He thought of Martin. As soon as Rose had rung him he had driven over but the boy was neither at the house nor in his van. Mid-evening he had found him, sitting on a rock, the setting sun giving his pale face a rosy glow. He had barely responded to Jobber’s questions.
Jobber dried his eyes and pulled out his pipe, sucking at the stem and spitting out the sticky blackness which lined it before tamping the bowl with strong-smelling tobacco. Once it was lit he applied himself to the question of Dorothy’s younger son. He decided to go and see him and ask if he might have Star, the greyhound. It would be nice to have something of Dorothy’s to which she had been attached. Niggling at the back of his mind was the worry that he had put too much pressure on her. If it was heart trouble the last thing she needed was his persistent efforts to get her to marry him.
4
‘What do you say, Peter?’ Gwen stood with her hands on her hips, her head on one side, waiting for an answer. She had already half extracted a promise that he would sell his mother’s house when the time came. Her husband slowly chewed a piece of toast, his face as yet unshaven, as he sat at the kitchen table where all their meals were taken because they did not have a dining-room.
‘It sounds like a reasonable idea, but she’ll not agree.’
‘You don’t know unless you ask.’ Gwen sat down, her elbows on the table as she leant forward enthusiastically. She did not tell Peter that she had been up to see Dorothy, nor could she ever admit what had happened. ‘Look, it might be just what she’s waiting for. You know how proud she is, she’ll never admit she can’t cope up there by herself. I bet she’s just waiting for you to suggest it. Besides, she’ll be far better off in one of those warden-controlled places.’
Peter was not prepared to argue so for the sake of peace he agreed to put the proposition to his mother although he knew the outcome in advance. Gwen had changed her tune, she was, by her standards, talking quite reasonably. But something was wrong, he could tell by the excitement in her eyes. Excitement? Or was it agitation? He never really knew what was going on in his wife’s mind. He supposed that she imagined his mother would simply hand over the money. In which case she was a fool. The state would want the proceeds of the sale for taking care of her.
‘She’s never spent a penny on any of us – she’s selfish, you know that. We could do with the money while we’re young enough to enjoy it.’
‘That’s enough! I’ve said I’ll mention it, now leave it.’ He shook his head in exasperation. He was still a young man with a young family but Gwen was wearing him out and today he couldn’t fathom her at all. Still slagging his mother off but without the usual venom, almost like a cat that’s had the cream, he thought, resorting to clichés because he was unable to think straight when his wife’s behaviour confused him.
Satisfied that she had done all she could, that she had covered her tracks, she slipped a hand inside Peter’s shirt and massaged his chest. The children had been dropped at school by a friend, there was time enough to go back upstairs before Peter had to leave for work.
Later, when Gwen was about to collect them from school, she saw, from her bedroom window, the police car pull up. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered as the two officers got out and approached her door. ‘What have I done?’
Ashen-faced and with trembling legs she made it down the stairs just as they rang the bell.
‘Mrs Pengelly?’
Gwen nodded, unable to speak, her fingers clutching at the buttons of her dress.
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was hoarse.
PC Tregidgo ushered his female companion ahead of him. It was she, as Gwen had expected, who said that Dorothy was dead. Gwen’s legs finally gave out. Her knees buckled and she slumped back into an armchair. The WPC offered to make tea.
‘No. No, thanks, I’m fine. Really. It was just such a shock. I mean, she was old, I knew it would happen at some time, but, well, you never do really expect it, do you?’ She was babbling and she knew it. ‘My children. I’ve got to fetch them from school.’
‘Can’t a neighbour go? I really don’t think you ought to drive. Can we ring someone?’
Gwen capitulated. She, too, thought it doubtful that she’d be able to control the foot pedals. PC Tregidgo also rang the school to let them know that someone else would be collecting the Pengelly children.
‘What did she die of?’
