Buried in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Maddy had had a child, a daughter, and for this sin, because she had been unmarried, her parents had disowned her. She had realised too late that she was pregnant, and a termination was out of the question. The baby had been adopted. It was some years ago now but she still regretted it and the pain remained. How happy the child would have been in Cornwall if only she’d been allowed a chance to think things through. But it was too late now. An only child herself, she had been the centre of her parents’ world, only to be told how cruelly she had let them down in the end. Having Annie, as she secretly called the little girl, adopted had not healed the breach between them as she had believed it would. Her parents had refused to have anything more to do with her. Maddy had given away her child for nothing. She had moved down to Brighton and mixed with a crowd her parents would have loathed until it dawned on her that they were losers like herself. From there she had moved from town to town along the south coast, never finding the sense of belonging that she was searching for. Finally she had come to Cornwall where, after two years of constant grind, cleaning and serving in cafes and pubs, she had saved enough to add to the small sum her grandmother, who had secretly sympathised with her, had left her and rented the tiny shop and the premises above it. In the little spare time she had had Maddy had worked at her crafts and, although initially her stock was sparse, she had continued to add to it, buying in when necessary.

  Just over a year ago, after a particularly successful summer, she had spoken to her landlord and made him an offer to buy which had been accepted. Now she had a mortgage hanging over her head but instead of worrying her it gave her the sense of security which she had been lacking since the adoption of her baby when her life had been turned upside down. She lived frugally but was almost content. Only one thing really mattered: tracing her daughter. But that was not her prerogative, legally it must be the other way around. Maddy realised she was nest-building in case of that happy eventuality.

  Her need to belong was so desperate that even she realised it was unnatural. Other women, women like Rose Trevelyan, seemed quite content to go it alone and regarded being accepted as neither here nor there. Perhaps that was the secret, not to care too much. Rose Trevelyan was an outsider, too, although she had married a Cornishman and had lived in the area for over twenty-five years.

  She had been rearranging the stock on the shelves during a quiet period when a policeman had arrived to question her about Jenny Manders. Maddy had been unusually withdrawn and barely spoke other than to confirm that she had seen Jenny when she went past in tears but had no idea where she might have gone. ‘If she was that upset she could’ve come here, she’d have seen the light on,’ she had added. ‘She knows me well enough for that.’ A customer looking for Christmas presents had come in and the policeman had gone.

  Later that afternoon Stella, who had closed the gallery early, dropped in for a chat. There was still no news of Jenny. Maddy Duke did not know how she was supposed to react but she managed to keep her feelings hidden. She was still smarting. from the disappointment at Nick’s refusal to share her mackerel.

  The following morning, after a fitful sleep, Maddy stood behind the glass of the shop door and watched the teeming rain. Water ran over the cobbles and down towards the harbour. Some of the galleries were open. Last-minute Christmas shoppers huddled beneath umbrellas and stepped back, pressing against the buildings to avoid being splashed, when a car passed through the narrow lanes. She sighed. What’s done is done, she thought. It’s too late to change things now. She had not lied to the police, except by omission. Wanting Nick, she hoped he would show his gratitude in the way in which she desired once he learnt how she had protected him from what might have been a potentially awkward situation.

  Rose stared out of the window. It was Sunday evening. ‘It’s still raining,’ she commented unnecessarily.

  ‘It was forecast,’ Laura said, getting up stiffly from the floor with a groan. ‘It’ll probably last through Christmas now.’

  The two women looked at each other and smiled. Long wet spells were very much a part of their lives and the conversations that were conducted in the local shops. The sharp, cold weather, if it came at all, never lasted and Christmas Day was almost always mild, if not warm.

  They had been sharing a bottle of wine in Rose’s sitting-room and talking about the Newlyn lights which had recently been switched on. Then, on the night of 19th December, they would go off in memory of the crew of the lifeboat Solomon Browne who, in 1981, lost their lives in a desperate bid to save those of others.

