Reflections

by Reflections (epub)

  ‘Thank you very much, Gabby.’

  ‘Don’t s’pose… Can I…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I come with you in the car tomorrow? Never been in a car before. Be the biggest treat in the world. No one’ll see us and wonder what the hell’s going on.’ Once again, Gabby had her child’s face.

  Beth couldn’t help smiling. ‘Of course. I’ll pick you up out in the lane, um, at ten past ten. I’ve got some things to pick up for my mother, so you’ll be able to do some shopping.’

  Gabby giggled, a rumbling twittering sound. ‘Bleddy hell, I mean crumbs, will be better than Christmas. Then can you drop me off at Barbara’s?’

  ‘Ah,’ Beth suddenly frowned and set down her teacup and saucer.

  ‘What?’ Gabby’s voice was steeped in disappointment.

  ‘Your cousin Barbara, I take it you have told her about your, um, plan concerning me?’

  ‘No, I never mention my dealings to her. She’s a bit simple-minded, wouldn’t understand anyway. She’s used to me turning up with stuff. I’ll tell her I won some money betting on the horses. I’ll carry what’s been said here to my grave, cross my heart and hope to die!’ Gabby ended dramatically.

  ‘Well, that’s all settled then. I really must go.’

  ‘Aw, shame, but I got to get back to Barbara anyhow. I’ll bank the fire in. Off home to your mother’s?’

  ‘Yes, but then I’ll drive straight over to Mor Penty and tell the Copelands they must leave very soon. I’m sure the Copelands will be glad to go. I hope to get back before the others come home from church. When the Copelands are safely home, I shall have the daunting task of telling Kitty the whole sorry truth.’

  ‘Aw, she’ll come round in no time; a fine lady like you.’

  ‘No, she won’t think kindly of me at all. Kitty is honest and rather innocent, she’s trusted me since we met as children. She’ll see it as the biggest betrayal of her life. But it’s not right to keep my secrets from her any longer.’

  Sixteen

  It was breakfast time at the Opie’s house. Richard was wolfing down scrambled egg on toast, under his mother’s disapproving glances. Marjorie was nibbling demurely on toast and thin cut marmalade. Douglas was enjoying his second cup of tea while making notes regarding the day ahead at the hotel. Claire had finished eating and drinking, unaware that she was also under her mother’s penetrating gaze.

  Claire’s mind was entirely on her dream last night. A romantic dream that she had been sorry to wake up from and realize was not real. It was never going to happen, a handsome foreign prince arriving to stay at the hotel and inviting her to swim with him in the cove, and afterwards proposing to her with a triple diamond ring. They had planned to slip away and marry secretly to avoid her mother making an inevitable fuss over the arrangements. No one was going to promise her the stars and the moon and endlessly glorious days spent in a faraway palace. It had been a lovely dream though.

  No, she thought, sighing mournfully, it was life as a spinster for her. At the moment she had the consolation of the stylish Beth Tresaile and the beautiful Kitty Copeland not even walking out with a young man. Neither of them seemed interested in seeking love and marriage, but rich young ladies had more independence than less well off women. Stifled by life under her mother’s dominance and nagging, and often irritated by her brother’s messy noisy ways, she longed for a home of her own, hopefully like the house her parents had, quite newly built, large with the modern conveniences and a sizeable garden, where she could make her own decisions and have some peace and quiet.

  With a sudden scrape of chair legs, leaving crumbs and milk spatters behind him, Richard was up and announcing he was off to school. Douglas and Marjorie said it was time for them to move too, he to drive Richard to Owles House where Richard would share a taxi with Joe to their private school at St Austell, and then on to the hotel, where he would stay until after midnight. Marjorie checked Richard’s shoes were polished to a brilliant shine then ordered him to straighten his tie. She did not kiss him goodbye. She loved her son but was fazed by his rough boy ways, his whistling and general untidiness and was always glad when he left the house.

  Claire fetched a tray and started to clear the table. She always did this job to help the shy young housemaid, Jean Whitley, a fisherman’s daughter. Claire braced herself, her mother had closed the door after seeing her father out with a mere peck on the cheek. Now would come the barrage of what she wanted Claire to do today, how she had wished Claire would dress and style her hair. Marjorie was dismayed at Claire’s decision to dress down rather than present herself at her very best. ‘How do you expect to find yourself a husband if you insist on looking little better than an ordinary working class girl, indeed?’ When the finding fault was over next would be Marjorie’s glee over any local gossip, and there was plenty of that to mull over right now. Claire had once enjoyed sharing in gossip about the downfalls of others, it had made her feel better about her own rather sad life.

