Buried in Cornwall (12 page)

Nick was an enigma to himself. He was unable to decide if his discontent came from getting too much or too little out of life. At the moment, as far as women were concerned, he seemed to be getting far too much. Maddy’s visit that morning had disturbed him greatly and was too reminiscent of Jenny’s last one. It was a mystery how he attracted such behaviour. Maddy Duke was obviously disturbed and had a deep-seated envy of Jenny. It was strange that he had never noticed this before. And now he had further cause for anxiety. Maddy had seen him on the night of Jenny’s death. If he didn’t go along with her wishes she might well go to the police.

Maddy had risen early, long before daylight. After a restless night she had come to a decision. She knew that Nick was an insomniac and guessed that he would also be up and about.

There was no point in opening the shop until ten, few people had fancy goods on their mind that early in the day. However, she rang the girl who helped out occasionally if Maddy wanted a few hours off and she agreed to open up. She had a spare set of keys. Maddy had finally had
to trust someone and in Sally’s case she had not been let down. Working a six-day week, seven in the height of the season, it was essential to have some assistance even if it did cut into her profits.

In the darkness she passed few people and no one she knew. She had not set eyes on Nick for several days but since Jenny’s death none of them seemed to be communicating as much as usual. It was a shame, but nothing could compare to the loss of little Annie. No, not little, she reminded herself. A young woman now. The bitterness was always with her and she suspected it always would be. Stella had pointed out how well she had done for herself but had managed to make it more like an insult when she spoke of ‘your little business’. But success wasn’t enough. She wanted, not as most people seemed to, someone to love her, but someone whom she could love. At times she thought she could settle for simply being accepted as one of the crowd. Deep down she realised that this could not be. Not because she was neither Cornish nor an artist but because there was a barrier between herself and others, one of her own construction.

Layers of clothing disguising her reasonable body, Maddy set off up the hill. To see Nick, to hear his voice, would be balm to her miserable
state. Hard as she tried to conquer these spells of depression there were some which were undefeatable.

As far as she could discern, he was not getting very far with Rose. This pleased her. And now that Jenny was no longer around Maddy was sure she could persuade Nick that she would be good for him. I can make him happy, I know I can, she told herself.

She slowed her pace to take the steep incline up to his house. Lights showed in the windows and the door was ajar. Nick always liked plenty of fresh air whatever the time of year. She rapped her knuckles on the weather-roughed wood of the door and called his name.

‘Come in, Maddy. I’m in the kitchen.’

Already feeling more cheerful at his welcoming tone, she went through, picking her way amongst the general untidiness of the room where books and papers and picture frames were scattered. Nick was standing by the sink. She saw at once that lack of sleep was plaguing him again. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised and the lines in his face more deeply etched. ‘Are you all right, Nick?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Just can’t sleep, dammit. It’ll pass.’

‘There’s nothing worrying you, is there?’
Maddy kept her voice light, hoping that Rose Trevelyan was not the cause of his sleeplessness.

‘No, nothing apart from Jenny and that’s hanging over all our heads.’

‘Would you like me to make you some breakfast?’ she had asked.

‘What about the shop?’

‘Sally’s opening up for me. I just felt like an hour or two away from it all. It’s been satisfyingly busy. Breakfast then?’ She smiled widely, showing her neat white teeth.

‘Food might be a good idea, actually. But only if you join me.’

It was a pleasure to be allowed the run of his kitchen although she had to open all the cupboards and drawers to find things. Nick ignored her, his mind elsewhere. How nice it would be if I could do this every day, she thought while she boiled the kettle and poached eggs as there was little else in the fridge. She fantasised that she was already living with Nick, that they would become an accepted couple. It was a shame he was so tired, his problems should be over now that Jenny wasn’t hanging around his neck. Their relationship may have been over as far as Nick was concerned but Jenny had had other ideas. She had confided in Maddy that she
was determined to get him back, hinting that it was never really over. Jenny had said something else, too, but for the moment Maddy couldn’t recall the rest of the conversation. ‘I can live with his moods,’ Jenny had said, laughing. ‘My God, I ought to be able to after all that time. He doesn’t know what he wants, that’s his problem. It takes a woman to show him. You’ll see, I’ll soon be moving back in.’

