The Loner Read online

‘No, just bloody tired. Stop fretting.’

  ‘I’m your mother. I’m allowed to fret. It’s in the job description. How’s Fiona?’ As a shadow crossed his face, Jess knew this was why he had come. Her heart ached for him.

  ‘She’s having a hard time at work.’

  Jess laid bacon slices on the wire tray and slid the pan under the grill. As the toast popped up she lifted it out and propped the two slices against each other on the breadboard to cool, reaching into the fridge for the spread.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘The person who stood in for her while she was on maternity leave doesn’t want to go back to her old job. She’s being obstructive, making it difficult for Fiona to catch up with changes that happened while she was away.’

  ‘Oh Rob. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That’s only part of it. We tried the hospital crèche. But the nurse in charge said Helen wouldn’t settle and cried a lot. That stressed Fiona out even more.’

  Jess nodded. Her daughter-in-law had worked hard to reach her present position. Fiona had told her they needed both salaries so taking time out to be with Helen until she started school wasn’t an option. To suggest it again would only alienate him and she didn’t want that. Turning the bacon, she chose her words carefully.

  ‘Did you come in the hope that I might have had second thoughts?’

  He looked up. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. Actually I’m busier now than the last time we spoke.’

  He nodded. ‘I guessed as much. So we decided the best thing was to have a live-in nanny. We interviewed several. That was … interesting. Then we struck gold with Shelley Veale. She’s twenty-four, went to Truro High School, and is a qualified nursery nurse.’

  Jess laid the crisp bacon on one slice of toast, spread brown sauce on the other, cut the sandwich in half, and handed the plate to her son. ‘Does Helen like her?’

  Rob’s thin haggard face softened in a smile. ‘They took to each other at once. Shelley is calm and easy-going.’

  Jess heard what loyalty wouldn’t allow him to say, that Fiona’s tension and stress were upsetting their daughter.

  ‘I’m so glad, Rob. It must be such a relief. Knowing Helen is happy will make life so much easier for all of you.’ Jess rinsed the teapot, added two teabags, and poured in boiling water.

  Rob chewed and swallowed. ‘The reason Helen won’t be over for a couple of weeks is that we thought it best to let her get thoroughly settled with Shelley.’

  Pouring tea into two mugs, Jess wondered if she was being punished for refusing to take on Helen’s childcare, but dismissed the thought as petty and ridiculous.

  ‘That’s very sensible. I’ll look forward to seeing her again once she’s used to her new routine.’ She handed him a mug and sat down.

  ‘Thanks, Ma.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Taking it so well. I really appreciate it.’ He pushed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth.

  Jess knew then that the decision to keep Helen away wasn’t his.

  ‘Helen’s happiness is what matters. Perhaps you can bring her over on Shelley’s day off?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He gulped a couple of mouthfuls of tea then set his mug on the low table. ‘I’d better get back.’

  It was nearly noon by the time Jess had looked up the reference numbers in the online catalogue and booked her appointment. Returning to the BMD index and going back further, she found that George Kirby’s father, William, had married a Susan Preece. They had had a son, John. A hunch took her back to the deaths register. John Preece had died in France in 1943.

  Jess’s stomach rumbled. Glancing at the clock, she got up and stretched. She was just finishing making her cheese sandwich when the door opened and Tom looked in.

  The sensation in her chest was like fluttering wings. She was reacting like a teenager. It was ridiculous. And lovely.

  ‘All right, girl? Not interrupting, am I?’

  ‘No. I’ve just stopped for something to eat.’

  ‘How about that for good timing.’

  ‘Want a sandwich?’

  He closed the door and kicked off his working boots. ‘Best offer I’ve had all day.’ Padding across in his socks he slid his arms around her waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. ‘I love the smell of you.’

  She leaned against him, stirred by their closeness and the muscular solidity of his body as he held her. Reluctantly she moved away. ‘Switch the kettle on, will you? I want to soak the saffron.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d forgotten,’ he teased.

  ‘As if you’d let me.’

  ‘No chance.’

