Kilgarthen

by Kilgarthen (retail) (epub)

  ‘Of course I do, Dad,’ she said happily, her voice muffled against his shirt.

  Andrew felt quite jealous of Jacka, holding the girl he’d fallen in love with.

  He refused breakfast, explaining that Pat Penhaligon had made some porridge for him last night and he’d only had to heat it up. He was disappointed when Jacka gave instructions for the jobs. Tressa was to go to the fields and check on the stock while he would work with Andrew in the yard until it was time to go to church.

  * * *

  Andrew opened the lid of the well and hooked it back. The water halfway down in its depths lay opaque and still, dark as night, and somehow secretive, like Tressa’s eyes. He stared down, mesmerised. If he made a wish and threw a penny down there to break the round and glassy surface, would it come true? To gain Tressa’s affections, he had better make it half a crown – in fact all the loose change he could find in his pockets.

  ‘Can’t you figure out how to work the pump?’

  The question was asked tonelessly but he turned to meet what looked like disbelief on Tressa’s face. Andrew yanked his hands out of his pockets. ‘Pump? Oh, the well, you mean? Of course I do. I was just thinking.’

  He quickly lowered the pail. The winch creaked, the chain rattled, the noises seemed to echo in protest round the yard and he felt even more foolish. As if she didn’t think him capable of doing the job, Tressa stood and watched. He was glad Jacka had left for church after they had attended to the two snuffling pigs.

  ‘Have you finished your work, Tressa?’

  ‘I’ve come back for more hay.’

  ‘That must be hard work. When I’ve finished here I’ll help you.’ He was hoping for a more amiable walk over the moor with her.

  She disappointed him. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a sleigh to pull it on. Anyway, if you’ve only just started drawing water for the house and yard, at the rate you’re going, you’ll take all day.’

  He looked down in the well. He had stopped turning the handle and the pail was floundering on top of the water like an upturned boat, only a little water filling it. ‘Oh,’ he muttered, embarrassed. He let the pail down until its rim disappeared below the surface then winched up a full pailful as fast as he could. He hauled it up, lifted it over the edge of the granite side then put it down on the ground without slopping much water over the cobblestones.

  He looked at Tressa with a smile on his face, but she’d gone. In her place was Meg with her long pink tongue hanging out, waiting for a drink. Andrew shrugged resignedly. He poured most of the water carefully into a huge pitcher then carried the rest to Meg’s drinking bowl.

  While she greedily lapped it up, she allowed him to pat her scruffy back and fondle her ears. ‘Well, I’ve made some headway with you, Meg. Now all I’ve got to do is somehow get your mistress to like me.’

  Chapter 20

  On Christmas Eve Laura put a holly wreath on Bill’s grave. She stood in the ice-cold wind and drizzle and viewed his mound of rich moorland earth dispassionately. The earth was beginning to level out and in a few months the headstone she had ordered would be erected. ‘In Loving Memory’ – not Laura’s love but the villagers’ love. She wouldn’t destroy the myth they’d built up round Bill. There was no point, Bill’s dead fingers were losing their grip on her.

  She still wasn’t sure whether Bill had harboured a genuine affection for the people of Kilgarthen or had simply wanted to show off his good fortune in front of them; it probably lay somewhere between the two. One day, when she felt able, she would read his diaries and see what they revealed.

  Looking down at his grave she was glad now she’d had no children with Bill. She’d have hated having to lie to them about their father’s true character. Hopefully the memories of his cruelty would soon fade from her mind. She wasn’t concerned that his body lay just across the road from his home – her home, she thought of it now. Bill was in his place.

  A child’s voice drifted across to her from the other side of the stone wall. Then another. It was Benjy Miller and his brother and sisters on their way to the church for the children’s nativity service. Then she heard Vicki’s excited chatter as she met up with Benjy. With no more thoughts of the late, great Bill Jennings, Laura walked away.

  At the church door Laura was amazed to see Andrew heading towards her. His hat was pulled down tight and he was beating his arms to ward off the cold.

