Kilgarthen

by Kilgarthen (retail) (epub)

  She looked about twenty years old, ten years younger than he was, with a cascade of brownish hair tied back with a blue and white spotted scarf. She glared back at him from the darkest and liveliest of eyes. Although he seemed to tower over her, Andrew was at a disadvantage and he found he couldn’t stop staring at her. She pulled in her cheeks with an air of impatience, waiting for him to speak.

  He came to his senses, feeling a fool. ‘Hello. I’m hoping you can help me.’

  ‘Lost, are you?’

  There was a touch of accusation in her soft lilting voice. ‘Um, yes, I must have taken the wrong turning. I didn’t realise I had gone off the road. I was looking for the village of Kilgarthen.’

  ‘You should have taken the next left,’ she said and made a snaking movement with her hand. ‘The lane turns a bit but it would have taken you right into it.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ he laughed and was embarrassed at how stupid it sounded. ‘I’m afraid I fell over. Is there anywhere I could clean up before I go on to Kilgarthen?’

  ‘I’m on my way home for breakfast,’ she said, looking up unblinkingly at him from her great dark eyes.

  Andrew could see he was a nuisance to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said anxiously. His hand was hurting and the back of his coat was wet and muddy. ‘But I don’t want to go on in this condition.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest you did. You’ll have to come with me.’ She walked onwards and left him on the spot, striding confidently over the slippery, uneven ground.

  Andrew turned on his heel but had to yank his shoes out of the ground where they had stuck in the mud. The girl walked without a sound but each step he took made a loud sucking noise. He wouldn’t have been able to keep up with her if he hadn’t had long legs.

  ‘I’m very grateful to you. My name’s Andrew Macarthur. I’ve come down from London and I’m on my way to see Mrs Laura Jennings. Have you met her?’

  ‘No.’

  The girl didn’t look at him but straight ahead. Despite her outsize shapeless clothes and overlarge boots she moved quickly and gracefully. Andrew fell slightly behind her and studied her back. She obviously didn’t care about her appearance, her hair needed attention, having grown long into several lengths down her back.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he ventured, hoping she’d slow down so he could walk comfortably beside her.

  She kept her back to him and muttered, ‘Davey.’

  He would have said it was an unusual name for a girl but decided the remark wouldn’t be appreciated.

  After a few minutes’ walk they reached a small shabby-looking farmhouse standing in the middle of a muddy yard with a few ramshackle granite outhouses behind it and a high peat stack beside it. Andrew stumbled over the large irregular granite cobblestones. A large brown mongrel dog which had been sniffing around the well came bounding up to them and the girl patted its broad head. Andrew felt himself shrinking inside. The dog was filthy, as if it had rolled over in the farmyard muck, and he prayed it wouldn’t be curious about him. His hopes were in vain. The dog left the girl and before Andrew had time to get out of its way it reared up on its hind legs and put its huge front paws on his chest. Andrew had the dog’s face close to his, its wide mouth open, long pink tongue hanging out and panting. The dog smelled awful.

  Andrew looked helplessly at the girl but she stood and watched, her face expressionless. He tried pushing the dog away. ‘Get down!’

  The dog walked forward on its hind legs and pushed Andrew backwards. It was strong and Andrew had difficulty keeping his balance. He was about to demand that the girl call her animal off when she ordered quietly, ‘Get down, Meg.’

  Meg obeyed immediately and sat down beside her mistress. Andrew was furious, mainly because he was horribly embarrassed. He looked down in disgust at the muddy paw prints on his coat. When he looked up again, the girl had moved away and was taking off her boots round the side of the farmhouse.

  He marched up to her with as much dignity as he could muster. She stepped inside a door which had black paint flaking off it and he made to follow her.

  ‘Take they shoes off. We like to keep a clean kitchen floor.’

