‘Go on,’ Cress said. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I’d like to make enquiries about holding an exhibition of some of his paintings in Truro. There are dozens of them at the studio, portraits and landscapes and so on, and he deserves that recognition, don’t you think?’
‘Including portraits of your mother?’ Cress asked.
‘Well, some, of course,’ she said carefully. ‘Would that bother you, Dad?’
‘It might, if I was going to be here to see them,’ he ventured. ‘So this seems a good time to tell you my idea. I’ll be going home soon, darling. There’s a ship leaving for New York in two weeks’ time, and I intend to be on it.’
She wanted to weep at his words, but she held herself together with an effort. It was his life, and he had always given her free rein with hers. It was her turn to let him go.
‘I won’t try to stop you Daddy,’ she said slowly. ‘It just seems as if I’m losing everybody at once. Sinclair, and Albie – and you.’ And Philip, she added silently.
‘We never really lose the people we love, honey,’ he reassured her, and she knew he was thinking of Primmy right then. Primmy, the love of his life – and she was in New Jersey, where his heart would always be.
With true Cornish logic, Skye didn’t think it in the least odd that she could think that way. She hesitated, but there was something else she knew she must say to him.
‘Daddy, there are lots of portraits of Mom at the studio. You should choose whatever you want to take back with you.’
To her huge relief, he shook his head. It was far too soon for her to think of going there, but she would have done, for her father’s sake.
‘I don’t need any more reminders than the ones I’ve already got, and most of those are in my heart,’ he answered.
Then, before they got too maudlin and sentimental, he said something surprising. Though, thinking about it later, it shouldn’t have surprised her at all.
‘Why don’t you go and telephone Nicholas Pengelly and tell him what you’ve got in mind?’
‘Why on earth should I do that?’
‘Because I suspect that as your lawyer, he may want to be consulted over any exhibition plans, and he’s the one person outside all of this who I’d trust to make sensible decisions with my daughter. I was very impressed with him.’
Despite herself, she found her mouth curving into a slow smile, and it felt as though it was the first time it had happened in days.
‘So was I,’ she said softly. ‘But I shouldn’t call him at home at nine o’clock at night, should I?’
Without warning, her pulse throbbed as she said the words, and she averted her eyes from her father. She must be in the grip of some Indian summer madness, she thought in a panic, and it mustn’t happen. It mustn’t.
Her inner senses argued with her. What was so wrong with calling your own lawyer at night, to discuss with him an important idea? But she knew very well she wouldn’t be calling Mr Slater in Bodmin at this hour, no matter what the reason.
‘Go call him, Skye,’ she heard Cresswell say. ‘After what I’ve seen today, he seems to be the only one you have a rapport with right now.’
‘Except you,’ she said swiftly.
‘But that’s not the same.’
She didn’t question what he meant. She knew, just as he did. They had always had a special empathy with one another. All three of them, she thought: Cresswell, and Primmy, and Skye. Only Sinclair had seemed oddly out of touch with the thoughts and feelings that the other three shared. She swallowed, wishing she had learned to understand her brother more.
As she passed her father’s chair she leaned over and kissed him, and for him the moment was filled with the summer-fresh scent that was essentially Skye and Primmy. His throat was thick as he watched her go to the hallway to the telephone, knowing he was pushing her towards her destiny.
* * *
‘Nick, I’m sorry to call you at home,’ she told him, seconds after she had heard his professional answering manner. It changed at once when he recognised her voice.
‘It’s true then,’ he said enigmatically, his voice deeper and warmer than before, and making her heartbeat race.
‘What is?’ she asked inanely.
‘That miracles do happen if you wish for them hard enough. And ever since we parted I’ve been wishing I could have held on to you a little longer.’
She gave that small, nervous laugh again. ‘You shouldn’t be talking to me like this…’
‘Why not?’ he spoke teasingly, humouring her. ‘You’re in no danger from physical assault when you’re at the end of a telephone.’
