There were no sounds coming from within and Grace glanced around to see if anyone was about. No one was and she did something she would not have dreamed of doing before, she peeped through one of the large bay windows. The abstract print curtains were pulled close together over thick white net curtains and she could make nothing out.
Shrugging her shoulders, Grace carried on to the next street, River Street, and she smiled in amusement that these narrow thoroughfares had been given the title of street. Here, she met the village eccentric. Sitting on a low wooden stool beside her granite doorstep was a tiny old lady with a pure white bun of thin hair on top of her head and whiskers sprouting from her sharp chin. She wore a mulish expression, one eye squinting because of the sun, as Grace approached her.
‘Good afternoon,’ Grace said cheerily. ‘Are you Miss Peters?’
‘What makes you think that?’ the octogenarian snapped indignantly.
Grace had heard about Miss Peters’ chariness and about her quick mind and natural mean streak. The evidence of who she was lay at her child-sized feet – the horsewhip she was infamous for, which she kept handy to crack at people’s feet if they ignored or affronted her.
Miss Peters’ darting eyes followed Grace’s to the horsewhip. ‘So Mrs Skewes has chattered about me, has she? I suppose I was easy to miss in chapel yesterday as my head doesn’t reach much above the top of the pews.’
‘It wasn’t gossip, Miss Peters,’ Grace said diplomatically. ‘As I’m staying here for a few weeks my aunt thought I’d like to hear about the important people of the village.’
Miss Peters was mollified. She pointed to her uneven doorstep. ‘Sit down if you’ve a mind to, Miss Grace Treloar.’
Grace sat down on the well-scrubbed step and stretched out her trousered legs.
Most people disapproved of women wearing trousers but Miss Peters gave a grunt of approval. ‘’Tis a mighty good thing t’be practical. Folk should wake up their ideas. After all, ’tis nineteen thirty-eight. You one of them sporty types?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. I enjoyed hockey and netball at school and I’ve ridden, taken part in shoots and hiked all my adult life.’
‘You’ll have to look further afield than Roscarrock to find the sort of shooting you’re used to. You might get a farmer to let you ride one of his nags and of course there’s plenty of places a fit young woman like you can walk to.’
‘I’m taking my first long walk across the cliffs on Friday. With Hannah Penney.’
‘Aw, aye, she’m a good little maid. You’ll find most of us round here are good sorts. Do ’ee like the village?’
‘I think it’s beautiful,’ Grace enthused, gazing down Porthkilt Hill to the water. ‘Aunt Adela kept urging my mother and me to come down here for a holiday. I regret that Mother never did, she would have liked the sea air and views.’
‘I’m sorry to hear your mother died. What was it?’
‘Simply old age. She died peacefully in her chair.’
‘That’s a blessing. We’d all like to go that way. How long since your father went?’
‘He died eleven years ago.’
‘And you got no brothers or sisters?’
‘No. I’ve got no one really in Kent. Mother didn’t like to socialize and she wasn’t keen on me going out and leaving her alone.’
‘Well, you’ve got your freedom now.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’re you going to do with it?’
‘I might go abroad to live. I spent a few weeks in America once and thoroughly enjoyed it.’
Grace stayed chatting to Miss Peters for over an hour and met other villagers who stopped to pass the time of day. Then, fortified with a glass of Miss Peters’ homemade, exceedingly strong, elderberry wine, she strode down the hill to look over the workshops.
Men were busy in the carpenter’s shop and she stepped among the fragrant heaps of sawdust and thin, curling wood shavings to talk a few minutes with them. At the hot, steamy barkhouse she watched, from a distance so as not to get in the way, as men with brawny arms and clad in yellow oilskins and sea boots loaded a handcart with nets that had been ‘cured’ to withstand prolonged immersion in salt water. A fierce, unhealthy heat from the three furnaces that heated the cutch water and a pungent smell spilled out through the barkhouse doors and Grace marvelled that the men could work in such conditions. The handcart was trundled along the quay and the nets were painstakingly spread out to dry along the curve of the harbour wall.
