Rosemerryn

by Rosemerryn (retail) (epub)

  After several moments the door was opened cautiously. Les Tremorrow peeped out through the crack he’d made. He looked as if he had been woken from a long slumber. Poking out thin ragged lips between a stubbly unshaven face, he regarded Ince with his habitual expression, hostile suspicion.

  ‘I hope the Reverend Endean didn’t blab out my business to all and sundry.’

  ‘No, Mr Tremorrow. He mentioned your name in his prayers and I asked him quietly how you were. He only spoke to me about you.’

  ‘I should think so, ’n’ all.’ Les was wearing a pair of very old flannel trousers over a striped nightshirt, his loose braces hanging down to his knees. Slippers with holes in the toes were on his feet. A small humpbacked man with scaly skin, a squashed red nose and shrewish eyes in deep sockets, he had his greasy green and grey flat cap on.

  Gazing up at Ince, he looked as if he was counting. ‘Well, as it happens I could do with a strong young back and arms like yours, boy. I’ve tended to my goats and pigs, I’ve never neglected them. But there’s ground in want of teeling and weeding, the lawn needs mowing, paths need weeding and you can draw some water for the house and animals. The timber on the goathouse needs creosoting and the galvanise tarring. You’ll find all you need in the tool shed. Knock on the door when you’ve finished and I’ll give ’ee a mug of tea and slice of saffron cake.’

  Ince wasn’t concerned about his small reward, his offer of help wasn’t based on what he could gain, but he didn’t like the door suddenly being shut firmly in his face. Few people would offer to help Les Tremorrow. He was too grouchy and inclined to find fault with men and was downright rude to women; both sexes complained that he was smelly. But the main reason that most people wouldn’t come anywhere near Carrick Cross was because they were too scared.

  Carrick Cross was said to be haunted, not least by Tholly Tremorrow, Les’s grandfather, who the locals swore had ‘ridden with the devil’. It was well off the beaten track, approached through the back of the village first by an impossibly narrow lane unsuitable for large traffic, then along the ancient moorland track that crossed it. Suicides were rumoured to have been buried where the two byways crossed. The smallholding was situated half a mile along the track, out of sight in a small natural basin, and was completely surrounded by a high granite stone wall to offset the extremes of the weather. The air was so clear here that the walls were covered with numerous species of mosses and fungi but Ince could imagine this place bleak and isolated in the winter snows. One side looked up to the remains of a small nameless quoit, an ancient burial chamber whose huge slabs of stone had fallen and shifted from their table-shaped position aeons ago. Hawk’s Tor reared up on the horizon and seemed to throw a dark shadow over the smallholding. Some thirty years ago, an unwary walker who had got lost in the mist on Hawkstor Downs had been found dead just outside the boundary wall, his arms stretched out as if he was pleading for help, his face apparently frozen in horror. Ince put the stories down to wild fancies – in the daytime.

  He went to the tool shed, which was knocked up from scraps of wood and galvanised sheeting long turned rusty, and changed his clothes and pulled on his boots. He flexed his muscular arms and looked about for tools. They were scarce and ill kept. It was just as well he had been well fed by one of Laura’s succulent roast lamb dinners if he was to get much work done with the rusted, battered and broken tools at his disposal.

  The shed door was suddenly thrust open and a shaft of strong sunlight streamed in.

  ‘Is it true your boss is marrying that fancy London woman in the village?’ Les asked, squinting at Ince and reminding him of a peculiarly ugly toad he had come across sitting imperially on a granite rock in a stream yesterday.

  ‘Yes, Mr Tremorrow, Spencer is marrying Laura Jennings,’ Ince replied, looking busy so as to ward off early criticism of his efforts.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The first Saturday in May, the seventh,’ Ince said, picking up a half-moon spade that had a quarter of its handle snapped off, and rubbing dried earth off the blade.

  ‘Don’t make a mess of my shed!’ Les snapped, making his bushy white eyebrows leap together. ‘Take it outside and do that. Bit sudden, isn’t it? Is it a shotgun wedding?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Ince answered, remembering the remarks of some of the Methodist congregation that it was a wonder the crotchety old man with his nasty unforgiving tongue had the nerve to set foot inside the chapel. ‘They’ve been engaged for a long time.’

