The Loner

by Rachel Ennis

  ‘He and Jason did a fantastic job here.’

  He nodded. ‘I remember what it was like before they started. But these old cottages was built to last.’

  ‘Come in, Mr Terrell.’ Maybe he’d take the hint. As he passed her, wafting aftershave, she was pleasantly surprised when he slipped off his shoes.

  ‘Front bedroom, you said? All right if I take a look?’

  ‘It’s the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.’ She followed him up. He went directly to the window and studied the patch.

  ‘That was some rain we had last week.’

  Jess nodded. ‘It was blowing straight at the window like handfuls of gravel.’

  He nodded. ‘Rare to get rain like that on an east wind. I’d guess it blew up under the eaves.’

  ‘That’s what Fred thought.’

  ‘I’ll know more when I’ve had a look from outside.’

  ‘Fred didn’t touch the roof when I had the renovations done. It looked sound and he didn’t want to disturb anything he didn’t have to.’ He’d known she was on a tight budget.

  Colin Terrell nodded. ‘Quite right too. But trouble with these old places is that they haven’t got felt over the roof timbers. The slates was laid direct onto battens.’

  Panic stirred like mud in a pond. Jess fought it down. ‘I can’t afford to replace the roof.’

  ‘You won’t have to, my ’andsome.’ He flashed his white smile. ‘Don’t you go worrying. Good job you didn’t wait though. Water damage can cause all kinds of trouble. What I’ll do is take off the bottom two rows of slates, fit a strip of felt along so he hangs into the gutter, then put the slates back. So instead of rain blowing up underneath and dripping down inside, it’ll hit the felt, run into the gutter, and be carried away to the down pipe.’

  ‘How much will it cost? I know it has to be done, but I’d like a rough idea.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be more than …’ he sucked air through his teeth, ‘three hundred.’

  Trying not to wince she nodded.

  ‘I can knock a bit off for cash.’ He winked. ‘How about putting the kettle on while I have a look from outside.’

  She followed him down, calculating adjustments to her budget for the month. She didn’t have a choice. Waiting risked further damage and an even higher price. It was better to get the job done now. Writing Marigold’s story for Simon Opie would earn her some of the money back.

  Colin Terrell pushed his feet back into his shoes, leaving the door open as he walked down the path to his van.

  Jess switched the kettle on. Hearing an electric hum and rattling she looked out of the open door.

  He had unhitched a small box trailer loaded with metal frames and thick planks, coupled it to a jockey wheel, and was pushing the trailer up the path.

  ‘That’s a useful bit of kit.’

  ‘Battery-powered caravan mover. Worth every penny for places like this when I can’t get the van any closer.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea’d be ’andsome.’

  Jess went back inside. She recognised the frames as a scaffold tower on wheels. Fred had used one when painting the fascia boards and putting up new plastic gutters to replace the old rusted iron ones. The planks provided a platform from which to work and would hold the slates stacked on edge so they could be replaced in the same order. The trailer also contained a roll of roofing felt, a bag of tools and a ladder.

  She made a pot of tea and filled a mug, then put a slice of cake on a small plate and took them outside. ‘Do you take sugar?’

  He laid the ladder down and lifted a heavy frame with wheels attached out of the trailer. ‘Don’t need it, my ’andsome. I’m sweet enough.’

  Oh please. Jess hid a sigh. ‘I’ll leave you to get on.’

  He grinned again. ‘Proper job.’

  She went back inside and shut the door. PC Davey wouldn’t be available until that afternoon. Until then she would look for Marigold.

  Armed with the address she looked up street and trade directories for the 1940s. In 1944 Marigold Mitchell was the tenant and the ground floor ‘shop’ was listed as a soup kitchen.

