‘You bet,’ curly-haired Martha chirruped her latest favourite saying. Slightly chubby, cutely round-faced, her curious nature was reflected in her probing eyes.
‘Miss Marchant’s preparing lunch and as soon as you’ve eaten you can change, put on your boots and I’ll take you to explore.’ With Kitty’s brother Stuart, they were standing at the side of Mor Penty cottage, gazing down over the garden to the little driftwood-strewn beach. The air was fresh but there was shelter from the gentle rise of the cliffs.
‘What do you think, Louis?’ Stuart asked, sadly aware of the disinterested scowl on his son’s pale, rather sickly face. Louis had refused to speak much on the journey down, sulking each time they’d had to change trains, barely touching but complaining about the refreshments Stuart had bought, and whining about the engine smoke smutting his face and making his eyes itch. All the way here from St Austell railway station he had wailed in the car that he was feeling sick. Kitty had stopped the car and Stuart had climbed into the back with Martha, who had cuddled into him, believing this to be an adventure, allowing Louis to sit in the front beside Kitty. They had driven on with the front windows wound down, leaving Stuart to feel the dreadful draught. Louis appeared to feel better in the front of the car and had chatted to Kitty, ignoring Stuart when he added a few remarks.
‘It’s all right, I suppose, not a patch on the beaches we’ve been to in France and Spain,’ Louis muttered. Tall, lean and fair like Stuart he shuffled stones with the toe of his shoe.
‘I’m sure you’ll love it, and the fishing cove, which is only just round the headland there.’ Kitty pointed up the coast. ‘And later we’ll all be going to Owles House for tea. You’ll be seeing Miss Beth again, and meeting her brother Joe, and Grace will be there. And Chaplin and Charlie the cat, they’re quite a pair of characters. Joe’s got a tree house. With his friends Richard and Lily, you and Martha will have lots of fun.’
Louis shrugged his shoulders over the promised treats. ‘I don’t want to wander on this silly beach. I don’t want anything to eat. I’ll go up to my room and stay there.’
Steamed up with increasing frustration and anger with his son, Stuart growled, ‘You will not, you’ll—’
Kitty interrupted, giving Stuart a leave-this-to-me glance. ‘Yes, you take a rest, Louis, as you’re not feeling too bright. Miss Marchant can bring you up a tray, and I’ll take Martha to explore the beach.’
Louis stomped away inside.
‘Martha, darling, you pop along and take a look at the room you’re sharing with Louis. Daddy and I will be in soon.’
‘I don’t think I can take much of this, Kitty.’ Stuart virtually crumpled when the children had gone in the cottage by a little side door. He ran his hand over his face dragging down his tired, wan features. ‘Louis hates me and I don’t know what to do about it. I should have been a better husband to Connie and she wouldn’t have left me.’
Kitty looped her arm through his and headed him towards the extended and modernized cottage, kept in line with its origins. ‘It’s not your fault she met someone else,’ she said vehemently. ‘She’s the one who’s done wrong. She should have walked away before starting the affair and remembered her wedding vows. She certainly shouldn’t have left her children. She’s hardly made the effort to see them since and that’s inexcusable. She was the one who swanned off abroad, but it wouldn’t take long for her to jump on a plane to see them, to have them with her in a hotel for a weekend. It’s no wonder Louis is so unhappy He’s confused, the poor soul, because he’s been rejected and feels unloved. You’re doing a wonderful job with the children, Stuart. You spend every spare minute with them. You don’t mope about feeling sorry for yourself. You mustn’t berate yourself. If you were doing anything wrong then Martha would be acting up too.’
