Page 18 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay

A couple of days later, Peggy took Quentin up on his suggestion to do a round of the village loop on his buggy. She looked forward to seeing him, but she also had an ulterior motive.

‘We can drop in on the farm shop,’ Quentin declared, as they began their journey round the village from the centre, where they’d had a guilty coffee– immediately declared not as good as Ted’s– at Clove Hitch, the café on the harbour.

It was Quentin’s suggestion, but Peggy was in total agreement.

They wanted to have time to themselves, the coffee van always in danger of turning into a social event.

The café had seen better days, the navy-blue sign above the door– displaying a knotted rope– peeling and weathered from the constant blast of salty wind and spray.

Rumour had it– as Quentin explained to Peggy– that it was about to be sold and turned into a buzzing cocktail bar for the summer’s tourist youth.

Which seemed unlikely in a village like Pencarrow, where cosy pubs had always been the order of the day for all ages.

‘I hope they don’t,’ Quentin whispered, eyeing Terry, the man behind the counter. ‘He’ll definitely be out of a job, poor chap. He’s not exactly got the trendy mixologist vibe the new owners will be looking for.’

Peggy couldn’t help but feel sad for Terry.

Out of a job at his age– she knew how that felt.

Does he have plans? she wondered, constantly intrigued, these days, by how people viewed retirement.

Did he long to stop working in a way she never had?

For his sake she hoped so. The man was lugubrious, overweight and sweaty, probably in his sixties, but brusque to the point of rudeness with the customers, as if they were a cross he had to bear.

And tourists could probably be supremely irritating.

Maybe he longs for the axe to fall , she thought, as she sipped her coffee, so he can take up birdwatching or bowls.

She wondered what hobby she could find that would fill a part, at least, of her days.

But none sprang to mind. Only the faces of her sick children.

One in particular, Scout, a charming girl of thirteen, who had a rare congenital heart condition that constantly sent her back into Great Ormond Street.

She looked so frail, with a permanent blue tinge to her skin, but she was incredibly clever and very rewarding to teach, so full of life and choosing to ignore her disability.

‘So,’ Quentin began, when they were on their way up the hill, ‘I vote we make our way to the farm shop and see what Paul is up to. We might even be lucky. This could be the day Mother Messinger graces us with some of her heavenly lamb patties– them what take the skin off your throat.’ He chuckled.

‘And if not, there’s usually someone interesting to gawp at. ’

The farm shop was owned by the son of the famous samosa-maker and his ex-model wife, Sienna.

He was the lead singer of a successful millennium band– Lantimos Virgins– now defunct, which had enjoyed a couple of break-out hits at the time.

Sexy and handsome, he had a voice to charm the birds from the trees.

Of Jamaican heritage, although brought up since babyhood in England, Paul was the sort of man who filled the room with his personality, his laughter.

Sienna was a slim blonde, tall and huge-eyed, a beauty. But she was also generally acknowledged to be rude and rather grumpy. Nobody in the village could understand why, given her lifestyle and her gorgeous husband. The locals, particularly the women, wanted better for Paul.

His shop was a sort of passion. But the passion didn’t extend to the boring nitty-gritty of food safety or hygiene.

Much of the stock had dodgy sell-by dates, but there might be– randomly and you had to be quick– his mother’s eccentric Cornish version of Caribbean treats for sale: sticky ginger and apple sponge, the apple substituted for pineapple; her spicy version of a Cornish pasty with minced lamb and butternut squash that Quentin loved; sweet chilli and potato puffs, instead of Jamaican plantain.

And, equally randomly, some hung-over singer or rumpled model, general celebrity fare, might wander down from Paul and Sienna’s sprawling house behind the shop for the locals, as Quentin so aptly put it, to ‘gawp at’.

Peggy waited till they were past Ted’s van and on the top road before she broached the question that had been burning on her tongue since the uneasy conversation about Lindy the other night.

She found it easier to ask Quentin when they were side by side and she didn’t have to meet his eye, because she didn’t intend to be completely honest. It was a breezy day, patchy sunlight, but warm enough as he accelerated up the hill, his buggy-driving skills vastly improved since that first day at the beach.

‘Umm, can I ask you something professional, Quentin?’

He turned a curious face to her, but she kept her eyes to the front. ‘Go ahead.’

