THE FAIR

On a pristine May morning, the clear Cornish sunshine softens the cold granite walls of Tregethlan Manor and glints from its elegant long windows. Old arthritic flowering cherries drip their blossom around the dewy lawns and tulips spill from pots on the weed-strewn terrace.

The great house presides over the village of Trevow, nestled in the valley with the estuary beyond. Down among the moorings, among a mix of fishing boats, holiday craft and live-aboards, a whippet stretches languidly across the foredeck of a graceful wooden yacht, his mistress Josephine Clemens beside him, equally elegant in her late father’s large tweed jacket, worn with a long silk skirt and tough rigger boots.

Iolanthe had been Jo’s father’s racing boat which they used to sail together. For the last ten years it has been her home, initially in the Mediterranean, but now returned home. Without constant maintenance, the varnish is flaking and the rigging rusting. Down below is the debris of the previous evening, spent drinking and eating mackerel and mussels brought in by other boat dwellers.

‘Well, Mouse, best be off’. Jo and Mouse clamber down into the dinghy and she rows upstream, calling on her way to neighbouring water gypsies aboard a mixed selection of disintegrating craft. Few of these boats ever move.

Today the village fair will be held at Jo’s old home, organised by her mother and the rest of the great and the good, the village establishment. Jo would rather not go but it will be an opportunity for her to publicise her campaign. She is an environmental warrior, passionate and outspoken.

Further along the river, sun streams through the porthole into John Greatwood’s cabin, waking him from a deep sleep. Last night was typical of his social life now, crammed in Iolanthe‘s cabin with neighbours sharing red wine, sloe gin and fish – a fug of shiny dark wood, barbecue smoke, laughter and someone playing a banjo. Dear Jo always hosts, her boat being slightly more hospitable than the others, some of which are half-submerged at high tide, gently rotting in the mud.

John sleeps alone these days, his wife long gone, dissatisfied with his precarious lifestyle. She enjoyed an affair with his then boss, a yacht broker, and moved upcountry. Now John earns enough, helping manage the Tregethlan estate, seasonal work with Treve Byghan on the farm, and occasional labouring for local builders. His father was the same, his own man, free from ties and close to just a few. For John, that means Jo, his neighbour and friend. Their families go back decades, even longer. They trust each other and live contentedly alongside each other in this peaceful stretch of the estuary where no one questions or bothers them. 

John is revived by strong coffee. He is expected at Tregethlan this morning to prepare equipment for the fair. He pulls on his khaki shorts, shrugs into an old Guernsey, flips a grey baseball cap over his tousled hair and climbs down the ladder from his Dutch barge onto the bank. He throws his bag of tools into the back of his muddy Land Rover and sets off.

Up at Tregethlan Manor, Anneke Lander is helping her employer Margaret Clemens get dressed, when she glimpses John’s Land Rover as it rattles up the drive. She stares down from the window for a moment, distracted, until Margaret calls her to attention.

‘Can you help me with this?’ Margaret is fiddling with the lid of a powder compact. 

Anneke has never seen so much makeup. As her employer, Margaret, applies the finishing touches the dressing table is strewn with creams, powders, eye shadows and mascaras. Margaret takes her time to choose just the right shade of lipstick, and Anneke can see that the effect is pleasing, although her English rose complexion surely does not need so much embellishment.

‘You have lovely skin,’ says Anneke, as Margaret inspects herself in the mirror.

‘You should try a touch of this yourself.’ Margaret adds a dab of lip gloss. ‘It would make you less pale.’

‘Oh no, I never wear makeup.’

‘Well you should. Didn’t your mother teach you?’

Anneke is about to say that her mother was more natural, but she stops herself. It is her job to make sure Margaret copes with the day ahead and she must not put a foot wrong.

In an hour Margaret will open the annual Trevow village fair and her gardens will be awash with brightly coloured stalls. Already the fair is springing into life outside. Anneke can hear music grinding from the fairground organ and the final tent pins being knocked into the ground. The day promises fine weather with just a few clouds overhead and enough breeze to flutter the bunting.

She does look happy today, thinks Anneke, standing a respectful distance back from the dressing table. Margaret seems pleased with herself. The morning sun, dancing with dust motes, makes her glow. The drapes at the windows may be dusty and the Chinese carpet beneath their feet old and faded, but it seems to Anneke that nothing will spoil Margaret’s mood today. That is what she hopes for.