  ‘Have they?’ Les returned, doubt in his croaky voice. ‘Well, ’tis news to me. Get on with your work then, or it’ll be time for you to leave for the evening service and you won’t have anything done.’

  Les shuffled out of the shed and Ince shook his head and reminded himself of the Bible passages that exhorted a believer to love his neighbour, whatever he was like.

  Apart from the lack of good usable tools, there was no oil or rags Ince could use to clean them and nothing to mend them with. He was forced to ‘mow’ the small lawn of coarse field grass with a pair of wobbly hand shears of which the screw that held the blades together needed tightening every few cuts. The ground round the vegetable crops, which Les supplied to a small market trader, hadn’t been tended to for weeks and was hard and unyielding.

  The pulley rope in the well broke and the dented bucket went hurtling down into the watery depths. Ince had to search about for a long nail and fashion it into a hook then let it down on the knotted rope to retrieve the bucket by its handle. It took the better part of half an hour and then Ince found there were small holes in the bottom of the bucket and he lost a lot of water as he filled the animals’ drinking troughs and the tall pitcher for household use that Les had dumped outside his door.

  The only real work Les seemed to have managed in months was the husbandry of the two fat pink and grey pigs and the small healthy herd of white and brown goats. The pigsty was in reasonably good repair but the goathouse was the only building that was really well maintained, dry and draught-proof. It was set at a good distance from the back door of the house, in a sunny spot and sheltered from the north and the prevailing east wind. The four nanny goats and billy browsed or chewed the cud in their paddock as Ince painted their dwelling.

  There were flowerbeds either side of the little path which led to the front door and against the walls. Ince recognised several typical ‘cottage’ species, hollyhocks, snapdragon, marigolds, wallflower, lily of the valley. There was also flowering quince and delphinium and sticks had been put in the soil for sweet peas. Some weeding had been done amongst the flowers.

  Ince only paused from his dusty, sweaty labour to snatch gulps of cold water, but he knew that as he worked Les was watching him. At first he didn’t mind, then it began to annoy him that he wasn’t trusted. Time stretched into three interminable hours, and at the end of them Ince felt there were eyes on him wherever he went. When he straightened his aching back and wiped the sweat from his brow, he felt the atmosphere had turned rather eerie. The black curly hairs on the back of his neck were standing up stiffly.

  Telling himself not to be so silly and hoping Les would be satisfied with the amount of work he had finished and how he had done it, Ince washed his hands at the well and wiped them on his shirt front then knocked on the door for his promised mug of tea and slice of saffron cake.

  ‘Wait there!’ Les shouted to him.

  And he did wait. For fifteen minutes, spending the time admiring his handiwork, the straight rows of black earth mounded round the potatoes, the other vegetables all neatly hoed and weeded, the flat lawn and the strong repairs he had done to the boundary wall.

  The door was opened and Les plonked a small tin tray which had the remains of a Christmas scene painted on it on the dusty ground. Ince ducked his head under the low granite lintel and saw a shabby but clean and tidy kitchen. ‘Here, and don’t break the mug, it’s one of my best ones.’ Les peered up at Ince and gave him a twisted grin. ‘Coming again, are ’ee?’

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nbsp; Ince picked up the mug and took a welcome sip of the strong tea to wet his parched throat. He tried to extract some manners out of the old man. ‘Would you like me to, Mr Tremorrow?’

  ‘Well, not if it’s too much trouble,’ Les grunted, making to close the door.

  Ince was sure he was going to regret another act of Christian charity but he had been taught to help not only those he liked and got along with. ‘I can come again one evening this week, after I’ve done my work on Rosemerryn.’

  ‘See you on Tuesday evening then,’ Les said, and he shut the door with a bang.

  Ince would have banged his fist on the wall in sheer frustration but he felt Les was watching him.

  * * *

  Tressa had been enjoying the same warming sun that Ince had been toiling under, and she sighed at the hazy signs that spoke of a mist coming. Never mind, she was on her way back from the village having shown off her baby first to Daisy Tamblyn and then to Pat Penhaligon who had been Andrew’s doting landlady until they’d married, and she would get home long before the mist blotted out everything.