  While he washed his hands she quickly crumbled the dried saffron strands into a cup and poured on boiling water. As it turned a deep burnt orange she made another sandwich. He hung the towel on the rail and leaned against the worktop. ‘What’s wrong, my lover?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Hey, this is me. Something’s bugging you.’

  ‘I was thinking about the post mortem. I know it sounds daft, and you can laugh, but he spent every daylight hour working outside in his garden. The thought of him lying in a fridge –’ She stopped as tears threatened.

  ‘I aren’t laughing, bird. Here,’ he put his arms around her again. ‘Just think, the new cemetery have got a lovely view down to the river and across to the woods on the other side. He’ll like it there.’

  Turning, Jess hugged him hard. ‘You’re special, Tom Peters.’

  Grinning, he licked the tip of his index finger and smoothed one eyebrow. ‘Well, I aren’t one to brag –’

  She grinned. ‘Yes you are.’ She set the plates on the table. ‘Don’t wait. I know you need to get back. I’ll just make the tea.’

  ‘Don’t take me wrong, Jess,’ he chewed and swallowed, ‘but I’ll bet you’ve been sat at that laptop all morning. How don’t you go for a walk before you start again? You’ll get on better after a blow of fresh air. Now you can tell me to mind me own business.’

  ‘I won’t, because you’re right. I’ll call in the shop and see if Gill knows whether anyone has spoken to the vicar. I should have said something at the fête but I never thought.’

  ‘That wasn’t the time or place. If you’re going to the vicarage after you been in the shop, I can take you as far as the yard. You’ll still have a nice walk back.’ He swallowed the last of his sandwich then reached across and laid his large callused hand gently on her arm. ‘You’re doing all right, my lover. But go easy on yourself.’

  The phone rang. Jess lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’ She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘It’s the coroner’s office.’ She listened. ‘No, sorry, I don’t. PC Davey and I have both been looking but we haven’t found anyone.’ She listened again. ‘Me? I – Could you hold on a moment?’ She covered the mouthpiece again.

  ‘He wants me to formally identify the body.’

  Tom frowned. ‘No way. Tell him to ask Gerry Eustice. John Preece was up to the shop every week. Gerry seen him far more often than you did.’

  Jess repeated Tom’s suggestion, relieved when the coroner agreed. ‘We’re having a collection in the village to pay for his funeral. Can you tell me when –? Right. I will. Thank you.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘He told me to phone him in a couple of weeks. He should know more then.’ She swallowed the remainder of her tea and set down her mug. ‘Thanks for suggesting Gerry. I really didn’t want to do it.’

  ‘’Course you didn’t. He shouldn’t have asked. You found the body and done everything you was s’posed to then. That’s enough. ’Tisn’t your responsibility to tick all his boxes for ’n.’

  Jess was touched. Tom rarely showed anger. Usually when something upset him he simply went quiet. ‘We still on for Wednesday?’

  He grinned, visibly relaxing. ‘We are.’ He glanced at the clock.

  ‘Give me two minutes.’ Jess made for the stairs. When she came down again he was drying the plates. ‘You can come aga
in.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ he grinned.

  Twenty minutes later he turned down the road to the yard, stopped the pickup and turned towards her. ‘See you soon, bird.’

  Jess leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were warm, soft, familiar. She would have moved back but he cupped her head and kissed her again thoroughly.

  He sat up. ‘Go on then.’ He grinned. ‘Some of us got work to do.’

  Jess jumped out. ‘You’ll pay for that, Peters.’ She shut the door.

  ‘Promises, promises.’ He roared off down the road.

  Jess laughed as she watched him go. Being with him made her happy.

  She walked across the gravelled drive to the vicarage. A square Victorian house with a pillared porch, it looked drab and neglected with cracked paint on the window frames, and a front door weathered to dullness. She gripped a tarnished brass knocker, and banged it twice.

  She waited, and waited. She was wondering whether to knock again or walk round the back in case Mrs Griffin was in the garden, when the door opened.

  There was no smell of alcohol. But it was obvious Claire Griffin had been drinking. Was that what Gill had been hinting at?

