Rose stayed for only half an hour. The port was strong and she had to get the car home and catch up with some work. Martin was having supper with Jobber so she knew he would be in safe hands for what was probably the worst day of his life.
Once home Rose felt the sudden need of someone to talk to. She rang Barry. ‘Are you busy?’
‘No. Hardly anyone about today, surprising as it’s turned out fine. Mind, it’s bloody cold in the wind. And you know I’m never too busy for you, Rosie.’
How she wished that Barry would not make his feelings so obvious. He was bound to gloat when he heard about Jack.
‘How did it go this morning?’
‘As well as these things can. There were only a few of us there.’
‘I think you need a bit of cheering up. Look, let me take you out tonight. Put your glad-rags on and we’ll go and have a decent meal somewhere.’ And please don’t say you’ve already arranged to meet Jack, he prayed.
‘I’d love that. Thank you, Barry.’ They arranged a time and she hung up, picturing him in his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up as he worked his way through the ever-increasing mound of paperwork which littered his desk in the back office. He reminded her at times of an absent-minded professor. Perhaps it was the thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses which did it. He’s a good friend to have, she thought, as she settled down to some paperwork of her own.
Barry’s main downfall was the lack of a sense of humour. He took life and himself too seriously, which was the opposite of what Jack had accused her of. But that evening he excelled himself. Sensing Rose’s grief over Dorothy and something else he was unable to define, Barry went out of his way to entertain her and he managed to succeed.
‘So, what plans for the immediate future?’ he asked as he helped her on with her coat prior to taking her home.
‘I’m having a shopping trip to Plymouth. It’s ages since I’ve done that.’
Barry knew Rose’s aversion to shopping but refrained from commenting. Perhaps Jack was taking her out for the day which might make it more appealing. He did not want to know. When she changed the subject he decided he was wrong, that Rose was probably off on one of her crusades, and he wanted to know even less about that. Of course, it might all be innocent; Rose rarely bought new clothes but perhaps the trip was intended to cheer herself up after losing a friend. At least he could credit himself with having helped a little in that direction.
Neither of them mentioned Jack. Rose knew that to make a point of explaining the situation would only lead Barry to build up his hopes. She thanked him for the meal and left him wondering what was going through her mind.
Thursday morning dawned crisp and bright. Too crisp for September. Rose shivered as she pulled her dressing-gown around her waist and belted it tightly before closing the bedroom window. Twisting a towelling band around her hair she went downstairs.
In the garden the leaves were beginning to show signs of red and gold. Autumn was usually late in Cornwall, but not that year. The climate, despite the rainfall, was suitable for subtropical plants to flourish. Rose could only ever recall one occasion where frost had damaged them.
While the water trickled through the coffee machine she fingered the envelope which still lay on the table. Addressed to herself it contained no letter, only a street map. A few days ago it would have meant nothing, now it told her that her suspicions were correct. That Dorothy had left her a message, cryptic though it might be.
Plymouth, she thought, as she gazed out upon the now tidy garden. There were plenty of trains and there was no point in going through an endurance test with the car. She checked her timetable and picked an early one. Penzance being the terminus there would be plenty of seats. Half an hour later she set off on foot, enjoying the level walk along the Promenade and the crisp wind in her hair.
She bought a day return ticket and a coffee to drink on the train. For the first half-hour she looked out of the window, emptying her mind of all that had gone before that week. The sea was rolling in over the sands of Marazion beach. Shallow breakers with white crests broke along the shore. The causeway leading out to the Mount was still covered. Later, when the tide turned, people would be able to walk across.
Rose had made sure her credit card and cheque book were in her handbag. Whatever else happened that day she was determined to buy some more new clothes. But before she did that she was having coffee with Audrey Heath.
The simplicity with which she had found Marigold’s mother had been astonishing. Her number had been listed in the telephone directory, although it was not the first Heath she had rung. She was not certain who Mrs Heath believed her to be. Rose had been vague over the telephone and allowed her to draw her own conclusions. Having ascertained that she was related to Marigold Heath, and Rose did not think there could be two people of that name, she had said she wanted to ask her some questions. Mrs Heath had said she would be pleased to talk about her daughter but, in her own way, had been as enigmatic as Rose.
The train pulled into Bodmin Parkway before Rose realised where they were. It would not be long now. Mrs Heath lived in St Budeaux, on the outskirts of Plymouth, but the Inter-City train on which Rose was travelling passed through the small station there without stopping. This meant catching a local train or getting a taxi as she was uncertain of the bus routes.
Loud tannoy announcements greeted Rose as she stepped on to the platform. Hurrying across the brightly lit concourse she had to swerve to avoid passengers gazing up at the arrival and departure screens. Outside a row of black cabs stood waiting. The driver of the front one was reading a paper but he reached out of the window and behind him to open the door without looking up as if he had sensed Rose’s arrival. She gave him the address and folded herself into the back seat. The driver chatted as he negotiated the city traffic. She was only half listening because they were driving down streets she did not know and she was curious, taking everything in.
