For the next couple of days the weather was unsettled until finally the thunderstorms cleared the air and gave way to scorching heat and summer proper.
Rose had not met Maddy’s daughter. She had decided that it was too much to expect of Julie to make herself known to strangers as well as the mother she had never known over a two-day visit. She had also persuaded her parents to prolong their stay.
‘In that case we’ll all have a proper holiday, and no arguments, my girl,’ Arthur had told her. He had wanted to take them to the Isles of Scilly but accommodation was at a premium in July and it was impossible to find anywhere with both a single and double room available. Instead, the day after Joe’s funeral, they drove up to Devon, to the South Hams, and stayed at a farmhouse where they idled away the hours, soaking up sunshine in the garden while they read or taking long, leisurely walks on paths winding between ripened crops which were almost ready to harvest. There was a heavy summer stillness and the roughness of dried grasses rasped their legs as they walked. The hedgerows were filled with red campions, dog violets, bush vetch and stitchwort. The flowers of the brambles were interspersed with green and red berries, hard now, but they would be ready to pick in another month. Rose named those plants her parents did not know. She had drawn most of them for Barry’s notelets. There were cream teas and strawberries and a bus ride to Bigbury where they crossed to Burgh Island in the sea-tractor and had cocktails in the 1920s art deco bar of the luxury hotel. The days passed quickly and they slept deeply at night, then suddenly it was over.
On the last afternoon Rose had taken her sketch-pad out with her and her parents had watched in fascination as she quickly outlined the buccolic scene spread in front of them, then she drew the farmhouse and its garden, washing it in subtle watercolours before presenting it to Evelyn who hugged her in gratitude.
‘In return for my jug,’ Rose told her.
‘She’s itching to get back to work,’ Evelyn said as they were getting ready for bed that night.
‘I know, but the break’s done her good. She needed it. I can’t recall when she last had a holiday.’
‘I won’t hear of it,’ Rose declared at breakfast when Arthur suggested they drove her home before setting off themselves. ‘You’ll almost double the length of your journey. Drop me at Plymouth station and I’ll go back by train,’
They did so and Rose watched them drive away, sad at their going but knowing she was ready to get back to the routine of her life. She felt refreshed and was full of ideas for future work. Sitting on the train, her thoughts drifted from the holiday to Jack and to the events of the past few weeks and how fate, like most things, held a mixture of give and take.
Two people I know, two friends, and one has lost a son while the other has found a daughter. But Etta was a survivor. The sad day of the funeral had been and gone and now that she had Sarah on her side again it would be easier for her to get through the awful months which lay ahead. And Maddy, overjoyed that the child she had seen only briefly on that one sad occasion had come back to her, was now looking forward to a second visit.
The train neared Penzance. It slowed as the track took them through Marazion marshes. Rose saw St Michael’s Mount rising out of the bay. Home, she thought, as she always did whenever it came into view. Feeling lazy she took a taxi home and opened the door to the thickness of stale heat. There was a mound of post and telephone messages to deal with and then a trip to the shops for food. It was after five before she had re-established herself.
Jack rang as she was pouring her pre-dinner wine. He was back at work, he said, and was just ringing to see if she had enjoyed herself and got home safely. ‘And I wondered if you’d like to go out to eat? I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to do any shopping.’
‘Not tonight, thanks, Jack. I’m ready for a night in.’
Another week passed before Geoff Carter renewed his dinner invitation. Rose accepted it. They travelled to St Ives by train, the two carriages rattling along the line of the coast, miles of golden sand spread out way down below them. The azure sea was frilled with white foam as it rolled across the flat beach. They ate sea food and drank Chardonnay in glass goblets then returned home by taxi.
Over the scallops Rose learned that Geoff was divorced, that his wife had left him for another man. He had been honest enough to admit that he had previously been unfaithful but had realised his mistake; an affair might seem exciting but living with the woman was not at all the same thing, and he had gone back to his wife.
