Plotted in Cornwall (3 page)

She slid home the bolts on the back door and went upstairs to bed.

Miranda Penhaligon lay in her single bed listening to the wind. It sighed through the rooftops between the obsolete chimney-pots and rocked the tangle of television aerials. Several streets away the Thames would be sludgy and rippled, no more than that, nothing so severe as the waves which would be crashing over the Cornish coastline leaving a litter of stones and seaweed, nylon rope and crates which had been swept overboard from fishing-boats. The wind might whip at hemlines and come at you in gusts at a corner but it didn’t tear at your hair and bring stinging tears to your eyes. It was meeker in the city, as if it lived the half-life Miranda had become accustomed to. How I miss Cornwall, she thought, and how I miss them all, Joel especially.

London was all right for a while but the novelty had palled. Miranda had imagined that its population would make use of all the entertainment that was on offer but the girls she worked with went home most evenings to eat and watch television, only going out at the weekend with boyfriends or other girls.

She turned on her side. After fifteen months she still had trouble getting to sleep. There was no true darkness, no silence and stillness here. Traffic all through the night, rumbling taxis, their fares slamming the doors, lorries and cars and early morning road sweepers. And streetlights.

Tears filled her eyes. ‘I can’t bear it,’ she whispered although there was no one to hear her. ‘I want to go home.’

On Thursday morning, puffy-eyed, she dressed in her city clothes, ate some cereal and clattered down the stairs of the building in which her flat was situated. At the end of the street she jumped on a bus and squeezed in between two other people on a long side seat. Ten minutes later she got off and headed towards a tall building of whitish stone and lots of glass. The offices of an insurance company where her role was not clearly defined. Miranda had no qualifications and guessed she had got the job because she was decorative and good with people over the telephone.

At her desk she switched on the computer terminal and typed a letter of resignation. One month. She would give them the month they were due, they had, after all, been fair to her, then she would leave.
Besides, she needed some time, she had to plan ahead.

‘Morning.’

Miranda looked up. Standing in front of her was the only cause for regret. Michael Hanson. It was his smile which had first attracted her, and then his personality. They had been seeing each other out of office hours for four months.

‘A little wistful this morning?’ He leaned towards her, his hands on the edge of the desk. She could smell his aftershave.

‘Just tired.’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t show. You always look good to me. Shall I get you a coffee?’

‘Please.’ She watched him retreat. Loose-limbed, confident and very sexy but her choice had been made.

Michael returned and placed the two plastic containers in their flimsy holders in front of her. He knew something was wrong and wondered if he was responsible. Miranda Penhaligon was not the first woman he had been serious about but she was the first one he didn’t want to lose. She was almost as tall as himself, and as slender. Her skin was olive, her eyes dark brown, which was an odd but striking combination
with her honey-coloured hair. She looked somehow foreign but when he had said so she had laughed and told him she was Cornish.

‘Hence the name,’ she had added, saying she was surprised he had not recognised her accent. But she had come to realise that, thanks to bad imitations by television actors and a lack of concern about the West Country in general, everyone who lived the other side of Bristol was considered to be some sort of Somerset-speaking rustic farmhand by those who lived in London.

‘Look, let me take you out tonight, somewhere special.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’

Michael grinned and walked away. He had expected a refusal. That was another thing about Miranda, she was far from predictable.

Names and numbers came up on her screen. Miranda tried to concentrate, made herself do so, but all the time she was thinking about what she would tell Michael over dinner and how he would take it.

When the working day was over her head ached but she would not back out. Her mind was made up. She had placed her resignation letter in an envelope and left it
on her manager’s desk. During the afternoon he had called her in and asked why she wasn’t happy with them.

‘It isn’t that. It’s silly, I know, but I’m homesick.’ He had not been able to understand it nor had he been able to persuade her to stay.

And now she must tell Michael because, in the way of all offices, the news would travel fast. He mustn’t hear it from someone else.

The London bus lumbered through the streets so slowly she might just as well have walked. People got on and off, singly and in groups, some laughing with the relief of another day of work being over. Christmas lights shone in some of the shop windows but not overhead yet. She would still be there for the switching-on ceremony. Crowds thronged the pavements, homeward-going workers, shoppers with carrier bags, tourists and people wanting a meal before the theatre. And I won’t miss any of it, she realised with a sense of freedom. All I want is to walk by the sea, to hear it crashing against the shore, to feel the wind in my hair and smell the salt in the air. And more than that, I want to see my mother.

