Rosemerryn

by Rosemerryn (retail) (epub)

  Ince put up his hands as if he was pulling up a wayward horse. ‘I’m too busy at the moment but thank you for the thought. You were telling me about Les’s wife.’

  ‘Ruby? She died of a broken heart, poor woman. Les was such a swine to their only child, a daughter, always picking on her, making her work like a skivvy, that she left home and went to live in Plymouth. Angela, she was called. She never came home again, not even for Ruby’s funeral. Well, that same night Johnny Prouse was out walking his dog on the moor - you remember Admiral before he got run down and killed? Anyway, it was dusk as Johnny passed Carrick Cross and he’ll swear blind, you ask him yourself, that he saw Ruby sitting outside the front door in this brown spotted dress she often wore, with her arms folded like she was angry or something. We believe she’d made up her mind to haunt Les to get her own back on him for making Angela leave home through his constant moaning at her.’ Ada looked around warily and rather fearfully, as if this talk was tempting fate and her own home would be filled with the supernatural. Then she whispered, ‘You be careful, Ince. It don’t do to stir up the dead. Maybe Ruby don’t like you helping out Les and making life so easy for un.’

  Ince felt a cold tingle run down his spine. He shook himself, telling himself not to be so silly. He’d known Mrs Tremorrow at chapel. She had been a friendly, pleasantly mannered woman to those who’d taken the trouble to speak to her, and she was decently buried in the Nonconformist graveyard in a nearby village. He thanked Ada, dodged the question of her cousin’s maid again and went on his way. Not to be put off, Ada wrote a letter to her cousin, then she went out to get more water.

  Using the narrow path that ran beside the telephone box, Ince went by way of the moor, stopping by a narrow tinkling stream to eat the picnic Laura had packed for him. Mayflies and dragonfly nymphs, some preparing to emerge, flitted over the water and the long grasses. Having spoken so recently of ghosts, Ince was reminded of one of the dragonfly’s ancient names, devil’s darning needle, the innocent creature being credited with flying into a person’s ear and sewing it up. Usually Ince would have felt content with these familiar sights and the warm raw smell of the moor, but his position on Rosemerryn Farm had changed and he was unsettled, and now Ada’s tale was running through his mind.

  The smallholding seemed dreary and bleak when he walked through the little wooden gate he had repaired, the hinges for which he had bought himself and was still waiting reimbursement for. The Celtic roots so deeply entrenched in him made him stand perfectly still, absorbing the atmosphere, his senses alert for dissonance.

  Les came flying out of the front door and shouted heatedly, ‘What the hell are you doing here so early?’

  Ince took umbrage. Before he’d left Rosemerryn both Laura and Spencer had pointed out that Les Tremorrow was only using him. Spencer had called him a fool. Ince himself had begun to think that there was really little wrong with the old man’s back.

  ‘What I’m doing here at all is what I should be asking myself,’ he retorted stiffly. Then he was angry. Before spending so much time here his main quest in life had been to seek a wife. He was in two minds whether to march back across the moor and take Ada Prisk up on her offer. ‘Of all the ungrateful… don’t worry, I’m going and I won’t be bothering you again.’

  Les shot across the few yards between door and gate to him. ‘No need to get so het up, boy. I’m sorry I went for ’ee. I, um, you see, the truth is, since me wife died I’ve got this thing about eating on me own. Don’t go. Put your bag in the shed so you can have that flask of tea later on, then come inside and I’ll make ’ee a nice fresh one.’

  Ince felt he would be wiser to go but he was curious to see inside Les’s home. He nodded curtly and went to the tool shed. True to his word, Les had a mug of tea ready for him, but it wasn’t fresh. Sitting down on a rough, unvarnished, high-backed chair at the kitchen table, Ince took a good look round. Les grinned sheepishly at him but he was disinclined to speak.

