‘Didn’t you like that lady this morning, Daddy?’ Vicki suddenly piped up, her face puckered with concentration as she coloured vigorously.
‘What lady?’ Ince got in first.
Spencer poured hot milk on the cocoa. ‘Do you want a biscuit with this, pipkin? She’s talking about Mrs Bill Jennings,’ he told Ince with a look of distaste on his handsome face.
‘Mrs Jennings? What was she doing here?’ Ince demanded.
‘Nosing around.’
Vicki put her hands on her hips and said aggrievedly, ‘No, thank you, I don’t want a biscuit. I was talking first. I asked you a question, Daddy.’
Spencer fondly ruffled her silky hair. ‘She was a stranger, pipkin, and I don’t like strangers suddenly turning up on the farm. Put your crayons away and drink your cocoa. It’s way past your bedtime.’
Vicki made a long face and gathered up her crayons and pencils and dropped them into their box. ‘She had a face like a fairy princess and long golden hair. Look, I’ve drawn a picture of her.’
Ince turned the picture round to him. ‘So that’s who this is.’ The drawing consisted of a matchstick woman in a brown coat and blue skirt, the colours Laura had been wearing that morning, and long straight yellow hair, standing beside Vicki’s tricycle. ‘I thought it didn’t look like you.’
‘I’d like to be like her when I grow up,’ Vicki said, pushing her box of colours away.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Spencer said sharply, picking her up and carrying her to a chair by the hearth and sitting her on his lap. He passed her the cocoa. ‘Drink up before it gets cold.’ He kept his eyes on his daughter’s back. Ince was staring at him and he knew he would get a ticking off from his close friend and farmhand when Vicki was tucked up in bed.
‘Mrs Miller said that lady who was here this morning is beautiful,’ Vicki remarked before putting her full red lips to the mug. She sipped and swallowed. The two men watched her, they were fascinated by everything she did. ‘She told me her name was Laura.’
‘Maybe she did,’ Spencer said, breathing out heavily. He kissed the back of Vicki’s head. ‘But if you see her again you must call her Mrs Jennings.’
‘Why?’
‘Because for one thing I said so and for another it’s good manners.’
Vicki twisted round to look at her father. ‘Has she got bad manners then?’
‘Get out of that one,’ Ince murmured, turning his head so Vicki couldn’t see him smiling.
Spencer grunted and reddened. Ince was going to have a field day with him. He was always exhorting him to be more sociable, less abrasive, more ready to turn the other cheek.
Ince had moved into the farmhouse when Natalie had died, to take more of the workload from Spencer so he could visit his daughter in hospital and then so he could give Vicki the care she needed when he brought her home. Spencer had been adamant he wanted no more help than what Ince and Joy Miller, the daily help he employed from the village, could provide. Spencer greatly respected Ince and would be lost without him.
Spencer moved about uncomfortably. He could curse Ince at times for making him feel needlessly guilty. ‘It’s your turn to put Vicki to bed, isn’t it?’ he asked on a soft note.
‘Yes,’ Ince said eagerly, holding his hands out to, Vicki. ‘You finished, princess? When you’ve cleaned your teeth and I’ve read you a story, Daddy will kiss you goodnight.’
Vicki went upstairs happily with Ince, enjoying the alternate bedtime ritual she shared with the two men.
Joy Miller had left the ageing kitchen spick-and-span that morning, the furniture well polished, the ornaments and ormolu clock dusted on the high mantelshelf, the huge oak dresser tidy, the floor linoleum washed, mats brushed and put straight and Vicki’s numerous toys packed up in the corner. Vicki had only wanted her drawing book tonight so everything was still tidy. Spencer washed up the supper dishes thinking about the ceiling-high Christmas tree he would get for Vicki, how he would take her into Bodmin to choose some new decorations, and he thought sadly that after Christmas his beloved little girl would be starting school.
He was ready to face Ince when he came downstairs. ‘Don’t go on at me, mate. I’m not in the mood.’
‘It’s not Laura Jennings’ fault what her husband was like,’ Ince said quietly. ‘She seems a good sort of woman to me.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for her pretty face?’ Spencer returned, his voice edged in sarcasm.