But Michael first. She would shower and
change and break it to him gently. I don’t want to hurt him, she thought, knowing it to be true. If he loved her, which she suspected he did, she would not be able to avoid it. But if she stayed she might hurt him more. Either way she couldn’t win.

At five to nine Rose said, ‘Okay, you can pack up now. What I’d like you to do for me for next week is a still life. I know it might sound boring, and it certainly isn’t my favourite art form, but it’s still good discipline. Choose one household object and sketch it. Keep it simple, a plain background, and concentrate on the lines and perspective. We’ve all seen paintings of a bowl of apples or a jug on a table, but it isn’t as easy as it looks. And don’t forget the direction of light and shadows. That’s it, then. See you all again next week.’

Chairs clattered and conversations began, noisy after the near silence of the last two hours. Friendships had been formed during the six weeks the course had been running.
Rose knew who gave whom a lift and those who walked part of the way home together. Harry Osborne, a retired widower, waited alone at the front of the building inside the glass doors until his taxi arrived to carry him off. She was thinking of him, wondering if he was lonely, when Joel came over and made his strange request. She listened patiently, nodded, and found herself agreeing to do as he had asked.

When the last of her varied bunch of students had left, Rose turned down the heating and locked up.

In any group there was always one outsider, one person who did not and never would fit. Humoured or tolerated, ignored or ridiculed, there was no way to draw them into the natural cohesion which usually formed between those who shared a common interest. Joel Penhaligon was such a one, but Joel had talent and he had stamina and Rose had recognised that from the start. It was this which set him apart from the others. Of the eclectic group who turned up each week he was also the youngest. She was interested in him and his work but he was not an easy person to talk to. He was as Cornish as his name, with the squat muscular body, swarthy skin and
near-black curly hair of his ancestors. Neither ugly nor handsome but pleasant-faced, Rose decided. When he smiled, which wasn’t often, there was a hint of mischief about him. Hundreds of people came to Cornwall to paint, to capture the light and colours peculiar only to the Penwith peninsula, but Joel was a true Cornish artist.

She checked the door and stepped out into the street where the wind shrieked and snatched at her hair and almost knocked her sideways.

‘You look as if you could do with a drink. But then I suppose that’s nothing new.’

Rose spun around in surprise then smiled. ‘If you’re buying.’ It was typical of her friendship with Barry Rowe that he would turn up without warning and offer to buy her a drink. It was a friendship which, like hers and Laura’s, had spanned almost three decades beginning from the time before she married David and lasting after his long illness and death from cancer. ‘Where to? The Navy?’

‘Suits me. It’s on the way for both of us.’

They walked down the hill away from the draughty room attached to the side of Geoff Carter’s gallery which he loaned to Rose and various other artists on several nights a
week. Rose had studied the work on show and liked it. It was full of life and feeling. Soon she would pay another visit to the Tate in St Ives where more modern art was on display. There was sculpture, too, including the work of Barbara Hepworth. Rose liked to keep abreast with local culture.

Barry Rowe was aware how full Rose’s life had become and tried not to let his jealousy show, a feat he had never quite managed to achieve. He had never been in with a chance, not even before she met David, but he was always there, always at hand to pick up the pieces because that was where he liked to be. Just lately he felt she was drifting away from him. Success had done that; not altered her, Rose was Rose and that was that, but now her medium was oils her paintings were selling better than ever and there was this evening class, another new venture. She continued to produce work for him, although nowhere near as much as before.

The steeply sloping pavement was narrow, room enough only for one. Barry walked behind Rose who, short and slim, appeared smaller than ever in her padded jacket. Her wavy auburn hair, left loose that night, was lifted from her shoulders as the strong wind
blew straight in their faces. On her feet were walking boots and thick red socks into which her jeans were tucked. From behind she might almost have been a child.

