Plotted in Cornwall (16 page)

Rose shrugged. It hurt, there was no denying
that, but there was no point in avoiding the subject. ‘It’s okay, I really don’t mind. Would you tell Dad it’s ready?’

‘Of course.’

Over the meal they caught up on each other’s news and gossip. Her parents were thrilled with Rose’s success with her oils, but disappointed that her first attempt at a serious portrait had been abandoned. No more mention of Jack was made that night, for which Rose was grateful.

The following day there was no time for Rose to dwell on any of the matters which were troubling her. As soon as their makeshift breakfast of tea and toast had been eaten and the dishes cleared away she set about taking the ready prepared food out of the freezer. Her parents, recognising that determined look, the tilt of the chin, said they would take themselves off somewhere and return after lunch. ‘We’ll probably take a run over to St Ives,’ Arthur said. ‘Is there anything you want?’

‘No, there can’t possibly be,’ Rose said, recalling all the shopping she had done over the past few weeks.

Arthur pulled on his hat and bent his tall, lean frame to kiss the top of his daughter’s head. ‘Are you sure we can’t help you with
anything?’ He felt guilty about leaving her but knew he would be considered in the way.

‘Positive.’ Once they had left, Rose made up bowls of salad. A presenter on Radio 4 was talking quietly in the background but Rose wasn’t really listening, she was wondering where Frank Jordan would be spending Christmas and if his wife would be thinking about him. I no longer have any idea whether he’s dead or alive, she realised as she cut radishes into shapes to decorate the cold meats. At least Joel was with friends and Miranda had mentioned a boyfriend who was coming to visit. What would Louisa and Wendy make of another addition to their household?

The next hour or so flew by. During the afternoon Rose and her parents took it in turns to shower and change ready for the evening. At five-thirty, wearing the apple green dress she had worn to the Penhaligons’ party, Rose poured their first drink. ‘Cheers,’ she said raising her glass. ‘I’m ready for this.’

‘Cheers. And you look lovely,’ Arthur said, raising his in response. ‘Just like your mother, in fact,’ he added, winking at Evelyn who, elegant as usual, was dressed in
a coffee-coloured dress and jacket made from shimmering material.

Like the Penhaligons, Rose had invited her guests early because many of them had guests of their own to see to the following day, or small children who would drag them out of bed before daybreak. At six thirty precisely there was a knock on the kitchen door. Rose stood up. ‘No bets on who that is,’ she said.

‘Doreen Clarke?’

Rose grinned at her mother. ‘Spot on.’ Doreen thought that if an invitation was for six-thirty, then that was exactly when she ought to arrive.

‘Here’s the carrot roses,’ Doreen said by way of greeting as she thrust an ice-cold polythene bag into Rose’s hands.

‘Thank you. What would you like to drink?’

‘A drop of gin for me, Cyril’ll have a beer, won’t you, dear?’

Cyril nodded and twisted his cap in his hands. Used to his miner’s headgear for so many years, he had taken to wearing the cap after he was made redundant. Doreen always had to remind him to take it off indoors even though he felt undressed without it.

Rose poured their drinks. ‘Go on through, my parents are in the sitting-room. I shan’t be a minute.’ She untied the bag and placed the decorative carrot shapes amongst the garnish surrounding the sandwiches, pasties and flans. Every working surface in the kitchen was covered with plates of food; the drinks she had laid out on the table.

‘Don’t stand there like that, Cyril, you heard what Rose said, let’s go and say hello to Arthur and Evelyn.’

Cyril patted Rose’s arm as he walked past. He had not spoken a single word since his arrival but Rose knew that once his wife was circulating and he’d had a few more beers, he’d strike up a conversation about gardening with anyone who would listen. He hated socialising, he was only happy in the company of other ex-miners or when tending his vegetables, but he had come to please Doreen whom, despite her tendency to bossiness, he cared about deeply.

The house gradually began to fill up. There was a real mixture of guests: friends, fishermen and their wives, and other artists. Arthur had been put in charge of the CD player. There was no room for dancing and as everyone was far too busy talking to care what they were listening to his choice of
music was hardly relevant.