Soon she was knocking nervously on Mrs Heath’s front door. The house was identical to the others which lined the road. Muffled footsteps were followed by the sound of a bolt being drawn. A round face peered out through a gap of a few inches before the door was opened fully. ‘Mrs Trevelyan? You found me all right then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on in. I didn’t know what to think when you rang, but if it’s to do with Marigold, well, I thought it was time I knew.’ The Devonshire vowels were rounded, the speech slower and more drawn out than Rose was used to hearing. She did not have a good ear for accents but the difference was obvious. If Marigold had retained a trace of her origins then Dorothy would not have missed it.
She followed Mrs Heath down a narrow hallway, the carpet of which was protected by a clear plastic runner. There was to be no formality, she was shown into the kitchen. It was clean but untidy. A bottle of milk stood on the table alongside a plate of toast crumbs. Mrs Heath made no excuses nor did she remove the plate. ‘I more or less live out here. It’s warmer in the winter and I get a better reception on the telly. Take a seat. I’ll put the kettle on then we can have a chat.’
Audrey Heath tipped the used tea-bags from the pot into the sink. As the kettle boiled she lit a cigarette and offered Rose the packet. Rose accepted one, it was the brand she smoked. It was a useful prop, something with which to occupy herself as she thought how best to approach the subject. It was quite clear that her hostess did not know her daughter was dead.
Rose noticed that beneath the shapeless grey skirt and pink sweater Mrs Heath wore elasticated stockings. Her feet were swollen and a small roll of flesh hung over the sides of her slippers. Rose was unable to put an age to her, she might have been anywhere between early sixties and mid-seventies. This, then, was Marigold’s mother to whom Rose had to break the news. She did not think she could possibly leave without doing so.
‘Sugar?’
‘Sorry? Oh, no thanks, I’ve got sweeteners.’ Rose dug into her bag to get them out, still unsure what to say.
‘I
t’s nice having a bit of company. I don’t get out much, with my legs, you see. Where did you say you were from? My memory’s not what it was.’
‘Newlyn.’
‘Down Penzance way. That’s a fair old way to come.’ Audrey looked pleased, as if the length of the journey was more important than what her visitor had come to talk about.
Rose knew she had to make a start. ‘Mrs Heath, as I explained, the questions I want to ask are for my own interest only, nothing will go any further without your permission. I’m not from the press, or anything like that.’ She paused, thinking what a mess she was making of it. Perhaps, from the strange way in which she was being observed, Mrs Heath may have been expecting payment or to hear good news. Stalling was useless and she could not continue until the truth came out.
Audrey nodded. ‘Whatever you say can’t hurt me, dear. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ She sipped her tea noisily, the cup held in both hands because her joints were gnarled with arthritis.
‘I don’t know how to put this. There’s no easy way. Mrs Heath, it’s bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘Concerning Marigold.’ The statement was flat. ‘I can’t say it surprises me.’
Audrey’s reaction was nonchalant and therefore unexpected. For a minute Rose thought there might be another Marigold Heath. She had to make sure before she continued. ‘When did you last see your daughter?’
Audrey squinted through the smoke. ‘Some years ago now. Not since she left home.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Where she was destined to go. Downhill. Oh, don’t look so upset, that girl was trouble from the minute she was born. By the time she was sixteen she was on the game, nothing I could do to stop her, she never took a blind bit of notice of me. I suppose it’s true what they say, about kids needing a father. Hers was killed when she was small. She used to pick up seamen, did Marigold. There’s enough of them in Plymouth. Sometimes down Union Street, sometimes down the Barbican, but that was before they done it all up. It’s real nice now. Next thing I heard was that she’d taken off for Cornwall. Not even a goodbye. Don’t ask me why, she didn’t know anyone down there. Still, we were never what you could call close, not really. Marigold always kept her distance, even as a little girl.’
Rose swallowed. It felt painful. ‘Mrs Heath –’
‘Oh, Audrey, please.’
‘Audrey, Marigold died last week.’
‘Died?’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. And I wish there was someone closer to you who could have broken the news.’ Rose half stood, ready to put a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was not necessary.
‘I always said she’d come to a bad end. Someone strangle her, did they? Wouldn’t surprise me, I was tempted to myself many a time.’ She paused and stared at Rose. ‘No. Can’t be that, the police would’ve come round.’
The words were harsh but there was no other way to put it. ‘She was ill. Marigold died of cancer.’
‘Oh!’ Audrey’s face registered a mixture of emotions. Shock and pain and regret but no grief. That would come later. ‘I wouldn’t have wished that on her, no matter what she did.’
‘I went to her funeral. I naturally assumed all the family knew, I can’t think why someone didn’t tell you.’
‘It was very kind of you. Thank you. But I don’t think I’d’ve gone if I had known. We fell out badly and she said she never wanted to set eyes on me again. I’m glad there was someone like you there to say goodbye.’
‘There were an awful lot of people, over a hundred.’
‘What?’ Audrey’s eyes bulged in disbelief, then she laughed. ‘Maybe all her clients turned up. How was she, I mean did she do all right for herself?’
Rose saw Audrey reach into her pocket for a tissue and make a pretence of blowing her nose. ‘Yes. She did all right. Did she have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No, she was the only one. I couldn’t have coped with two like that.’
