Plotted in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF

hint of mischief about him. Hundreds of people came to Cornwall to paint, to capture the light and colours peculiar only to the Penwith peninsula, but Joel was a true Cornish artist.
    She checked the door and stepped out into the street where the wind shrieked and snatched at her hair and almost knocked her sideways.
    ‘You look as if you could do with a drink. But then I suppose that’s nothing new.’
    Rose spun around in surprise then smiled. ‘If you’re buying.’ It was typical of her friendship with Barry Rowe that he would turn up without warning and offer to buy her a drink. It was a friendship which, like hers and Laura’s, had spanned almost three decades beginning from the time before she married David and lasting after his long illness and death from cancer. ‘Where to? The Navy?’
    ‘Suits me. It’s on the way for both of us.’
    They walked down the hill away from the draughty room attached to the side of Geoff Carter’s gallery which he loaned to Rose and various other artists on several nights aweek. Rose had studied the work on show and liked it. It was full of life and feeling. Soon she would pay another visit to the Tate in St Ives where more modern art was on display. There was sculpture, too, including the work of Barbara Hepworth. Rose liked to keep abreast with local culture.
    Barry Rowe was aware how full Rose’s life had become and tried not to let his jealousy show, a feat he had never quite managed to achieve. He had never been in with a chance, not even before she met David, but he was always there, always at hand to pick up the pieces because that was where he liked to be. Just lately he felt she was drifting away from him. Success had done that; not altered her, Rose was Rose and that was that, but now her medium was oils her paintings were selling better than ever and there was this evening class, another new venture. She continued to produce work for him, although nowhere near as much as before.
    The steeply sloping pavement was narrow, room enough only for one. Barry walked behind Rose who, short and slim, appeared smaller than ever in her padded jacket. Her wavy auburn hair, left loose that night, was lifted from her shoulders as the strong windblew straight in their faces. On her feet were walking boots and thick red socks into which her jeans were tucked. From behind she might almost have been a child.
    They were nearly at the bottom of Queen Street, the sea was directly ahead of them. They could hear it before they saw it as it rolled in, the high tide imminent, each wave slapping the Esplanade wall with a bomb-like crump followed by a splash as the tops of the waves and fingers of seaweed hit the paving stones and ran into the road.
    A salvage tug swung on its anchor, its lights bright against the black sky. These tugs came and went, staying for days or for months, disappearing to refuel or to perform their function which was always to someone else’s cost.
    Spray hit them, carried by the wind across the width of the road. Barry pushed open the door of the pub and held it for Rose. It was warm inside and there were a dozen or more customers seated round the L-shaped bar talking or watching the football match being played silently on the television at the far end. Music came from a CD player, sixties music from the days of Rose and Barry’s youth.
    Gwyn, the landlady, greeted them byname. ‘The usual?’ she asked as she reached for a pint glass.
    ‘Please.’ Barry pulled a handful of change from his pocket, reaching beneath his threadbare donkey jacket to do so.
    Rose shook her head. It was probably the same one he had worn when she first knew him.
    They sat at the table in the corner by the window. Rose got out her cigarettes.
    ‘I still don’t know why you don’t give up. You only smoke a couple a day.’
    ‘And I enjoy every single one of them. Don’t nag.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling, which was adorned with naval artefacts. The light caught the glints in her