It was seven thirty before Jack appeared. Rose was in the kitchen but didn’t hear his knock because Laura, dressed in a purple Lycra dress which fitted like cling-film, had a group of people laughing loudly. Whatever she was saying was accompanied by extravagant gestures made with the whole of her thin body. Her mass of curls flew wildly around her head. Even though she couldn’t hear what was being said Rose laughed too. Laura resembled some African tribal dancer.

‘Hello. I brought you these.’

Rose nearly dropped the bottle from which she was replenishing drinks. With shaking hands she screwed the top back on and set the bottle on the table. Then she turned to face the man whose voice she knew so well. ‘Thank you.’ Inexplicably, she felt a lump in the back of her throat as she took the long-stemmed hot-house roses he held out to her.

‘Your namesake. I thought they were appropriate.’

They were yellow, Rose noted, not red, the traditional gift expressing love. She had no idea what to read into that.

They looked at each other wordlessly for
several seconds. No one seemed to notice. How odd that now he had met someone else Jack had developed a romantic streak. Or maybe I quashed it, she admitted honestly, recalling times he had bought her gifts. Maybe Laura was right about Jack all along. Her view was that having lost David in such a tragic manner she was terrified of giving or receiving love again in case the same thing happened twice. But it was too late now. Rose had shut him out. Whatever might have been possible between her and Jack was no longer viable with Anna on the scene. The tears which had threatened did not fall. But where was Anna? There were no strange faces, nothing in the kitchen had changed, except the level of conversation was a little noisier.

‘Anna couldn’t make it, she sends her apologies,’ Jack said, reading her mind. ‘May I?’ He picked up a whisky bottle.

‘Of course.’ Tall, dark and handsome, Rose thought as she watched him pour his drink with strong hands. It ought to have been a cliché, she thought, but in Jack’s case it wasn’t. She could smell his clean, masculine smell and felt a desire to touch him. ‘She’s not ill, is she?’

‘No.’ A flicker of a smile crossed his face.
It was typical of Rose, she just had to know. He would bet she had been longing to meet Anna. But Jack hadn’t spoken to her, they had agreed to wait until after Christmas, by which time Jack should have come to a decision. To his surprise Anna had already told him she had other plans, that she was going to a friend’s house. There would be three of them, three women, all now single, who planned to spoil themselves for a change instead of catering to men and families. Jack had been surprised but not particularly bothered. To him each day was much the same as the next. It had been different when his boys were small.

‘Come and say hello to my parents.’ Rose almost took his hand, but didn’t. Her mood had lifted. Jack was there and he’d come alone. ‘Dad’s the DJ but it’ll be mostly jazz and I know you like it.’

They moved through the throng of the people Rose knew. Geoff Carter, the gallery owner, was deep in conversation with Maddy Duke, Rose’s friend from St Ives. She was, as usual, dressed in a bizarre assortment of clothes and the tangle of mousy-blonde hair which hung down her back was adorned with tiny glittering clips. She ran a gift shop and produced much of
the craft herself.

Rose looked around and felt almost superfluous at her own party, but maybe that was the way a good hostess should feel. There was no need to introduce people, they either already knew one another or had been introduced by someone else.

Trevor looked flushed. He’d probably had a few drinks before he arrived. Rose hoped it wouldn’t lead to another row between him and Laura, but then, Laura wasn’t stinting herself in the kitchen either.

‘Jack, lovely to see you.’ Evelyn reached up to kiss his cheek.

Arthur extended his hand. ‘Hello, Jack. Benny Goodman. One of my favourites.’ He nodded towards the CD player in the corner.

‘One of mine, too,’ Jack said, aware that Evelyn was trying to peer around him.

‘Is your, uh, young lady here?’

‘No. She couldn’t make it.’ Jack bit his lip. Like mother, like daughter. Evelyn, too, wanted to know why not but he wouldn’t satisfy their curiosity. Couldn’t, in fact, he realised, because he had no idea where he stood with Anna. And yet, deep down, he was glad he had come on his own. It would have been hard for Anna, meeting a whole
new group of people, many of whom Jack had known for most of his life. But was that the only reason he felt glad? He would think about it later.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’

Jack turned around. Rose had disappeared. ‘Hi, Barry, quite a do, isn’t it?’ He nodded at the assembled group comprising Doreen Clarke and her husband, Maddy Duke and Geoff Carter and the other various people that Rose had collected along the way. They all liked her, and she them, and for such a disparate group that said a lot about her.

