‘I was only thinking of a few sweets or something,’ she replied curtly. ‘But if you think—’
‘That’ll be fine,’ he interrupted. ‘Tomorrow at four then.’ He walked towards the door. ‘I must be getting back.’
Laura moved out of his way. Neither of them offered the courtesy of saying goodnight. When she heard the outer doors of the pub bang as he left the building she wished she didn’t have to go back to the bar and face the curiosity of the others. She had lost interest in meeting Tressa Davey. Andrew would probably rail against her going to Rosemerryn Farm the next day. For all this she blamed Bill; what was happening was the consequence of something he had done. Would she ever stop hating him?
Chapter 14
Cecil Roach was sitting in his ten-year-old Morris Eight, the pride of his life, which he had driven carefully along the lanes to keep as much moorland mud and debris off it as possible. He had arrived ten minutes ago at a designated quiet spot where he had arranged to meet someone. Here, in the shelter of Bostonodan Wood, he was reasonably sure that no one from the village would come across him. Except for the front windscreen of the car, the windows were steamed up. He didn’t wipe them dry.
Cecil drummed his fingers, clad in new leather driving gloves, impatiently on the steering wheel. He was taking a rehearsal of the school choir in half an hour and had a lot of paperwork to get through this morning. If the person he was meeting was late he would have little or no time to peruse the merchandise he was going to buy. He took off his gloves and ran his hot sticky hands down his trousers in anticipation. He undid his coat buttons and loosened his tie. This was not only because he was beginning to feel hot but to look the part if he was seen by someone he knew. He would say he’d been feeling under a lot of pressure lately and had taken a drive to calm himself, and that he had been forced to stop after becoming breathless. The sweat that broke out on his neck and forehead was real, but for a different reason.
Five minutes passed and a fish delivery van pulled up and stopped in front of Cecil’s car. A young man in white overalls and pulled-down cap got out and walked to the Morris Eight. He had a brown paper package in his hand. Cecil wound down his window. The fishman looked all around then passed him the package. Cecil gave him a five-pound note.
‘Same time next month?’ Cecil asked urgently, keeping his head down. His breathing was getting heavier.
‘See you then, sir,’ the fishman said, eyeing Cecil slyly. Then he got back into his van and drove off.
Cecil untied the string round the package and opened it with trembling hands. He pushed the paper aside and found a bundle of magazines. Before he feasted his eyes on their contents, he stuck his head out of the window and looked behind to make sure no one was about. He could see no one, man or beast, and he could hear no vehicles approaching. He wound up the window.
The cover picture of the first magazine showed a voluptuously built blonde bending forward in scanty underwear. She was revealing a lot of flesh but not enough for Cecil. He turned to the inside pages. As the pictures progressed, the woman discarded the top and then the bottom of her underwear, striking many different poses. There were three magazines in the package and Cecil rummaged between them and came up with a set of ten foreign postcards. They all depicted a different woman, some no more than girls, in various poses and states of undress. An uncontrollable feeling swept through Cecil’s loins and his hand, hidden under the brown paper, went down to his trousers.
There was a knock on the car window. Cecil almost leapt out of his skin and he hastily wrapped the brown paper round his illegal merchandise. His heart was thumping unbearably. He prayed it wasn’t the local policeman out cycling on his rounds. Thrusting the package on the floor at his feet, he wound down the window with a trembling hand.
A man he had seen recently about Kilgarthen lowered his hunter-hatted head and looked in at Cecil. ‘Good morning to you. I hope I am not intruding, but is everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cecil gasped out, running a sweaty hand through his sparse hair. ‘I… I’m just t-taking a breather, that’s all.’
‘Haven’t I seen you in Kilgarthen?’ the stranger went on, his sharp pale eyes searching Cecil’s stricken face. ‘My name’s Sam Beatty. I’m presently staying at the Tremewan Arms, convalescing from an operation.’ He stuck his hand in the car and Cecil had no option but to shake it.
