Tremarnock Summer

by Burstall, Emma

  Bramble took the model and carefully turned it over in her hands. It was an aeroplane, or spaceship perhaps, with two little doors that opened at the side and a tiny man in a helmet sitting in the cockpit.

  ‘You’re very clever!’

  Pleased, Wilf took the model back and proceeded to fish the little figure out of his seat.

  ‘He’s the pilot. He’s called Ben. His hat comes off, but there’s a hole in his head.’ He pulled off the helmet to show her.

  ‘Eeuw!’ Bramble laughed. ‘He’s got no hair! He needs a wig!’

  The boy considered this for a moment. ‘Hang on! I might have some hair for him in my bedroom. I could run up and get it?’

  Bramble was quite interested. In fact, she’d rather like to sit beside Wilf on his bedroom floor and construct a sister ship; she used to love Lego as a child. But she had a mission to accomplish, and the longer she delayed, the more daunting it would become.

  ‘Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ she said – a fib; she had nothing much to do for the rest of the day. ‘I need to speak to your father. Can you show me where he is?’

  She looked down the hallway through a half-open door at the end, expecting to see some evidence of a studio with Fergus inside, but there was only a cloakroom.

  ‘All right,’ said the boy cheerfully. ‘It’s not far.’

  Without further ado, he slipped his hand into hers and led her purposefully past the cockerel and hens, out of a little gate in the bottom right-hand corner of the front garden and along a narrow track that led towards an area of dense, spiky bushes that were invisible from the house.

  ‘What a handy path!’ Bramble commented, noticing that the grass on either side was very tall and would have been difficult to get through.

  ‘My daddy made it and I helped him. You can get to the studio along the cliff as well, but I’m not allowed that way.’

  The track continued through the crop of spiky bushes, and as soon as they reached the other side Bramble spotted a low-lying, rectangular cabin with a dove-grey door and a wooden deck facing the ocean. It was a very peaceful setting and deliciously private.

  ‘That’s it!’ Wilf pointed. ‘That’s his studio. Sometimes I do painting in there, too.’

  ‘You go first,’ Bramble said, suddenly remembering why she was here. ‘D’you think he’ll mind being disturbed?’

  The boy paused, tipping his head to one side. ‘We-ell, he doesn’t like interruptions. But I s’pect he won’t be too cross if you’re really, really quick. I’m allowed in whenever I want,’ he added rather smugly. ‘I don’t even have to knock.’

  Not exactly heartened by this information, Bramble rapped tentatively on the wooden door. There was silence for a few moments, then she heard the thud of heavy feet and the door swung open.

  ‘Wilf, why can’t you—?’

  On catching sight of Bramble, Fergus stopped mid-sentence and his expression turned from mild irritation to profound displeasure.

  ‘I can’t talk to you now,’ he barked. ‘Didn’t my son tell you I’m working?’

  It was perfectly obvious that he was speaking the truth, because from the top of his head right down to his T-shirt, jeans and tatty old trainers he was covered in splats of paint in different colours – orange, yellow, green, blue, black, red and white. There was even a blob on his nose, and Bramble couldn’t help laughing despite herself.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to get the paint on the canvas rather than on you?’ she giggled. It just popped out. ‘You look like a work of art! You should go on display!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Fergus grumpily. He wiped his cheek with a forearm but it was covered in paint, too, a bright turquoise that blended with all the other colours into a sludgy brownish-blue.

  This only made Bramble laugh more. ‘It’s all over your face now. You’ll get it in your eyes.’ And without thinking, she fished into the pocket of her shorts and stepped forward brandishing a bundle of tissues.

  Understanding too late what was happening, Fergus tried to jerk his head away, but she’d already put a hand around the back to hold it firmly in place. There was nothing for it but to resign himself to his fate, so he closed his eyes, muttering ‘absurd’ and ‘unnecessary’ under his breath in a bid to salvage some dignity.

