Trevallion Read online

  Rebecca stood on a chair to dust the frame of a portrait of a beautiful young woman in a wide straw hat and cascading red ribbons. The picture was of Miss Harriet Bosanko of Melvill Road, Falmouth, the late fiancée of Miles Trevallion. It had broken his heart when in 1912 she had died of influenza. Rebecca looked across the room at a smaller picture, one of Miles. If Miss Bosanko hadn’t died, she would have been married to the Captain before the war broke out and there might have been a child as heir to the estate and the workers wouldn’t be going through all this worry now. And perhaps if there had been someone for Miles Trevallion to come home to, he might not have been as brave and foolhardy as was rumoured of him, and so horribly wounded.

  Rebecca helped Loveday dust the Captain’s collection of ‘modem inventions’, a gramophone, home recorder and typewriter, and his collection of cameras and binoculars and telescopes. Tomorrow, as with the other downstairs rooms, Rebecca planned to put flowers in the study to make Mrs Fiennes feel welcome. Was she the sort of woman who was interested in the running of a small country estate? Rebecca wished she knew more about the new owners of Trevallion House.

  ‘Here, my bird,’ Loveday said to Tamsyn. ‘Take this duster and clean round the bottom of that old chest there.’

  Tamsyn was delighted to be included in the important grown-up work. She set to work with vigour, kneeling down and putting her stubby nose almost on the claw feet of the curious-looking chest. It was made of dark golden oak and was battered and scratched but had been greatly prized by Miles Trevallion. Tamsyn longed to see inside it. To be as thorough as the women, she pushed the duster in the space underneath the chest but when she tried to pull it out it was stuck fast.

  ‘Ohh…’ She was disappointed and worried that she’d done something wrong.

  ‘What is it, Tamsyn?’ Rebecca said, lowering herself down beside the girl.

  ‘I can’t get the duster out,’ Tamsyn huffed.

  Rebecca laughed kindly. ‘Let me try.’ She put both hands on the duster and tugged on it gently. It began to move but it was obvious something had caught on it. Loveday came to watch. A little bit at a time, Rebecca pulled the duster out. Tangled up with it was a doubled-over sheaf of ageing brown papers. She unfolded the papers at the middle. There was faint copperplate writing on the top page and she read the initials at the bottom, S. B.

  ‘They look very old. What are they?’ Loveday asked, looking over Rebecca’s shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know, I’d better just put them back. If Major Fiennes decides to move the chest, he can come across them himself Can’t be anything important.’ Rebecca didn’t mention that in her brief perusal she’d read part of what was a very intimate love letter.

  ‘Put them back exactly as you found them, Becca,’ Tamsyn whispered fearfully, tapping Rebecca’s arm. ‘We don’t want the old man coming after us.’

  Rebecca and Loveday exchanged looks. ‘I’ve told you before, Tamsyn, many times, there’s no ghost in Trevallion House,’ Loveday said rather crossly. ‘’Tis just silly old rumours.’ But like all the other women apart from Rebecca, Loveday was too frightened to be left alone in the house. The ghost was rumoured to be that of Roland Trevallion, Captain Miles’s grandfather, who hanged himself in the cellar sixty years ago. Strange moans and noises were said to emanate from the cellar, heavy steps were heard on the cellar stairs and the door would creak open. The ghost was rumoured to roam the house at will.

  Outside, Joe and Trease and the other men cleared the courtyard of its weeds and the wide stone steps that led to the front door of years of mossy growth and dead leaves. They hacked back the overgrown shrubbery and clipped the hedges. They mowed the sweeping lawns of tall grass and thick long-stemmed daisies to a short brown stubble, getting the children to run and fetch cans of water to spray over them, hoping it would give some green colour by the next morning. The flowerbeds were dug over and every border made neat. The deep rectangular ornamental pond, which had once held many exotic species of fish, was cleared of debris and refilled with fresh water. Joe was pleased that at least he had tended to the many beautiful varieties of rhododendron growing along the drive, now out in full bloom. Huge oaks and cypress trees towered protectively over the top of the house at the back, giving the building a majestic frame.

