Kilgarthen Read online

  He introduced himself quietly. ‘I’m Ince Polkinghorne, Mrs Jennings. I’m a farm labourer. I work on Rosemerryn Farm for Spencer Jeffries. I knew your husband quite well. I pray that the Lord will bless your future.’ He shook her hand in a warm grip.

  ‘I don’t recall my husband mentioning a Spencer Jeffries. Will you tell me something about him, Mr Polkinghorne?’

  ‘Rosemerryn Farm has been in his family’s hands for centuries. ’Tis about halfway between the village and the main road. The lane that runs past it is called Rosemerryn Lane. You passed the farm on your way into the village.’ Ince looked deeply into Laura’s eyes for a moment and she wondered if he, too, had known what Bill had been really like. Then he gave her the merest smile, it was shy and withdrawing and Laura realised he was about to depart. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Jennings, I have to get back to work.’

  ‘What an unusual man,’ Laura remarked to Daisy as she watched Ince leaving the hall.

  ‘It’s unusual for him to speak to anyone without they speaking to him first. He’s very quiet, very religious and very nice.’ Daisy looked at Laura pointedly. ‘There are some nice people in the village.’

  Laura admitted ruefully to herself that perhaps there were. ‘He was telling me that he works for Spencer Jeffries on Rosemerryn Farm. What’s this Spencer Jeffries like?’

  ‘He’s even quieter than Ince, practically a recluse.’ Laura looked Daisy straight in the face. ‘From what I’ve heard, he didn’t like Bill.’

  Daisy flushed and busied herself clearing up the tables. ‘They fell out years ago, but Spencer’s rarely seen in the village anyway. I thought I’d come to the cottage after this and light you a nice fire. Must be cold in there. Be freezing through the night.’

  ‘I didn’t notice before.’ Laura thought about Bill’s home, a place so personal and private to him that there was no evidence he had taken any of his conquests there. A lump rose and stuck in her throat. His belongings were there, perhaps things from his childhood, possessions which had given him the background he had chosen to stay in touch with. Now his body lay just up the road. She shivered, suddenly feeling rejected all over again and very lonely. She couldn’t face a night on her own in Little Cot.’

  ‘Aunty Daisy…’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘I don’t want to spend the night in Bill’s cottage. Could I stay at your house tonight? I’ve brought an overnight bag and change of clothes with me so I don’t need anything.’

  Daisy put her arm round her waist and hugged her. She looked overcome with emotion and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Course you can stay, Laura. I’d love to have you. I was going to suggest it anyway.’

  For a fleeting moment Laura felt she would like to rest her head on Daisy’s shoulder. She was her only source of comfort in an alien world. If Bill had had any redeeming features, they would have come through Daisy Tamblyn’s influence.

  * * *

  Although exhausted by the long journey and wearied by her jumbled feelings and the revelations of Andrew Macarthur’s telephone call, Laura couldn’t sleep. It felt strange lying here in Daisy’s spare room listening to the wind thrashing the moor, instead of being several miles back on the journey to London. Bill had told her about the moods of the moor, how it could be enchanting and peaceful one moment, savage and perilous the next, and the many sounds the wind made, beguilingly gentle and breezy, or shrieking through buildings and trees, moaning and wailing as if it was a form of tormented life. She’d been captivated by his tales when he’d courted her, fully expecting to come down to Cornwall with him to see and hear for herself and walk the moor with him. But he hadn’t wanted her to come near his homeland. Now she could stay here as long as she liked. She could stay in his cottage, invite people there, speak to his friends, explore the lanes and moorland.

  Her thoughts, triumphant, bitter, merging into spitefulness and wanting revenge, made her toss and turn into the early hours of the morning.

  When she woke up it was pitch dark, the curtains were heavy and there were no street lights in the village. She lit the bedside lantern and picked up her wristwatch to see the time. It was nearly seven o’clock. She could hear Daisy downstairs, raking the ashes out of the range. It was a comforting sound, reminding Laura of how her mother used to get up early to prepare breakfast for her and her father, the only job her mother did before the daily help arrived. Laura had not shared a congenial breakfast table for the last five years. She put on her dressing gown and went down to the kitchen.

