The Loner

by Rachel Ennis

  Jess felt a pang of sympathy. ‘Being conned hurts.’

  ‘As you well know, bird,’ Gill murmured. ‘Anyhow, she divorced him, went back to calling herself Chiddock, and took up with the church. Margaret says she does the flowers but you’ll never see her pick up a duster.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile,’ Jess said. ‘But she always looks very smart.’

  Gill snorted. ‘That’s because she orders clothes from catalogues, wears them to Sunday service, then sends them back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘True as I’m stood here. After my sister Kath’s husband was made redundant he got a catalogue delivery round and he calls at her place at least once a week to drop off or pick up parcels. ‘Tis all appearances with her.’

  ‘That’s sad. It still doesn’t explain why she’s taken against me.’

  ‘She don’t need a reason. She’s always falling out with someone. Love thy neighbour? Huh!’ Gill snorted again.

  Chapter Seven

  That evening Jess looked up the Births, Marriages and Deaths indexes and found both Francis and Ellen Chamberlin, née Kirby. Then she went into the 1911 census and discovered Francis Albert Chamberlin living at the cottage with his parents, Harold and Sarah.

  Jess knew from a previous investigation that under the old copyhold for lives tenure, property could remain in the same family for three lives – those of the tenant, his wife and his heir. Then it reverted to the landlord who could lease it to a new tenant. Though by 1925 all copyhold tenure had been converted to leasehold, a lease could extend through several generations of the same family.

  It occurred to Jess that if the man they had all known as John Preece was named as Francis Chamberlin’s heir, his real name would be in Francis’ will. She started searching, only to be disappointed by a notice explaining that many records had been lost or destroyed during the war.

  On the census, Harold’s occupation was listed as stonemason. The estate was the largest employer in the village area so Harold was probably the named tenant on the lease.

  Ellen outlived her husband so the cottage came to her. As she and Francis had no children, she must have left it to a more distant relative. But if that was John Preece, what was his real name and relationship to Ellen?

  Jess made a note to book an appointment at the Record Office to access the Chenhall collection for title deeds or leases relating to the cottage. She also needed to find out which of the Chenhalls actually owned the property that became Marigold’s.

  She got up to make herself a drink and the guilt she had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore rolled over her again. She switched off the kettle, picked up the receiver and dialled Tom’s number.

  ‘Tom Peters.’

  ‘It’s Jess. Tom, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have flown at you like that, much less said what I did.’

  ‘It did sting a bit. But after I got home and cooled down I wanted to kick myself.’

  She laughed. ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘You wanted to kick me?’

  ‘No. Me. I should have told Colin Terrell he was wasting his breath and my time. And you were right. I had taken it too seriously. the trouble is –’

  ‘You aren’t used to dealing with shites like him. I deserve a kicking for not seeing what you saw, a married man with no respect for his wife or for the women he tries it on with. Alex all over again, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t consciously think that at the time, but that was probably the reason I went off the deep end. I’m really sorry.’ She leaned back in the chair relief sweeping away tension.

  ‘So am I.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘I hated falling out with you, Jess. It upset me awful.’

  ‘You just took the words out of my head.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘I know it’s Sunday, but I’ve just realised it’s the last day of a special offer on loft insulation at the superstore. I rang and reserved six rolls.’

  ‘Want me to pick it up?’

  ‘You’re a gem. I’ll pay your diesel.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. Did you order dust masks and goggles?’

  ‘I didn’t know I needed them.’

  ‘No matter, I’ve got plenty of both at the yard. When are you going to lay it?’

  ‘I hadn’t got that far.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘It’ll cost, mind.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A dozen saffron buns.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘That’s just for starters.’

  Hearing the smile in his voice, Jess found herself grinning. ‘Uh-oh. What else?’

  ‘I’m working on that. Pick you up at ten?’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  She was watching for him and as his pick-up stopped right on time at the end of her path, she was quickly outside and locking the door.

  He leaned over to open the passenger door for her.

  Climbing in she kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  The journey took twenty minutes and they talked all the way. They loaded rolls the same height as Jess into the back of the pick-up and strapped them down on top of a telescopic ladder, two boxes, and a canvas shopping bag containing another bag and a pair of leather carpet slippers.

  Back in the village Jess helped him unload. It took them several trips to carry everything inside. While Tom drove the pick-up down to the car park, she made coffee.

  ‘That’s thoughtful,’ she said when he came in.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The slippers.’

  ‘It’s for safety. This is dangerous stuff. You don’t want to breathe it in. The fibres are very fine and fly everywhere. Overalls and slippers can be shaken off outside and I brought a change of clothes.’

  ‘I haven’t got any overalls.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would. I brought an old pair of mine for you.’

  After they finished their coffee she rinsed the mugs, leaving them upside down on the draining board, and turned just as Tom stripped off his rugby shirt to reveal a white short-sleeved T-shirt. Her gaze lingered on his shoulders.

  ‘See anything you fancy?’ He stepped into grey cotton overalls that were paint-smeared and faded, zipped them up to the neck, pulled an elasticated mask over his head and let it hang under his chin, then lifted a pair of close-fitting goggles from the second box.