  Bramble had to stand on tiptoes to get at some of the offending blobs with clean bits of handkerchief, and after a while he stopped muttering and they both went quiet. In her case, this was to avoid jabbing him by mistake, but she soon forgot what she was doing and found her attention drawn to his unusual features – the dark eyebrows framing deep-set sockets; the bony section on the bridge of his nose; the high, prominent cheekbones that hinted, perhaps, at some Slavic influence; the surprisingly vulnerable lower lip with a small, pale scar in the middle.

  He was naturally dark-skinned, and there was a stillness about him, not just in his expression but in his physical presence, too, a strength and intensity that made her think of rock and tree, earth, sky and ocean. She couldn’t imagine him in a city because he seemed like part of the landscape he painted: beautiful in a way, yet damaged. To her surprise, she felt curious and wanted to know more.

  At one point his eyes flickered open, perhaps to see if she’d nearly finished, and accidentally met her own. Startled, Bramble looked away quickly, but not before she’d registered their unexpected depth. He remained rooted to the spot after that, swallowing a few times as if to break the tension, and she became so engrossed that she was almost sorry when the tissue was all used up and there was no excuse to carry on. The worst of the paint was off anyway.

  ‘There,’ she said, making light of what had happened. ‘That’s most of it gone, you mucky pup!’

  Wilf, who’d been watching the proceedings with interest, hopped up and down on the spot. ‘He is, isn’t he? Mucky Daddy, Mucky Pup!’

  ‘Pipe down,’ Fergus retorted, but the boy took absolutely no notice.

  ‘You’ve got paint all over you. You’re messy, messy, MESSY!’ he squealed in delight while his father looked on, exasperated, his authority having melted clean away.

  When at last the boy stopped jeering and calmed down, Fergus whistled through his teeth.

  ‘Thank God for that. I thought he’d never shut up.’

  But was there a slight smile playing on his lips? Bramble wasn’t sure. In any case, he seemed less angry now, and having had his afternoon well and truly disrupted, he decided to invite her in.

  ‘The light was beautiful before you came,’ he said reproachfully as he led her into a big rectangular room looking out over the ocean. ‘It’s gone now.’

  Bramble gazed around with interest. She could see that he’d been working on a large canvas that was propped up on an easel in the centre of the studio. There was a dust sheet on the floor and in places, where it had ridden up, the wooden boards were splattered with thick, wet paint.

  To the right was a long trestle table, on which were placed probably hundreds of little tubes of colour, every shade under the sun, along with plastic bottles of strange-looking liquids, old jam jars, tinfoil cartons, bits of rag and a large assortment of different-sized brushes. The display appeared at first to be extremely untidy, but then Bramble saw that there was a logic to it. The foil cartons, though crumpled and stained, were stacked together with those of a similar size, and the tubes of paint were lined up in rows, suggesting that the artist, if no one else, knew what he was doing.

  Her eyes now slid to the end of the room where the glass doors were wide open, revealing glorious, unspoilt views, and then to the walls, leaning against which were numerous half-finished paintings that she longed to pore over and ask questions about. There was a scent of turpentine, and an atmosphere of industry and focus that she found appealing. She felt quite guilty for having disturbed it.

  ‘Sit down,’ Fergus said awkwardly, pointing to a paint-splashed stool beside the central canvas. When she looked at it doubtfully, he pulled up another, clean, one on
which she settled gratefully.

  ‘Do you want coffee?’

  It wasn’t the politest of requests but she accepted gladly, not least because it would delay the dreaded moment when she’d have to explain why she’d come.

  ‘Lovely. Thanks. White, no sugar.’

  ‘I’ll have orange,’ Wilf said, crouching happily by her side, still clutching the Lego toy.

  Fergus strode next door to fill the kettle, and soon the boy was scuttling from one painting to another, explaining what was what.

  ‘That’s called “Sea Breeze”,’ he said, pointing to a misty-grey canvas with patches of yellowish-white sunlight glinting on the waves. ‘And that’s “Treasure Chest”.’ This time there was a hint of gold in the murky depths, a suggestion of rubies and other precious stones hiding behind rocks and beneath fronds of brownish-green seaweed.