‘If you think someone is being sort of coerced– not sure how to describe it but I suppose they call it being “gaslighted”, these days– what should you do about it? Who should you turn to for help?’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Is it “gaslighted” or “gaslit”? I wonder… I suppose gaslit is the actual flame thing.’ Then he pulled himself together. ‘Sorry, yes. A tricky one.’ He drove on a few yards. ‘I suppose you’re not going to tell me who this is?’

‘Can’t.’

‘You say you think she– I assume it’s a “she”, it usually is– is “sort of” being coerced? So you’ve seen something worrying?’

Peggy sighed. ‘No, I haven’t seen anything. But what she’s described I can’t imagine anyone making up. It’s someone very close to her. A family member.’ She paused, then added, ‘Have you dealt with these cases in court?’

‘I was in corporate law, so no. That’s for the criminal and family courts.

’ He pulled into the side of the road, concern written on his face.

‘I have to ask… You’re not talking about yourself, are you?

’ He stopped, clearly almost shocked that he’d even considered the question. ‘I can’t believe Ted–’

‘Oh, my God, no!’ Peggy exclaimed. ‘Absolutely not.’ She bit her lip.

‘I shouldn’t have brought it up with you.

I was sworn to secrecy and here I am, the first chance I get, blurting it out.

’ She hadn’t realized Quentin was a corporate lawyer– she’d hoped he might have come across the problem in his work.

She longed, in fact, to tell him everything, but knew she could not.

‘Well, my dear, you haven’t exactly blurted anything out, have you? I have no idea to whom you’re referring.’ A reflective smile began to spread across his craggy features. ‘Although my mind is whirring. Hmm, now who could it be?’ He held his finger to his chin in mock thoughtfulness.

She laughed. ‘Stop it. This is just what the person was afraid of, why she didn’t want me to know. Village gossip.’

‘Reasonable question: why did she tell you, if she didn’t want you to know?’

Blast , Peggy thought, regretting with every bone in her body that she’d opened up this can of worms. She let out a frustrated groan. ‘Please, Quentin, can we change the subject?’

He nodded slowly. ‘To answer your initial question, there is a national domestic-abuse helpline, of course, and various charities deal with the problem. Maybe you should persuade your friend to call one. I’m sure there are details all over the internet.’

‘Thanks, yes, good idea. Should have thought of that,’ she said, her reply brisk, closing down the discussion.

They moved on in silence until they saw the farm shop up ahead, Peggy inwardly sighing with relief that their destination would provide a different focus for Quentin’s curiosity.

The large converted barn was painted stand-out red with white trim round the windows and door– sort of New England style, Peggy thought– the sloping roof covered with solar panels.

There were no cars parked in the area in front of the shop today, she was surprised to notice, where normally vehicles jostled for the limited space available.

In the summer they often spilled out onto the main road, parking randomly along the kerb and disrupting the flow of traffic out of the village.

There had been protests in the past, Ted had told her, but nothing was ever done because the people parking were bringing valuable tourist business.

‘Hmm,’ Quentin commented. ‘Looks closed. Shame.’

But as they drew level, they saw Paul Messinger seated on a bench to the right of the high barn door.

He was on his phone, but when he saw them, he clicked off and waved.

‘Hey, Quentin! You’re a sight for sore eyes.

You must have sensed I was having a bit of a crap morning.

’ His accent was London with a hint of the US. ‘Power’s out.’

‘That is crap, indeed,’ Quentin replied sympathetically.

‘Yeah, but I’ve got cake. Ginger. Ma bakes early.

’ He indicated the battered old metal oven tray on the bench beside him.

Peggy saw neat squares of something dark brown and glossy, imprinted with apple rings and scattered with a melted layer of Demerara sugar, an ivory-handled knife with a broad blade balanced on the lip.

‘Can’t do coffee to go with it, but you’re very welcome to a chunk.

’ He turned his large dark eyes on Peggy.

‘Hello. I’ve seen you about, but we’ve never been introduced.

’ He chuckled. ‘Your snazzy new steed a babe magnet then, Quent?’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Quentin replied, reaching eagerly for a sticky slab of cake from the tray Paul held out to them. ‘This is Peggy, my newest best friend. She’s fair-Ted-at-the-coffee-van’s lover.’ He winked at his use of the term.

Peggy grinned. It sounded romantic, put like that.