Framed in Cornwall - Janie Bolitho Page 0,3

of a camera? Jack found it hard to believe she was only two years his junior, she was so petite and youthful. He towered over her by eight inches. He was solidly built with the typical dark Cornish colouring. Although his accent had been diluted by the years he had spent away from the area it was still strong enough to identify his origins.

Petty crime annoyed him. The perpetrators were rarely caught and the victims suffered out of all proportion to what the criminals gained. He sighed. He couldn’t wait to see Rose that evening and wished he could see her more often. But at least he knew where he stood with her. Rose had made it quite clear that she would not give up her friends to spend more time with him. He accepted there was no choice but to make the best of what little he had. It was, he realised, little enough.

It had finally happened, the dreaded time when Marigold needed to be hospitalised. For months Fred had coped, running the shop but relying more and more on his staff, keeping the flat clean and seeing to Marigold’s needs. As she weakened he had received outside help. Cheerful nurses were in and out of the upstairs flat several times a day.

Tears ran down his face as he thought of Marigold in that high bed, intravenous fluids running into her wasted arm. It had been so hard to leave her there. Barely able to speak she had managed a few whispered words. ‘No one could’ve done so much for me. I love you, Fred.’ It was the first time she had said it and he would remember it for ever. All he had done had been worth it in the end. Yes, he decided, even … but he would not allow himself to complete the thought.

He stared at his surroundings. The flat was cold and empty without Marigold. Kneeling, he tried to pray but no words came. Not since his boyhood had he missed church on Sunday but he thought he would stop going now. Sometimes he found it hard to believe he worshipped the same God as the rest of the congregation. The one he knew was a personal friend with whom he held conversations. How could He have time for all those others, for the women, some of whom still wore hats and who gossiped outside after the service? His parents had been strict Methodists, bringing him up to fear shame and dishonesty, to act in a way which could not offend or cause gossip. He had not caused gossip, he had been very careful on that score.

Fred had offered his soul in return for Marigold’s health. All he had ever desired was someone loyal and kind, someone worth loving, someone worth living for. Whilst many paid lip service to the familiar words of the litany Fred silently communed with God. He had suffered and he had paid the price of his sins. She would not pay the price of hers, he had seen to that, but without her he was nothing.

Dorothy Pengelly’s younger son, Martin, had just passed his thirty-fourth birthday but looked much younger. He knew what people said about him, that he was simple, that he wasn’t all there, and it hurt. Worse, it made him self-conscious and confused in strange company, which only served to perpetuate the myth. Alone he was a different man. Only his mother understood him fully and accepted him as he was. In return he loved her unconditionally.

Martin lived in a caravan which had been abandoned some years ago. Technically he was a squatter but it was unlikely anyone would return to claim it now. He had been out walking one day when he first discovered it about a mile from his mother’s house. It was on rough ground, surrounded by clumps of bramble and obviously uninhabited. Many times he had returned but it remained empty and was becoming dilapidated. One day he had plucked up the courage to try the door. It was unlocked but the handle was stiff. On closer inspection he saw why it had been abandoned; it was fit only for the scrap heap. To Martin it was a challenge. He spent a month making repairs which may not have been aesthetic but which were effective. A few weeks later, when he was certain no one was going to lay claim to the van, he packed up his belongings and moved in, knowing that