A Whisper of Life Read online

  ‘Don’t ’ee go worrying, maid. No one round here’s going to let anyone make trouble for ’ee. Here, my handsome.’ Mr Trevean put his gnarled brown-spotted hand into his overcoat pocket and after a bit of rooting about pulled out a silver shilling. ‘This is for you. Spend it on what you like, and God bless ’ee.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trevean.’ Kate accepted the gift with a bright smile. After the anxiety of learning that Sidney had been looking for her she was delighted.

  ‘Mr Trevean was right,’ Jill said as they carried on, taking the left fork for the village where the lane branched. ‘No one will allow your family to hurt you again, Kate.’ She exchanged a dry look with Emilia. Both were troubled to hear that a Viant had reappeared asking about Kate.

  ‘Will there be many people there? At the schoolhouse?’ Kate asked, increasingly apprehensive now they had turned into the village, had passed the shops and were climbing up the hill on top of which rested the school. There was a large chapel window in the side of the squat stone building. Its top panes were open and the sound of children singing ‘I’ll give you one-o’ floated out on the mild air. She wasn’t used to mixing with crowds and she tended to feel trapped in a confined space where she had to stay for an uncertain length of time, where others could get a good look at her ugly shoes and wonder what her feet were like. She always avoided seeing her slightly withered lower right leg. She never glanced in a mirror when her feet were bare in fear of seeing her lopsided balance. She wished she hadn’t come, wanted to be back at the farm, playing with Paul or chatting with Mr Perry. Allowing Miss Rothwell to do a painting of her would be preferable to this. Or even finding herself alone with Mr Jonny and feeling painfully overwhelmed by everything about him.

  Sensing her disquiet, Jill and Emilia linked their arms round her. Emilia said, ‘There will only be Elena Killigrew and Mrs Patterson, the headmaster’s wife. Mrs Patterson knows all about the play her husband has written. We’ll just be sharing notes about who has signed up to do what and when. Will you feel comfortable with that, my love?’

  ‘I think so,’ Kate murmured. It didn’t seem too bad knowing there wouldn’t be a crush of strangers, some of whom might be overbearing, or nosy about her.

  ‘You’ve got us, remember.’ Jill gave her a little squeeze.

  An hour and a half later, Kate was back home. While Jill put her feet up with the latest Woman’s Weekly, she went up to her room. Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror smiled back at her and she wasn’t a bit surprised because she was basking in a sense of achievement. She had enjoyed the time in Mrs Hilary Patterson’s front room. It had small windows and was dark, but Mrs Patterson, a bubbly young mother and a bit scatty, had furniture that was lightweight and simple and chintzy. Coffee had been served straight from the kitchen in vivid-coloured mugs. In sandals and socks and a ‘make-do-and-mend’ skirt made up of two old garments in breezy colours, her dark hair tumbling carelessly about her neck, Mrs Patterson had giggled a lot. Kate learned afterwards from Mrs Em that the pupils liked Mr Patterson’s firm, encouraging form of teaching.

  ‘My headmaster was a tyrant. He terrorized me,’ Kate had said. He’d also ridiculed her over her crippled leg and stressed she would never do well in life. That didn’t matter now. She couldn’t have done better for herself and she was accepted just as she was. From her time in the schoolhouse she had realized she was able to mix with others and to offer her opinion, as Mrs Patterson had heartily roused her to do. She had actually made a suggestion. The organizers had said they wanted the play to be uplifting after last year’s so-so event and Kate had piped up, ‘There could be community singing at the end of the evening. Most people enjoy a good sing-song.’

  ‘What an absolutely spiffing idea!’ Hilary Patterson had clapped her hands, making the many bangles on both wrists jangle, music in themselves.

  The meeting had been a success and no one could take that away from her. It had been a good day. She had met kind old Mr Trevean. She would put the shilling in her post office savings account. She liked going to the shop. Miss Grigg was friendly and easy to chat to. Suddenly her mood plummeted. She tried to prevent it but the blight that stole her joy held sway. Her mind refused to block out Sidney’s reappearance in Hennaford. Why had he wanted to see her? Not because he or her parents were feeling guilty about deserting her, that was certain. They had exiled her. Why couldn’t it be left at that?