‘We don’t know yet for certain. There’ll be a post-mortem.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The two officers exchanged a glance. Most people were upset when they heard this news, Mrs Pengelly’s daughter-in-law actually seemed pleased. An empty paracetamol bottle did not necessarily prove that the old lady had swallowed the lot, she may simply have taken the last two because of chest pains for all they knew. It was up to the pathologist to find out. For the moment their instructions were that the cause of death was as yet unknown.
‘Can we go ahead with any arrangements?’
‘I’m afraid not, not until after the inquest.’
‘Inquest. Yes, I see.’ Gwen pressed her lips firmly together. In a minute she’d lose control, she’d felt her teeth knocking when she relaxed her jaw. ‘And the post-mortem, why’s that necessary?’
‘It’s quite normal under the circumstances if someone dies suddenly and they’re not under medical supervision.’
‘Yes. Good.’
PC Tregidgo raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the kitchen. The WPC took the hint and went to put the kettle on. Mrs Pengelly seemed to be in shock, her reactions were not those they usually experienced in such cases.
‘What time’ll your husband be home?’
Gwen looked up. The policeman did seem young, it was true what they said. ‘Not until about ten. He works for Great Western.’
‘Is there someone who can sit with you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine, and I’ll have the children.’
By the time they had drunk the tea the children had returned home, dropped by one of the neighbours. They were unnaturally quiet at the sight of the two uniforms and went upstairs to their rooms.
Alone at last Gwen went straight to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whisky. She half filled a tumbler and drank most of it standing by the sink. It was an unprecedented action but never more needed. Five minutes later she started to prepare tea for Kirsty and Michael. Breathing deeply to steady herself she realised that now she would be able to buy some more dresses. She never wore jeans or trousers, they were unfeminine and she knew what men liked. Better still, they could move to a large house. But first she had to deal with the guilt and the fear.
Rose was staring out of the window; her face was wet with tears so she did not immediately notice it was raining, ‘Oh, Dorothy,’ she said sadly. ‘How I’m going to miss you.’ She brushed at her face impatiently and went to the kitchen and out into the garden to retrieve the washing which flapped furiously in the spray-laden wind and rain. Hurriedly she unpegged it and threw it into the basket. From the comparative warmth of the kitchen she could hear the loose brass knob on her bedroom door rattling because the windows were open.
As she placed the washing basket on the table a wave of exhaustion swept over her. Delayed reaction. As long as there had been Martin to consider her own feelings hadn’t come into it. And now she was dreading telling Barry Rowe. Rose could not see that Dorothy’s death was that simple. Yes, she was old and not quite as strong as she liked to think, but she was tough and she hadn’t shown any of the symptoms of heart disease. Yes, Rose knew it could happen, a sudden massive coronary, but not to Dorothy, surely? Barry would struggle to hide his annoyance because he was always angry when she became too involved with other people. Jealous, more like, she thought. But Barry Rowe and Jack Pearce no longer seemed to matter much. At some point during that apparently fruitful staring out of the window she had made up her mind about her future.
With a glass of wine in her hand she waited in the sitting-room in he
r favourite armchair for Barry to arrive. The suite was covered in fading chintz, there was an open fire, lit in the winter to supplement the central heating, and cosy table lamps, and nothing was quite straight. Rose’s house, like its detached neighbours, was built of Cornish granite and the rooms were small, although comfortable. The floors sloped imperceptibly and the walls were uneven. Upstairs they were emulsioned but the sitting-room walls remained in their original state, the glittering granite cold but enduring. On the floor was a deep claret carpet which continued through the hall and up the stairs.
Restless, Rose picked up their framed wedding photograph and studied it, unable to understand how she still felt mentally as young as the girl who smiled back at her. Like Dorothy she did not think she would remarry but she had not ruled it out entirely. Sometimes Jack stayed overnight but she could not envisage living with him on a permanent basis. There was a frisson between them which could lead to laughter or, equally, to an argument, but that wasn’t enough. And if she was honest, the novelty was wearing off. She replaced the photograph as she heard Barry calling from the kitchen.
