Plotted in Cornwall (17 page)

Jack nodded and went across to the table to refill their glasses. The kitchen was a little less crowded now and the noise level had dropped as people were eating. He poured white wine for Rose although it was no longer chilled. Handing her her glass he asked, ‘Rose why would a near stranger like Miranda come to you to confide such a thing?’

‘I’ve no idea. People do sometimes.’

Indeed they do, Jack thought. But this time he believed Rose to be wrong, that no matter how deep they dug, there would be little to be found. The overseas letter probably had an innocent explanation; a distant cousin, a pen-friend, an old school mate.

‘But why say it at all? Why bring her mother into it if she thinks she’s innocent? I believe Miranda knows something is wrong but she isn’t sure what. I think she was looking to me, as an outsider, to help her. I think she finally came to realise that she couldn’t hide from whatever ghosts were haunting her and she came back to face them.’

‘You seem to have been doing an awful lot of thinking, Rose. Now I’ll tell you what I
think. I think you won’t be satisfied until, well, to coin a phrase, until you know the ins and outs of the cat’s backside.’

‘In that case I think I’ll circulate,’ she said with a toss of her head. Bugger him, she thought as she flounced off, I just wish he’d take this seriously.

In the sitting-room she handed out the presents she had bought for Laura, Trevor, Barry and Maddy and received some of her own in return. She placed them beneath the tree. Jack had brought flowers, she had nothing to give him in return but, at that moment, she was glad.

The party went on longer than she had anticipated. At eleven thirty Rose and Evelyn stood in the kitchen surveying the wreckage. Litter covered every surface. Rose had insisted that Doreen and Cyril and Barry Rowe took some of the left-over food home with them.

‘Let’s get stuck in,’ Evelyn said, slipping on Rose’s apron before taking a pair of rubber gloves from beneath the sink. She began on the glasses whilst Rose filled a bin-liner with paper plates and half-eaten food. Arthur was busy tidying the sitting-room.

‘Amazing,’ he said when he finally joined them, a glass of malt whisky in his hand.
‘No cigarette burns, no mess on the carpet. What civilised friends you have.’

‘Not all of them,’ Rose muttered as she carried the plastic bag outside to the bin. Jack, she recalled, had left without bothering to say goodnight.

Michael was surprised to feel nervous as he approached the farmhouse. He supposed the all-female household would be watching him closely. However, Miranda greeted him warmly, throwing her arms around him as soon as she opened the door, and her mother and aunt seemed friendly, if not effusive in their welcome. It would be a quiet Christmas but that didn’t matter as long as he was with Miranda.

‘Let me show you your room,’ she said as soon as he stepped into the hallway ‘Then I’ll explain the peculiarities of the house. It’s fun, actually, a bit like living in a previous era.’

Once he had been taken all around the house and told how things worked, he
wondered why the two women had chosen to live as they did. Keeping the fires going and the lamps trimmed or whatever they did to them must be time-consuming.

In the kitchen he turned to Miranda, placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head towards him. ‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘I only realised how much once you had left. Have you missed me at all?’

Miranda nodded, head down now, the ringlets of hair falling forward and hiding the feelings she knew would be reflected in her face. ‘Michael, I’ve had a long chat with my mother. I’ve decided I want to go to university after all.’ She looked up and grinned. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.’

‘No problem then.’ Michael grinned back. It was what he had wanted to hear. ‘No matter where you go we can still see each other most weekends.’

‘Yes, we can. Come on, let’s go through. They’ll be gasping for a sherry or something and they won’t start without us. Hopefully we can induce some Christmas cheer into my Aunt Wendy. I don’t know what’s the matter with her lately.’ Miranda had matured enough to know that although she loved Michael now things might be very
different once she started studying again. They would both meet other people, possibly fall in love with one of them, but for the moment she was happy. For the moment there was Christmas to get through then she would consider having another talk with Rose Trevelyan. Something was wrong, Miranda knew that. Even her mother was being cagey. Mrs Trevelyan, she was certain, would get to the bottom of whatever mystery her family had created. And when Uncle Roger and Petra returned she would face them, too. It was time things were out in the open.

It soon became obvious that Louisa liked Michael, and even Wendy’s stiff attitude softened a little in the presence of the young man. No one mentioned Frank Jordan. Michael was curious; all he knew was that the man had walked out on his family about the same time as Miranda arrived in London. He had thought Christmas might have brought her father to mind.

They ate lots of good food, took long walks and returned to the blazing fire tired and content to play Scrabble or cards or simply to talk. Despite the quiet way in which they spent their time, the three days passed quickly.

‘I can’t believe I enjoyed it so much,’ Michael said on the day he left. He had promised to spend the New Year with his own family.

Miranda laughed. He had not meant to be rude, he was used to the ways of the city, to noise and parties and pubs. She knew what he meant and had expected him to be bored. She waved as he drove away, knowing that she would miss him.

