by Rachel Malik
‘I’m sure he knew that.’
Jugger jumped up and barked again.
‘It’s better now though, isn’t it? We were always planning to do it.’
‘Oh yes, one of those things, but now it’s finally done. You did a good job.’
‘Margaret came and helped with the stones and the gravel, she had her nieces staying – from Bristol. I let them do some of the raking. They made a bit of a mess but I put it right.’
‘We should go for a walk before it gets dark.’
Jugger thumped his tail again.
‘He could do with a swim,’ Rene said.
Jugger squealed.
‘Aren’t you tired, Bert?’
‘Quite exhausted. But I so want to walk, it’s been such a long time.’
Jugger barked his agreement.
‘Silly dog,’ Rene said.
Rene went upstairs to change into an old shirt and lighter trousers; Elsie made up a bottle of squash. They took torches with them and the remains of the shortbread.
Elsie showed Rene Jugger’s paw-prints just by the door as they went out (Jugger himself was already halfway up the lane). She made to cover them over with some gravel that had accumulated in a dent beside the drain.
‘Oh, leave them, Elsie. I like to see them there. It’s his mark.’
So Elsie rubbed the gravel away and then they walked down the little path together. They slipped through the gate and Elsie bolted it; Rene remembered the long, loose clang of it.
‘We’re going to the wood then, I suppose.’
‘Of course we are. Why did you even ask?’
‘Does Jugger know?’
They both looked ahead to the dog, who was bounding giddily to and fro across the lane. From time to time he stopped and turned back and barked, urging them on.
‘We’re coming, Jugger. Good boy.’
‘He looks as if he’s been on the brandy,’ Elsie said.
The light was fading more quickly now. Looking across the fields, they could just make out the roofs of the village where the swifts were still flocking their hectic patterns.
They walked up the lane quietly now and easy; side by side they dwindled into the darkening.
* * *
The next morning Elsie took Rene into the garden to show her the new plants. They walked about, cups in hand, Elsie picking out this clump of daisies or that lavender as if they were old friends. Rene sipped her tea, savouring the luxury of being outside in the open air; it was another warm, summery day. She admired the new frame of runner beans, the neat tub of cos lettuces, bunched like posies and ready to eat. The new bed she had noticed yesterday was a scaffold of strings and sticks. The glossy evergreens were osmanthus, Elsie told her, and the flowers would smell lovely, like vanilla, if they came. You could never be sure of course with this ground. Rene admired the shiny leaves and tried to imagine it in flower: the smell of the confectioner’s shop amidst the bitter-sweet of garden and moorland. Elsie had bought them from a catalogue, she said.
A catalogue?
That didn’t sound like Elsie at all.
So they meandered through the garden with their tea, taking their time, enjoying the idleness, Rene remembering the springy ground underfoot – the water was never far below. Nib followed them at a curious distance. At the wall they paused to admire the struggling dog rose and Rene noticed the fuchsia with its fine, pink candles – another new addition. She lit a cigarette and leant back against the wall, looking towards the cottage; Elsie started to prink and pull at some erring shoots.
‘So all’s well here, I see.’
‘Pretty well.’ Elsie’s tone was matter of fact, but she looked pleased.
‘You’ve clearly managed very well without me.’
‘Oh Bert, how can you say that?’
There were none of yesterday’s eggshells, but Elsie wasn’t ready for teasing yet.
‘I only meant,’ Rene said and then stopped. ‘I only meant that everything looks so well and I’m glad.’
Elsie smiled.
‘I’ve so enjoyed getting things ready this last month, knowing you’d be home soon to see it.’
‘And here I am.’
‘Yes. Here you are.’
They smiled at each other. Rene dragged at her cigarette, coughing slightly.
‘I’ve been doing quite a bit of gardening work,’ Elsie volunteered.
Of course, thought Rene, now she understood all the little signs of prosperity: the new plants from the catalogue, the curtain, the picture of the pears in the frame.
‘Major Veesey?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I decided to go back to St Keverne, it isn’t so very far. He still pays me too much.’
They smiled at each other again – the major’s generosity was a little joke between them. But Elsie didn’t want to be distracted, there was something else she needed to say.
‘I don’t want you to think that I’ve been spending too much money.’
‘I wouldn’t think that.’
‘I haven’t used any of our savings.’
‘Elsie.’
‘And I’ve only used my share of the help fund money. Yours is all in the post office. I wouldn’t have spent any of your share without asking.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded if you had.’
‘People were very generous,’ Elsie said; she felt awkward about the money.
‘I know, I couldn’t believe how much it came to in the end.’
‘Apart from Mr Prynne, of course.’
‘Well, that didn’t surprise me, he never liked us.’
No smoke without fire, Mr Prynne had said to Mr Marrack, no smoke without fire.
* * *
‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot. A letter came for you last week, Margaret brought it over.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes, I’ve got it upstairs.’