  Jess’s next search was in local newspaper archives where she found an article praising Marigold Mitchell, former star of the Fal Operatic Society, for reopening her café – forced into closure by rationing – as a lunchtime soup kitchen for the needy. The article continued with her calling on all past and present cast members who had a garden or worked on farms to bring in any vegetables they could spare. Shotgun owners who had permission from farmers and landowners to shoot rabbits and pigeons were asked to share their catch. Times were hard for everyone. But for women struggling to bring up families after losing husbands, fathers, and sons during the conflict, life was especially difficult. Contributions of any kind would be greatly appreciated.

  Colin Terrell knocked then opened the door. ‘I’m going for my dinner.’

  Jess glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It showed 12.30 p.m. The morning had flown. She clicked ‘save’ and closed her laptop. ‘Now you’ve got the slates off –’

  ‘’Tidn too bad. There’s only one bit where the water’s got in. But I’ll put felt all the way along. Once that’s done, you won’t have no more trouble.’

  She blew out a breath. ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘Right, I’m gone.’

  Chapter Four

  As he closed the door, Jess stood up and stretched, releasing muscles tightened by concentration, and decided a cheese omelette would be quick to prepare. She was washing up when Colin Terrell opened the door and put his head in.

  ‘Thought I’d let you know I’m back in case you heard noises and wondered what’s on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She’d have preferred him to knock but saying so would sound petty. She put on a smile. ‘Cup of tea mid-afternoon?’

  ‘Proper job.’ He winked and closed the door.

  Jess put the dishes away and checked the time: three minutes to two. She phoned PC Davey. ‘This is Jess Trevanion. I was hoping to catch you before you went on duty.’

  ‘How can I help you, Mrs Trevanion?’

  ‘We think it’s unlikely Mr Preece had any family in the area so Sandra and Gerry Eustice in the village shop have started a fund to pay for his funeral.’

  ‘They have? That’s good of them.’

  ‘He lived in the village nearly sixteen years. The first thing everyone said when they heard out what had happened was how much his fruit and veg will be missed.’

  ‘Not him?’

  ‘It’s hard to miss someone who went out of his way to avoid people. I’ve got a small business researching people’s ancestry, so I’ve been asked to try and find his family. That’s why I’ve phoned, to ask you some questions if that’s all right?’

  ‘You can ask. I can’t promise to answer.’

  ‘Fair enough. If he registered with a doctor he might have named his next of kin and because he’s dead maybe the Data Protection Act no longer applies. He might have written a will and lodged it with a solicitor. Did he have a bank account, a National Insurance number, or a criminal record? You – the police, I mean – have access to all kinds of databases and the authority to ask for searches.’

  He was quiet for a moment. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can find out. It seemed strange when I looked around the cottage that there wasn’t any of the paperwork most people have. I didn’t even find a tin or a folder he might have kept them in. Why would someone cut themselves off like that?’

  The same question had occurred to Jess. John Preece had avoided all but the briefest human contact. Had he come to Polvellan to escape something – or someone – in his past?

  Unable to go any further until she had more information, she turned to a fresh page in her notebook and listed the points she had raised with PC Davey. That made her think of other questions needing answers.

  At three she made tea and took a mug and a slice of cake outside. Colin Terrell was on the scaffol
d tower hammering the strip of felt onto a batten.

  ‘Cuppa,’ she called.

  As he glanced down she placed them on the path, went back inside and closed the door.

  She had just drained her own cup when the door opened.

  ‘Brought my cup back. All right if I use your loo?’

  She could hardly say no. ‘Of course. On the right at the top of the stairs.’

  He put the mug and plate on the table, kicked off his shoes and ran upstairs.

  She resumed her search in the newspaper archives. A few minutes later she heard the toilet flush and he came down.

  ‘How’s it going then?’ He nodded towards her laptop. ‘I heard you found Morwenna Crocker’s great-grandfather and he was some kind of hero.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t talk about my research because it’s personal to whoever has hired me. Once I hand over the information people can do what they like with it. Most people love to share what they’ve learned about their families. But it’s their choice.’

  He winked. ‘You’re good at keeping secrets then.’