‘I think I’ll wear this.’ Margaret smooths her elegant summer dress, silk and chiffon with blue flowers, and adjusts the pearls at her neck. ‘It’s cool and summery, not too fussy.’

‘You look lovely, so young.’  

Margaret arches a carefully drawn eyebrow at her and Anneke blushes.  

‘The straw hat with the blue ribbon, please.’

Anneke fetches the hat from its box and holds it out to Margaret.

‘Have you got your pills?’

Margaret is still recovering from a hip injury, the result of a fall some months ago. For a woman in her early seventies she is fit and energetic, so has hated having to slow down. Anneke is keen for her not to overdo things.

‘You should take your stick as well.’ She holds the walking stick out to Margaret, ebony with a silver handle.

‘Do I have to use that thing?’

Anneke waits. There is a moment’s silence before Margaret gives way and takes it. She completes her preparations with a dab of Joy by Jean Patou behind each ear and on each wrist, then steps forward, fragrant and glamorous, ready to perform her duty.

Anneke has only been at Tregethlan Manor for a few months but she knows she wants to stay. When she arrived on a late winter’s morning with all her possessions in the back of her little car she immediately felt at home. Born in the northern flatlands of Holland but brought up by a mother perpetually on the move around Southern Europe, she has had a longing finally to settle ever since her mother’s death two years ago.

The advert asked for a housekeeper with experience of ‘personal care’ for Margaret Clemens, widow and chatelaine of Tregethlan Manor. After two seasons of daffodil picking and some agency work as a care assistant, Anneke jumped at the prospect of a minimum wage and live-in accommodation in the grand but crumbling Georgian house.

Once it would have been staffed by servants and estate workers, but Margaret is reduced to just a few people: the tenant farmer Treve Byghan, John Greatwood who serves as her all-round estate manager, and Anneke whose responsibilities include assisting Margaret, coaxing the ancient Aga into life, shaking moths out of curtains, and keeping her employer’s gin and tonics topped up.  

For the first time in years Anneke has fully unpacked and put her bags away. Gradually, she is learning the ways of Tregethlan and its nearby village of Trevow. Today she follows Margaret out across the terrace at the front of the house, down the steps which she helps her navigate with care, and onto the vast lawn that stretches to a ha-ha beyond which are grazed  meadows. The fair ground is almost ready, with just the finishing touches being added to stalls and tents.

The two women head to the tea tent, where Margaret is met by a tall, elderly gentleman sporting a blazer with a carnation buttonhole. He greets her with a little bow and leads her to where members of the fair committee are waiting to welcome her. Margaret turns to Anneke: ‘You go and explore, my dear. I’ll call you if I need anything.’

Anneke knows few people in the village but she spots some familiar faces. A woman she recognises from the Post Office is arranging jars of jam and chutney, bottles of sloe gin and elderflower wine on the Women’s Institute stall. She looks up as Anneke leans to sniff a lavender bag. The badge pinned to her cardigan says ‘Sylvia, Trevow WI.’

‘It’s all homemade,’ she says.

‘Lovely,’ says Anneke. This type of English fair is not at all like the fetes and festivals she has seen on the continent.

Next to the WI Anneke recognises Margaret’s daughter Jo arranging a green cloth around her table on which is propped a row of placards with environmental messages; save the bats, protect the bees, preserve our natural landscape. A bright pink Extinction Rebellion flag flutters overhead. She has met Jo only briefly, once before, but Anneke can see that she is very different from her mother. Margaret is petite and pretty, whereas Jo is tall and slender. She wears a long dress and heavy boots, with soil under her fingernails and hair that is tousled and spiky. She gives Anneke a quick nod and carries on arranging her leaflets.  

Anneke picks one up and reads. It is about the threat to a colony of bats caused by the proposed demolition of a dilapidated estate cottage which has become a belfry for pipistrelles. Anneke has heard John Greatwood discussing it with Margaret who wants to release the land around the cottage for a potential housing development, one of her schemes to try to raise cash for the estate. A small map shows the intended site.

Jo is preoccupied so Anneke wanders on, keeping half an eye on Margaret’s progress around the other side of the lawn, ready to go to her side if she wobbles. She sees another face she knows, like her a relative newcomer to the estate. Kerenza has recently moved into the static caravan in the farmyard, with her partner and their little boy.

