The Seagull's Cry

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Tansy Trehearn was born and bred in the beautiful and little Cornish port of the village St. Ruthyn, where Martin Wyde was opening a small hotel, The Seagull's Cry. Tansy was falling in love with her employer Martin. She had never been so bewildered, she had met the one man she could ever love, and found that she had to fight her own sister in order to get him. And that was when she learned that the cry of the seagull was no more sad and tortured than the cry of her own heart. Because while Martin and Tansy's love softly flowered, several people were plotting to ruin their newfound happiness.

Release date: May 29, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 208

Sample

TANSY TREHEARN had just finished helping her mother wash up the midday meal when Billy Rogers, the postman’s son, arrived at the cottage with that note. Grinning all over his freckled face he handed it to her and said in his rich Cornish dialect:

“For ’ee from Mr. Wyde, Miss Tansy. He’m my boss now. When I leave school at Easter I’m to go away up tu The Seagull’s Cry; boots and pantry-boy at the new hotel, I’ll be. Smashin’!”

Tansy wiped her hands on a towel and opened the note. Smart grey paper with the heading printed in bright blue. The Seagull’s Cry. In brackets (Private Hotel). And on the left: Nearest station. Gwinear Road.

She read the letter, her heart beating fast with resentment, although, she had to admit, with a certain amount of curiosity.

Dear Miss Trehearn,

      Mr. Pollock tells me you might consider returning to The Seagull’s Cry in the capacity of secretary and receptionist. We intend to open just before Easter. The decorators are still in the annexe so we are in a bit of a muddle, but I would appreciate help with my correspondence, immediately. Could you run in and talk it over this afternoon?

In haste, Martin Wyde.

“What is it, m’dear?” asked Mrs. Trehearn, a bright-eyed plump little woman, wearing a floral overall.

Tansy handed her the letter, then addressed Billy.

“Is Mr. Wyde waiting for an answer?”

“No, Miss Tansy. He said he expected you’d go.”

Tansy tossed her head. “Oh, did he!”

Billy disappeared.

Tansy walked into the sitting-room. Her mother followed. On the sofa sat Tansy’s adopted sister Barbara, a thin sallow-faced girl with huge sad eyes as dark as the smooth ebony hair which made her look like a foreigner. But she was typically Cornish. So many there, even to this day, are reminders of the strong Spanish strain introduced after the Armada, four hundred years ago.

There was nothing of luxury in this room. Like the rest of the cottage—which had stood here on the slope overlooking St. Ruthyn Beach for over a hundred years—it was scrupulously clean. Tansy’s fisherman-grandfather had lived and died in this house. Mrs. Trehearn, with more modern ideas, had exchanged what used to be linoleum for a modest carpet. The curtains had also been bought in recent years and were a gay, bright cretonne. But there was little taste or attempt to create anything of a congruous nature. Certain souvenirs of the past—a past that had belonged to the late Mr. Trehearn’s own grandparents—were cherished and kept in their accustomed places. Tansy loved this homely sitting-room—crammed as it was with the treasures remembered from her childhood. The red chenille cloth over the mahogany table which could boast few scratches and was regularly polished like the old-fashioned brass fender and the collection of brass ornaments, hanging on either side the fireplace. The beautiful bits of china; even a Wedgwood tea-service behind glass in the show-cabinet. The handsome Chippendale clock standing on a ledge; the freshly painted walls half hidden by water-colours in gilt frames. These, of no value, but they had been painted by Mary Trehearn’s own mother who had counted herself an amateur artist. And greatest treasure of all, the upright walnut piano with its faded yellow silk, its candlesticks and the stained ivory keys. Nobody played this piano except Tansy, on rare occasions such as Christmas, when anybody who sang needed accompaniment.

On the mantelpiece stood several small framed photographs; one of Barbara as a little girl; one of Mary Trehearn sitting in the back garden with Tansy, her own baby, in her arms. One of the Trehearns taken on their wedding-day in June 1927.

There was little space to move in this over-furnished room. But for Tansy it was home; and between these four walls she had spent most of her life. She had had an exceedingly happy childhood; idolized by her father until the sad day he died; and gratefully loved by her mother to whom she was a devoted and helpful daughter. But no difference had ever been made between Tansy and Barby, the Trehearns’ first adopted child. And Barby, who was ten years old when Tansy made her unexpected and joyful appearance, used to show no particular jealousy. She, herself, idolized the pretty baby whom the doctors had said would probably never arrive.