  The kitchen hadn’t been modernised since Tholly’s time and was drab and empty, the furniture sparse and riddled with woodworm. There was not a single ornament or picture on the thick, uneven, whitewashed walls to brighten up the room. The fireplace took up almost all of one wall. A solitary old goatskin rug lay in front of it and the only aid to keeping the fire going was a battered black shovel. Slabs of peat were neatly heaped in one corner. Ince had cut more peat on his last afternoon off and it was drying out in a stack outside. A small broken black-faced clock sat in the middle of the high mantelpiece, letters were heaped behind it and threatened to send it crashing to the floor. The curtains at both windows were threadbare and moth-eaten but scraps of cloth were hung over the top of the strings to make the room dark and private. The room was clean but there was a mouldy smell. The place was utterly cheerless; it held little incentive for the daughter to stay.

  Ince was still feeling rebellious. Taking a sip of the bitter tea he muttered, ‘I can’t stay long today. What do you want done?’

  ‘Aw, not much, boy,’ Les returned soothingly. Ince knew he was afraid of losing his unpaid help. ‘’Tis too nice a day for working. Just put me up a new clothes line, I’ve left it out for ’ee, and tidy up the tool shed.’

  Ince didn’t expect gratitude and he didn’t get it. He didn’t want another drink so soon after his picnic and left the tea undrunk. When he got up he noticed there was only one other door in the room; it must lead to the stairs and two bedrooms. He was puzzled. The shape of the house spoke of another downstairs room. His eyes were drawn to a faded thick red curtain fixed to one of the walls by two nails and a piece of sagging string. A sense of foreboding filled him, and while he wanted to know if there was anything behind that curtain, he longed to get outside into the fresh air.

  Les distracted him. ‘You’d better get on, then you’ll have some afternoon left to yourself.’

  Ince was happy to beat a retreat. The ‘new’ clothes line Les wanted put up turned out to be an old length of rope which was none too clean. Ince secured it between a blackthorn tree and a hook on the tool shed.

  Despite the lack of thanks he’d received, Ince felt satisfied with the results of all the hard work he’d put in before today. There was a marshy wet patch at the bottom of the garden and he had cleared away the weeds that choked it, revealing a pool of clear water where wild cress grew. He’d come across the body of a dead cat, not someone’s beloved moggy but a wild-looking mangy stray. He’d buried the cat and burnt a heap of old chicken bones with a lot of other rubbish on a roaring bonfire. The paths he’d worked so hard on were immaculate, the holes filled with cinders, nearly as good now as the ones at Hawksmoor House. He’d brought the vegetable garden under control, the runner beans, broad beans, carrots, peas and potatoes and strawberry plants were growing healthily. Les was partial to celery and Ince had dug a trench, spaded in some well-rotted compost, filled it in and planted the seeds.

  Ince didn’t work with the animals but now, as he often did, he went to his crib bag and took out some titbits for the goats, standing well back because if they didn’t like the offerings they would spit them out. He didn’t know their names but they were his friends. Les kept them well, their coats shone and they smelled fresh.

  It wouldn’t have taken long to clear up the tool shed if it had only housed usable tools but there was a hopeless tangle of empty paint pots, cracked and earthy flower pots, nails, screws and hinges of every description, dust-laden tins of turps, oil and paraffin with just a dribble slopping around inside them. There were empty wine bottles and jam jars from Ruby Tremorrow’s sloe gin, jam and chutney making days – Ince remembered she had been famous for them in the village. There was broken glass, corks, yellowing newspapers going back a decade, decaying seed potatoes, half a sack of hard cement, a rusted watering can with a huge hole in it, even a broken tennis racket. Nails and hooks hammered in the walls and roof stuck out dangerously and Ince’s cheek was scratched and his shirt ripped at the back. Mummified creatures in dusty c
obwebs were everywhere. In a corner he found a long-forgotten rag doll made out of a man’s sock.

  It was humid and sticky in the shed; Ince propped the door open with a huge lump of shapeless rusted metal. An hour and a half later he was still at his task. Hot and breathless, he reached for his crib bag to pour some coffee, intending to go outside for a breath of fresh air, when out of the corner of his eye he saw something moving. He whipped his head round to the doorway and his breath locked tightly in his lungs, his heart lurched wildly.