  ‘I… I’m sorry,’ he blustered, flushing crimson to the roots of his hair. He gulped and swallowed. The girl opened another door and closed it behind her, leaving him alone in what looked like a sort of shed. He shone the torch round his surroundings. There was a long work bench with a rusty vice attached to it and a row of clumsy-looking tools. Haphazard shelves were built into the walls and were hopelessly cluttered. Many household items, various shaped baskets, a brush and pan, dusters, boot polish and brushes vied for space with old shoes and boots. Farm tools, old pots of paint, a large tin of something called Jeyes Fluid, and a cobbler’s last were mixed up with lots of unidentifiable rusty bits and pieces. Vegetables and jars of pickled onions and jams had a space to themselves. Long bunches of small onions were strung up overhead. There was a musty smell.

  Andrew put his cases down and sitting on the doorstep he tried to untie his wet muddy laces. They were tight and unyielding and he had to tug with all his might. When that was accomplished he gingerly pulled off his shoes and was dismayed to see that his socks were soaked through up to his ankles. Mud was caked on the hems of his trousers. Glancing round the shelves, he saw a pile of rags and taking one he wiped off the worst of the mud, then cleaned his hands as best he could, grimacing at the pain from the hurt one. He shone the torch on it, expecting to see a gash, but there was only a little scratch. Retrieving his briefcase, he went up to the door the girl had passed through, tidied his short sandy hair with a hand, and taking a deep breath knocked once and turned the wobbly round handle.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ came a female voice and he found himself in a warm kitchen in the company of a middle-aged woman who shared some of the girl’s features.

  ‘Good morning,’ Andrew said, extending his hand. ‘I’m Andrew Macarthur. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. I’m afraid I turned off from the lane by mistake. I met your daughter, Davey, and she said I might be able to clean myself up a bit.’

  ‘Davey’s our surname,’ the woman said, shaking his hand. She was dressed in a well-worn wrap-around apron, her grey hair was curled over at the ends and secured with hairpins and covered with a black hairnet; she looked friendly but ill at ease. ‘And that was Tressa, my niece, you met. Come over to the sink, Mr Macarthur. I’ve put out a clean towel for you. Then you must have a cup of tea. Tressa’s gone to fetch her father, that’s my brother, Jacka. He owns the farm. I’m Joan Davey. I’ve lived here all my life.’

  The room was lit by two oil lamps but was dark and dreary and as cluttered as the other room. The windows were made of tiny thick panes and were hung with faded curtains. The floor consisted of cold flagstones, covered here and there with rush mats. None of the furniture matched and much of it looked as if it had been knocked together from scraps of wood. It smelled better than the other room, a pungent smoky odour came from the peat fire but was masked by the delicious smell of fried bacon.

  Andrew washed his hands at the wide cloam sink and dried them on a rough towel that looked little better than a rag. He replaced it on the hook beside the threadbare piece of cloth hanging from the draining board. He couldn’t do anything about the mud on his clothes, he’d have to wait for it to dry then brush it off.

  Joan shyly pointed to a chair at the table which was covered with a faded chequered oil cloth.

  Andrew sat down gratefully. A little rest and a hot drink would be very welcome before he went on his way. ‘It’s good to be out of the wet and cold.’

  ‘The fog will stay down all day,’ Joan said, making for the huge brown teapot sitting on a black wrought-iron range that looked to Andrew like something out of the ark. A little door was open and he could see a fire burning behind a grill. ‘We’re high up, here on the moor.’

  ‘I understand I’m not far from Kilgarthen,’ Andrew said, smiling for the first time that morning.

>   Joan dashed some creamy-looking milk into a tin mug, poured strong tea on top of it and placed it in front of him. ‘No, you’re not. Shame you came a cropper.’

  A door on the other side of the kitchen was opened and Tressa Davey came in. Andrew stood up.

  ‘Dad’s finished the milking,’ she said, ignoring Andrew and not looking at her aunt as she spoke.

  Andrew felt extremely uncomfortable. His display of manners had been lost on the girl. He knew his presence was embarrassing Joan and he wondered if her niece was being deliberately unpleasant to embarrass him.