‘It was downhill from there,’ he said as he poured more wine. ‘I hadn’t learned my lesson, you see. When she found out for a second time, I was, quite rightly, shown the door,’
Rose had known immediately that things would progress no further, that even if Geoff had changed, which she doubted, she had gone past the stage of being prepared to be in a relationship where there could not be total trust. Geoff was handsome and relaxed and entertaining company but he lacked a sense of permanence. The Hammonds were a recent example of how much harm disloyalty could produce.
Each morning Rose left the house with her painting equipment in the back of the car or slung over her shoulder in her green canvas bag. She walked miles over rough ground, becoming fitter and browner each day. Where she worked depended upon her mood. Sometimes it was inland amongst rocky outcrops where the fern tips were already touched with brown and the lichen on the boulders was beginning to yellow. On other days she sat on a headland and tried to capture the colours of the sea, frustrating work as they changed so often, but now and then she sighed with pleasure, knowing she had got it just right.
One afternoon she sat on a cliff with the sun on her head and a gentle sea breeze blowing in her face and unscrewed her thermos flask. It contained the black coffee which sustained her whilst she was working. The steam rose and distorted her vision, making the horizon quiver. She lay on one side, ignoring the discomfort of the hard ground beneath her and the prickle of dry grass stalks through her skirt. Where is my life going? she wondered, thinking of the evening she had spent with Geoff Carter and the odd nights out she had with Jack.
Laura teased her, as Laura always did, but Rose had not returned Geoff’s hospitality and had left the question of seeing him again unanswered. They would meet as friends or on a business footing, but no more than that.
‘Anyway, you can bring him to my end of summer barbecue if you want. I’ve already invited Jack,’ Laura had told her.
‘That’s typical of you. No one else I know would think of celebrating the end of something,’ Rose had replied with a grin, ignoring her allusion to Geoff Carter. The discussion had taken place in the Swordfish bar during one of their companionable nights out. ‘What if it’s raining?’
‘Then we’ll go indoors. Live dangerously, that’s what I say.’ Laura had laid a hand on Rose’s arm, her corkscrew curls bobbing as she laughed. ‘Forget I said that, you’re the last person to need encouragement.’
The night of the barbecue was not far off. Maddy’s daughter, who was coming down again before the university term started, would be there. Rose was looking forward to meeting her. She had gone over to Maddy’s for supper one evening and learned that she and her daughter had found many things in common and had taken to each other at once. With great pride Maddy had shown Rose the photographs they had taken. The physical likeness between the two women was astonishing.
This isn’t getting me anywhere, Rose thought, as she squinted through the long grass. Ants ran purposefully along the lengths of the stems and bees were busy amongst the heather. She found herself wondering which of them any daughter she and David might have produced would have favoured. A pointless conjecture, she decided, but without sadness or regret.
She sat up and looked around. There was no one in sight. For a while she had the world to herself, unless she counted the wildlife with whom she temporarily shared the headland. Her canvas was propped against a rock. She studied it for several minutes. It was good as far as it went, but there was something lacking. Without thinking she picked up a brush and began to work. It was a further two hours before she was satisfied and only the rumbling of her stomach dictated that it was time to go home.
She walked back to where she had parked the car and unlocked it. The trapped heat enveloped her as she opened the door. Make the most of it, she told herself, knowing that in a few short weeks things could be very different.
The coolness of the kitchen was welcome. Rose left the back door open while she unpacked her gear and the carrier of food she had purchased on her way home, including local strawberries which would soon be coming to an end.
Her face was hot and she hoped she had not overdone the sun although she had taken the precaution of wearing her battered straw hat. It was Jack’s birthday in two days’ time – ought she to buy him a present, and if so, what? It was difficult to find suitable gifts for men. I could just take him out or cook him a meal, I suppose, she thought, but I’ll have to make sure he’s not working that evening.
At six thirty she opened her wine and prepared her food, drawing blood from a finger on a gurnard spike as she washed it. Once it was in the oven she went to the phone.
