Laura read the story, enjoying the closeness of having Vicki on her lap. She was on tenterhooks wondering what was happening outside, if old Johnny Prouse was hurt. She felt useful comforting Vicki and keeping her occupied. Two days ago she had felt life wasn’t worth living, that she had little to look forward to, but now she was already playing a part in the lives of a community that had meant nothing to her those same two days ago. How quickly life could twist and turn, she mused. Needlessly she retied the big red ribbon that held back the hair on the crown of Vicki’s head.
She and Vicki were playing teasets with a doll, the little china teapot full of milk, with dolly mixtures and bits of broken biscuit on the plates, when Daisy came into the kitchen and went to her airing cupboard. With a grim face she took out a large white sheet.
‘What’s that for?’ Laura mouthed the words over Vicki’s head.
‘Bandages,’ Daisy mouthed back.
In this way they communicated so Vicki couldn’t hear. ‘Is it bad out there?’ Laura asked.
Daisy nodded. ‘They’re trying to get the driver out of his cab. His head’s bleeding. A piece of metal pierced Ince’s hand and Mike Penhaligon’s cut his hand on broken glass.’
‘What about Admiral?’
Daisy shook her head and Laura wiped away the tears which sprang to her eyes. She’d only met Johnny Prouse twice but it was obvious how much Admiral had meant to him.
‘And Johnny?’
Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He went after Admiral. He’s under the lorry, the fire engine will have to—’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Vicki said, looking eagerly into their faces.
‘Oh, we were wondering if your daddy would let you have dinner with us today, Vicki,’ Daisy answered quickly. ‘Would you like to stay?’
Daisy knew at once she’d made a mistake mentioning the little girl’s father because Vicki wailed, ‘I want my daddy. A big lorry frightened us.’
‘He’ll be here in a little while,’ Laura said, automatically holding out her arms. ‘Shall we have another story? There’s lots of books in the box and I haven’t heard their stories yet.’
Vicki was comforted and sat on Laura’s lap holding as many books as she could clutch.
‘Looks like you’ll be running out of breath,’ Daisy smiled before leaving.
Laura raised her voice as she read when a persistent ringing announced the arrival of the ambulance and fire engine within two minutes of each other. A third noisy bell spoke of someone having rung the police too.
Daisy popped in and out of the kitchen, making up Spencer’s order. There’d been only a few customers to the shop, most preferring to surround the grisly scene outside, watching from a safe distance.
It was nearly two hours before Spencer returned. Vicki ran to him to be picked up. He, too, had cut his hands on broken glass as he’d tried to help the wounded and clear up the wreckage; strips of sheet were wound round them.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jennings,’ he said quietly, kissing Vicki’s cheeks. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself playing, pipkin?’
Laura noticed he did not ask Vicki if she’d been a good girl, which was the usual parental question. This pleased Laura; after all, Vicki hadn’t asked to be suddenly put into the care of a virtual stranger, so why should the emphasis be on her behaviour?
‘Are we going home now, Daddy?’
‘In a short while,’ he replied, ruffling her hair. ‘I’m waiting for the road to be cleared,’ he explained to Laura. ‘The workmen have just arrived. I don’t want Vicki to see…’
Laura nodded. ‘Of course. And Johnny?’
‘Not good,’ he replied in a whisper.
‘The driver?’
‘Should be all right in time.’
‘Why do grown-ups always whisper?’ Vicki asked peevishly, making a petulant face before snuggling in against her father’s strong neck.
There was a sudden buzz in the shop as it filled with customers, all come to talk about the accident. Ada Prisk could be heard talking nineteen to the dozen.
‘I’d better see if Aunty Daisy wants any help,’ Laura said, thinking that Spencer would prefer to be left alone with Vicki.
Bunty reached the doorway before she did. ‘’Tis all right, m’dear. I’ll help Daisy, though I don’t think many in there want to buy anything. Could you make some tea?’
Laura said she would and Bunty closed the door and the noise of the chatter died down.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Laura asked Spencer, suddenly feeling unsure of herself in his presence. She hadn’t forgotten his hostility towards her the day before.
