jokingly termed them – a hundred, two hundred images of them taken together and singly: in groups at weddings, on boats, on holiday, in overalls working on the house. Twenty years of bright Fujicolor history packed into a dusty old box.
‘Sorry!’ I called down. ‘Dropped something.’
I scooped the photos up and crammed them back into the box, averting my eyes from these images of another, better world. The second box contained old notebooks, diaries, a faded visitors’ book, but nothing that looked like a family bible. That left the last box. I wrestled it open. Under a bundle of yellowing newspaper lay a huge, musty-smelling object. I levered it out. Its leather cover felt damp to the touch, and it smelled of mildew, though the box and attic space seemed dry and weatherproof, as if it brought its own climate with it.
‘I’ve got it!’ I called down. As I hefted it, something shifted from inside its back cover and several pages of foxed, brown-edged paper dislodged themselves. For a moment I thought the whole thing was disintegrating; then I realized they were loose. Old letters, at a glance. I shuffled them carefully back inside the cover and took a last look around the attic space where Andrew Hoskin had taken his life. Despite the bright light streaming in through the window, the room seemed oppressive, as if not only the beams and joists and tiles of the roof were bearing down on me, but also the sky, the stars and the heavens beyond. Suddenly I felt a wash of utmost despair. I was a tiny, worthless speck of life in a huge universe. What did I think I was I doing here? I was wasting my time, wasting my life. There was nothing for me here; indeed, possibly nothing for me anywhere. I had no job, no family, no man, no children, no prospects; and certainly wouldn’t find them in Cornwall. Moreover, I was a woman, and faithless. The thought came to me, clear as a clarion call, that I should leave at once, just go away .
Clutching the bible, I fled down the stairs, already calculating the length of time it would take me to pack, call a taxi and make my way to Penzance Station.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Alison’s eyes were blue-rimmed and hollow. She looked like a stranger, an intruder in the house. All I wanted to do was to barge past her and get out.
I put a hand out as if to push her away. ‘I –’ And then the feeling passed. I blinked.
She took the bible away from me: I probably looked too unsteady on my feet to be carrying it. ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ she said firmly, tucking the huge volume under her arm. She put her other arm around me. ‘You look in need of a cup of strong tea.’
And, just like that, she had switched from being the victim to the carer, and I was the one in need of looking after. Perhaps, I reflected as I followed her down to the kitchen, that was exactly what she needed, this reversal in our roles.
There were no Tregennas listed at the front of the family bible. Lots of Pengellys and Martins, Johns and Bolithos; some Lanyons and Stephens and even a Rodda, a name I recognized from the tub of clotted cream Alison had in the fridge; but not a single Tregenna. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
9
Catherine
July 1625
An old Ægyptian woman came to the scullery door today. She came on a mule & was arrayed most strangely with bells & scarfs, her face & hands almost blacke …
When the knocking came at the scullery door, Catherine was in the kitchen taking down a list of provender dictated by Lady Harris. The air was thick with the fragrant aroma of furmity, which Kate Rowse, the cook, had been boiling up all morning. The smell alone made Cat’s stomach rumble: Kate had added spices, butter and rum to the wheat porridge, and she wasn’t sure she could wait as long as the noon meal.
‘Go see who’s there, Catherine,’ Margaret Harris said, without moving an inch from the larder. She turned back to the cook. ‘Quite how we’ve managed to
‘Sorry!’ I called down. ‘Dropped something.’
I scooped the photos up and crammed them back into the box, averting my eyes from these images of another, better world. The second box contained old notebooks, diaries, a faded visitors’ book, but nothing that looked like a family bible. That left the last box. I wrestled it open. Under a bundle of yellowing newspaper lay a huge, musty-smelling object. I levered it out. Its leather cover felt damp to the touch, and it smelled of mildew, though the box and attic space seemed dry and weatherproof, as if it brought its own climate with it.
‘I’ve got it!’ I called down. As I hefted it, something shifted from inside its back cover and several pages of foxed, brown-edged paper dislodged themselves. For a moment I thought the whole thing was disintegrating; then I realized they were loose. Old letters, at a glance. I shuffled them carefully back inside the cover and took a last look around the attic space where Andrew Hoskin had taken his life. Despite the bright light streaming in through the window, the room seemed oppressive, as if not only the beams and joists and tiles of the roof were bearing down on me, but also the sky, the stars and the heavens beyond. Suddenly I felt a wash of utmost despair. I was a tiny, worthless speck of life in a huge universe. What did I think I was I doing here? I was wasting my time, wasting my life. There was nothing for me here; indeed, possibly nothing for me anywhere. I had no job, no family, no man, no children, no prospects; and certainly wouldn’t find them in Cornwall. Moreover, I was a woman, and faithless. The thought came to me, clear as a clarion call, that I should leave at once, just go away .
Clutching the bible, I fled down the stairs, already calculating the length of time it would take me to pack, call a taxi and make my way to Penzance Station.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Alison’s eyes were blue-rimmed and hollow. She looked like a stranger, an intruder in the house. All I wanted to do was to barge past her and get out.
I put a hand out as if to push her away. ‘I –’ And then the feeling passed. I blinked.
She took the bible away from me: I probably looked too unsteady on my feet to be carrying it. ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ she said firmly, tucking the huge volume under her arm. She put her other arm around me. ‘You look in need of a cup of strong tea.’
And, just like that, she had switched from being the victim to the carer, and I was the one in need of looking after. Perhaps, I reflected as I followed her down to the kitchen, that was exactly what she needed, this reversal in our roles.
There were no Tregennas listed at the front of the family bible. Lots of Pengellys and Martins, Johns and Bolithos; some Lanyons and Stephens and even a Rodda, a name I recognized from the tub of clotted cream Alison had in the fridge; but not a single Tregenna. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
9
Catherine
July 1625
An old Ægyptian woman came to the scullery door today. She came on a mule & was arrayed most strangely with bells & scarfs, her face & hands almost blacke …
When the knocking came at the scullery door, Catherine was in the kitchen taking down a list of provender dictated by Lady Harris. The air was thick with the fragrant aroma of furmity, which Kate Rowse, the cook, had been boiling up all morning. The smell alone made Cat’s stomach rumble: Kate had added spices, butter and rum to the wheat porridge, and she wasn’t sure she could wait as long as the noon meal.
‘Go see who’s there, Catherine,’ Margaret Harris said, without moving an inch from the larder. She turned back to the cook. ‘Quite how we’ve managed to
Similar Books
