Matt swallows, takes a deep breath and strides over to Jessica in what he hopes is a confident yet nonchalant manner. ‘Hi, sorry I’m a bit late. I decided to walk, and it was further than I thought.’
Jessica touches his knee as he settles himself on the high bar stool. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been here very long myself.’
Matt eyes her almost empty wine glass. She’s either a fast drinker or a liar. ‘Can I get you another?’
‘Go on then. A large Pinot please, I’ll take these menus over to that table over there, yes?’
Matt watches her go, her bottom in a tight red skirt swaying as she struts in high stilettos. God knows how she managed to walk down the hill in those. Other eyes are watching too. Exclusively male. One man practically has his tongue out and notices Matt watching him. The man nods in a respectful way at Matt and turns back to his pint. Matt shakes his head and orders the drinks. You can have her, mate. I have no interest whatsoever.
At the table he takes a sip of his pint and looks at the menu. He’s thus engaged, but he knows her eyes are all over him, scrutinising, appraising. Matt flicks his gaze up and catches hers lingering over his chest. His shirt’s open a few buttons and his chest hair seems to hold particular fascination for Jessica. He shifts in his seat and folds his arms. ‘I think I fancy the chicken.’
Jessica flutters her lashes and gives a too-high and tinkly laugh. ‘That’s mad. I fancy the same. We must have similar tastes, eh?’ She puts her head on one side and gives him a slow smile.
Please. Matt pushes his chair back. ‘I’ll go order them. My treat.’ The more time he has away from her the better. This was such a big mistake.
After a one-woman self-appreciation society talk lasting fifteen minutes, Jessica does the head-on-one-side slow smile again. ‘Anyway… as they say, enough about me – tell me about your life, Matt.’
‘It’s not very interesting. Besides, I can’t let this chicken go cold.’ Matt shovels a huge mouthful into his mouth and chews noisily. That should put her off.
‘You do like your food. Nice to see a man with an appetite.’ Jessica does the tinkly laugh again and pats his hand. Great.
‘Yeah, I’m always hungry and anything will do. Can’t be bothered with all this cheffy stuff. Bangers and mash, chicken and chips, beans on toast. Fart for Britain afterward though.’ He gives her a wink, grins and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘Ew, too much information.’ Jessica flaps her hand and wrinkles her nose. ‘So, you were brought up in London, but have relatives here?’ She takes a dainty mouthful of her food and looks at him expectantly.
‘Not now. My grandparents were born right here in St Agnes. They left when my dad was a baby, but my gran especially misses Cornwall, even now.’
‘Hmm. It is rather quaint. I’m from the other side of the Tamar. Much prefer Devon, but a job came up here and…’
Matt notices Jessica’s eyes grow moist. He’s tempted to ignore it, but he’s been brought up to care about others. Even red-lipped man-eating ones. ‘You okay?’
The hand flap again. ‘Don’t mind me. I came here because of the breakup of my marriage. I needed to put some distance between all our old haunts and my poor battered heart.’ Jessica sniffs and dabs at her nose with a napkin.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Matt looks away and concentrates on his food.
‘Yes. He said I was too controlling. Went off with a little mouse of a woman who worked in the office – he was a walking cliché, my Harry.’ She draws her fingers down the stem of her glass, looks into the middle distance. Then she snorts. ‘Controlling, my arse. Some men can’t cope with successful women, that’s all.’ She takes a sip of wine and looks at him. ‘Your wife passed away, didn’t she?’
Jeez, is she for real? Matt nods. ‘Yes, leukaemia.’
‘That’s terrible. How are you coping with it?’
How do you think, you mad woman? ‘It gets easier with time.’ Matt puts his fork down and leans back in his chair. ‘To be honest I’d rather not talk about it.’
Jessica leans forward, her face a mask of concern. ‘Oh, of course. I’m so sorry for bringing it up. I can be far too blunt at times without realising it.’
Matt takes a large pull on his pint and finishes his food. Ten minutes and he’s making an excuse to leave. She’s more than he can bear.
‘Are you getting to know the village and the locals?’ Jessica does a stretchy smile in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.