He forced a smile. ‘P-pleased to meet you, Mr Beatty. I’m Mr Roach, headmaster of the school.’ Cecil racked his brains for something credible to say. There was something persistent and interfering about this man. If he said he was ill, Sam Beatty might insist on getting a doctor for him. ‘The village C-Christmas concert is coming up and, and I’m eager the school should perform well in it.’ If only his heart would stop pounding. It was making lucid speech very difficult. ‘I s-sometimes take a little drive somewhere alone, to think about what the choir is singing and if I have the best possible lines for our sketch.’
‘I see. That’s a good idea,’ Sam Beatty said, flicking his eyes round the inside of the car. ‘It’s a fairly mild morning and the surroundings anywhere on the moor are good for thinking things over, aren’t they? I managed to get a lift out here from the greengrocer delivering to the village shop. I was dropped off a few yards up the lane. I’m going to take a gentle walk back to the pub.’
‘I hope you are recovering well, Mr Beatty,’ Cecil said, trying to sound sincere. He was desperately wishing the man away from him. ‘I’m sure the air is doing you good.’
‘I’m feeling better every day, thank you, Mr Roach. Well, must get on, leave you to your,’ he paused for an instant, ‘thinking. Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ Cecil mumbled, winding up the window the moment Sam Beatty took his nose out of it.
Cecil watched Sam Beatty walk away in his wing mirror. When he was out of sight, he gathered up his package. He looked at some of the pictures again. It was no good. The wonderful intense feelings he could not get from the occasional lovemaking he performed on Barbara had abated in the sheer terror Sam Beatty had made him feel. It would take ages to work them up again. He made a mental note not to look at his merchandise here in future but to force himself to wait until he was safely in the little study he’d had converted in the attic of School House.
He retied the string around the package and started up the engine of the car. He couldn’t bring himself to turn round and drive past Sam Beatty. It would mean a long detour round the lanes to get back to Kilgarthen. Damn and blast! And woe betide those miserable children if they didn’t sing like songbirds when he got back!
* * *
‘You can’t really be serious about going to tea with that mean-mouthed farmer,’ Andrew stated angrily, giving Laura a disparaging look then throwing his suitcase heavily into the boot of the Penhaligons’ Hillman Minx. After the threat he’d received from Spencer Jeffries and the encounter he’d had with Harry Lean last night he was feeling more than disgruntled with the men of Kilgarthen. ‘Are you a glutton for punishment or something? I thought you would have had enough of that kind of loutish behaviour from Bill.’
Laura squirmed in her shoes. She glanced hastily around the pub car park; these days she half expected Ada Prisk to be listening in or observing everything she did. ‘I’ve explained over and over to you that I’m doing it for his little girl, Andrew. I behaved badly too and upset her.’
‘You could put that right without going to the farm,’ Andrew protested stubbornly, opening the door of the passenger seat. His face was pale, set like granite and drawn from a sleepless night.
Laura put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Tressa Davey must be a remarkable young woman. I’ve never known anyone have this effect on you before. I shall make a point of meeting her.’
‘You won’t if she sees you coming first,’ Andrew muttered ruefully. ‘She’s not at all sociable. If you do speak to her, though, tell her I’m not a bad sort. The main thing about Tressa is that she doesn’t see me or any
other man as a possible romantic partner. We don’t exist for her in that way.’ A look of pain passed over his face. ‘Oh well, never mind,’ he gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘I’ll probably never see her again.’
As Mike came towards the car, Andrew pressed a hand on Laura’s shoulder. ‘I don’t like leaving you here, Laura.’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s what I want.’ She smiled as convincingly as she could. ‘You will take care of yourself?’
‘Never mind me, just you be sure to take care of yourself. You’ll be feeling vulnerable for a very long time.’
‘I know but I’m not alone here,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘I have Aunty Daisy and Bunty, and Johnny Prouse to help look after to keep me busy, and Ince.’
* * *
Just after lunch Laura tapped on Johnny Prouse’s little cottage door and walked in just as Daisy had told her to do. She stopped on the long-faded hall rug and paused for a few moments to study the array of old photographs on the white-painted walls. Each one was labelled with a name, date of birth and date of death. From the names and dates, Laura reckoned that all of Johnny’s relatives were probably dead. There was a magnificent photograph of Johnny as a straight-backed young man with a humourous smile playing round the corners of his mouth, his dark eyes twinkling merrily, the hat on his head displaying the name of his ship, the Sir Harry.
