Framed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page B

table lamps, and nothing was quite straight. Rose’s house, like its detached neighbours, was built of Cornish granite and the rooms were small, although comfortable. The floors sloped imperceptibly and the walls were uneven. Upstairs they were emulsioned but the sitting-room walls remained in their original state, the glittering granite cold but enduring. On the floor was a deep claret carpet which continued through the hall and up the stairs.
    Restless, Rose picked up their framed wedding photograph and studied it, unable to understand how she still felt mentally as young as the girl who smiled back at her. Like Dorothy she did not think she would remarry but she had not ruled it out entirely. Sometimes Jack stayed overnight but she could not envisage living with him on a permanent basis. There was a frisson between them which could lead to laughter or, equally, to an argument, but that wasn’t enough. And if she was honest, the novelty was wearing off. She replaced the photograph as she heard Barry calling from the kitchen.
    ‘Oh, Rosie, I don’t know what to say.’ Barry Rowe stood in the kitchen looking so pitiful that Rose almost laughed. His thinning hair was damp and so were the shoulders of his jacket. His glasses were misted with rain and had slipped down his nose and he seemed not to know what to do with his hands.
    ‘Some wine?’ Rose poured him a glass, aware that he had wanted to reach out and put his arms around her, but they rarely had any physical contact. ‘I don’t feel like going out, I hope you don’t mind.’
    ‘Of course I don’t. You should’ve rung me.’ He watched her slender figure as she moved around the kitchen. In jeans and T-shirt, her hair tied back untidily, she hardly looked more than a child. Jack Pearce or not, he thought, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
    ‘I can’t believe she just died like that.’ Rose raised her hands, palms uppermost in disbelief. ‘I mean, not Dorothy.’
    ‘No one ever believes it at first.’ Barry stopped. He had been about to add, You should know better than most.
    ‘Well, it’ll be interesting to hear the result of the post-mortem.’
    ‘You’ve got to stop doing this, Rose.’
    ‘Doing what?’
    She spun around to face him, irritation making her tone sharper than she had intended. Unless she slapped him down now and then Barry had a tendency to be dictatorial.
    ‘Getting involved.’ He shrugged. ‘Finding problems where there are none.’
    ‘I thought the world of Dorothy, you don’t know how much I’ll miss her.’ She felt the tears starting again. ‘And just becauseyou don’t give a damn about the human race doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I think it’s best if I go now.’
    ‘So do I.’ Rigidly she watched him leave, pulling his jacket collar up against the rain, then she sank into a chair. Poor Barry, she thought. He had never been close to anyone. Orphaned young and with no siblings he had been unable to form real relationships. His total emotional output was expended upon herself and she had been mean to him. How could she expect him to understand that she and Dorothy had been kindred spirits? Both had lost their husbands and through their losses had grown into strong, independent women. Rose knew how fiercely she protected this independence. Whatever Barry thought, she knew there was something wrong. And then the real pain began. ‘Oh, David, oh, Dorothy,’ she gasped before laying her head in her arms on the table and sobbing.
    Rose woke at six unable to recall going to bed. Sleep had not revived her, she felt listless and depressed. Outside the rain continued to pour down, drenching everything and bouncing off the glass roof of the porch. In a way she was sorry she had cancelled her appointments.
    Trying to make use of her time she spent the morning in the dark-room developing and printing several rolls of film. At a little after midday Jack rang. He, too, sounded tired.
    ‘I