‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Trease had something in his hand and he held it out. ‘These are the accounts of money spent on the house and gardens, sir, for the months January to March. Mr Robert Drayton said he wanted them on his desk first thing this morning. Shall I take them over to Truro before I begin work here?’
‘No, I’ll have them sent over. One of the Jenkins is going to Truro this morning, he can do it.’ Alex took the accounts book and glanced through it. He saw the two sets of handwriting and guessed whose they were.
‘Can I say something, sir?’ Trease asked, twisting his cap round in tight fingers.
‘If it’s brief.’
‘I just want to say that I’m glad the house ’as an owner at last, someone of the Captain’s blood.’
Alex merely nodded. ‘I suggest you make a start on clearing this bench and cleaning the memorial plaque.’ He walked away, then stopped. ‘Allen, I’m not against a man taking a drink, or even occasionally getting drunk, but I’m one hundred per cent against a man letting it get to him to the extent he damages beautiful property and leaves a young woman to shoulder his responsibilities.’
‘Yes, Major,’ Trease said contritely. He walked briskly towards the garden shed. He had work with a purpose now and lifted his shoulders as he carried tools back to the garden bench.
Alex wandered down to the creek and gazed at the boats which would soon be left stranded by the tide. Seaweed clung to their ropes at the point below the water level; the boats themselves were all in good repair. An old tyre from one of Miles’s cars lay against the bank, put there for the children to play with, to sit on or use as a float. Further out where the creek flowed into the Fal he saw two mute swans and watched them until they glided out of sight. He strolled across the little beach of mud and shale, looked over Rebecca’s boat, painted white with a blue strip round the top, not knowing it was hers, then looked further along the shore knowing that hidden from view was the boathouse where Miles had kept his boats. Alex went to it and there on the bench he found Jossy and Jenny Jenkins.
Alex took off his hat. Despite his stiff old limbs, Jossy jumped to attention. He lifted his battered flat cap but kept his pipe clenched between ivory-coloured teeth, his lips pulled back in his permanent smile. Alex introduced himself and bid Jossy sit down again. He found a pipe in his trousers pocket. He didn’t light it very often and had no tobacco with him but Jossy was proud to pass him his tin. Alex sat on an upturned oil tub and listened attentively as Jossy told him of his life in the creek and the boats he looked after for Captain Trevallion.
‘Was me who taught un how to sail, sir. He kept many a different boat in here. His favourite and mine was the Lady Harriet, although the Iseult is a fine motor cruiser. They’m both in the boathouse now. Captain Miles always sailed in the regattas. You’ll have to come along to one, Major. My sons enter their working boat every year. That’s their boat there.’ Jossy pointed. ‘’Tis a gaff-rigged oyster-dredger, ’tis moored up for now because the dredging season don’t start till October. They usually do very well racing un. Captain Miles used to sail the Lady Harriet against Pat Vincent. He’s a St Mawes fisherman. They used to win turn and turn about. No one’s been able to beat Pat since Captain Miles went to war. You should see the Captain’s rowing gig, Major, ’tis a beauty.’ Jossy eyed his new master keenly. ‘Can’t get around as much as I used to but I can still sail any sort of boat you care t’name.’
‘We’ll go out together soon, Jossy,’ Alex promised. ‘I want to sail the length and breadth of the river that Captain Trevallion loved so dearly.’
Jossy was delighted. ‘Really, sir! I’ll look forward to that.’ Alex turned to Jenny Jenkins who had been listening with a cheery smile on her plump face. ‘So you’ve lived all your life in the creek, Mrs Jenkins?’
‘Aye, was a Grubb before I married. Mainly Grubbs and Jenkinses in the creek. I hope and trust you’ll like it down here, Major. We’m simple folk and we care for our own, don’t we, Jossy?’ As Jossy agreed, she looked Alex over critically. ‘A bit of good river air, some peace and quiet will do ’ee good. Put a bit of colour in ’ee, build ’ee up a bit.’
Alex grinned fleetingly. ‘I hope so, Mrs Jenkins. Have you lived comfortably over the last few years?’