  ‘Maybe.’

  He pressed one hand to his chest. ‘Wounded, I am.’

  ‘I don’t want you getting big-headed.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Come on, let’s get you kitted up.’

  Dressed in a pair of similar overalls with the bottoms rolled up, elastic bands around the ankles and cuffs, and polystyrene pads pushed into the knee pockets, Jess pulled a shower cap over her hair.

  ‘Is all this really necessary?’

  ‘Ask me again when we’ve finished. Here.’ He handed her a pair of goggles, a dust mask and finally her gardening gloves. ‘Tuck your sleeves into the cuffs. Have you got a torch?’

  Jess fetched the large, yellow, plastic one she kept in case of power cuts. They hauled the rolls up the stairs onto the landing. Tom pushed open the trapdoor so it rested against the dividing wall between Jess’s cottage and Elsie’s next door. Extending the ladder, he set it at the shallowest angle possible in the confined space then climbed into the loft and leaned down.

  ‘Right, let’s have them.’

  ‘Shall I tear the paper off first?’

  ‘No, they’ll be easier to manage with it on.’

  By the time all six rolls had been manhandled up the ladder Jess was sweating. She passed him the torch then climbed up.

  ‘Mind where you put your feet,’ Tom warned. ‘Best if we start at the far end and work back this way.’

  Switching on the torch Jess directed the beam over
the wooden battens bracing the A-frame. ‘You’ll never get through the gaps. Your shoulders are too wide.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s why you’re here.’ Slicing through the wrapping with a retractable blade he ripped off and crumpled the paper, tossing it down through the trapdoor.

  While Jess crawled from joist to joist to the far end, Tom cut lengths off the rolls of four-inch-thick, orange, fibreglass matting. He passed them forward. She manoeuvred them under the cross-members then pushed them right to the edge, first at the front, then at the rear. In the confined space it was difficult, hot, and exhausting. Her goggles kept misting up and the mask over her nose and mouth made her feel as if she was breathing steam. Impatiently she reached up to remove it.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Tom roared. ‘Breathe it in and it’ll cut your lungs to ribbons.’

  He was probably exaggerating, but in case he wasn’t Jess left her mask in place.

  As they moved in towards the centre, increased headroom made the work easier, but Jess was sweat-soaked, itching, and ached all over. She laid a thick piece between joists immediately in front of her and edged backwards.

  Tom tapped her shoulder. ‘That’s it, girl.’

  Painfully she turned, wincing at the pain in her knees. ‘We’ve finished?’

  ‘Used every last bit.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I can pick up a few more rolls next time it’s on offer.’

  ‘There’s no rush. I’m not sure I’ll ever walk again.’

  He sighed. ‘Typical woman, always complaining.’

  ‘It wasn’t you on your knees with your bottom in the air.’

  ‘You think it was easy for me, having to wait back here and look at your bum? Reminded me of a Dutch barge I had in the yard a few years back. Lovely rounded lines she had –’

  Stifling a laugh, Jess elbowed him in the ribs making him cough.

  ‘What? There’s no pleasing some people.’ He swung his legs over the rim of the hole, turned and put his feet on the ladder. ‘Tell you what though. I don’t know many women who would do this.’

  ‘They’ve got more sense.’

  He guided her feet onto the rungs. As she reached the bottom he went back up the ladder. Jess wrenched off her gloves, mask, goggles and shower cap. Though the room was warm, the air felt deliciously cool on her hot damp skin.

  Passing her the torch, he closed the trap door then telescoped the ladder to half its length.

  Jess dumped everything on the worktop, poured grape juice into two glasses, and topped them up with cold water.

  Handing him one, she drained hers without pausing for breath. ‘I needed that.’ Setting the glass down, she turned on the tap and picked up the soap, squirming as she washed her hands. He emptied his own glass, put it beside hers, and leaned against the worktop watching her.

  She wriggled uncomfortably. ‘You were right, OK? It did get everywhere.’ She glanced at the wall clock startled to see they’d been in the loft over two hours. ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? I’ll make us some lunch. But I’ll have to have a shower first. You can have one as well if you like.’

  ‘Oh I like.’ Sliding his arms around her waist he nuzzled her neck.

  ‘Tom, no!’

  He didn’t release her. ‘What’s the problem, Jess?’

  ‘Insulation. I’m itching so much I must be covered in the stuff.’

  ‘I could wash your back.’

  She turned off the tap and stood unmoving, self-conscious, panicky, wanting.

  He kissed her neck lightly and let her go. ‘It’s all right, my bird. Like you said, there’s no rush.’

  She turned. ‘It’s not that I don’t – I do – but –’ She gave a breathless laugh and shrugged. ‘I’m out of practice.’

  He tucked a damp curl behind her ear. ‘It isn’t like we’re strangers.’

