter’s adrenaline rushing through her veins, so she wasn’t prepared to stop. Not until she had to, that is.
Reinvigorated by the narrow margin of time left to her, she buried herself in the remaining boxes.
Finally, when she came to the last box she saw at the bottom of it a fairly large, and old, leather-bound book. It was in a battered state, the ring binding barely holding on by a few threads. But the book itself was bound in an attractive, camel-coloured leather binding with gilt lettering.
Elinor inspected it carefully. It was a copy of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. She looked inside it and saw the first couple of pages had been torn out, but the story itself was intact.
Inside the front cover of the book, a short poem was scrawled in black ink. In neat, sloping writing was written:
‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand,
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the Palm of your Hand,
And Eternity in an Hour.’
Elinor was enchanted by the poem’s words. She was completely absorbed in the poetic inscription and only realised where she was when she heard someone impatiently clearing their voice and saying loudly, ‘Are you wanting to buy the book, Miss? We’ve got to pack up now.’
She looked up from the book and saw a rotund gentleman, in a tweed cap, standing in front of her waiting for a response. She glanced back down at the book she was holding in her hands. On the first page, it had the sum of ten pounds written in pencil. Which she felt was a bit steep. But should she be haggling at a book sale in aid of raising funds for the church roof? Probably not...
She knew Frankenstein was a book she’d never want to read. She didn’t like horror of any kind, and had enough trouble coping with anxiety as it was. But the beautiful, handwritten inscription had a magnetic charm for her. She didn’t want to let it go.
‘Yes, please. I’ll take this book, thank you,’ she said, recklessly, throwing away any cautious thoughts. She handed over the money and put the three books she’d purchased carefully into her handbag.
Later that afternoon she showed Leo her book purchases. He was very interested in the old leather-bound version of Frankenstein, holding it with surprising gentleness in his gnarled hands and turning its pages with great care.
He had a bookcase full of old books he’d collected over a lifetime from an antiquarian book dealer in Wadebridge. Needless to say, most of his collection had something to do with the sea: old biographies of people like Admiral Nelson, Francis Drake, Christopher Columbus. Books on the Spanish Armada, the Mary Rose and a pirate ship called the Queen Anne’s Revenge were squeezed in amongst more modern books on Cornish shipwrecks and other nautical subjects.
He offered to take Elinor’s book to the book dealer he knew to get it properly repaired, so Elinor gratefully handed it over to him and promptly put it out of her mind.
22
Elinor watched as her tear drops landed on the mounds of oil paint and balanced there, in little self-contained bubbles, before quickly disintegrating into oblivion. It had always seemed
strange to her how it took so much heartache and emotional pain to produce tears, but how quickly the tears abandoned you without taking the pain away with them.
Barbara was absorbed in her painting and was totally unaware of the acute emotions attacking Elinor as she worked on her first painting since Mark had died.
In the background two people on Coast FM were blethering about the winners in the latest Cornish Sustainability Awards.
Elinor tried to focus, through her blurred vision, on her painting. It had all gone so well up to this point. She’d had her photographs of the surfers developed the week before and she’d picked out a photo where the sun was shining brightly on the ocean, highlighting the ripples of water and the edges of the surfer’s surfboard.
Initially, she’d mixed blue with a little green and a little white to create the right shade of blue for the water. Once she had the blue tones just right on the hard board, she’d then added little touches of red so as to lend a purplish tint to some of the shadows.
Afterwards she’d quickly moved on to using her favourite combination of dark blue and brown, to create the impression of depth and darkness looming in the ocean. Her plan was to wait until the paint had dried and then to add dramatic touches of white and light yellow, to highlight the reflections of the sun against the moving water.
It was when she’d started to work on the figure of the surfer that she’d felt herself slowly unravel. She knew her subconscious was dredging up memories she would rather have kept buried.
She used to paint Mark all the time. Of course, there’d been no easier subject to draw or paint because they lived together. She’d moulded landscapes and buildings around him.
Mark had been her muse. He was the solitary male figure in her paintings, standing with his back to the viewer, just like the solitary figures in the Romantic paintings of Caspar David Friedrich.
Now she was painting a stranger on a surfboard and she was struggling to connect with her subject matter. And the loneliness was overwhelming her.