The two great sorrows in this comfortable friendly home had been the deaths of Tansy Trehearn’s father and of Barby’s husband—the latter only two years ago. Dick Hale had been an attractive lad, and Barbara—who had a passionate, rather secretive nature—was madly in love with him. After his tragic end—he had been drowned in a fearful storm off this coast—she had never been the same girl. Mrs. Trehearn and Tansy found it difficult—and sometimes very trying—to deal with her. She had lost all interest in life—young though she was—and lapsed into a state of melancholia. There were occasions when her adoptive mother and sister could not blind themselves to the fact that Barby had even become a little ‘queer’.

Today, Barby sat sewing and paid no interest to what Mrs. Trehearn and Tansy were saying. They did not include her in the conversation.

“You’ll go up and see Mr. Wyde, won’t you?” was Mrs. Trehearn’s first question. That let loose a torrent from Tansy.

Martin Wyde’s arrival in St. Ruthyn was generally unpopular, and particularly did Tansy resent it. For he was turning one of the oldest and best-loved houses here into a hotel. For that alone, apart from the fact that he was not Cornish, St. Ruthyn would not forgive him. The main charm of this little village had always been its peace and quiet—its inaccessibility. The place had retained its attraction because the one road that approached it was in the nature of a steep hill, down which traffic could only go in a single line, then turn in the little square by the harbour and go up again. For charabancs, St. Ruthyn was unapproachable; so never overrun by trippers. It was still a sleepy, lovely little fishing village nestling at the foot of the hill across which a few small cottages and houses straggled. The Trehearns’ residence was one of them.

Before them lay the golden sands—and two green-turfed promontories which formed a natural bay. The tiny harbour gave shelter to most of the boats. Others were moored on the shingle. To the left stood a big handsome house which belonged to Colonel Pendellis and his family.

To the right lay The Seagull’s Cry—that strange, lovely place which was not visible until you climbed up the cliff then dipped down the other side, when you came suddenly upon the rooftops of the long-shaped, stone-built house which looked almost as though it had been hewn—fortress-like—out of the rocks.

Tansy knew The Seagull’s Cry intimately. Most of the long, lovely windows faced the sea. Windows that more often than not were salted by the spray from the breakers that dashed over the rocks below. There was a long stone terrace in front, but it was treeless and flowerless, soaked by the relentless sea all through the winter months. The balustrade was always crumbling. The house had stood there for over two hundred years, and was reputed to have been used by smugglers in the days of Queen Anne.

When Tansy was a little girl The Seagull’s Cry belonged to a wealthy Cornishman, Sir Trevor Rose. He enlarged and modernized it, and every year spent a certain amount of money rebuilding after the wild breakers whipped the incoming tide into a frenzy and damaged the place. But he had loved it. In his declining years, he used to write books on Cornish history and folk-lore. The whole village was devoted to the genial old gentleman. At one time Tansy’s mother had acted as his housekeeper. Then Tansy, who had taken a course in shorthand and typewriting, became his secretary. The salary she earned was needed, for by that time her mother, who was not as well as she used to be, had plenty to do in her own home, cooking and washing for Tansy and Barbara.

When Sir Trevor died—he was a very old man—he was deeply mourned by the whole locality. Distant relatives who inherited his money and estates put The Seagull’s Cry on the market.

Six months ago it had been sold—to whom nobody knew. It was kept a close secret. But the rumours that circulated through St. Ruthyn were varied, and to most of the inhabitants, depressing. For St. Ruthyn resented the whole prospect of a stranger taking over The Seagull’s Cry.

A young man had been down—from the North, they said—and looked over the place. Then Mr. Pollock, a builder from Falmouth, followed. Hints were dropped that the house was going to be turned into a nursing home. Some said no—a school. Somebody else said—a hotel. But nobody knew for certain. Tansy listened to the gossip and wondered. She, too, felt that it would be terrible to see The Seagull’s Cry turned into an institution of any kind. But the signs were ominous. And how the workmen grumbled—for everything had to be carried up the cliff and down again, into that remote building which stood so bravely against the elements. Certainly it was more beautiful than convenient!

Then, one day early this month, the young man from the North drove down again in a small open car and took up residence at The Seagull’s Cry. After that there could be no further secrecy. For he, himself, told everybody that he had become proprietor of the old house and that it was to be turned into a hotel.

So far, Tansy had not met the new owner, but already his tentacles were stretching out, trying to curl around local workers, and he had got young Billy, and Becky Rogers, the postman’s wife. Mr. Rogers called it ‘good business for St. Ruthyn’.