‘Kind of. I chat to Betty in the newsagents and the guy behind the bar here – the landlady too. Not had a chance to make many friends so far.’
‘They can be a bit reserved where strangers are concerned. I’ve been here two years and only have one or two people who I’d call friends.’
I wonder why?
‘I heard that you had a nasty incident at your house the first day you were here. Any more news on that?’
‘The badger head?’
She nods and pushes her plate to the side.
‘No. But I have a feeling I’ve not heard the last.’ Matt tells her about his encounter in the pub with Morvoren Penhallow and that he wouldn’t be surprised if she was the culprit.
‘I wouldn’t put anything past her. She’s a right old witch by all accounts. She’s not well liked in the village. Her granddaughter’s a bit odd too.’
‘Really. Why?’
‘She has a little art shop in town – a great artist, but weird.’
Matt’s very interested all of a sudden. ‘Lavender Nancarrow? I looked in the shop window this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
Matt’s heart sinks. There’s no way he’ll ever get to know Lavender now if Morvoren’s her gran.
Jessica pats her hair. ‘Pretty girl, if you like that boho kind of look, but no man can get near her, apparently.’
Matt can see the barely disguised jealousy in Jessica’s face and says, ‘Yes, she is stunning. I saw her locking up the shop.’ A lie, but he won’t go into the embarrassing truth of his meeting with Lavender.
Jessica twists her mouth to one side. ‘Hmm. Well, one of the local men I was seeing for a while told me she was strange. He went out with her a few times and she raked his cheek with her nails when he tried to go further than a kiss. He’s still got the scar.’
Irritation flares. ‘And that makes her odd? Perhaps he was too full on.’
Jessica’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arch. ‘Enough to get a scarred face?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know the guy.’
‘Paul?’ She laughs. ‘Paul’s a teddy bear.’
‘Maybe he was a grizzly bear that time.’ Matt fakes a yawn. ‘Anyway, it’s been fun, but I’m going to call it a night, Jessica.’
Her face falls. ‘Have I offended you somehow?’
Yes. You’re here, breathing in and out, aren’t you? ‘Of course not. I’m just tired.’ Matt forces a smile.
Jessica’s catlike eyes slide to her watch. ‘It’s only just gone eight.’
Matt spreads his hands. ‘What can I say? I’m boring.’
‘Don’t be daft. It would have been nice to have chatted for a while longer, that’s all.’
Matt pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Another time perhaps. See you at school tomorrow.’
Jessica opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, he turns and hurries out into the September air, thick with woodsmoke. By the time he’s reached the cottage he’s feeling much better. The brisk walk up the hill in the damp air, pungent with autumn leaves crushed underfoot has lifted his spirits. Just because Lavender is related to the old witch doesn’t mean he won’t be able get to know her. But then again, why does he want to? Yes, she’s gorgeous, but oughtn’t he be concentrating on his job, fitting into the village? A relationship in the future might be something he’d want, but not now. Too much at once always ends in tears, he’s found.
As he approaches his front door, the security lights come on an
d he notices his car parked by the fence looks… odd. It’s lower on one side than the other… Matt hurries over and sees the reason for the listing vehicle. The driver’s side tyres have been slashed to buggery. On closer inspection, the entire side panels of the car from nose to tip have been keyed, or worse. There’s so much damage he’ll have to have a total respray. Oh shit. The headlights have been smashed in too. Why the fuck does Morvoren Penhallow hate him so much? Mind you, he wouldn’t have thought she’d be strong enough to smash the headlights. Unless she had a crowbar. Yeah, that would fit.
Inside, he pours a generous whisky and picks up his mobile. Then he throws it down on the sofa and knocks back the Scotch in one, coughing as it leaves a burning path behind in his throat. What’s the point in contacting the local plod? They’d only send out PC Cross again. He was as much use as a chocolate fireguard. There’d be no clues left worth having. The nearest neighbour is a quarter of a mile away, so nobody will have seen anything. And the whole thing would be futile. He’ll just pay up for a respray and new tyres. It will cost a bit, but it’s better than getting a crime number, insurance involved and all that malarkey.