Maddy had doubted that very much. But now she realised that what Jenny had said may have held some truth. She
had
known him well. Perhaps it was time that she, Maddy, showed Nick what he wanted; namely, herself. The trouble was, she suspected, that they had met as friends and he was unable to see her as a desirable woman.

‘It’s ready.’ Maddy carried the warm plates to the scarred wooden kitchen table and placed salt and pepper in the middle. Two eggs each, on thick slices of buttered toast. Steaming mugs of tea were at the sides of their plates.

Nick ate as if he was ravenous and she wondered if he was looking after himself.

‘That’s better. Food always tastes nicer when someone else cooks it.’

Maddy beamed. These were the sort of words she lived to hear. ‘I love cooking,’ she said. ‘Come
for dinner tonight, why don’t you? I’ve got all morning to find us something special.’

‘Thanks, Maddy, but I’ll probably turn in early. I’m so damned tired.’

Her face fell but she was determined not to let her disappointment show. A tirelessly cheerful companion was what Nick needed. Then she thought of another way to help him relax. Slowly she cleared the table and washed the dishes in the old stone sink. ‘Fancy another cup of tea?’ she inquired artlessly, wanting to stay as long as possible.

‘Yes, I do. Thanks.’

‘Go and sit down, for goodness sake, Nick, before you fall down.’ Jenny was right, Maddy thought, Nick only needs to be told what to do. She took the tea into the living-room, pleased to note that he was on the settee, and joined him there. They sipped it and Maddy asked him about his painting and what he was working on. When both mugs were empty she moved a little closer to him and reached for his hand, stroking the back of his roughened fingers gently. When he did not resist she brought her left hand around to his chest. Not until her hand was beneath his jumper and unbuttoning his shirt did Nick seem to realise her intentions.

‘Maddy, don’t.’

‘Why not? Surely you like it.’

‘Leave me alone, for God’s sake.’ He jumped up and stalked into the kitchen.

Maddy followed him. ‘I just want to help, Nick, to make things right for you. I’ll take care of you, I promise. Please believe me.’ She was desperate. ‘You have to believe me. I didn’t tell the police I saw you, after all.’

‘What?’ Nick spun round. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘On the night Jenny died. I saw you. You were following her.’

‘You’re mistaken. How could I have been following her when I was on the phone to you?’

‘Not immediately. But not all that long after she left.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Nick shouted. ‘It wasn’t me, you stupid bitch.’ He left by the back door of the house, slamming it hard behind him.

Tears filled Maddy’s eyes and her face was hot with shame and humiliation. She wanted to run and hide but she also wanted to stay, to ask him what was so wrong with her that he couldn’t bear her to touch him. When he didn’t return after a few minutes she left quietly and walked slowly down the hill. Reaching the bottom she turned
left and began to run as suppressed rage boiled up within her. It’s Rose’s fault, she thought, Rose Trevelyan with her girlish figure and her bloody talent.

It was not yet nine thirty. Maddy knew the only release would be to return to the shop and work, to make an effort to be pleasant to the customers. As soon as she returned she rang Sally to say that her services weren’t needed then she cried until she felt there were no more tears to be shed. By the time Rose walked into the shop around lunch time she was more or less her normal self. The permanent ache she felt was still there but she realised her behaviour could hardly have endeared her to Nick. And she had had time to wonder just what he really had been doing that night.

Rose hated being under suspicion, hated the whole idea of Jenny’s death and the way everyone had been affected, but at least she had worked out her next move. She was going to see Maddy, using the excuse of buying Barry’s Christmas present for being in the shop. It was not even out of her way as she had arranged to meet Stella that afternoon. If it wasn’t raining they would go for a walk. Stella hated the rain. Rose intended
making the most of the opportunity by asking advice on holding her own exhibition and, if she was really lucky, persuading Stella to allow her to do so in her gallery.

The sky was dull but Rose decided to dress smartly in deference to her hostess. She put on an olive green skirt and a cream lambswool sweater then, after a leisurely breakfast, left the house, for once having read more than the front page of the newspaper.