  Tressa took off her coat and hung it up on a hook behind the door with some other outdoor clothing and aprons. She picked at the knot in the piece of string that was tied round her waist over a pair of baggy bib and brace overalls. Andrew kept his slanting blue eyes on her. She put the string in a pocket, pulled the straps of the overalls down and stepped out of them. Next she pulled off a holey thick grey jumper. As she took it off, she looked as if she had discarded over three stones in weight. She was left in an old flannel checked shirt and a pair of rough black trousers obviously cut down and stitched clumsily to her size and held up with an old faded tie.

  Andrew was amazed. What was left was a scrap of a girl. She was so tiny he reckoned he could put both his hands round her waist and still touch his fingertips. She was a woman yet a child. And she was pretty. He saw that now. She was very pretty and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face. Her complexion was clear and pale with slightly pink patches on her cheeks. Her nose was pert and, like her brow, mouth and jawline, perfectly shaped.

  She moved about silently, helping her aunt get things ready for breakfast. She passed Joan a pudding bowl. She lifted the oil cloth at one end of the table, pulled out a drawer and took out a handful of knives and forks, none of which matched. She laid four places, putting the last one in front of Andrew. She put a battered square tin tray in the middle of the table then put a large white jug of milk and three assorted mugs on it. She went to the crooked homemade dresser and taking salt and pepper pots off a shelf put them next to the tray. She didn’t look at Andrew once. He watched her, absentmindedly drinking his tea, not noticing it was bitterly strong.

  Jacka Davey came into the kitchen and put his floppy hat on the dresser. Andrew stood up and the two men shook hands. The hugely built farmer wore equally shabby clothes and looked as ill at ease as his sister did and Andrew guessed the family weren’t used to unexpected visitors, or strangers in distress, suddenly turning up. Not that Tressa seemed to care one jot about his arrival.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, slicing a long homemade loaf. ‘This is that Mr Carthur I was telling you about.’

  ‘It’s Macarthur actually,’ he corrected her then looked at her father. ‘Andrew Macarthur. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Davey, although I must apologise for the inconvenience I’m causing. I’m on my way to Kilgarthen to see Mrs Laura Jennings.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Jacka said amiably, then he looked down shyly. ‘I’ll walk with ’ee down the lane and make sure you’re facing the right direction for the village, but would ’ee care t’share a bit of breakfast with us first? The food’s cooked ’n’ ready. Now, you will join us, won’t you? There’s plenty t’go round. You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Well, I… thank you very much. The bacon smells delicious and I haven’t eaten for hours. I travelled down from London through the night.’

  ‘’Tis nearly seven-thirty. Folk will only just be getting up in the village. Sit down where you were,’ Jacka said.

  Andrew obeyed. Tressa actually looked at him, pausing in buttering the bread. He smiled but her expression didn’t alter and she carried on with her task. She walked round him and sat down at the table.

  Joan lifted two plates out of the oven and put them on the table. She next took an enamelled dish out of the oven and served out thinly cut rashers of bacon and fried eggs. Jacka was handed a plate piled high with food. He took three slices of bread and put them on the table beside his meal. A plate with two rashers of bacon and one egg was placed in front of Andrew.

  ‘Help yourself to bread, Mr Macarthur,’ Joan said pleasantly. She dished out a bowl of porridge from a saucepan on the range and handed it to Tressa then did the same for herself.

  Joan put the teapot on the table and Tressa poured tea into the three mugs on the tray. She put the largest mug beside her father’s plate.

  ‘Thank you, my handsome,’ he said, patting her arm fondly.

  She smiled widely at Jacka and her small face shone like a beacon in the bleak surroundings.

  Andrew was captivated and was staring at her when she turned to him. ‘Do you want some bread?’ she asked tonelessly.

  ‘What? Um… yes, please.’

  She pushed the plate of bread closer to him and he took a slice. ‘Homemade bread,’ he said. ‘Delicious.’ It sounded superfluous.

  ‘So you’re on your way to see Mrs Jennings then?’ Jacka asked, after washing down a mouthful of food with a gulp of tea.

  ‘Yes, I’m her solicitor and also her friend. As she’s decided to live here for the time being she asked me to send down some of her things. I had some papers for her to sign so I thought I’d bring them myself. I’ve left them for collection at the railway station.’ Andrew wouldn’t normally have given away so much information but Tressa’s coolness was unsettling him.

