sent to specialists over there and get cured.’
How hopeful he had been in the early days of the disease. He had had an estate agent look over the shop and give him a valuation but even with his savings and any other money he could scrape together he knew he would never get Marigold to the States.
Was it too late? Wasn’t there something he could do? Of course there was. He should not have allowed the pessimistic thoughts to arise.
Most days his staff would mind the shop whilst he paid a mid-day visit to Marigold in the hospital but he always spent a couple of hours with her again in the evenings. He pulled on his jacket. Tonight, once she became too tired to bear his company any longer, he would make his final attempt.
Fred Meecham locked the shop door knowing that things would turn out all right.
2
It had taken Martin most of Thursday to recover from his hangover. He spent the morning cleaning the caravan and washing out his socks and underpants. It was therapeutic, a way of cleansing himself, ridding his mind of the shame he felt at disgracing himself. They were chores which would have taken most people far less time but he always worked slowly and methodically, never undertaking more than one simple task at a time. He polished the windows inside and out, using newspaper soaked in vinegar as he had seen his mother do. As the morning wore on the chill of the past few days evaporated under a hot autumn sun. Martin removed the long seat cushions which doubled as mattresses at night and lugged them out to air, propping them against rocks.
In the afternoon he walked down to Hayle and cashed his unemployment cheque then bought a bagful of groceries, enough to last him the weekend. He got a cheap cut of meat, a loaf of bread and some fresh vegetables. It was after three when he had finished and he realised that he had enough money left over to repay his mother and just still be able to have a drink. Just one, he told himself. Hesitating only briefly he crossed the road, walked past the lane he should have taken to go home and went into the pub.
Glancing around he was relieved to see that there were only three other people present, none of whom he recognised. The two men he had spoken to on his previous visit must have gone back to wherever it was they came from. They had not been local but he could not place their accent. Martin had not set foot outside Cornwall and things which occurred on the other side of the Tamar Bridge were of no interest to him. He decided they had been holiday-makers and left it at that.
He jangled the coins in the pocket of his jeans and resisted the temptation to buy a second pint of cider. He felt worse rather than better for the one he had drunk.
The walk home helped to clear his head. Instinctively his feet picked their way through gorse roots and scattered stones. For a big man he moved lightly and easily and all the walking kept him fit. He stowed his groceries in cupboards in the caravan then walked down to the house.
‘What’s up, son?’ Dorothy asked as soon as she saw his face. No answer was necessary, the way he was trembling and refusing to meet her eyes said it all.
‘Nothing, Ma.’
‘You’ve bin drinking again.’ It was a statement. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and studied him carefully before turning to stir something simmering in a pot. ‘You’ll end up in trouble if you don’t look out.’ Martin was not dishonest, nor was he a fighting man, but he was easily taken advantage of, especially when he had drink inside him. How unalike her boys were. Peter was much the brighter but he lacked compassion. Martin was insecure, easily hurt and quickly ashamed yet he intuitively offered comfort whenever it was needed.
Peter imagined that, because she insisted on his repaying loans, she thought the less of Martin. This was far from true. She was trying to teach him a set of values and how to look after himself financially, preparing him for the time when she would no longer be around. ‘Well, now you’re here you may as well eat with me. Cut some bread, son.’
Martin got out a loaf and hacked off four thick slices then they sat down