“Who are Alfie and Colin?” Zac asked, keen to know who everyone was.
“Alfie is Chloe’s brother, he’s a gardener and he lives in Penzance. Colin is Chloe’s husband, he’s a train driver and so works irregular hours.”
Zac chuckled. “A train driver. Wow! Every boy’s dream.”
In the evening, Zac left his aunt and grandmother watching television and walked down to the Crown and Anchor where he met Kyle and Emma in the games area.
“Who’s that bloke over there?” Zac nodded towards a young man standing at the bar chatting to someone he knew to be Bernie the Boatman, a man in his fifties who took out sea anglers in his boat. “I only ask because he was walking just ahead of me down Long Lane so I thought he might live in Blackberry Way somewhere near Gran and Auntie Het.”
Kyle turned to see to whom Zac was referring. “Oh him, yes, he does. He and his wife are renting Fuchsia Cottage from old Tommy Thomas. He’s called Luke, but I don’t know any more about him than that because he’s not been in the village long.”
Emma sat down on a stool and took a sip of lager. “He’s Luke Burleigh. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him but his wife’s called Natalie and I only know that because Mum mentioned her. Apparently she’s keen to join the aerobics classes that Mum and a friend of hers run.”
“Aerobics. Auntie Het mentioned that had helped her lose weight,” said Zac.
“Yes, and your aunt still goes and so does your grandma. The classes have stopped now though until September because several people will be away over the next few weeks.”
Zac glanced into the main bar. “I think by the time I’ve got to recognise everyone it’ll be time to go home. There are loads of unfamiliar faces in here tonight.”
“Don’t worry. Lots of them are holidaymakers and they’ll change several times over while you’re here.” Kyle picked up his pool cue. “Ready for a game?”
“Yes. I’ll pay and you set the balls up.” Zac took some change from the pocket of his jeans and placed it on the side of the pool table. “So who runs the café now that Chloe’s moved to the guest house?” He asked Emma as Kyle collected the yellow and red balls.
“Taffeta and it’s now called Taffeta’s Tea Shoppe.”
“Taffeta,” repeated Zac, “Strange name. I take it you’re not working there this summer.”
Emma shook her head. “No, this will be my last long summer holiday as next June I’ll have finished my college course and so will have started work. For that reason I decided to make the most of this summer and be foot loose and fancy free.”
“So do you have a job lined up then?”
“Yes, but there’s a bit of nepotism involved and so for now I’ll say no more.”
“She won’t even tell me,” teased Kyle, as he chalked the tip of his cue, “and we’ve known each other for ever.”
“Point taken,” said Zac, “So how about you then, Kyle. When do you finish uni?”
“Next year, same as Emma and before you ask, no, I don’t know what I’m going to do then.”
“Yeah, same as me then. I’m currently doing my A-Levels but I’ve no idea what my next move will be, but I’ve got a year to think about it anyway.” He picked up his cue. “Are you still doing the bread round in the holidays? I meant to ask you last night but forgot.”
Kyle shook his head. “No, I gave that up at the end of last summer. I work here now on the bar and I must admit I rather enjoy it.”
“Oh, wow, that must be fun. So how many days do you work?”
“I have flexible hours but it’s usually three lunchtimes during the week and then a couple of evenings. I don’t have set days because things change from week to week and so the rota depends a lot on who is available to work.”
Chapter Three
When Zac sat up in bed the following morning, he saw there were specks of white powder on the duvet cover at the bottom of his bed. He looked up to the ceiling. The cracks he had looked at on his first night in Cornwall no longer bore any resemblance to his friend Dodge and part of the plaster was hanging loose. Zac sprang from his bed suddenly afraid that the whole ceiling might fall down. He quickly dressed and dashed downstairs to report the situation to his grandmother and aunt. He found them in the kitchen, Lottie making a cake and Hetty loading up the washing machine.
After viewing the ceiling, Hetty called up the new staircase to the loft and asked Basil for his advice. He came down and so did Sid the plumber.
