A Cornish Girl

by Gloria Cook

  ‘Good girl. I’ve got some food to last you for a few days too. Follow me then.’

  Two

  Once outside on the road, a coarse thoroughfare with little in the way of hedges, Rachel was grateful to have the bracing air cleanse her nose and lungs. The moors and scrubland of Nansmere Downs were bleak this time of the year, stretching away behind Chy-Henver. In view in the near distance were the gaunt workings of the Carn Croft copper mine, the wind carrying the echoes of its thunderous industry. Engine houses of other parish mines were just seen on the far horizon. On the opposite side of the road was common land, and beyond that fields of the Poltraze estate.

  Rachel patiently adjusted her lively step to compensate for Alice’s lumbering plod. She kept slightly ahead, for when she found herself beside Alice the woman eased her pace to remain behind. Apart from that Rachel got the impression Alice was operating merely on instinct, simply obeying a better.

  In this way they passed between the windblown winter landscape of dips and rises, of scrubby furze and rust-coloured banks of fern, the sweeps of finished heather dull brown and twiggy. The ground was muddy and stony and they had to skirt round the numerous pot holes and avoid the deep ruts made by cartwheels and animal hooves. A few sheep grazed in the shelter of a crop of huge rough boulders. Later there were some thin brown-hided cattle and a couple of small bony goonhillys – wild ponies. A glance behind and Rachel was saddened to see how scared Alice was of these animals, even though they were hundreds of yards away. ‘Come along, Alice, dear. You’re quite safe with me.’

  ‘Yes miss.’

  Before leaving Alice at home Rachel intended to order her mother – her brother too if he was there – to care for her properly. A threat from any Kivell usually accomplished such a task. People knew it was foolhardy to cross anyone in the family. The Kivells may now be prosperous and more respectable, but their surliness and autocratic spirit remained as strong, and sometimes was as hostile as the winter. If one was offended, all were. After that, the instant she got home, she would bathe and treat her wounds, and primp and pamper herself for James’s not strictly necessary consultation. In the old days Kivells had scorned the services of those outside their circle, but last year Rachel had suffered a severe case of pneumonia and seemed about to die, and James Lockley had been called in as a last resort. His dedicated treatment of more than the usual linseed poultice had brought Rachel through and back to full health, and because paying someone of a profession was considered a sign of wealth and importance, another Kivell taboo had lost its grip.

  James had called twice daily for a week and then regularly after the crisis had passed. Rachel’s gratitude to him had turned into friendship. She’d liked his soft and gentle yet strong and confident manner. She’d liked his voice, deep and echoing with a calm resonation. She’d found herself looking forward to seeing him, and to dwell on his lean physique and perfectly formed slender face. He had luscious china-blue eyes, a garland of fair lashes. It was easy to trust him, to be drawn to him more and more, and all too easily to fall in love with him. When James, in a dull, fruitless marriage, had confessed a deep love for her she had been elated. So far they had been successful at hiding their feelings from others. In her family’s presence James behaved as the thoroughly modest gentleman he was. They were unlikely to guess the truth anyway; Kivell women tended to be attracted to the rugged, tougher sort of men of their own breed.

  They had nearly reached the fringe of the village. Soon they would be passing a few houses and the first of the two Methodist chapels. Rachel knew she and Alice would be seen and speculation about their strange little procession would spread quickly. It was unwelcoming and annoying, yet the rebel in her also found it a little amusing. She led the way along High Street – a pretentious title, for in most places it was wide enough only for one-way passage and it consistently assumed quirky bends. Curtains twitched and shadowy figures stared out, first at her and then at Alice, the eyes of insignificant people sightseeing for something to do.

  Up on top of three steep side-on steps, behind a rising iron hand rail, the door was opened and a housewife, small in stature, plain in garb, looking older than her actual years, as most of the ordinary village women did, came outside her quaint solitary little cottage, aptly named Three Steps.

  ‘Miss Rachel Kivell, isn’t it? Surprised to see you with the Bowden maid. I saw Alice earlier, tearing along she was, well, going as fast as she could on those poor legs. Weeping like a child, she was. I called after her but it seemed only to frighten her all the more. I can see you’ve been looking after her. That’s very civil, very Christian, if I may say so. All right now, is she? I’m Mrs Irene Retallack, by the way.’

