Page 14 of Summer at Harbour View House
The man introducedhimself as Jago Trewin, a local farmer. ‘Rhymes with Trago,’ he told them with a cackle.
‘Trago?’
‘The Southwest’s version of Walmart,’ he told them. ‘Just a little rougher around the edges. You lasses had tea yet?’
‘We haven’t had a drink in ages,’ Hannah said.
‘Tea,’ Jago said with another cackle. ‘You’s can come ‘ome with me and ‘ave a bite to eat.’
It didn’t seem to be open to debate. The tractor was already facing the wrong way, but when it reached the junction where the bus had dropped them off, instead of making a U-turn, Jago turned left towards Falmouth, then half a mile further on left again down a farm lane so narrow that plants and branches on the overgrown hedgerows whipped and snapped against the trailer’s sides, showering the women with leaves and twigs.
‘Do you think we’re going to get murdered?’ Hannah said, clinging to the side of the trailer for dear life. ‘I mean, he seems nice enough in a countryside sort of way, but who knows what his intentions are?’
‘At least we should be able to outrun him.’
‘What if he has dogs?’
Natasha grimaced. ‘I never thought of that. Let’s hope they’re missing a leg, too.’
Jago seemed to have discovered some band of phone reception that had eluded the women, because he was happily talking into a mobile phone while steering the tractor with his other hand. Every so often he’d turn around and grin at them, then say something into the phone.
‘I mean, he doesn’t look like a kidnapper, but you just can’t tell these days, can you?’
Natasha shrugged. ‘There’s the farm. I think we’re about to find out.’
The lane ended in a concrete turning circle surrounded by stonewalled farm buildings. Several chickens had to dart out of the way of the tractor and trailer as it pulled up outside a hay barn, where Jago killed the engine. A cat sat on a stone windowsill, it’s tail flicking as it watched the birds, while a sheepdog tied to a kennel near the front door barked at the tractor, then turned and barked at the cat, which ignored it.
The farmhouse itself was a stonewalled two-storey building with a slate roof, period-drama perfect, right down to the clay flower pots on sills outside lattice windows. As they came to a stop, the front door opened and a rotund woman stepped out, rubbing her hands together. She wore a white smock over a floral dress, a Little-Bo-Peep bonnet tied around her chin.
‘Oh, how delightful!’ Hannah said. ‘I hope her name’s Mary.’
‘Name’s Demelza,’ Jago said with a grin. ‘But if you’re after a nursery rhyme connection, we can get a lamb hotpot on the stove. Got some nice young ‘uns in the barn. Nothing like fresh meat.’
He stared at them a little too long as he said this, before chuckling and turning away. Hannah grabbed Natasha’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze.
‘If we die,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to say thanks for being a good friend.’
‘I don’t think we’re going to die,’ Natasha said. ‘At least I hope not.’
‘You won’t, because you’re a strong, independent woman. I might, because I’m just the throwaway sidekick.’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a film,’ Natasha said, although she had to admit, she felt a little nervous. Jago and Demelza were almost too in-character to be real.
Jago opened the back of the trailer and helped them climb down.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ Demelza said, again rubbing her hands together, a puff of flour pluming between them as though she’d just finished baking bread. ‘Jago told me he’d picked up a couple of hitchhikers and said he’d bring them home. You’ll stay the night, won’t you?’
‘We’re not hitchhikers,’ Natasha said. ‘We’re trying to get to Penkoe.’
‘Pinkle? Ah, but it’s getting late. Nothing much happens too quickly around here. Everything gets done drecktly.’
‘Drecktly?’
‘That’s right,’ Demelza said, nodding. ‘Drecktly. No point always rushing about, is there?’
‘I think she means directly,’ Hannah hissed, loud enough to make Demelza smile.
‘Right, let’s get you inside, get you tidied up, and then we’ll get the cider out. You drink cider, don’t you? It’s locally made.’