‘Anneka – hi,’ Kerenza beams at her, ‘Hey, can you give me a hand with this?’ Kerenza is grappling with a huge quilt patchworked together from fragments of bright fabric. ‘I sent Kev off with Piran but now I wish I hadn’t.’

Anneke helps her straighten out the cloth and between them they fasten it to the tent poles at either end of Karenza’s stand.

‘It’s beautiful,’ says Anneke, standing back to see the effect. ’Do you make this yourself?’

‘Every stitch.’ Karenza fishes more fabric out of a big canvas bag, shirts, tops and wraps, all in bright colours, hand-stitched and patched together in intricate shapes. ‘I get all the stuff from charity shops. This lot took me all night to finish.’

‘So original.’ Anneke holds up a crocheted shawl, admiring the design.

‘Well, I am trained. Sort of.’

‘Really? Where?’

Karenza gestures,’ Up the road, art school. But I left after a year. It was too slow for me and I couldn’t afford it anyway.’

‘You are truly talented,’ Anneke folds the shawl and places it back on the pile. Just then a high squeal comes from behind them and a small boy launches himself at Kerenza’s legs.

‘Piran, not now! Kev, get him off me –‘

‘Come here rascal,’ Kevin sweeps the boy off his feet and up on to his shoulders. Anneke gazes up at him. ‘Hi little man.’ She reaches out her hand but Piran is winding his tiny fingers into his father’s mop of hair.

‘Ten more minutes then you can come back,’ says Kerenza. ‘Mummy’s busy.’

‘Hear that? Mummy doesn’t want us to help her. We’re freeeeee…’ Kevin jiggles his shoulders, making Piran squeal even more. ‘Come on – to the bouncy castle!’

‘Not yet,’ calls Kerenza after them. ‘Wait until the fair’s opened.’ But Kevin is already out of ear shot.

‘It must be great to have a little boy,’ says Anneke.

‘Not at three in the morning when you’re trying to get this lot finished,’ Kerenza grins. Is she serious or not? Anneke finds the English sense of humour hard to judge.

‘I should go back to Mrs Clemens.’ Out of the corner of her eye Anneke can see Margaret at the Gardening Club stand. She has dropped her stick and is leaning on the arm of the gentleman with the carnation.  

‘Sure. Enjoy the fair.’ Kerenza carries on arranging her piles of clothes, bags and blankets and Anneke makes her way across the lawn. As she draws near to her employer she hears her name being called.

‘Anneke –‘. It is John Greatwood, apart from Treve he is the only other person she can call a colleague. He is in scruffy shorts and a sweatshirt, his face ruddy and damp with perspiration. She notices that his old trainers are soaked.

‘John, what have you been doing?’  

He gestures towards the beach which can just be glimpsed through the trees at the edge of the far field. ‘Been rowing, just pulled the gigs up on shore. Good morning for it.’

It is the most John has ever said to her. She gives him a smile, hoping for more conversation, but he moves towards Margaret, picks up the stick and gives Anneke a wink as if to say ‘I’ve got it,’ before moving on.

Anneke returns to the row of stalls. Kevin is bargaining with Piran at the cake stand.

‘Sugar is bad for you. It’ll hurt your teeth.’

Piran protests but Kevin is firm. ‘Come on, let’s look at the gigs. One of them’s called after Mummy, look, let’s go and see it.’ He romps away down the field, Piran bouncing along on his shoulders.

Anneke returns to Jo’s stand, where she pauses again to read more of the leaflets. Jo is talking enthusiastically to a woman who has stopped to sign the petition.

‘It can’t just be knocked down. There’ll have to be a new habitat, but why should the poor creatures need to be disturbed and uprooted at all?’ She is talking about the cottage.   

‘How long have the bats been here?’ asks the woman.

‘For as long as I can remember,’ says Jo. ‘They harm no one and they’re part of the eco-system.’

‘I’d love to live here,’ says the woman. ‘We’re in Bristol at the moment but we’re planning to move. It’s so peaceful. Everyone seems so welcoming.’

‘If you can stand the feudal system,‘ says Jo.  

‘Where do you live?’

‘On a boat.’

‘That must be lovely.’

‘It is. So will you sign the petition?’ Jo holds her clip board out to the woman. ‘We need as much support as we can get.’