  ‘Andrew! Are you going into the church?’

  ‘Yes. Why ask me in that tone?’ he retorted defensively.

  ‘Oh, no reason… It must be the magic of Christmas, wonders will never cease.’

  ‘Well, I’m allowed to go in there, aren’t I?’ he bellowed, then realising this wasn’t the place to display ill humour, continued in a husky whisper, ‘The place won’t go up in a blaze of fire and brimstone, will it?’ His face was as red as cranberry sauce.

  ‘You tell me, Andrew,’ Laura said patiently, looking above the heads of the children and adults gathering for the service until she saw the person she was now expecting. ‘Ahhh.’

  ‘Ahhh what?’

  ‘It’s Tressa Davey. What a surprise. But then I do remember Roslyn Farrow telling me within your hearing that the children’s nativity service was a particular favourite of Tressa’s.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Andrew growled in a low voice.

  Jacka and Joan reached them, walking either side of Tressa. ‘Nice to see you here, boy,’ Jacka said heartily. ‘You’d better come in with us. We without young ’uns sit at the back.’

  Laura entered the church after them and made a beeline for Vicki and managed to get a seat next to Ince. He squeezed her hand furtively.

  Andrew had rarely held a hymn book since his school days and Tressa was forced to help him out of his fumblings to find the first carol. He used this to get attention from her for the next three carols. After the service, which he agreed was enchanting, he managed to engage Tressa in a half-decent conversation outside the church. He was going to extend an invitation to her, craftily, via Jacka, whom he was counting on would insist she go, to join him for a pre-Christmas drink in the pub. He nearly swore with fury when Daisy grabbed his arm and told him there was an urgent telephone call for him at the shop.

  * * *

  Andrew had bad news for Laura and he sought her out among those enjoying mulled wine in the pub. He drew her aside for a private talk.

  ‘John Walmseley, one of my partners, has just got in touch with me, Laura. The Morrisons have made a new demand. I’m afraid there won’t be enough money left over to pay them off in full.’

  ‘What sort of sum are we talking about?’ she asked fearfully. ‘Will I have to sell the cottage?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be enough.’ He rested a hand on her arm. ‘They’re asking for another five thousand pounds.’

  Laura felt her insides shrinking. Her world was falling apart again. Selling Little Cot would be bad enough but she’d have to leave Kilgarthen and Vicki behind and once more face an uncertain future. ‘What can I do, Andrew?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it now. John is going to look into it after Christmas and if there are any problems I’ll go back to London and sort it out myself. First we’ll make sure Bill actually owed the Morrisons that amount of money. Nothing pointed to that fact before, they might be trying to pull a fast one. I’m sorry to tell you now but I thought you had the right to know. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves, eh? Is Tressa here?’

  Andrew’s unshakable calm made the problem sound less serious than it had at first seemed. It was Christmas, a time for happiness, peace and goodwill. Laura filed the Morrison brothers and their demand into a little corner of her mind to be dealt with in the new year.

  ‘No,’ she said, answering Andrew’s question. ‘She went back to the farm to do the evening milking.’ Laura looked at him artfully. ‘I’m going to join Ince. He’s over there, with Jacka and Joan.’

  Andrew smiled contentedly. ‘That means Tressa’s all alone.’

  *
* *

  Barbara Roach was convinced this was going to be the worst Christmas of her life. Marianne was still suffering from the mystery virus and was continually bad tempered. A few minutes ago Barbara had asked her to help prepare the vegetables for Christmas dinner tomorrow and she had run out of the house in a flaming temper without stopping to put her coat on.

  Although worried about Marianne, Barbara was relieved to have the house to herself; Cecil had gone out somewhere in his car. As she stood at the sink peeling potatoes, tears fell silently down her face. She was dreading tonight. Since the school’s resounding success at the concert, Cecil had been in a jubilant mood and had wanted to be intimate every night. With each succeeding night he’d wanted to do it earlier in the evening and had started to demand that they do some disgusting things. Barbara had been repulsed by her husband for some years. Now his demands made her feel physically sick.