St Ives was busy. Panic buying, she thought, and so much of it would go to waste. The narrow streets were crowded although Truro, Plymouth and Exeter were the places which benefited most at that time of year. As yet, apart from the awful superstores on the edge of Penzance, there were none of the big stores in the area. Rose preferred the small shops, run by individuals rather than by faceless men who sat around boardroom tables.

She walked down the hill, stepping off the narrow pavement every so often to pass slower, window-gazing pedestrians. Light spilt from the shops making the sky seem duller than it really was. The mouth-watering aroma of freshly cooked pasties wafted into the streets as she passed the various bakers’. Decorations glowed and even Rose began to feel festive.

A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door of Maddy’s shop. There were already three other customers browsing. Maddy had stacked every surface with goods. Two women and one man handled objects as they decided whether or not to buy them. The whole gamut of Maddy’s talents filled the shelves and the tables down the centre of the room. It was hard to know where to look first with so many brightly coloured articles to catch the eye. Mobiles swirled overhead, moved by the warm air of the fan-heater behind the counter, and silver bells tinkled. There were painted wooden toys, drawn-threadwork table linen, ceramics and papier mache containers. Not wishing to draw attention to herself until they were alone, Rose kept her back to the counter where Maddy was writing a receipt for one of the women and had a good look around. Rose and her friends had given up sending one another cards many years ago. It seemed so pointless when they were in daily contact. Those few she did send had already been posted. Laura was often broke so she and Rose had made a pact years ago only to buy one another something inexpensive, a token. The only other gifts she bought now were for her parents and Barry, although she had made an exception last year and bought Jack a bottle of
his favourite malt and framed a sketch of hers he had admired.

On a shelf, Rose spotted what she took to be a pen-holder, shaped and hollowed from a single piece of wood whose legend claimed it came from the wreck of a ship. The outside was rough, the wood grained and interesting, but inside it had been squared out smoothly. Six inches high and with a firm heavy base, it would act as one even if that was not what it was intended for. She peered at the sticky label which displayed the price. Five pounds. She would take it.

‘Bye, and thanks,’ she heard Maddy say as the shop door bell jangled again. ‘Rose, I didn’t see you come in. Need any help?’

‘No, thanks. I’m going to have this, but I’m still looking.’

Maddy went back to serve an elderly woman with bow legs and an old-fashioned wicker basket which contained a Yorkshire terrier.

‘It’s good to be so busy,’ Maddy commented when the shop was empty at last. ‘Four fifty to you,’ she added, tilting the wooden object to check the price. Her need to be liked was greater than her envy of Rose.

‘Thank you. But I really didn’t come expecting a discount.’

‘What’re friends for? Fancy a coffee and a sandwich? I’m closing for lunch. It’s too long a day otherwise.’

Rose looked at her watch. There was plenty of time before she was due to meet Stella. ‘Thanks, I’d love a coffee.’

There was nothing else she wanted to buy. For her parents, who claimed to have everything they needed at their time of life, Rose had ordered a hamper of food to be sent. It contained only Cornish produce: hog’s pudding, clotted cream, pasties, fudge, saffron cake, ginger fairings and heavy cake. There was also a small box of salted pilchards. Enclosed with their card she had sent a recipe book in case her mother decided to try her hand at baking any of the cakes, and an explanation to go along with the heavy cake. ‘Folklore says it goes back to biblical times,’ she had written. ‘It’s also known as “fuggan” and was eaten by the “hewer” and somehow got its name from the cry of “hewa” which he’d shout from his look-out in the days when men were employed to watch for the shoals of fish, pilchards mostly, from a vantage point on the cliffs. Anyway, enjoy it, it’s delicious, especially if you warm it up.’

Maddy locked the door and turned the sign to
closed then led Rose out through the back and up a flight of uncarpeted stairs to her flat.

‘Did you make everything in the shop?’ Rose inquired.

‘Yes. Well, most of it. I’m a real Jack-of-all-trades.’

‘Amazing. Anyway, I’m really pleased with my find. It’s for Barry Rowe, do you know him?’