‘A letter for me? Who’s it from?’
‘I don’t know. Local – a Camborne postmark. I’ll just go and get it.’
Rene could hear Jugger barking in the kitchen. He couldn’t understand why she was outside and he wasn’t. She followed Elsie indoors.
Dear Rene,
It seems odd to call you Rene but I can’t call you Miss Hargreaves – the last time we met you were a little girl! I do hope you don’t mind me writing, it is meant in a friendly way.
You realized who I was I think – Vicky McCrane. I did hope you would. I should explain how I come to be writing. It is quite a story. As it turns out I live very close to you – in Upper Rosenys. I dare say you’ll remember that you visited the Fox and Hound with Kat. Kat and Jude saw your name in the paper when you were charged, and when Kat said she thought you were from Manchester I wondered if it might be you. I even went to a meeting in your village – they were raising money for you and your friend.
In the end I came to the trial and as soon as I saw you I knew. I felt I owed you a good turn – it was you who led me to the pictures. Well, I wanted you to feel that somewhere in the gallery there was a friendly face, albeit one in a dreadful hat. I’m so sorry the trial ended the way it did. People can be so foolish.
I’ve lived in Cornwall for many years now, I moved here just before the second war. At first I was living near St Ives. I knew a good number of people when I was Mona Verity, all very bohemian I suppose, but I grew tired of that so I left and moved to Upper Rosenys – which, as you know, is a rather particular place. It does me well, though I live very quietly and I am on my own now. Do you remember the day we met Eric Stoller? Such a long time ago. One minute we were climbing along the walls and the next we were in that garden – it was like magic.
Anyway, I just wanted to say how glad I am that you’ll be home now with your friend. I do hope that you don’t mind me writing to you in this way.
Best wishes to you and to Miss Boston,
Vicky McCrane
Rene finished reading. It was quiet in the kitchen, but outside she could hear the birds chattering. Elsie was
watching her, careful, concerned.
‘Who is it from? Is it from the people at the pub?’
‘You mean Kat and Jude? No, it’s from someone I knew a long time ago.’
Elsie looked wary.
‘But it was such a long time ago … Her name is Vicky McCrane. I can hardly explain. I last saw her properly when I was seven.’
‘Seven! I wonder why she decided to write to you now.’
‘She wanted to send her best wishes to both of us …’
‘Oh. That’s nice, I suppose.’
‘Yes, it is. Very nice.’
‘Does she want to meet you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you like to meet her – Miss McCrane?’
‘No, I don’t think so …’
Rene put the letter down on the table; Elsie smoothed back her hair and tried not to look at the letter.
‘Here, you can read it if you like,’ Rene said.
‘Oh, I don’t think I should.’ She looked uncertain.
Rene picked it up and made to hand it to Elsie.
Elsie looked at the letter in Rene’s outstretched hand; she briefly touched the tips of Rene’s fingers and squeezed them tightly. Then she smiled.
‘Oh no, Rene, it’s your letter. It was addressed to you. I’m glad it’s a nice one though.’
* * *
Elsie wasn’t that easy with the children. It had started when Margaret’s nieces visited from Bristol and tried to help with the path. Soon after Rene returned, Mrs Marrack’s two came over to Wheal Rock with Belinda one Sunday ‘to see the dog’ and stayed all afternoon. Rene had taken them on a walk, had nearly got lost, but they were back for a late tea and Elsie made biscuits to go with the cake. They came back on their own the following Sunday and brought a friend from the village with them. Now there was a little trail of children who came up from the village, it had become a pattern.
They came after school or on Sundays, unless the weather stopped them. They came across the fields. Friday was open house and there was always lemon barley, or sweet weak tea to keep the chill off, if it was cold. Elsie’s size could be intimidating, especially when she was out in the garden, in her dark trousers and black wellington boots. She didn’t really walk fast, but her long strides covered the ground quicker than you’d think. Inside, even though she dwarfed the stove and the red-and-white Formica table, she was softer, slower. Mrs Jack Spratt to Rene’s Mr. It was all quite cosy. The children were old enough to find the two women both ordinary and odd.
The children often brought a little something: a bag of sugar, a cake, a bunch of pinks. These they gave to Elsie, but they preferred to spend their time with Rene. She showed them the best trees to climb in the little copse, the best places for berries and mushrooms, and she taught them to bird call – sometimes the copse seemed full of giddy birds. There was always a dog loping around her legs, floppy-eared. She seemed to take a pleasure in passing on this hard-learnt lore to country children. Elsie was different. She was kindly. She always remembered the children’s names, and took careful note of who liked the rabbits and who liked the chickens. Grouped together three on a stool, they were like baby blackbirds, she thought, all stretching necks and beaks; and their mouths, all gaps and sprouting oversized teeth, bothered her. But they were trying to be friendly. Jenny with the jewel-green eyes brought a pink plastic box with her one wet Sunday. ‘This is where I keep all my treasures,’ she said, sitting down next to Elsie. And she took each little trinket out of the box and showed them to her, one by one. Elsie complimented her painstakingly.
