Rosemerryn

by Rosemerryn (retail) (epub)

  ‘Not hungry?’ he asked, raising his thick eyebrows.

  ‘Not really.’ She looked down at her hands, shaking at each side of her plate.

  ‘Would you like a chocolate biscuit?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘No appetite at all?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not, Joy.’

  ‘Oh?’ She couldn’t bring herself to look at him now.

  ‘You feel it too, don’t you?’

  ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘The attraction we have for each other.’

  Joy got up so hastily she knocked her sandwich to the floor. She picked it up, threw it on the table and fled.

  But Bruce caught her arm.

  ‘Don’t fight it, Joy. We like each other, a lot, perhaps even more than that. I can’t get you out of my mind for a single moment, day or night. I know you feel the same.’

  He pulled her into his arms and Joy struggled — for a little while.

  She became still, feeling the broadness of his body, the brute strength of his thickly-muscled arms, smelling the manly scent of his aftershave. He was looking into her eyes and she felt weak and dizzy. His face was coming closer to hers. His beard was tickling her cheek. His lips were on hers and she went wild with desire.

  They panted like old dogs, clinging to each other, finally breaking into adolescent giggles.

  Bruce bit her neck. ‘That was great. Let’s go upstairs for some more.’

  ‘We’ll have to be careful someone doesn’t come,’ Joy replied, feeling coy as the full force of their actions washed over her. She pushed him away and straightened her skirt.

  ‘Mother won’t be back for ages and if someone comes to the shop we’ll just ignore them. Come on, Joy, don’t let me down. I think we’re about to start something that’ll be really good for both of us.’

  Bruce was jolly and businesslike in the shop that afternoon. People came and went in dribs and drabs, impressed with his efficiency and chattiness, but one customer in particular caught his special attention. He dashed to open the door for Ma Noon who hobbled her great weight inside and bought two ounces of plain flour, gravy browning and a bar of coal tar soap.

  ‘It’s a lovely day, Mrs Noon,’ he said breezily, packing the shopping into her basket.

  ‘You remember me then?’ Ma Noon said, handing him a ten shilling note.

  ‘Yes, I remember you. I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t the nicest of children. My mother tells me that you got on very well with my cousin, Billy. Apparently he did little jobs for you. If there’s anything I can do for you I hope you won’t be shy in asking.’

  ‘You were a despicable child, Bruce Tamblyn,’ Ma Noon replied with a deadly calm, her shrewd eyes glaring at him as if he was so much rubbish. ‘You used to throw stones at my goats and jeer at me. You called me a big fat witch and dared me to put a spell on you. You encouraged the other children to do the same. I despised you then and I certainly don’t want you on my property now.’ Shuffling round, her folds of fat wobbling like ripples on a river, she stuck her bonneted head in the air and made for the door.

  Bruce beat her to it and opened the door for her with a smile disguising the rage bubbling under his stone-hard exterior. He hoped she would trip over the step. He watched her heave her bulk onto the trap; it was accomplished with a considerable struggle. He hoped her pony would drop dead in its shafts, toppling the old woman onto the ground. He swung the shop door shut and the bell jangled in protest.

  ‘Stupid old bitch,’ he scowled. His good manners might have been lost on her but he had noticed she’d been wearing a good quality cameo brooch.

  * * *

  Les Tremorrow watched his granddaughter as she put a loaf of homemade bread on the table for their midday meal. He licked his chapped lips when she added the dish of pilchards he had bought from the fish cart which stopped at the crossroads for his custom. Eve had marinated the pilchards in vinegar and herbs, and after years of plain food, hastily prepared since Ruby had died, he was looking forward to the treat. He was getting used to having Eve around, even if she did have rather fine manners and wouldn’t allow him to swear and disapproved of him smoking his pipe indoors.

