What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  She guesses what I’m thinking, and replies, ‘No, no, nothing like that, love. It’s not about me. Or about your father. It is about … do you remember Mr Grose?’

  ‘From Treworran Hill?’ Although it’s years ago, I’ve never forgotten Mr Grose.

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’ She sounds surprised. She hasn’t expected me to even remember the address. ‘I might have told you that he was taken to hospital a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘Well, actually, it may have been around the time that you were in hospital yourself and I didn’t want to tell you.’ A most likely explanation for withholding from me such otherwise useless information.

  ‘Okay,’ I say warily. I cannot imagine that she’s still upset about Mr Grose. Unless he died recently and she now feels emotional about it. Regret, perhaps too.

  ‘He had a fall a while ago,’ she continues, as if reading my mind again. ‘They took him to Treliske and found out that he had suffered a stroke. He had a couple of strokes later when he was still in hospital and … well. He’s still in there. I visit him every now and then when your father needs something from Truro.’

  My poor father, finding an excuse to go shopping in Truro rather than being dragged into visiting people in hospital he barely knows.

  ‘I feel rather sorry for Mr Grose.’ She rattles on. ‘The poor man hasn’t got a soul in the world. He never had children and he and his wife were without siblings themselves.’

  ‘I had no idea he’s still alive,’ I say, filling the silence.

  ‘No, I suppose you didn’t.’ She sounds disappointed somehow, as though she’s been telling me about him several times and discovers that I haven’t listened.

  ‘He’s soon to me moved to a care home.’ She pauses for a cynical chuckle. ‘Bed blocking, that’s what they call it, isn’t it? A disgrace! To think that Mr Grose fought for his country in the war and that he helped rescue us from …’

  ‘Mother?’ I reprimand.

  ‘Sorry dear. Well, they found a suitable place for him in a care home and he will be moved out of the hospital at the end of this week. Everything seemed to be sorted, but now someone has asked about clothes and other personal belongings. Photographs, paintings or other mementos. Perhaps a small piece of furniture. You know, to make his room look more … recognisable to him. I don’t really know why he thought of me, because, you know, he’s never been very … close to me, but … anyway, the nurses in the hospital kind of knew that I have a key to his house. I clear the mail and keep an eye out for him, you see. But now they’ve asked me to get some more clothes for him. And choose some personal items which he may appreciate having around him in his new room.’

  I think of Mr Grose’s house and can’t help a shiver. ‘Why are you telling me this, mother?’

  ‘Well.’ She clears her throat. ‘I saw Mr Grose and I asked him if he could think of anything that he wants me to collect from his home. I didn’t think it was a big thing to him because he seemed all right about going into the care home. But, well, he got rather … upset about it.’

  ‘Perhaps he realizes what it means.’

  ‘Yes, maybe so. But the thing is, Andy, that house has always given me the creeps. I let myself in to check his mail and all that, but I never stay one minute longer than I need. You know, with that kitchen door locked all the time. And besides, well, to my relief, to be honest, he was quite adamant that he doesn’t want me to go there.’

  ‘Perhaps his memory has gone and he’s forgotten what he owns. Maybe he got upset about that.’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that! In fact, there is nothing wrong with his memory. Well, obviously he doesn’t remember what date it is or what he had for tea yesterday but, for instance, he remembers everything about you. In fact, he would like to see you. He said he will tell only you what he wants from his house. He insists that nobody else but you goes in.’

  Another shiver runs down my spine. ‘I’m surprised he remembers me. I’ve only met him maybe three or four times. And that was years ago.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I can picture her pursing her lips together. Remembering.