  Rachel paused, but only to glean anything useful. Alice stopped dead, edging off to the other side of the street. ‘She’d made her way to Chy-Henver. She was in a state of terror. I understand she lives in the most appalling squalor.’

  ‘Indeed she does,’ Mrs Retallack sighed, studying the parcels being carried. ‘My son was on the late core down the mine last night, and he said her brother Silas turned up for work in some evil mood then left in just the same way. He went straight home, which isn’t usual as he normally heads straight for one of the taverns. He probably terrified the maid. He’s some awful cruel to her. ’Tis said he’s got even worse since their father hung himself.’

  ‘Has no one ever tried to do something about it?’ Rachel raised her chin and gave the housewife her most penetrating gaze, plied with accusation.

  ‘Some have tried, me included, but ’tis a sorry tale to say it was never appreciated. Begging your pardon, Miss Kivell, but you’re not taking her all the way home, are you?’

  ‘That is my intention,’ Rachel replied stiffly. ‘Someone has got to take a stand for Alice’s sake. Good morning, Mrs Retallack.’

  ‘Miss Kivell! Don’t go yet.’

  Rachel turned back impatiently. The dithering was getting too much for Alice. She was becoming agitated, biting on the cloth tied round the bundle of clothes. ‘Yes?’

  Irene Retallack was chewing on a fingernail. ‘Please don’t mind what I’m about to say … Look, I’ll speak plain, that hovel’s no place for a lady. You could put yourself in danger if Silas is home; he don’t pay mind to nobody. I was wondering – would you like my son to go along with you? I’m sure he’d be glad to. Silas won’t get the better of my Flint.’

  Rachel was in no mood for the company of what would be, no doubt, an uncouth man who sounded testy. ‘Thank you,’ she said curtly. ‘As it happens I have kin in the church. I shall go there first.’

  ‘I hope all turns out well then,’ Mrs Retallack called after her.

  They were almost at the turning for Edge End, a terrace of houses running in a die-straight row about halfway through the village. It would be sensible to go on to Jowan and Thad. In fact she had family all around her: Kivell the Ironmongers; Kivell the Watchmakers; Kivell the Haberdashers. There were also women family members who had married local traders: Penrose the Bakers, and Cardell the Apothecary. But stubbornness was deep-rooted in Rachel. Without really knowing what she wanted to prove she was set on taking Alice home by herself, without male strength and presence. So far she had got past unseen by her relations. She hoped it continued, and she could get Alice home without further question.

  As if Alice had forgotten she wasn’t alone, she headed off down an empty scrap of track. Rachel grinned; this was good. Alice was taking a route that avoided more doorsteps. There was barely room to put one foot in front of the other but it meant they’d be out of sight. Rachel followed Alice, soon up to her ankles in mud and fighting to keep her balance. At the end of the track Alice slid and skidded down a narrow dip formed by running water. At the bottom she veered off in the previous direction. Rachel slithered and slew down the last part of the dip, sending out a shower of small stones and dirt all the way. Alice shot round. Startled, she nearly dropped the bundle of clothes. She was puzzled and nervous before it dawned on her
who the other person was. ‘Miss! Miss!’ she squawked.

  ‘I’m all right, Alice.’ Rachel looked down ruefully at the ripped hems of her skirt and petticoat. She was beginning to look like a beggar herself. ‘Lead the way to your house.’ Alice just looked vacant so Rachel took the lead once more. A few steps along a well-trod rough path she saw the end house of Edge End. It would be a surprise if Alice had lived in one of these small, well-built houses, but it was a shock to discover, several yards distant and set off at an angle to the row, the crumbling wreck that was the Bowden hovel.

  The walls of the single-storey cottage were fragmenting and the thatch was falling out, as if a giant hand had ruffled maliciously through it. A lean-to of sorts, made of wood scraps and corrugated iron, had been tacked on. Rachel felt a chill pricking her spine. This shouldn’t be termed a home. The pigs in the village backyards were housed in better conditions. It was a wonder the cottage hadn’t been blown apart by the earlier high winds. Reaching the door, which was splintered as if by several vicious kicks, she grew unnerved and began to expect more than squalor. Instinct warned her that something dreadful was lurking within these wretched walls.