  The switching on of the lights was an event and crowds came to witness it, along with the fireworks, and to listen to the male voice choir, although it was to Mousehole the coach parties went to see the displays, some of which floated in the harbour or were fixed high up on the hills.

  Unlike most places, Newlyn and Mousehole preferred to wait; their lights were lit mid-December during the Christmas season proper, not two months in advance.

  ‘I haven’t heard one word about Nick Pascoe this evening,’ Laura commented slyly as she refilled their glasses.

  Rose, curled in an armchair, shrugged.

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’ Laura rewound the band restraining her hair before resuming her position, cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. She had taken off her boots because the toes were damp and, despite the horizontal stripes of her Lycra leggings, her legs still looked thin. Rose couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her friend in a skirt.

  ‘Yes. On Saturday.’

  ‘You don’t sound over-enthusiastic.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Come on, Rose. Tell Auntie Laura.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t want to rush into things.’

  ‘Dear God, woman, you waited five years to get involved with another man, I wouldn’t call that rushing. Okay, I accept that you and Jack wasn’t to be, but Nick’s an artist and you’ve got lots in com—Oh, Rose. Don’t!’ Laura was on her feet, pulling a tissue from the sleeve of her thigh-length tabard. ‘What have I said? Me and my big mouth.’

  Rose wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘It’s not you, Laura. It’s me. I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t even know if I want anyone else. I enjoy male company but it was David I loved. You see, I was lucky, I had the best. I don’t see why there needs to be anyone else.’

  ‘There doesn’t,’ Laura said decisively, perching on the arm of Rose’s chair. ‘No one can replace David but you mustn’t close your mind to the possibility that there could be someone else out there who would be equally right. Different, yes, but still right.’ Laura pursed her lips and stared over Rose’s head. ‘I think you’re talking to the wall, Laura Penfold.’

  Rose managed a smile. ‘I’ll bear in mind what you said. It’s just that I thought I was finally over it. It’s a long time since I cried.’

  Laura hugged her. ‘No harm in that. And you’ll cry again. There’ll always be times when you feel like this, but you still have to live, my girl.’ She took Rose’s glass. ‘Come on, we’ll never get drunk at this rate. Now, what else is bothering you?’

  ‘Honestly! Can’t I have any secrets?’

  ‘You should know better than that when I’m around.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell Jack,’ Laura said when Rose had told her what had happened on her return visit to the mine. ‘Especially if this girl has gone missing. There might be a connection.’

  Rose knew she was right, but now she would have to endure his wrath for not reporting it. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  Laura said she was going home because there was something she wanted to watch on television. After she left, Rose debated whether to have a bath and an early night with a book or to watch the programme herself. She did neither because Jack turned up ten minutes later. She swallowed hard. She had not kept her promise to Laura to ring him immediately. Still, she could rectify that now in person.

  ‘Rose, I need to talk to you. Nothing personal,’ he added qui
ckly, seeing the sceptical look on her face. ‘May I come in?’ She looks pale, he thought, and troubled, but still lovely despite that baggy old jumper.

  ‘I’m very tired, Jack, as long as you’re quick.’

  Jack sighed and sat down, uninvited. ‘We’ve found the remains of a female.’ He paused, wondering what the rest of the news would do to Rose. She was frowning. ‘In the shaft.’

  ‘What?’ Rose’s hand flew to her mouth as she sagged into a chair. ‘Is it Jenny?’

  ‘Not a body, Rose, remains.’

  Her eyes widened with realisation. ‘You mean bones? A skeleton?’ Jack nodded.

  ‘Well, obviously it’s not Jenny then. She’s only been missing for three days. And it can’t have anything to do with the other screams I heard.’

  ‘What other screams?’ Jack leant forward, glaring at her.

  ‘I think I’d better explain, Jack.’

  ‘I think you better had, Rose.’

  She did so, aware of his anger and knowing how impossible what she was telling him sounded.

