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

make a living in oils; wild, dramatic oils of rugged seascapes and rocky promontories. After a brief flirtation with contemporary art she knew it was not for her. Rose’s work was representational, alive and real.
    She hadn’t given herself a chance. Just because her initial attempts had not created a storm didn’t mean she could not haveimproved. Few artists were instantly recognised, many not at all. Up until David had died she had painted one or two oils each year, after his death there had been only one. And now Dorothy’s death had shown her how tenuous the grip on life was. It was time she made some changes.
     
    Jobber Hicks had been farming since the day he left school at fourteen and by that time had already completed his apprenticeship by way of the various tasks he was allocated each evening and which he did as soon as he had changed out of his uniform. Only then could he wash and sit down at the table with the rest of the family and eat the large meal his mother prepared for them every day. Of the five children he was the only one who had remained on the farm. When his father died he had taken over his role. By that time his mother had been dead for five years.
    The money that Harry Hicks had scrupulously saved had been divided equally between the children but Jobber’s three sisters and brother showed no interest in making any claim on the farm itself. They were all married and comfortable in their different ways and they knew that if the property was sold Jobber would be out of work and have nowhere to go. They were not interested in a fifth of its worth because the whole place had fallen into disrepair since Mrs Hicks’s death and the land surrounding it belonged to the Duchy anyway. The deeds were transferred to Jobber and he began the long task of renovating the farm.
    Jobber was also the only one to remain single. From his youth he had always hankered after Dorothy Pengelly, or Trelawny, as she had been then. She was different from the other girls he knew, having guts and spirit from an early age. When her husband died his hopes were renewed. He waited for a decent interval then began to woo her in his own steady way. Dorothy disappointed him by saying that she had no intention of marrying again, one husband had been enough. Jobber never knew how close to saying yes she had been. He had had to content himself with the farm and her friendship but he had wanted more.
    His work usually took up ten or more hours a day so heemployed a married woman to come in and cook and clean. During school holidays she would bring her small daughter whom Jobber would sometimes take out with him. He was touched by her devotion and by the way she would slip her hand in his without prompting.
    He had been christened Joseph Robert Hicks but when Florrie, the baby of the family, first began to speak she could not master his names and ran them into one. Jobber, she had called him and the name had stuck.
    He sat in the kitchen in an armchair beside the range which burned all year to serve the back-boiler and the ovens. He was ashamed, he could not remember when he had last cried, but Dorothy’s death had rocked his world. His own mortality did not bother him, death would come at some point and occasionally it seemed welcome. But how he would miss those jaunts into Camborne and being able to go up to the house and discuss all manner of things with her. The last time he had seen her he had had the strong impression there was something she wanted to tell him.
    He thought of Martin. As soon as Rose had rung him he had driven over but the boy was neither at the house nor in his van. Mid-evening he had found him, sitting on a rock, the setting sun giving his pale face a rosy glow. He had barely responded to Jobber’s questions.
    Jobber dried his eyes and pulled out his pipe, sucking at the stem and spitting out the sticky blackness which lined it before tamping the bowl with strong-smelling tobacco. Once it was lit he applied