‘Have you never seen treasures?’ the little girl asked eventually.
‘Not like these,’ said Elsie, truthfully.
‘You dig too deep,’ Rene said later. And Elsie said nothing and turned away; she was a little jealous of Rene’s easy ways, and perhaps she wondered too about the reminding those eager little faces did. Rene did not dig deep, she trod lightly on the sandy soil, easily wind-blown, and if her eyes got stung, she didn’t seem to notice, the soil would settle again, leaving little or no trace of her footsteps.
The children never came on Saturdays though, for on Saturday afternoons she and Margaret Cuff always went to the matinee in Helston. Rene would stride across the fields, hands tapping, and knock on the door of the post-office shop. Then she and Margaret would walk up to the bus stop to catch the one o’clock bus. The bus went past the turning for Upper Rosenys. Rene had written a note to Vicky to thank her for her letter.
On Saturday afternoons Helston was always full of shoppers, and when they reached the bus station she and Margaret had to join the mill of people. There was just one picture house on the high street, there had been another but it had closed down. Inside the Regal though nothing had changed, the brush of the seats, the smell of smoke and the little metal ashtrays; she still loved to step into the dark. Elsie wouldn’t come to the cinema, Rene had asked her but she always said no, she liked to keep to her wireless and the books from the library.
When the programme finished, Rene and Margaret always had a cup of tea at the Florin, then they would walk up to the bus station. By then Rene would be thinking of Elsie at Wheal Rock, waiting, waiting, at the window.
Some months after Rene’s return, little Jenny came skipping up the new path and knocked on the open door. Rene and Elsie were sitting at the table, drinking their tea. Jenny was a little shy and not quite sure who to look at or speak to, and then all in a rush, because she was nervous but she knew them after all:
‘Mum said, was it all right if I took my tea with you today?’
And Rene said, ‘Let Elsie look after your hairpin, Jenny. You wouldn’t want to lose it if we went for a walk in the fields.’
Historical Note
This novel began while I was trying to find out about the life of my mother’s mother, Rene Hargreaves – a black sheep if ever there was one.
Like most ordinary people, Rene’s life would have been nearly invisible in the official sense – but for her encounters with the criminal justice system and the rigours of wartime documentation. What I found suggested a partial chronology for Rene and, to a lesser extent, Elsie; the police records also revealed some tantalizing details about their life together.
Still, there were very few incontrovertible facts: Rene left her husband and three young children before the outbreak of the Second World War; she met Elsie Boston in Berkshire, working at Starlight Farm as a land girl; Elsie’s farm was lost somehow during the war and the two women became itinerant workers; they settled in Cornwall at some point in the late 1950s. Rene was tried for the murder of Ernest Massey and convicted of his manslaughter. The two women lived together till Elsie’s death. My mother was named for a film actress of the day.
Many names – of people and places – have been changed, but not Rene’s or Elsie’s. Even here, things are not quite as simple as they seem. Rene appears as Irene Roberta on her marriage certificate; in other official documents she appears as Renee, Irene and Rene. In the 1911 census, Elsie’s full name is given as Elsie Clare Boston; much later, her police statement gives her name as Clare. The press reporting the trial alternate between Clare and Elsie. I settled on Rene and Elsie because I liked the names, perhaps because they were less formal. And, of course, records cannot always be trusted. Rene’s death certificate gives her occupation as ‘widow of — Hargreaves’ – hardly a helpful summary, given that Hargreaves is Rene’s maiden name and her husband died a good forty years before she did. On occasion, I have quoted from police statements and other reports, including newspapers; sometimes I have altered these.
Elsie did write the following as part of her police statement though:
When I was a young girl, I went to live at Starlight Farm, Lambourn, Berkshire, with my parents. When I was about thirty years of age my father made the farm over to me by deed of gift.
In May 1940, Miss Hargreaves came to the farm as my land girl and I have known her ever since.
It
should be clear that Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves is a fiction and not a speculation and it should be read as such.
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2017
Copyright © Rachel Malik, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
‘Of the Remains of Older Times’, originally published in German in 1925 as ‘Von den Resten Alterer Zeiten’, translated by Christopher Middleton.
Copyright © 1976, 1960 by Bertolt-Brecht-Erben/Suhrkamp Verlag from Bertolt Brecht Poems 1913–1956 by Bertolt Brecht, edited by John Willet and Ralph Manheim. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.
‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ is taken from The Poetry of Robert Frost by Robert Frost, published by Jonathan Cape.
Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.
Ebook permissions granted by Henry Holt and Company, LLC. All rights reserved.
Permission to quote from R. S. Thomas’s poem ‘The Hill Farmer Speaks’, copyright © R. S. Thomas, 1993, The Orion Publishing Group
ISBN: 978-0-241-97610-4