  People came and went as they could and some of the women used Loveday’s kitchen to make sandwiches and keep up the supplies of fresh tea.

  In the late afternoon, Trease eased his aching muscles, puny now after lack of hard work, and made for the garage to polish the four-cylinder Spyker, the pride and joy among Miles Trevallion’s three motorcars. While neglecting the work he was paid to do, Trease had kept the cars in immaculate condition and he would use the Spyker to collect the Fiennes from the station tomorrow.

  But coming along the long driveway now was another motorcar, a small Austin Seven, an economical, reliable and durable car, driven by a middle-aged man who shared his car’s attributes. Mr Robert Drayton stepped out of the car in a dull suit and very shiny shoes. A wide smile broke out on his unremarkable face as he took in the busy scene. Rebecca, Joe and Loveday gathered around Trease and Jossy to see what the solicitor had come for.

  Mr Drayton doffed his hat to the ladies, momentarily revealing his big ears, and after breathing in the clean fresh smell of newly cut grass, addressed Trease. ‘I must say I am impressed at what you are doing here, Allen. I was on my way to call at your cottage to make sure that you had received my letter but thought I’d call here first and take a look at the big house. This is a most pleasant surprise and I’m sure Major Fiennes will appreciate your efforts. You have the time of the train’s arrival?’

  ‘Aye,’ Trease said tartly. He made no bones about the fact that he did not like Mr Robert Drayton. ‘The eleven thirty-two. I know which platform it’ll arrive at too.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid. Mr Faull and I would be there ourselves to meet Major Fiennes and his family but he prefers to settle in before discussing business matters.’ He looked at Rebecca. ‘You have the gatehouse made ready, Miss Allen? You will be able to manage?’

  ‘Everything will be in order for tomorrow, and yes, we’ll manage. Mrs Wright was in service with Lord Falmouth before she was married and is helping me,’ Rebecca replied, mentally going over how much more work they still had to do.

  ‘Splendid, well done. I have arranged for some provisions to be delivered at the gatehouse shortly for the Major’s stay.’

  ‘I’ll see to them,’ Loveday said.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Wright. You will of course be paid by the estate for your services. Well, then, I’d better let you get on with your work.’

  ‘Aye, don’t let us make you late,’ muttered Trease. ‘You must have something far more important to do than hanging around here…’

  Rebecca dug her father in the back and hissed, ‘Father!’ She knew Mr Drayton wanted to look over the house but found Trease intimidating.

  ‘… Mr Drayton, sir,’ Trease tagged on insolently.

  ‘I trust I shall have the accounts I’m waiting for on my desk first thing the day after tomorrow,’ Mr Drayton said acidly, dragging out each word. It made his long thin moustache wriggle about over his top lip and Tamsyn began to giggle. Loveday turned her smartly round by the shoulders and marched her away.

  ‘We’ll not stand much chance of keeping our jobs even if this major wants Trevallion if Mr Drayton tells him we’re nothing but an uncouth, ill-mannered lot,’ Joe said reproachfully when the solicitor had gone.

  Jossy said nothing but his face showed he wasn’t pleased with Trease.

  Trease scowled and pushed off to the garage. Joe caught up with Loveday and they exchanged sympathetic looks for Rebecca. Rebecca went back to work suddenly feeling exhausted and heavy of heart. Why must her father always risk ruining everything?

  When dusk fell, the work went on by lantern light. Jacky Jenkins’ ancient fingers finally tired and two of his great-nephews turned up, one to escort him home, the other, Rebec
ca noticed with consternation, to share a few bottles of ale with the men. She hoped Trease would not see them. She left the few remaining men at ten o’clock and went home to sponge and iron Trease’s chauffeur’s uniform.

  Joe put his final touch to the front of the house, ornate plaster tubs which he had scrubbed clean now containing cuttings of flowering shrubs. The shrubs were unlikely to take and grow in the pots but they might help to impress the Fiennes before they died off.

  After taking a quick bite of supper, Rebecca left something on a plate for her father then made her way back to the big house to see if there was anything else she could do that night. One step outside the cottage door and she could hear Trease and Joe quarrelling, their angry words carrying all the way down to the creek on the still night air.

