Suddenly, he recognised the unmistakable bouncing gait of Nick making his way towards the pub. He was wrapped in a coat and his head was covered by a large hood. He appeared to have someone with him. Perhaps this was the girl. She was much shorter than Nick and was engulfed in an over-sized jacket. He saw them stop and kiss – then she walked away so she clearly wouldn't be joining them. He got up to wave at Nick as he came in.
"Nick, over here – Nick!"
Nick turned and walked towards him, pulling off his soaking coat and shaking a puddle of water onto the floor.
"Dad," he said matter-of-factly, as if confirming the identity of the man in front of him.
"I thought you weren't coming. Have a drink – what do you usually have?"
There was no tradition of hand shaking or embracing. The offer of a drink disguised the awkwardness."
"Beer – don't mind what. Make it a Ferryman."
"What?"
"Ferryman. It's local. Good drink."
He returned with a pint of Ferryman and a scotch for himself – concerns about driving to Bude having evaporated.
"Look, Nick, I know things haven't been good between us but ..."
"Don't let's go there, Dad. Why are you here?"
"Your mother wanted me to come. She's worried."
"It's nothing to do with you. You're wasting your time."
"I had to come down here anyway."
"Why?"
Doug decided that a small diversionary tactic would help to reduce the tension.
"I'm going to Penhallam Manor. Do you remember we visited it once when you were about six? We had tea in the garden after? You scoffed a plateful of scones and cream. Then you were sick on the way back – all over the inside of my nice new car."
Nick's face, which had been locked into a mask of defiant resignation, relaxed slightly.
"So why are you going there? Thought you did your investigative stuff in London with some tart in your bed."
He swallowed hard and ignored the taunt.
"I've been sacked."
"Sacked – why?"
A look of surprise animated Nick's face.
"Have you heard of phone hacking?"
"Yeah, I've read a bit about it. Breaking into to people's mobiles and listening to their voicemail."
"Some journalists on the big dailies have been doing it. They reckon that a few of the junior reporters on The Voice have been up to it. Because I was head of features they think I approved it and was doing it too."
"And were you?"
"Come on, Nick. I do my work by talking to people. Good old fashioned networking. I haven't the faintest idea how to hack into someone's phone. I can't even download an app."
"So are you fighting it?"
He paused, unsure what to say. He didn't want to mention the expenses. Nick thought so little of him already that he didn't want to exacerbate it.
"I don't know, Nick. Maybe I'm tired now. It's all getting dirty. Maybe I need a change."
"Why Penhallam?"
"I'm researching a new book."
"About our family?"
"It's about the Civil War. The Penhallams were involved on the King's side. I want to find out what it was like for people caught up in the fighting – neighbours turned against neighbours – that sort of thing. I need to start writing again. Now, tell me about the problem with this girl. I probably can't help but it can't do any harm."
"I don't want to talk about it with you, Dad."
"I'm your father. You can trust me."
"This is about feelings, my feelings for this girl – right. You know nothing about feelings. How can I even begin to discuss something so special and personal with someone who's emotionally stunted? I couldn't bear the idea that behind some concerned mask you were sniggering and taking the piss."
"Nick, you don't know me – you never have done."
"You've never taken the time to get to know me. Always out on some story. Always an excuse for not being there at a birthday party. Mum and me on holiday on our own because you don't 'do' holidays. Then you walk out on Mum and me so you can screw around in London. What sort of Dad is that?"
Nick was flushed and breathless. He avoided his father's gaze and fiddled nervously with his glass during the silence that followed.
"Just tell me about her, Nick. What's her name?"
Nick paused whilst he weighed up the pros and cons of engaging with his father.
"Her name's Aleena. She's Muslim. Her family came from Kashmir in the eighties. I met her in the first year. We didn't date but we talked a lot and began to spend time together. She's different to other girls. I could talk to her easily – about things that matter to me. She told me about being Muslim – about their beliefs and about the problems of growing up in Britain."
"What sort of problems?"
"Being expected to conform to traditional Muslim values at home then being confronted with western values at school and on TV. She felt alienated. I understood what she meant. I've felt the same." Doug resisted the temptation to argue.
"So what happened?"
"I started seeing her this term."
"Seeing her?"
"Going out – in a relationship."
"Ah."
"She's got a brother here – Hakim. He's a year older. He's OK with us seeing each other, just as long as their father doesn't find out. They're both afraid of him."
"Why?"
"He's very traditional. He wants Aleena to marry a nephew from his own village back in India – a farmer. Then bring him back here to live. It's crazy. He can't speak English. She'd have to support him."
"But she's been brought up over here, educated here. Surely her father must see that."
"It's about honour. He gets great status by returning with a daughter educated in the west to marry a local boy. His roots are still in the village. He's never really accepted life here."
"Then she'll have to leave. They can't force her to stay."
"Aleena's scared they'll kidnap her. She says she'd rather kill herself than be forced into marriage."
"Look, Nick, be careful. You're not responsible. Think what you're getting involved in. Maybe it would be better just to let things cool down a bit. Both of you take a break – spend some time apart. You'll meet somebody else and get over her."