Ince kept his usual calm. ‘Vicki’s said her prayers. She’s waiting for her goodnight kiss.’
Spencer walked to the door that led to the hall. Before leaving the room, he stated, ‘We can’t all be as forgiving as you, Ince.’
* * *
Laura and Daisy went to the pub that evening and were immediately joined at their table by Harry Lean and asked what they’d like to drink. Laura ignored his smiles but accepted his offer, asking for a gin and orange, while Daisy had her ‘usual’, a milk stout.
‘Cheers, Mrs Tamblyn, Mrs Jennings.’ Harry raised his whisky and soda, seating himself with them without being invited. ‘Nice to be drinking with you,’ he said to Laura.
‘Thank you, Mr Lean,’ she returned, keeping her face straight. Harry Lean had the sort of smile that was all too easy to reciprocate. She thought if he wanted to get familiar with her he wouldn’t take her recent widowhood into account.
‘Shame about Bill,’ he said, looking sympathetically at Daisy. ‘We despised each other but it’s terrible to die so young.’ Then turning his dark eyes on Laura. ‘And in such a terrible way.’
‘Why didn’t you like my husband?’ Laura asked bluntly, looking Harry straight in the eye and making Daisy tut-tut.
‘Class barrier, my dear,’ Harry drawled, the corners of his thin wide mouth smirking.
Daisy turned her head away to show her disapproval at the turn of conversation, but Laura wasn’t going to be put off ‘In this day and age?’
‘Naturally. What makes you think it’s disappeared? It’s very apparent in a small place like this.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t like your family property being sold off Mr Lean,’ Laura said harshly. She wasn’t taking Bill’s side; she didn’t like this cocky, self-assured, dark-haired young man and wanted to put him in his place.
Harry’s eyes moved slowly up from his whisky glass and burned into hers, yet there was still that hint of amusement; he wasn’t a man easily rattled. ‘I’ve heard that your husband has done an excellent job of disposing of yours.’
Laura gasped and looked hastily at Daisy who jerked her head round. ‘What’s he talking about, Laura?’
‘Something he knows nothing about!’ Laura snapped at Harry.
‘You might as well come clean with Aunty Daisy, my sweet. Word gets round a village faster than a summer gorse fire.’ He got up and went to the bar and beckoned to Mike Penhaligon.
‘What was he talking about, Laura?’ Daisy demanded again. ‘Whatever it was, it looks like he’s telling Mike now.’
A red flush of anger coupled with embarrassment crept up Laura’s neck. She could have got up and thumped Harry Lean between the shoulder blades. If her financial situation reached Ada Prisk’s ears it would be all round the village in an hour. ‘I didn’t want you to know yet, so soon after the funeral. Bill has bankrupted the company. I’m sorry you’ve found out like this. You see Bill wasn’t quite as—’
‘I know,’ Daisy said, sniffing into a handkerchief. ‘I know what Bill was like. Has he left you penniless?’
‘No, I’ve got some money, the cottage in the village and my grandmother’s jewellery which is supposed to be worth a fortune.’
‘I’m sorry, Laura.’
‘It’s all right, Aunty Daisy,’ Laura said, slipping her hand into Daisy’s. ‘I’ve got you and I don’t think Bill could have left me anything better.’
Daisy looked embarrassed, a little overcome and flattered. ‘But you hardly know me, dear.’
‘But I know you intimately,
Aunty. Bill told me everything about you. What I’d like to know is how Harry Lean knows about the business.’
‘Didn’t you know? Harry’s a local estate agent but he’s got contacts in London.’
‘So he would have heard about it on the grapevine,’ Laura murmured. She shot a look filled with contempt at Harry’s back as he shared a joke with Mike. ‘I don’t like him any more than Bill did. What a bighead!’
‘Never mind him,’ Daisy said firmly. ‘I’m telling you something, Laura, and I’ll have no argument on it. You’re having the fifty pounds I had insured on Billy. I took it out when he left the village in case anything happened to him. Well, now it has, and it will go a long way to seeing him rest in peace without being a burden on you.’
Laura felt it would be selfish and insensitive to argue and she accepted the money with gratitude.