  Not answering, Jess closed her laptop, picked up his dishes and took them to the sink. ‘Thanks for bringing these in. I expect you want to get on.’

  After the door closed behind him, she returned to the newspaper archives. After an hour she found a follow-up article dated a month later. ‘Yes!’ she whispered. The article applauded the success of Miss Marigold Mitchell’s soup kitchen. It praised her generosity and her promise that no matter how long the queue no one would ever be turned away. However, Miss Mitchell refused to accept sole credit, claiming the venture would not have been possible without the support of her mother, Sarah, and other loyal hard-working helpers.

  Readers were reminded of Mrs Sarah Mitchell’s work making costumes for the operatic society, and assisting her daughter to put on concert parties during the dark days of 1940-43 to raise funds for the families of much-loved members of the society who had been wounded or killed.

  Jess rubbed her forehead and blinked dry eyes. She would finish reading the article then stop for the day before tension at the back of her neck turned into a headache.

  Because she was tired she nearly missed it. As the words registered she straightened in her chair and read the paragraph again.

  ‘With the benefit of hindsight and the social changes brought about by war, situations that a decade ago were considered scandalous might be judged less harshly today. Miss Marigold Mitchell’s charity work has surely restored her reputation.’

  Before a reputation could be restored, it first had to be lost. What scandal had Marigold been involved in?

  It would take more time than she could spare to go back ten years in the archives then trawl through in hope of finding reports about whatever had happened.

  In 1940 Marigold Mitchell was the named tenant of the property. Widows had often inherited tenancies, especially if the property was a shop or business and the bereaved woman stepped into her late husband’s shoes to continue running it. But Marigold had been unmarried. She had no brothers and her father was dead. With no close male relative to co-sign and make the agreement legal, how had it come about? Surely such an arrangement would not have been common back then?

  She would have to visit the County Record Office, where the Chenhall family papers were stored.

  She couldn’t go until Colin Terrell had finished, and she was still waiting to hear from PC Davey. So she spent Wednesday catching up with chores she had neglected. Wanting to think about both investigations without being distracted, she chose some easy-listening music from the playlist on her iPhone and put her earbuds in.

  After chopping two more sacks of kindling, she brushed the small paved yard, watered her tomatoes in the tiny greenhouse, made coffee, and took out a mug and a slice of cake to Colin Terrell who wanted to chat. She excused herself, pleading a backlog of jobs, then cut the grass and hoed the narrow border beside the path.

  At 4.30 he called to her. ‘All finished. Want to come and have a look?’

  Taking off her gloves, Jess turned off the music and stuffed the tiny earbuds into her pocket. He was standing on the scaffold tower clearly waiting for her to join him.

  Instead Jess turned the ladder so it leaned against the cottage wall. ‘You’re used to that tower but I’ve never been on one and I’ll be able to see better from the ladder.’ She looked up under the slates and saw the felt overlapping the rear edge of the gutter. ‘It’s a very neat job, Mr Terrell.’

  ‘I’m Colin to my friends.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Jess replied, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘You won’t have no more trouble this side. But you might want to think about having the back done.’

  She nodded. ‘Maybe later in the year.’ She descended the ladder as he began dismantling the tower.

  ‘If you see any sign of damp inside along that front wall in the next six months, you let me know and I’ll come back and fix it free of charge.’

  ‘I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Happy customers bring more work. All mine comes by word of mouth. All right if I leave you a couple of cards?’

  Jess nodded and pulled off her muddy gloves. ‘If you’ve brought your invoice I’ll pay you now. Just give me a minute to wash my hands.’

  ‘He’s in the van. I’ll bring ’n up once I’ve loaded the trailer. ’Tis the price we agreed. With £20 knocked off for cash.’ He winked.

  Twenty minutes later Jess counted the money out onto the table in front of him and he signed the account to say he’d received it.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Terrell. I appreciate you coming so quickly.’

  ‘If you want the back done before winter give me a bit of notice so I can put you in the book.’