Nick shot his father a wounded look and grabbed his coat.
"I knew it. You have no comprehension of what it means to really want someone. That's your answer to everything – just piss off. It's you and Mum all over again."
He got up from the table, nearly knocking over his chair.
"I see it differently, Dad. It's about values – what's in your soul. But I guess you wouldn't understand that."
Nick rushed from the pub leaving Doug to muse on what might have been.
The mist began to lift as Doug headed out of Exeter on the A30, skirting the northern fringes of Dartmoor. Shafts of sunlight broke through the black clouds and a clear line of blue sky was visible on the horizon in the direction he was heading. He hadn't intended to drive Nick out of the pub and he was angry with himself for letting it happen. It hurt to learn that his son felt so alienated.
The sun was low in the sky as he arrived in Bude, creating shimmering illusions in the haze that hung low over the flat beach. Small groups of surfers were gathered by the shoreline clad in wetsuits, while a few resolute souls still rode the breakers which crashed onto the sand. He parked his car and made his way up a winding path to where he could see a row of hotels. Dreading the prospect of a traditional seaside boarding house, he had used tripadvisor to find something better. His research had thrown up the name The Surfer, described as a 'contemporary hotel which challenged the traditional stereotype of British seaside establishments'.
He quickly found the hotel and was relieved to find that it lived up to its hype. Within thirty minutes of arriving, he was sitting on the terrace overlooking the sea and basking in the sudden warmth of the evening sun.
&
nbsp; "Can I get you something, sir?" enquired a young woman dressed in the ubiquitous black uniform of a waitress.
He didn't feel like a full meal and was happy to settle for a bar snack. He chose steak served in a baguette with caramelised red onions and a bottle of Bordeaux blanc.
The wine arrived quickly, served in a bucket of ice. "Would you care to taste the wine, sir?"
He dismissed the offer and gestured for her to pour.
"Down here for work, sir, or just for a break?"
Oh God, she'd been on one of those hotelier courses where they're taught to engage guests in conversation. Normally, he'd grunt and wave her away but she was pretty and he was in need of some conversation.
"Bit of both, really. I write. I'm doing a bit of research."
"What sort of writing, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Newspapers, normally. But I'm down here researching a book. Know a place called Penhallam Manor?"
"I certainly do. I grew up in a village not far away. I think my parents used to know the people there. But they've gone. No one seems to know who owns it now. It mostly looks shut up – not neglected, mind, just a bit deserted."
"Do you know much about its history?"
"Not much. It's very old. Dates back to the eleventh century. It's supposed to be haunted – a girl who wanders round the house looking for her lover."
"Why would she do that?"
"My dad says it was something to do with the Civil War. The Penhallams were King's people – Royalists I think he said. But her lover – he was on the other side. They were enemies so they couldn't wed. Anyhow, there was trouble – a big fight and they all got killed – the girl, her lover and her father. I'll bring out your steak in five minutes."
He thanked her and filled his glass.
Looking out broodily to the horizon where sky met sea in a haphazard confusion of mist and form he began to ponder the lives of his ancestors who lived at Penhallam almost four hundred years ago. He remembered a little about the Civil War from history lessons at school – a time when friends and neighbours turned on each other. Families were split, some siding with the King and others siding with the rebel Parliamentarians. It was a dangerous time when casual words could lead to summary executions and reprisals.
The war lasted from 1642 till 1651, wreaking havoc across the countryside as armies roamed the land occasionally locking horns in brutal confrontation. Although essentially a fight by parliament against the economic control of the King, both sides also held different religious beliefs – the Parliamentarians pursuing the austere doctrine of Puritanism whilst the Royalists were drawn to the ritual and extravagance of high church and Catholicism.
Eventually the Royalists were defeated and King Charles I was executed. But the victory belonged to one man – Oliver Cromwell – and on his death the country, once again, yearned for a monarch. In 1661 Charles' son was crowned King and the years of insurrection were finally over.
Doug reached for his iPad and Googled Penhallam.
'Penhallam Manor is built round a large medieval hall featuring an impressive chimney stack in the north wall. The windows are Tudor and the entrance porch has a granite doorway with an inscription dated 1642. East of this are an inner hall, which contains a 17th century staircase, and a former dairy, built in Stuart times.'
Below that was an entry entitled 'The Ghosts of Penhallam'.
'The Penhallams were Royalists and hated Parliamentarians. A nearby manor was owned by the Trebarfoots – staunch Parliamentarians. Kate Penhallam and John Trebarfoot were in love but their fathers would never agree to their courtship. The only solution was to elope.
One night, Kate climbed down a ladder to the courtyard where John was waiting, but their elopement was disturbed by Kate's father and an argument quickly turned into a fight which resulted in their deaths.
Since this time, strange happenings have been reported at Penhallam Manor. Kate has been seen in her bedroom and on the main staircase. On the anniversary of the deaths (May 27th) all three have been seen in the courtyard and a re-enactment of the fight has been witnessed.'
Doug's interest was momentarily aroused by the thought of ghosts re-enacting the murder, but then he pushed it to one side – obviously a piece of local folklore. But he felt empathy with Kate and sadness that his own son should be facing similar prejudice nearly four hundred years later. There was a strange irony to the situation.