  The theme on her mother’s lips for the last few days concerned the vicar suddenly being bereft of his fiancée. ‘How could she have embarrassed the poor man like that? She must have always had little regard for his feelings. She showed utter contempt for his hard-working, trusting parishioners that’s for sure, showed it in glaring colours! She might come from an exalted background but she’s proved she is no more a lady than Gabby Magor. How dare Miss Howard-Leigh throw a tantrum merely because that detestable creature issued a heckling? As for the notion that Mr Reseigh and Miss Tresaile are involved in a secret romance, poppycock! I don’t think he’s gone to Owles House yet. I’ll wager he’ll keep a very low profile, most embarrassing for him, and for Miss Tresaile. If the Poor Reverend Benedict has any sense he will break off with that neurotic woman forthwith, but he’s an honourable man and doubtless, unfortunately, he will stand by her. What a life he will have as her husband. Apparently he took the Sunday services with his usual aplomb but underneath it people swore they detected a definite trembling in him. It’s a terrible shame. You must look sharp, Claire. You would make a perfect dutiful wife. You might get the chance to step in there, and then your father would be more likely to change denominations.’ Claire had not liked her name mentioned side by side with the vicar’s and implicating her father. She was not a girl to be married off for positional advantage.

  Her dream forgotten, she returned to a notion that had been on her mind for a while: to strike out on her own, as a person of rather fortunate means, thinking what she might do to make the lives of those less fortunate more bearable. Perhaps she would buy some wool and call on old Mrs Coad and ask her to kindly teach her how to knit. Claire could make socks, gloves, mufflers and woolly hats for the poor. It would be a simple enough effort to start with, something her mother couldn’t interfere with too much.

  ‘Leave that Claire.’ Marjorie pounced on her in the kitchen as Claire put down the fully laden tray ‘I want you to run an errand for me. It’s teeming with rain so you’ll need your umbrella.’

  ‘Of course, Mother,’ Claire replied, pleased to be getting out of the house.

  ‘You can pop into Wrights and get an ounce of your father’s tobacco, and then I want you to go along to Half Street and call on Mark Reseigh. You should find him there. I can’t see that he will be able to do any work in this awful weather.’

  ‘Why do you want me to go there?’ Claire frowned, puzzled. ‘Father usually arranges our garden work with Mr Reseigh, and as you’ve said yourself, he won’t be able to work today.’

  ‘I know that, silly goose. I want you to take a message to him. I have written a note and on the envelope I’ve requested that you may wait for his reply. I’m thinking of having a summer house in the back garden. I’d like to consult Mr Reseigh about the various styles and the best position to have one built. You may tell him, if he would care to call later today he may bring his little girl. You’re capable of entertaining the child for half an hour.’

  ‘There is hardl
y any hurry for a summer house. It’s nearly November,’ Claire protested, thinking her mother was being ridiculous to want Mark Reseigh to call today, but her mother was ‘at that time of life’ and was being more fussy and hence more difficult than usual. She could easily become heated over the smallest thing and grow as hot and flushed as a beetroot.

  ‘I know that too – don’t be facetious Claire. I’d like to take my time with the design and planning. I want it ready by next spring. We have many very pleasant days in spring. Must I remind you of that? Please do as I ask and don’t question me. It will bring on one of my headaches. And do put on a little make-up, you’re as pale as new linen.’