  Daisy was dressed, her grey hair in curlers and hair net, humming softly and cutting bread at the table. ‘Good morning, dear. Hope you slept well. You warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Laura felt like a little girl; yesterday’s feeling of superiority was all gone. She was on Kilgarthen home ground and although this woman was kindly and a relative by marriage, she was a virtual stranger. ‘I, heard you moving about. I hope you don’t mind me coming down like this. I’m not in your way?’

  Daisy stuck a doorstep of white bread on a long, three-pronged toasting fork. ‘You’re welcome to do anything that takes your fancy, Laura. Make yourself comfy in Bunty’s chair. The fire’s picked up nicely, though it never gets cold in here overnight, the embers keep the room warm. What you need is a bit of looking after. Lost your mother many years ago, didn’t you? Got no one left, but…’

  ‘But you, Aunty Daisy?’ Laura snuggled up in Bunty’s chair with her feet curled under her. ‘It’s good of you to say that after I upset you yesterday. I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s you I was upset for.’ Daisy angled the fork so it was wedged in the grill of the range to toast the bread.

  Laura’s eyes were on the embers and she watched the bread rapidly toast golden. She wished she could talk openly to Daisy about Bill. ‘I would have liked to have met you before,’ she said tentatively.

  Daisy nodded. ‘I knew it was Billy’s decision not to bring you down here. I often said to him, “Why don’t you bring that pretty young wife of yours down to stay? I’d love to meet her.” I’d have thought he’d love to have showed you off to everyone, but there was a side to him that needed to be private.’

  He might not have found it so easy to lord it about down here with me around, Laura thought bitterly.

  ‘As you probably know,’ Daisy went on, ‘Billy’s mother was my younger sister, Faith. I reared him when Faith died and I knew his ways better than anyone, except for you, of course, and I want you to think of me as flesh and blood. Bacon and eggs, toast and cereal? Just toast? Right then. That’s ready now.’ Daisy took the toast, to the table and spread it thickly with creamy butter. She put a dollop of dark marmalade on the plate with a knife and passed it to Laura.

  ‘I only ever saw one photograph of you,’ Daisy said, pouring the tea, ‘on your wedding day. I was some upset that he invited none of us from the village to your wedding. He said it was rushed, so we all thought you were…’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  Daisy’s face wore an overcoat of embarrassment as she stabbed another doorstep of bread.

  ‘Well, when no baby was mentioned, I asked Billy if he intended to start a family and he said, “No ruddy fear, I hate children.” I told him off for saying that. I said, “I hope you’re not giving Laura the runaround. I know what you can be like.” He just laughed and said you had everything you needed.’

  ‘I did,’ Laura said bitterly. ‘Except a loving husband and a baby.’ She wondered if she’d gone too far and looked at Daisy for her reaction, but Daisy just shook her head sadly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura. But it’s no good dwelling on the past. You’re still young, you’re lovely and there’s plenty of time to have a family.’

  ‘After what I’ve been through,’ Laura said, ‘I don’t ever want to get married again.’ She wanted to ask Daisy about Bill’s childhood but Daisy changed the subject.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I hope you won’t be offended but I had an insurance out on Billy. I’d like you
to have it to help pay for funeral expenses.’

  Laura knew the money would help after Bill’s elaborate funeral and her changed financial circumstances but she felt she couldn’t take it from Daisy. She would have to cut into her small bank balance. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she insisted. ‘Everything has been taken care of.’ Daisy might be disarmingly frank about Bill’s character, but this wasn’t the time to tell her he was a swindler too.

  * * *

  Later in the morning, wrapped up in a scarf and gloves and wearing warm lined boots borrowed from Daisy to offset the wind that only a barren sweep of moors could make so harsh, Laura strolled through the village. Unlike many other villages in Britain where dwellings and church were grouped round an ancient village green, a road ran through the middle of this one. Houses and cottages, a few of them charmingly thatched, were straggled about in roughly equal numbers either side of the road.

  What she saw and heard today would help her make up her mind about how long she would stay here. She avoided the churchyard and its new mound of earth. She walked over to admire the communal pump which she had noticed yesterday. It was used regularly because few dwellings here had piped water. It was made of ornate cast iron and stood on a granite mount. Its water was crystal clear and pure – if it hadn’t been so cold Laura would have pumped up some water and drunk it.