  A solicitor, eh?’ Joan said. ‘You must be some clever.’

  ‘I met Mrs Jennings in the pub the other night,’ Jacka said. He was feeling more at ease now and his natural chatty nature was breaking through. ‘She was with her late husband’s aunty. ’Twas terrible, her losing her husband like that so young. A terrible waste. I lost my two sons in the war and now there’s only Tressa left. Tressa means third in Cornish and she was my third child. The Daveys always had sons to carry on the farm, now there’s no one left to carry on the name. Mind you, Tressa’s a good little worker. She’d work the fields and look after the cattle as good as any man. I’m lucky to have she.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Andrew replied, gazing at Tressa’s profile. She had finished eating and was looking over the rim of her mug, staring into space.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that Mrs Jennings is getting out and about in the village,’ Andrew said, adding pointedly, ‘Tressa told me she hasn’t met her yet.’ He thought the use of her Christian name would stir her to look at him. He wanted to meet her beautiful eyes and see an interest in him reflected back. She got up and put more hot water in the teapot.

  ‘You want some more?’ she asked, standing close to him.

  She smelled clean and fresh, of the raw tangy odour of the moor. ‘Yes, please,’ he answered. He didn’t move his mug within easy reach of her and she had to lean across him. Her hair touched his face and he had an overwhelming desire to touch it. He put his hands between his knees until she’d moved away. No one offered so he helped himself to milk.

  ‘Thank you very much for the meal,’ he said to all three Daveys. ‘It was delicious.’

  ‘Bacon came from our own pig, milk from our cows,’ Jacka said, digging between his teeth with a dirty fingernail.

  ‘Do you farm mainly in cattle, Mr Davey?’

  ‘Aye. Been Daveys cattle farming here for generations. There’s sheep farming round here too.’

  ‘I’m down here for a couple of days. I’d be interested to look over one of the local farms,’ Andrew said, eyeing Tressa for her reaction. She was at her father’s side, refilling his mug.

  ‘Come up here then,’ Jacka said, putting his thickly muscled arm affectionately round Tressa’s tiny waist. ‘If you’re an outdoors man, spend some time with me and the maid. You won’t be welcome on Rosemerryn Farm. He that owns it don’t welcome strangers.’

  ‘Really?’ Andrew replied, his eyes boring into the side of Tressa’s face. ‘I might take you up on that, Mr Davey.’

  As Joan cleared the table and carried the dishes to the draining board, Jacka lit his pipe an
d took the cigarette Andrew offered him. ‘I’ll save un fur later, thank ’ee. The women don’t smoke.’

  Tressa had disappeared outside with a few leftover scraps and came back empty-handed; presumably she had fed them to Meg. She began dressing in her outdoor clothes again. Andrew watched her. Joan gave her an old army khaki bag.

  ‘I’ll go ahead with the crib, Dad. You can catch me up later.’

  ‘All right, me handsome. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Tressa,’ Andrew said loudly. He was determined to provoke a response from her.

  She looked at him for the briefest moment, cool and detached. She nodded, then was gone.

  Andrew looked down at his stockinged feet with a feeling akin to dismay. He was considered good-looking in his own circle. Women were usually attracted to him, he was never short of dates. Tressa Davey had seemed almost oblivious to his existence.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Andrew!’

  Laura rushed down the stairs of Little Cot, out of the front door and straight into Andrew’s arms. ‘What are you doing here? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked out of my bedroom window and saw you walking down the hill. It’s wonderful to see you.’

  Andrew kissed both of her cheeks tenderly and studied her face. ‘You look well, Laura. I must say I was really surprised at you staying on here. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? You could always stay at my flat or with some of your friends.’

  Laura wriggled out of his arms. ‘What on earth has happened to you? You’re covered from head to foot in mud.’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ve just met this extraordinary girl.’

  ‘A girl? Where? What happened? Come inside and tell me over breakfast. I’ve just got up. It’s a good thing I’m dressed or we’d have the neighbours talking.’