“Oh dear,” tutted Basil, removing his shoes and standing on Zac’s bed. He touched the loose piece of plaster and it came away in his hand causing everyone to step out onto the landing in case anymore of the ceiling fell.
“Looks like we might have to take the whole ceiling down,” said Basil, shutting the door to contain the dust. “It’s no good trying to repair it as there are too many cracks and you’d be better with a plasterboard one anyway.” He glanced towards the doors on the opposite side of the landing. “Have you checked the other rooms to see if they’re okay?”
“No, we didn’t think of that,” confessed Hetty, “I’ll go and have a look.”
Lottie went with her and they were happy to report that their own bedrooms and the bathroom were fine.
Basil looked relieved. “Good, we’ve obviously dislodged it banging around. These old lathe and plaster ceilings are no doubt the originals. I’m amazed they stay up as long as they do in these old places.”
Lottie bit her bottom lip. “Oh dear, it looks like you’re going to have to move out then, Zac. You can’t stay in there with the ceiling unsafe.”
“That’s okay and I don’t mind sleeping on the settee.”
Hetty stroked his cheek fondly. “Ow, bless you and you’ve only been here for a couple of days.”
“I’ll take the ceiling down as well if you like. It can be my contribution to my keep while I’m here. I know what to do because I helped Dad replace the ceiling in our hallway back home.”
“That’d be a great help if you did,” said Basil as he opened the door to see if the dust had settled, “and I’ll order some extra sheets of plasterboard when I’m next at the builder’s merchants.”
The dust had settled and as they all went into the room to survey the damage, Lottie pointed to the hole left by the fallen plaster. “What’s that I can see? It looks like a box or something.”
Hetty squinted. “You’re right, it does. I wonder what it can be.”
Basil jumped up on the bed again, reached up and touched the corner of something dark brown in colour. “Hmm, I don’t know what it is.” He gave it a little push and more plaster fell. “Whoops, better not try to get it from here until you’ve cleared the room out or the whole ceiling might come down.” He climbed off the bed.
Hetty sighed, clearly disappointed. “Oh well, I don’t suppose it’ll hurt us having to wait until the ceiling’s gone although I must admit I’d like to know what the box thing is now.”
Lottie nodded. “And so would I.”
“That’s not a problem then,” declared Sid, who was also intrigued, “We can lift the floorboards in the loft to find out what it is from up there.”
Basil brushed dust from his sleeve. “Good idea, Sid. I must admit I’m rather curious too because the boards in the attic don’t look as if they’ve been disturbed since they were put down and I reckon that was a fair while ago.” He moved towards the new staircase, “Come on then, let’s go up and a take a look.”
With the aid of a crow bar, Basil lifted a board in the area over the spare bedroom. There was nothing to see. As he lifted another, part of the brown item they had spotted in Zac’s room was just visible wedged between the beams. Basil lifted more boards.
“A pair of bloke’s shoes,” said Mark, looking over Basil’s shoulder, “and they’re dead old fashioned.”
Sid reached down and lifted the shoes up. “Well I never. Leather soles. They’re pretty old as well.”
“There’s a coat too and it looks like that wou
ld have belonged to a man as well.” Basil unfolded the tweed bundle, passed it to Lottie and then lifted another board.
“It’s a suitcase,” exclaimed Hetty, “and an old suitcase at that. I remember Dad had a similar one.”
“But Dad’s was much bigger,” said Lottie, as she laid the coat down on the Workmate.
Basil leaned forwards and carefully, so as not to knock away more of the ceiling, slid the suitcase out from where it was squeezed between the beams and lifted it onto the floorboards. He tried to open it but both catches had seized up. Sid came to the rescue with a can of WD 40. After a few minutes the catches began to move and Basil opened up the lid.
