by Gloria Cook
He was deep in thought about Angeline Johnson. She was the reason he was still at home. As young as he was, he thought he knew all about women, but the nanny was different. Different to anyone he’d met, different to anything he’d expected. He couldn’t say why. She just was. He’d have learned more about her if the girl she was responsible for wasn’t such an attention seeker. Angeline doted on Christine and was happy to give in to her demands and to constantly set up games and distractions for her.
Lunch on that first day, after he and Angeline and the two girls had strolled along the beach and up to Roskerne, had been a delight. While the girls had played on the lawn, he and Angeline had sat on the terrace and sipped white wine and talked and talked. They’d mulled over the rising unemployment figures in this year of 1931, the hunger and poverty and the inevitable gloom that was settling over the country. Angeline had been stirred to passion over the situation – she had a strong social conscience – and all at once Jonny had admitted he had spent a carefree, privileged life, that everything had come easily to him, and he had ended up feeling almost guilty about it. ‘If I could think of a way for you to get a place at university, I would,’ he had said sincerely.
‘I’m happy enough caring for Christine. She’s a big part of my life now.’ Angeline had looked fondly at the girl. There was no mistaking her devotion.
‘But she’ll grow up. Won’t you feel you’ve missed out?’
‘No. Never. I’m a fatalist, Jonny. What’s meant to be, will be.’
They had laughed about the minor earthquake that had recently shook most of the country and the Scottish highlands, when tables had shot across rooms and timbers had creaked, and some had thought it was the Second Coming of Christ and had got down on their knees and prayed. They had talked of a local murder, a rare occurrence, both chilling and thrilling. And Angeline had talked of how she had wanted to be a scientist but how her parents’ untimely deaths in a road accident many years ago had left her in the care of an aunt who was kindly but had a meagre income.
He had seen her, with Christine and Adele, twice since then. He knew he mustn’t hurry her, but he would ask her to have dinner soon. ‘Come to me,’ he whispered now to her lovely image in his mind.
Libby Bosweld scowled down every inch of the one-acre field, squashing pink and white clover under her foot. She hated it here. She hated Hennaford and everyone in it. She didn’t mind too much about coming down to Cornwall. Some of the girls at school had been down, staying in prestigious hotels. Their talk – not directly to her, for she was not a popular classmate – had reminded her of the wonderful beaches and the delights of the two contrasting coastlines, the north one untamed and rugged, the south warm and splendidly mild, and the moors evocative of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre; indeed it was the wild, mesmerizing Cornish moors that had inspired the Brontë sisters, rather than the vaster moors of Yorkshire. And there was a beguiling sense of history and spirituality in this bottommost county, both subjects that Libby took refuge in: past ages and the supernatural. Perhaps she would pluck up courage and speak to the girls. What Libby was miffed about was her father insisting that they come here where her adored aunt had been so inexplicably and unfairly ostracized. At least, because she was presently not in her father’s company, although people were curious about her because she was a stranger, no one recognized her. She tended to keep away from him when he socialized, knowing people compared his outstanding good looks with her plainness. Even her top-quality fashions failed to make her any sort of a beauty. She was highly sensitive about it.
Smelling cigarette smoke, she glanced behind. And saw a young man who was as equally handsome as her father. He was unconscious of her, his thoughts far away, and she stared and stared at him, absorbing his careless movements, his dark, dark eyes, the perfect symmetry of his face and broad body. At fourteen years old, Libby Bosweld fell in love for the first time. He tossed down the end of his cigarette and, with his eyes lowered, stubbed it out and turned and went back into the gathering.
Something new stirred inside Libby and drove her to follow him. She had to know who he was, but when she got round the candyfloss stall he had disappeared. She was so disappointed she sought her father to demand they return at once to Truro.
She heard her father’s voice inside the flower tent. She went in. He was standing beside Mrs Emilia Harvey and was congratulating her over the silver trophy and first-prize card sitting in front of an exhibit of the most exquisite roses. Roses. Every card Mrs Harvey sent to London had roses on it. Her father grew roses and belonged to a rose growers’ society. He talked endlessly about roses. He had paintings of roses. He drew pictures of roses. A friend of his had asked him to choose a second name for his daughter; it had been Rose. Every card he sent to Corwall had roses on it. Roses, roses, roses. And Emilia Harvey loved them too.