  Jess nodded. ‘Thanks.’ She would need to save up first. Behind her the phone rang.

  He lingered on the doorstep. ‘Best to leave that patch in your bedroom dry out for a few weeks before you paint over it.’

  ‘I will. Sorry, I have to go.’ She indicated the phone.

  As he stepped outside she closed the door and crossed to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Trevanion? It’s PC Davey. I’ve run searches on all the databases you suggested, and I can’t find a John Preece around his age and at that address on any of them.’

  About to ask if he was sure, Jess bit her tongue. He was used to doing this. He wouldn’t have made a mistake.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s certainly unusual,’ he agreed. ‘I’d have expected to find his name on one of them. I couldn’t even find a national insurance number. These days if you aren’t in the system it’s like you don’t exist.’

  ‘I’ve just had a lightbulb moment.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What you just said: if you’re not in the system then officially you don’t exist. Maybe that was the point. He wanted to live off the grid.’

  ‘Looks like he was successful. But if we can’t find him, then finding any next-of-kin will be impossible. Still, like you said, maybe he wanted to get away from family. What will you do now?’

  ‘Keep looking. One thing I’ve learned from researching people’s family trees, that if one route turns out to be a dead end, there are usually others to explore.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  As Jess replaced the receiver, one question demanded an answer. Why? Why had John Preece gone to such lengths to become untraceable? Why, since moving into the village, had he avoided contact with other people? According to Gill, people had been curious at first. After a while, busy with their own lives and distracted by newer gossip, they had lost interest. If he wanted to keep to himself why shouldn’t he? He was no bother, so leave him be.

  But no one behaved like that without a reason. To find out what it was, she first needed to discover who he was.

  Chapter Five

  By seven that evening Jess had eaten her meal, wash
ed up, and done the ironing. She was about to go upstairs for a bath when there was a knock on the door.

  She opened it and was surprised to see Colin Terrell, smart in clean jeans, navy polo shirt, and a leather jacket, standing on the step. His close cut hair gleamed with gel, and the fragrance of his aftershave enveloped her.

  ‘All right, Jess? You got a minute?’

  Not wanting to appear impolite, she moved back opening the door wider and he stepped inside. ‘Did you want a reference?’

  ‘Give me a good one, would you?’ He clicked his tongue and winked. When Jess didn’t respond he continued. ‘See, what it is, you’ve looked after me lovely this past couple of days. A hot drink every couple of hours, and cake. Maybe I should give you a reference!’ He grinned. ‘Anyhow, I was thinking, seeing we get on so well, is there anything I can do for you? To show my appreciation, like. It must get lonely, being here on your own. Specially nighttimes.’ He winked.

  Jess stared at him. Yes, she had made him drinks and a snack. She had done the same for Fred and Jason. Why would he think she had any interest in him other than to repair her roof? She couldn’t think of anything she had said or done that could be interpreted as encouragement.

  Then she realised her mistake. It was what she hadn’t done. She had ignored her unease. Wary in case she was over-reacting she had let the winks and teasing remarks pass, assuming he would realise from her lack of response that they were inappropriate and unwelcome. Instead he had taken her silence as encouragement.

  Anger flared, hot and bright, as adrenalin fizzed through her. Her heartbeat quickened, thumping loud and fast in her ears. You conceited, arrogant – Remembering she was alone and had invited him inside, she forced a smile.

  ‘Believe me, Mr Terrell –’

  ‘Colin. We’re friends aren’t we?’

  ‘Like I was saying, Mr Terrell, you didn’t get any special treatment. I did the same for Fred and Jason. So thanks for your offer, but Fred does all my maintenance work.’ As his smile faltered she went on cheerfully. ‘I should have said earlier, I do hope your wife is feeling better. There are some nasty bugs around. Please give her my sympathy.’ He probably wouldn’t recognise the insult but saying it made her feel better. ‘Will you excuse me? I’m really busy.’ She started to close the door.