  My mother used to visit Mr Grose regularly as part of her volunteer job for a charity that aimed to assist the elderly and less gifted people, helping with odd jobs in and around their homes and giving them general support. She tried to limit her duties to the minimum during school holidays, but for that one day when the bottom part of Mr Grose’s set of false teeth broke in two halves and there didn’t seem to be anyone else available to collect them from his house and take them to a dentist for mending. I can’t recall now what she told us about it at the time, but I do recall how shy and reluctant I was to have to go with her and how I felt when I was about to meet him for the first time. My mother didn’t seem all that keen either, but there was no other option than to take me with her. I’d never even seen him before but, admittedly, I became curious about him from what my mother told me about him. His wife had died in front of him, at their kitchen table, a trauma that changed his life and couldn’t be wiped from his memory. The sight of the mess of food and blood mixing on her dinner plate, then dripping onto the floor, never left him and from then on he associated her death with everything that was remotely dirty. Inevitably perhaps, he developed a phobia: an irrational fear of being contaminated with dirt or germs. In hindsight, I suppose, in his case it was also a fear of dying as suddenly as his wife had.

  I have no recollection of my mother saying that she liked or disliked him, but she always spoke of him with a certain amount of fondness. She knew, of course, that his wife had died. Perhaps she felt sorry for him. By that time, his phobia had developed and he wouldn’t go out of his house any more.

  He can’t have been as old as I thought he was but, at the time, I thought he must have been about a hundred years old. If not older. He had wavy grey-blonde hair that stood up from his skull like an electrostatic halo. I remember staring at his huge ears and believing that with ears like that, you could hear everything from miles away. Wearing a brown velvety dressing gown over a neat pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, he looked like a character that appeared in the books I read, and then subsequently in my dreams and fantasies. Or rather, in my nightmares. I was eight years old and, to me, he was the bogeyman who snatched away naughty children.

  I was so nervous, I had to use the toilet as soon as we arrived, my mother raising her eyebrows disapprovingly; making me wait with crossed legs until she’d wiped everything in the bathroom that I might possibly touch with my fingers. When I had finished in the bathroom, I heard her humming upstairs, quickly changing his bed for him. My mistake was that I didn’t wait for her to introduce me to Mr Grose properly. I stood in the hallway, looking up the stairs, but then I couldn’t take my eyes off it when I noticed a padlock on one of the downstairs doors. The padlock hung on two strong metal rings screwed into the frame and the door itself. It was open. It was like Pandora’s box. There was nothing more interesting for a boy like me. I just had to open that door and find out why someone had put a padlock on a door inside his home.

  Mr Grose found me a few minutes later, as I stood in the open doorway gazing at the drawers and cupboards with missing fronts, and trying to avoid looking at the kitchen table in the middle of the room. There she was, his deceased wife, wearing a pretty pale dress, sitting behind her dinner plate piled up with food, and some other stuff which I didn’t care to examine, still holding a knife and fork in each hand as if she was about to eat.

  ‘Don’t disturb her,’ a voice whispered in my ear, startling me to a near heart attack. Mr Grose gently touched my shoulder and closed the door behind of me, clicking the padlock into place to lock the door with a key that dangled on a gold chain around his neck.

  I don’t remember that there was ever another word spoken about it, not even when my mother came down from upstairs and looked at us suspiciously. Obviously, she noticed my pale face and shocked expression and she demanded to know w
hat had happened as soon as we left the house. But I kept my head down and didn’t look back because I knew that Mr Grose was standing at the window and he was following me with his eyes. He never said anything of the kind, but he willed me with those eyes not to say anything about what I’d seen.

  It was about two weeks later that I finally gathered up the courage and asked my mother if she’d ever been in his kitchen. Or seen what was in it. She hadn’t. Previous volunteers had tried to open the door and were subsequently refused to enter the house with the threat of a lifetime ban for trespassing. My sensible, practical mother, however curious she may have been, never tried.

  After the first time, Mr Grose asked her to bring me to his house again. I didn’t want to go, but good Samaritan as she was, my mother thought it would be rude to ignore the wishes of a very lonely man. If I’d made a point of it, I’m sure my father would have stepped in but, in truth, I was curious and intrigued also. I had told my friends about what I’d seen in that kitchen, but they had laughed at me, calling me a ‘silly sod’ and ‘insane’, which, gradually convinced me that, whatever I’d seen in that kitchen, I must have misinterpreted it.