  ‘I’ll go at once,’ Claire said, heading for her bedroom. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to take to her bed, from where she would issue endless orders and complaints. Claire put on some make-up, red lipstick – not too dark – and a dab of pale-blue eye shadow and a hint of rouge. She didn’t linger at her mirror. She was blushing, for she knew her errand to see Mark Reseigh was a ruse on her mother’s part to place her in Mark’s company in the hope he might notice her. If he were at home he would be there alone with Rowella. His mother would have just arrived at Owles House. For the last few days Marjorie had also chattered about Mark’s desirable points. ‘He’s the steadiest man in Portcowl. With the right opportunity presented to him he could enlarge his little enterprise, digress into other things, and have employees while he runs his own company. I know he adored his late wife, they were childhood sweethearts and he was utterly grief-stricken when she was tragically taken, but the devotion he shows towards his little girl should, with the right encouragement, lead to his wanting to provide her with a new mother. With a little persistence from a young lady of high standing and exemplary morals, well, who knows what it might lead to?’ Claire’s red face was mostly to do with her mother’s outrageous assumption and horrendous lack of subtlety. She had no intention of throwing herself at Mark. She did like him, however, for many reasons. She put on her prettiest hat.

  With the tobacco and a few other purchases, including some white, blue and green wool, various size knitting needles and patterns in her leather shopping bag, Claire fought against the pitiless wind to reach Half Street. Situated above Quayside, its close proximity to the harbour offered small shelter. Three times her umbrella was blown inside out and she had to stop and right it. Thankfully Half Street, as its name suggested, was only a short terrace but she arrived quite breathless outside Thrift Cottage, named after the pretty pink wild flowers that adorned the cliffs in summer. It was half slate-hung, the other half was painted pink. It had a white fence and gate, a slate path, and a porch that in summer was virtually hidden by rambling roses.

  Half hoping Mark Reseigh was out, Claire employed the iron door knocker. At once she heard Mark’s voice, probably saying something to Rowella, and she wrung her face. What would he think of finding her on his doorstep? Hopefully, he would see nothing unusual in it, he was too wrapped up in Rowella’s welfare to care about much else. If her mother had not stipulated she wanted a reply from Mark, Claire would have simply pushed the note through the letterbox and left.

  Lowering the umbrella Claire huddled under the porch, then, as she always did when faced with something potentially difficult, she aimed her thoughts at returning home and getting warm and dry and drinking a hot cup of coffee. But with that cosy thought came the prospect of the barrage of questions and, probably, recriminations from her mother. The door opened and Claire raised the umbrella until she was at Mark’s eye-level. She opened her mouth to explain why she was there, but Mark got in first. ‘Miss Opie, please step straight inside out of the weather. You must be cold.’

  She closed her umbrella and put it down. He ushered her in past him, and she stepped on the bristle doormat and then the shiny linoleum of a narrow white-painted passage. ‘Thank you, Mr Reseigh, you are very thoughtful.’

  ‘Daddy, who? Who?’ At the end of the passage Rowella was in the doorway, pointing at Claire.

  ‘It’s Miss Opie, precious, you saw her the other day, remember?’ Mark was near Claire’s shoulder. ‘Would you like to go through, Miss Opie? Hope you don’t mind being in the kitchen. It’s nice and warm in there and Rowella has her toys out.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Claire said.

  Rowella, always a friendly chirpy bundle, in patterned woollens and black patent shoes toddled up to Claire and reached up a chubby hand. ‘Come in, you come me.’

  ‘Ooh, you’re gorgeous.’ The heartfelt sentiment ripped off Claire’s tongue. She wanted to gather up the beautiful black-haired little girl and cuddle her in her arms. ‘I mean,’ she glanced back apologetically at Mark, pinking up. ‘Your little girl is so sweet.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about that,’ Mark replied proudly. ‘Rowella wants you to take her hand. She always runs to lead me or her granny into the kitchen when we come in.’

  Stooping to hold the little warm hand, Claire laughed as she was escorted into the cosiest haven she had ever experienced. She stalled herself from nearly blurting out, ‘What a lovely room!’ That would have been an embarrassing faux pas. It was dark owing to the dreary weather but the fire burning in the black cooking range made a rosy glow. The square kitchen table had an embroidered cloth over it and matching chair backs adorned the easy chairs. Claire liked the way the working people had comfortable chairs in their kitchens. It must be so much more relaxing to be in the hub of their homes. Everything was spick and span but a few things lay casually about, toys, a knitting bag, a book, a shawl and Rowella’s sleeping blanket. Potted greenery was dotted everywhere, a lot was crammed on to the deep window sill. ‘The reason for my call, Mr Reseigh is to bring you a note from my mother, regarding our garden, of course. She asks for your immediate reply.’ She handed over the dainty white envelope.

  ‘I see,’ Mark said.

