Page 31 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay

‘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 there is 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 art on 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 of your name,’ 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.’

‘My parents were considered in the same category as Black, of course,’ Rory went on, ‘but Rory Walsh, who owned the boarding house, took them in– perhaps because, being Irish, he was on the banned list too– and looked after them. According to family folklore, he was generally considered a saint. So, when I came along, I wasn’t going to be anything but Rory. ’

‘I love his name,’ Quentin said softly, almost to himself, and Peggy felt herself tearing up a little, hearing the strength of feeling, the love in his voice, his tone so often dry.

Then he carried on, ‘Try being labelled “Quentin” for seventy years. People immediately assume I’m a posh, over-educated twat. ’

‘Aren’t you?’ Ted teased.

‘Well, yes, maybe I am. But I think people should have to work a little harder before they find that out.’

As everyone laughed, Peggy found herself beginning to relax a little. The inconsequential supper-party banter was fun, Ted’s deliciously chilled rosé helping. These are proper people , she thought, good people, our friends .

‘So tell me, Ted,’ Quentin asked a while later– a little drunk by now and holding the floor– as he hacked another large chunk of buttery Cornish Camembert from the cheese board, ‘how would you, as a relative newcomer, rate our little village?’

‘In what respect?’

‘Oh, you know, friendliness, inclusion, general humanity towards our fellow inhabitants.’

Ted smiled. ‘I’d say it was pretty perfect. It feels like living here is the most amazing privilege.’

Peggy gave a small inward sigh. She wished she felt the same at that precise moment.

All the lovely things about the bay– the scenery, the sea, the peace and quiet, their lovely house, and now the society she was beginning to feel part of…

Was it like a house of cards about to tumble about her head?

She might be prone to over-thinking, but she felt it was a legitimate worry that the people in the village would see her differently if news of this email ever got out.

What was more, her past had thrown up no clues to the vile emailer, so was he or she actually someone in her current life?

In their gorgeous village? Ted had tentatively suggested it earlier, but Peggy had rejected the idea out of hand.

She had no awareness of having upset anyone local– although how could she be sure?

Quentin was eyeing Ted thoughtfully. ‘Interesting. But I suppose you haven’t been exposed to the sinister underbelly of the bay yet.’

‘You make us sound like Tijuana or Cape Town,’ Rory said, with a chuckle.

‘Ah, you mock, my dear. I’m not talking murders here. That’s too simple. I’m talking gossip . We’ve all been guilty of it. I know I have.’

Peggy froze. Gossip. The word now struck terror into her veins. Does he know something? Because Quentin seemed to know everything.

‘Like what, specifically?’ Ted asked. Peggy thought he looked uneasy and she held her breath.

Quentin shrugged. ‘Well, take this morning, for instance. I was outside the deli, sniffing Jake’s tomatoes and being reminded, delightfully, of my grandfather’s greenhouse.

And I heard this couple at one of the tables debating– loudly it must be said, they had no shame– whether Emerald was cheating on Tina with the pretty young thing from the bakery.

But what brought me up short was the delight they were taking in the speculation.

Speculation about something that would cause dear Tina considerable heartache, I assume.

But I’m probably making something of nothing,’ he added quietly.

‘That’s mean,’ Peggy said, with feeling, imagining herself in Tina’s shoes, the gossip swirling just out of reach, but whiffs of it perhaps reaching her ears and worrying her. Was this what Tina meant when she called Emerald a bitch this morning? she wondered.

‘Quite,’ agreed Quentin. ‘Complete nonsense, anyway. Emerald is, without doubt, a piece of work. But the girl in question– I think her name is Leah– I happen to know on good authority is taking horizontal refreshment with Gary from the post office’s eldest boy. All quite above board.’

Everyone burst into laughter.

‘Good to know you keep a firm finger on the village pulse, Quentin,’ Ted remarked.

Quentin gave him an amused wink. ‘Hands up, dear boy, I’m a terrible old gossip. But not a mean one, I hope.’ He paused. ‘No doubt they say much worse about me, silly old cripple that I am.’

No one responded at first. It was said with such feeling. And Quentin sounded so sad.

‘Spiteful tittle-tattle is hardly exclusive to the bay,’ Rory said firmly, giving his husband’s arm a reassuring stroke. ‘This is a great community. We totally support each other… alongside the occasional bitching.’

Quentin raised his glass. ‘Of course we do. To friendship, then. And to the magic of Pencarrow Bay.’

Peggy lifted her glass nervously. The conversation was way too close to the bone. She felt exhausted now and hoped their guests would soon go home. It seemed an eternity since she’d stood chatting with Tina at the crab shack, unaware that her day was about to explode in her face.

Suddenly Bolt shot up from his basket by the sofa and rushed to the front door, skidding on the parquet floor until he reached the mat, barking like crazy.

‘What on earth?’ Ted asked, getting up from the table.

Peggy watched as he opened the door. There, in the porch, stood her son, Liam.