Matt pours another drink and sticks the TV on. He needs mind-numbing crap to wash through his troubled mind. He doesn’t want to think, just to forget about it all until the morning. Helpless is something he doesn’t do, but at this present moment, he’s no choice. He’s sure as hell not leaving the village, so he’ll just have to put up with it and keep vigilant. Matt closes his eyes and then quickly opens them again as an idea occurs. There is something he can do. He’ll get a CCTV camera fixed. It will have to be well hidden though if he wants to catch the old boot in the act. Having some semblance of a plan, at last he feels more positive. If old Penhallow wants a fight, she’s got one.
Chapter 7
Lavender looks at the crimson liquid swirling down the plughole and shudders. The gash on her forefinger could be much worse, but she’s never been able to cope with the sight of blood. Her gran laughed at her when she’d come running in earlier from ‘her mission’ at Trevelyar’s. Lavender, when she’d seen the cut on her finger in the light, had apparently turned the colour of snow. She’d had to be led to a chair before she’d fainted. Gran wrapped up her finger and told her to rest a while. She’d also scolded her for getting clumsy with the knife when she’d slashed the tyres. If the blade had gone any deeper there’d have to be hospitals involved, and then Trevelyar might have heard somehow, got suspicious. Yeah, Gran, don’t worry about my finger, will you? Gran had said to leave it wrapped in an old towel for an hour and then clean and dress it. She couldn’t stay to help as she had to meet her friend for a drink. Charming.
Lavender takes her hand from the running tap and dabs at the wound with a handful of kitchen roll. This seems to stem the blood a bit and she quickly slaps on a bit of gauze and wraps a bandage tight round her finger. It’s feeling less throbby already. Unbidden, an image of Matt Trevelyar’s smile and the damage she wrought on his car surfaces. Guilt looks back at her from the bathroom mirror, so she walks out and into her bedroom. No point in having second thoughts now, is there? He’s a pervert and a wife beater. Why should the children in their village school suffer at his hands? He has to go, and there’s no way he will unless she and Gran drive him out. It’s a pity Lavender didn’t have someone looking out for her when she was ten years old. She squashes that thought and goes downstairs. She has a painting to flesh out, and one-handed or not, she’s doing it.
* * *
Morvoren curses her creaking legs as she struggles through the field – a shortcut to the pub. There was a time that she’d scoot across it like a hare in spring but no longer. She should expect nothing less, now she’s in her eightieth year, but her mind is still as sharp and active as it was when she was a girl. If only there was a cure for old age. Still, Lavender would carry on the old ways after she was gone. The girl took on today’s task without question. She was loyal, brave and true. Three qualities that had been passed down the Penhallow line from time out of mind.
Morvoren stops to rest by a wall, leaning her bottom against it, and thinks of the past and future. She sees it like a plume of woodsmoke. The future drifting up and off, unseen, the past smouldering beneath, fuelling its existence. She looks out at the landscape of fields, dales and ocean, feels it wrap around her like a comforting blanket. This is her land, her village, her reason for being. She’s lived, laughed and loved here all her life and given a good chunk of it over to the protection of this land – this haven.
Lavender would be the next matriarch, the next protector of her haven. Because there is no way Morvoren can trust her own son to step up. He’d always been a bit wet, happy to be blown by the wind – going with the flow, despite Morvoren’s nagging. Tony was too placid; took after his father, God rest his soul. There were times Morvoren willed her son to bite back, refuse to do her bidding and show some spirit. But he’d always done as she’d asked, like a little lamb, whether he’d agreed with her or not. And that wife of his. Dear, oh dear. That was the only time Tony had gone against her wishes: when he’d married her. She is like a little mouse, scared to death of her mother-in-law. God only knows how she produced such a wonderful daughter.
In the pub, she sees her best and oldest friend, Annie, is already here. She’s at a corner table near the open fire reading a book – a pint of beer at her elbow. Morvoren hopes this meeting won’t prove to be more difficult than it should be.
‘Nippy for September, Annie,’ Morvoren says, and warms her hands at the fire for a few seconds before sitting opposite her.