  Her eyes were drawn to the wardrobe. In there, up on the shelf, was the shoe box Sidney had thrust into her arms. Could there be something in there that was wanted? She got up on the chair and pulled the box out, then sitting on the bed she prised off the lid. A musty smell filled her nostrils, making her cough and shy away. Nothing of value seemed to be in it; just a lot of old papers, gone rusty-coloured at the edges. Lifting the top half she discovered family certificates, payment receipts, letters in envelopes, old rent cards for the cottage, postcards and sepia photographs. A man of about fifty with a walrus moustache stared back gravely at her from one photo, her grandfather. She couldn’t remember him, he’d died when she was an infant; his name was on the back of his likeness. Older photos showed forbidding Victorian forebears posing in studios. Her mother would want these, she supposed, and the birth, marriage and death certificates. And some old Army medals. This must explain what Sidney was after. She sighed with relief that it wasn’t her that the family wanted back.

  Out of curiosity to learn something about her grandfather, Hubert Moses, she read a letter addressed to him. It surprised her to find it was a love letter from her grandmother during their courting days. It wasn’t very loving or the remotest bit sentimental, but Kate would never have believed the miserable old woman capable of such emotions. She detected bossiness in the tone of the square-shaped words. Hubert would have definitely been henpecked. Like mother, like daughter, she thought grimly about her grandmother and mother.

  While taking out the rest of the contents she was pondering what to do with the shoe box. Keep it hidden away as part of her past or wrap it up and post it to Tregony to break the last connection with her mean family? The final item was a large brown envelope. She pressed her fingers around it, trying to guess its contents. More of the same, it seemed. She shook out its secret on the bedspread.

  ‘Phew!’ She clapped her hands over her mouth to forestall a cry of exclamation. Money. Lots of it. All in ten-shilling and one-pound notes. Now she had the full truth. Her mother must have suspected her grandmother had hoarded away savings and guessed they were in the box. She must have been livid with Sidney for giving it away and had sent him to get it back.

  ‘Well, I won’t make it easy for you, Mother,’ she told the carping image of the sour woman inside her head. There had been some old blank paper and envelopes festering in the shoe box. She’d write her mother a letter. One she never intended to post.

  Chapter Seven

  Abbie was on her way to Keresyk, the home of Mark Fuller. He had been elusive since their first meeting, never at home when she’d called there and hard to get even over the telephone, but she had at last managed to pin him down to a day and time to paint his daughter. This morning he would be at home to organize Jana for the occasion.

  Abbie had questioned herself as to whether Mark was worth bothering with. She had never pursued a man before. She was used to them making the running. It wasn’t as if there would ever be anything permanent with Mark and she was sure she wouldn’t be at all interested in his daughter beyond painting her. She didn’t particularly like children, she didn’t have the overwhelming desire and need to have a family like Jill did. And although she was delaying her leave-taking from Ford Farm out of a moment of stubborn jealousy to win something with Mark, she had no intention of staying there again. So why go to his house now? She was a free agent. She could go anywhere she wanted. Why not pack up, visit her parents, and then travel extensively overseas as she’d intended after this? She wasn’t one for letting people down though. Mark was excited about getting a portr
ait of the child he adored. And there was something about him. It was why she had taken the bother of putting on her most feminine dress, a mid-calf, full-skirted Dior that her mother had bought for her, its nipped-in waist and sloping shoulders accentuating two of her best features. She had pinned on a diamond cluster brooch with matching earrings and added a single-row pearl necklace – not her usual choice of jewellery but presents from her parents, packed by her mother in case she attended a formal dinner. Instead of comfortable walking shoes or sandals she wore low heels.

  After crossing the ford she turned right and climbed the next short hill past Ford House, and here she was at Keresyk again. One corner of the house peeped out tantalizingly from behind the hedgerow. A few feet along the drive the house was in full view and Abbie did as she had done before, paused to peer and stare and absorb a masterpiece of sensitive workmanship, which never failed to stir her creativity. With the woods as backdrop, gently swaying in their dressing of summer foliage, Keresyk itself was worth painting. It made discerning use of old brick, stone and timber. The gardens at the front and sides were so cleverly schemed that they might have been the dedicated work of former times. The house seemed to be dreaming in profound thought; then, as sunlight sparkled on its windows, it was as if it was waiting expectantly to welcome its visitors. The only thing missing at the moment was a wealth of rambling roses creeping up the walls, but clever forethought promised that future joy. This was how Mark had seen his home in the planning stage: a cosy retreat, a soothing paradise that reached out a cherishing greeting each and every time he returned to it. A nurturing nest to lovingly compensate his daughter for the lack of her mother’s love. If he cared so very much for Jana he must be a truly amazing man. One worth getting to know, at least.

