‘You can do that tomorrow. Come on, it will be fun.’ She makes it sound more like an order than a request. The twinkle has gone out of her eyes and the smile looks fixed.
He feels backed into a corner. Why can’t he think of a decent excuse? Resignedly he says, ‘Okay, but just for an hour or so. I really have got marking to catch up on.’
‘Excellent, see you there at six?’
As he’s about to leave the staffroom Jane Gregson, the jolly and gossipy tea lady, whispers in his ear. ‘Go careful with that Miss Blake. By all accounts her husband divorced her cos she was insanely jealous of anyone he was friendly with. Bunny boiler comes to mind.’ Jane does her trademark belly laugh and wheels the trolley out.
Marvellous.
After break, once again in the classroom, Matt’s not happy. Jane’s words keep repeating in his mind. Why couldn’t he have been more forthright and just said no to Jessica? Going out for a drink with the woman is not sending a back-off message, is it? He absently twiddles a pencil as he watches Kirsty finish her picture. But at least he’s shown willing, been friendly to a colleague. That has to count for something. Tonight will be a drink with a colleague and nothing more. Nothing in the future, unless it’s with other staff too.
‘You look miles away, Mr Trevelyar,’ Kirsty says, looking up.
‘I am, Kirsty… Just thinking, you know.’
‘Thinking is good for you, isn’t it?’
‘It is, Kirsty.’
‘Did you find out about the gremlin? You know, what it means?’
‘Kremlin. Yes. It means a fortress. Like a big castle with soldiers inside to protect the city. That’s what it was in the distant past anyway.’
‘Oh good. I like castles. We don’t need protection like in the old days in our cities now, do we, sir?’
‘No, thank goodness,’ Matt says and wanders off. We just need protection from certain members of staff with the capacity to eat me for breakfast, or dinner as the case may be.
* * *
After school, Matt’s looking in a shop window, lost in thought. He’s contemplating buying a new shirt to go out in tonight, but that might send more wrong signals to Jessica. The trouble is, he does need a new shirt. His other two smart-ish ones are in the wash and it’s been a long time since he’s gone clothes shopping. Just as he’s about to go inside the shop, he catches a glimpse of a turquoise-clad figure in the window’s reflection, walking past on the other side of the street behind him. He turns and sees the elfin woman from the other week go into the greengrocers, her pale hair lifting on the breeze.
The sensible thing to do would be to just carry on, go about his business, but he’s drawn to her. There’s a weird feeling in his gut and it’s telling him to wait outside the shop and casually bump into her as she comes out. But why? What the hell is his gut playing at? He has no wish to start a relationship, but still, he knows he must follow his instinct. Matt looks at his own reflection in the window and makes sure his hair is tidy, then before he can change his mind, he hurries across the street and waits just along from the greengrocers, on the cobbled pavement, his heart thumping.
A few moments later she comes out, her basket heavy with vegetables, but turns right not left and walks away from him up the street. Shit. Now what? The panic of missing her drives action. Matt’s feet seem to have a mind of their own as they rush him down a side alley, round a corner and then back onto the high street a few steps from where the woman is heading towards him. Matt ducks his head, whips his phone out of his trouser pocket and pretends to look at it, but as he passes her he bumps into her shoulder and drops the phone.
She stops, bends to pick up his phone at the same time as Matt does and they narrowly avoid banging heads. ‘Oops, here you go,’ she says as she hands it to him. Her face is flushed from bending over and dodging his head and her eyes are even more unusual close up than they were the first time he saw her. Bluey-violet. Her voice has a soft Cornish lilt and a half-smile plays over her lips. She is exquisite.
Matt gapes at her, his hand half on the phone, half on her hand. He’s aware he’s opening and closing his mouth, but his words stick in his throat and she’s looking at him as if he’s deranged. Is there any wonder, Matt? He feels pressure in his palm as she shoves the phone into his hand and retrieves her own. He says, ‘Oh, thanks. I’m sorry for staring, it’s just that I’ve seen you somewhere before, I think.’ Lame, but better than nothing.