They were nearly at the bottom of Queen Street, the sea was directly ahead of them. They could hear it before they saw it as it rolled in, the high tide imminent, each wave slapping the Esplanade wall with a bomb-like crump followed by a splash as the tops of the waves and fingers of seaweed hit the paving stones and ran into the road.

A salvage tug swung on its anchor, its lights bright against the black sky. These tugs came and went, staying for days or for months, disappearing to refuel or to perform their function which was always to someone else’s cost.

Spray hit them, carried by the wind across the width of the road. Barry pushed open the door of the pub and held it for Rose. It was warm inside and there were a dozen or more customers seated round the L-shaped bar talking or watching the football match being played silently on the television at the far end. Music came from a CD player, sixties music from the days of Rose and Barry’s youth.

Gwyn, the landlady, greeted them by
name. ‘The usual?’ she asked as she reached for a pint glass.

‘Please.’ Barry pulled a handful of change from his pocket, reaching beneath his threadbare donkey jacket to do so.

Rose shook her head. It was probably the same one he had worn when she first knew him.

They sat at the table in the corner by the window. Rose got out her cigarettes.

‘I still don’t know why you don’t give up. You only smoke a couple a day.’

‘And I enjoy every single one of them. Don’t nag.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling, which was adorned with naval artefacts. The light caught the glints in her hair which rested on her shoulders, tangled by the boisterous elements. And I’ve given up nagging you about smartening yourself up, she thought, although she had done so mercilessly in the past.

‘How’re the classes going?’

‘Quite well now everyone’s settled down. I’m beginning to spot which of them have any talent.’ Joel Penhaligon, especially, she thought. It seemed an age since August when Geoff Carter had suggested she take the overflow from one or two of the other artists who passed on their skills in the
annexe of his gallery.

‘I’m not qualified, I don’t know a thing about teaching,’ Rose had told him, panicking at the suggestion. He had held an exhibition for her. Was this the pay-back? No, Geoff wouldn’t have risked his own reputation if he didn’t think she was good and besides, although he wasn’t an artist himself, he liked to encourage those who were or might turn out to be.

‘Of course you are. You were an art student yourself once. And you certainly know how to paint. It’s not like council-run evening classes, you don’t need qualifications. You’ve got four weeks to prepare yourself and I’m sure you won’t want to disappoint any budding artists. Look, they’ll be total novices wanting to learn the basics. They won’t know charcoal from crayon. Just teach ’em one end of a pencil from the other and let them get on with it. And you’ll be getting paid,’ he’d added with a grin. So she had agreed and was glad to have done so even if it was only Joel who went any further.

‘Why so glum?’ Rose asked, aware that Barry was staring into his drink in his usual lugubrious stoop-shouldered manner.

‘No reason.’ But he was thinking she had
more or less given up on the watercolours of flowers and local coves and villages which he reproduced on notelets and greetings cards and then sold from his shop. And photography. Only rarely now did she photograph scenes for the postcard side of the business. Oils had become her passion, one which had been submerged during the years of her marriage and until recently.

‘Oh, did I tell you I’ve got a commission? I went to see the people yesterday.’

‘No. Where? Local?’

‘Sort of. Bodmin Moor, actually.’

Barry grinned. ‘You call that local? And David always told me you were more Cornish than the Cornish. You know perfectly well that anywhere east of Hayle is considered foreign. Your Gloucestershire roots were showing there, maid. Anyway, what sort of commission?’

‘A double portrait, I suppose you’d call it.’

Barry looked surprised. He took off his glasses with their thick tortoiseshell frames and polished them on the wide rib of his sweater in which there was a small hole. ‘Do you think you’re good enough?’

It was not an insult but a perfectly serious question. Barry knew as well as she did that being talented in one area of art did not
mean you were competent all round. ‘I think so.’ It had been hard reverting to the smaller scale, more delicate work she was teaching her students after the strong, almost all-arm movements of her more dramatic work on canvas. During the first couple of lessons she had felt not only nervous but clumsy, but it was good discipline for her, as well as for them, especially working with pastels which smudged so easily. ‘One portrait but two sitters. Sisters. The house is superb and they seem to have money. One’s never married, the other one’s husband did a bunk. Perhaps his money has provided for them.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Anyway, the older woman’s about sixty but it’s harder to guess the age of the other one.’

‘What, older than you and me?’