‘Yes, please,’ he said, sitting down in Daisy’s chair with Vicki held tightly to him.
The kettle on the range was always close to the boil and Laura felt self-conscious as she looked in the cupboards for the things needed to prepare a tray.
‘Is Aunty Daisy your Aunty Daisy too?’ Vicki asked her, following her movements.
‘Yes, that’s right, Vicki.’ Laura was cross with herself for blushing because Spencer was looking at her. His expression wasn’t hostile as it had been yesterday and earlier this morning, it was just a steady gaze, and rather stern. She was glad when Vicki claimed his attention again, but only for a moment.
‘Daddy doesn’t like you,’ Vicki said with the innocence of her years.
‘Vicki!’ Spencer had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I told you that Mrs Jennings just took me by surprise, that’s all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Laura said coldly, putting a tray down on the table with a thud. ‘I won’t be surprising you again.’
‘Where’s Uncle Ince?’
‘He hurt his hand. The doctor is looking at it. He’ll be along in a minute.’
Vicki gingerly touched the bandages on her father’s hands. ‘Did the doctor look at your hands too?’
‘Yes, but they’re not badly hurt. I’ll be able to take these pieces of cloth off later today.’
Laura listened to them talking. There was obviously a very strong bond between father and daughter and, probably because she had spent so much of her nearly five years among two adults, Vicki’s speech was clear and articulate.
Laura asked Vicki if she wanted some more milk and when Vicki shook her head, Spencer reminded her to say no thank you politely; Vicki was still a little shy of her. Laura put a strong mug of tea for Spencer on the little table Daisy kept handy by her chair. She asked him if he wanted a biscuit.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, only glancing at her as he tucked Vicki’s blouse more comfortably into her trousers and pulled down her warm jumper. Feeling even more out of place, Laura sat opposite them and tried to start a conversation.
‘I understand you and Bill didn’t like each other.’ She was getting used to asking questions, and forthright ones too, about Bill and one slipped out before she knew it. She instantly realised she’d picked the wrong subject.
Spencer said tightly, ‘It’s hardly the sort of thing to discuss in front of a child and, anyway, I never talk about my private affairs.’
Laura got up quickly. Vicki watched her with curious eyes. Laura turned away from them, her feelings following the direction of her eyes as they sank down to the floor. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have things to get on with.’
‘Find out if the road is clear, will you?’ Spencer muttered.
Laura flinched. It had sounded very much like an order. She felt browbeaten. The little confidence she had attained deserted her. She left the room thinking that with the exception of Ince Polkinghorne, she heartily disliked the younger men from this village. None of them seemed to have any manners or feelings of respect where women were concerned.
Chapter 6
Barbara Roach cringed as her husband scowled over his lunchtime meal. He did this every day and every day it made her cringe. He sat in his stiff formal clothes at the table in their dining room and no matter what she put in front of him, he found fault with it. She wished he would do what o
ther schoolmasters did, eat with the staff and children, but Cecil thought this was beneath him.
‘Terrible about that accident this morning,’ she commented as she put sardines and poached eggs on toast in front of him. ‘It nearly killed Spencer Jeffries and his little girl. That poor driver, and poor Johnny Prouse. He’ll be some upset when he learns his dog was killed, if Johnny doesn’t die himself.’
The hard lines on Cecil’s dour face deepened into cracks and his prominent Adam’s apple danced about in his thin, ragged throat. The skin over his long hooked nose stretched, making the narrow ridge of bone that ran almost to the tip stand out. ‘Must you talk about these blasted villagers! It’s bad enough having to live amongst them, having to try to stop their horrid offspring from saying things like “some upset” without hearing you saying it too. It’s so upset. So!’
‘Yes, dear.’ Barbara meekly poured out his cup of tea, her eyes on the cup, making sure it was just the right strength and colour.
Cecil suddenly paled. ‘What lorry was it?’
‘Rowe’s, the fruit and vegetable.’
He looked visibly relieved. ‘Oh, that’s all right then.’
Barbara thought this was an odd thing to say but she dared not ask him what he meant.