‘Oh, Rosie, I don’t know what to say.’ Barry Rowe stood in the kitchen looking so pitiful that Rose almost laughed. His thinning hair was damp and so were the shoulders of his jacket. His glasses were misted with rain and had slipped down his nose and he seemed not to know what to do with his hands.
‘Some wine?’ Rose poured him a glass, aware that he had wanted to reach out and put his arms around her, but they rarely had any physical contact. ‘I don’t feel like going out, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t. You should’ve rung me.’ He watched her slender figure as she moved around the kitchen. In jeans and T-shirt, her hair tied back untidily, she hardly looked more than a child. Jack Pearce or not, he thought, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
‘I can’t believe she just died like that.’ Rose raised her hands, palms uppermost in disbelief. ‘I mean, not Dorothy.’
‘No one ever believes it at first.’ Barry stopped. He had been about to add, You should know better than most.
‘Well, it’ll be interesting to hear the result of the post-mortem.’
‘You’ve got to stop doing this, Rose.’
‘Doing what?’
She spun around to face him, irritation making her tone sharper than she had intended. Unless she slapped him down now and then Barry had a tendency to be dictatorial.
‘Getting involved.’ He shrugged. ‘Finding problems where there are none.’
‘I thought the world of Dorothy, you don’t know how much I’ll miss her.’ She felt the tears starting again. ‘And just because you don’t give a damn about the human race doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’
‘I’m sorry, Rose. I think it’s best if I go now.’
‘So do I.’ Rigidly she watched him leave, pulling his jacket collar up against the rain, then she sank into a chair. Poor Barry, she thought. He had never been close to anyone. Orphaned young and with no siblings he had been unable to form real relationships. His total emotional output was expended upon herself and she had been mean to him. How could she expect him to understand that she and Dorothy had been kindred spirits? Both had lost their husbands and through their losses had grown into strong, independent women. Rose knew how fiercely she protected this independence. Whatever Barry thought, she knew there was something wrong. And then the real pain began. ‘Oh, David, oh, Dorothy,’ she gasped before laying her head in her arms on the table and sobbing.
Rose woke at six unable to recall going to bed. Sleep had not revived her, she felt listless and depressed. Outside the rain continued to pour down, drenching everything and bouncing off the glass roof of the porch. In a way she was sorry she had cancelled her appointments.
Trying to make use of her time she spent the morning in the dark-room developing and printing several rolls of film. At a little after midday Jack rang. He, too, sounded tired.
‘I would’ve rung last night but I thought you’d rather be left alone.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ Of course he would know about Dorothy. It was to Camborne that she had telephoned.
‘Want me to come over?’
‘No.’ She did not offer any explanation.
‘Rose?’
She waited, knowing by the tone of his voice that there was more to come, that he hadn’t only telephoned to see how she was.
‘Rose, the post-mortem took place today. The path bloke wasn’t busy so he fitted it in.’
‘And?’
‘And … Well, the final results aren’t available yet … Look, this is confidential until after the inquest, OK?’
‘You don’t need to ask, Jack.’
‘No. I’m sorry. Dorothy committed suicide.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Rose was actually laughing.
‘The stomach contents say so. An overdose. There was an empty paracetamol bottle at the scene and –’
‘At the scene? Come off it, Jack, it’s me you’re talking to. Not in a million years would Dorothy kill herself, she loved life too much.’
‘It wasn’t paracetamol.’
‘All right, what was it then?’
‘Something stronger. We don’t know yet. She confided in you, was anything worrying her?’
‘She didn’t kill herself so just sod off.’ Rose hung up.
Fred Meecham drove away from the hospital in a state of numbness finally acknowledging that Marigold was going to die.
Lying in the high bed, her skin grey against the white sheets, emaciated and almost fading away before his eyes, she had seemed like someone else, someone he had not met before.