  ‘Does this one have a name?’ Bramble asked, gesturing to the painting on the easel, which once more seemed to focus on the effects of light on water, clearly a favourite theme.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Wilf, considering. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  The picture captured beautifully the view from the window at this particular moment in time as the sun, still high in the sky, seemed to flood the frame with hot, rich colour, turning the surface of the water below a glorious shade of orangey-red. Yet there was a sinister side, too, for not far beneath the waves the colour faded into swirling darkness, a chasm where light could not penetrate. The more Bramble stared, the more threatening it became; it made her shiver.

  ‘Do you always paint the sea?’ she asked when Fergus returned, carrying two mugs in one hand and a glass of juice in the other. ‘I mean, do you ever pick other subjects?’

  It seemed an innocent enough question, but he either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her, passing her a mug of coffee and standing upright as he took a sip of his own.

  She tried another tack. ‘Have you lived in Cornwall all your life?’

  He didn’t move and there was no response, but fortunately Wilf came to the rescue.

  ‘He went to art school in London,’ he said brightly. ‘It’s where he met my mum—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Fergus interrupted, and the little boy’s mouth clamped shut.

  ‘I was born here,’ the artist continued brusquely. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’

  It was perfectly clear that he didn’t wish to elaborate, so Bramble decided to move on.

  ‘I’d never lived in the country before. I think it’s going to take me a while to get used to it.’

  Now that he was no longer the focus, Fergus seemed to relax a little and at last he sat down on the paint-covered stool beside her, his feet resting on the wooden rung beneath. Hunched like that over his mug, his shoulders wide, knees jutting, hands big and powerful, he reminded her rather of a giant statue hewn out of a slab of rock or marble, visually appealing but cold and impenetrable.

  ‘How are you liking the manor?’ he asked slowly, staring at the floor. She was about to reply when he glanced up through his dark eyebrows and lashes. ‘Finished doing the garden yet?’

  His expression hadn’t altered one bit, but for some reason she had the uneasy feeling that he was laughing at her, and instinctively she raised her chin.

  ‘Not yet. We’ve switched to decorating now.’

  Fergus took another swig of his drink and nodded sagely. ‘There are a lot of walls to cover. Hundreds, I shouldn’t wonder. I should think you could do with a bit of help.’

  It was hard to tell if this were just a statement of fact or some odd, inverted offer, but in any case she didn’t want him involved, not after the way he’d barked at her by the cliff and in the orchard. He’d probably try to take over, and besides, she was about to tell him that he needed to get out or pay up, a task that she was dreading more as each minute ticked by.

  She decided that now was the perfect moment. Bracing herself, she cleared her throat and then spoke in her most businesslike tone of voice.

  ‘I want to talk to you about our arrangement.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I... I thought it would be sensible to discuss it sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I see.’ He wasn’t going to help her out, not one bit.

  She opened her mouth, but to her dismay nothing emerged. Then Wilf, who’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor, slurping his juice, jumped up and wriggled on to his dad’s lap, twining an arm around the back of his neck. There was hardly room for one man on the stool, let alone a man and boy, and Fergus had to hold tight to stop him slipping off. Then he bent and kissed the boy’s soft hair ever so gently. He probably wasn’t even aware that he was doing it.

  The boy smiled contentedly, and after a time he dropped his arm while Fergus rested his chin on his son’s head.

  ‘What arrangement is that then?’ he asked at last, picking up the conversation where they’d left off.

  Bramble took a deep breath. ‘Never mind. I can’t remember what I was going to say anyway.’

  Wilf looked so happy and secure, sitting there in his father’s arms, that she hadn’t the heart to bring bad news. She’d simply have to come up with an alternative money-making scheme.

  As she hadn’t quite finished her coffee, she decided to risk trying to find out a bit more about her tenant before she left. Hoping to put him at his ease, she started to tell him about Katie’s job at The Hole in the Wall and its landlord, Danny.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked, but Fergus shook his head.