  Jess pulled a wry face. ‘No, but we never – and it’s been –’

  ‘Nearly thirty years. We’re older and have the scars to prove it. But you came back to Polvellan and I’ve got a second chance. I won’t blow it this time, Jess. I think the world of you. I’m not just saying that to get you into bed, or into the shower.’ He lifted her hand, pressed her palm to his chest. She could feel his rapid heartbeat. ‘You aren’t the only one who’s nervous. Look, it could be a disaster, OK? But it could be really special.’ She saw his throat work as he swallowed. ‘I love you, Jess. I want to be with you.’ Then he squirmed just as she had. ‘Sorry, girl. Want me or not, I got to get these clothes off.’ He pulled a face. ‘Bloody itch is driving me mad.’

  ‘All right, let’s do it,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘Really?’ His astonished delight touched her and made her laugh as she raced up the stairs. He caught her on the landing, kissed her long and hard, then drew her into the bathroom his mouth on hers as he peeled damp cotton from her moist skin and she reached blindly for the long zip on his overalls.

  Early evening sunshine streamed in through the kitchen window as Jess, wearing a soft shirt over sweatpants with sheepskin moccasins on her feet, put away the last of the dishes from their delayed meal. The washing machine hummed quietly and Tom, in clean jeans, sweatshirt, and the thick socks he’d brought with him, was kneeling in front of the woodburner.

  She glanced across and caught him studying her. ‘What?’

  He sat back on his heels. ‘You. All rosy and glowing.’

  ‘You look pretty good yourself. A bit smug, but you’re entitled.’ She felt soothed, as if every nerve had been stroked with velvet. She was aware of aches but the attached memories made them pleasurable. Apart from her knees.

  ‘Not bad for a first effort, was it?’ he grinned.

  ‘Now you’re fishing.’ She wiped down the worktops as he came to the sink to wash his hands. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Later.’ He dropped the towel and placed his hands on her hips. ‘Unless there’s something you ought to be doing?’

  She wound her arms around his neck. ‘I expect there is, but I can’t bring it to mind.’

  Later, sprawled comfortably on the sofa with her head on his lap, he asked. ‘So what’s next in all these investigations?’

  ‘I’ll phone the Record Office in the morning and make an appointment to access the Chenhall family papers.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Anything I can find about Marigold Mitchell. The Chenhalls owned the property but she was the named tenant and the café had her name over the door. I’m hoping to find her connection – if there was one – to the Chenhall family.’

  ‘You found out anything more about John Preece?’

  ‘I think I may have. When I walked down to the churchyard the other evening, I found the Chamberlins’ grave and their dates of birth and death. They didn’t have any children. In the BMD index I found out that Ellen’s maiden name was Kirby, and that she had a brother, George Edward Kirby, who married a Louise Denny. George and Louise had a son, Mark, born in 1954. That would make him the right age to be John Preece.’

  ‘But if his real name was Mark Kirby, why call himself John Preece?’

  ‘Exactly. No one does that, or lives like a hermit, without a good reason. I’m going to try and find out what it was. What will you be doing?’

  ‘Thinking about you.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘The early-season rush is over but we’ve got plenty to keep us busy. Will I see you this week?’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Come for a meal? Or will that be difficult?’

  ‘Why should it be?’

  ‘Chris?’

  He shook his head. ‘Doug’s taking him sailing Wednesday soon as they finish work. They’ll pick up fish and chips after.’

  She reached up and touched his face. ‘It’s a long time till Wednesday.’

  ‘Dear life, woman. What are you like?’ He pulled her close.

  Chapter Eight

  By 8.30 the following morn
ing Jess had eaten breakfast, washed up, emptied the ashes, and re-laid the fire. As she folded dry clothes for ironing later, she mentally planned her day. Before she could phone the Record Office to book an appointment she had to look up the reference numbers of the documents she wanted to access. She had intended doing it last evening. Her heart lifted and memories made her smile.

  She picked up the stack of towels and had one foot on the stairs when a knock on the front door stopped her. Turning back she opened it.

  ‘Rob! What a lovely surprise. Come in.’ Studying her son, Jess saw dark shadows under his eyes and tension in his shoulders. Sympathy vied with concern. But knowing how he hated ‘fuss’ she kept her tone light. ‘Busy weekend?’

  ‘Busy week, and the last two days have been hellish. Drunks, drug overdoses, and a three-car pile-up on the bypass.’

  ‘Sit down, love.’ Jess dropped the clean towels on the sofa. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘I won’t stop. I just wanted to tell you that Helen won’t be over for a couple of weeks.’

  The groove between his brows and strain bracketing his mouth could be due to the demands of the A&E department in Cornwall’s largest hospital.

  ‘She’s not poorly, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s fine. Growing like a weed.’ He sank onto a chair and, resting his elbows on the table, rubbed his face. ‘I’m sorry, Ma.’

  ‘It’s OK, Rob. Really. Coffee or tea?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t stay.’

  ‘Tea it is. And a bacon sarnie.’ Switching on the kettle, Jess took bread from the bin and a pack of bacon from the fridge. ‘You could have phoned me about Helen. So I’m guessing there’s more.’ The Record Office would have to wait. She turned on the grill, slotted two slices of bread into the toaster, and opened a drawer to take out scissors and a knife. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’