‘I want your help this afternoon.’ Cecil chomped noisily on his food, tomato sauce squelching at the corners of his mouth. ‘I want the school to do me proud at the village Christmas concert. I’ll drill the choir. You can help Miss Knight with ideas for Class Three’s costumes. I’ve written them a little sketch.’
‘Yes, dear.’ She placed the tea on the precise spot he demanded it on the table. He moved it a fraction of an inch. Barbara checked her hair in the mirror over the fireplace, ensuring every strand was in place. If just one was astray Cecil would go wild; it wasn’t in keeping with his position in the village if his wife wasn’t immaculately groomed.
‘These eggs are rubbery. I hear that Jennings woman is still in the village. I wonder why she’s stayed on.’
Barbara’s heart sank. She’d have to find out exactly why Laura Jennings hadn’t gone back to London and woe betide her, one of her husband’s favourite sayings, if her account differed from anybody else’s.
‘Did Marianne get up in plenty of time to catch the bus to Launceston?’
‘Yes, dear,’ Barbara lied. Marianne had left it so late she’d had to run for the bus that came into the village every morning at eight ten for the workers who had jobs in Launceston, the nearest town.
‘You let that girl stay out too late.’
Barbara was facing the other way and raised her eyes to the ceiling. As if she had any say in what their rebellious daughter did. Eighteen-year-old Marianne was usually polite and co-operative when her father was around. Barbara received nothing but cheek and tantrums. Barbara was caught between a rock and a hard place in her own home. Cecil would never forgive her for not giving him a son and Marianne was antagonistic towards her for providing her with a miserable, strait-laced father.
‘She’s got a good job as secretary at Hobson’s Drapery. She ought to appreciate it, work hard to make something of herself like I have.’
Oh, yes? Barbara thought ironically. I thought this little village school wasn’t good enough for the great Cecil Roach’s talents. None of these children will amount to anything, you keep saying. Bill Jennings was an exception – and you thought he was a braggart. It helped her to bear her husband’s constant complaints and nagging to admonish him inside her head.
‘Have you burnt that low-cut dress Marianne brought home, like I told you?’
‘Yes, dear,’ Barbara lied again. She could do this if she kept her face rigidly straight and she had perfected a stony expression over the years. The dress, an evening gown, its style accentuated on the bosom, had been secreted out of the house and was hanging in a wardrobe belonging to one of Marianne’s friends, ready to be put on for the next dance. Marianne’s only lament was that dances were few and far between and then there were usually no decent men at them.
‘She shouldn’t waste her clothing coupons. I won’t have a daughter of mine dressing like a common trollop.’
‘Nor will I, dear.’
‘Pardon?’ Cecil’s fork clattered on the table.
Barbara’s few words of agreement had sounded almost like sarcasm. She flushed and took off her glasses to wipe her eyes. ‘No, dear.’
He glared at her hard for a few minutes. Barbara held her breath. After what seemed an eternity he pushed his cup and saucer towards her for a refill. She was glad she was out of his reach. He often hit her.
‘Make the next one stronger. I’m going to get someone from the Cornish Gazette here to take photos of the children in the concert. I have to show that this school, though its pupils are small in number, counts for something. There are no more than thirty-seven on the register and only Victoria Jeffries and Benjamin Miller starting next term. The local authorities might decide to close the school and send the children on to Lewannick or even bus them into Launceston. We’d find ourselves out of position and home then. They could close the school, you know, they’re beginning to shut down the smaller ones round the county,’ Cecil ended gloomily. ‘Where’s that damned cup of tea, woman?’
* * *
Laura had been quiet and pale-faced since the Jeffrieses had left the shop.
‘Why don’t you go out for a little walk?’ Daisy suggested. ‘There’s no need for you to work in the shop and you’ll feel better for a breath of fresh air, but don’t wander over the moor alone.’
‘I must admit I don’t feel like meeting any more people today,’ Laura said dejectedly.