The suitcase was full to the brim and on top were a few items of clothing, neatly folded. Beneath them was a model of a boat carved in wood and painted blue. Next to it was a cine camera and two reels of film. A small bag of men’s toiletries was tucked in a corner and a wallet containing two one pound notes, a ten shilling note, pre-decimal coins and an identity card lay beneath it along with a pocket watch. In an envelope was a black and white photograph of two young men standing on a beach beside a boat. One of the men was in Army uniform, the other wore a dark jumper and a flat cap and from his mouth dangled a cigarette. Basil turned the picture over but there was no name or date on the back.
“Bernie would be the person to ask about that boat,” said Sid, looking at the picture over Basil’s shoulder, “that’s assuming the photo was taken here in Pentrillick.”
“You’re right, he would,” Hetty agreed. She knelt down beside Basil. “What’s the name on the identity card? I can’t read it without my glasses.”
“David Tregear, born 1912 and unmarried. It says his occupation was Train Driver so he might be the chap smoking the fag. His address is the Pentrillick Hotel.” Basil handed the card to Hetty, “I suppose it was one issued during the Second World War. What do you think?”
“Definitely because they were still issued once the war was over and I still have mine.”
“There’s something in here,” said Zac, who was looking at the old overcoat and had put his hand inside one of its pockets. “Well, I never it’s a postcard.”
Sid glanced at the card. “And it looks to me like a wartime issue because there’s no stamp in the corner.”
“Probably from the chap in the old photo wearing uniform then,” suggested Basil.
Hetty’s fingers twitched. “How exciting. What does it say? Who is it from? Please read it, Zac.”
“It’s dated January 2nd 1942 and is addressed to Mr David Tregear at the Pentrillick Hotel. It says: Dear Dave, I’m missing you mate and wish I could be home with you and the rest of the family. Dream of Cornwall often and long to swim in the sea again and watch the sun setting over Mounts Bay. Hope Old Jimmy’s behaving. Hope you’re all well and I hope to see you all again soon. Meanwhile, pray for me, Dave. Pray for us all. Love to Mum, Peter. x”
For thirty seconds no-one spoke as the words sank in.
It was Lottie who broke the silence. “I do hope he survived and came home and swam in the sea again.”
“And watched the sun setting over Mounts Bay,” whispered Hetty.
Sid scratched his head. “Yeah, same here but what I want to know is why all this stuff’s up here and hidden as well?”
“And I wonder who old Jimmy is,” reflected Zac.
Lottie brushed a tear from her cheek. “Two good questions, but at least we know that the Dave who received the postcard is definitely David Tregear and he was a train driver.”
Mark looked serious. “Probably a dog. My next door neighbours have a dog called Jimmy. He’s a Collie.”
“You chump,” laughed Basil, “Trust you to bring us back to earth.”
“Perhaps David Tregear whoever he might be was killed during the war and someone put his personal things up here because it was too painful to see them,” suggested Hetty.
“Well he was still here in January 1942 when he got the postcard from Peter, whoever Peter might be,” said Lottie, “so if he was killed, and I sincerely hope he wasn’t, it must have been after that date.”
Hetty picked up the identity card. “I’m just trying to think. According to this he was a train driver so I wonder if for that reason he might have been exempt from conscription. I know people in several occupations were.”
“Yes, most likely,” declared Sid, “My uncle was a train driver and he never went to war although having said that I know some who worked on the railway did but they might not have been drivers.”
Basil scratched his head. “Well, for the sake of argument let’s assume David did go to war and was killed and his things were put up here because it was too painful to see them. I mean, I can understand someone wanting to do that. But what I can’t understand is why it was necessary to hide everything beneath the floorboards when it’d all be out of sight just by being in the attic. If you see what I mean.”
“We shall have to investigate,” Hetty spoke with a look of determination on her face, “The trouble is though I’ve no idea where to start with so little to go on.”
Lottie laughed. “We could do with Psychic Sid’s help here.”
“Oh yes,” Mark agreed, “My Mum had her fortune told by him at the Christmas Wonderland. He told her she would get some money she wasn’t expecting and so she bought a Lottery ticket and won twenty five pounds.”