‘Jack, are you busy on Thursday?’
‘Why?’
Typical answer, she thought, find out what I want first. ‘I thought I might treat you to a meal.’
‘In that case, I’m not.’
‘Here? Will that be all right?’
‘You know I love your cooking, Rose. Thank you. I’ll bring something suitable to wash it down with.’
‘Don’t get teasy, you know what I mean.’
‘No, I’ll buy it. It is your birthday.’
‘Thank you. I’ll leave it to your impeccable taste then.’ He had thought she would not remember it this year and had been careful not to mention it because he had not wanted to embarrass her. At the same time last year they had been a couple. He wished they still were. ‘What time should I arrive and is it black tie?’
‘Six thirtyish, and wear what you like.’
Not long after this conversation Sarah arrived unannounced. ‘These are for you,’ she said, handing Rose a large box of chocolates, ‘for all you’ve done.’
Rose was touched. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I felt I owed you an explanation. After what I told you, I mean. You must’ve thought I was crazy going out with Mark that day.’
‘Yes, something like that. Fancy a glass of wine?’
‘Please.’ Sarah’s face reflected her pleasure. It was great to be treated as an adult.
‘Have a seat. Go on, then. Why did you?’
‘I was sure no one would believe me, apart from you, that is, certainly not the police. I was hoping to trick him into an admission. I realised when he telephoned that he couldn’t have seen me, he wouldn’t have sounded so like himself. I really believed I wasn’t in danger.’
‘You weren’t, not from that angle. And you couldn’t have known about the Hammond break-in.’
Sarah blushed. ‘But I was responsible for it.’
‘No. A man from up country was responsible. It would’ve happened sooner or later.’ Rose switched the conversation to Sarah’s career and later watched as she made her way down the drive. That she stopped to look at the view indicated to Rose that the girl was beginning to heal.
Two days later Jack appeared bearing a bunch of rather bedraggled flowers. ‘I bought them this morning. I should’ve put them in water.’ He kissed her cheek as he handed them to her.
‘Thank you. But it’s supposed to be your birthday.’ Rose found a vase and arranged the wilting blossoms then went to the small room off the kitchen which had once been a larder but now housed the washing-machine and freezer and several old pairs of shoes and coats. She had only thought of the champagne at the last minute and had put it in the freezer to chill. ‘Now, here you are. A very happy birthday, Jack.’ She handed him a flute in which the pale liquid fizzed and raised her own glass.
‘My, my. Do I deserve this?’ He grinned and raised his own glass in reply.
He was standing very close to her. Through the short-sleeved shirt he wore tucked into his jeans Rose felt the heat of his body. She smelled the crispness of freshly ironed cotton and his distinctive aftershave and moved away, wondering if it had been such a wise decision to invite him to dinner after all.
They sat outside enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine. Jack’s arm lay across the back of the seat but he did not allow his hand to drop to a position where his fingertips could rest on Rose’s shoulder. ‘How’s Etta?’ he asked.
‘It’s hard to say. Good days and bad.’
Jack nodded. ‘And Sarah?’
‘Almost human, Etta says.’ Rose knew that Sarah had come to the adult decision not to socialise with Amy and Roz any more. She would, as planned, stay on at school. Etta had no immediate plans, which Rose agreed was sensible. ‘I’m not ready to face the future yet,’ she had told Rose over coffee one morning. ‘I’m still taking life one day at a time.’
‘It’s the only way, but it works.’ Rose said. She had mentioned Laura’s barbecue knowing that, had Joe been alive, he would certainly have been invited. ‘Are you and Sarah going?’
‘I think so. I know Sarah will. I never know how I’m going to feel when I wake in the mornings. Laura just said to turn up if it was a good day.’
‘It might do her good if she does go,’ Jack said when Rose had related the conversation.
‘It’s still early days, Jack, she might feel disloyal.’ Jack frowned. ‘I know, it’s daft. But after David died, after about a year, I suppose, I felt guilty if I felt the slightest happiness even though he would have wanted it for me.’