So that was it! Why her father had dragged her back to Hennaford. It was obvious what had gone on between him and the Harvey woman all those years ago. He was here to start up their affair again.
Emilia got the chilly feeling of hostile eyes boring into her back. She glanced round and, with a stab of unease, met the fierce expression stamped on the unattractive young face.
Chapter Fourteen
Flames shot up the kitchen wall in Ford House. Pegging up dolls’ clothes in the garden with Martha, Elena was alerted to the danger by the smell of smoke. ‘Martha! Run to the tree house and stay up there with Alan. Whatever you do, don’t come down until I tell you both that it’s safe! Go on, darling. Run!’
Martha hared off on her little toddling legs, screaming all the way.
Her heart thrashing in panic, Elena dashed into the house. She saw at once that the fire was her fault. A tea towel she had hung over the drying line under the high wooden overmantel had slipped off and had caught alight because she had forgotten to close the door of the grate. The overmantel was ablaze and cracking with the heat and if she didn’t act quickly the flames would soon stretch across to the curtains.
She raced to the back kitchen and filled a large enamel bowl with water, ran back into the kitchen and threw the water into the seat of the fire. It doused out a lot of the flames, making steam bubble and hiss on top of the range. There were two saucepans of peeled vegetables in water on the table and she threw them both at the remaining, still determined flames, then she emptied a pot of cold tea. Finally, she grabbed an apron and beat out the last of the blaze.
Shaking, coughing, her eyes stinging from the smoke, she retreated to the back kitchen door to survey the damage. She wanted to cry at what she saw but couldn’t give way to tears or it would frighten Alan and Martha. The overmantel was a charred ruin. The wall around it was scorched black, the plaster cracked. Worst of all, there was smoke damage to the room and the back kitchen, and because she tended to leave doors ajar the passage and stairway and every room in the house would have suffered the same. She’d have to decorate throughout the entire house and wash every curtain and cushion and all the bed linen. The house wasn’t fit to live in and it would cost a fortune and take a lot of time and trouble to put right.
Back outside, she called Alan and Martha down from the tree house. They were scared and reached for her. Kneeling down, she comforted them and found comfort herself by hugging their soft little bodies.
‘Aunt Elena has been very silly and it’s her fault there was a fire,’ she explained, trying to keep control of her voice. ‘We can’t go back inside yet, I’m afraid, but at least none of us was hurt. That’s the main thing.’
‘Will we have to live in the tree house, Aunty ’Lena?’ Alan asked, serious, still alarmed, but his eyes were glittering as if sensing an adventure.
‘No, darling.’ Elena managed a small laugh. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, but we need some help.’ A lot of help if they were going to sleep at home tonight. And she knew just who to turn to.
* * *
Jim was at home that morning. He had just driven home his new means of transport, a t
en-year-old, green-painted Ford, formerly a baker’s delivery van. It was well kept but the bodywork was a little untrue on the front right-hand side after repairs following a collision with a stone pillar, but Jim couldn’t be prouder of it. He was filling it with his tools and placing a ladder on the roof rack. Parked in the village square, it had caused a rapid stir of interest and he’d received some requests for low-paid minor work and a lucrative job at the nursery. Gilbert Eathorne, who treated him almost as an equal now he was a local small-business man, had arranged for him to build a back porch. His business was up and running. He’d make more money from these first jobs in a week than he had used to do in two months. Eagerly, he read again the signwriting on the side of the van. J. Killigrew Esq. General Builder. Hennaford. Near Truro. He’d have to get a telephone installed. That would give something for people round here to talk about.
Absorbed in his achievement, it was a while before he heard the urgent voices calling his name. He swung round and stared, hardly comprehending what he saw.
‘Jim! Jim! Thank God you’re here. We need your help,’ Elena cried. She was rushing towards him, Alan and Martha tugged along on each hand.