“Becky is going to do all the washing and ironing up there,” Tansy informed her mother. “I met her this morning and she was full of the big new washing-machine and ironing equipment, and how Mr. Wyde has turned the old wash-house into a wonderful modern laundry. No more coppers and flat irons and so on. But somehow I hate the thought of it.”

Mrs. Trehearn nodded sympathetically. She knew just how Tansy felt. Tansy had a big, generous heart—a strongly emotional nature, and a fierce sense of loyalty. Mrs. Trehearn idolized her. Nobody could have been a more devoted daughter.

Tansy’s grandfather had turned the lobster-trade at St. Ruthyn into a flourishing concern. Her father carried it on. But now that he was gone Mrs. Trehearn had to rely a good deal on what Tansy could earn. Since the disaster that followed Barbara’s marriage, Barbara herself had been unable to work. Everyone treated her rather as though she was a sick, helpless child. It wasn’t good for her and she had become a supreme egotist in her misery.

For the last six months, since losing her job with Sir Trevor, Tansy had been taking in typing. Anything rather than have to get work away from home. But she was used to fresh air and exercise. Lately she had begun to suffer from eye-strain and headaches.

“I know you hate to think of The Seagull’s Cry as a hotel, lovey, but do go up and have a talk with Mr. Wyde and see how you like him,” the mother suggested.

“I suppose I must,” muttered Tansy and quickly bent and kissed her mother’s cheek. Her dear sweet little mother who was so small and hard-working and so sympathetic. She never thought of herself. Tansy felt that she owed everything to this devoted woman who had, in the past, pinched and scraped to save enough money in order that Tansy could take her secretarial training. She had had a good general education too; better than Barbara’s. So many of the St. Ruthyn girls left home to go into factories, or married young and stayed at home. Because Tansy showed intelligence and an aptitude for reading and writing even when she was small, her parents were determined that she should be given a real chance to use her talents.

For Tansy the two years of working for old Sir Trevor had been wonderful and meant that she could still live at home. Now the one thing she could not bear was the thought of leaving her family. So how could she turn down this offer from Mr. Wyde? There were so many reasons why she ought to consider it. The leaking roof here at Beach Cottage, for instance. They ought to get Mr. Pollock to re-tile it. And what about the summer outfit that she had promised her mother, but after Sir Trevor died had been unable to afford? That holiday which she longed to give both Mother and Barbara, away from St. Ruthyn for a fortnight, perhaps up in London to see Mother’s sister, Aunt Lily. The husband, Uncle Arthur, ran a successful grocer’s business in Battersea. Once, as a child, Tansy had gone up to London and stayed with her aunt, but she had pined for the sea and her parents, and they had sent her home again. Tansy could not imagine that she would like London even now when she was grown up. The traffic, the holiday crowds, the bustle of life even in Falmouth where she had taken her secretarial training had seemed bad enough. But Mother wanted to see her only sister again, and it might do Barby good to take her to London.

“I must earn some money and be able to save for those fares,” thought Tansy.

She put on a coat, tied a scarf over her hair and walked down to the village. She spoke to Mr. Gunnell, owner of The Anchor, the local inn. It had only two bedrooms which they let in the summer; but Charlie Gunnell was highly indignant about the new hotel. He felt that it was bound to encroach on his own business.

“But he won’t get the place going,” said Mr. Gunnell with a sniff, “mark my words, Tansy. He won’t get the staff to run the place. Nobody will want to work for ’un. And when Dr. Trenance was in for a bottle of ale last night, he said ’tis desecration—ruining that old place and trying to make a commercial proposition for hisself out of our little fishing village.”

Tansy warmly agreed. Most of the other local inhabitants whom she had known all her life had the same things to say. The majority seemed dead set against Mr. Martin Wyde’s invasion. One or two women who had seen and spoken to him announced that the intruder was quite young and very attractive. But as Mr. Gunnell said—let him get back to the North and start one of his blooming hotels up there. Why pick on St. Ruthyn?

Tansy looked toward the long bench under the sea wall. A familiar sight, that line of old ‘salts’—there—ageing fishermen of-the district, sitting smoking their pipes, looking out to the sea on which they had sailed as lads. Out to the lobster-pots that bobbed there on the water, and which once they used to set. Listening to the music that they had heard all their lives—the sound of the seagulls crying, screaming above the howl of a sou’-westerly wind.

Tansy shuddered at the possibility that the lonely beach, the deserted little quayside, might soon be crowded out with ‘foreigners’ holiday-making this summer, and all through Martin Wyde.