No, it wasn’t physical, thought Skye. But it was surely unethical, and far too intimate, and seductive… She realised she was leaning against the wall, standing on one leg, with her other foot wrapped around her ankle, the way she used to do as a child when something especially excited her. And when she looked in the mirror above the telephone table, her eyes were wide and lustrous and dreamy.
She turned away from her own image, knowing exactly what it was telling her. She unwound her foot from her other leg and spoke more severely.
‘I should hope not, indeed. I’m actually calling you on a professional matter, but this was obviously a bad time—’
‘No it wasn’t. In fact, I probably willed you to call,’ he went on. ‘Being Cornish, I presume you believe in all that telepathy stuff?’
‘I’m not Cornish.’
‘You are, where it counts.’
She took a deep breath. This wasn’t how this conversation was meant to be going at all, and she had to think very hard as to why she was calling him in the first place.
‘I’ve had an idea, and I wanted your professional advice on the feasibility of it.’
‘Fire away.’
‘It’s to do with my uncle’s paintings. There are masses of them at the studio, and something will have to be done with them. But oh Lord, I feel dreadful discussing this as if he’s already dead.’
‘Any lawyer would tell you it’s sensible and practical. So go on,’ prompted Nick.
‘Well, I suppose the family should have their choice of the paintings eventually, but before all that happens I was wondering about staging an exhibition in Truro where he’s well known. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Once all this residential business is concluded, we’ll catalogue and price them all and then approach suitable premises.’
‘Oh, I was only asking for your opinion, Nick; you’re far too busy to spend time doing all that.’
She hadn’t given a thought to the practical details of it all. Cataloguing and pricing, and premises… it had been just an idea, as ephemeral as the wind. Pricing them – and selling them? She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but what else would they do with them? But she was suddenly nervous, realising what she was taking on.
‘It will be my pleasure,’ he assured her, and she knew he wasn’t merely talking about the work.
‘Then we’ll talk about it again at a more suitable time. Goodnight, and thank you,’ she said quickly.
‘Goodnight, my love,’ he answered, and she slammed the receiver down, her hands shaking. She wasn’t his love, and he had no right to use those words to her.
But after Philip came home very late, and went stumbling into another bedroom so that he wouldn’t disturb her, it was Nick Pengelly who filled her dreams. And while she could resist her acknowledgement of feelings and emotions, she couldn’t control the sweet eroticism of her dreams.
Chapter Ten
Theo faced an angry barrage of clayworkers the moment he stepped out of his motor car at Clay One. He felt his skin bristle, knowing they would have seen him coming up the hill towards Killigrew Clay, and had quickly gathered into a formidable mob.
He also knew what it was all about, of course. It was the influx of the small group of German workers. But he was the boss, damn their no-good eyes, and it was his decision who he had worki
ng for him, and it had seemed a good idea at the time when Hans Kauffmann had proposed it. He had dismissed querying Skye about the decision with as much indifference as brushing away a cobweb.
‘What’s all this, then?’ he bellowed now, as he saw the mob of clayworkers moving towards him like a surging tide. ‘If you buggers ain’t got enough work to do, and can stand about idling, I’ll have to be docking your wage packets.’
‘We ain’t idling, Tremayne, and no fat-assed clay boss ever accused we of doing so,’ came a mutinous yell from the back of the crowd, echoed by the rest.
He couldn’t see who had begun the uproar, and the others wouldn’t be telling. He scowled, feeling his blood boil. They were bloody sheep, the lot of them. They were paid to do a day’s work for a day’s pay, and there was an end to it in his opinion. He couldn’t be doing with strikes and minor complaints, and that should all be left to the pit captain to sort out. Where was the bugger?
He saw the hard-hatted man come out of his little hut, hurriedly stubbing out a cigarette and waving the smoke away, and his face darkened even more. When his father, Walter, had been in charge here, no pit captain would have been tardy in coming to meet the boss. He’d have bet it never happened in old Hal Tremayne’s day, either. Things had got sloppy, and it was high time that changed.