  She stopped again outside the Tremewan Arms and realised with a start that it had Christmas lights and decorations up at the windows. Was it so near the end of the year already?

  Pat Penhaligon, who was returning laden with shopping bags from Daisy’s shop, hailed her. ‘See you’re dressed up nice and warm. Be careful if you go on the moor,’ she said as she dumped her shopping in the pub doorway and took a key out of her coat to unlock the cellar door – the pub was awaiting a delivery. ‘It can be very dangerous. Don’t you go out there on your own.’

  ‘Bring the maid in here!’ bellowed Mike Penhaligon, poking his head through a window. ‘A tot of rum in a mug of hot milk is what she needs on a day like this. ’Tis what we always have for elevenses in winter.’

  Laura smiled and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s a bit early for elevenses.’

  ‘’Tis never too early for he,’ Pat laughed, taking Laura’s arm and leading her inside.

  It was warm inside the pub with a pleasant olde worlde atmosphere; the lingering smells of alcohol and tobacco weren’t as strong as in Laura’s local drinking places. Two large oil lamps stood either end of the bar top and more were suspended from the beams; candles set in old spirit bottles covered in graying trickles of wax sat on every table. Holly, ivy and mistletoe were extravagantly draped everywhere.

  Laura thought the pub would be a good place to start finding out something about Bill. The Penhaligons were friendly people. They might not have lived in Kilgarthen as long as most of the villagers but they would probably know all the gossip.

  ‘Did you know Bill well?’ she asked when she was cradling her rum and milk in her hands.

  ‘Not really,’ Mike said, peering closely at a glass he was polishing behind the bar. ‘He’d left the village a couple of years before me ’n’ Pat took over the pub. Little Cot stayed empty until Bill got on and bought it off the Leans, then he did it up bit by bit, did a lot of the work himself.’ He picked up another glass. ‘He loved that little place, wouldn’t let hardly anyone step over the doorstep. ’Twas all his and his alone, he used to say. He came into the pub with Daisy most nights he was here. Sometimes he had a drop too much but usually he behaved like a real gent. Could be a miserable bugger though, if you ask me.’

  ‘Mike,’ Pat scolded.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Laura said. ‘Bill had his moods. Little Cot was owned by the Leans, you say?’

  ‘They used to be the big money round here then, not so much now. They only have a big house and stables on the edge of the moors left now. Hawksmoor House, it’s called, be worth taking a look at it. Felicity Lean’s a charming woman, don’t think she’d mind you looking round.’

  ‘Harry certainly wouldn’t,’ Pat said. ‘He’s got an eye for a pretty face.’

  Mike looked down at Laura’s feet, let his eyes ride up to her waist, then winked and gave his great head a jaunty toss. ‘He’s like me, a leg man.’

  ‘Mike!’

  ‘I don’t mind, Pat,’ Laura smiled.

  ‘See, she’s got the measure of you already,’ Pat laughed at her husband.

  Laura sipped her hot drink. ‘I met Harry Lean yesterday. I noticed he only went to the village hall after the funeral to pick up his mother.’

  ‘Harry and Bill never got along, so we’ve heard. Bill went to the village school and Harry to boarding school but they fought like cat and dog in the holidays, apparently. Bill resented being poor and living in a tied cottage – well, that’s what we reckon, reading between the lines. People round here were proud of Bill Jennings leaving the village and getting on so well, but then you probably know that.’ Mike looked at Laura curiously and she knew he’d like to ask her some questions too. All the villagers must be curious why she had never come among them until yesterday.

  Laura didn’t want to talk about herself. ‘Aunty Daisy said Bill didn’t get along with a man called Spencer Jeffries either.’

  ‘That’s a different story altogether. They wouldn’t have been friends anyway. Spencer Jeffries is about ten years older than Bill was.’

  ‘Oh, I was picturing three boys of the same age growing up at the same time.’