  He’d had good reason to throw his daughter, Angela, out of his home. His wife, Ruby, had never forgiven him, and although he’d suffered the almost total silence she’d treated him to for the next twelve years until she’d died, he missed her and had been terribly lonely. He’d had mixed feelings when he’d received Eve’s first letter about Angela’s death and her request that they meet. He was glad that he’d relented and had agreed to meet her. He’d seen from the very first moment that she was a different kettle of fish to her mother. Eve was respectable. And she was kind. She was quiet, but it was a different sort of quietness to what he’d endured with Ruby. She was a willing worker and her tasks were accomplished quickly yet she seemed to move slowly and gracefully, and while he didn’t encourage questions about Angela’s childhood and youth (the truth was too terrible even to think about) she chatted in her soft melodious voice and told him about her life in Plymouth. He didn’t want her to go back. He didn’t want to live out the rest of his days alone. He had worked out a suitable story about her existence to present to the villagers.

  ‘Do you like it here, Eve?’ he asked her suddenly.

  ‘It’s very peaceful, Grandfather. You soon get used to the wind.’

  ‘We hit it off all right from the start, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we did. You can come to the table now.’

  ‘Aw, can’t I have it down here in my chair?’

  Eve thought to argue but seeing her only living relative screwing up his wizened old face appealingly, she gave in, even though he had manners like a pig and without the use of the table a lot of his meal would end up on his shirt and trousers. ‘I’ll bring it over to you.’

  Les chuckled happily. He liked to be pampered. ‘You’re a good maid. Don’t forget the salt ’n’ pepper, m’dear.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t eat so much salt, Grandfather,’ she said chidingly, passing him his meal served on the tray he had used for Ince the first day he had worked here.

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with salt? I can afford it. I’m not short of a bob or two, you know.’ He hoped that would impress her.

  ‘It’s not good for you, that’s why.’

  ‘’Tis nice to have someone to worry over me again after all these years. Don’t know how I stuck it for so long, all alone here, after your grandmother died.’

  ‘Why did you never get in touch with my mother? She might have come to you.’ Eve knew very little about why her mother had become estranged from her parents. All she had ever got out of Angela, who had flown into a rage at her probings, was that she didn’t blame Ruby but Les was an ‘evil man’. There were many things Eve wanted to know. If Angela didn’t blame Ruby, why didn’t they keep in touch? In what way was Les evil? He was lazy, he readily took advantage of her, as he had the good nature of Ince Polkinghorne. He spat and swore, he was none too clean and she often had to remind him to wash and shave, to fetch a clean handkerchief, to change his underwear and socks. And it had to be admitted that it was Les’s grouchiness and ingratitude which had stopped the man with the gentle brown eyes from coming here. That was a pity.

  ‘You know why,’ Les muttered, tucking into his food, not looking at her. ‘’Twas too late to be sorry then and ’tis the same now. What your mother did was unforgivable! Your mother was poison, and she tried to spread it. Don’t ask me about it again.’ If Les wasn’t so keen for Eve to stay he would have flown into a terrible rage with her. ‘At least we’ve got each other. We must be grateful for that.’

  Eve said nothing in reply. She became resigned that she would never know the whole story. Les Tremorrow was a strange, secretive old man, but when you had no one in the whole wide world, you were grateful to be related to anyone, and she did like her grandfather.

  Les scoffed down his food, drained
the teapot dry, wiped his mouth noisily on his shirt sleeve, and settled down for a snooze. Eve was washing the dishes when he gave a groan and got up out of his chair. ‘Think I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a bit, m’dear. Got a bit of a headache. What are you going to do for the afternoon?’

  Eve looked at a bundle of clean laundry she had put aside on one of the deep windowsills. ‘I’ll look for some needles and cotton and mend your clothes, Grandfather. You’ve hardly got a button on your shirts. Did Grandmother keep a button jar?’

  ‘In the sitting room, I b’lieve. Like I said, ’tis nice having someone here looking after me.’

  * * *

  Curiosity got the better of Ince and he made a visit to Carrick Cross that evening. He had often thought about Eve Tremorrow in the quietness of his soul. It helped take his mind off his unsettled life, off having to move out of Rosemerryn. Johnny Prouse had said he could move back in with him any time but Ince was waiting for the right moment to tell Spencer to avoid hurting him. In the meantime he filled his mind with images of Eve. A longing grew in him to know if she was still at the smallholding and to learn something more about her.