Further on, Grace heard girls and women busy on net-making machines up in a loft singing in time with their work, but she didn’t like to climb up and observe them without an invitation. Their voices rose and dipped in perfect union, the same sopranos, altos and contraltos she had heard in the chapel on Sunday. She loved the clarity and rhythm of the Celtic voices.
On the quay, on a long wooden bench, some gnarled old men were holding their daily ‘parliament’ and were happy to answer her questions about bygone days when the world was ‘a much better ’n’ safer place t’live in, certain, sure’. One pensioner muttered that he was convinced that with Hitler herding his army at will all over Europe there would be another world war, and Grace left the old gents to argue the point with passion.
The more Grace learned about Porthellis, the more of an affinity she felt with it. She lingered on the cobbled slipway, the pretty shades of copper, grey and cream stones polished by centuries of use. She watched the clear water of the swiftly-moving stream that emerged from an underground passage and ran alongside the slipway to join the larger regions of the sea. She breathed in the smells of salt and fish and crab pots, looked over the small craft temporarily abandoned as their owners sought to make their living on bigger boats. She glanced across at the solitary lugger owned by the fisherman in prison. Leaning forlornly to the side in a few inches of water, painted blue and white, the boat had a neglected appearance but looked in good repair. A gull strutted along the gunwale as if it had sole ownership.
About three-quarters of the village was situated on this side of the stream, and it was known as the sunny side of Porthellis. Across the flat slab of granite that formed the bridge over the stream was the dark side, so named because the few dwellings there stood in the shade of the cliff. Up above it, Roscarrock could be seen. Grace’s eyes moved from Cliffside Cottage to the ramshackle building next to it. There were no Kittows about to forbid investigation and she decided to take a closer look at their home.
Outside the Spargo cottage, which was in serious need of fresh whitewash and a visit from the thatcher, a young man sat playing marbles with some small children. Grace bid him good afternoon but he did not respond. The five children, aged between about eighteen months and four years, gazed at her.
‘Our Uncle Josh don’t speak,’ one child, who bore the typical Spargo black hair and good looks, told her.
The young man raised his scrunched-up shoulders and Grace got a glimpse of his twisted, nervous face. An imbecile, she thought. Poor man. She could see her presence made him acutely uncomfortable and she moved on. She watched Josh Spargo and the children for some moments and was gladdened by how naturally they interacted. A perpetual child, he no doubt gave the young mothers attached to this house, and probably Hannah Penney too, a welcome break from their duties.
Grace couldn’t stand and stare at the Kittow cottage unobserved so she walked round to the back. The small bit of land behind the building was wildly overgrown and choked with brambles yet made pretty here and there by hardy wild flowers and flowering weeds which favoured the shade. The wooden sides and roof of a tiny closet lay in a heap. In one spot lay the ashes of a bonfire. In the Spargos’ garden and the garden on the other side were well-stocked chicken coops but no sign of there ever being one here.
Grace ploughed through the growth, four feet high in some places, to reach the back door. She looked through the smeared glass of the small, curtainless window beside it into what she believed the working class called the back kitchen.
She frowned. Shelves hung off the walls, shrivelled vegetables lay scattered on the floor with pieces of broken crockery and battered saucepans. The disarray was more than just the result of neglect; the place looked as if it had been ransacked.
She touched the door and it swung inwards with a rasp on its rusty hinges. Without hesitation she stepped across the threshold and picked her way over the debris into the kitchen. A scene of such destruction met her eyes that she felt a strong sense of moral indignation. The room, dank and musty-smelling, festooned with cobwebs, had obviously been vandalised. The table was hacked to pieces, as were the chairs and other pieces of furniture, and there was evidence that the floor had been urinated on. The Kittows’ possessions had been tossed about and broken as if the heel of a boot had been ruthlessly applied.
Grace moved on to the parlour. It told the same story. The brown horsehair couch had been slashed and its straw stuffing pulled out in handfuls. Everything on the mantelpiece had been swept off, the ashes in the fireplace strewn around the room. Grace knew the villagers hated the Kittows but this seemed the work of a madman. It was an outrage.