‘Thank you, dear. But I’m in my prime, you realise. And so are you.’ But Barry had always seemed older than his years. His thinning hair and skinny body added to that impression.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in my prime,’ he said so solemnly that Rose had to stop herself from laughing.

She finished her drink and stared, unseeing, down the length of the bar. ‘There’s something odd about the set-up. Why pick
me and why have it done anyway?’

‘Rose, don’t. Lots of sisters live together and lots of people would like their portrait done if they could afford it. You just said they’ve got money.’

‘I expect you’re right.’ She paused. ‘And there’s something else.’

Barry groaned. He had never known a woman so intent upon becoming involved in things which did not concern her. He wondered if another drink was called for before he heard what it was.

‘My round,’ Rose said, anticipating his thoughts. She slipped out from behind the table and went to the bar to get it.

‘Something else, you said?’ he asked when she sat down.

‘Mm.’ She sipped her wine. ‘One of my students wants me to speak to his parents.’

‘His?’ He could not help the tiny stab of jealousy.

‘He’s very talented and wants a career in the arts only his father’s against it on principle.’

‘And this young man believes you can talk his father round?’

‘That’s about the strength of it.’

‘And, naturally, you couldn’t mind your own business and say no.’

Rose’s eyes narrowed. A spiteful Barry did not make the best of company. ‘No, I couldn’t. I might be his only chance and he could go far. Surely you’d do the same in my position.’

‘I expect I probably would.’ Don’t be churlish, he told himself. Rose will always get the better of you. ‘When are you going to see this man?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Joel’s going to ring me.’

‘You gave this boy your telephone number?’ Barry’s voice had risen in disbelief. ‘You hardly even know him.’

‘My number’s in the book, dear, he could have found it for himself. Why are you being so unreasonable tonight?’

Because I’m a sad old bastard and I want you to myself, he admitted, but silently. ‘I’m tired, or else it’s the weather. Now, shall I walk you home?’

An odd comment for a man who never noticed the weather, but Rose decided to let it go. ‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’ She was hungry. She didn’t eat before the class because it was too early and she did not like rushing a meal. If Barry walked her all the way back to Newlyn she would feel obligated to ask him in for a drink and if she didn’t eat soon her appetite would diminish.
There was haddock that night, already dipped in egg and breadcrumbs ready to grill. Vegetables, too, had been prepared. The Newlyn fishing fleet landed an annual catch greater than anywhere else in England and amounting to millions of pounds. Rose knew many of the fishermen, which meant there were times when she had more fish than she could eat. Laura had helped deplete her stock last night despite her protests about being satiated with seafood. But Laura could out-eat anyone. She thrived on nervous energy and remained thin to the point of skinniness.

Barry helped Rose on with her jacket and walked with her as far as the Queen’s Hotel. The wind threatened to blow them over as it was funnelled round the corner where they said their goodbyes. Barry turned right, away from the sea-front, into Morrab Road which would take him uphill, back into town the long way around. He lived in a small flat over his shop in a side street just off the centre of Penzance.

Rose turned to wave then carried on the way they had been walking, staying on the opposite side of the road from the Promenade in order not to get wet. The waves were higher now, sweeping across the
protective wall of the car-park; there had been houses there once, but the sea had destroyed them in a vicious storm. Spray hissed as it flew skywards before splashing on the ground. Outside the Mount’s Bay Inn she hesitated only a second. Tempting as it was to sit by the fire and have one more drink before calling a taxi she decided to leave it for another night. Food was more important, and so was the exercise.

The dim glow from the hall light, set on a timing device, showed through the sitting-room window. It enabled her to open the kitchen door, the entrance she always used, without fumbling in the dark for the right key. She went inside, flicked the switch for the strip-light and lit the gas under the pans containing vegetables. They would take longer to cook than the fish. Once she had laid the table – cork place mat, knife and fork, pepper and salt and tartare sauce – she poured a glass of wine and went through to the sitting-room. The red light on the answering-machine blinked rapidly. There were three calls. The first from her mother who had been out when she rang to tell her the news the previous day. She looked at her watch. Ten thirty-five, too late to ring back now. Her parents were retired farmers but
early nights and early rising was a habit ingrained and had never been broken.