  It had occurred to him today while out haymaking that if the quiet young woman was called Eve Tremorrow, then it almost certainly meant that her mother had never married. Perhaps the reason why Les wanted to keep her a secret was because she was illegitimate. A few careful remarks in the village revealed that no one knew what had happened to Angela Tremorrow when she had upped and left home. It was assumed she’d had enough of Les’s constant moanings and went off to seek her fortune. Les hadn’t been to chapel since Ince had discovered Eve so he had been unable to ask the old man about her.

  The days were getting longer and it was still light as he stepped off the moor. The sky was streaked with fluorescent pinks and oranges, a bank of clouds was building up on all horizons, promising rain in the night. When he reached Carrick Cross Ince did a double-take before going through the gate. It was now painted in black gloss and the name Carrick Cross was scripted with a flourish in yellow paint. An oval-shaped plaque had been nailed to the front of the gate, and a picture of a fox and badger surrounded by moorland flowers was expertly painted on it. It looked as if Eve was still here and that she had an artistic streak in her.

  He saw her in the garden, taking in washing, and strode straight up to her. ‘Good evening, Miss Tremorrow.’ There was none of the shock, fear or indignation in her eyes that he had first seen in them. Now they were softly bright, like a kitten’s.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Polkinghorne. So you’ve come back then?’

  ‘I see you’re wearing your own dress.’ It was a simple cotton gown, ruched at the bodice, with plain sleeves and a small, neat, white collar. It gave a little roundness to her angular figure and suited her perfectly.

  She smiled lightly. ‘When you saw me that day I had few of my own things here.’

  ‘And have you all of them now?’

  ‘If that’s a question to find out whether I am staying here for good, I cannot give you an answer.’ She started walking towards the house, the washing basket held on her hip. ‘I haven’t sent for all my things yet. A friend is holding them for me. I might stay. I could easily get myself a new position.’

  ‘What exactly is your position?’

  ‘I think you are not usually so forthright, Mr Polkinghorne.’

  ‘No, I’m not, but I’m most curious to know something about a woman who wants her presence in Kilgarthen kept a secret. Indeed, from what I can gather, no one in the village knows of your existence.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad of that.’ They were at the doorstep. ‘Did you want to see my grandfather? I’m afraid he’s taken early to his bed. He got a sudden fierce headache this afternoon and I took his tea up to him.’

  Ince was sure he knew what Les’s game was. ‘Sounds to me like he doesn’t want you to leave him. He’s got used to having an unpaid servant.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Eve conceded. ‘But he is the only living relative I’ve got.’

  ‘Really?’ Ince had thought that was probably the case. ‘You were going to tell me about your position.’

  ‘I was not, but I don’t mind you knowing. I’m a lady’s maid.’

  That accounted for her nice way of speaking, this pale-faced ladylike creature. He looked at her hands. They were long-fingered and well cared for, the nails filed short.

  ‘How come you’re so good with the goats and pigs? I take it it’s you who have been looking after them.’

  ‘I was a Land Army girl during the war but Grandfather has always looked after them well.’

  The door was opened and Les peered out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Oh, ’tis you, boy. I wondered who Eve was talking to.’

  ‘I think Mr Polkinghorne has come trying to catch us out, Grandfather. To see if you had me chained up in my room.’

  So she had a sense of humour too.

  ‘Have ’ee come to do some work, Ince?’ Les asked blatantly. ‘Eve’s done a few things for me. Did you notice the gate on your way in? But I could still do with a hand with the heavier work.’

  Why don’t you do something yourself? Ince wanted to ask, but his curiosity was still not assuaged over this mysterious young woman, so he said good-humouredly, ‘I’d be glad to, Les.’

  ‘You can’t expect Mr Polkinghorne to start anything now, Grandfather,’ Eve said, moving past him with the washing. ‘It will be dark soon. He must come inside and have some supper with us.’

  ‘She’s good to me but a bit bossy,’ Les whispered in an affectionate tone to Ince.

  ‘I’m sure your granddaughter has many interesting facets to her character,’ Ince whispered back. And he would be interested to learn about them and all her secrets.