‘Can’t grumble. We’m practically self-sufficient, sir. Grow our own vegetables, trade for our meat on the farms. We country folk always have something to put on the table. We don’t want for nothing nor hanker after anything.’ She put a hand round to her back and made a face. ‘Just have a bit of arthritis here and there. I’ve got this back today.’ Mrs Jenkins always had a pain somewhere and this was how she referred to them, but it wasn’t a grumble. She was a bright, hospitable soul who had a good word for everybody.
The old couple’s friendliness warmed Alex’s heart. He had not wanted to find the estate tenants subservient and suspicious of him, or distant and resentful because he came from ‘upcountry’.
‘Pity Captain Miles’s boatbuilding had to be sold off,’ Jossy said wistfully. ‘It didn’t even get the chance to get under way with the war happening. The Captain had such plans. We was going t’build some grand boats together.’
‘What there was of it was sold to keep the estate going,’ Alex explained. ‘A pity though… Have the men got much work round here?’
‘With so many being unemployed round the country, you mean?’ Jossy removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘There’s some on the look-out, sir. They can get casual work on the farms during harvesting and suchlike but it’s not the same as having something permanent. The only thing that’s really looked up since the war is the oysterdredging. With so many of our boys away fighting, the oyster beds had a long rest and their numbers built up.’
‘I see. I might be able to help out one man looking for work. I want the big house put back to good working order and I need a new caretaker. Could you suggest someone who’d suit the job?’
‘Aye, we could,’ Jenny answered, looking at her husband for confirmation. ‘Percy Gummoe. He’s a nice young man who lives in the creek with his wife and they’ve had plenty of bad luck over the last couple of years. The job would be a Godsend to them. Percy’ll do right by you, Major, won’t he, Jossy?’
‘You have our word on that, Major,’ Jossy agreed.
Their enthusiasm made him smile. ‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to send him up to the gatehouse later in the day.’
‘Be delighted to,’ Jossy said, nodding his head. It would be good to go round Kennick Creek and tell their family and neighbours that the Major was having the big house ‘done up’. It was a hopeful sign. Jossy mentioned some other local things he thought might interest the gaunt-faced young man. ‘You a sporting man, Major? There’s plenty of water sports throughout the year and there’s a golf course and tennis courts in Truro. Me and my boys follow the football. My grandson Royston plays goalkeeper for Truro,’ he ended proudly.
‘I’ll stick to the things that concern the estate for the time being,’ Alex replied, gazing about him. He stayed another fifteen minutes chatting to the couple and was reluctant to leave them. When he did finally leave he felt optimistic that most of the other folk he would call on in the creek over the next few days would be just as amiable.
* * *
Stephen Fiennes found his way down to the creek soon after his uncle had left it. He explored the surroundings of Allen Cottage for a while and made up a game of pirates and smugglers in his head. He stood on the large white-painted rock he’d marked to hide his treasure under, unaware it had been put there on the bank so Trease and Rebecca could see where to moor their boats in the dark. There was still a little water lapping around Rebecca’s boat, which he decided would make an excellent Spanish galleon. He climbed into it and played out his role as an English buccaneer stealing a Spanish ship’s treasure.
Tamsyn was watching him from the bank with her big mongrel dog, Motley, given to her by Joe and so called after Joe had said the scrap of a puppy was ‘the motliest
little creature he’d ever seen’.
‘You’d better get out of there if you don’t want to get wet. The tide’s coming in fast,’ she called to Stephen to tease him.
Stephen whirled round, making the boat rock in the few inches of water. ‘Go away! I don’t want you here!’
‘I aren’t doing you no harm,’ Tamsyn returned, stubbornly folding her arms. ‘I’m warning you, the tide’s coming in.’
‘I know it is,’ Stephen said crossly. ‘I don’t need a stupid girl to tell me something that’s obvious.’
He clambered out of the boat and his boots squelched as he waded through water and mud to get to the dry part of the shore. He stepped into deep mud and promptly got stuck. He grunted and groaned as he tried to free himself Tamsyn came down off the grassy bank and stood on a firm stony piece of shore and laughed at him.
‘Don’t just stand there! Help me!’
‘You’ll be drowned in a minute,’ Tamsyn called out.