‘But I am responsible for Louis’s unhappiness. Whatever you say Kitty, I didn’t make enough effort during our second honeymoon.’ Stuart sighed, propping himself up against the cold damp wall of the cottage and cupping his hands to light a cigarette. Connie had accused him of being somewhere else in his mind. He had been, with Beth. He had missed her so much from the moment they had said goodbye. He had hated himself for his shallowness at leaving her to cope alone while carrying his child. Kitty had been with Beth during her sudden onset of ‘illness’. If Kitty had known the truth she would have been devastated, as Beth must have been over the miscarriage. He had guessed the truth about her emergency hospital treatment. She had spoken so much about how she would devote herself to children of her own after having such a miserable earlier childhood herself. He had wanted to go to Beth, but he had felt sure she would have hated seeing him, so he had made some excuse, and Connie had gone on her own to visit Beth during her recuperation. Connie had believed the lie that Beth had suffered ‘women’s trouble’ and it had never been mentioned again. Stuart could not think of a reason to contact Beth on his own, it would have seemed odd to Connie and Kitty, but he must have come across as cold and calculating. It had been no surprise when Beth had refused his request last year that he and the children come down for a break, saying that she wanted to concentrate on her new relationship with her mother. What a creep he was. He was terribly nervous about seeing Beth later today.
Kitty took his cigarette case and lighter and lit up for herself. ‘But the rot had already set in,’ she protested. ‘Connie had already been seeing this man. You must have sensed something was wrong, that’s why the second honeymoon didn’t work out.’
‘Oh, Kitty,’ Stuart said, like a desperate lament, shaking his head. Her innocence about his broken marriage made him feel more of a heel.
Kitty sensed his ruefulness and his pain. She knew he was referring to things she didn’t know about, and she had been unsuccessful at getting him to open up his thoughts, to share his despair. Stuart had stuff on his mind that was tormenting him. This overdue break away from routine might help, the earthy beauty of the region and the peace, sometimes spiritual peace to be found here, hopefully would help him to come to terms with his heartbreak and feelings of loss, and the children too. Kitty was hoping Beth would provide a vital lift for Stuart. They had got on very well in the past. They had seemed to have a lot in common in their quiet, pensive ways. Kitty would ensure that the pair of them would get some time alone together, during which, Kitty prayed, Stuart might perhaps reveal things to Beth and be set on the road to recovery.
* * *
Two people were walking from opposite directions towards the entrance of Owles House. The Reverend Jacob Benedict and Miss Claire Opie were out of sight of each other at the moment. The vicar, a former town dweller, who enjoyed a good stretch of his legs, was ambling smartly along, head up, peering all about him and taking in all the sights, glorious sights to him, despite everything being rather murky under an overcast sky.
To Jacob, the trees and bushes although naked of leaves, leaving stringy skeletal branches and drooping slivers, were fascinating shapes. The muddy ground passing under his walking boots (his patterned socks were up over his flannels like plus fours) had scrubby grass growing along the middle where horse and cart, motor car, van and the twice-a-week boneshaker bus wheels didn’t reach, but it was a pleasing natural sight to Jacob. He could glean all manner of shapes and designs down below him, as he did in the few wind-blown clouds scudding across the heavens. The hedgerows either side of him, in the narrowest parts the lane seemed only a crow’s wingspan apart, had sagging dead foliage that reached out to wet his legs and dark blue overcoat, but Jacob took delight in the raindrops dropping off the ends.
‘God’s jewels,’ he said aloud, in the strong voice some of his parishioners had described as fine and noble.
In places where the hedgerow was much lower, beaten down by generations of children, and perhaps courting couples, scrabbling over to play or to be alone in the fields, he saw fabulous glimpses of the bay. To him it was a display of God’s mightiness, part of His glorious creativity.
He halted every now and
again to consult his notebook to remind him of the names and addresses where he was going to today. He was ‘scatty’, as the locals kindly called him, until all things unfamiliar were finally rooted in his mind. First today it was Owles House. Then down to the cove to call on a fisherman, a Robert Praed, seriously injured in an unfortunate accident out at sea. Apparently Praed could be something of a difficult character, and sadly the accident had caused serious strife in his family, something unknown among the Praeds until the incident. Jacob wasn’t going to plough in and preach about forgiveness to Rob Praed, who wasn’t a church or chapel attendee anyway. He was hoping to get to know Praed and see if he wanted to unburden himself about anything. Family hurts ran deep, and Praed was likely to be suffering more than physical hurt.