  ‘How the devil do you always get into these situations?’ he said, but it was a rhetorical question.

  Rose squeezed her forehead between her outspread fingers. ‘Wait a minute. The rescue team checked the mine. How come they didn’t find anything?’

  ‘They looked at the bottom of the shaft, not further in along it.’

  Rose did not seem to be listening. ‘Found? What do you mean found? Did someone just decide to pop down there for a quick look?’

  ‘No. I got a rock-climbing friend of mine to do me a favour. Look, don’t take this amiss. I know you, Rose, you’re not inclined to dramatise and it seems now that there was something going on out there. What you heard may have been genuine or some sort of attempt to scare you off. However, what we need to do now is to identify the woman.’

  Rose was genuinely tired and emotionally exhausted and none of what she was hearing made sense. She wished Jack could explain it all away and she could forget about it. ‘Will you be able to?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It’s been a long time. We’ll have to go back over missing persons and hope the pathologists can give us something to work on. I just thought I’d let you know. I wanted to tell you myself rather than you hear it through the grapevine.’ He was worried about Rose on two counts. Firstly because he did not believe she had imagined she’d heard something. Although nothing or no one had been found, Rose was too level-headed to have panicked for no reason. And, secondly, if the long-dead woman turned out to have been murdered there was a chance that Rose might be in danger for having drawn attention to the place.

  He was suddenly aware that she had been crying before his arrival. She certainly looked as if she had had enough for one day. He got up to leave. Glancing back over his shoulder as he opened the back door, he saw Rose sitting motionless at the table, her head in her hands. Leave it, Jack, he thought, wanting nothing more than to comfort her. ‘Goodnight, Rose.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She barely raised her head.

  Rose sighed deeply. She was tired and knew that she ought to eat but could not face doing so. Instead she locked up and switched off the lights and went upstairs to get ready for bed. Lying beneath the covers she tried to think of anything other than the body of a stranger lying forgotten at the bottom of the shaft. Cornwall was full of superstition and there were stone circles and ancient places of worship where people claimed to feel power if they touched the stones. This had not happened to Rose but she did wonder if she had experienced some sort of supernatural episode.

  The sound of gulls woke her. Above the rattle of rain on the window she heard their noisy squawking as they fought over scraps. Rose drew back the curtains and confronted the gloom of another wet morning. She showered quickly and dressed before making coffee. She intended to buy Barry’s present and organise her New Year’s Eve party, although at the moment it was the last thing she felt like doing. It puzzled her that Jack had said little regarding her having heard a second scream but she doubted he would leave it at that.

  The wipers flicked effectively back and forth across the windscreen as she drove along the sea front. It was mild and muggy, the sort of atmosphere in which germs bred easily and would bring about the misery of colds and flu. The windows steamed up. She started winding down the one beside her before remembering that the demister in this car worked.

  Christmas trees twinkled in windows as she made her way towards the Jubilee Pool and Ross Bridge which spanned Penzance harbour. Scillonian III, the ferry which made daily trips over to St Mary’s, was now laid up for the winter. Rose pulled into the large car-park which had once been part of the harbour before it was filled in and where a space was always guaranteed.

  The drizzle was gentle on her face and misted her hair as she walked up Market Jew Street. At the top she turned down into Chapel Street and was cheered by a lively conversation with Tim and Katherine who ran the bookshop where she called to collect the two hardback novels she had ordered as her Christmas present to herself. There was still the question of what to get for Barry but that would have to wait. Although the rain had stopped Rose no longer felt like shopping and she had a sudden desire to be on her own.