  ‘I don’t mix much with the locals.’ He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘We’re quite happy on our own, aren’t we, Wilf?’

  The boy nodded while fixing Bramble with his bright-blue eyes. ‘Do you like being on your own?’

  ‘Not much,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll probably sit in the pub tonight and watch Katie. Either that or go to bed. I don’t like being around Maria on my own. She’s the housekeeper. She’s very scary.’

  To her astonishment Fergus laughed out loud. It was the first time that she’d heard him do it.

  ‘Oh, she’s all right really. Her bark’s worse than her bite.’

  But Bramble wasn’t having any of it. ‘She’s like The Woman in Black, the way she lurks round corners and appears out of nowhere. I think she might be a witch in disguise.’

  It was only after she’d finished speaking that she realised what he’d said a moment before.

  ‘Do you know her?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Personally, I mean?’

  ‘A little. Your grandfather was fond of her. She was very loyal.’

  ‘And what about Lord Penrose? How well did you know him?’

  His smile vanished and the shutters came down over his eyes. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  Bramble could have kicked herself. She should have guessed by now that it would take more than a quick chat over coffee to draw Fergus out. Remembering her discussion with Katie about having a party in the manor, she decided to try something else.

  ‘We haven’t fixed a date yet, but it’d be great if you could come. And Wilf, of course.’

  ‘I’m not into socialising. We lead a very quiet life here, which suits us just fine.’

  Wilf, though, had other ideas. ‘Please, Daddy! I like parties.’

  Spotting an opening, Bramble waded in. ‘He can bring a friend if he likes? There are so many rooms in the manor – it’ll be brilliant for hide and seek!’

  The boy immediately announced that he’d bring Loppy, his stuffed rabbit, and she was surprised that he’d choose a cuddly toy over a real person. There again, they did seem to lead an awfully isolated existence up here. It might do him good to be in company for a change.

  Still, Fergus hadn’t accepted the invitation yet.

  ‘Do come,’ Bramble urged. ‘I’m a rubbish cook – I burn everything – but Katie’s brilliant. She’ll probably make fish pie. I might do Eton mess for pudding. It’s quite difficult to ruin.’ She paused. ‘I did m
anage it once, though, when I added salt instead of sugar...’

  ‘How can I resist an offer like that?’ he said wryly.

  It was Wilf who clinched the deal.

  ‘Hurray!’ he shouted, jumping up and doing a silly dance in front of them. ‘Will there be games like pass the parcel?’

  ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ Bramble promised.

  It was early evening by the time she said goodbye, and Fergus and Wilf walked with her to the cottage and stood together by the gate, waving. As she headed back across the fields, it occurred to her that pass the parcel wasn’t quite what Katie had had in mind when they discussed the gathering. It might interfere with her plans to seduce Danny. Come to think of it, it might interfere with Bramble’s designs on Piers, too.

  Putting Piers and Fergus together in the same room might not be the cleverest idea either, given that the land agent did rather seem to have taken against her unusual tenant. There again, she could always position the men at opposite ends of the dinner table, and it would surely be worth a few raised hackles if some drinks were to loosen Fergus’s tongue.

  13

  BRAMBLE WOULD HAVE suggested sending out party invitations straight away, but when she and Katie heard about Pat, they decided to postpone it till after the funeral. Neither girl had known the old woman, but it was clear that she’d been much loved and would be sorely missed. Indeed, the whole village seemed to be in mourning.

  On Friday evening, The Hole in the Wall was much quieter than usual and even Tony was distinctly subdued when he, Felipe and Rafael popped in for a drink at around eight.

  ‘I never thought she’d die,’ Bramble overheard Felipe say shakily. ‘One minute she is here with us, then poof’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘she is gone in a puff of smoke.’

  ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ Tony responded gloomily, while Rafael swigged his drink through a straw and stared into the middle distance. Then Tony puffed out his chest and boomed, ‘“Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”’

  He looked as if he might burst into tears, until he spotted Bramble sitting quietly in a corner, pretending to read a book.