Framed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho

himself to the question of Dorothy’s younger son. He decided to go and see him and ask if he might have Star, the greyhound. It would be nice to have something of Dorothy’s to which she had been attached. Niggling at the back of his mind was the worry that he had put too much pressure on her. If it was heart trouble the last thing she needed was his persistent efforts to get her to marry him.

4
    ‘What do you say, Peter?’ Gwen stood with her hands on her hips, her head on one side, waiting for an answer. She had already half extracted a promise that he would sell his mother’s house when the time came. Her husband slowly chewed a piece of toast, his face as yet unshaven, as he sat at the kitchen table where all their meals were taken because they did not have a dining-room.
    ‘It sounds like a reasonable idea, but she’ll not agree.’
    ‘You don’t know unless you ask.’ Gwen sat down, her elbows on the table as she leant forward enthusiastically. She did not tell Peter that she had been up to see Dorothy, nor could she ever admit what had happened. ‘Look, it might be just what she’s waiting for. You know how proud she is, she’ll never admit she can’t cope up there by herself. I bet she’s just waiting for you to suggest it. Besides, she’ll be far better off in one of those warden-controlled places.’
    Peter was not prepared to argue so for the sake of peace he agreed to put the proposition to his mother although he knew the outcome in advance. Gwen had changed her tune, she was, by her standards, talking quite reasonably. But something was wrong, he could tell by the excitement in her eyes. Excitement? Or was it agitation? He never really knew what was going on in his wife’s mind. He supposed that she imagined his mother would simply hand over the money. In which case she was a fool. The state would want the proceeds of the sale for taking care of her.
    ‘She’s never spent a penny on any of us – she’s selfish, you know that. We could do with the money while we’re young enough to enjoy it.’
    ‘That’s enough! I’ve said I’ll mention it, now leave it.’ He shook his head in exasperation. He was still a young man with a young family but Gwen was wearing him out and today hecouldn’t fathom her at all. Still slagging his mother off but without the usual venom, almost like a cat that’s had the cream, he thought, resorting to clichés because he was unable to think straight when his wife’s behaviour confused him.
    Satisfied that she had done all she could, that she had covered her tracks, she slipped a hand inside Peter’s shirt and massaged his chest. The children had been dropped at school by a friend, there was time enough to go back upstairs before Peter had to leave for work.
    Later, when Gwen was about to collect them from school, she saw, from her bedroom window, the police car pull up. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered as the two officers got out and approached her door. ‘What have I done?’
    Ashen-faced and with trembling legs she made it down the stairs just as they rang the bell.
    ‘Mrs Pengelly?’
    Gwen nodded, unable to speak, her fingers clutching at the buttons of her dress.
    ‘May we come in?’
    ‘Yes.’ Her voice was hoarse.
    PC Tregidgo ushered his female companion ahead of him. It was she, as Gwen had expected, who said that Dorothy was dead. Gwen’s legs finally gave out. Her knees buckled and she slumped back into an armchair. The WPC offered to make tea.
    ‘No. No, thanks, I’m fine. Really. It was just such a shock. I mean, she was old, I knew it would happen at some time, but, well, you never do really expect it, do you?’ She was babbling and she knew it. ‘My children. I’ve got to fetch them from school.’
    ‘Can’t a neighbour go? I really don’t think you ought to drive. Can we ring someone?’
    Gwen capitulated. She, too, thought it doubtful that she’d be able to control the foot pedals. PC Tregidgo also rang the school to let them