Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,2

and ditches if Corky suddenly pushed his head, sometimes frantically, in, under or through the herbage having sniffed out something of vital interest to him. A stiff-limbed plodder he might be, but Corky had a fearfully sharp sense of smell – a very useful thing. Corky’s avid investigations had led to the rescue of a number of injured birds, a squirrel and a trapped fox cub. He had ended the mystery of the sultry Honoria Sanders’ lost gold watch, flung off her wrist when she had been forced to fling herself out of the way of Jack Newton’s tractor – or at least that was their story. In was in the woods below Merrivale that Corky had sniffed out the piece of evidence in the double murder.

‘Fiddlesticks and fie to the opponents.’ Greg flicked aside her caution with his big competent hand. ‘That old creaking fossil in the vicarage hasn’t a clue or a care about the needs of the parish. It’s his fault the church hall fell into ruin, and besides it’s only the size of a postage stamp. Soames and Delia Newton oppose anything they fear will take their self-held importance away. And the origins of Hector Evans, and the length of his residence in Nanviscoe, are irrelevant. I was born and bred in this house, as you were and our brothers and sister. I’m the instigator and the leader of this notion. A village hall will be built before this year is out; you have my word on it! Worry not, old girl, leave it to me.’

‘Oh, I certainly will, dear,’ Dorrie said, as they and the eager, air sniffing Corky ambled down Sunny Corner’s front path which seemed to have a mind of its own, broad here, narrowing there, straight and then nonchalantly turning. They passed between the flower borders billowing with lilac, rhododendron, azalea, ‘bleeding heart’, pansies, violas and the like. Against the drystone walls were various blossom trees and a glorious spreading light purple magnolia. Sunny Corner’s splendid gardens were something of a legend, and it was not unknown to attract photographers from far-flung places. The rear of the property, once composed of finely cut lawns, and every manner of flowerbed and free-standing shrub and then a fenced acre of paddock before the war, had all been dug over for vital vegetable crops. Dorrie and Greg also kept hens and a couple of pigs. The war years had seen world-traveller great-grandfather Barnicoat’s miniature folly, a Chinese-inspired pagoda, moved near the back terrace. The evacuees Dorrie had taken in had thought it a marvellous lark to sleep out in it. The pagoda also did nicely as a summer house.

At the very bottom of the vegetable plots came the stream, flanked in turn by a high long hedgerow swathed with bluebells, lacy cow parsley, clumps of white, pink and red campion and wild violets. On the other side of the hedgerow was one of Farmer Newton’s largest fields, growing wheat this year. The whole area had high quality, undulating farmland.

The fame of Sunny Corner’s gardens was how Dorrie had first met Piers, he then reading English literature and history at Cambridge University. She had been cutting lilac blossom when a tall, striking man had appeared at the gateless entrance, at this very same time of the year, preparing to take a photo of the then-promising young magnolia tree. She had stared at him in wonder and awe, and as instinct had drawn his stunning dark eyes to her, he had smiled. Such a beautiful, heart-stopping smile, like the rise of the very first sun. Dorrie had drawn on that precious image every day since then.

For a century and a half Sunny Corner had nestled at the edge of a crossroads, roughly a mile outside the village. It had been built in the manner of a small manor house by the Barnicoat family, one time mine speculators, who had moved from Bodmin town to a more peaceful rural setting.

Once in the lane, Corky sniffed and aimed his solid head down the lane, known as Barnicoat Way. Dorrie was doubtful if his failing eyes and ears could see or hear much of the person he had scented hurrying their way. ‘Oh look, it’s the young man who recently moved into Merrivale with his mother. Templeton, I think their name is. I did call on them with a cake to welcome them to the neighbourhood but no one seemed to be at home. I’ve caught a glimpse of the