  Before him was a woman wearing a brown spotted dress. She gasped and a hand flew to her face. Ince’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t gather his wits together to speak but mouthed a silent prayer for help. He stared, expecting at any moment she would disappear. His flesh crawled in icy stinging pricks from head to foot. He was terrified. He was looking at the ghost of Ruby Tremorrow and her eyes were boring into him.

  Ruby Tremorrow turned on her heel and vanished. Not into thin air, she was running away and Ince could hear her footsteps. Ghosts didn’t usually run away, they dematerialised. Some life flooded back into Ince’s limbs and he forced himself out of the shed. He couldn’t see her but somehow he knew he’d find her in the house. He was inside the front door in a trice.

  The kitchen was empty. He could hear loud snores coming from upstairs - Les was taking his Sunday afternoon snooze. Ince pulled the double curtains away from the windows and glanced outside. There was no sign of the ghost out there. Spinning round, he faced the curtain fixed to the wall. Drawing up his courage, he crossed the room. Standing in front of the curtain he found his fists were tightly clenched. Uncurling them, taking a deep breath, he pulled the curtain aside and found a door. A low door of bare wood. He put his hand on the brass knob and turned it.

  He stepped into what was a small, square sitting room. The difference between this room and the bare kitchen was astonishing. It was carpeted and well furnished. A big vase of garden flowers stood on top of a china cabinet. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn over at the window but he could see Ruby Tremorrow through the gloom. She was standing behind the settee, trembling hands on its back, staring wide-eyed at him. The room was stuffy but through the musky odour of the flowers he detected a faint smell of violet scent which he knew came from her. He could hear her harsh breathing. He had frightened her too. His work had taken longer than expected and she must have assumed he had gone home. She was no ghost.

  ‘Mrs Tremorrow?’

  She didn’t answer, nor did she take her eyes off him.

  ‘I’m sorry if I scared you. You scared me too. I’m Ince Polkinghorne. I’ve been helping Les out about the place.’

  He stepped closer to her and she moved to the middle of the room. Then, as if admitting the game was up, she spoke in a tone that sounded like resignation. ‘He won’t be happy that you’ve seen me.’

  ‘Why? Because you’re not really dead?’ An insurance fraud was running through Ince’s mind.

  ‘You’re talking about my grandmother,’ the woman said in a quiet and unemotional voice, then going to the window she thrust back the curtains and Ince saw the truth of her words. Sunlight flooded in and illuminated her, a plain young woman in her early twenties. If this had been Ince’s first sight of her, he would not have doubted she was a ghost and he would have hightailed it from the room. Her skin was very pale, like that of someone who spent little time outdoors, large brown eyes stood out darkly above high, tight cheekbones. Her hair was short and straight, a simple style with a full fringe, framing an impassive, longish face. He could see the dress was too big for her, disguising any figure she had.

  ‘You’re wearing your grandmother’s dress,’ he stated.

  ‘And you thought I was her ghost,’ she replied.

  ‘How long have you been living here?’

  She looked away, obviously not wanting to answer questions, but Ince felt he had the right to know something about her.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Eve Tremorrow. Please go. If Grandfather finds out you’ve seen me he’ll be furious.’

  ‘I don’t care if he is. What are you hiding from? Are you in trouble with the police?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She looked down with a hint of a sigh, as though she was used to being ordered about, but there was also a marked dignity about her movement, cutting her off from him.

  Ince wasn’t prepared to be dismissed. Things were falling into place. ‘Why doesn’t Les want me to see you? I was never allowed to come here at mealtimes. Was that because you were eating with him? Knowing that lazy so-and-so, I imagine you cook the meals, serve it up then do the dishes. I bet it’s you who looks after the animals and flowerbeds too. How long have you been here like this?’

  Eve Tremorrow stood stock still, saying nothing. There was something wrong here. Was the old man keeping his granddaughter a prisoner? Ince ran upstairs to demand the truth.

  Les was lying on top of a double bed, covered with an imitation watered silk bedspread that was badly snagged. He was in the middle where the mattress sagged. A nearly full chamber pot gave off a fetid smell and no windows were open. Marching across the bare creaking floorboards, Ince flung up a window, making it shudder against its sashes.

