Framed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Read Free Book Online Page A

her and he now realised he ought to have called for help.
    ‘I told ’un.’
    ‘Told who, Martin? I don’t understand you.’
    ‘They men.’
    ‘What men?’ She couldn’t guess how the police would deal with him.
    ‘In the pub.’ He clamped his mouth shut. ‘I want to go home.’
    Rose hesitated then nodded. He was in shock, he didn’t know what he was talking about. Dorothy had told her how he drank too much, it was highly unlikely he’d remember anything he’d said to someone in the pub. Assessing him she saw that perhaps he was better on his own. Men like him, used to solitude and uncomfortable in other people’s homes, would heal quicker if left alone. Tomorrow she would go and talk to him again.
    Reluctantly she drove him back, praying that she was doing the right thing. Martin had been so close to his mother that she feared for his state of mind. If anything happened to him it would be on her conscience for ever. Already she had ignored the advice to get a doctor to see him. It would be pointless, a doctor couldn’t bring Dorothy back, nor could he ease Martin’s pain. All he could do was prescribe pills to blot it out temporarily. Besides, she tried to reassure herself, she could not force a grown man to remain under her roof.
    The working day was coming to a close and the traffic heading in the opposite direction was building up. Although there was little on her side of the road she got stuck behind a tractor piled high with bales of hay. It turned sharply into a farm gateway, the rear end of the trailer swinging behind it. The clouds were moving faster, building up from the west until they were banked in a grey mass. Rose wound up the window as the wind changed direction. On the slopes the heather was beginning to flower. Walking through it, hand in hand, were a couple. Had Martin ever had a girlfriend? she wondered. It would have been nice if there was someone other than herself to comfort him. She doubted his brother and his wife would trouble themselves.
    Stopping as near to the caravan as she was able she watched him climb slowly up over the rough ground, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply at his sides. She had no idea what was going on in his head. For a second she had a maternal urge to run after him and hold him tightly but it would embarrass them both. When he had disappeared over the brow of the hill she turned the Mini around and went home to find another message on her answering machine. It was Barbara Phillips, the wife of Mike Phillips whom she had rung earlier in the day. ‘Rose, are you there? Never mind. It’s me, Barbara. Mike told me what happened. You poor tiling. Give me a ring when you can. Look, I know this isn’t a good time but I’m having a bit of a do to celebrate Mike’s fiftieth. Saturday week. You’ve got to be here, and I won’t take no for an answer. Ring me when you can. We’ll be thinking of you.’ Dear Barbara, who had during that awful year gently but persistently encouraged her to go out more but who now did so forcefully. Here was a chance to meet new people. I’ll go, Rose thought. Alone. No Jack and no Barry.
    Barry. Suddenly she remembered that she was supposed to be meeting him that evening for a long-standing dinner date. She would not ring him to cancel, it would be too hard breaking the news over the telephone. Let him come, then she would tell him.
    There were three appointments in her diary for the next day. Rose did cancel them. Tomorrow she must make sure Martin was all right and she needed time for herself, time to grieve for Dorothy. It had not really hit her yet. Aimlessly, she wandered around the house which she loved and where she had always been so happy. What had happened to her youthful dreams? Was the woman who drew and painted wild flowers and pretty bays for commercial purposes the same girl who had had such high hopes for herself? Having gained a place at art college and having been told she had talent, her ambition had been to