Rose was safe to carry on. ‘Marigold had a boyfriend. They were together for some years. They ran a shop and from what I know she was happy enough. She didn’t want for anything and her boyfriend adored her.’
‘Marigold turned respectable? My God. Running a shop, you say? I never thought I’d live to hear such a thing.’ Audrey sighed deeply. ‘I wish she’d let me know, I wish she could’ve just telephoned me. Perhaps she was afraid I’d tell this bloke about her past, but I wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have said a word.’
Rose saw that it was a double loss. First her daughter had walked out on her then she had lived the sort of life Audrey would have wished for her.
‘Were there any children?’ She held her breath.
‘No.’ At least she had not missed out on that.
The tears still held at bay, she asked Rose to talk about her, to tell what Marigold was like.
‘I didn’t know her, but I met the man she lived with. He was quiet and, as you said, respectable, a church-goer, a warden, I believe. They had the shop and until Marigold became ill they both worked there. She was well liked by the customers.’
Audrey was shaking her head as if Rose was talking about someone else. ‘She wasn’t a bit like that at home. I tried everything I could think of to keep her on the straight and narrow, but by the time she was fourteen I knew I was wasting my time. Then just before she left the police wanted to see her. Something to do with a man who was stabbed in the street. Three o’clock in the morning, it was. Of course, she wasn’t here, she’d left home ages before that. Turns out he was her pimp. No great loss to the world to my mind. All the girls were questioned and once they knew he was dead they were more than willing to speak. I don’t condone the way they earned their living but I did feel sorry for them knowing how he treated them. Marigold had been seen with him that night – mind you, she’d been seen with other men too. Not long after that she went away. I heard they were satisfied that she wasn’t involved after some man came forward and said how he’d spent the whole night with her. She didn’t come home, not even then. Later I heard she’d moved to Truro.’
‘Why there?’
‘Beats me. Another city, maybe, although not so big as this one.’ Audrey pushed back a lock of hair. It was grey except at the front where nicotine had stained it yellow. ‘I always wondered if she’d taken up with one of her men, one of the ones that used to come up here to get what they weren’t getting at home, if you see what I mean.’
Coincidence? Rose did not think so. Fred Meecham originally came from Truro but he already had the shop when Marigold moved in with him. She may have said that Truro was where she was heading but it was not where she had ended up.
As for Fred, that was the part which puzzled her. He made such a big thing of acting the perfect citizen and of being deeply religious. Had he really come to Plymouth to visit prostitutes? And could a girl like Marigold have changed so drastically? Or had it been what she had wanted all along, a man and a life of domesticity? They would never know now. ‘What happened in the end, about the man who was stabbed?’
‘Oh, I don’t remember now. You know how it is, big news one minute and the next everyone’s forgotten all about it. I can’t recall hearing they got anyone, but good luck, I say, if it prevented other girls getting beaten up. Here, if this chap was so fond of Marigold, how come they didn’t get married?’
Rose shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’ It was a good question. Both of them were single, perhaps Marigold did not want it. But why pose as brother and sister? Surely even someone like Fred would not be embarrassed in this day and age. There might have been gossip to begin with but, as Audrey had said, things soon blow over. Rose was certain there was an explanation which had nothing to do with the conventions.
They talked for a little while longer then Rose said she must leave. She felt she knew a great deal more about Marigold Heath now than she did about Fred Meecham. Audrey tried to persuade her to stay to lunch but Rose refused. She held out her hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me, and I really am sorry.�
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Audrey clutched her hand in both her own. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, dear. It’s me that should thank you for coming. And it’s easier now I know she found a man to care for her.’ Audrey shut the door but Rose saw that as she did so she was pulling the tissue from the sleeve of her jumper.
There was a bus-stop at the end of the road. Rose had given no thought as to how she was to get back to the city centre and there was no telephone box in sight from which to ring for a taxi. As she was deciding on the best course of action a young woman with a push-chair arrived at the stop. Rose asked her how to get back into the centre of Plymouth.
‘There’s a bus in a couple of minutes, it’ll drop you in Royal Parade.’
Rose thanked her and smiled at the toddler who was smacking at the plastic hood protecting him from the wind. They were high up and Rose could see the gantries of the huge cranes in the dockyard. When the bus arrived she carried the push-chair on to it, leaving the mother’s hands free to cope with the child and to pay for her fare.
Alighting in the city centre Rose crossed at the lights and studied the posters displayed inside the plate glass windows of the Theatre Royal. If she had thought about it in advance she could have booked a matinée seat but that wouldn’t have left any time to buy herself something to wear. With her new-found freedom there were many things she could do.
Strolling through the pannier market she eyed the colourful stacks of fruit and vegetables, noted the cheapness of the meat and fingered the swinging bundles of pungent leather handbags. The mixture of aromas was almost exotic but over all was the warm, meaty smell of pasties, Devon pasties, with the crimped crust running along the top instead of around the edge.
Leaving the market she walked up New George Street towards the main shopping area. The wind off the sea, stronger now, gusted up Armada Way. In a department store she bought three sets of matching underwear but did not see a dress or suit she wanted.
Framed in Cornwall Page 17