Johnny Prouse came in with Admiral and parked himself at their table and Laura and Daisy were treated to his Great War memories. After a couple of drinks his mind was sharp and his tongue well oiled. If Laura had been alone she would have picked his brains about the villagers of Kilgarthen, confident he would have spoken freely about Bill.
Others drifted in and out as the evening wore on, some from outside the village who liked the beer and friendly atmosphere. A man in his late fifties, built like an ox and wearing shabby clothes, came over to their table and introduced himself as Jacka Davey, owner of Tregorlan Farm. He offered his condolences and apologised for not being able to attend Bill’s funeral, explaining that urgent work on the farm had prevented it. He looked acutely embarrassed and as soon as he had said his piece he took himself off to drink in a quiet corner. Daisy told her he was hard-working but had fallen on bad times.
The Reverend Kinsley Farrow popped in at nine o’clock. He was astonished to see Laura there.
‘Mrs Jennings!’ he exclaimed, picking up her hand and pumping it up and down. ‘I do apologise. I had no idea you were still in the village. How are you? Is there anything I can do for you? You’re not stranded or anything?’ He sat down too and Pat Penhaligon brought him a half pint of mild.
‘Aunty Daisy is looking after me, Vicar,’ Laura assured him. ‘I’ve decided to stay here in Bill’s birthplace. I don’t know for how long.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ Kinsley said, sipping his ale and leaving a trail of froth over his upper lip.
He had an interesting face. Laura found herself studying it, moving her head in time with his quick movements. His clear-cut features were animated, his jaw looked as if it was constantly chomping, his expressive large eyes as if they were whirling pools of dark liquid. Laura realised she had taken no notice of him yesterday. If she hadn’t seen him again she wouldn’t have been able to describe one single feature about him. He was about forty, younger than she expected in a clergyman, with thick hair the texture of bird’s feathers.
‘You must meet my wife, Roslyn,’ he said. ‘She’d love that, wouldn’t she, Johnny?’ He patted Admiral’s small head. ‘She’s always on the lookout for new blood, so to speak, for our annual village events, concerts, dramas, sports days, church socials, that sort of thing. No matter how long you’re here, she’ll have you involved in something.’ He sipped again, adding to his frothy moustache. ‘Do you sing, by any chance? We could do with a couple more sopranos in the choir.’
‘I wouldn’t be any good for a choir but if I’m around when one of your events comes up I’d be interested to join in, Mr Farrow,’ Laura replied giddily. She felt one could get quite exhausted listening to the vicar.
‘Will you be keeping your husband’s cottage on for your holidays?’ Kinsley asked. ‘I’m sure you’d enjoy visiting down here regularly. Roslyn and I are only “furreigners” – you have to live in Cornwall at least forty years to be considered a local – but my flock are generally very good to us.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ Laura said, making Johnny nod approvingly. She realised that Harry Lean was eyeing her with his ever-present smirk. She couldn’t imagine that individual being good to the vicar.
When Harry Lean left the pub half an hour before closing time he flashed Laura another bright smile. She dropped her head and gave Johnny her attention but a few moments later glanced out of the window. She saw Marianne Roach, the schoolmaster’s daughter, her face heavily made up, her hair frothily curled in front and wearing a coat that was obviously new, getting into Harry’s car.
Chapter 5
Laura was in the kitchen curled up in Bunty’s chair. She was in her nightdress with a few of Daisy’s curlers in her hair. Her head was bent over the morning newspaper which had been brought by the postwoman on her squeaky bicycle.
She heard someone coming into the room and without looking up she said, ‘Good morning, Bunty. I’ll get up and you can have your chair.’
‘Where’s Daisy?’ came a harsh voice.
A bright red flush shot up Laura’s neck and face and she put up a hand to hide her curlers. Spencer Jeffries was glaring accusingly at her from the doorway.
‘She… she’s preparing to open the shop.’
‘No, she isn’t. She must have popped round to Bunty’s for a moment. So you’ve decided to stay on, have you?’
Laura visibly bristled. ‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’ She added on a high tone, ‘Can I help you?’
He tossed a piece of paper on the table making Laura blink. ‘I’ve brought my monthly order, don’t lose it.’