  ‘I only had a couple!’ Trease was shouting. ‘What’s the matter with ’ee? Always have to grumble, always on about bleddy something, you are, Carlyon. Why can’t you just leave me alone!’

  Rebecca tried to shut out the sound of Joe’s angry retort and ran all the way up the hill to the two men and begged her father to come home and go to bed. ‘It’s best we all get some rest and start again at dawn,’ she appealed to their tired faces.

  ‘You get to bed!’ Trease snapped. ‘And don’t always be telling a man what to do. This was all my idea, cleaning up the house and grounds, don’t forget it, the pair of you. Anyone would think I was ruddy useless!’ He snatched a lantern off a windowsill and stamped away.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Rebecca demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Becca,’ Joe replied with a long sigh. ‘He bought a couple of bottles of ale off Royston Jenkins and he thought I disapproved of it.’

  ‘Did you say something to him?’

  ‘No, honestly, he’s been getting more ’n’ more prickly ever since Mr Drayton appeared. There’s a lot riding on the outcome of tomorrow. I s’pose we’re all a bit worried.’

  ‘I just hope he doesn’t get into one of his maudlin moods,’ Rebecca said. ‘It’s a good job the pub’s shut.’

  She returned home, weary and dejected, and went straight to the cupboard where Trease had put the sherry bottle. It was still there, holding the same amount of liquid left from the morning. She breathed a mighty sigh of relief

  Trease came in a few minutes later. ‘You off to bed?’

  ‘Yes. Are you?’

  He grinned and yawned. ‘Reckon I’ll sleep like a top tonight.’ He kissed Rebecca, the first sign of affection she’d had from him in years, and she went to her bed full of hope again. A new master would breathe new life into the estate and hopefully into her father. Then perhaps instead of having to worry about the present she could consider her future, think about what she’d like to do with her life, decide whether to stay here in Kennick Creek or seek new pastures.

  In the night Trease got up and took the sherry bottle out to his shed. Delving deep in a pile of oily rags, he pulled out a full bottle of whisky, the one he kept for ‘emergencies’. A short time later both bottles were empty and he was moaning out words of lament, his face contorted with the pain of bitter memories and self-pity.

  The arrival at the big house of Mr Drayton, a smart, honest and hard-working man, had reminded him of his own inadequacies and he had felt resentful. Now he felt angry, deeply, bitterly angry. What had given Drayton the right to come and check on what he and the other Kennickers were doing in preparation for Major Fiennes’ arrival? What did he know about hard work anyway? He had never got his hands dirty fighting the blasted Germans! No, he had secured a cosy desk job for himself, everyone knew that.

  Mr pansy-fingered Drayton had never married. He didn’t know what it felt like to come back from war after you’d seen one of your closest mates drown in the sucking, oozing mud. To find that the beautiful wife you’d loved and cherished had run off with another man, a no-good spiv, and your little daughter was a virtual stranger to you, a constant reminder with her pretty dark looks of the bitch who betrayed you. He didn’t know what it was like to fear for the future because his employer was dying a long, drawn-out, painful death. He hadn’t felt the same way about Captain Miles anyway, just easy money in his pocket for him, watching over the estate and doing very little work for it.

  Did he ever wake up sweating in the middle of the night with the sound of bombing and shelling and men’s cries deep inside his head? He had never had to try to get the stink of death out of his nostrils. He had never had to share a latrine with dozens of others and felt the result of its previous use splashing all over his buttocks. He didn’t know what it felt like to be hit by burning shrapnel and lose an eye.

  No! Mr Drayton had a wonderful, cushy life. Did he ever feel the stiffness in his joints, a legacy from the horrific trench conditions? No! He was a healthy man. He had a good job, a nice little house in Truro, a dear old mother apparently to look after him.

  And he had the bloody nerve to come checking on other people’s work!

  Trease put the whisky bottle to his lips and tried to drain one last drop of liquor out of it but without success. Howling in rage he threw the bottle at the roof of the shed and was forced to shield himself as it smashed and the splinters fell down on him. He got up from the pile of old sacks he was sitting on. He was feeling claustrophobic. He had to get outside. He tripped over the doorstep and hauled himself to his feet with a terrible curse. Then he stumbled about outside by the light of the moon.