‘Shut up! Do something!’ Stephen’s face went dark with rage. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank and he began to panic. ‘Help me!’
‘All you have to do is put both hands on top of your boot and pull it out of the mud,’ said Tamsyn calmly. ‘Take a big step then do the same with the other foot.’
Tamsyn laughed again as Stephen followed her orders. When he was finally free of the sucking dark mud, seething with indignation, he ran up to Tamsyn and pushed her over. She fell with a thump on her bottom and cried out in surprise. Motley, who had been sniffing about the shore, barked at Stephen and rushed at him. The multi-coloured dog, with its broad body, narrow face, sharp nose and big teeth, looked quite frightening.
‘Call that brute off or I’ll get my uncle to shoot him!’
‘You dare hurt Motley,’ Tamsyn shouted back, scrambling to her feet. ‘I’ll tell him to bite your leg off.’
Motley danced about and barked, not sure whether this was a child’s noisy game or if his young mistress was being threatened.
‘Motley! Is that its name? It’s a stupid name for a stupid, stupid dog!’
‘There’s no need to be so horrid. There’s no other children our age in the creek so we might as well be friends. Come on, I’ll show you my hideout.’
Tamsyn was too young to be aware of the mounting anger growing inside Stephen’s head. She made to skip away, sure that he would follow her, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her back to face him. Holding her tightly, he shook her violently.
‘Stupid, stupid girl! I’m the son of a gentleman, an officer of the Royal Flying Corps, and I don’t play with stupid common little girls!’ He pushed her away violently and this time Tamsyn was hurt.
Motley was making a loud din as Stephen surveyed the sobbing girl coldly. Suddenly a harsh voice broke through the noise and the dog was ordered to be quiet. Joe Carlyon marched up to Stephen Fiennes, his face furious and as hard as granite. He took Stephen roughly by the shoulder and boxed the boy’s ear.
‘You little brute!’ Joe said furiously, picking Tamsyn up in his arms.
‘How dare you touch me,’ Stephen said icily through his teeth, fighting to hold back tears. ‘My uncle will dismiss you for this. He’ll have the police on you. I’ll make you pay!’
‘Major Fiennes isn’t far away. Just round by the boathouse if you want him, Master Stephen,’ Joe said coldly, cuddling Tamsyn in his big arms. ‘I’m sure he’ll be very interested in the reason why I clipped your ear. Hurting a little girl, half your age, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, boy! Go on then, round to the boathouse. We’ll come with you.’
Stephen’s chin trembled as he saw he was in no position to play the outraged nephew of the new master. He was humiliated again and he hated it. He took his hand away from his red ear and stalked off.
‘Where are you hurt, my handsome?’ Joe asked the child, so precious to him as Stanley Wright’s only legacy to the world.
Tamsyn had stopped crying. ‘’Tis all right, Uncle Joe. Just a sore backside and shoulders.’ She snuggled in closer to him. ‘But I never knew people could be so horrible.’
Chapter 6
The following day Alex agreed to allow Abigail to go down to the house with him. Rebecca had to drive with them, sitting self-consciously in the back seat of the car and hoping that none of the Kennickers would see her. It was exciting to travel in the Mercedes but it seemed almost a scandal not to be walking the half-mile. Alex had planned to walk but Abigail, dressed up as though she was going to a high social function, wanted to arrive in style, even though there was no one there to receive her.
Rebecca felt uncomfortable in her new elevated position and Abigail seemed to be reluctant to let her out of her sight. Rebecca missed the informality of her riding breeches, boots and old blouses and baggy jumpers. It was a pain to have to dress up, to pay extra attention to her hair and wear her only pair of high-heeled shoes, the ones Loveday had encouraged her to buy in Truro on a shopping trip, to be more feminine. Rebecca had thought the black- leather, one-bar shoes would only see the light of day on Sundays to church. Their two-inch heels made her much taller than Abigail and somehow that didn’t feel right. At least Abigail didn’t insist she wore a hat.