Jacob caused a mild stir when he was out and about in cold weather because he usually shunned a hat and only casually threw a thin scarf round his neck. The local women, apt to be concerned about any young unattached man, although confident he was well served by his housekeeper, cook, kitchen maid and a parlour maid, were anxious his carelessness wouldn’t end with him catching a chill. It was a relief to all that he did not flap and rear about in all his ecclesiastical robes as the last vicar had done, disturbingly so. The old and increasingly senile Reverend Oakley, apart from apparently giving stirring sermons, had long been unable to offer any pastoral care, and he and his put upon spinster daughter, had allowed the vicarage to fall into desperate disrepair. It had taken the church considerable time and expense during the interregnum, when a curate had efficiently been locum soul curer, to bring the early nineteenth-century vicarage up to a dwelling suitable for its station. Even so, it had still been leaky and draughty, and Jacob had spent his own money, part of his sizeable inheritance from his colonial farming parents, to ensure the comfort of his bride-to-be Miss Bettany Howard-Leigh. Jacob had received a lot of useful advice from the pushy (not that he really minded) Mrs Opie. And also some, quietly given, when he had asked the opinion of the charming, unassuming Mrs Vyvyan, who was considered to be the ‘lady of the manor’ in the parish. Mrs Opie had hinted that Mrs Vyvyan had ‘an unfortunate past’ but Jacob had refused to listen to the full story. Gossip tainted lives and even destroyed them. He certainly was not going to allow bitterness and trauma to circulate in his parish if he could prevent it. He might come across as lenient and a bit eccentric, and he was eager for all his flock to trust and respect him, but he was no pushover.
The neglected vicarage grounds had been replanned and replanted by the local gardener, Mark Reseigh, the widowed son of Mrs Vyvyan’s delightful, ‘mumsy’ daily help. Jacob’s mother had been obsessed with her Kenyan social life, and he had been educated in England from the age of nine, so he had not known what it was like to be mothered. It was the ordinary women in his former parish, as a curate, and now this parish who filled in those missing pleasures and securities for him. The work in the vicarage grounds had given Mark Reseigh many hours of extra work, a great benefit to the able young man to earn enough to tide him over the winter months, when a lot of his regular work dried up, but which gave him more time with his beloved infant daughter. Jacob was still giving Mark work. Last week he’d had Mark paint the inside of the new summer house. Mark also took care of the plants in the new conservatory, which was Jacob’s pride.
The new central heating was a great addition in the vicarage, installed just in time for when Bettany, his sweetly dippy Bettany, arrived next week. Jacob preferred to keep blazing log fires, a delight and an indulgence to him after spending so many years in burning hot Kenya. He was anticipating romantic evenings with Bettany, the flames riding up the huge chimney in the drawing room, dusky shadows shimmering on the walls, glasses of wine in hand, and soft music on the gramophone. His dear Bettany in his arms. He couldn’t wait. A new parish and soon a new wife, heaven on earth.
‘Ah, Mrs Vyvyan, she does a splendid Victorian sandwich sponge, and Mrs Reseigh of the legendary sultana scones.’ Jacob smiled to himself with relish as he closed in on Owles House. He had a very healthy appetite and he enjoyed eating his way round the parish, and nearly always he was given some of the particular delicacy of the lady of each house to take home, which he hid in his study and scoffed late at night, after his jealous cook, Mrs Morcombe had retired.
On hearing slow careful taps, cautious footsteps, he looked straight ahead. A well-dressed young lady in unsuitable high heels was picking her way along the lane, presumably heading for the same destination as him. There was to be a meeting of the Social Committee. The young lady was Miss Claire Opie. The Opies had intimated that on the occasions they were tied up at their hotel they would be represented by their daughter. The Grand Sea View Hotel was quite small and the Opies did not live in, but one or both of them called in there every day.
‘Good morning to you, Miss Opie!’
Claire Opie was staring down at the muddy ground. Wishing she had worn more sensible shoes and hoping she would not slip over and foul her clothing and make a fool of herself by arriving at Owles House with ripped stockings and covered in mud. That would be a disaster. Few people took her seriously and she would be thought stupid. She could imagine whispers of glee. ‘Serves the snooty so-and-so right. Who does she think she is? Her mother carries on like she’s mayoress of Portcowl.’ Her schoolboy brother, Richard, many years younger than her, a pest, who swaggered about like some old time hero, took every opportunity to snipe at her. ‘Uh, look at you done up like a dog’s dinner. Going up to the hotel again to see if you can catch the eye of a rich young gent? Or an old one? Anyone would do as long you can turn him into a husband. Or are you going to haunt the cove today in the hope some dashing holidaymaker will sweep you off your feet? Pathetic.’