She picked up a screwed-up photograph and smoothed it out. In the limited light from the grimy window she could just make out a small, heavily-whiskered old man on the sepia coloured paper.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Grace started. She turned round and, unabashed, steadily returned the hostile gaze of a tall, red-haired man. ‘Who are you?’
‘Never mind who I am. What are you doing in my house?’
Grace was surprised to be caught trespassing by Daniel Kittow and not someone who had no more right to be here than she had. But she was not easily intimidated.
‘My name’s Grace Treloar,’ she said calmly. ‘You must be Daniel Kittow. I apologize for intruding on your home. I’m appalled at its condition. I assume your late grandfather did not leave it this way. I’d like to offer my assistance in making the cottage habitable again.’
‘My grandfather most certainly did not leave our home like this,’ Daniel snapped, snatching the photograph out of her hand. He was furious at the double outrage to his home – the vandalism and an intruder. ‘I don’t need your bloody help. I’ve no time for do-gooders. Get out!’
Grace did not move. ‘I can assure you, Mr Kittow, I am not a do-gooder. Usually I am happy to let people find their own way out of their problems but what I’ve seen here is a different matter. The damage was done deliberately and is unforgivable.’
‘Even to a drunk and his criminal grandson?’ Daniel loomed over her. He was getting angrier by the moment and wanted to terrorize this stranger, see her run from him.
‘Even more so in the circumstances,’ Grace replied evenly.
Daniel regarded her with suspicion. So she was a strong-minded woman. While he hated her presence here, as much as he hated Hannah Penney, the only woman who had rejected him, he could not stop himself comparing the two women. Hannah had turned into a haughty bitch just like the one with him now, but Grace Treloar did not have Hannah’s beauty, poise or youthfulness. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded again.
‘I’m the niece of Mrs Skewes, the minister’s wife, and I’m staying at the Manse for a few weeks.’
‘I’m not interested in religion either,’ he snarled.
‘I have a strong faith but I am not religious. My reason for being here is just plain nosiness.’ He raised an eyebrow slightly at her honesty. ‘I apologize again and repeat my offer of help.’ Grace couldn’t take her eyes off him. Few men of Daniel Kittow’s colouring were traditionally considered good-looking but he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. And while she had not cared about looks in the few romantic encounters she had had, she found this man’s broad, totally masculine build very appealing. There was a raw energy about him, derived, she felt, from a hunger to satisfy a multitude of needs.
Daniel sighed heavily, his breath hitting her face but she did not flinch. Short of throwing this damned woman out of the cottage he could see he wouldn’t get rid of her. Perhaps if he propositioned her, crudely suggested they go upstairs to see the condition of the bedrooms, it would frighten her off. Looking at her resolute features, he thought that would not work either; she seemed quite capable of sidestepping the issue. Then he had another idea. He took two one pound notes out of his wallet.
‘You can get me some food,’ he said gruffly. ‘The shopkeeper refused to serve me.’ He smirked as he pictured the villagers’ horror when they realized that this young lady had got herself involved with him. He could almost hear the urgent warnings she would receive.
‘Has he indeed?’ Grace said, indignant on his behalf and pleased to have obtained a little of his trust. ‘Have you a shopping bag?’ She glanced about the room to see if there was something she could use. ‘When I come back I’ll help you clean and tidy up the place.’
Daniel led the way to the kitchen and picked up a crib bag from the floor. He thrust it at Grace, and looked smug. From the gleam in her eyes he reckoned that perhaps the shopkeeper was going to get the rough edge of her tongue. ‘Don’t bring it back here. Take it to my other house, the new building in Cobble Street.’
‘You own that beautiful house?’ Her eyes lit up.