  Tressa preferred simple things but she was proud of the big carriage-built pram that Andrew had insisted she have and she was thinking there was plenty of room for a new baby in it next year with Guy sitting at the foot. She wanted lots of children. To fill Tregorlan Farm with noise and laughter. To raise strapping, hard-working sons and daughters to take the place of her two beloved older brothers who had been killed in the war.

  She heard a horse clip-clopping towards her but instead of meeting someone she could proudly parade Guy to she was dismayed to see it was Harry Lean. As expected, rather than doffing his hat and carrying on his way, he jumped down and, leading the horse by its reins, walked along beside her, going back the way he had come.

  ‘Had your baby then?’ Harry said, a hint of humour in his voice.

  ‘You can see for yourself, can’t you?’ Tressa replied shortly. She despised Harry Lean. He had tried many times to seduce her before her marriage and she was in no doubt that he was still after her. She didn’t trust him in other ways either. Jacka had nearly died from a heart attack when despite his having paid off their mortgage interest arrears on the farm the bank had insisted they’d received no postal order and were seizing the farm. Tressa had the uneasy feeling that somehow Harry had been involved.

  ‘Aren’t you going to stop and show him to me?’ Harry persisted.

  He wasn’t looking at the baby’s head peeping above its covers but was eyeing Tressa intimately. She was wearing a simple button-through cotton dress, a cardigan resting on her shoulders. She had got her delectable willowy figure back and he was itching to get his hands on it, all of it. Her breasts were fuller due to her motherhood, making her all the more desirable. He was also longing to take Laura Jennings to his bed, but this young woman, who retained a virginal aura about her, was still top of his list for seduction. He had been angry when his plan to have the Daveys evicted had failed, thanks to Macarthur’s intervention, and for a while he’d hoped to see the family, including Tressa, brought down to the gutter, but his desire for her had not deserted him for long. He wanted her so much it hurt him, and if he ever got the chance to take her, there were times he felt it would need a lot of restraint to stop himself from hurting her.

  ‘Why should I?’ Tressa challenged him, speeding up her steps.

  ‘I thought you young mothers loved to show off your offspring. Can I take a look at him, please? Just a quick one. I’m most curious to see if he’s turned out looking like you.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Tressa said curtly, thinking that the only way to get rid of this wretched man was to let him take a quick look at Guy.

  She stopped walking and pushed the hood of the pram down, making sure the sun wasn’t shining on the baby’s face. Gently lifting the top cover, she exposed a third of Guy’s little body.

  Harry leaned over the pram and stared at the baby. To him all babies were ugly wrinkled creatures and this one looked much the same as any other. Very carefully he caressed the boy’s cheek with a fingertip and was surprised at the downy softness there. Tressa gasped briefly in fear for her son. Harry took his hand away and looked into her eyes.

  ‘I’d never hurt the child, Tressa. Don’t forget I’m a doting uncle.’ His attempt to impress her failed. Tressa was glaring at him and it angered Harry. He might be a bit of a cad but he wasn’t evil.

  He said huskily and somewhat dangerously, ‘Macarthur’s not done a bad job, but if you ever want a proper brat you know where to come.’

  ‘Leave us alone, Harry Lean!’ Tressa snarled, positioning herself protectively in front of the pram.

  Harry clenched his fists to stop himself from clutching Tressa to him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had grabbed her, he had even forced a long passionate kiss on her in the past, but this time he didn’t trust himself to stop. ‘Sometimes your purity makes me sick.’

  Tressa shivered. ‘I’m just not interested in you,’ she pleaded. ‘Can’t you accept that?’

  He gave her a dark, lingering look, then turning swiftly on his heel he mounted his horse and rode on to the village.

  Shaken, but in no way defeated, Tressa went on her way. She couldn’t tell Andrew what had happened. He had clashed with Harry before, over that forced kiss, and there would be one hell of a fight. She could tell Laura but she had enough on her mind making her wedding preparations. Guy stirred and Tressa smiled at him, trying to shake off a sudden feeling of foreboding. Harry was sexually immoral but nothing more than that had ever been proved against him. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her or Guy, surely.