  While he read the note, Claire kept her attention on his daughter and admired the knitted rag doll Rowella held up for her to see. Claire noted the photographs up on the overmantel and the china dresser of Mark’s late wife, Juliet, a beguiling, smiling image of raven-haired supreme femininity. It was no marvel that Mark still grieved over her loss. Claire felt sad that the young woman she had barely known had been denied the upbringing of her delightful child, and very sad also that Rowella had lost her mother.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Mark said, drawing Claire’s eyes to him. ‘If it’s convenient for Mrs Opie, I could call at four o’clock. My mother will be home by then to take care of Rowella.’

  The bewitching eyes of Juliet Reseigh in the nearest photograph caught Claire’s eye. There was no way she was going to repeat her mother’s invitation that Mark was welcome to bring Rowella with him to the house. Claire would not be party to her mother’s wilful attempt at matchmaking. Mark would be appalled and rightly so. And, Claire thought, she would never make a suitable replacement in Mark’s mind for Juliet, perhaps no woman in the world would. If it was Mark’s wish to remain a widower all his life that was his business alone. And if Claire remained a spinster until she died it would not be the disgrace her mother often insinuated it would be. It was not a previous century and she would not live her life as if she was in some old romantic novel. She had bought some chocolate drops for Rowella but would not ask if it was all right to give them to her.

  ‘I’ll tell my mother. Thank you for your prompt reply. Now if you’ll excuse me I really must get on. I have other calls to make.’

  ‘I’ll show you to the door,’ Mark said.

  ‘No, please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll see myself out. Goodbye, Rowella, bye-bye,’ Claire cooed. With a brief smile at the little girl, she headed smartly for the front door and was outside. Whipping up her umbrella from the porch floor she marched down the path, carefully shut the gate and without looking back set off for Mrs Coad’s cottage. Her mother would be anxious for her return home. Well, that was too bad. From now on Claire would concentrate on doing something useful with her life an
d never again allow her silly, patently transparent mother to treat her as marriage fodder.

  Inside Thrift Cottage, Mark hunkered down to Rowella and drew her in for a close cuddle. ‘Right precious, it’s time for your milk and biscuit.’

  ‘Lady gone,’ Rowella piped.

  ‘Yes, she went in a bit of hurry,’ Mark said to himself, frowning as he got on with the chore. He made coffee for himself, and then with Rowella up on his lap they drank and ate his mother’s home-made butter biscuits.

  A short time late Rowella drifted off into her morning nap and Mark settled her down to sleep curled up on his mother’s chair. He carefully tucked a knitted blanket around her, which Juliet had made when excitedly looking forward to their baby’s birth. As usual, he stroked Rowella’s fine silky dark hair, and then gazed at Juliet’s photo. ‘You should be here,’ he whispered, sorrow on him again.

  Minutes later he was still aware of Claire’s gentle, warm perfume. He wondered again why her departure seemed so abrupt and whether she would be at home at four o’clock this afternoon.

  Seventeen

  Beth grabbed Evie by the shoulder. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. It’s why I asked you to walk with me somewhere completely private.’ The sisters were high up on the cliff path, having walked over a mile down the coast under the rays of a generous sun, the wind at their back. There was no sign of dwellings and no livestock in the fields, which were separated by natural hedging and wire fencing from the cliff top. The sea in the bay was deserted, not even the small boat of a lone crabber checking his pots was bobbing on the busy waves way down below. Several hundred yards out from the rocky, sand and shingle shore, inaccessible to man at this spot, reared up a jagged citadel of barnacle-covered granite. It was a dangerous place for unwary boatmen, especially the occasional holidaymaker out in a canoe, for most of the rock lay hidden under the water’s surface and its uneven structure caused eddies and minor whirlpools. It was known as Young Man’s Folly. Youths had died in the past daring to navigate in a close circle around the rock and leave evidence of their conquest by throwing a neckerchief to snag on an inner pinnacle. Young Man’s Folly was a place where cormorants rested and spread and shook out their long black wings to dry. But today no huge bird was in situation. All appeared to be deserted, not even a customary gull was jogging on the foamy water or circling high overhead. The sense of desolation suited Beth’s anxious frame of mind, or was it that she was bringing down the atmosphere? Evie was her usual quiet undemanding self, with the added lift of being in love and looking forward to her wedding next spring.