Framed in Cornwall - Janie Bolitho Page 0,9

opposite. Nobody talks any more, not proper. Just tap, tap, tap in they machines. Bleddy tusses.’

She was still at the table, deep in thought, talking aloud as she often did lately. A knock at the door jerked her into alertness. Tap, tap, tap. The sounds were real, not an echo of her thoughts. She was surprised to notice it was now completely dark. ‘I’m coming,’ she called as she pulled a cardigan around her shoulders and wondered if her visitor had returned.

Peter Pengelly worked on the railways and enjoyed the life although he was not sure how he felt about privatisation. He had recently been promoted to senior conductor on the Inter-City line from Penzance to Paddington although he never completed the whole journey. Mostly the trains changed crews at Plymouth or Exeter. They could manage on what he earned but with two school-age children it wasn’t easy, at least according to Gwen.

‘Why don’t you get a job?’ he had asked more than once. ‘Just something part-time. You’ll probably enjoy it, it’ll get you out of the house.’

‘I don’t want a job, I want to be a proper mother.’

He knew this was not the real reason. Gwen hankered after a life where money was no problem and where she could lord it over others. But she did not want to have to work for it. Sadder still, she had no real friends. Lately he had pressed her harder but she had given him one of her cool glances and made him feel inadequate again.

‘There isn’t much point now, is there? Your mother won’t last for ever. Think about it, Peter, it’ll make such a difference to our lives. We can have a bigger house and when all her bits and pieces have been sold –’

‘For God’s sake,’ he had hissed in exasperation, dropping his mug in the washing-up bowl before leaving for work.

‘I’ll never live out there. Never!’ Gwen had shouted after him, almost in tears. All she had ever wanted was a life to make up for her miserable childhood and Dorothy Pengelly was the only thing standing in her way.

That same morning Gwen drove into Truro and bought some new underwear. To her mind Peter was a highly sexed man and she thought she knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

At home, an hour before she was due to collect the children from school, Gwen pulled the flimsy garments out of their plastic carrier and admired them. Her figure was good enough that they would flatter her. Once the children were in bed she would shower and dress in her new things then come downstairs, the lacy garments covered only by her thigh-length robe.

Rose finished the day’s work early and returned home at four. The light was blinking on the answering machine. She dropped her camera cases into an armchair and flicked the switch.

‘Rose, dear, is that you? It’s me, Dorothy. Can you bring some milk with you tomorrow? Oh, be quiet.’

Rose grinned. The short, sharp barks were unmistakably those of George, the Jack Russell. The greyhound, Star, whose name had been shortened from her racing name of White Star Dancer, did nothing but sleep or rest her lean, greying muzzle on your lap.

‘Anyway, if it’s not too much trouble. I’ll see you all right when you get here.’

Rose knew better than to refuse the money. She had no idea of Dorothy’s financial position but had learned her lesson some time ago when Dorothy had expressed her views on charity. She had, on that same occasion, rather slyly asked Rose’s opinion of a painting which hung on her bedroom wall. It was an original Stanhope Forbes and there were, she had hinted, one or two more by various members of the Newlyn School. She had come by them by way of her mother who had mixed with the artists and who had, according to Dorothy, known one or two of them intimately. In those days they had been regarded as bohemian and rather shocking with the women drinking and smoking as well as the men and with their unorthodox lifestyles. Now, of course, they were regarded with admiration. Rose wondered just how intimate the relationships between Dorothy’s mother and the painters had been and whether Dorothy might actually be the daughter of one of them.

The picture she had been shown was badly in need of a clean but Rose’s experienced eye saw immediately that it was worth a lot of money. It had struck her at the