Framed in Cornwall - Janie Bolitho Page 0,2
swooped, squawking noisily when they spotted people in the car-park who were foolish enough to produce food. The birds had become a nuisance in recent years and signs had been put up in many resorts entreating visitors not to feed them, but Rose liked their arrogance and aggression although she was doubtful if they knew any longer what a herring was. Their staple diet consisted of chips, pasties and burgers. She would include their graceful flight in the sketch; two of them, she decided, their lateral feathers spread as they soared effortlessly.
An hour and a quarter later her back ached. Getting to her feet she stretched then picked up the sketchpad to study it. Satisfied with what she had produced she packed up. In no particular hurry she stayed for a while, relaxing under the changing sky. Lying on the waterproof she linked her hands behind her head and gazed into nothingness, emptying her mind. It was something she rarely had a chance to do. By the time she left the sea had changed from grey to green with a silken sheen where a ray of sunlight was reflected off the surface. A warm stillness had settled over the cove.
She knew she had been in danger of falling asleep. Many of her nights were restless since she no longer had the security of David’s body beside her. It was not fear of living alone as much as simply knowing he wasn’t there. They had not had any children but to Rose it was no longer a matter for regret. They had had each other.
Before she reached the car she went over the things she had planned for the next couple of days. This afternoon she had arranged to see Barry Rowe and later she was to photograph a Mrs Morgan’s daughter whose eighteenth birthday it was. Informal shots would no doubt be taken at whichever night club the girl ended up in but her mother wanted one which she could frame. Tomorrow was Friday and she would be seeing Dorothy Pengelly. Rose smiled. What a character that lady is, she thought. And tonight, Jack Pearce. The smile faded. She had been seeing him on and off for more than a year. The relationship had not followed the usual form of progression and Rose was not sure of her feelings, only that they were ambiguous. They met when it was mutually convenient and enjoyed each other’s company when they did so. But Jack, she knew, wanted more from her than she was able to give. Alone for so long, Rose had grown used to her independence and, in a way, so had Jack, whose hours were erratic, but she suspected he was one of those men who would prefer to live with a woman than without one.
Heading back along the country roads she was glad of the easy familiarity she felt with Barry Rowe. He was an old friend and the only person she allowed to call her Rosie, because he had given her her first break when she came to Cornwall all those years ago and because he had always been in love with her. What she had offered was friendship, no more than that, but she was vain enough to be flattered by his attentions.
Detective Inspector Jack Pearce had had a busy summer. From the moment the season proper had started crime had escalated. Not that he kidded himself that this branch of the Devon and Cornwall police had quite as much to contend with as the city boys who were stationed in Plymouth or Exeter. And he should know. He had spent several years in the force in Leeds. Of course the warm weather brought an influx of visitors and more people meant more crime. It also brought a lot of drop-outs to the area. This was not to say that the locals could not make just as much of a nuisance of themselves but the police generally knew where to find them. Recently he had been involved in one of the biggest drug hauls in the West Country.
Tapping a pen against his teeth he wondered what Rose was doing at that moment and if she was thinking of him. He smiled his wolfish smile. That was extremely doubtful. She had probably taken herself to some isolated spot and was immersed in the scenery. Even on a day like today she could find beauty in something. Was she viewing it with her artist’s eye or through the lens