‘Of course.’ The woman signs her name and moves on. Anneke gives Jo a little smile and this time Jo speaks to her.

‘How’s it going?’

‘It’s great, thank you, I love it here.’

Jo snorts, ‘Working for my mother can’t be that much fun.’

Anneke is not sure what to say to this. Margaret has her moments but Anneke has found her welcoming and good to work for so far, if a little tetchy at times. She puts that down to the discomfort of her hip, to say nothing of the strain of running such a large place.

Jo gestures in the direction of her mother who is at the WI stand. ‘Look at her, she loves this. Lady of the Manor. Still, I suppose you need the work.’

Anneke wonders if she is joking but she tries to say something positive. ‘I am happy to live somewhere as beautiful as this.’

Just then someone else arrives at the stand and Jo turns away, the conversation over.

At the centre of the lawn children are preparing to dance around the maypole, watched by Margaret and the committee, and urged on by their teachers. The fair ground organ pumps out a tune and they start, almost together, some of them facing the wrong way before turning to join the circle. They dance for all they are worth, weaving many-coloured ribbons of red, blue and yellow as they whirl and turn. Parents watch them through their phones as they record the dancing for posterity.

When the dance finishes the races begin; egg and spoon and sack races, children losing eggs, falling out of sacks, some laughing, some crying, parents scooping them up. Anneke cheers and claps with the rest of the audience. She would love to have a tiny hand in hers but life has not provided that for her. It is too late now.

Margaret is chatting in the tea tent and Anneke sees that John is now standing with her, changed into dry clothes and a jacket. He catches her looking at him and smiles at her with his blue eyes. She knows she can relax as long as he is there. She fancies an ice cream but the queue stretches far across the lawn. The repetitive jangle of the fairground organ is loud so she heads across to the Gardening Club where ladies with faces almost obscured by their large sun hats and sunglasses are negotiating for the best priced plants and flowers.

The gentleman with the carnation is on the tannoy announcing the fancy dress competition. Children line up outside the tea tent; dinosaurs, superheroes, wizards and Disney princesses stand with their swords, wands, and homemade capes, as Margaret inspects them. John is dutifully close behind her and Anneke walks over to join them.  

‘Anneke, will you hold these for me,’ says Margaret, scarcely looking at her but thrusting her handbag and the stick towards her.

‘You should keep your stick though –‘ says Anneke. ‘Be careful.’

‘Don’t fuss, I’m not geriatric!’ Margaret’s voice rings out across the grass. This is how she can be when her hip is hurting her.  

John mutters in Anneke’s ear, ‘Ignore her,’ and he gives her another wink as Margaret takes the stick back.

As the children step forward to receive their prizes the warm afternoon feels suddenly cooler. Mothers button up their cardigans, Dads lift the little ones on their shoulders and babies are wrapped up in their pushchairs. Clouds roll in from beyond the headland.

Out of nowhere a deluge of rain produces squeals and a flurry of stall holders rush to protect their wares. Umbrellas sprout across the lawn and people dash for cover. Within moments the rain is falling in torrents, bouncing off the ground. Some huddle beneath the great cedar tree which stands to the side of the house, others scurry beneath the striped awning on Margaret’s terrace.

Anneke sploshes her way to the tea tent where Margaret has taken shelter with members of the committee. Then as fast as it began, the rain stops. Across the fair ground, the organ starts up again and stallholders shake the water off their covers. The ground is a swamp.  

‘Come on, ‘says Anneke to Margaret. ‘We should go back now.’ She is aware of John  watching them from across the soaked lawn, making sure they are alright. Then he turns and walks in the other direction, towards the field beyond the ha-ha where his Land Rover stands hitched to a trailer.  

As Margaret and Anneke pick their way through the puddles Margaret leans heavily on her stick. Anneke steadies her with one arm and snatches a glimpse of her watch.

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ says Margaret. She sounds a little put out.

 ‘I’m due at the farmhouse at six.’

‘Of course. Let’s get a move on then’. Anneke knows Margaret won’t admit it but she is clearly feeling tired. She shrugs off Anneke’s arm as they step into the high-ceilinged hallway where Margaret eases off her shoes. ‘These are ruined.’

Anneke scoops them up. ‘I’ll dry them off for you,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go and change into something dry.’ Margaret pads barefoot up the wide turning staircase and Anneke calls after her, ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’

‘Oh no you won’t. I’ve have a G and T, nice and strong. I’ll be back down in a minute.’