‘Really? Not sure I’ve seen you.’ As she says this, Matt can see she’s struggling to place him. Her eyebrows knit together, and he hopes she can’t place the last time, when he stood with his hand on the boot of his car gawping at her just like he is now.
‘Yeah, must have been around the village.’
‘Right. Well I must get on.’ She gives him a quick smile and makes to leave, so he says the first thing that comes into his head.
‘Do you know where the nearest bank is? I’ve not lived here long, and I haven’t got cash out yet, so I don’t know where it is. I’ve been paying for everything with my credit card, which isn’t ideal when you only want one or two bits from the greengrocers.’ It all comes out in a rush and Matt cringes. One or two bits? And why doesn’t he just go to an ATM? Why does he need a bank?
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask this, but nods and points back down the street. ‘Yeah, it’s down there to the lights and then across the crossing. Can’t really miss it.’
‘Thanks. What’s your name?’ Another cringe. That came out a bit blunt.
The woman shifts her basket to her other arm, pulls her turquoise shawl tighter round her shoulders. ‘Lavender.’
Of course it is. Because of her eyes. They aren’t violet, they’re lavender. Matt smiles. ‘What an unusual name. Your eyes are the same colour as your name.’
Lavender blushes. ‘Funny enough, that’s why my parents chose it.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Do you live here in the village, Lavender?’
‘On the edge, really. I have a cottage near the sea and a little shop down there not far from the bank. I’m an artist and sell my paintings and art supplies from there.’
‘That sounds fascinating!’ Matt notices her slight frown at his gushy words and cringes for the third time. He sounds overenthusiastic to say the least.
‘Not sure if it’s fascinating, but it’s what I do, and I love it.’ Lavender shifts the basket again. ‘Anyway,’ she nods at the vegetables. ‘I must get these home before my arm drops off.’
‘I could carry them home for you.’ The look on her face tells him he’s gone too far. What is he thinking?
‘No. Really, I’m fine.’ Lavender quickly steps around him and waves a hand. ‘Okay, see you… er?’
‘Matt. Matt Trevelyar. I’m the new teacher at Penhallow School.’
Lavender’s face drains of colour and her mouth falls open. Without another word she hurries away down the street as if he’s just turned into an axe murderer. Not quite the reaction he was hoping for. What on earth has he said? Okay, he was a bit forward offering to take her shopping home, but it was more than that. Matt’s caught between running after her to ask what had offended her and going to look at her shop for more clues. He opts for the latter. Much safer.
Okay, so here’s the bank… next shop is hardware. Matt stops, raises his hand to his brow and squints against the sun. The last shop on the street has a colourful lintel and some words written in entwined painted flowers which he can’t read from this angle. He hurries along and stands square to the shop. In the window there’s a range of canvases – stunning seascapes and country scenes, and the sign in flowers reads:
Lavender Blue
Original Artworks by Lavender Nancarrow
Chapter 5
The cottage feels cold today, or perhaps it’s just because of the chill of learning that a Trevelyar is back in the village – and a teacher too. How much worse could it be? Lavender puts her shopping away and rubs the goosepimples on her arms. It’s only mid-Septemb
er – too early to light the fire? Through the window a huddle of bruised clouds gathers over the ocean and a gull hovers above the garden wall, struggling against the wind. Lavender pulls a cardigan on, walks into the living room and picks up some logs.
Curled up on the sofa with a mug of tea, Lavender yawns. The warm glow from the open fire and the walk in the fresh air over the fields and lanes from St Agnes are not conducive to making a start on the next painting. She’s not in the mood at all. Her mind is too taken by thoughts of the Trevelyar man. Is he one of the Trevelyars, or is it just a coincidence? It might well be, and if so, she overreacted big time. He must have wondered what the hell was wrong with her as she scuttled away down the high street. Mind you, he was a bit odd. All that staring and offering to take her shopping home. What is very annoying and extremely disconcerting, however, is she’s attracted to him. Probably something to do with the fact he’s stereotypically tall, dark and handsome with turquoise eyes and a tumble of ebony curls. Nothing will come of it though, so no harm done.