She went up to her room. Her bruised feelings spilled over into a fit of bad temper and she yanked the black dress off over her head and threw it onto the bed. Damn Spencer Jeffries! How dare he speak to her like that, and after she had done him a favour too. And damn what the villagers expected her to dress like. She wouldn’t pretend to grieve over that other blasted swine lying in the churchyard.
Wearing her blue skirt, an Aran knit jumper and Daisy’s warm outer clothes and boots, she tramped to the top of the village hill, passed the few cottages and houses on the outskirts of Kilgarthen and carried on along the road. She stumped along looking down on the ground, following the turn of the lanes which were beginning to become familiar to her. She’d been walking for fifteen minutes when she realised the way she was heading would lead towards Rosemerryn Farm. She’d meant to go the other way and take a look at the Methodist chapel and the outskirts of the other side of the village and then walk on to Hawksmoor House. She grunted in annoyance, although she wouldn’t have minded seeing Ince Polkinghorne.
She knew she was very near Tregorlan Farm, its sign in the hedge was not very far up ahead. She thought about the two farms and reasoned that their land must border each other, divided only by the road. She walked a few yards to a gateway, climbed over it, and took a tentative step onto the turf. It was coarse and springy but felt firm. She’d wander over Jacka Davey’s land and hope he wouldn’t angrily evict her as she was sure Spencer Jeffries would.
A few more steps and the starkness and beauty of the scenery, which she’d ignored in her anger, sank into her mind. Bill had told her the moor as a whole was steeped in history and legend, that something of significance had happened on it in every age, from the settling of Bronze Age men who had left evidence of their homes, tools and burial mounds, to tin and copper mining in the nineteenth century, to an American aircraft crashing on it in the last war. Laura sensed a deep feeling of timelessness, as if any of these events could occur now.
From the ground at her feet to the peak of Hawk’s Tor everything looked windswept but hardy and strong. The rough fields had been cleared for grazing and elsewhere the grass and fern was dying back as winter approached. The sweeps of bracken with their many shades of russet, red and brown were turning dun and grey like the stony horizon. Only the bud-like flowers of the gorse bushes, standing read
y for the winter storm blasts, retained a little yellow here and there. Granite boulders, which looked as if they’d been dropped at random from a great height, stood out purposefully among the foliage.
The landscape made her feel vulnerable. Its very exposure to the elements seemed in some way to expose her hurt, and yet a strange feeling was stirring inside her, as if something living and able to maintain mastery of a constant struggle was calling to her. She knew it wasn’t a good thing to bury her feelings deep inside. Bring it to the air, expose it to this vibrant light and wide expanse of Nature, a voice inside seemed to be calling to her. The feeling of peace she found here filled her with a warmth, a feeling of belonging to it, as if it had seeped inside her and become a part of her. Two days ago she wouldn’t have believed this possible.
She walked on, watching her steps carefully, testing the ground in case it was saturated and boggy, keeping away from the marshy edge of one of the many streams that coursed the moor and watered the livestock. She kept looking behind her; if she kept the road in sight she wouldn’t get lost. She climbed a small hill and found herself looking down into a valley with another, higher hill on the other side. A few cattle were grazing, dotted about down in the valley, one or two on the lower hillsides.
The figure of a small man appeared on the opposite hill. He was too far away for Laura to see his face, to ascertain his age, but his build told her it wasn’t Jacka Davey. He stood and looked in her direction. Laura lifted her hand in a tentative wave. He responded after a moment and stayed where he was, apparently watching her.
‘Another friendly native,’ Laura said to the wind.
He turned away and disappeared from sight.
Laura called to him to wait but her words were lost on the wind. She wanted to talk to him, to ask him about life on the moor. Was it as lonely as Bill had said it was? So terribly difficult to make a living out of it? Bill had said it turned some people into loners. Had it done that to the small man? Did he have urgent work to do or did he have no desire to meet and speak to her? Laura was overwhelmed by a pressing need to know everything about the people who lived in and around Kilgarthen, not just to search into Bill’s soul, but to know them for themselves. Most of all she wanted to get to know little Vicki Jeffries. Meeting her had stirred her greatest desire – to have a child of her own.
Kilgarthen Page 6