‘What on earth…?’ The children were clean and tidy, but not a pin was left in Elena’s bun and her long hair hung down in tangles. Her face and arms were smudged with soot. He could smell it from where he stood, open-mouthed, eyes widened. Her skirt and blouse were blackened and the skirt had twisted to the side. The laces of one of her stout brown shoes had come undone. She looked vulnerable and very pretty. Jim stared a while longer, then ran to her and the children. He thanked God there were no nosy parkers about to exclaim over them or to get in the way or interfere.
‘Come inside.’ He ushered the little family, his friend and honorary niece and nephew, into his home.
‘Don’t go worrying,’ he told Elena as she sat at his tiny kitchen table. She was hugging a mug of sweet tea on the faded oilcloth, anxiety marking her pale refined features, and she was shaking every now and then. ‘I’ll put Gilbert Eathorne and the others off for a few days. Yours is an emergency and they won’t mind; too bad if they do. Your insurance will pay for what needs to be done.’
Elena brightened. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that.’ Then she was stricken. ‘Oh no! I’ve been so busy with the children I’ve forgotten to go into Truro and pay the premiums.’
‘Will we get into trouble, Aunty ’Lena? ’ Alan said from where he was standing up on a hard-backed chair, with a cheeping Martha, amusing themselves with Arthur, old Mr Quick’s ugly old blue budgie. Alan wasn’t disturbed. He had learned that his Uncle Jim was always available to successfully put anything right.
‘No, Alan,’ Elena replied, wanting to bury her face in her hands and sob. ‘But everything is going to be very difficult for a while.’
Jim gave the children a feeder of fresh birdseed to put into old Arthur’s cage. Then he went to Elena and crouched beside her. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. I’ve just told you so, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No buts.’
‘But Jim,’ she tried not to wail. The tears gathering behind her eyes began to slide down her drawn cheeks. ‘I can’t really afford to pay for the repairs and decorating. I wanted everything to be perfect for the children.’
‘Their life with you is perfect.’ Jim reached for her trembling hands and wrapped his big, warm, rough ones around them. ‘Elena, listen to me. I’ve already made contact with others in the building trade. I can get hold of cheap supplies and I’m not going to charge you for the work I’ll do. Except for a mug of tea and the occasional meal. How does that sound? Better? The Lord provides, doesn’t he? It’s time you sat back and allowed others to help you for a change.’
For the first time she was able to gaze back into his strong eyes. ‘Thank you, Jim.’ She paused, then, ‘I don’t quite know what I’d do without you.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ He smiled. ‘Now, drink your tea. Then I’ll take you and the kids back home in the van.’
Alan and Martha whooped in excitement.
* * *
Emilia was getting ready to go out. She rarely applied make-up, but she was highlighting her clear brown eyes with a little kohl and using a dark pink lipstick. She paid special attention to her hair, brushing it until it fell in thick, glossy waves.
‘Where are you off to, darling?’ Alec asked in an agreeable voice as he came into the bedroom.
‘Truro. Shopping.’
‘With Brooke? She’s just arrived, looking well turned out.’
‘No. I thought it would be nice to have a little time to myself. My mother will fetch Lottie from school.’
‘Good for you,’ Alec said, reaching her where she sat at her dressing table. He lowered his nose to the back of her neck and took a long sniff. ‘You smell good.’ He didn’t add that the perfume was of country roses, those flowers were not a favoured subject right now. Emilia had said nothing in anger about the shock discovery at the desecration of Jenna’s rose bed, saying their daughter was welcome to the flowers, but she was cross with Alec for still refusing to consult the doctor.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he had declared stubbornly. After she had left her winning exhibit amid all the other roses on Jenna’s grave she had gone home and had hauled him out of his darkroom.
‘How can you say that? You’re not behaving rationally any more, Alec. You’re always tired, you’re getting constant headaches. You hardly speak to anyone any more. Please, I’m worried out of my mind for you. Go to the doctor.’
‘I’d get better if you’d stop nagging me!’
