Page 37 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay
The stall was hotting up, a queue forming. Ted hugged her again, then indicated the customers. ‘Got to get this, sweetheart. Why don’t you go home and I’ll pop up later? Try not to worry.’
‘Please don’t tellanybody,’ she begged Ted, as she left the van. She felt exposed, vulnerable, imagining thevillage gossip machine gearing up for a bit of juicy finger-pointing.This is how poor Teresa from the post office must have felt… how Lindy feels, she thought wryly, as she plodded up the hill, sensing a real shaft of sympathy for both women.In London, this wouldn’t have been so bad, she mused, knowing her friends would never have believed such libel. But here, in what Lindy termed a ‘proper community’, it seemed that the approval of the village was paramount. And she was the new arrival. She hadn’t built up enough close friendships yet to have many automatically rooting for her– not that she wanted even her friends to know about this. It just felt so embarrassing.Suppose Quentin or Gen or Lindy– especially Lindy, when Peggy was tutoring her granddaughter– even vaguely questions whether I’m guilty?She couldn’t bear that. It frightened her, the thought she might be going around wondering who knew, who believed the email, who was on her side.
17
‘We could cancel tonight,’ Ted suggested, when he came home later that afternoon and found her curled up under the throw.
Peggy had spent the time since she returned from the van doing what she’d been doing since her first sight of the dreadful email: going over and over people from her past, trying to remember a serious row or a falling-out, any single act or remark she’d made that might have triggered such spite. But she wasn’t the sort of person to wind other people up. Her manner was polite, she knew, her personality unthreatening. Yes, she could be tough if she needed to be, but she avoided confrontation at all costs. The screaming matches between her mother and father that had punctuated her childhood from an early age had scared her, made her feel unsafe. Eric’s growling barks of accusation, Celia’s shrill, defensive, often tearful rebuttals had made her stomach clench and heave as she lay in her bed, trying not to listen, but needing to as well… She had had no idea what the rows were about, the words indistinct from upstairs, only the misery and rage clear.
So while Ted would shout and gesticulate at other drivers if they annoyed him, Peggy would just let it go. If someone pushed in front of Ted in a queue, he would be on to them in a flash, while she’d be pulling him back, begging him not to get involved, it wasn’t worth it.
Now, rousing herself from the fruitless mental trawl, she said, ‘No, I want them to come. I’ve got tons of crab, anyway.’ Then added, ‘For God’s sake don’t mention anything to Quentin or Rory, though.’ She knew she was sounding more and more like Lindy by the minute.
Ted looked surprised. ‘Quentin might be able to help.’
‘How? He has trouble sending a WhatsApp. I can’t exactly see him hacking the dark web, can you?’ Her tone was scathing and she regretted it, but she felt over-strung and jittery, as if the poison in the email had filtered into her whole body.
‘No, I meant with the law. It’s a crime, isn’t it, libelling someone?’
‘A civil matter,’ she said, dully. ‘I looked it up. The police aren’t interested unless it involves violence or death threats.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Well, what about Cian at the deli? I’ve heard he’s good with computers. He might be able to do some digging, find out where the bloody thing came from.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘No. If you ask Cian, he’ll tell Jake, who’ll tell Gen, who’ll tell Tina…’
Ted came and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I know you suggested your hospital pupil earlier. But it didn’t sound like a young person, the wording of the email. It sounded sort of pompous and old-fashioned.Espousing and promoting your ethos? No lad would write like that.’
Peggy had thought the same thing. ‘They could have been faking an older person’s style– something like ChatGPT could probably do it in a millisecond.’ She shook her head. ‘This is such a nightmare.’
Ted put his arm around her. ‘Listen, maybe now whoever has sent the email has done it, that might be all thereis to it.’ His tone was as unconvincing as his words, but he was obviously at a loss as to how to help.
She stiffened. ‘Even if it is, I need to know who…and why, for God’s sake.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because I haven’t done anything wrong!’
Ted nodded wearily. ‘I know, I know,’ he conceded, giving up his efforts to rationalize the situation. ‘You’re right. We need a geek. A hacker.’
Peggy spent the rest of the afternoon getting the supper ready. It was good to have something to focus on. Although it didn’t fully distract her, of course. She made cold watercress soup as a starter, then Tina’s crab in a salad with a lime and yoghurt dressing– new Cornish potatoes on the side, their flesh firm and yellow– followed by local cheese and fruit.Quentin is sure to love cheese.She’d messaged Ted earlier, asked him to get a couple of choice slabs from the deli when he finished at the stall, along with the rest of the provisions she hadn’t managed to pick up in the wake of Sienna’s portentous text this morning. She couldn’t face going into the village again. It was as if she had BULLY emblazoned on her forehead in coloured lights. All the fizzing optimism about her burgeoning new life in the village had drained away. She had frequently to blink back tears as she prepared the supper for her guests.
‘This is charming,’ Quentin declared, as he walked slowly on his walnut Derby cane into the kitchen-sitting room area of their house later that evening, having left his buggy in the porch. He wandered over to the windows to see the view, then turned to take in the clean, understated décor, Gen’s blue-and-grey patterned curtains, the abstract arton the walls, the carefully laid table, nodding approvingly. He had spruced up, his thick grey hair clean and tamed somewhat, a white linen shirt hanging out over navy cords, black velvet monogrammed slippers on sockless feet. Rory followed him at a careful distance. Peggy assumed this was because he was worried he might fall and thought how difficult that must be for them both.
‘Rory, what would you like?’ Ted asked, having supplied Quentin with a large whisky and ice and seated him safely on the sofa. ‘I can do a cocktail if you fancy: vodka martini? Or wine?’
Rory Sharma was tall and good-looking in a fit, clean-cut way. Kind dark eyes and long lashes above a straight nose and full mouth, he gave the impression of quiet intelligence. A freelance tax accountant by trade, his real passion, according to Quentin, was the fantasy novel he’d been writing for years now. This was the first time Peggy had properly met him.
‘Oh, something soft, please. Fizzy water’s fine,’ Rory replied.
Peggy hovered in the kitchen, fiddling, not wanting to sit down with the men. She’d showered and changed, but she couldn’t wash off the feeling of treachery that had hung about her all day, like a bad smell. She was pleased to have guests, though, as it took the steam out of the pressure cooker of theory and conjecture– all pointless, of course. Now, at least, they could have a few frivolous hours.
After they were settled at the table, the chilled soup served, Quentin looked at Peggy and asked, ‘Gilbert? You’re not related to the rugby ball, are you?’
She nodded, slightly surprised he’d asked– it wasn’t an uncommon name. ‘A cousin of my father’s, in fact, although we never knew them. Dad didn’t have a great relationship with his family, to say the least.’
‘Quentin will still need your autograph,’ Rory joked. ‘He’s rugby obsessed.’
Quentin inclined his head, a small smile on his face. ‘Tell them the story ofyourname,’ he added, addressing his husband.
Rory, not the natural raconteur Quentin was, hesitated. ‘Yeah, not a lot of Rorys in the Punjab,’ he said, with a wry smile. After another breath he went on, ‘So my dear parents, both doctors, came to the UK in the early seventies, just before I was born, and stayed in a boarding house in Leicester–’
‘That was in the days,’ Quentin interrupted, soup spoon paused halfway to his mouth, ‘when most of the places for rent had big notices in the window saying “No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs”, remember.’