  The simple carved oak door was opened and Mark appeared in the doorway, holding Jana in his arms. A retriever cross appeared at Mark’s side. The breath caught in Abbie’s throat with a yearning sob. He was tall, commanding and appealingly attractive in a casual shirt. Jana wore an unaffected white dress with a pale green sash, her feet bare and her hair the same dark sandy tint as his, curly and shiny without the unnecessary addition of slides or bows. They made a matchless picture in the perfect setting.

  ‘Welcome.’ Mark waved to her.

  She went up to them with every determination. He was worth going for and she’d spend no more time hesitating about it.

  ‘Look, darling,’ he cooed to Jana, ‘it’s Miss Rothwell. She’s come to capture you just as you are.’

  Capture both of you and hold on to you. ‘Hello,’ Abbie called brightly. Once she’d closed in she went straight for Jana. ‘Hello little one, hello Jana. You’re just as gorgeous as everyone says you are.’ Jana Fuller was a gently chubby child with huge contented eyes and winning smiles.

  ‘This is Addi,’ Mark said, patting the dog’s broad head. Standing sideways he ushered Abbie in over the threshold. ‘Put your things down. I hope they weren’t heavy to carry.’

  ‘Not too bad,’ she replied softly and as if a trifle out of breath, setting the tools of her trade on the long hall table. Normally she would have shrugged off the suggestion, saying, ‘It’s only a bag of paints, brushes and a watercolour board.’ But Mark had responded to Louisa Carlyon’s soft femininity and she wanted him to see her in the same way.

  She took a swift look round, summing up the place. Daylight gleamed through the open doors of the downstairs rooms and down the pale oak staircase, indicating the existence of lots of windows with no fussy curtains up at them. The furniture was either in pale oak or pine, in clean uncomplicated lines with brass military handles. There were just a few ornaments – scientific instruments and plainly decorated pottery which appeared to have been chosen carefully as items that particularly appealed to Mark.

  She smiled her most charming smile straight into Mark’s eyes. ‘I really like your house inside and out.’ Then she took Jana’s tiny hand. ‘And I really like your little girl. She’s adorable. Aren’t you, Jana?’ She put on the silly jolly voice grown-ups used on children. ‘Oo, I could eat you. I really could.’

  Mark laughed, gazing at Jana with fatherly worship, and kissed her pink cheek. ‘Come through to the sitting room, Miss Rothwell. Would you like some tea or anything else before we proceed?’

  ‘I’d love some tea, Mr Fuller. Do call me Abbie.’

  ‘Of course. I’m Mark. Take a seat, Abbie.’

  The sitting room was delightful, nothing crowded or gloomily old-fashioned or annoyingly modern, just a tasteful union of uncomplicated mouldings and Art Nouveau. There were ferns and spider plants in decoupage pots. Abbie stayed on her feet and reached out her hands. ‘Shall I look after Jana while you slip off to the kitchen? Would she come to me? Or we could drink in the kitchen. I don’t mind at all.’

  Mark’s expression showed he approved of an easygoing woman. ‘Fine, follow us then, Abbie.’

  Except in grand houses a kitchen was usually the inner sanctum of a home, into which only one’s friends were at liberty to wander. This couldn’t have been a better start. Mark’s kitchen had the usual cooking range, but instead of a dresser stacked with china there were simple, white-painted shelves and shapely enamel storage jars. Marble slabs on a rudder-leg table were used for preparing food. She approved of the tonal graduations of ochre colour wash on the walls. A tray with a linen cloth on the breakfast table had been already set, with a plate of shortbread fingers standing by. ‘Miss Mills, my housekeeper-cum-nanny, prepared this before she took her afternoon off. She does fuss over us, doesn’t think I’m capable of cutting a slice of bread. And she doesn’t actually approve of me being in here unless I’m eating breakfast.’