Lifting the latch of the nearest door, she gingerly put her head round it and found Johnny in his front room. He was sleeping in a winged armchair, covered up to the neck in a coarse grey blanket, his slippered feet peeping out the other end on a square tapestry-covered stool. He was snoring lightly, the soft puttering lifting the wisp of white hair that had strayed from the striped woolly hat he wore. He had sustained cracked ribs and cuts in the accident and black and blue bruises shadowed his eyes and the tip of his chin
‘Johnny,’ Laura whispered. ‘Johnny.’ If he stayed asleep she intended to call back a little later.
The old man murmured and smacked his thin ragged lips, Laura started to retreat and close the door but at the last moment Johnny lifted one eyelid and rumbling like a traction engine woke up. ‘Eh? What? Who’s there?’
Afraid she had frightened him, Laura spoke up quickly. ‘It’s me, Johnny, Laura Jennings. I’m sorry I woke you. Shall I come back another time?’
After a short struggle, he managed to sit up straight. He pushed the blanket down to his waist and rubbed the drowsiness from his bleary eyes. ‘No, don’t go away. Come on in, m’dear. ’Tis nice of you to come and see me. ’Tis a bit boring all this resting I have to do but the doctors insist. I keep falling off to sleep when I’ve got no one to talk to.’
Laura closed the door and sat down on a piano stool which was the closest seat to Johnny. ‘I’m very sorry about Admiral, Johnny. He was a sweet little dog.’
‘Aye,’ Johnny said softly, immediately becoming misty-eyed. ‘He was getting on a bit. Wouldn’t have had him for many more years but he didn’t deserve to go that way. All the time I had him I’d never known him to run off like that before. Good job it was quick ’n’ over with. He wouldn’t have felt a thing. Someone buried him in my back garden so he’s close by.’ Johnny took off his woolly hat. ‘That’s better. Ridiculous thing. Daisy made me wear this. Anyone would think I was a littl’un.’
He grinned boyishly but Laura had detected a wobble in his voice. ‘Is everything all right, Johnny? You’re not worrying about anything?’
‘To be honest I’m worried about that lorry driver. He could sue me for damages and I’ve got no money to pay for that sort of thing.’
Laura took his brown speckled hand. ‘I’m sure he won’t do that. It was an accident and he would have had insurance for just such a happening.’
‘Well, he did send me a friendly letter.’ Johnny cheered up a little. He pointed to the top of the piano. ‘’Tis up there. He’s got a broken ankle and banged his head. He came out of hospital the same day as me.’
Laura glanced round the room. The furniture was made of good solid wood and had been given the benefit of Daisy’s duster. A huge chest with carvings of sea scenes on every side stood under the window. There was a battered companion set by the hearth and a wireless on a shelf. A small table covered with a gold-coloured crushed-velvet cloth was loaded with vases of flowers. While he’d been in hospital Daisy, Bunty and Roslyn Farrow had decorated the room for Christmas to cheer Johnny up. ‘You’ve had a lot of cards, Johnny, and so many bunches of flowers too. You must have a lot of friends.’
‘I have. Things are gradually getting back to normal here since the war. We lost four young men, a man in his forties and a maid in the WAAF altogether. But I’ve still got some good neighbours, m’dear. You’re my newest one and here you are.’
Laura stood up and took off her coat. ‘I haven’t come just to talk. I want to pitch in with the others and help. I think that fire could do with some more logs, then I’m sure you’d like a nice cup of tea.’
‘Rather have a drop of rum.’ Johnny winked and looked like an impish boy.
Laura smiled then gave him a mock no-nonsense look. ‘It’s tea or nothing. You’ll have the district nurse after me.’
‘Ahhh,’ Johnny laughed cheekily. ‘A drop of rum would have set me up proper. How’re you settling into Little Cot then?’
‘Everything’s going very well, thank you.’ She paused with a log in her hand. Johnny enjoyed a chat and it was good for him not to dwell on the accident. This was the perfect time to ask about Bill. ‘I suppose you miss Bill.’