Anneke throws the wet shoes into the boot room and pulls off her own sodden sandals. She fetches ice and a lemon then goes into the drawing room, a yellow draped room of elegant proportions and the air of lived in neglect. She takes a crystal tumbler from the Chinese cabinet and measures a small gin which she drowns with tonic.

Margaret reappears, wrapped in a pale blue dressing gown, her damp hair combed out and her face freshly cleansed. She sinks into the Chesterfield with a satisfied sigh and holds out her hand. Anneke passes her the glass and Margaret sniffs it suspiciously.

‘I said strong.’

Anneke plonks the bottle on the table beside Margaret. ‘There you are.’ Margaret leans forward to help herself but gives a little wince.

‘Is your hip hurting you?’

‘A little.’

‘I’ll get you a pill.’

No, I’ll stick to the gin for now.’ Margaret raises her glass. ‘Thanks for your help today.’

Anneke leaves her to it and heads back to the kitchen where she takes a casserole out of the fridge and places it in the Aga. She calls out to Margaret ‘I’m going to see Sheila now. I’ll be back in an hour.’ She listens for a response. ‘Please check it doesn’t burn.’ The theme tune to Pointless is playing loudly from the drawing room. Margaret is engrossed.

Anneke pulls on wellies and a raincoat and sets off. The way to the farmhouse is a rutted track and she steps carefully over the slippery cattle grid. The rain has stopped but the trees that line the path drip beads of cold rain onto her as she makes her way. She pauses at the gate. Treve must have shut the chickens in their coop early.  She can hear Jess, the farm dog, barking from somewhere but cannot see her. She pauses by the door to look at Sheila’s roses, bedraggled in the rain. Sheila used to tend them so lovingly before her illness.

She pushes the door open. The silence in the kitchen is tangible. There is no sound of the radio or television, and no sign of Treve. Anneke jumps as the cat rubs herself around her legs, asking for food. ‘Later sweetheart,’ she says softly.  

The house feels empty. Her mouth is dry and she swallows as she makes her way upstairs to where Sheila will be lying in the bedroom. The door is ajar, she pushes it gently and it swings open. Anneke’s hand goes to her mouth. ‘Mijn God’ she whispers, for a moment losing her English.

Sheila’s head lies at a strange angle, her eyes closed and her lips parted. An empty glass lies on its side on the bedside table next to a small brown pill bottle. Treve, Sheila’s husband, sits on the chair next to the bed, slumped to one side. His large calloused hand rests near Sheila’s on the faded candlewick bedspread. All Anneke can hear is the clock ticking like thunder in the silence.

She reaches out to touch Sheila’s arm and finds it cold. She pulls her hand away, shaking, then digs her phone out of her pocket and fumbles to call 999. But there is no signal.

Just then, someone calls from downstairs, ‘Hello, is anyone home?’

She jumps, her English deserting her again , and she cries out ‘Nee, oh mijn God!’ She looks from the top of the stairs and sees a figure silhouetted in the fading sunlight.

“Hello there – excuse me, but the door was open. Do you have a room available?” says a woman’s voice.

Anneke stares down at her. She manages to say, ‘I need to get to the phone,’ then runs downstairs, pushes past the woman and fumbles for the receiver that hangs on the wall beside the front door. ‘It’s not working!’

The woman reaches out and gently takes the phone from her. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

Anneke covers her face and sobs. ‘I need to get help.’ She pulls away and runs back upstairs.

‘Wait, I’ll come with you – I’m…‘ The woman follows her, trying to introduce herself but Anneke ignores her. She stands on the landing, shouting “We moeten John pakken! John!’

The woman looks at her, perplexed. Anneke points out of the window to the Land Rover which is pulling a trailer into the farmyard, loaded with trestle tables from the fair. ‘John!’ she bangs on the window. ‘We must get John!’

‘It’s alright, I’ll go.’ The woman runs downstairs and out of the house, shouting and waving at the man in the vehicle, her white summer trainers squelching through the yard. Anneke realises she has seen her before, the woman who signed Jo’s petition. She hears her calling out, ‘Are you John?’

            ‘Yes. Who are you?’ John sounds taken aback.

            ‘My name’s Valerie Williams. I think something terrible has happened.’

Chapter 2