  Chapter 13

  Kilgarthen had enjoyed fetes and gymkhanas at Hawksmoor House up until the untimely death of Natalie Jeffries seven years ago. When Spencer blamed Felicity for his wife’s death and refused to let her have anything to do with her granddaughter, Felicity had shut herself away and all social occasions on her property had ceased. Since Spencer had forgiven her and she had taken her rightful place as Vicki’s doting grandmother, she had gradually resumed her role as the lady of the village. This year she was opening the grounds of her house again and was holding a fete and a gymkhana. Many people from all over the locality and most of the villagers flocked there eagerly for the grand opening.

  Felicity had persuaded an acquaintance, Sir Ambrose Geach-Ford, to open the fete. He was a middle-aged man well past his prime, whose froggy features told of a life spent wining, dining and womanising. But as he had no distinguished war record, was not attired as expected of a country squire – he was wearing a rumpled suit and a bow tie which didn’t quite meet in the middle – and hadn’t been divorced in recent years to give the gossips a field day, no one was much interested in him. After two minutes of his blustering nonsensical speech, people were heading off to have a go at the coconut shy, ride on the merry-go-round, try to catch and win the greased piglet, get their mounts ready for the jumps or enjoy the wares of the tea and beer tents.

  Laura had arrived early in the morning with Vicki to help with the preparations and they stood beside Felicity who was wearing a stunning dress and hat, satisfied with the array of colourful tents, stalls and bunting on Hawksmoor’s huge sweeping lawn. The village brass band and a traction engine powering a fair organ provided the music and the members of the village male voice choir were milling around in their maroon blazers to give a small concert later in the afternoon.

  The day had made a wet drizzly start but the sun now shone obligingly on the mid-June afternoon, and utility summer frocks, open-neck shirts, sandals and straw hats were much in evidence. Ada Prisk had to be different. She was wearing a formal grey dress and a green velveteen picture hat heavily decorated with artificial cherries.

  ‘You look lovely, Miss Celeste,’ Ada said. Celeste was out to charm in a red silk-chenille suit with a fan-ple
ated skirt and matching pill-box hat which was trimmed with a black silk bow that was bigger than the hat. Five minutes later Ada pointed her out to a neighbour, Mrs Sparnock. ‘Just look at the woman, all done up like a dog’s dinner.’

  ‘Ada’s on form today,’ Laura laughed to Felicity.

  ‘What would village events be like without her?’ Felicity said happily, then taking Vicki’s hand she went round proudly showing her off to all her guests.

  This left Laura with the unwelcome task of showing Sir Ambrose Geach-Ford to the beer tent which was run by Pat and Mike Penhaligon from the pub. Sir Ambrose may have lost his flair for speeches and his dress sense but he retained an eye for a pretty face. Offering his arm to Laura with a flourish, he tried to steer her round the back of the beer tent. After a struggle she managed to get him inside it.

  ‘Have you got a glass of wine for Sir Ambrose please, Mike?’ Laura gasped, red-faced, fending Sir Ambrose off while pushing him down on the nearest bench.

  ‘Certainly have, my luvver,’ Pat grinned perkily, holding up a bottle of red wine.

  Laura continued on a whisper, ‘Thanks, and will you make sure he doesn’t follow me out?’

  ‘You just leave un t’me!’ Mike bellowed jovially, his pale blue eyes twinkling with the prospect of fun in store. ‘I know his game. I’ll keep un here for a while then get him along to his chauffeur.’

  Laura thanked Mike with feeling, glad that Spencer, who had stayed behind on the farm to work and would be arriving later, hadn’t seen her predicament; he might have thumped Sir Ambrose soundly and thrown him off the premises, regardless of his being the guest of honour.

  Alfie Uren, his younger brothers in tow, was yearning after a wooden model of an aeroplane, a replica of a Hurricane, on the craft stall. All except Alfie had gentian violet to go with moor dirt and sticky jam on their faces. Alfie’s also had a bruise and blood streaks which he had got from fighting a bigger boy who’d insulted his family. Alfie’s hand reached out towards the aeroplane.