She steeled herself to go up to that interview with him.

On the top of the cliffs she met a short, stocky, fair-haired young man wearing a dark suit that looked strangely out of place. He carried a bag. It was the doctor, himself. Tansy stopped to speak to him.

“Who’s sick up in these parts, Julian?”

“One of the workmen at The Seagull’s Cry gashed his hand; just a slight accident,” said Dr. Trenance.

“Oh, there!” said Tansy.

He looked down into the beautiful sea-grey eyes. Usually they were as clear and innocent of trouble as a child’s. Tansy Trehearn was always happy and a great favourite with everybody at St. Ruthyn. But, today, those eyes looked angry and perplexed.

“Come back with me and let my Mrs. Chinner make you a cup of tea,” he suggested.

“No—I’ve got an appointment with him,” said Tansy, nodding towards the roof-tops of The Seagull’s Cry which were now visible from their position on the top of the cliff.

She hadn’t been up here for weeks. She had refused to look at all the alterations that were going on. Every blow of the hammer seemed to fall on her heart, remembering the dear old gentleman who had lived in that house, and what a lot he had taught her with his books and learning, his wisdom, his affection for humanity.

She smiled at the doctor, who stared at her so eagerly. She knew, of course, that Julian Trenance was in love with her. He had first come to St. Ruthyn—a Helston boy—to replace the old doctor whose practice spread over several miles inland along the coast. He was no stranger to Tansy. As a lad he used to come to St. Ruthyn for his summer holidays. He and Tansy had always got on well. And recently he made it clear to her that he wanted her for his wife. But fond though she was of Julian she felt that he was just not her man. Sometimes it was rather embarrassing because he would not take ‘No’ for an answer, especially as she did not want to lose his friendship.

It was different with Nigel Pendellis, the Colonel’s son and heir. Tansy had known him for many years too. The Colonel did a lot of good in the district and had lately financed a new schoolhouse. But Mrs. Pendellis was a snob and disapproved of Nigel’s attachment for Tansy. This annoyed Tansy, who considered the Trehearns every bit as good as the Pendellis family, but she just could not bear Nigel. He was better-looking than Julian and had a fortune behind him. He had recently returned from doing his National Service and was supposed to be going into Lloyd’s, but it was rumoured that he had just bought a yacht and was idling away his time. No, she would never be tempted to leave her own family for Nigel.

She looked up into Julian’s blunt reddish face and read the hunger in the nice blue eyes behind the studious horn-rimmed glasses. Good old Ju—she knew he had an amiable disposition and was not a bad doctor. Why couldn’t she encourage him? What was she waiting for? She hardly knew. But in this precise moment her mind was not on romance, only on earning enough money to enable her to stay at home with mother and Barbara. She got away from Julian as soon as she could and walked on, her slim body bending against the strong wind, finally, down the hill to the entrance leading into The Seagull’s Cry.

MARTIN WYDE was busy in the small office that had been built in what used to be Sir Trevor Rose’s study when he first saw Tansy Trehearn as she came in through the gates of his new home.

He had been writing to his mother. Then he saw this girl who had already been pointed out to him at a distance some days ago. He had only been waiting until he got a bit more settled to send for Miss Trehearn. Very useful having a readymade secretary in the place, and Martin never doubted that she would accept the job. He knew, of course, all about her family. Poor little thing—very plucky, having to keep an ageing mother and delicate sister.

But as soon as he saw her he felt there was no need to apply the word ‘poor’ to Tansy Trehearn.

What a magnificent-looking girl—almost in keeping with the magnificence of this splendid house on the cliffside, bearing the full force of today’s gale. He had been told that she was over twenty, but her hair, which he could see now (for she had whipped off her head-scarf), was a russet-red, tied back in a bushy ‘horse’s tail’. He could not yet discern her features plainly, but the proud graceful way in which she walked impressed itself upon him. Then she disappeared from view. She would be coming into the office in a moment, he supposed. He glanced quickly through the letter he had been writing.

Mother darling,

I hope you are not too uncomfortable and that the Nursing Home will soon get you strong and well again so that I can fetch you and bring you down again to this place. I have no time to describe fully the superb beauty of The Seagull’s Cry but I enclose a photo which was taken of it in Sir Trevor’s time. I would not for the world spoil its romantic splendour, but I have had to do a certain amount rather against the grain to make it suitable as a hotel. You will adore the position. We might be a ship right on the sea, and as I write this I can almost feel the place tremble. My ears are full of. . .