‘Yes, and I’ll see these damned villagers don’t dare lay a finger on my property again,’ he said venomously. ‘By the ashes outside it looks like they’ve burned some of my possessions. I’ll make the bastards who did it suffer.’ He looked at Grace challengingly but did not receive the pious remonstration he was expecting. Maybe she would be a useful ally for his purposes. He gave her the keys to the new house and dropped his aggressive tone. ‘You go on, let yourself in. The range is going. If you can cook and your charity stretches that far, you can make me a meal. I want to spend some time here alone then look over my lugger lying idle at the quay.’
He accompanied Grace to the door. In the back garden of the next cottage they saw a young man coming out of the outdoor closet. He was half bent over and clutching his stomach while trying to pull up his braces.
‘Fred Jose!’ Daniel boomed at him, startling Grace.
Fred Jose visibly quailed. ‘D-Daniel… I…’
Grace could see the man, of weedy build and pale stricken face, was terrified of Daniel.
‘Not out working today?’ Daniel shouted jovially but there was a taunt in the words.
‘N-no, g-got the runs. Good to, um, see you.’ Fred Jose took to his heels and ran back inside the closet.
Daniel let out a laugh, a shallow grating sound, and Grace noticed that his face was as tight as the fists clenched at his sides. ‘He and his father Curly used to fish on my boat. I have business with him,’ he told her in a hard voice.
He went back inside and Grace strode up the village hill to the shop which doubled as the sub-post office and was run by a middle-aged man whose source of pride in the community was the fact that his family could be traced back in Porthellis for seven generations. She was pleased there were other customers in the shop to hear her give the shopkeeper short shrift for his unchristian treatment of Daniel Kittow.
‘He’s served his prison sentence and everyone deserves a second chance,’ she fumed. ‘Will you refuse to take his money off me?’
‘Not as it’s you, Miss Treloar,’ Hamlyn Innis replied, redfaced from his public chastening but also livid with the young lady. She had only been in Porthellis four days and had no idea what a terrible man Daniel Kittow was. If she hadn’t been related to the minister’s wife he’d have refused her custom too – and he would tell his shocked, waiting customers so the moment she left. He produced the items she asked for and slammed the change down on the counter.
Grace thanked him tartly then paid a call to the butcher next door. Phineas Brown, short, fat, his broad smile a permanent fixture on his cheny-red bulging face, was a good Bible man and Grace was pleased he was not of the same mind as Hamlyn Innis. ‘’Fraid you won’t find many like me hereabouts, m’dear,’ he chuckled, sharpen
ing a long-bladed knife on the steel. ‘Daniel Kittow’s a bad lot and I don’t expect prison will’ve changed un. But he’s not likely t’be saved unless shown some good Christian love, though ’twill be hard t’show it t’un.’
Grace’s knowledge of cooking consisted of grilling sausages over a Girl Guides’ camp fire and she asked the butcher for four pork sausages. She had never shopped for food and hoped she had all the basic requirements when she left the bakehouse a short time later with a large crusty loaf. She didn’t bother to challenge Mrs Trudgeon and left the busybody to bemoan her failure at extracting the reason why the rest of her shopping, although well wrapped, was in a dirty old bag.
When Grace arrived at the new house she was watched by three women, including Mrs Penney, who were chatting, arms folded, on their doorsteps. Grace nodded to them and grinned at their amazed faces as she produced the keys out of her trouser pocket; no doubt they would soon be asking each other whether the new house belonged to Maggie Curnow or to her. For a moment she pondered how Daniel Kittow could afford the house; he could hardly have got a bank loan while he was in prison. Maybe he had borrowed the money from another source. However it had come about, she was sure he was in command of the situation.
Grace opened the front door with a sense of triumph that, except for the pub landlady, she had beaten the villagers in finding out who the true owner of the house was. There would be many shocked souls in the village when the news broke. Full of anticipation, she stepped inside.
Chapter 3
The Misty sailed into harbour just after midnight, breaking the silence which, except for the surge of the waves and battering wind, had fallen over the village. Most of the Porthellis fleet was already home. Matt, at the wheel, expertly brought the forty-foot lugger into its usual berthing place, alongside the abandoned Sunrise.
Porthellis Page 3