Framed in Cornwall Read Online Free Page A

picked their way through gorse roots and scattered stones. For a big man he moved lightly and easily and all the walking kept him fit. He stowed his groceries in cupboards in the caravan then walked down to the house.
    ‘What’s up, son?’ Dorothy asked as soon as she saw his face. No answer was necessary, the way he was trembling and refusing to meet her eyes said it all.
    ‘Nothing, Ma.’
    ‘You’ve bin drinking again.’ It was a statement. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and studied him carefully before turning to stir something simmering in a pot. ‘You’ll end up in trouble if you don’t look out.’ Martin was not dishonest, nor was he a fighting man, but he was easily taken advantage of, especially when he had drink inside him. How unalike her boys were. Peter was much the brighter but he lacked compassion. Martin was insecure, easily hurt and quickly ashamed yet he intuitively offered comfort whenever it was needed.
    Peter imagined that, because she insisted on his repaying loans, she thought the less of Martin. This was far from true. She was trying to teach him a set of values and how to look after himself financially, preparing him for the time when she would no longer be around. ‘Well, now you’re here you may as well eat with me. Cut some bread, son.’
    Martin got out a loaf and hacked off four thick slices then they sat down to eat. Saliva filled his mouth as he took the first mouthful of beef stew. The remains from yesterday having been reheated, the flavours had mingled appetisingly. They ate incompanionable silence; they were close enough not to feel the need to make inconsequential conversation.
    When they had finished Dorothy cleared away the plates and made tea. She wished she knew what was troubling her son.
    ‘Anyone been here?’ Martin asked so abruptly that she jumped and the tea leaves on the spoon scattered over the wooden draining-board instead of into the pot.
    Dorothy bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said hesitantly for there were some things she did not want Martin to know, not just yet. ‘But Mrs Trevelyan’s coming tomorrow. Why?’
    ‘Oh, ’er’s all right. I mean anyone else?’
    ‘No. You know only Fred Meecham and Rose come, and Jobber Hicks to give me a lift now and then. What’s got into you, Martin?’
    ‘That’s all right then.’ He avoided an answer but seemed to be relieved as his shoulders unhunched and he pushed back a lock of brown hair. He drank his tea and thanked his mother for the meal then left by the back door, heading up over the rough ground in the direction of his caravan where he intended getting his head down for at least eight hours.
    Dorothy remained at the table, her hands clasped around her pint mug as if she was cold. She felt vaguely sick. She had never lied to Martin before. There had been a visitor and she now understood what had brought that particular person to her door. Martin had not been able to keep his mouth shut. However, inadvertently he had done himself a favour and now Dorothy was returning it by keeping quiet.
    Outside the night enveloped the house like a cloak. All that could be heard were the familiar creakings of the building. Through the kitchen windows the outlines of boulders became shadowy shapes until they merged completely into the blackness. Clouds hid the stars and there was no street-lighting for a long way. In a couple more days she would need to light a fire. There was a good supply of wood stacked against the side of one of the outbuildings. Martin had cut it for her in the spring and left it there to weather. Fresh wood with the sap still running burned longer but was no good for giving off heat. Dorothy smiled. She liked the winter when gales made the windowsrattle and the wind relentlessly but unsuccessfully pounded away at the house which had stood undamaged for the best part of two hundred years. Only once had she needed someone to come and replace a couple of roof slates.
    When the dark evenings arrived