  He put Jana down. Abbie crouched to her level and set about amusing her. A child steeped in love, Jana was perfectly confident with a stranger. ‘Our cook is like that. My father is more or less an invalid, chest problems among other things, a legacy from the Battle of Jutland. And my dear mother is a fragile-looking woman but really has a strong constitution. You hail from Surrey, I understand, Mark. Have you parents there?’

  ‘Long dead, I’m afraid,’ he said, lighting the primus under the kettle. ‘Jana doesn’t have any doting grandparents.’

  ‘That’s a shame. She deserves everything life can offer.’ She was saying these things to impress Mark but she was taken with Jana, who readily responded to her while chirruping away in the sweetest voice. ‘But I’m sure you more than make up for it.’

  ‘How will you go about the portrait?’ Mark said. ‘You can get an adult to sit still, but not a child.’

  ‘Watercolour lends itself to swift, spontaneous work. I’ll watch her for a while before sketching on the board. I don’t like formal poses in young children. If Jana does what she normally does I’m sure I’ll capture her just as she is. Has she got a favourite toy?’

  ‘She has a furry grey rabbit she likes to trail about. I think it’s in the hall. We haven’t discussed your fee, Abbie. Do you want a cheque before you begin?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of a fee, Mark. It was I who offered to paint Jana.’

  ‘Oh, but I insist, and on paying your full rate.’

  ‘Well, I’ll think of something when I’ve finished. I want you to be absolutely happy with the final portrayal.’ The tea was ready. She carried Jana to the table and dared to sit with her on her lap. Jana was fine with this but turned her eyes on her daddy. He tickled her under the chin and she chuckled. Mark had removed the biscuits.

  ‘I’ve hidden them away. Hope you don’t mind, Abbie. Don’t want Jana dribbling crumbs on her dress.’

  ‘Very wise. You couldn’t have chosen a better dress, rather than some froth of nonsense that would detract from Jana’s true self.’

  ‘Louisa designed it for the occasion and had her dressmaker run it up.’

  ‘Louisa Carlyon? She’s been here?’ Abbie had to keep the disappointment and the sharpness out of her voice.

  ‘Yes. Louisa’s very good with Jana and Jan
a loves being with her.’ He laid a tender touch on his daughter’s cheek. ‘Don’t you, darling? You love being with Aunty Louisa.’

  ‘You and Louisa Carlyon are walking out?’ The jealousy and fury that raged inside Abbie unnerved her. She had never felt this way concerning a man before.

  ‘Yes, we are. We’ve had dinner together several times and Louisa spent last Sunday with us.’

  It was not surprising she had been unable to get hold of Mark before today. Louisa Carlyon must feel very smug about that. Jonny had probably known about his half-sister’s dalliance with Mark before his leave ended and had kept quiet about it. Damn him! She could have made an enormous fool of herself by making a pass at Mark. ‘How nice.’ Abbie took a sip of her tea, then, sounding thoroughly professional, ‘Well, we’d better get on before Jana becomes restless.’

  ‘Righty-ho. Where do you want us? Nursery?’

  ‘Not that sort of setting. The sitting room, I think. Can you fetch the toy? I’d like to see how she responds to it.’ Abbie let him take the little girl. Pushed out of Mark’s life before there had even been a chance to build something with him, she thought she’d lose interest in Jana, but she found her to be just as appealing. At least portraying her would be a worthwhile challenge.

  She worked silently, studying Jana until her expressions and manner were imprinted on her mind, until she had the essence of her. She dashed off some sketches in her pad, of Jana toddling, hugging Addi’s neck, trying to capture the way she played with the toy rabbit and plonked it on her daddy’s lap. How she smiled at him and returned the terrific bond of love they had. When Jana managed to climb up on a low chair and sat, half sprawled, talking to her rabbit in baby gibberish, Abbie worked on the watercolour pad with pastels and brushes. Time went on and, lost in her skills, she forgot Mark was there. Jana blinked and her eyelids fluttered to a close. Moments later she was sleeping soundly, sweetly floppy in the way of a slumbering child, all her little limbs relaxed and her head comfortably to the side. Mark left the room, but Abbie was unaware of it until she heard him talking on the telephone.