  She had come this far, and there was nothing for it but to carry on and hopefully get this over with, yet her acquaintance with Alice would not simply end here. In no way would she forget poor Alice and her plight.

  ‘Well, we’d better go in, Alice.’ Rachel reached for her hand, judging rightly that she’d need coaxing to enter her home. But Alice wasn’t a little way behind as before; she was cowering under the shutters of the one window. Rachel sighed, wishing now she had gone to Jowan and Thad after all. ‘Come along now. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise. Alice, you must come with me now.’ The authority she put in her voice worked and, very reluctantly, Alice, quaking and mumbling fearfully, went to her.

  Holding Alice’s chapped hand, Rachel lifted the latch of the door. She needed to push hard to get the door open and it scraped over layers of dirt on the roughly flagged floor. She had to fight not to retch at the stench that flew out and she turned to gasp in some much-needed fresh air. Stale alcohol was just one of the beastly smells. She forced herself to peer into what was the only living room. Her fears had been justified; there was no one here but the scene was one of violence, the few bits of basic furniture overturned, and crocks, ale flagons and gin bottles thrown about and smashed. It had been an age since a fire had been lit and ashes seemed to have been kicked out of it. Rachel recalled the smudgy dark marks on Alice’s face and legs – some of the cinders had hit her. The walls were filthy and dripping with grease. Rachel felt contaminated just looking over the threshold. She swallowed down her disgust. How could people live without a trace of shame? There was a sense of hopelessness – no light, no life, just utter degradation and depravity. It was no wonder the Bowden father had killed himself to get away from this.

  She had to grip Alice’s hand tightly to prevent her slipping off, for she was struggling to get away. Who could blame her for not wanting to return here?

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bowden?’ The reeking odours thwarted Rachel’s attempt to call out in a strong voice. ‘Are you there? My name is Rachel Kivell. I’ve brought Alice home. Where are you?’ There was silence, a heavy stillness, brooding and somehow final. Had the other inhabitants of this disgusting place absconded? ‘Alice, where’s your mother?’ Rachel repeated until she was understood.

  ‘Mo-ther! Alice cried out. Flinging her bundle on the fouled floor she pointed frantically to a curtain hanging lopsidedly on a wall.

  Rachel guessed the curtain hid another room, a bedroom, and Mrs Judy Bowden must be in there. Intuition made her fear what the curtain concealed. Alice yanked her hand free and ran to where a makeshift sideboard was tipped over and she huddled down beside it. There was nowhere sanitary enough for Rachel to risk putting down the food bundle. ‘Stay there, Alice,’ she said, raising her voice for emphasis. ‘Don’t run away. I’ll make sure everything will be all right.’ She hoped she could keep her promise. Climbing over the remnants of a chair and other poor quality oddments she reached the curtain.

  Her instinct was to recoil, but clamping her teeth to her bottom lip she edged the curtain aside. This second room contained nothing but sacking and a mattress for sleeping on, and down on the floor near the mattress lay a woman.

  ‘Dear God!’ Rachel clamped a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed by fear, horror and nausea. Judy Bowden was dead, murdered, with a pick – a miner’s tool – embedded in her chest. There were a lot of injuries, blood and mess. Silas Bowden must have come home from the mine and butchered his mother. Alice may or may not have been aware of all that had happened but she had fled for her life. And Rachel had brought her back and put them both into terrible danger.

  Rachel found her feet. ‘Alice! Come with me! We must leave at once. Take my hand, we must run as fast as we can.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere!’

  Rachel’s heart jerked in terror. In the doorway, drunk and unsteady and blocking their escape, was a stocky, bull-necked man. He was splashed with blood.

  ‘I kicked that imbecile out of here an hour or two ago. You’ve made a big mistake, lady do-gooder, bringing her back.’

  ‘I’m a Kivell,’ Rachel hurled at him, gaining a little hope that Silas Bowden was unarmed and his balance erratic. ‘If you hurt me you’ll have every Kivell in Meryen and Burnt Oak after you. They’ll never stop hunting you down. Let me take Alice out of here. I promise I won’t raise a hue and cry until you’ve had time to get away.’