  * * *

  Harry pulled up Charlie Boy at the church lych gate, opposite Little Cot. Laura would undoubtedly be at Rosemerryn and he had seen Celeste Cunningham at an upstairs cottage window as he’d ridden by a while ago. The minx had offered sex to him on a plate but, unusually for him, he had not taken up the offer yet. Now he felt his loins would burst if he didn’t get relief.

  He did not knock but walked straight inside. There was nobody about. Tossing off his hacking jacket and hat, he took the stairs three at a time and looked into the main bedroom. Wearing very little, Celeste was dozing on the bed. Harry went to her, sitting down close and running a hand over her silky thigh.

  Celeste woke with a fright.

  Harry put his hand over her mouth. ‘It’s all right. It’s only me.’

  ‘Good heavens, Harry,’ she rasped between her painted lips when he took his hand away. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  Harry glared at her for a second. ‘I did read you right, didn’t I?’

  Celeste wound her arms round his neck. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he swore, ruthlessly helping himself, his mind elsewhere. ‘I won’t be so slow again.’

  Chapter 6

  Laura’s hopes of a quiet wedding were lost the moment the villagers got wind of the occasion. Led by Daisy, aided and abetted by Ada, they took over completely. Daisy, thrilled as if Laura was her own daughter, booked the village hall for the reception and put herself in charge of the catering, begging ingredients from her customers and staying up all night to bake the wedding cake. She assured Laura that despite the harsh post-war shortages the villagers would club together and provide the guests, which looked more and more likely to be the whole village, with a feast. Ada was in charge of church cleaning and promised that it would be fit for a queen to get married in.

  Spencer complained bitterly and Laura, who could see it was no use but to go along with all the kindly-meant intentions, had a difficult time stopping him from cancelling all the arrangements. A quiet ceremony with Vicki, Ince and the Leans, then a small celebration with a few more close friends at Rosemerryn was what he’d had in mind.

  Celeste insisted Laura have a bridal outfit specially made and Vicki a bridesmaid’s dress, and with clothing rationing ended she planned to dazzle the guests herself as matron-of-honour, and no amount of ple
ading from Laura would put her off.

  After a mist-drenched start to the day, the sky cleared. Bluebells were sweeping through the woods and hedges, the may trees were budding, larks soared over the fragrantly sharp and fresh moor. Laura would have felt it a perfect day for her wedding but she was in the worst panic of her life. She looked every bit a lovely and radiant bride in a royal blue full-skirted suit with self-covered buttons and pointed sleeves, white silk-satin blouse, and white netted hat. Standing back from the curtains in Celeste’s bedroom, watching the villagers gathering across the road in their best clothes, the odd new hat here and there, she was asking herself what on earth she thought she was doing.

  From the moment of Spencer’s proposal she had been swept along on a fast tide of excited arrangements. It was only now that she realised she had hardly spent a moment alone with Spencer. They had never got round to taking a quiet drink or cosy supper. They hadn’t even touched each other or passed one single endearment, and tonight she was expected to sleep in his bed. This marriage could be nothing but a disaster. She was about to make the second biggest mistake of her life and enter another miserable marriage. If the villagers hadn’t taken over the event and turned it into the biggest occasion Kilgarthen had witnessed since V-E Day, she would have seen the inadvisability of it, the stupidity of it, the madness of it.

  ‘I expect Spencer’s just as scared as you are,’ Celeste said, floating into the room in a concoction of chiffon and tulle and noting Laura’s harrowed face. ‘Zip me up, will you, darling?’ She chuckled. ‘Lucky old you will have a man to do this for you after tonight.’

  Laura couldn’t move. She stared at her friend’s smooth freckled back, her blue eyes looking three times their normal size. ‘I – I can’t go thr-through with it, Celeste.’

  Celeste turned round and hastily snatched up a handkerchief to wipe away the tear running down Laura’s burning cheek. ‘It’s only pre-wedding nerves, Laura. Pull yourself together. Oh, darling, we’ve let this get all out of hand for you, haven’t we? Never mind, it’ll soon be over and you can settle back and enjoy the reception. The villagers have been very kind. Think how they’re going to love the spectacle of you, me and Vicki walking down the aisle. You’re lucky they’ve gone to so much trouble, our old set would have done nothing like this.’