  At home, coffee beside her and pen and paper at hand, she made a list of friends and acquaintances. Planning the food and drink for the party would provide a welcome distraction from her muddled thoughts. She chewed the mangled cap of the biro. Barry Rowe had already accepted, as had Laura and Trevor. Stella had not yet come back to her so she made a note to ring her and Daniel again. There was Mike and Barbara, Maddy Duke and Nick. And Jenny? Well that would depend upon whether she turned up by then. Nine people, apart from Jenny, ten with herself. It was not many. On the other hand, had she been asked to draw up a list of her friends a year ago there would have been even fewer names. Jack? She shook her head, unsure how he would react to such an invitation. A fleeting smile crossed her face. How about Doreen and Cyril Clarke? They were nice people. Doreen was the same age as Rose but dressed and acted as though she might be her mother. Cyril was an ex-miner who now threw all his energies into his garden. She added their names. I will ask Jack, she decided. I want him to be my friend. Thirteen people. It couldn’t be helped, and not everyone might be available.

  Half an hour later she had completed a suitable menu. All she had to do now was to plan the location of her next piece of work. St Michael’s Mount had been photographed and painted from every conceivable angle and in every type of light and weather.

  Rose did not think the market could bear another canvas of that famous view. Besides, it was time to experiment. She preferred rugged scenery or rough seas but she wanted to attempt something more gentle, a country setting, where there were trees and maybe running water, the type of thing she had always been able to capture in watercolours but had not attempted in oils.

  Taking the guest list to the sitting-room she received affirmative replies from everyone, along with gossip and speculation over the finding of the unknown female. With the exception of Jack, whom she was nervous of asking, Maddy was last on the list. She asked if she might bring a guest.

  ‘Peter Dawson,’ she explained. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Only by reputation. I’d love to meet him.’

  As soon as she replaced the receiver, the telephone rang. ‘Who on earth have you been talking to? I thought I’d never get through. Rose, can I ask you a favour? Terry and Marie have decided to stay on until after the New Year. Any chance of them coming on the 31st?’

  ‘Of course. I’d love to see them.’ Any of Laura’s sons was guaranteed to liven up a party should it show signs of flagging. If Jack accepted, that would take the number to sixteen, enough to fill the small house and create a proper party atmosphere. Rose shivered. It was not Jack who made her nervous but his alter ego, Inspector Pearce, who had eventually believed her when she said she had heard screams and who had, because of this, discovered a dead woman. And somehow she was involved, or woul
d become involved – she knew that instinctively. ‘Laura, they’ve found someone in that shaft. Whoever it is, she’s been there for years. Jack told me last night.’

  ‘That’s a bit too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? And how come they didn’t find her before?’

  Rose explained as much as she knew. ‘Look, why don’t we meet for a drink tonight if you’re not doing anything?’

  ‘Okay. Sevenish in the Swordfish?’

  Rose hung up. Arms folded, she wandered across to the window. A widening band of blue was gradually pushing upward from the horizon. Above, clouds parted and spokes of sunlight fanned down to the sea. How odd, she thought, watching the changing vista, a girl goes missing but another female body turns up. But there was work to be done. Upstairs that roll of developed film was waiting to be printed. She decided to get that task out of the way.

  Later, having typed out the invoice and boxed up the prints, Rose left them on the hall table to remind herself to deliver them. It was too early to meet Laura so she switched on the television to watch Westcountry Live, the hour-long regional news programme. Half seated, she aimed the remote control at the screen and changed channels just in time to hear the newscaster say, ‘The body of a woman was discovered this morning near Godrevy Point. She has been identified as Jennifer Manders from St Ives who was recently reported missing. The cause of death is uncertain as the police have not yet issued a statement but they are appealing for the public to come forward with information as to her whereabouts if she has been seen since Thursday night. This is the number to ring.’ It appeared at the bottom of the screen. ‘We will repeat that number later in the programme. And now we move on to the latest dilemma facing West Country fishermen.’

  But Rose was no longer listening. Jenny was dead. It was impossible to accept. The telephone rang. Rose ignored it, the answering machine would pick up the call, she was not ready to speak to anyone yet. Poor Jenny, she thought, so lovely and far too young to have died. Selfishly, Rose felt glad that her body had not been found anywhere near the mine. She would not have been able to cope with that.