Hetty smiled. “Hmm, a good prediction but not exactly a life-changing amount.”
“Well, Mum was dead chuffed and said he was amazing.” Mark frowned, “I wonder what happened to him but then I suppose he went off up-country with the rest of the fair people.”
“Or perhaps he became a plumber,” teased Hetty, nodding in Sid’s direction.
“No way,” chortled Basil as he cottoned on, “You’re not a psychic, are you, Sid?”
“Well,” Sid hesitated, “yes and no. That is I was for a while but then went back to my original trade which is plumbing.”
“So were you any good? Or should I say, are you any good?”
Sid shook his head. “No I was rubbish.”
Mark looked confused. “But if you’re Psychic Sid you must be good because Mum said so and she knows all about that stuff because when she was a kid her next door neighbour used to read the tealeaves.”
“So what else did Psychic Sid say to your mum?” Basil asked.
“I can’t remember but I’ll ask her when I go home.”
“Well if Psychic Sid can’t help us,” chuckled Hetty, “we’ll need to think of a more down to earth way of finding out more about David Tregear.”
“Why don’t you go and have a look round the churchyard,” suggested Zac. “I mean, if the bloke is dead, which I expect he would be by now anyway, then he’d be buried there somewhere so we might be able to learn something about him.”
“Now that is a good idea,” said Lottie, “Well done, Zac, and at least we’d know if he died during the war.”
“Although if David died overseas then he may well be buried there,” sighed Basil, “lots of our young men never got back to be buried at home. I always find that rather sad.”
“And for many in the Navy their grave is the ocean bed,” tutted Sid.
“It’s still worth us looking in the churchyard,” insisted Lottie, “because even if David isn’t there, there may well be other Tregears.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” reasoned Hetty, scrambling to her feet, “Let’s go right now. Will you come as well, Zac? The more pairs of eyes, the better and yours are a lot more efficient than mine and your grandma’s.”
“Yes, I’d love to, but I’d like some breakfast first because I’m starving.”
Hetty and Lottie walked down to the churchyard with Zac who had Albert on his lead, for the little dog had taken to the sisters’ young visitor and followed him around the house whenever he could.
“I suppose the best thing to do is look for graves from the nineteen forties and then search that area,”
suggested Lottie, glancing over the rows and rows of headstones, “it’s no good looking before then because we know he was still alive when war broke out because he had an identity card.”
“And he was still alive in 1942 when he got the postcard,” Zac added.
“Of course,” tutted Lottie, “silly me.”
“Well, all I hope is that David Tregear had a headstone,” muttered Hetty, “because not everyone does.”
“Shall we split up?” Zac asked, “Then whoever finds the right area can call the others over.”
“Good idea,” Hetty pointed to three trees, “I’ll go and make a start over there.”
It was Lottie who found graves from the right era. She beckoned Zac and Hetty to join her.
“Thankfully most are quite legible,” she announced, “so hopefully we’ll find what we’re looking for without too much effort.”
Half an hour later, Hetty came across a grave of interest. “Come and look at this,” she cried, “It’s not for David Tregear but for someone called Peter so they might be related.” She lowered her voice, “Oh dear, he’s probably the Peter who sent the postcard.”
“Oh, please no,” cried Lottie, “not Peter who longed to swim in the sea again and see the sunset.”
Zac read the inscription on the large white ornate headstone: “In Loving Memory of Peter Tregear, age 30, beloved son of Florence and Frank Tregear. Died February 7th 1942 from injuries inflicted while fighting for King and Country. RIP.”
Hetty sighed. “Poor soul.”
Lottie couldn’t speak.
“I’m just trying to remember the information in the identity card we found,” said Hetty, trying to be practical, “ Would I be right in thinking that David Tregear was born in 1912?”
“Yes, he was,” Lottie sobbed, “because I remember it was the same year that our dad was born.”
“In which case, Peter Tregear buried here and David Tregear whose belongings we’ve found in the attic were born in the same year.”
The Suitcase In The Attic Page 2