Buried in Cornwall Read Free

thrown over the backs of chairs, dropped on to the bed or even left to slide off their hangers in the walk-in cupboard which served as a wardrobe.
    She shifted again, trying to keep the material smooth, and caught the eye of a rheumy old man with a stick. She smiled but he turned away, clearing his throat and hawking into a tissue. Rose averted her eyes.
    The bus lumbered down the hill and towards Penzance. Along the Promenade was a continuous string of plain lights which were now a permanent fixture. They went well with the new Victorian-type lamp-posts. The festive lights were already strung in Penzance and would be shining brightly. There were only two weeks until Christmas and she had made no plans. Other years, since David’s death, her parents had arrived and taken over. Last year she had spent in the company of Jack Pearce. They had enjoyeda quiet day by themselves. Rose had cooked a joint and Jack had provided champagne, wine and whisky. In the evening Laura and Trevor had joined them and they had played cards and got merrily tipsy. There would be no Jack this year and she had persuaded her parents they were not to cancel their own plans.
    Despite the distance between them, they kept in touch regularly by letter and telephone and knew their daughter well enough to understand that the past was behind her and that even if she was alone her memories could no longer make her sad. Laura Penfold, her best friend, had invited her for lunch but Rose would not dream of imposing when Laura’s own family were coming to stay. ‘They’re arriving on Christmas Eve and leaving on the 27th,’ Laura had said. ‘Just right. Not long enough to try my patience.’ Rose knew the Christmas Day procedure in the Penfold household: Laura would do all the preparations in advance but it was Trevor and their daughters-in-law who cooked the meal, allowing Laura to go to the pub with her three sons. They had all moved away, none having followed their father into fishing. Perhaps it’s just as well with the way things are going, Rose thought, as the bus pulled in opposite the postoffice. She alighted and thanked the driver then crossed the road, stopping at the top of the street to glance in the window of Dorothy Perkins. Across the road a shaven-headed model stood in the window of a boutique. Posed with its legs wide apart, knees bent inwards and an aggressive grimace on its face, it caught Rose’s attention. She stood back and studied it, wondering why ugliness could sometimes be appealing as well as eye-catching.
    A vicious wind caught the hem of her coat and lifted her hair as she rounded the corner and made her way down Chapel Street to the Admiral Benbow. Upstairs in the bar Nick Pascoe was half seated on a tall stool, one foot on the ledge below the counter. A pint of beer stood in front of him. He rose as she approached, swept back his hair with his long, narrow fingers and leant over to kiss her cheek. Apart from shaking hands at Mike’s birthday party it was the first tactile gesture on either side yet it felt perfectly natural. ‘Wine?’ he asked.
    ‘Please. You’re sure this starts at seven forty-five? There’re people going in already.’
    ‘Positive. Don’t panic. I didn’t think to book anywhere to eat, I’d forgotten about the Christmas party crowds.’
    ‘Oh, we’ll get in somewhere. It’s Wednesday, it shouldn’t be a problem.’
    They sipped in silence for a few minutes. Nick made a roll-up and lit it, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Rose, is something bothering you?’
    ‘No!’ She was astonished. It was astute of him to realise anything was wrong, but she had been trying to forget her earlier foolishness. There was no time to tell him now, maybe later, after the music had worked its magic. She checked the time. ‘Ten minutes. Shall we walk over?’
    Nick downed the last two inches of beer. He wore jeans again, his best pair, Rose assumed, as they weren’t threadbare nor were they covered