‘Rose knows how to entertain.’

Jack nodded. It was true, but Barry was always so defensive of her. Barry would certainly know about Anna. Surely he didn’t disapprove, not if it left the coast clear for him.

‘Did you come on your own?’

It was obvious he had but in true Cornish fashion the question had to be asked. ‘Yes, I did.’

Barry pushed his glasses into place. It made no difference. Rose would never love him in any way other than as a friend. For years he had had to content himself with
that knowledge. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Good idea.’

Rose was in the kitchen dispensing serviettes, plates and cutlery. ‘Barry, would you tell everyone they can come and help themselves?’ she asked.

It was only when people were doing so that Jack had a chance to speak to Rose properly. They were at one side of the kitchen, near the door. ‘I wondered if Joel would be here. You said his parents would be away and I know you, every lame duck, etc.’

Rose grinned. She was flushed and a little flustered but Jack knew this was from the effort of ensuring her guests were all right. ‘He’s staying with a friend and his family. Besides, it’s hardly his sort of thing. Look, Jack, I know this isn’t really the time or place but Louisa came to see me. No, don’t say it.’ She extended a warning hand. ‘I didn’t invite her. That family seems to have a penchant for turning up on my doorstep unannounced. Anyway, she never got to the point of her visit. All she really told me was how much she loved her husband, or maybe that’s just what she wanted me to hear.’

‘Rogues have a certain charm for some women, and they often command more
loyalty than they deserve.’

‘Yes. Quite.’

Jack raised an eyebrow, unsure what the enigmatic remark meant.

Rose studied him, unsure whether she ought to go on. He leant, one arm against the door-frame, looking down at her. He was casually dressed in tan trousers and a yellow shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He had discarded his brown flecked jacket because of the heat generated by such a big crowd. ‘Anyway, there was a letter in her bag with a foreign stamp.’

‘Rose, you didn’t…?’

‘Of course not. What on earth do you take me for? The bag was open beside her.’ She turned to hand Cyril Clarke a plate. ‘Dig in,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want anything left over.’

‘I will, maid. ’Tis a lovely spread.’

Rose and Jack were silent, watching with admiration as Cyril filled his plate to overflowing and carried it to a corner of the kitchen where he ate, standing up and without spilling anything.

‘Aren’t you eating, Rose?’ Laura’s hand hovered over a plate. Trevor stood beside her filling his with whatever was within his reach.

‘Later, when everyone’s helped themselves.’

‘What about you, Jack?’

‘Later.’ He wondered why she was looking at him in such a peculiar manner. Her expression was almost a leer. He had known her since childhood; she had only ever treated him like a brother. ‘Okay,’ he said, turning to face Rose. ‘Tell me about this letter.’

Rose shrugged. ‘I’m not sure there is anything to tell. But because Louisa showed no signs of concern when Frank disappeared I wondered, maybe, if she knew where he was all along.’

‘Come off it, you thought he was dead, that he’d been transported to the mists of Bodmin Moor in a deep freeze.’

Put like that it sounded ridiculous. Rose blushed. Jack frequently made her feel uncomfortable. ‘Yes, well, that was then.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I think he’s abroad. I think he took off in his boat. I think Louisa might know exactly where he is.’

‘Then why isn’t she with him? Why not go too, especially if, as she claims, she loves him so much?’

‘Because they couldn’t both disappear at
the same time, not if some crime has been committed.’

Rose had a point, but as far as the police were concerned Frank Jordan was not wanted in connection with any crime. But nothing seemed to explain Wendy’s presence at the farmhouse or Miranda’s decision to disappear then reappear at a time when solicitors were seeking her father. Like Rose, he suspected her reasons for leaving in the first place went far deeper than any she had ever admitted to. ‘When Miranda came here that first time, what did she want to talk to you about?’

‘About Joel, about arranging to meet him.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No. The only other thing she said was that she was too embarrassed to face her aunt and uncle.’

‘It’s a shame they’re away I’d have liked to have spoken to them. And the second time, when she came with Joel. What did she talk about then, apart from the boat, I mean?’

‘It’s odd. They came as a sort of deputation, as if they had some hard facts but then decided against telling me what they were. Miranda hedged. She said she believed something bad may have happened to her father and then, with a throw-away
line, she said she had suspected her mother of having something to do with it but now she knew better.’