‘What’s going on here, Yardley? Can’t you control these buggers no more? It’s what I pay you for.’
‘What’s going on, Mr Tremayne, sir, is summat you should’ve seen coming a while back,’ the older man said insolently, standing his ground. ‘In case you’m too blind to see what’s under your nose, and want it explaining, they’m objecting to the new workers you’ve put among ’em, and insisting they’m sent back where they belong. Mr Walter would never have stood for the insult, and he’d have listened to his clayers. He’d not have spent his time in other pursuits. He’d have seen what was happening here and put a quick stop to it afore it all got out of hand.’
Tom wasn’t normally given to making long speeches, but he’d be damned if he’d be spoken to like this in front of the men by any blustering womaniser, boss or no boss. The inference didn’t go unnoticed by any of them, and Theo’s eyes narrowed as the men muttered noisily among themselves now, and one or two of them sniggered and made crude gestures. Tom Yardley was old enough to be slung on the scrap heap, Theo thought furiously, and he’d be there fast enough if he didn’t mind his words. Especially in front of the clayers.
He saw his pit captain fold his arms and stare him out, too old and dour to fear this young whippet, and Theo cursed the day he’d kept him on out of loyalty after Walter died.
‘Leave my father out of it,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll get back to work, the lot of you, and stop all this bloody nonsense. And I can promise you there’ll be no bonuses at the end of the year unless you do.’
‘There’s more at stake than your pittances, Tremayne,’ bawled one of the clayers. ‘My boy was killed by one o’ these German bastards, and so was my sister’s boy, and his brother too. And I ain’t working alongside no child killers.’
Trying to make himself heard amid the roars of assent, Theo yelled back. ‘These here boys weren’t responsible for what happened to your family, any more than you were, you snivelling toerags. The war took sons and brothers on both sides, and I dare say some of these would have similar tales to tell ’ee, given half a chance.’
But he had to grit his teeth as he spoke, since he wasn’t normally so magnanimous. Truth to tell, it mattered little to him who did the work, as long as it was done. But the clayers clearly saw his words as more than an insult to their families’ memories. It was an incitement to riot, and the next minute he felt a stinging blow to the side of his face as a stone was flung at him from the back of the mob, and then another.
He felt the hot trickle of blood run down his cheek, and with it came the red rage of a maddened bull. ‘You bloody lunatics,’ he screamed, losing all sense of dignity now. ‘I’ll sack the lot of you, and then where will you be? Go and ask your womenfolk how they’ll enjoy being turned out of their cottages and left to scratch for food to put in your babbies’ bellies.’
He dabbed a white handkerchief to his cheek to stem the blood, and after his tirade he saw Tom Yardley pushing his way forward, his face shocked and his arms outstretched to the crowd now as if to ward off any further attack on the boss. Strikes were one thing, but physical assault was ugly, and he was of the old school that didn’t permit such acts towards your superiors, however much you disagreed with them.
‘Think about what Mr Tremayne says, men,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll lose your homes as well as your livelihood if you threaten him wi’ strike action. We all know you’ve got grievances, but this ain’t the way to deal with ’em.’
Bloody turncoat, Theo thought savagely. Even though Yardley was starting to placate them by his common sense, he knew the reason for it was because Tom knew which side his bread was buttered. It didn’t make Theo warm to the bugger.
‘You’d best keep the foreign muckers away from us, then,’ came the final united roar from the clayers. ‘The minute they get any plum jobs, we’re out, and see how your bloody export orders get along then, wi’ no clay for your friggin’ pots.’
Theo strode through them, hustling them aside like Moses parting the Red Sea. He walked stiffly over to the edge of the clay pool, where the sullen group of German boys had been listening and brooding on all that was going on.