He was so preoccupied with Marigold that the realisation that Dorothy Pengelly had been found dead hardly touched him. As he parked the van behind the shop he began to think of her, wishing, too late, that he had heeded her advice instead of carrying on unrealistically. Throughout his life Fred had been unaware that his own actions could affect others. He lived in a world where he believed things were done to him, that he was moulded and altered by external events, rather than having any influence over his own destiny By nature he was insecure. Until Marigold came back into his life his only comfort had been in God. But Marigold had changed everything and for the first time in his life he had acted out of character. Fred could not see that if people knew of some of the things he had done before she had come to live with him, they would consider them to be so unlike him as to be impossible.
Upstairs in the flat he sat in the darkness. The wind was rising, the trees at the back swaying, their leaves shaking off droplets of water as the glow from the street-light flickered between them. Soon it would be winter, really and metaphorically. Without Marigold there could be no spring or summer. There was no hope, nothing to assuage the loss he had coming. All Fred had ever wanted was a faithful companion, someone to share his life, someone who would not let him down like all the others. Marigold had been that person, worthy of all the love he had to give. They had, he saw, saved each other. There wasn’t a customer who didn’t declare what a devoted brother and sister they were. Now she, too, was leaving him and there was nothing he could do to stop it happening.
As he tried to come to terms with the future he realised that the past did still matter. He had imagined that once he was alone again he would not care. Instead of wishing himself dead, hoping that he, too, could join Marigold as quickly as possible, a strong sense of survival was emerging and, with it, a need to protect everything he had fought so hard to attain.
Some time during the small hours he took himself to bed. He slept uneasily and dreamed of Dorothy. It was her he saw in that hospital bed, not Marigold. There was blood on the sheets, seeping slowly and brightly down across the counterpane, but Dorothy was smiling, mocking him. Clutched in her hands were bundles of fifty-pound notes, around her were his customers making the same sounds they made in his shop, muttering the same banalities, avoiding the word cancer as if it was contagious. ‘How is she?
’ they would whisper as if by speaking quietly they could lessen the horror. He saw in their faces pity and sympathy but also relief that it wasn’t themselves or one of their own who was suffering.
In the dream they, too, mocked him as if they could see into his soul and knew the secrets hidden there. Everyone seemed to be there, huddled around that bed, standing or sitting, admiring the flowers on the locker, yet still there was room for the nurses and the doctor who came rushing to Dorothy’s bedside as a long, soft ‘Oooh’ was breathed in unison. Dorothy had flung the bloodstained money at Fred before falling back, her mouth open as she died. Rose Trevelyan stood at the head of the bed, smiling.
The money floated weightlessly above their heads like confetti taken by the wind. His customers reached up, trying to grab it, ignoring Fred who became aware that he was invisible. They were as one; he was, as always, on the outside. He walked through the heaving mass of bodies without feeling contact.
When he woke he was sweating although a chill breeze blew through the window he had forgotten to close. His mouth was dry and it took him several seconds to realise that it was a dream and that, although Dorothy had really died, Marigold was still alive, but he rang the hospital just to make sure.
He prayed as he dressed: Please, God, not today, don’t take her away from me yet. As he fastened his tie he nodded slowly as if responding to some unheard voice. Good. It wouldn’t be today.
The bathroom cabinet seemed bare now since the hospital had asked him to bring in all of Marigold’s medication when she was admitted. There had been so much of it as the long days passed. He had kept it there although it was not as convenient as beside her bed but he didn’t want her room to look like a sick room. By her bed had been flowers and a pile of the romantic novels she liked to read. Only she hadn’t read much lately, her arms were too weak to hold the books. Fred had gone back to the library and exchanged them for paperbacks. Marigold had smiled and thanked him and had finally explained that she couldn’t see too well. Each day added to the burden of her infirmities and the doctor had told him it was only a matter of time.
Framed in Cornwall Page 5