Framed in Cornwall Read Online Free Page B

Dorothy took herself to bed early and read, her mind always partly aware of the screaming elements outside. When a strong westerly brought rain it lashed against the bedroom window but the sound was comforting, a part of all she had ever known. She would lie contentedly beneath the sheet and blankets and the patchwork quilt her mother had stitched and give thanks for her life.
    She was, she realised, a woman of extremes. She liked summer and winter, understood only good or evil and had no time for people who dithered because they couldn’t decide the best thing to do. Everything in life was black or white to her and this outlook reflected both her character and her surroundings. She loved the harshness of the scenery outside and could never have lived in one of the picturesque villages which attracted tourists. Even as a girl she had avoided crowds, walking the cliff paths alone or with friends from the village. They would lie amongst the rough grasses and the thrift, its pink flowers bobbing in the soft breezes, and plan their futures, futures modelled on their parents’ lives. They knew only open spaces and the moods of the Atlantic Ocean as it battered the coastline or caressed the golden sand. Time was measured by the storms and the baking heat of summer. Their food came from the sea and the surrounding farms, their bread from their mothers’ kitchens and their only entertainment was listening to the stories passed down through the generations or hearing one of the choirs sing in the church.
    Progress, she thought. What has it brought us but people in a hurry with their fast cars and their televisions and computers which were called, she believed, technology communication? ‘Communication!’ she spluttered. ‘They things does the opposite. Nobody talks any more, not proper. Just tap, tap, tap in they machines. Bleddy tusses.’
    She was still at the table, deep in thought, talking aloud as she often did lately. A knock at the door jerked her into alertness. Tap, tap, tap. The sounds were real, not an echo of her thoughts.She was surprised to notice it was now completely dark. ‘I’m coming,’ she called as she pulled a cardigan around her shoulders and wondered if her visitor had returned.
     
    Peter Pengelly worked on the railways and enjoyed the life although he was not sure how he felt about privatisation. He had recently been promoted to senior conductor on the Inter-City line from Penzance to Paddington although he never completed the whole journey. Mostly the trains changed crews at Plymouth or Exeter. They could manage on what he earned but with two school-age children it wasn’t easy, at least according to Gwen.
    ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ he had asked more than once. ‘Just something part-time. You’ll probably enjoy it, it’ll get you out of the house.’
    ‘I don’t want a job, I want to be a proper mother.’
    He knew this was not the real reason. Gwen hankered after a life where money was no problem and where she could lord it over others. But she did not want to have to work for it. Sadder still, she had no real friends. Lately he had pressed her harder but she had given him one of her cool glances and made him feel inadequate again.
    ‘There isn’t much point now, is there? Your mother won’t last for ever. Think about it, Peter, it’ll make such a difference to our lives. We can have a bigger house and when all her bits and pieces have been sold –’
    ‘For God’s sake,’ he had hissed in exasperation, dropping his mug in the washing-up bowl before leaving for work.
    ‘I’ll never live out there. Never!’ Gwen had shouted after him, almost in tears. All she had ever wanted was a life to make up for her miserable childhood and Dorothy Pengelly was the only thing standing in her way.
    That same morning Gwen drove into Truro and bought some new underwear. To her mind Peter was a highly sexed man and she thought she knew exactly how to get what she wanted.
    At home, an hour