  Chapter 3

  Rebecca rushed onto the platform of Truro railway station and looked anxiously through the milling crowd for the Fiennes family. Her heart was in her mouth. She’d heard a train pull out of the station as she’d bought her platform ticket. If she was late meeting them it might not only mean a bad start but the final straw in her hopes that she and her father would retain their home on the Trevallion estate. Not that her father cared. He couldn’t possibly if what he had done last night was anything to go by.

  She’d got up at the crack of dawn and was eating a hurried breakfast before starting work with Loveday at the gatehouse when Joe had burst into the kitchen with the terrible news. She’d wrapped her shabby dressing gown in tighter and held her throat as he told her in great anguish about the state he’d just found Trevallion House in.

  ‘I’ll kill your bloody father, I swear it!’ he’d stormed.

  ‘What makes you think—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Becca, who else would it have been? He must have gone off his blasted head!’ Joe pushed past her and headed for the stairs. ‘He’s not up and about, is he?’

  She shook her head numbly, knowing that Joe’s suspicions were probably correct.

  ‘He must have got drunk and went off his blasted head!’

  She’d followed him as he’d raced up the stairs, filling the narrow stairway and making the bare steps tremble under his weight. ‘Allen! Allen! Where are you? You won’t get away with this, you swine!’

  ‘Joe! Stop it!’ Rebecca had wailed, clutching at his shirt.

  They’d hurtled through Trease’s bedroom door together. Trease was lying at an awkward angle stretched out over the bed. Joe snatched a handful of his hair and forced his head upwards. Trease’s head lolled to the side, his eyelids too heavy to open and reveal his glazed eyeballs. He moaned. His mouth dropped open and Joe gagged on stale alcohol and threw him aside in disgust.

  ‘Too damned drunk to even face up to his crime!’

  Rebecca crept round Joe and straightened her father on the bed, putting his head carefully to the side. Then she turned to Joe with her face full of shame and guilt. ‘Wh-what exactly has he done?’

  ‘I’ll tell you downstairs. I can’t bear to look at that man another minute.’ He left quietly, his head and shoulders hunched over in defeat.

  Rebecca opened the windows wide to freshen her father’s room, glancing at him briefly before going to her own room and pulling on some clothes. Downstairs, Joe had poured himself a mug of tea and was staring into it. She had to remove a lump in her
throat.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘All the work that was done yesterday, all that effort and hard work, is ruined. Come and see for yourself.’

  There was an unbearable feeling in her stomach as she had followed Joe’s dejected strides up to the big house. She was desperate to have him tell her what her father had done, but the set of his broad shoulders forbade any more questions. She was Trease Allen’s daughter, and up until now folk had felt sorry for her over his behaviour; now it seemed that Joe wanted her to share in her father’s shame.

  Even if he had told her what Trease had done, it wouldn’t have prepared Rebecca for the shock and horror ahead. She stood outside Trevallion House, white-faced, staring numbly at the devastation. All the window panes had been dirtied with earth thrown at them. Plants and shrubs had been pulled up by their roots and shredded, their pieces tossed about and floating in the pond. The piles of grass cuttings were scattered everywhere. Huge pits had been dug out of the lawns. The heads of the beautiful rhododendrons were pulled off. The pots Joe had carefully cleaned and prepared had all been smashed. Trease had even chopped down a young tree and dragged it along the forecourt and dumped it over the steps. The biggest insult was the condition of the huge ornate front door. It had withstood generations of Trevallions, all weather conditions and many a drama. Trease had run the hunting knife Captain Miles Trevallion had given to him down it, gouging out deep pieces of wood; the knife lay abandoned on the doorstep.

  With tears streaming down her face, Rebecca whispered, ‘I’m so sorry. I must have been so tired I didn’t hear a thing.’ Joe pulled her close to him. ‘’Tis not your fault, Becca. There’s only one person to take the blame for this, and I reckon he don’t care a damn.’