A low-lying mist covered the moor lending it a strange, eerie quality. The branches of the few stunted trees rose through it, appearing to have no trunks. She shivered, a little lost now that Michael had gone, and wondered when she would see him again and how she would occupy herself until October.

Shutting the door she went back inside. Halfway up the stairs on her way to her room her mother called out. ‘Miranda, would you bring down my reading glasses, please? I think I left them beside my bed.’

She’d wanted some time alone, to assess the changes that acknowledging her feelings would bring to her life, but first she would fetch the glasses.

She saw the leather case on the bedside cabinet and picked it up. The drawer wasn’t
properly closed. Naturally tidy, Miranda put out a hand to push it to. Her fingers froze on the knob. No, she thought, it can’t be true.

Unable to help herself she pulled the drawer open and took a closer look. She knew then for certain that she had had every reason to be suspicious.

Christmas and Boxing Day were fairly quiet for Rose and her parents, too. They had a couple of drinks with Laura and Trevor and their family then returned to Rose’s house for a late Christmas lunch. Too much food had been counteracted by long walks. On the 26
^th
Barry had driven them up to Newquay where they’d watched the famous surf rolling up over the golden sands of Fistral Bay. Even in the sharp, clean wind there were a few surfers, protected by wetsuits, enjoying the near-perfect conditions. In the summer the place was packed.

They walked around the headland, the wind whipping at their clothes. Arthur was sporting his new trilby with which he was delighted. Evelyn had grinned when he had dumped the old one in Rose’s bin with great ceremony. Evelyn, also thrilled, had changed into her silver-threaded cardigan on Christmas Day as soon as she’d opened
the gift-wrapped package.

The sky was an even blue; the sea, a shade darker, was crested with white. Gulls wheeled overhead and the occasional jackdaw squawked at them as they passed. Each side of them was the rough grass which survived the gales and the salt-laden air. Rose itched to paint the scenery around her, but the colours were so startlingly clear no one not witnessing that same scene would believe they were true.

They drove back through the town, mainly shut up for the winter, and headed back to Newlyn.

‘Are you coming in for a cup of tea?’ Rose asked, when Barry delivered them to the door.

‘No. I’ve got a few things to do.’ He kissed her cheek and reversed back down the drive, not wishing to outstay his welcome. Rose needed some time alone with her parents.

‘I feel completely invigorated,’ Evelyn said, sinking into an armchair. ‘All that fresh air, it was wonderful.’

‘Well, just stay there and I’ll fill the kettle.’ Rose did so, realising that for the past two days she had thought of nothing but providing food and pleasure for her guests. Barry had stayed until seven on Christmas
night and then left them to it. He had turned up again at ten that morning to take them out for the day. Having eaten a proper breakfast with grilled slices of Cornish hog’s pudding, they had decided to forego lunch, no one had been hungry.

Tomorrow her parents were leaving. Rose would miss them but she was also looking forward to getting back to work. If the weather remained as it was her plans for Bodmin Moor could go ahead. Already she saw the scene in her mind although she hadn’t actually found a location. That was part of the enjoyment, driving or walking until she came to an ideal spot.

They spent the last evening at home, winding down from the festivities.

‘Have you any plans for New Year’s Eve?’ Arthur asked before they went to bed.

‘I’m going to Laura’s. It isn’t a party, there’ll just be a few of us. Her family will have gone and we’ve usually sated ourselves by then.’

‘Is Barry going with you?’

‘He’ll be there, Laura always invites him.’

Arthur nodded. The subject of Jack had been taboo since the night he had left without saying goodbye. He wondered if Rose was more to blame than Jack, if she
had upset him in some way. It wouldn’t surprise him.

‘I don’t believe it after yesterday,’ Rose said the following morning when they assembled in the kitchen for breakfast. ‘Typical West Penwith weather.’

The rain was sheeting down, hitting the roof of the shed and bouncing back up again. Rivulets of water ran down the drive and snaked down the window. ‘It won’t be much fun driving back in this. Why don’t you stay another night?’

Evelyn looked at Arthur. ‘What do you think?’

‘We’re supposed to be going to the Hutchinsons’ for lunch tomorrow, and it might still be raining anyway.’

‘You’re right. Thank you, Rose, but I think we’ll stick to our plans.’

Rose smiled. They were tired and wanted to get home. Her father was a good driver and a sensible man, he would not take risks in such weather. Rose was also tired, how much more so must they be? There had been the party and Christmas Day and a long day out in Newquay, and they had, over the four days, walked miles. She understood and did not press them.

They ate fruit and yoghurt and emptied
the coffee machine between them. ‘If you’re all packed, shall we make a move?’ Arthur suggested.

‘Yes. I’m ready.’

He went upstairs to bring down their bag, now overflowing with the presents they had received. Rose had bought small gifts as well as the main ones. Their gifts to her had been vouchers for theatre tickets which she could use at the Theatre Royal in Plymouth, or any other city, a bottle of her favourite perfume and a beautiful lacy nightdress.

