hour, Alec was leaving again, to make the unimaginably long drive to Scotland and his salmon fishing. Laura would stay at Tremenheere for the next ten days or so, and then Alec would return to take her back to London.
Alec, Eve knew. Pale and stony-faced, still pole-axed by his newly broken marriage, he had come to their wedding, and she had always loved him for this. Since then, slightly less shattered, he had come, once or twice, to stay with Gerald and Eve. But Laura was a stranger. Laura had been ill, in hospital. Laura was coming to Tremenheere to recover.
Which made it even more necessary for the weather to go on being conveniently perfect. Laura would have breakfast in bed and lie, peacefully, in the garden with no person to bother her. She would rest and recover. When she was stronger, perhaps, she, Eve, would bring her here, and they would bask on the beach and swim together.
It made everything so much easier if the weather was good. Living here, in the farthest corner of Cornwall, Eve and Gerald were inundated each summer with visitors: relations, friends from London, young families unable to afford the hideous cost of hotels. They always had a good time because Eve made sure that they did, but sometimes even she became disheartened by constant rain and unseasonable winds, and although she knew perfectly well that it wasn't, she could never quite get rid of the idea that it was all her fault.
These reflections got her into her car, which was boiling hot, despite the fact that she had parked it in the meagre shade of a hawthorn bush. Still bundled in her towel robe, and with the air from the open window cold on her damp hair, she started for home. Up the hill from the cove and onto the main road. Through a village and along by the edge of the sea. The road crossed the railway by means of a bridge and then ran, parallel to the railway lines, towards the town.
In the old days, Gerald had once told her, before the war, here had been only agricultural land, small farms and hidden villages with tiny square-towered churches. The churches still stood, but the fields where the broccoli and the early potatoes had grown were now lost to development and progress. Holiday homes and blocks of flats, petrol stations and supermarkets, lined the road.
There was the heliport that served the Scilly Islands and then the big gates of a mansion house that was now a hotel. Once there had been trees beyond the gates, but these had been cut down and space made for a glittering blue swimming pool.
Between this hotel and the start of the town, a road turned up to the right, signposted to Penvarloe. Into this road Eve turned, away from the stream of traffic. The road narrowed to a lane, high hedged, winding up onto the hill. At once she was back in rural, unspoiled countryside. Small fields, stone-walled, where herds of Guernseys grazed. Deep valleys, dark with thickets of wood. After a mile or so, the road curved steeply and the village of Penvarloe lay ahead, low cottages clinging to the edge of the street. She passed the pub – where tables stood out on the cobbled forecourt – and the tenth-century church, embedded, like some prehistoric rock, surrounded by yews and ancient, leaning gravestones.
The village post office was also the general store and sold vegetables, fizzy drinks, and deep-frozen goodies for the holiday trade. Its open door (for it did not close until seven o'clock in the evening) was flanked with crates of fruit, and as Eve approached, a slender woman, with a mop of curling grey hair, emerged through this door. She wore sunglasses and a pale blue, sleeveless dress and carried a wicker basket of shopping. Eve tooted her horn, and the woman saw her and waved, and Eve slowed the car and drew up at the side of the road.
'Silvia.'
Silvia Marten crossed the pavement and came over to talk, stooping, supported by a hand on the roof of the car. From a distance, despite the grey hair, her appearance was incredibly
Alec, Eve knew. Pale and stony-faced, still pole-axed by his newly broken marriage, he had come to their wedding, and she had always loved him for this. Since then, slightly less shattered, he had come, once or twice, to stay with Gerald and Eve. But Laura was a stranger. Laura had been ill, in hospital. Laura was coming to Tremenheere to recover.
Which made it even more necessary for the weather to go on being conveniently perfect. Laura would have breakfast in bed and lie, peacefully, in the garden with no person to bother her. She would rest and recover. When she was stronger, perhaps, she, Eve, would bring her here, and they would bask on the beach and swim together.
It made everything so much easier if the weather was good. Living here, in the farthest corner of Cornwall, Eve and Gerald were inundated each summer with visitors: relations, friends from London, young families unable to afford the hideous cost of hotels. They always had a good time because Eve made sure that they did, but sometimes even she became disheartened by constant rain and unseasonable winds, and although she knew perfectly well that it wasn't, she could never quite get rid of the idea that it was all her fault.
These reflections got her into her car, which was boiling hot, despite the fact that she had parked it in the meagre shade of a hawthorn bush. Still bundled in her towel robe, and with the air from the open window cold on her damp hair, she started for home. Up the hill from the cove and onto the main road. Through a village and along by the edge of the sea. The road crossed the railway by means of a bridge and then ran, parallel to the railway lines, towards the town.
In the old days, Gerald had once told her, before the war, here had been only agricultural land, small farms and hidden villages with tiny square-towered churches. The churches still stood, but the fields where the broccoli and the early potatoes had grown were now lost to development and progress. Holiday homes and blocks of flats, petrol stations and supermarkets, lined the road.
There was the heliport that served the Scilly Islands and then the big gates of a mansion house that was now a hotel. Once there had been trees beyond the gates, but these had been cut down and space made for a glittering blue swimming pool.
Between this hotel and the start of the town, a road turned up to the right, signposted to Penvarloe. Into this road Eve turned, away from the stream of traffic. The road narrowed to a lane, high hedged, winding up onto the hill. At once she was back in rural, unspoiled countryside. Small fields, stone-walled, where herds of Guernseys grazed. Deep valleys, dark with thickets of wood. After a mile or so, the road curved steeply and the village of Penvarloe lay ahead, low cottages clinging to the edge of the street. She passed the pub – where tables stood out on the cobbled forecourt – and the tenth-century church, embedded, like some prehistoric rock, surrounded by yews and ancient, leaning gravestones.
The village post office was also the general store and sold vegetables, fizzy drinks, and deep-frozen goodies for the holiday trade. Its open door (for it did not close until seven o'clock in the evening) was flanked with crates of fruit, and as Eve approached, a slender woman, with a mop of curling grey hair, emerged through this door. She wore sunglasses and a pale blue, sleeveless dress and carried a wicker basket of shopping. Eve tooted her horn, and the woman saw her and waved, and Eve slowed the car and drew up at the side of the road.
'Silvia.'
Silvia Marten crossed the pavement and came over to talk, stooping, supported by a hand on the roof of the car. From a distance, despite the grey hair, her appearance was incredibly
Similar Books