Rebecca was glad that Stephen did not want to come with them. He stayed at the gatehouse, moodily saying he had plans for the model railway. Tamsyn had not come to the gatehouse with Loveday that morning. She had insisted she wanted to stay in the creek with Motley, who wasn’t allowed near the gatehouse, and she had been left under the watchful eye of Ira Jenkins.
‘How magnificent,’ Abigail breathed sincerely as the big house came into sight. It wasn’t a quarter as big as the Fiennes’ family house she lived in in Berkshire, but it had a quiet dignity, a sense of history merging with an inviting warmth.
She was out of the car and hurrying to the front door before Alex was. ‘Oh, do hurry up, Alex. I can’t wait to see inside. Who knows what secrets the house is harbouring after being empty for so many years? Come along, Rebecca!’
Alex offered Rebecca his hand with a sigh at Abigail’s impatience. It seemed he often found her irritating. He unlocked the big door, which opened quite noisily and was a little hard to push. ‘I’ll have to get Percy Gummoe, the new caretaker, to oil the hinges,’ he told Rebecca.
‘Don’t hog the girl, Alex,’ Abigail said crossly, taking Rebecca’s arm and sweeping her into the hall. ‘You take the lead, my dear. You know the way around.’
Rebecca rearranged her startled face into one of serious intent and led the way to the drawing room. The room was painted white and a warm rose-pink. It needed fresh coats, but looked serene and inviting. The sun was shining in through the French windows and the vases of roses and carnations she had put there were still fresh and gave the room a heady fragrance, masking the musky smell that the lavender polish and beeswax had failed to eliminate. The top windows were open. The Major must have done that yesterday, Rebecca mused. As Abigail floated about the furniture, picturing herself entertaining guests, Rebecca looked round and realised the Major was not with them.
Alex had made straight for the study but stopped first to greet Percy Gummoe who was coming along the corridor from the kitchens.
‘Momin’ to ’ee, Major. Been having a look round upstairs?’
‘No, I’ve only just arrived with Mrs Fiennes and Miss Allen.’
‘Oh? Strange. Could’ve sworn I heard someone walking about upstairs. Oh, well… Can I get ’ee something, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Percy. I’ve given you a list of jobs you can get on with and I’d appreciate not being disturbed.’
Alex closed the study door behind him and left Percy Gummoe scratching his head. He went back to the kitchen to fetch his tool bag. He was happy today, after being out of regular work for the last two years and he and his wife losing their only child in infancy, but he did not whistle as he usually did when in good spirits. Trevallion’s ghost was rumoured not to like it.
‘Wouldn’t it
be wonderful bringing the ladies into this room after a dinner party?’ Abigail said. She was admiring the silver-framed photographs of past Trevallions; they had such a stately air about them. Holding her hands together in front of her flat chest, she walked about the room.
‘We could stroll outside on fine summer evenings.’ Her voice was low and soft, without the hint of mockery that it usually held. Plans were busily forming behind her brilliant blue eyes.
Rebecca thought her perfect in this setting. She belonged here, in her impeccably tailored clothes, worn so well over her slender figure and shapely arms and legs. She could be the rightful lady of this house if she married her brother-in-law.
‘This is much nicer than any room in Carsham Hall, the ancestral home of the Fiennes where I usually live. It’s not so grand, of course, but it’s so much more comfortable, so friendly. I must take you to Carsham Hall one day, my dear, so you can see the difference.’
Rebecca frowned. She would not follow Abigail everywhere she had the whim to take her.
Abigail went to the french windows to see if the house had a tennis court outside and was disappointed not to find one. ‘Who’s that man out there?’ She screwed up her face with distaste, which would have upset Rebecca if she’d witnessed it. ‘Working on the gardens.’
Rebecca came to look. Trease was hard at work rolling the mown lawns. He was proud to see his daughter all dressed up and inside the big house and took off his cap and bowed to them.
‘It’s my father, Mrs Fiennes, Trease Allen.’
‘Oh, really?’ and boredom was in Abigail’s eyes. A moment later the glint of amusement was back. ‘Tell me, Rebecca, which rooms is the ghost supposed to haunt?’ Rebecca was picking up fallen rose petals from a table. She scattered them over the logs laid in the fireplace and thought carefully before she answered.
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