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Les wailed, waking up with a start. He was stung to fury to see Ince in his room. ‘What the bleeding hell are you doing here? Get out! Get out at once or I’ll have the law on you!’

  Ince stood his ground and pointed a finger. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re keeping your granddaughter a prisoner here.’

  ‘You’ve seen the maid?’ Les blinked rapidly, throwing aside the bedspread and wriggling off the bed, dressed only in his patched woolly combinations. ‘What the hell’s been going on while I’ve been up here?’

  ‘Nothing’s been going on,’ Ince snarled, angered at the old man’s outrage. ‘I’ve seen Eve and I’ve spoken to her. She thought I’d finished in the shed and was shocked to see me still there. I followed her into the house. Now you explain to me what’s been going on here or I’ll get the police.’

  ‘Bah, you interfering young bastard! How dare you make assumptions. I’m not keeping the girl here against her will if that’s what you’re inferring.’

  ‘Mind your language, you old swine.’ Ince towered over him and Les was suddenly intimidated.

  ‘I – I’ve done nothing wrong, Ince. Go down and ask Eve for herself.’

  ‘I will.’ Ince barged out of the room. ‘It had better be a good story.’

  When he closed the door to the stairs, he found Eve in the kitchen. She was standing in front of the huge fireplace, her hands clasped together. Now he could see her in a natural light she cut a dignified figure.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know, then you must go,’ she said, her voice soft and mellow, the words finely and precisely pronounced.

  ‘I’m sorry for chasing around the house but I was worried about you,’ he replied, somewhat humbled now. He was as curious about this young woman as Ada Prisk would be.

  Eve retained eye contact with him. Her chin, firm and well shaped, lifted, just a fraction, but he saw it. He sensed a stronger character here than he’d first thought.

  ‘My mother died three months ago. When I was going through her things I came across my grandparents’ address. I’ve known all my life that she was estranged from her parents and we only found out by chance that my grandmother had died several years ago. Anyway, I wrote to Grandfather and asked him if I could visit him, just for a few hours. He wrote back saying that he wanted nothing to do with me, but as he is the only relative I have left, I persisted with my letters. He finally relented and agreed we could meet.

  ‘When we met at the railway station we got along well and he said I could stay with him for a few days so we could get to know each other. My employer allowed me to take my annual holiday. While I was here, my employer had a stroke and was put in a nursing home. Her son dispensed with my services. Grandfather said I co
uld stay longer and I’ve been here ten weeks altogether. I might stay on or I might apply for a new position. It all depends…’

  ‘Depends on what? And why do you want to stay out of sight?’

  ‘They’re both personal reasons and I hope you won’t say anything about me in Kilgarthen.’

  Ince shook his head. ‘It’s an odd thing to be asked.’ Her explanation had sounded truthful but it was a very strange situation.

  ‘Please, Mr Polkinghorne,’ and a little pleading came into her voice. ‘At least will you say nothing until we make up our minds whether I stay or not?’

  ‘Oh, Les will want you to stay all right, as an unpaid slave.’

  His bitterness wasn’t lost on Eve but she didn’t react to it. ‘That’s our business.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, forgive me. I’m forgetting myself. I’d better go.’

  ‘Don’t leave thinking I’m not grateful for all you’ve done for my grandfather, Mr Polkinghorne,’ Eve said, following him to the door. ‘Will you do as I asked?’

  Ince saw that Les had come into the room. He was fully dressed. ‘All right,’ Ince said grimly. ‘I won’t say anything. As you’ve said, it’s none of my business anyway.’

  ‘You coming again?’ Les asked, and there was no gratefulness or friendship offered in his voice.

  Ince shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

  He cut across the moor on his way back to Rosemerryn. It was a long walk but he needed the time to be alone, feel the bracing fresh air, the sense of timelessness, the solitude. Laura had insisted he come home for tea but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Suddenly Ince was tired. Tired of living without a real home, a real family; he felt like a cuckoo in the nest at Rosemerryn. He was physically tired with all the hard work he had put in on the farm and smallholding for the last six weeks. He was tired of being good old reliable Ince, never stinting himself for other people and never getting anywhere himself.