‘’Tis, Mor. I have me long johns on!’ Annie laughs and puts her book to one side, marking the place with a beer mat. She pats her grey curls and leans across the table, her dark eyes searching Morvoren’s face. ‘Right. What’s so bloody urgent you had to drag me away from my front room? I’ll have to watch Corrie on catch up now.’
Morvoren smiles. ‘That programme is getting dafter as it goes on.’ She stops to thank young Gary as he sets a pint down in front of her. Nice that he doesn’t have to be asked. She takes a sip and wonders how to start. ‘Thing is… we’re going to have to put our matchmaking to one side for a week or so.’ She holds a finger up to silence Annie’s protest. ‘It will all be back on, don’t you worry. It’s just I have a plan that needs executing and our Lavender is going to do it.’
‘What plan’s this? Because our Jamie is getting wilder by the day. I reckon he’ll up and off before too long if we don’t give him a reason to stay.’ Annie pulls her neck back and rubs her nose. ‘There was a scare a few months back when me and his mum thought he’d got some tourist pr–’
‘Pregnant. Yes, you said, about a thousand times, and once this thing’s over the marriage will be back on track. I think April next year at the latest.’
‘But they’ve not even been on a date yet. Our Jamie keeps asking if I’ll put in a word for him with you – you know, seeing as how your Lavender won’t have anything to do–’
‘With men, yes. I know. But she’ll come around, with the right coaxing. It’s time she had a husband and a purpose. She’s twenty-six next birthday and–’
Annie holds up her hand. ‘“Gran,” he says, “will you put a word in with Morvoren, cos I really like Lavender and–”’
‘Yes, you said.’ Morvoren’s fed up of this. ‘Look, it will only be for a week or so, but I’m trying to match her up with that bastard Trevelyan…’
Annie’s shriek turns a few heads in their direction. ‘What? Are you mental?’
‘No. Because Lavender’s the one that will get rid.’
Annie sits back, folds her arms, pulls a sour face. ‘Will she? I think you’re playing with fire, Mor. After all that you went through with his granddad, not to say what happened all those years ago when–’
‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing. You just need to tell your Jamie that there’s nothing to worry about and that she really likes him. Tell him that she’s only going
out with this Trevelyar because she’s scared of showing her feelings to Jamie. Tell him to bide his time and that I’m working on it. Obviously, Annie, she’s not actually going out with the useless bag of rubbish – it’s just part of the plan.’
Annie sighs and takes a big swallow of her drink. ‘Hmm. Well I don’t like it.’
For God’s sake, give me strength! ‘No, neither do I,’ Morvoren barks. ‘But I don’t like that disgusting pile of shit teaching the cream of Cornwall either. He’ll be gone inside three weeks, mark my words.’ She takes a gulp of beer and bangs it down on the tabletop, spilling some of its contents across the surface.
Annie eyes the puddle and her expression changes from sour to one of apprehension. ‘Hey, don’t upset yourself. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Always have.’
Morvoren nods. Annie knows when to back down. Morvoren has always looked after her since primary school. She was like the little sister she never had – bullies ran a mile if Morvoren was around. There was another girl in her teens who’d meant even more to her than Annie, but she’d betrayed her. The thought of what she did, even now, makes Morvoren’s blood boil. In later life, Annie had done whatever she could for Morvoren and her kin. She’d owned a bakery and confectionery with her husband, and Morvoren had never had to pay for a loaf or cake in her life. Annie’s daughter and husband ran it now, and eventually it’d be Jamie’s. A local business run by local people. Jamie is perfect for Lavender. Handsome, smart and a man of means.
She mops up the spilt beer with a tissue and says less harshly to her friend, ‘Yes, I do know what I’m doing. You just have to do your bit. Put young Jamie’s mind at rest.’
* * *
Lavender can hear ringing in her ears. Is she falling, sinking? Her eyes snap open and she realises she’s been dozing in her chair and the phone’s ringing on the table. Hauling herself up, she winces, forgetting about the cut on her finger, and grabs the phone with her good hand. ‘Gran?’
The Feud Page 4