‘I think I understand.’ Jack reached beneath the bench but the champagne bottle they had placed there to keep cool was already empty. Their conversation had been easy, comfortable, that of old friends, and they had hardly noticed how much time had already passed. The nights were pulling in and a few stars glittered in the growing dusk. A half moon hung at an angle over the bay and a cricket chirruped somewhere near the shed. Rose had cleared it out, throwing away years of accumulated rubbish, and it had become another place where she could work.
‘Are you ready to eat?’ They stood up and went inside.
‘You don’t know how much I appreciate this,’ Jack said as he picked up his knife to spread home-made crab pâté on crusty bread. Conversation seemed unnecessary as they ate the meal Rose had taken such trouble in preparing.
When they had finished they drank coffee and brandy in the sitting-room. Music played quietly in the background.
‘Jack, that day when you found Sarah and were shot at, did you get into trouble over it?’ He had given Rose an abridged version of what had happened that evening, but it was enough for her to guess that he had acted out of character, prompted by his belief that she had been with Mark and Sarah.
‘Yes, but not as much as I could have done. Fortunately, I was the only injured party. I was very lucky to get off with a warning.’ And he had been, he knew that. There could have been a diciplinary hearing, he might even have been demoted. He paused. ‘You know that I thought you were in there, Rose. I would never have acted in that way otherwise.’
‘Yes, you did tell me.’ There seemed nothing more she could say. Rose bit her lip, unsure how she would respond if he became more intimate. She was curled in an armchair, her legs tucked beneath her. Any movement would have broken the mood they had created.
It was dark now, but she had not turned on the table lamps. Across the bay the lights of Marazion twinkled, echoed by the stars overhead. Jack’s shape loomed over Rose without her having been aware he had risen. He reached out a hand, tilted her face up and kissed her on the lips. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time, Mrs Trevelyan.’
She froze, her emotions in conflict. She wanted him to go but she wanted him to stay. It had been hard not to respond. The next move was hers.
Jack waited, knowing what was going through her mind. She had come to a decision. She stood up slowly and took his hand. ‘Well, it is your birthday.’ Her smile turned into a frown. ‘What is it, Jack? What’ve I said?’
‘You really are a bitch sometimes, Rose.’
Pale-faced, she took a step backwards ‘Jack? I don’t understand.’
‘It was a lovely meal, a really special meal, thank you, but it’s time I went home now.’
‘You can’t just walk off like that – what’ve I done now to make you angry?’
‘You made it sound as if you were doing me a favour just because this happens to be a celebration of the day I was born.’
‘Oh, honestly, how sensitive can you get? It was a joke, Jack, you know, something to do with a sense of humour, something you obviously don’t possess.’
‘Then why now, after all these months? You laid down the ground rules; friendship, you said, nothing more. And until tonight you’ve stuck by it, and so have I, as difficult as it’s been. Why the sudden volte-face?’
‘Well, you started it by kissing me.’ But what he said was true. Damn the champagne. It had been a bad idea to invite him. And what if they had gone upstairs and spent the night together, what then? What would he have expected afterwards? She had it in her power to hurt Jack again and she did not want to do that, nor did she want to lose his friendship. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, I behaved foolishly. You’d better go now.’
He turned away. Too much champagne had been his downfall, too. What he had intended to say had come out wrong. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. In fact, he should not have made a move at all.
‘Do you want me to ring for a taxi?’
She showed him to the kitchen door. The unwashed dishes mocked her; the evening had turned into a disaster. Neither of them now knew what to say, it was a complete contrast to how things had been earlier.
‘Goodnight, Jack.’ Rose was furious; with herself for ruining his birthday and with him for reacting as he had done. She grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack. Well, bugger him then, she’d have another drink then she would be able to sleep without reliving it all in her head and feeling guilty.
‘The answer to everything, I see.’ Jack nodded towards the bottle in her hand.
‘No, Jack, not everything, just the answer to my stupidity tonight.’