  ‘You’re Jess Trevanion. I heard all about your talk. If you want Paul he’s not here.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I should have phoned –’

  ‘No, don’t go.’ Claire started to reach forward, then shoved her hand into the pocket of her long cardigan. ‘He shouldn’t be long. Come in and have a … cup of tea.’

  Jess didn’t want to. But nor did she want to appear rude or condemning. Tom’s words echoed. Not your responsibility.

  ‘You don’t have to. I expect you’ve got better things to do.’

  Jess knew she was being manipulated but she also recognised loneliness. The Griffins had only been in the village since November. During the first month following Alex’s death she’d had lots of visitors. Three weeks later there were few, though Sam and Rob still phoned every Sunday to check that she was all right.

  Of course she wasn’t all right. But she lied and said she was. What else could she do? Their lives hadn’t changed. Hers had, but there was nothing they could do about it.

  She smiled. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Mrs –’

  ‘Claire,’ Her fleeting smile was tinged with surprise as if she hadn’t expected Jess to accept. ‘Come through.’ She pushed a hand through her thick untidy hair and led the way down a wide passage tiled in squares and diamonds of brown, cream, and deep red and dulled by dust and footprints.

  Jess closed the door. Above the half-landing of a wide staircase with a threadbare beige carpet, light streamed in through a tall arched window with narrow side panels of red and blue glass. She followed her hostess into a large untidy kitchen.

  Claire checked the water level in the kettle then clattered it onto the Aga’s hot plate. She slumped onto a chair by an oblong pine table covered in clutter.

  Jess saw a tumbler with an inch of clear liquid in it. Vodka? None of her business.

  ‘How is your daughter?’

  Claire gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wish I knew. It’s ages since we had a letter. Ginny could have got a job in this country. British hospitals are crying out for trained nurses.’ She pushed a brown pottery teapot towards Jess. ‘Would you mind? Not at my best today. What was I saying?’

  ‘About your daughter?’ Jess emptied the pot, rinsed it, added two teabags from an open box on the worktop, and poured in boiling water.

  ‘Exactly. Why did she have to take off for some hellhole country in Africa where the water isn’t safe to drink, ten-year-olds carry guns, every disease is lethal, and there’s a chronic shortage of even basic medical supplies? Milk’s in the fridge,’ she waved vaguely.

  Taking two mugs from the draining board, Jess quickly rinsed and dried them then poured the tea. Mentally crossing her fingers that it hadn’t gone off, she added milk, relieved when the liquid didn’t curdle. Placing one mug in front of the vicar’s wife, she sat down and drew the other towards her.

  ‘Ginny was always more Paul’s than mine,’ Claire said. ‘She shared his sense of vocation. It’s years since she left home but I still miss her. Silly, isn’t it? I should be happy. I am really. She’s doing what she loves. It’s just – Why Africa of all places?’ She dug in her cardigan pocket for a crumpled tissue.

  Jess sipped her tea. ‘Did you ask her?’

  As Claire nodded, a lock of hair flopped over her forehead. She pushed it back. ‘She said most of the money people donate never reaches those it’s meant for. But by being there she can make a real difference.’ She wiped her nose again. ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Twin boys. They’re twenty-seven now. My husband was away working for much of our married life so I brought them up pretty much on my own. They were noisy, untidy, demanding, and could be great company. When they drove me mad I looked forward to the day they left home. Then it came, and I missed them terribly.’

  Claire fiddled with her mug, turning it round. ‘Did the house feel empty?’

  Jess gave a wry smile. ‘I expect it would have done if I’d had time to think about it. But I was looking after my elderly grandparents. Then Alex’s father had a stroke and moved in so I could look after him.’

  ‘Was it a bad one?’

  ‘It affected his left side and his speech so it was very frustrating for him.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have gone into a home?’

  Jess shrugged. ‘It would have cost a fortune and he wanted the money to go to the boys.’

  ‘Didn’t you resent it, having to look after him?’

  Jess wondered if Claire Griffin was always so direct. Maybe it was the alcohol talking.