  Soon after the attic had been converted into a study for Cecil, Barbara had heard him making strange noises when he’d been up there alone. As he was a man who took much care with his appearance, she had assumed he’d been doing keep fit exercises, specially as he’d come down in a somewhat exhausted state. But now he was making those awful noises with her in the bedroom and he insisted that the bedroom light stay on and she had glimpsed his distorted face. She had a different idea of what he was doing up in his study now and she felt sick to her bowels; he made her feel used and dirty.

  The back door slammed and she nearly jumped out of her skin. With fear burning in the pit of her stomach, she waited for Cecil to come in to her and realise they were alone. Oh, why did he have to have a job that gave him such long holidays? Why couldn’t he spend more time on his other hobby, bee-keeping?

  After several moments he had not come in and she crept nervously to the door. There was no one there. Marianne must have left it open when she’d stormed out and it must have slammed shut. Barbara locked and bolted the door with trembling hands. She went back to the kitchen, sat down at the table and cried her heart out.

  * * *

  Marianne trudged through the village with her arms folded in front of her. She hated her mother at that moment. Hated her for not having the courage to stand up to her bullying father, hated her for being so nice. It was perfectly reasonable to ask for your daughter’s help with the long and tiring Christmas preparations, but Barbara’s pale and drawn face had infuriated Marianne and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from throwing another tantrum. Now she felt guilty for hurting her kind mother’s feelings. Damn you, Mother, if only you were stronger I could tell you.

  She heard the throaty roar of Harry Lean’s sports car racing up behind her. She turned round and flagged him down. He was forced to stop or he would have run her over.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ he snapped when he wound his window down.

  ‘Please, Harry, I need your help,’ she begged, leaning into the car. ‘I’ll do anything you ask if you’ll just do me a favour.’

  ‘If you’re offering me a roll in the hay again I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’m in terrible trouble, Harry. If you would just—’

  ‘I can guess what sort of trouble you’re in,’ Harry snarled, pushing her away from his car. ‘Get lost, Marianne. Sort it out yourself’

  It was the final straw. Harry Lean had been her last hope. She’d tried everything else on the advice gathered from one of her girl friends: thumping herself in the stomach, drinking two bottles of gin one after the other, sitting for ages over a potty of hot steaming water. They hadn’t worked and were probably quite dangerous. She couldn’t tell her mother she was pregnant and when her father found out he would throw her out, homeless and penniless. There was no way out.

  She started to run. As fast as her legs would carry her, she ran through the churchyard, scrambled over the wall ripping her nylons and scratching her hands and legs. She was on the moor and she started to run again. She slipped, feeling the coarse growth stinging her knees, but picked herself up and resumed her crazy flight. Her heart was thumping in her brain, she was out of breath, but she didn’t care.

  She’d just keep going. And going. She’d run and run and when she couldn’t run any more she’d fling herself down and stay there. Stay there all night and die on the moor.

  * * *

  Meg was getting used to Andrew and didn’t make much fuss when he entered Tregorlan’s yard on foot. She followed him about as he looked for Tressa. There was no sign of her in the shippen with the five milking cows. She wasn’t by the pigsty or in any of the outhouses. Andrew let himself into the house and Meg ran off. Tressa wasn’t in the kitchen. He opened the door on the other side of the room and was about to call her name when he heard her voice. She was in the other downstairs room, the sitting room. He opened the door slowly and silently and saw her kneeling at the foot of a holly Christmas tree where a few presents lay wrapped in plain brown paper. A soft light from the peat fire gave her brown hair a golden hue and Andrew thought her an angel.