As Lavender takes her mug through to the kitchen determined to at least have a go at picking up her paintbrush, the back door opens and in walks her gran. Much as she loves her, she knows the painting won’t get started this evening if she stays for long. Gran’s got that determined look on her face and she’s already reaching for the kettle.
‘Want a cuppa, Lavender?’
Anyone would think her gran lived here. Lavender holds up her empty mug. ‘No thanks. I was just about to start a new p–’
‘Because you might need one when I’ve finished telling you my news.’
Lavender’s heart sinks. ‘Good or bad?’
Gran rolls her eyes. ‘Bad, I’m afraid. To be honest, it’s the worst for some time.’
Lavender takes the biscuit tin out of the cupboard; she’s going to need sugar to help keep her eyes open. The news is probably a long tale about one of the village elders who just looked sideways at Gran or something. She does tend to over-exaggerate nowadays. The older she gets the worse she gets, Lavender’s found. ‘I’ll take these in the living room, you bring the tea.’
Gran sits opposite on the armchair and dips a biscuit in her cup. She holds it up but doesn’t eat it, just stares across at Lavender, a faraway look in her eye, and Lavender watches the biscuit wobble, heavy with liquid. Why doesn’t she just put it in her mouth before it plops onto her chest? Gran focuses, gobbles the biscuit down in one and fixes her keen hazel eyes on her granddaughter. ‘There’s a Trevelyar in the village. He’s a teacher at the school. How dare they employ an outsider to educate our children?’ Gran’s voice is quiet but shakes with fury.
For once this isn’t one of Gran’s long-winded stories then. Lavender nods. ‘Yeah, I ran into him today.’
Gran chokes on her tea and wipes her chin with the back of her hand. ‘What do you mean, ran into him?’
Lavender tells her.
‘What? He actually had the bloody cheek to offer to walk you back home? A young woman living alone? Bastard! We all know what he was after.’
Lavender sighs inwardly. ‘I think he was just trying to be nice–’
‘Nice! Nice? Trevelyars aren’t nice. They pretend to be, but they’re all out for themselves – for what they can get.’
Lavender puts her mug down and sits back. ‘Hmm. How do we know that this guy is one of the Trevelyars? There are other Trevelyars in Cornwall and–’
‘Because he’s got a look of his rat of a grandfather…’ Gran turns her mouth down at the corners. ‘And anyway, he told me his grandparents lived here the other week when I saw him in the pub.’
‘You chatted to him?’ Lavender thinks it’s a wonder she didn’t strangle him.
Gran snorts. ‘Well, chat is a bit soft. I gave him short shrift. I knew who he was before then though. Knew as soon as I heard they’d employed a new teacher and that his name was Trevelyar. Warned him off soon as he arrived, but he didn’t take the hint. I saw the cheeky swine looking in your shop window today. That’s when I knew we had to do something. We have to act before it’s too late.’
A nest of vipers writhe in Lavender’s belly. She’d seen what her gran had done to those who crossed her over the years. None of it was pleasant. She doesn’t like the we bit either. We have to act before it’s too late. Lavender swallows and asks, ‘You warned him off. How?’
‘Same way as I drove that homosexual pair away a few years ago. Scum.’ Gran settles back in her chair, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
Oh God. Lavender closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. She hadn’t spoken to her gran because of that for weeks. Lavender had told her that there was nothing wrong with being gay, and she certainly didn’t hold with the dead-animal-head warnings and God knew what else. But Gran told her that she didn’t want their kind round here and – ‘It ain’t right and it ain’t proper.’
‘What exactly did you do?’
‘I found an old brock by the roadside and beheaded it. Stuck it on a pole and told him to fuck off back to London on a sign below. Wrote it in blood.’ Gran nods her head, pride shining in her eyes. ‘Said a few country words over it – made it potent.’
Before she can stop herself, Lavender says, ‘He’s still here. Can’t have been too potent.’
