Buried in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF Page B

strongly, but she did get on well with them.
    ‘Come on, girl, if you want a hand with the shopping.’ Trevor stood up. Like many local families they did not possess a car. If the men were at sea they didn’t travel far when they returned home and there were ample buses into Penzance and from there to other places. There were also enough people who did have transport and who were prepared to offer lifts. Theywalked down the path in single file and waved before disappearing from view.
    Rose knew that many villages and small towns comprised the same mix of pubs and small shops which served the locals, but in Newlyn there was a difference. It was in both the people themselves and the one thing which bound them together: the sea. The sea and its produce and the dangers it held, proven by the tragedies which, when they occurred, affected not one person but many in such a close-knit community.
    She rinsed the mugs and inverted them on the draining-board before glancing at the sky, which could change in seconds. There were still no clouds. She slipped on a jacket, picked up her large leather handbag and went outside. The walk along the sea front would do her good and she could change her library books on the way up to Penzance. Breathing in the clean air, she made her way down the hill, waving to a fish buyer as she passed the market. It was busy but the auctioneer’s voice could be heard above the clattering of fish boxes.
    Library, bank, post office, hairdresser’s, she reminded herself again as she reached the level surface of Newlyn Green.

CHAPTER TWO
    Stella Jackson paced the honey-coloured, highly polished sanded boards of her living-room floor, cigarette in hand. Daniel Wright, her husband, ignored her. He was used to the first night nerves from which she suffered as much in St Ives as in one of the big London galleries. And tonight they were to be honoured by the presence of a well-known art dealer. Daniel was not alone in adrniring his wife’s work as well as the woman herself and was therefore unable to understand her insecurity. It was some years now since he had stopped trying to reassure her; this anxiety was part of her, something which she had to endure and which, he realised, helped her artistically. Ifshe lost the desire to improve, to be the best, if she took her talent for granted, it might slide into mediocrity. In many ways they were worlds apart but their marriage worked and they allowed one another plenty of freedom.
    Daniel had been commissioned to produce a sculpture for the gardens of a government property in London. Twice he had travelled up with plans and then the model from which he would work. It was now under way. The basic shape had been formed and sat in his studio wrapped in damp cloths. It would take months to complete and he couldn’t afford a mistake. Some days he didn’t touch it at all but merely stared at the plans and his initial drawing. Then he would run his hands over the clay. When he could feel in his fingertips the form which would finally emerge and picture it as well as he knew his own body, then he would continue. For now he was happy enough to offer whatever support he could to Stella at the private viewing of her exhibition.
    The flat over her gallery in St Ives had once been a net loft. They had moved there from Zennor five years previously, although Daniel still preferred the old granite house despite its relative inconvenience. The loft had been partially renovated before they moved in but theyhad decided to leave the rafters in their original form rather than build a ceiling. They sloped up to the roof, forming an apex and creating a sense of spaciousness. The decor appeared very casual but the effect had taken Stella a long time to achieve as she searched for just the right material for cushions and curtains and the rugs that were thrown over the settees. The television and video recorder were hidden in a cupboard built into the wall, as was their collection of CDs and