Horrid, beastly, despicable child. Claire hated him. Why did her mother have to turn out the brat eleven years after her own birth? Why couldn’t he be just fun like her two older brothers who had doted on her? Claire had never been overlooked or denied anything, but her brother, growing up noisy and acting out his childhood fantasies all over the house and garden, had utterly ruined the peace and gentility of the house, which Claire and her mother prized above all else. Good thing Richard was at school or he would very likely be at Owles House with Joseph Vyvyan and planning some humiliating barb for her. Claire knew that her mother was secretly relieved Richard spent so much time at Owles House because she ‘didn’t quite know what to do with him’.
It’s not my fault there are so few suitable young men about, Claire screamed inside herself. What’s wrong with wanting a good life for myself? And why should I lower my expectations? Which was one of Richard’s jibes at her. She didn’t want a fisherman or someone of the like. She wanted her own house, a better house than her parents had and in a better area, with servants. She wanted to be noteworthy. Her mother flaunted her position, for what it was, but Claire had hopes of something higher, like Mrs Vyvyan’s. Sadly Mrs Vyvyan did not mix in esteemed company. The only man regularly at her fine house was Mark Reseigh, the local gardener. He was a hauntingly attractive man, having tragically lost his wife soon after childbirth, but even if Claire lowered her sights and considered him rather than ending up an old maid, as she feared, Mark Reseigh existed only for his infant daughter and memories of his late wife. Now Portcowl had a new vicar, a brilliant replacement for the last batty old incumbent, but almost at once Claire’s hopes for him were dashed when he told the Social Committee he was engaged to be married. To be a vicar’s wife, the mistress of the updated grand vicarage would have been a dream come true for Claire. Especially as Mr Jacob Benedict was a commanding, jolly-hearted individual, and good for Portcowl, breaking up the boredom of the place.
At least today she would get the chance of taking morning coffee in refined surroundings with Mrs Vyvyan and her classy daughter. Claire set aside the fact Beth Tresaile was the offspring of a lowly common publican’s son, a womanizing brute, for he had married well and died as a hero in the Great War. Claire desired to become a close acqua
intance, perhaps even a friend of Beth Tresaile. Claire had never had a friend before. While attending the village school, the other girls, mainly from families in the fishing trade, thought her a ‘toffee-nosed mare’, because she had refused to join in their energetic games, and during the holidays to scramble about playing hide and seek, to pick primroses or blackberries, or to go ‘nutting’ or play conkers with the boys. Claire was something of an outcast, self-made she admitted, and she knew if she did not soon appear less haughty she was heading for loneliness in later life.
Suddenly being hailed startled Claire, her steps faltered and she careered sideways into the hedge. ‘Ohh!’ She spied Jacob Benedict hurrying towards her and used all her might to throw herself upright. She hastily straightened her new hat and brushed down her wetted coat sleeve.
‘No harm done,’ she replied, putting an amused catch in her tone to the vicar’s effusive apology and inquiry if she was hurt. ‘Partly my fault really for not wearing more suitable shoes.’ She was pleased with her response. It deflected her embarrassment. He was genuinely sorry, as he should be, he had made her feel foolish, but he didn’t treat women like they were fragile and feeble, and after the concern had left his frank eyes she detected nonchalance in them. He had mentioned his first area of work had been in the tough underprivileged East End of London, and before that in view of the suffering he had seen as a very young officer in the Somme in the war, he found much of various experiences, were ‘not the end of the world’. Claire found herself actually thinking her falling against the hedge was not the end of the world. She led a rather privileged life, she did not have to work, she lived in good circumstances and she was about to enter and socialize in the local big house.
On the walk up the long drive Claire strode rather than picking her way along. Jacob sauntered at her side with his hands behind his back. ‘Splendid gardens here,’ he said. ‘And a magnificent panorama of the whole bay. It’s a pity one can’t catch a glimpse of the sea from the vicarage; too far back along the lane.’
Reflections Page 5