  She was talking softly. He watched and listened and his heart went out to her. She was talking to her dead brothers.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been very much this year, money’s tight as usual. But I would have bought you a lovely warm scarf, Jimmy, and a whole new jar of Brylcreem for you, Matty. I’m hoping Dad and Aunty Joan have got me a nightie. Mine’s so worn out you can see through it now and it doesn’t keep me warm any more: Dad’s awful worried about money. He’s worrying me and Aunty Joan because he gets awful indigestion. He says things could be even worse next year but we’ve met this man from London. He’s a friend of Bill Jennings’ widow and he’s her solicitor. He talks posh but is very clever. He’s going to see if we can get something called grants and subsidies off the government.’

  Tressa started to talk about more personal family things and Andrew closed the door. It didn’t seem right to listen in on everything she was saying. He wished he could have got more clues to how she felt about him. He hadn’t realised that his voice must seem ‘posh’ to her. He hoped it wouldn’t spoil his chances with her. Dear, sweet, Tressa, he thought, talking like that as if her brothers could hear her; it must bring her comfort. He hoped that one day soon she would let him have a share in her private little world.

  He waited until the low drone of her voice had stopped then he opened the kitchen door, made lots of noise and called, ‘Hello! Tressa!’

  She opened the sitting room after a few moments and her face was dark with suspicion. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Andrew felt as young and foolish as he had on his first date. ‘I missed you leaving the pub and I wanted to give you something.’ To counteract her stern look he looked over her head. ‘What a pretty Christmas tree. Pat’s decorated a huge spray of holly in the pub. Is it a Cornish tradition?’

  Tressa turned to look at the holly bush and Andrew took the opportunity to move past her in the doorway. He wasn’t going to leave yet. He went up to the Christmas tree. The decorations were mainly made of twisted shapes of silver paper and wads of cotton wool. A battered tinsel star sat on the prickly top. ‘Your decorations are lovely.’

  ‘My brothers made most of them,’ Tressa said defensively, staying in the doorway.

  Andrew took a parcel wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper out of his coat pocket. This was an open declaration to Jacka of his intentions towards his daughter as much as a present for Tressa. ‘Shall I put this under the tree with the other presents?’

  ‘What is it?’ Tressa asked bluntly.

  ‘It’s just a little something for you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘No special reason. People usually give their friends presents at this time of the year.’ Andrew bent over, intending to put the present with the others.

  ‘Whatever it is, I can’t take it. I haven’t got anything for you.’

  ‘I don’t give presents in the hope of receiving something back, Tressa.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I won’t accept it
.’

  Andrew straightened up. He was terribly disappointed. He hadn’t thought it would be this difficult just to give the girl a small gift. She had very little in life but she wasn’t the least bit interested in what his gift to her was. In desperation, he tore the paper off it. ‘It’s only some toiletries, Tressa. It’s nothing special.’

  He held out the inner package to her. There was a naked silence. For an agonising moment he thought he was going to have to leave totally defeated. Then she took it from him and he had to disguise his relief with a rumbling cough.

  Tressa turned the package over and over. It contained a tin of talcum powder, four bath cubes and a bar of soap. She could see what the soap was but she had no idea what the rest was meant for. ‘What are these?’

  Andrew pointed to the bath cubes. ‘You put these in your bath to soften the water and make it smell nice. This is talcum powder. You sprinkle it on to help dry yourself.’

  She looked at him uncertainly. He lifted off the pretty cardboard lid and took out the tin of talcum powder. Turning the top, he sprinkled some powder on the back of her hand and wrist and rubbed it in. ‘Smell it,’ he said. ‘As you can see from the label, the fragrance is called jasmine. Jasmine is a tropical flower.’

  Tressa put her nose almost on her hand. ‘It’s lovely. But I can’t take it, it must have cost a lot of money.’

  ‘You might as well take it, Tressa,’ he begged. ‘I’ve got no use for it.’

  ‘You can give it to someone else.’ She looked down at his other hand. ‘I’d liked to have that though, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘The wrapping paper?’

  He handed it over to her and she gave him back the toiletries. She took off the tinsel rosette the shop assistant had put on the parcel and meticulously folded up the paper. Then after taking her time deciding what would be the best place, she carefully put the rosette on the holly bush.