Johnny nodded his head mournfully. ‘’Tis been awful, two deaths in such a short time. We have something in common, m’dear, both being bereaved.’
‘I feel closer living in the place where Bill was born and grew up.’ Laura told a lie then the truth: ‘He used to talk a lot about his childhood. He talked about you sometimes, Johnny.’
‘Did he?’ Johnny looked pleased. ‘Did he tell you about the time I threatened to smack his backside for scrumping apples off my tree? I would have done it too but he was too fast for me. Could be a right little so and so at times. I can hear his mother now shouting at un t’come in and stop making mischief?
‘Was he very mischievous then?’
‘More than most boys of his age, I reckon, but he was clever, and bright. He had a bit of a temper on un and was very rebellious as a youth. I always thought the village wasn’t big enough for un. ’Twas no wonder to me when he left to make something of himself. Needed a challenge, I suppose.’
Laura had attended to the fire and she lingered to talk before making for the kitchen. ‘I never knew his parents. What were they like?’
‘Ron and Faith Jennings? Quiet mostly, hard working. Nice couple, I liked ’em.’
‘It’s just struck me that they only had the one child – Bill.’ Laura made her voice sound extra thoughtful. ‘I wonder if they wanted any more.’
‘Couldn’t say about that. Wouldn’t know nothing about their private life. P’raps they found Bill handful enough, eh?’ Johnny chuckled.
‘Yes, perhaps.’ So Johnny didn’t know of the rumours about Bill being William Lean’s son, or he didn’t choose to mention them. ‘Bill’s cottage was once owned by the Leans. I’m told Felicity is a good woman but I don’t care for her son.’ Andrew had told her about Harry’s sexual overtures to Tressa Davey and Laura was outraged. ‘The village hasn’t really got a big house now, I understand, with Felicity’s husband long dead and Harry selling their property.’
‘Oh, William Lean was selling off their property long before he died. He weren’t a pleasant character, I can tell ’ee. Think yourself lucky that if you don’t like Harry you won’t have to meet his father. He never passed a civil word to no one that man. Was nothing but a stuck-up snob, if I should say the words,’ Johnny ended indignantly.
‘Bill said he was a tyrant.’
‘He wouldn’t have Harry or his late daughter mixing with the village children. William Lean used t’ride his horse thr
ough the village with his head up in the air. Bill, being a bit of a young devil, used to shout cheeky things at un. Well, one day Lean took a real exception t’something he said and he got off his horse and strammed Bill’s legs with his riding crop. Bill’s father was home that day and there was a terrible row. Ron shouted at him that he had no right to behave like he was lord of the manor. Now, m’dear, where’s that cup of tea? My mouth is parched from all this talking. A bit later on, if you like, you can walk me to the doctor’s surgery.’
Laura was distracted for a moment, chewing over what Johnny had told her. She hadn’t learned much. Then she looked at the old man. ‘What did you say? Walk you to the doctor’s surgery? You’re much too weak to go anywhere yet.’
* * *
The nearest doctor’s surgery was stationed in Launceston but one of the three doctors in the practice held a surgery for Kilgarthen’s residents at Bunty Buzza’s house on Wednesday afternoons, between two and four o’clock. After providing hot water and towels for the doctor in her sitting room, Bunty would hand over her spotless kitchen for use as a waiting room, then she would disappear discreetly upstairs until the doctor called up to her that all his patients had gone and she could come down and make them both a cup of tea.
Three people arrived at the surgery at two o’clock on the dot. Joy Miller had come about her cold and had brought Benjy with her. The other patient was Marianne Roach.
Joy Miller mopped her streaming red nose. She looked anxiously at Benjy who was looking longingly at a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. ‘You can’t have any, Benjy,’ she sniffed noisily. ‘They belonged to Miss Buzza.’
‘I’m only looking, Mum,’ he replied shyly. He was feeling shy because Marianne Roach was staring at him fiercely. He went to his mother and held on to her hand.
Marianne noticed Joy looking at her. She coughed and put on a hoarse voice. ‘These colds are a killer, aren’t they? I don’t suppose the doctor can do anything but you feel you ought to come along and see him.’
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