‘Oh, so you admit you need to get better. Alec, see sense, please. At least get something to ease the pain, aspirin isn’t working, or anything else you’ve tried. I’ve been wondering if you fractured your skull or injured your neck in the accident and this is what’s causing the problem. Please arrange to have some X-rays.’
Suddenly he had seemed in the grip of a tremor and had leaned back against the darkroom door. A queer glazing took over his eyes.
‘Alec!’ She shook his arm.
He seemed to have slipped into a trance. It had been some seconds before he’d focused on her again. He didn’t seem to have any strength and his voice emerged weakly and a little breathlessly: ‘I’m all right, Emilia, honestly. I’m just not sleeping, that’s all. Look, stop worrying about me. I just need to pull myself together. I promise I will. Now let me get back before my photos are ruined.’
Emilia was still working out whether she should be reassured or even more worried about his assertions. His ‘little turn’ was certainly something not to take comfort in. Her mother had suggested that men sometimes got ‘a bit funny at a certain age’, but even if that was true it would be another ten years before Alec reached that time in his life. Emilia had taken refuge in thoughts of Perry, and her arranged assignation with him today.
Usually Alec would have dropped a kiss on her, and Emilia would have smiled up at him, or stroked his hand or sighed in appreciation. She put her hairbrush down and clipped on pearl cluster earrings. She got up and lifted up her handbag from the bed and checked she had a hanky, her purse and perfume.
Alec watched her. Emilia looked particularly lovely and appetizing when she was aloof and dignified. He had kept his distance from her since the day of the horticultural show but now he wanted to be with her. To lay his hands on her, pull off her stylish Louis-heeled shoes and lay her down on their huge Victorian bed and mess up her hair and clothes. He was still sore over her stance about Lottie’s appearance and fed up with her harping on about seeing the doctor, but he couldn’t help himself and went to her. He gently wound his arms in under her cardigan and brought her wonderful familiar body in intimately close to his. ‘You look absolutely appealing, darling. Beautiful. Your very best.’
Emilia turned her face away from the coming kiss. ‘Alec, I have to go. I want to catch the midday bus.’
&
nbsp; ‘Stay,’ he crooned, nuzzling her neck. ‘Take the car or let me drive you into town later. You don’t want to ride on that boneshaker, surely?’
Emilia didn’t want to take the motor car. Alec had never changed his old Ford Coupe. There was a risk it would be recognized if parked near a certain house at Highertown, a tiny hamlet on the outskirts of Truro, where Perry was staying. She pushed Alec away before he could attempt another kiss. ‘The bus will do.’
Alec tugged her back into his embrace. ‘Darling, it’s been a long time—’
‘That’s your fault.’ She yanked his hands off her. ‘You’re the one who’s been behaving coldly. It’s no good choosing to go to bed when I’m ready to go out. Aren’t I allowed a little time to myself? And have you forgotten Brooke’s downstairs? Let go of me, Alec. I’ve just enough time to say hello to her and walk to the village.’
‘Cold, am I? I’m not the only one.’ He stepped way back. ‘I haven’t looked to make love because you’re so unforgiving about what I did to your blasted roses.’
‘I’m not angry with you about the roses. They looked beautiful on Jenna’s grave. I’m worried about why you did it. Why can’t I get that through to you?’ She glanced at the photograph Brooke had taken of him at Roskerne. It showed him gaunt and smiling softly, searchingly. She liked this image of him, it was full of his kindness and hinted of his former strength. She had made a pale-blue satin frame for it, trimmed it with spiralling dark-blue and purple silk rosebuds and placed it in a prominent position on the mantelpiece.
Grieved that he seemed to be fading away and was determined to do nothing about it, she looked at him.
He rubbed his brow, as if he hadn’t heard her last words. ‘I’d forgotten about Brooke.’
‘I’m going, Alec.’ Emilia made for the door but turned back. Alec had gone quiet. Abnormally quiet. Bouts of which were getting more frequent. He went to the window overlooking the lawn and stared down at it. ‘Why do you keep doing that? What are you hoping to see?’