Gran narrows her eyes, leans forward in her seat and spits, ‘No. And that means you and me have to put our heads together. Our hands too. ‘T’aint no mistake we both have the webbing. You’re a guardian of old ways, a protector of our lands.’ Gran splays the middle and index fingers of both hands, holds them up to the light as if seeing them for the first time. ‘You’ll take over when I’m gone.’
Lavender looks away and down at her own fingers – flexes the extra skin between both thumbs and index fingers. She’d been bullied mercilessly at school for having webbed fingers. The other kids said she was a freak and a mutant or a witch. Others said she had mermaid ancestors, because her surname, Nancarrow, meant mermaid in Cornish. This was stupid, because her gran was a Penhallow and she had the webbing too. The witch part might be nearer the mark on Gran’s part. Whatever the truth, it meant that Lavender had been a lonely child, singled out and shunned. Sadly, not much has changed and she’s almost twenty-six.
‘What are you thinking about? Why aren’t you saying anything?’ Gran purses her lips, frustration furrowing her bushy brows.
‘I’m wondering what you propose to do next.’
‘We.’ Gran wags a bony finger at her. ‘We, Lavender.’
They lock eyes for a few seconds. Lavender wants no part of the old woman’s plans. Yes, she’ll be furious when she says no to her, and in the past Lavender has just gone along with everything she’s been told to do. Her dad is the same and mum too – Gran’s the matriarch. Morvoren Penhallow is a hard woman to say no to, but Lavender will draw the line at terrorism. Because that’s what it is, plain and simple. ‘I don’t want to do anything bad to him. I don’t know him and whatever the Trevelyars did to our ancestors years ago, he won’t be the same. He probably doesn’t even know about–’
‘Whether he knows or not is neither here nor there. What he’s done nowadays is enough, the filthy bastard.’ Gran does a mock shudder and folds her arms.
‘What? What do you mean, nowadays?’
A flicker of gleeful excitement in her eyes, Gran leans forward. ‘The same person as told me there were a Trevelyar coming to the school, told me his wife died in mysterious circumstances – overdose. Couldn’t cope with living any more. He was handy with his fists, apparently. Never proved anything though. But more disgusting was his interest, shall we say, in young maids at his previous school. I thought you’d be particularly concerned about that one.’
The pit of vipers in Lavender’s belly starts spitting as she takes in this information. Her gran’s watching her face carefully and instinct drives a reaction. ‘He molested girls in London? How the fuck did he get a job here, then!’
‘Beats me. Might have said it was just rum
ours. Trevelyars have silver tongues. Evil as they come.’
‘Who told you all this?’
‘I keep my sources secret, even from you.’ Gran’s eyes dance away and she pretends to pick at a thread on her shawl.
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Lavender jumps up and, with a shaking hand, takes her cup into the kitchen. In her head, memories of a little girl cowering against the wall in a school classroom set her stomach churning. She feels dizzy and her heart thuds in her chest.
‘It’s all true, Lavender. My source isn’t one to lie and they know about the Trevelyars. They suffered at their hands too, many years ago.’ Gran’s beside her at the sink, her face flushed with anger. ‘We have to drive him out… by any means necessary. Are you with me?’
Lavender glances at her grandmother’s earnest expression and lets out a long sigh. What choice does she have? Men like Matthew Trevelyar are the scum of the earth and have no place in her part of it. She nods. ‘I’m with you.’
Chapter 6
Why are his hands clammy? Matt wipes his palms along his jean-clad thighs just before he steps up to the door of the pub. His heart’s thudding and his brain’s giving the old fight or flight messages. He should have to do neither. It’s just a drink and a bite with a colleague. Turning people down has never come easy to him, but as he checks his reflection in the glass panel of the door, he kicks himself for being too accommodating. He would rather be anywhere else but here, wearing his new shirt and his hair scraped back within an inch of its life into a ponytail. Why couldn’t he have made some excuse, and why had he bought a new shirt? It felt too perfect, smelt new as well.
The door opens and a man comes out, affording Matt a glimpse into the bar. Is it too late to turn and run? The flight message is winning…
‘Hey, Matt! Over here!’ Jessica half stands from a bar stool and waves her arms, windmill-like. Yep. Too late to run.
The Feud Page 3