‘Are you really going to open it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that wise, after a bottle of champagne each?’
‘Jack, this is my house, this is my wine which I paid for and my wisdom or otherwise does not concern you. Are you leaving or are you going to stand in the damn doorway all night?’
‘Neither, not if you’d prefer to share that bottle. I ought to go home, but I don’t like to think of you drinking alone, you know, getting maudlin and ringing me up in the middle of the night to apologise.’
‘You know perfectly well I’d never …’ But he was laughing, then so was Rose. ‘Oh, sod you, Jack Pearce. Find yourself a glass then.’
As Rose flounced around the kitchen filling the kettle noisily and clattering the grill-pan, Jack’s lips formed a thin, straight line but he could not disguise the laughter in his eyes. Rose might be regretting what had taken place but she could not alter it. ‘You don’t have to make me toast, I can easily get something on my way to work,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to go home and change anyway.’
‘Jack, I –’ Rose kept her back to him, busy spreading butter.
‘Don’t say it, Rose. Whatever it is I’d rather not hear it. We can pretend last night never happened and carry on as before.’ The smile had faded. Rose might have decided it was better if they did not see one another again.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’ She turned slowly, not sure what she would read in his face.
Jack nodded. ‘Look, don’t bother with that. I’m not really hungry anyway. I’ll give you a ring sometime, okay?’
‘Okay.’
It was still early, only a little after seven, but Jack had to get back to the flat to change for work and collect his car. Rose watched him go from the kitchen door. He walked fast and turned left at the bottom of the drive without looking back. She sighed. The toast had gone cold but she was no longer hungry either.
Action was needed. Upstairs she stripped the bed although the sheets had been changed two days previously. But she did not want to smell Jack’s aftershave on the pillow when she went to bed that night.
During the morning the weather changed. Like her feelings it became unsettled. Banks of cloud were swept across the bay, out towards the sea. Occasionally patches of blue sky were revealed only to disappear again. It was not cold but Rose shivered. She drank coffee and toyed with a sketch-pad as the washing-machine ran through its cycle. You shouldn’t have done it, were the words which repeated themselves in her mind, you shouldn’t have led him on.
The sheets flapped on the line, snapping and crackling in gusts of salty wind. Rose didn’t care if it rained. Work was out of the question, her mood was all wrong. But there was something she could do. She picked up the parcel she had wrapped, then hesitated. Was it too soon? Would there ever be a right time?
The wind came at her sideways as she walked down the hill into Newlyn. When it dropped Rose could feel the sun on her head and the warmth rise from the pavement. Her pace increased and she knew she had been right to get out of the house.
The emerald sea was white-capped, the gulls mirroring its surface as they skimmed across the bay. It was a good day for walking. Striding along the length of the Promenade Rose began to feel better. She reached the Jubilee Pool and stopped to watch the swimmers before retracing her steps. At Wherrytown she crossed the road and walked up the hill to Etta’s house. She and Sarah were both working in the back garden, taking advantage of a cooler day to pull out weeds. Something had altered between the two females, Rose sensed they had become friends.
‘Come in, Rose,’ Etta said. ‘We were just going to make some coffee and it’s time to stop or we’ll both ache tomorrow.’
Through the open kitchen door which led to the hall Rose saw several bulging bin liners and realised what Etta and Sarah had been doing. Maybe this is the perfect time, she thought. The material accompaniments to Joe’s life were about to be disposed of; what Rose had brought was the opposite, it was the embodiment of Joe himself. ‘I’d like you to have this, but only if you want it,’ Rose said, once the coffee was on the table.
‘For me?’ Etta took the rectangular package and peeled off the wrapping. She gasped. ‘Oh, Rose, I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’ Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of pleasure and unshed tears. She held the painting away from her. In the distance were the craggy cliffs of the Cornish coastline, in front was the open sea, neither calm nor rough, and slightly to the right, trailing wake and gathering a flock of gulls, was Billy Cadogan’s trawler, the number on its port side clearly visible as it returned to harbour. The swarthy figure at the stern was indistinguishable, apart from his black hair. ‘It’s Billy’s boat, and Joe, isn’t it?’ Etta said, her eyes still overbright.