  Silas Bowden belched out roars of crazed laughter. ‘If I wanted to get away I’d be well past Redruth by now, wouldn’t I? I’ll be caught whatever I do, but I’m not going to hang for it. My father might have chosen that way out but I fancy going out in a bit more of a spectacle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rachel gulped. She closed in on Alice and stood in front of her.

  ‘What a touching little scene,’ Bowden sneered. ‘The two of you can be found huddled up. You’ll be a dead heroine, Kivell lady, a blackened skeleton, clutching on to a worthless bunch of twisted bones.’

  ‘No!’ Rachel froze. Bowden was holding out a handful of matches – it would only take one flame to ignite the splashed alcohol. Then she called up her courage and was incensed with rage. She wasn’t going to meekly allow Alice and herself to be hurt. Dropping the food she snatched up a broken chair leg and launched it at the brute, looking for the next missile. ‘Fight, Alice, fight, fight!’ Instinct for survival made Alice obey.

  The chair leg struck Bowden on the shoulder. He was so fanatical that while being bombarded with bits of furniture and broken crockery he was howling with laughter and attempting to strike the matches. Needing to do something more drastic, Rachel grabbed the chair seat and, thrashing through the debris, she ran at Bowden. Screaming with effort and desperation, she raised the weapon and drove it against him with all her might. The propulsion hurtled Bowden clean out of doors. He was propelled many steps backward but managed to remain upright, on swaying feet. A lighted match had hit the floor and it ignited a pool of alcohol. Rachel screamed. Seizing the bundle of clothes she spread them apart and jumped on them, suffocating the flames before they turned into an inferno.

  Bellowing in rage Bowden careered inside, throwing all his weight at Rachel and before she could sidestep the smouldering clothes he caught her round the neck. Slavering and grunting, he squeezed and squeezed and she felt herself choking but she fought back, kicking out while trying to lever his brutal hands from her throat. A bloodied gash appeared on Bowden’s head as Alice hit him with a piece of crock. Rachel grew light-headed and her blood thundered in her ears. Bowden was getting the better of her. She was going to die and then he’d kill Alice. All she could think of was that her aim to help Alice would result in a painful death for the poor woman, her last moments on earth filled with terror, and that she herself would never see James again.

  Suddenly the hands that were killing Rachel were
wrenched free from her and, off balance, she fell to the floor. With her sight hazy she could make out Bowden being punched on the jaw by another man. Bowden hit the floor like a rock, knocked out. She and Alice were saved.

  Alice scrabbled over to her, throwing herself across her chest, squawking, ‘Miss! Miss!’

  Her senses clearing, rubbing at her painful neck, Rachel’s voice emerged raw and husky. ‘I’m all right, Alice. Shush, shush now. We’re both safe, thanks to …?’ Her grateful gaze at the stranger was rewarded with an angry glare. She fell silent. She had been a fool, had acted on stubborn impulse and it had very nearly brought devastating consequences. She had so nearly selfishly left James to go on without her, although so often he had stressed that he couldn’t bear it if he lost her.

  ‘It was a good thing my mother kept watching you, Miss Rachel Kivell. She saw you duck off rather than fetching your menfolk. You were mad to face Bowden by yourself,’ the man threw at her in biting tones. He kicked rubbish out of his way to reach her and the now quiet Alice. ‘Damned do-gooders.’

  ‘At least I tried to do something for poor Alice,’ Rachel croaked, shamed and angry at the stranger’s rebuke – he could be no other than Flint Retallack. ‘The men in the village could have stopped Bowden bullying her at any time. He’s murdered his mother. Her body is in the other room.’ She pushed away the big rough hand that reached down to help her up. ‘Don’t touch me. I can get up by myself.’

  ‘Please yourself. Judy’s dead?’ Flint Retallack went to the curtain to see for himself.

  It took an undignified struggle for Rachel to get herself and Alice upright with Alice clinging to her. Her legs were shaking and her balance was horribly undecided. She remembered what she owed this man and his mother, but she would not forfeit her higher station. ‘I thank you for saving our lives, Flint Retallack. Your intervention means Bowden can now rightly face the gallows. I wish to speak to your mother; please take us to her.’