‘We have done nothing to provoke them, sir,’ one of them burst out at once, his grammatical English excruciatingly and infuriatingly correct to Theo’s ears. ‘It is not right for us to be blamed for the sins of our fathers. It is not honourable, nor charitable, nor civilised.’
Christ, give me patience, thought Theo. The way they spoke made him feel as though he was dealing with a bunch of saints, and he’d wished more than once that he’d never agreed with Kauffmann’s bright idea of inviting them to Cornwall. But he was buggered if he was welshing on it now. Especially with the tales of anarchy these turds would have to tell.
‘Just keep out of their reach as much as possible,’ he snarled. ‘Their memories are long, and that’s something that ain’t going to change, no matter what we do. But to calm things down a mite, I’m sending a pair of you to work in the packing shed at the pottery. We need to get the orders off to Kauffmann’s pretty damn soon now. Who’s volunteering?’
All six of them stepped forward at once, and he gave a grim nod. It told him more than words what the atmosphere had been like these last few weeks. The sooner this export order was finished, the better, and in future he’d have no more infiltration of the enemy.
God damn it, he raged, as the word slid into his head. Even I’m thinking in those terms now…
‘You, and you,’ he pointed to the nearest two. ‘Report to Adam Pengelly tomorrow morning. And the rest of you, for God’s sake try to merge into the background as much as possible.’
‘But why should such a thing be necessary?’ The spokesman was clearly the leader of the pack and ready to argue, his eyes flashing with self-righteous anger. ‘We are not here to do penance, and we do our work well, do we not?’
‘Look – Gunter, isn’t it?’ Theo said. ‘If you know what’s best for you, you’ll just keep out of trouble. Make friends with the younger ones. They have no axe to grind.’
‘What is this axe that you speak of?’ the boy said, his brows drawn together with deep suspicion.
Theo gave a raucous laugh. ‘It’s nothing. Just an English expression, that’s all. I’ve got no more time to stand about exchanging pleasantries, and neither have you. Time means money, so I suggest you get back to earning it.’
He strode back to his car, thankful to be away from the clayworks and to get back to Truro. Bastards, the lot of them, he thought, his cheek stinging more than ever now. He needed somebody to soothe his jangling nerves, and he couldn’t stand the thought of Betsy fussing and farting around him. At the last minute he swung his ca
r away from the direction of home, and went to find comfort elsewhere.
* * *
Skye’s second hospital visit to Albie was as futile as the first. He either didn’t know her, or didn’t want to. In any case, he simply lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling for the entire time she was there. His eyes were as blank as if someone had turned out the lights.
She knew it would be due to the sedative drugs they were giving him, but it was so awful to see him like this. So lacking in spirit, when that had never been attributable to him! In the end, she found it impossible to sit beside this silent shell of a man any longer, and she went in search of Dr Rainley to ask what progress had been made.
‘None, as far as his health is concerned, Mrs Norwood,’ he said candidly. ‘The situation is still the same, and is unlikely to alter. But I do have some news for you. There are two places available to Mr Tremayne. One is in north Wales, and the other is in Bristol. I would recommend the Bristol one, since the facilities there are far superior to the other. It’s vastly more expensive, of course—’
‘That is of no importance. As long as it’s the best.’
‘The very best. I’ll give you a brochure to take away, if you wish to consult your family about it,’ he added.
‘Has anyone else been to see him?’
His eyes were guarded as he replied in the negative. But he needn’t have worried. It was just as she had expected. Albert Tremayne was a forgotten man already, and Skye was sickened by the family’s lack of concern. There used to be such a strong feeling of kinship among the Tremaynes, but over the years it had simply disappeared.
Morwen had been the pivot of them all, with the ability to hold them all together during her long lifetime, Skye thought, but after her death, nothing was ever the same again. And she certainly didn’t have that same strength. As she thought it, her self-confidence began badly slipping. How could she ever have believed she was the epitome of her grandmother?
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