‘Yes. It’s Joe.’
‘It’s really lovely, Rose.’ Sarah took the oil from her mother and examined it closely. ‘Over the fireplace?’ she suggested.
‘Yes. Over the fireplace where we’ll always be able to see it.’
Rose had known subconsciously the day she had painted that scene that it had been destined for somewhere other than a gallery: in the back of her mind she had known what she must do for Etta and Sarah. It was when she had realised that something vital was missing that she had added the trawler and the figure who might have been anyone until she had painted in the registration number.
With the wind swirling her hair in all directions, Rose made her way home. Jack Pearce, for the moment, was forgotten.
Laura rang to invite her for supper. Trevor was at sea. Their argument had been resolved as soon as Billy said they were sailing when Laura and Trevor relaxed, both in need of the space about to be granted them.
‘Drink? Silly question,’ Laura said when Rose arrived. ‘Red or white?’
‘Either.’
‘The wind’s getting stronger.’ Laura frowned. Once Trevor was out of her sight she worried about him. ‘Is something wrong?’ She looked at Rose carefully.
‘No. I was thinking about how small my problems are compared with Sarah’s. Not only has she lost her brother, she believed Mark was her boyfriend and look what he did to her. And he was partially responsible for Joe’s death. It’s a double betrayal.’
Laura knew all that had happened, and Billy had found a replacement for Joe. Life had to go on. ‘It’s more than that. You can’t fool me, Rose. Which was it, late night or too much vino? Or both?’
Rose lowered her head but it was too late. Laura had seen the blush creeping up from her neck. ‘Aha.’ She tossed the mass of her hair back over her shoulders and sat down next to Rose, her thin legs encased in leggings stretched out in front of her. ‘Might our debonair gallery owner have anything to do with this?’ She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Certainly not,’ Laura mimicked. ‘Okay. Then there’s only one person I can think of who makes you so indignant and prickly and that’s Jack Pearce. I’m right, aren’t I? You did the dirty deed, didn’t you? Poor old Jack.’
‘What do you mean, poor old Jack?’
Laura’s grin widened and the lines in her almost skeletal face deepened as she pointed a long finger at Rose. ‘See what I mean? God, everyone can see how he feels about you, why don’t you admit what you feel about him?’
‘I can’t. I don’t know. Oh, Laura, I’m not prepared to share my life to that extent.’
‘Can’t, or won’t admit what you feel? Sometimes I think you need a good shake.’ Laura turned her attention to the squid she was marinading.
‘Can’t,’ Rose said with emphasis. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to admit what I feel. Anyway, there’s no harm in keeping my options open.’
‘For what?’ Laura turned to face her, the spatula in her hand dripping oil on the floor. ‘Geoff Carter? Barry Rowe? Come off it, Rose.’
‘No, not for them.’ Rose smiled. ‘For the future, for whatever it might hold for me.’
Laura shook her head. ‘Anyone would think you were seventeen.’ She had always hoped Rose and Jack would become a couple. ‘You can be quite selfish at times, Rose. You want Jack only when you want him, at other times you keep him at a distance.’
‘You can talk.’
‘Meaning what?’ Laura folded her arms, a fierce expression on her face, the spatula dripping further oil on to the floor.
‘Meaning that little tiff you had with Trevor about him getting a land-based job?’
‘Oh, that.’ Laura grinned. ‘Yeah, well, I get your point. It doesn’t do to have them around all the time.’
‘I’m starving, Mrs Penfold, do you think you could get a move on?’ Rose returned Laura’s smile. Yes, she did still feel she was seventeen and that the future stretched ahead of her. Well, she would follow her advice to Etta and take one day at a time. For now there was her new career. And, of course, there was Laura’s barbecue. And Jack would be there.