Tears filled Rose’s eyes as they pulled away, but the rain, blowing into her face, disguised the ones which fell. She hated partings, especially from her parents, but she knew by the evening she would be back in her old routine and glad for it.

She spent the rest of the day cleaning the kitchen and sorting out the left-over food and the deep freeze. With a glass of wine in her hand she got out a large-scale map and studied it. The rain had abated but the sky was still grey. The forecast for tomorrow was good but that didn’t mean anything. In that part of the world it was far too changeable to be predictable.

‘Damn.’ The ringing telephone made her jump. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Trevelyan, it’s Miranda. Can I come and see you tomorrow?’

Her voice was no more than a whisper, she obviously did not want the conversation to be overheard. Again? Rose thought. ‘Yes,’ she heard herself saying, wondering how she had forgotten the family so easily ‘Can you make it in the morning?’

‘Yes, I’ll leave here as early as I can.’

‘I’ll see you when you get here, then.’ Rose hung up. So it was all going to start again. The Penhaligons would be back in a couple of days; hopefully she could hand the whole mess over to them. Jack had not been in touch since the party so he couldn’t help. Rose was certain that she was now out of his life altogether.

I’ll have an early night, she decided, get Miranda out of the way in the morning, then I’m definitely going to do some work.

Jack picked up the telephone and dialled Anna’s number. She answered almost immediately as if she had been standing by the phone waiting for his call. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ she asked almost shyly.

‘Yes, thanks. Did you?’

‘We had a great time.’

What do I say now? Jack thought. He had
spent the morning of the twenty-fifth mooching about the house waiting for the Mount’s Bay Inn to open for its traditional two hours. It was the same small pub on the sea-front which Rose often frequented. She was not there that day. When the pub closed he went back to his flat, cooked a meal and watched television. He was not lonely, he never was. He liked his own company. Nor was he miserable or full of self-pity. People made such a fuss about spending Christmas together and mostly regretted it after a few days. But he was not about to tell Anna how he had spent his time.

‘How did the party go?’ she asked in order to break the silence.

‘Very well. Look, Anna, I’ve had a chance to think things over. I want to see you, you know that, but Rose is my friend, I can’t just abandon her.’

‘I see.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning, Jack, that I can never be sure of you.’

‘That’s unreasonable, Anna, and you know it. We’re not exactly teenagers, adults can have friendships outside of relationships without it meaning something more.’

Anna sighed. ‘I know that. I didn’t mean
to sound childish, really I didn’t. It’s just that – oh, damn it. You’re a good, decent man, Jack, and maybe that’s why you can’t hide your feelings. What you feel for Rose is more than friendship. I can hear it in your voice every time you say her name.’

She’s right, Jack thought, but what do I do about it? ‘So where does that leave us?’

‘As friends. We can have the odd drink, or a meal. No hard feelings, honestly. I needed to know, you see, before – well, it doesn’t matter.’

It did matter. Jack knew from her last words that Anna felt more for him than he had realised and had acted this way in order to prevent herself from being hurt. ‘Friends, then,’ he said, unsure if disappointment or relief was in the ascendancy.

‘I’ll see you, Jack. Goodbye.’

Anna had replaced the receiver before he could say anything more. He stood by the phone staring at it as if it had all the answers. He suddenly realised that what he wanted most in the world was to see Rose.

He glanced out of the window. It was a grey day but at least it wasn’t raining. Too grey for Rose to be working, he hoped. He pulled on a jacket and strode down Morrab Road to the Queen’s Hotel where he crossed
over to the Promenade and began to walk swiftly towards Newlyn.

By the time he had reached her drive he was breathless. He swore. A car was parked behind hers. A car which he recognised. But it was too late. Rose and Miranda were in the kitchen and they had seen him. He could not decipher Rose’s expression as she opened the door to him, but it was not particularly welcoming. ‘Sorry, I thought with your parents gone you’d be alone. Hello, Miranda.’

‘Hello.’

‘Coffee?’ Rose walked towards the worktop and took a mug from its tree.

Jack sat down. There was an air of tension in the room. He wondered what they had been talking about. Maybe it was fortunate he had arrived, Rose often managed to find herself in trouble she couldn’t handle.

‘Miranda was on her way over to see Joel and called in here first,’ Rose began.

‘We have to tell him, Rose,’ Miranda interrupted. ‘I can’t go on like this, not knowing, not being able to trust my family.’

‘Tell me what?’ Jack looked from one to the other.

‘You tell him, Rose.’

Rose placed Jack’s coffee on the table and
sat down. Her hands were in her lap. ‘Miranda found some letters addressed to her mother. The postmarks were recent. They were from Spain. Miranda is convinced it’s her father’s handwriting. So far, I, and now you, are the only people to know this, apart from Louisa, obviously.’