  ‘I can’t imagine what he wants from you, Andy, but I can no longer ignore his requests,’ my mother said, looking me straight in the eyes as though hoping I could explain it to her. ‘And I will stay with you and keep an eye on you, of course. I won’t leave you out of my sight.’

  At that time, I only had a vague idea about abuse, least of all of a sexual kind, and I had no idea at all that it could happen to children, yet the situation made me blush and I couldn’t make myself ask her what she meant exactly. I doubt if she would have replied in all honesty.

  So I sat next to him on a foot stool and I listened. He wasn’t used to dealing with children and he spoke to me as an adult. He never explained about his kitchen, but he did mention that he barely ever set foot in there. Which didn’t surprise me at all. He’d bought a kettle and a microwave and had someone place a large fridge-freezer in the hallway where his coat rack used to be, and stacked it with frozen meals. Every day, he had one of the meals for his lunch and one for his tea. He wasn’t a stupid man. He watched TV and when he realised that he wouldn’t stay healthy or even alive without going outdoors he bought a computer and had a WIFI connection installed to be able to order online everything that he needed. He set up an online bank account as soon as the service was available and someone brought him some cash for tips for the delivery men.

  For my part, I answered his questions about my life at school, my friends and family while my mother busied herself with a dust cloth and wet wipes. She didn’t hoover the place because she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to hear me over the sound. If she had ever thought that my relationship with Mr Grose was of a dubious nature, she would never have said so. But after three or four times, she never took me to him again. I always wanted to ask him about the kitchen, but there was never the right opportunity. And he’d never given me a second chance to have a look.

  ‘Andy?’ I become aware that my mother hasn’t stopped talking until she is now waiting for a reply.

  ‘Sorry, mother, I was miles away.’

  ‘Will you go and see Mr Grose, please? I know it means a lot to him.’

  ‘Yes, I will see him.’

  That night, lying alone in my bed, I think about love and death. Mr Grose never got over his wife’s death. After that, he was a sad, lonely, mostly disturbed soul. Mad in one sense, if you had to put a label on him. So, young as I was, I understood that life isn’t always without pain. Or grief.

  Trying to wipe away the memories of him, I stretch my arm and open my hand. I imagine Lauren’s body beside me, an image so strong that I can almost feel her breath against my face, her heartbeat against mine. Reaching out beside me, I find only a cold and empty place. I close my eyes and feel the darkness of my mind reaching out to me instead. I turn onto my back and let my fingers run down my chest and belly, avoiding the fresh stoma bag on one side, until I reach my groin. I touch myself, thinking of Lauren, wanting her, needing her. But nothing happens. I haven’t had an erection since I had surgery. Months ago. Mr Cole tried to reassure me that it is only a matter of time. I’m not sure if he was telling the truth. All I know now is that I am not in a position to offer a new future to Lauren and her sons.

  I shouldn't have agreed to take her and her sons out for her birthday tomorrow.

  13

  The weather has let us down. The forecast sounded promising, but there is no sign of the sun and it is too chilly and windy to spend a few hours on the beach. Instead, Lauren has requested a visit to Padstow. There are shops with the inevitable items for tourists. Made in China. Queues outside pasty shops that now offer much more flavours and fillings than the traditional Cornish recipe, like Thai curry pasty’s, or blue cheese and chickpea fillings for the vegetarians. In the sheltered harbour are small boats and larger sailing yachts amongst the fleet of fishing vessels. The Jubilee Queen is waiting for the tide; she will soon depart for a trip around the rocky islands off the headland, with passengers hoping to spot seals, dolphins or a shark.

  Joe and Stuart follow in our trail, sulking and trying to remind their mother that it’s a day out for them as well. I buy them all a pasty and an ice cream, and a green silk scarf that contrasts beautifully with Lauren’s red hair. We watch strong young men launching a gig, listening to their banter as we watch passengers board the ferry to Rock across the estuary. The sun breaks through the clouds and I suggest a walk up the beach which stretches out towards the dangerous Doom Bar.