  Laura didn’t learn anything else that was enlightening from the Penhaligons and after a convivial half-hour braced herself to face the cold again. She walked up and down the village, slipping into the few short side roads, but no one else seemed eager to be out in the cold morning air except for an elderly man in a flat cap, greatcoat and gaiters, wearing a chestful of medal ribbons and walking a Jack Russell.

  ‘The name’s Johnny Prouse,’ the man said, pointing proudly to his medal ribbons. ‘Late of the King’s Navy in the Great War, having been sailor on a string of important ships, and this is Admiral my faithful companion. Didn’t get a chance to speak to ’ee yesterday, Mrs Jennings. Had to get back home for Admiral. He’s some old now, nearly fourteen year, and has got a wheezy chest.’

  Admiral was well trained and not on a lead but eager to carry on with his walk, so the old sailor bid Laura good morning. If Johnny Prouse patronised the Tremewan Arms, she thought it likely a pint or two would secure something of what she wanted to know.

  As she approached the school, she could hear children singing. It was a small, bleak building and the two playgrounds, one for the boys, one for the girls, were grey with a few forlorn leaves blowing around them. The song inside had a merry tune but the singing sounded regimented.

  Moving on to the schoolmaster’s house which stood on the other side of a high dividing wall, she saw white sheets and pillowcases flapping on the washing line. No one else had put washing out in the bitterly cold weather with the darkening sky threatening a shower of rain. Having lived under Bill’s strict regime and knowing Cecil Roach’s hard reputation, Laura wondered if Barbara had a choice in the matter. She could well imagine Cecil baulking at having washing drying in front of the kitchen fire. She noticed the three white beehives from which Bill had stolen honey as a child.

  Laura was getting colder but wanted to seek out more information about Bill before going back to the shop for the midday meal. It was only ten thirty. Daisy had said she could borrow her bicycle and Laura decided to explore the lanes. It made sense to have a look at Hawksmoor House and hopefully meet the sophisticated Felicity Lean, then perhaps she’d find out why there was no love lost between Harry and Bill. But she was more curious to learn something about this man Spencer Jeffries, and soon she was riding along the lane that led to Rosemerryn Farm.

  Chapter 3

  Buffeted by strong winds tearing across the exposed land, Laura slowly cycled the narrow twisting lanes which were splashed with cow dung and
mud from cart wheels. There was rugged granite upland on all sides. Hawk’s Tor rose steeply on part of the moor called Hawkstor Downs. It provided a rugged backdrop to the village.

  She passed pathways and tracks leading off from the lane. One wide track had a signpost sticking out of the hedge, a weathered piece of wood with Tregorlan Farm painted on it in faded black letters. Laura pedalled on, unsure if she was travelling along the part of road the locals called Rosemerryn Lane yet, looking for a signpost that would disclose the location of Rosemerryn Farm.

  She had to pull into gateways and laybys three times to allow other vehicles to pass by, including the pony and jingle driven by the curious old woman in the cloak and bonnet she’d seen at the telephone box, who acknowledged her with a curt nod. The third time was for Ince Polkinghorne on a horse and cart and she responded to the smile on his peaceful face. He pulled up and jumped down to speak to her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Jennings. So you’ve changed your mind about staying on in the village.’

  ‘I became curious about the place Bill loved so much, Mr Polkinghorne,’ she replied. ‘I don’t remember the road being this narrow yesterday – the hearse didn’t have to pull in for other traffic once.’ A sudden gust of wind smacked at her face, bearing with it tiny freezing raindrops, and she thought she was going to lose her balance. Ince put out a hand to steady her.

  ‘They would have pulled in for the hearse and stayed there until they were sure all the mourners had passed by,’ Ince said, smiling lightly. ‘The name’s Ince, by the way, no one calls me Mr Polkinghorne.’

  ‘It’s an unusual name – Ince,’ Laura said, turning up her collar and wanting to linger and chat to this quiet, unassuming man. She was also hoping for a hint as to how far it was to Rosemerryn Farm.

  ‘It was my mother’s maiden name. I would have preferred a good solid Biblical name like Daniel or Joshua, but there it is.’ He looked at Laura closely for a moment, that same deep gaze he’d given her in the village hall yesterday as if he wanted to convey something to her without words. ‘Some things we can’t help.’