‘Why should I lose it?’ Laura was offended but her nightdress and curlers kept her meekly in the chair.
He turned to go but Laura couldn’t resist asking him, ‘How’s your dear little girl today? Have you brought her with you?’
‘Vicki’s waiting for me, with Ince Polkinghorne on the cart,’ he said defensively, as if he was asserting that he looked after his daughter properly. Then he left.
After being pinned to Bunty’s chair by Spencer Jeffries’ ice-cold grey eyes Laura couldn’t concentrate on reading the newspaper. She went upstairs to get dressed. Although she didn’t want to, for Daisy’s sake and in keeping with what the villagers expected a grieving widow should wear, she dressed in her black clothes. She wouldn’t gain their confidence if they thought she didn’t care about Bill. She combed her hair in its usual flowing shoulder-length style and put on very little make-up. Then she went downstairs into the shop. She’d said last night she wanted to contribute to her keep and Daisy said she’d be delighted to have her work in the shop for a couple of hours; in that way she could meet the villagers too.
At eight thirty Daisy still hadn’t returned from Bunty’s so Laura turned the sign round on the door to ‘Open’ and unlocked the door. Through the advertisements on the glass she could see the Rosemerryn horse and cart. So the crusty-mannered recluse was still in the village, was he? She hoped he’d come back to the shop and bring Vicki in for her sweets ration.
Laura had a good look round the shop. Bill had told her that his mother’s parents had owned it and had left it to Daisy, their elder daughter, when they died. Laura wondered if that was because they knew Bill had been fathered by the tyrannical William Lean and not Ron Jennings. The shop, small and dark and permeated with a variety of homely smells, had seen no changes since Daisy’s parents’ day. Laura found the half-packed shelves, high wooden counter, and ancient cash register fascinating. Biscuits were sold loose from big square tins, fat brown eggs were laid out in gingham-lined baskets. Christmas decorations were on sale next to some medicinal herbal remedies. The items on the next shelf read like a miniature pharmacy: bile beans, syrup of figs, Sanatogen, cough linctus, Eucryl toothpaste, Nivea cream. Two pairs of nylons took pride of place in the window with small stacks of dummy packets. In a corner a roll of linoleum, which had been ordered from a catalogue, was awaiting collection by a Mrs Miller.
Laura was about to go into the kitchen and get Spencer Jeffries’ shopping list, curious to see what his monthly requirements were, when there was a terrible screeching and grinding so
und outside, then an almighty bang which shook the shop windows.
As Laura rushed to the shop door, it was wrenched open.
‘Here,’ Spencer Jeffries said urgently, thrusting a pale-faced Vicki into her arms. ‘Look after Vicki. There’s been an accident. I’ll have to use the phone. Get away from the windows, it’s not a pretty sight out there.’
When Spencer had dialled the emergency services for an ambulance and a fire engine, Laura faced him in the passage with Vicki clinging to her. ‘Did she see it?’ Laura whispered. ‘She’s terrified.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Spencer replied grimly; stroking Vicki’s hair and kissing the top of her head. ‘I’ll have to go back outside and see if I can do anything. Will you keep her in here, try to take her mind off it, please?’
‘Of course. What happened?’
‘It’s a delivery lorry. It was heading for the shop when old Johnny Prouse’s little dog suddenly dashed out in front of it.’
‘Is—’
‘I’ll have to go,’ Spencer said, striding away. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Vicki had her face buried deep in Laura’s neck. ‘Where’s Daddy gone?’ she asked fearfully.
‘Not far away, darling. He thought that as I came to see you on your farm yesterday that it’s your turn to visit me today. What would you like to do? Shall we go into the kitchen and have some milk and biscuits? I could read you a story.’ Laura had noticed a box of toys and children’s books Daisy kept in a corner.
Vicki looked up, her eyes shining like they usually did. ‘Will you read me The Gingerbread Man, please? It’s my favourite.’
As Laura was saying she would, Daisy came running in breathlessly, a hand clasped to her full breast. ‘Thank goodness the little one’s all right. That’s right, you go along into the kitchen with her.’ She patted Vicki’s shoulder. ‘I’ll bring in some dolly mixtures for you, my handsome.’
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