  Joe and Stuart share a look and nod in agreement as though they are doing me a favour, rather than the other way round. The sand is surprisingly warm beneath our bare feet. Lauren has wound her new scarf around her head, strands of red curls wave around her face. She is carrying two pairs of sandals in one hand, laughing as her son’s feet sink deep into the soft sand, making it difficult for them to run. It brings a warm and loving smile to her face and I almost envy the boys.

  ‘Perhaps it was a mistake dragging them to Padstow,’ she admits.

  I shrug. ‘Why? We are here to enjoy ourselves and if that means one has to give in to the other, then so be it.’

  ‘Is that how you feel today?’ Her voice is serious and a small frown creases her freckled forehead. ‘Are you trying to please me and the boys, but not yourself?’

  ‘No, that was not what I meant.’ How can I explain that every detail of this day is a precious gift to me? That I like the company of her twins almost as much as I like hers? That it makes me feel as though I belong to someone, that I’m not alone.

  ’I’m enjoying myself, Lauren.’

  Something in my voice makes her turn away. A silence settles between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. I try to say something, but nothing comes. Then the moment is gone. The boys have found something. An empty bottle made of green glass, its aluminium cap weathered by salt.

  ‘Is there a note in it?’ Together with Lauren, I bend to look at the ‘treasure’ in Joe’s hands. There is sand on his face and in his hair.

  ‘A note?’

  ‘Like a message in a bottle.’

  ‘What sort of message?’ Stuart asks seriously.

  ‘Well. Suppose you are the only survivor of a sinking ship and you end up on an inhabited island. And you want to go back home but obviously you have no landline, or mobile phone, or anything else to make contact with. But if you have a bottle, you can write a message on a piece of paper, put it inside the bottle, throw it into the sea and hope that someone will find it and rescue you.’

  Joe nods, the idea appealing to him, but Stuart cocks his head and looks at me, eyes thoughtful. ‘What if you have nothing to write on? No paper, no pen?’

  ‘Perhaps you could find a large leaf from a tree and scratch the message onto it with your finger nail. Or you could scratch the message onto a pebble.’

  ‘What if the pebble doesn’t fit in the bottle?’ He mentall
y measures the top of the bottle.

  ‘But what if you don’t have a bottle?’ asks Joe, following his brother’s train of thought.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until one washes up on the beach,’ I say, suppressing a smile. ‘Like the one you’ve just found.’

  ‘Perhaps we can write a message and throw it back in the sea?’

  ‘You could do that.’

  The conversation results in Lauren emptying her bag on my jacket spread out on the beach and we search through its contents for a pen and a piece of paper. Eventually, we decide on a supermarket receipt because it already has the date and address printed on it. The boys edge away from us, making sure they’re out of earshot, as they prepare a message for their bottle. There are giggles and sniggers. In a ceremonial manner, Lauren – as it’s her birthday – has the honour of launching the bottle into the sea as if it’s a brand new yacht being launched on her maiden trip. We watch it bopping on the waves until it drifts off with the retreating tide.

  There is something white in the distance and the boys are guessing what it may be. They roar with laughter as their suggestions grow wilder and unlikelier. A big white shark. A sailing yacht washed ashore with a lone survivor. They don’t seem to notice how difficult it is for me to keep up with them, my feet sinking in the soft sand. I feel my legs weaken with every step, my heart pumping loud and fast in my chest. Demanding the ultimate from my muscles and legs.

  Lauren stops when I halt to gather my breath. ‘Are you all right, Andy?’

  ‘Out of practice, I guess.’ I stutter between breaths.

  ‘Boys! Joe! Stu! Wait for us!’

  ‘No Lauren please. Let them go on.’

  She hesitates, torn between love and concern for her boys and sympathy and anxiety for me.

  ‘It’s just the aftermath of the operation,’ I admit, glad to have my breathing under control again. ‘You go with them, Lauren.’ I look up again. ‘I’ll follow, I promise. And you can rest assured that I’ll get there in the end.’