  ‘I told myself I didn’t, that it was best for him to be in familiar surroundings with a routine that gave him a sense of security. I thought I was dealing with it really well. Then one day I had a rotten headache and I got impatient with him. He told me to get out and leave him alone, he was sick of being treated like a child. He was shaking and I was in tears.’

  Resting her elbows on the table Claire sipped more tea. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My GP recommended a retired district nurse who did private care for stroke patients. It wasn’t cheap, but it cost a lot less than if he’d gone into a home. She knew exactly how to handle him and wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. He preferred being looked after by a professional who wasn’t family. And I wasn’t so exhausted. So though it was awful at the time our row turned out to be a blessing.’

  ‘Paul doesn’t row.’

  Jess lifted her mug. ‘Women’s magazines say men don’t like rows because women are better with words. But that wouldn’t apply to Paul.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

  Was she serious? ‘He’s a vicar. He always has to find the right thing to say but he mustn’t sound goody-goody. He’s not allowed to lose his temper or break down even when everyone else is upset and crying.’ Jess shook her head. ‘I’d be useless.’

  Claire gazed into her mug. ‘His harem don’t like me.’

  It took a minute. ‘If you mean the ladies who arrange the flowers and run the church cleaning rota like a military operation, don’t take it personally. It wouldn’t matter if you were a combination of Mother Teresa and Dawn French, you’re the vicar’s wife so they resent you. Half of them have never been married and the vicar is their crush. Not only is he your husband, you also have a daughter doing a vital job in a dangerous place. Can’t you hear their teeth grinding?’

  A fleeting smile crossed Claire’s pale puffy face as she set her mug carefully on the table. ‘I’m so tired of being worried.’

  ‘Then stop.’

  Claire gaped at her.

  ‘All worry does is drain you. It doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘No, actually it isn’t. My husband died suddenly while he was abroad on a job. I didn’t know he had gambled away all our savings, remortgaged our hous
e, and let his life insurance lapse. I lost everything. I came back to Polvellan because this was where I was born and brought up, and I started over. Then a few weeks ago I found out he had a mistress in Dubai and an eighteen-year-old daughter.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Claire whispered.

  Jess nodded. ‘Exactly. I’m not looking for sympathy. And I’ve got past “why me?”’ She shrugged. ‘Why not me? A friend pointed out that it had happened and couldn’t be undone so I should deal with it and move on.’

  Scepticism soured Claire’s expression. ‘You make it sound simple.’

  ‘The advice is simple. Following it isn’t. I hate violence, but there are days when I want to smash things. My husband’s actions totally changed my life. I had no say in any of it. The cottage I live in is a quarter the size of our house in Truro, but it’s mine. I’ve started two small businesses and resurrected friendships from my school days. So while the past two and a half years have been … difficult is the polite word, I wouldn’t be where I am, or have what I’ve got, without everything that happened.’

  ‘You’re stronger than me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I just got sick of feeling miserable.’

  ‘How am I supposed to stop worrying about Ginny?’

  ‘You can’t. It goes with being a mother. My sons are doing well in jobs they love. But they have problems like everyone else. I could spend every day fretting. But what good would that do? It wouldn’t help them, I’d be miserable, and people would avoid me.’

  It wasn’t until the words were out that she realised how they sounded. ‘That wasn’t a dig at you. I went through a stage when I worried about everything. The counsellor I saw said it was an anxiety reaction. She told me to think of happiness and misery as two wolves. The one I feed is the one that will grow strong. She advised me to spend my time and energy on things I enjoy. So that’s what I’m doing.’ Jess shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you fancy lending a hand in the kitchen at the over-sixties lunch club, you’d be very welcome.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’d feel as if I was on trial.’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, Claire, but it’s not about you. It’s about people who may not see or talk to anyone else for the rest of the week. The lunch club is not just a freshly cooked meal, it’s a reason to dress up, bring along a bottle of beer or wine, and enjoy a couple of hours’ chat and laughter.’ Jess stood up. ‘Have a think about it. I’d better get back. When your husband gets in will you tell him I called?’ She took out one of her cards and glanced round at the sound of footsteps in the hall.