His eyelids started to droop. He went back to his room and lay on the bed. Perhaps he was getting too involved. His natural instinct was to stand back and let matters take their own course. But Rachel had made him promise and, in spite of the fact that she was about to remarry, deep down he knew he couldn't let her down.
Chapter 4: Penhallam, April 12th 1643
The embers flickered reluctantly in the fire place which dominated the hall at Penhallam. They sat at the oak table which ran the length of the room – Arthur at one end and his family either side. Arthur shouted and waved angrily as he addressed his son Robert who sat to his left. At twenty-one, Robert still carried the puppy fat of his younger years. He lived in fear of his domineering father and quaked as his voice shook with anger.
"You should have been there at Braddock Down, fighting with the King's men, not skulking round this place. We Royalists gave Cromwell's men a kick in the arse. But they're regrouping and they'll likely be coming this way. How can I get it into that thick scull of yours that we're in danger? We could be driven off our land – lose all we own."
Margaret, his wife, and Kate, his daughter, sat together opposite Robert, their eyes lowered as tension in the hall rose.
"But Arthur, someone's got to take care of the farm," beseeched Margaret. We must have produce to sell or we'll have no income."
"Be quiet! What do you know of politics or war? Do you think people don't know we're bankrupt? Do you think word hasn't got round that we can't afford proper staff and that we don't run a decent household?"
He was interrupted as Beth, the kitchen maid, entered the hall, pausing briefly to wash her shoeless feet in the stream that was channelled between the hall and the servants' rooms. She was dressed in a brown shift with a stained shawl covering her head. She carried a bowl of cabbage which she placed on the table next to a platter of venison. As she turned to leave, the sleeve of her shift caught the edge of Arthur's pewter tankard, throwing it onto the stone floor and spreading red wine in all directions.
Arthur erupted from his seat like a volcano. He grabbed her shift and hit her hard across the head with his hand. She stumbled and fell. He howled with rage and kicked her fallen body as she tried to crawl away.
Suddenly Kate was there, holding her and deflecting the kicks from her father's foot.
"Leave her, you stupid bitch! She's not worth wasting your time on."
Kate tried to guide her away from the table but her father's boot caught her on the shoulder and sent her sprawling. She could hear her mother howling then suddenly the voice of her brother.
"Sir, I must ask you to stop this. It's not right to treat a woman in this way."
In the ensuing explosion of verbal abuse and blows which Arthur rained down his son, Kate was able to lead Beth away. But it wasn't long before she heard herself being summoned back to the table. Her place had been cleared. There was no food. She was made to stand close to her father's chair.
She could see her mother, shaking and wringing her hands. Kate remembered how her mother had once been – a strikingly good-looking, carefree woman who laughed and enjoyed the beauty of the softly undulating countryside around their home. In those days, her father had been benign and tolerant. But the worsening political situation and the declining family fortunes had turned him into a vile and vindictive man.
Unlike Robert, Kate had a defiance about her which her father couldn't break. She stood before him, her auburn hair hanging in dishevelled ringlets down her back. At seventeen, she had the slim waist and trim figure of an attractive young woman. She had many sui
tors but only one lover.
"Listen, young woman!" He spat the words out of a mouth contorted with rage. "I've had enough from you. You bring shame on this house. People laugh at me. They think I'm weak. They talk behind my back."
"Father, how can I be responsible for all that?" demanded Kate.
"Because I know you're seeing that Trebarfoot boy. You know they support Parliament. They're set on destroying the monarchy and us with it. By seeing him you humiliate me."
"But father, we've been friends since childhood. Your sister is married to a Trebarfoot. Surely we can find it in our hearts to forgive."
His hand lashed out and hit her face. She stumbled but regained her footing, staring back at him defiantly.
"You will never see him again. I forbid it. If you disobey me I will make you pay a terrible price. Robert, I charge you with ensuring that my wishes are followed. No Trebarfoot is to be allowed onto my land. I oblige you to kill any of them that trespass. As for you, girl – go to your room now and think on the misery you have caused your father."
She made her way quickly to the first floor landing and into her room which lay at the end of a corridor. The room was small – there was space only for a bed and a cupboard. The floor was bare board. A small window overlooked the courtyard with its cobbled pavement and ancient sundial.
A single picture hung on the wall. It was a picture of her father painted seven years ago by a visiting Dutch artist. She remembered that they had still been happy times. She would play outside in the fields and woods – carefree and unaware of what the future held.
The painting depicted a serious man in his mid-forties. He wore a simple dark costume and his black hair reached down to his shoulders. A small moustache adorned his upper lip.
Her father had insisted that the picture be hung in her room to remind her of his presence at all times. She had spent many hours imprisoned here, staring at his features as she contemplated their worsening relationship. She sometimes felt that it captured a time of change. In the eyes and across his brow, she recognised features of the father she had once known – gentle, caring and warm. But in his protruding jaw – hard, arrogant and threatening – she could see the emerging aggression that would come to dominate her life. She shivered at the private memories of his abuse and the threats he made in case she revealed the truth.
The Voice Within Page 3