Tomorrow Is For Ever

by E.V. Thompson

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; War & Military; Historical Romance

Synopsis

For Alan Carter the greatest personal sacrifice of the Great War of 1914-18 is being called-up after only one week of marriage. Leaving his new bride is even more painful than the wound that, months later, interrupts his war at sea and sends him to Cornwall to convalesce. For, there, he has time to think about Dora and about the career as a writer that he secretly nurtures. A career that seems possible when he finds himself accepted by the established colony of Newlyn artists. There is one artist in particular - Vicky Hazleton - who encourages Alan's leanings towards the arts. And she stirs other feelings: inappropriate and impossible ones. For Vicky and her set inhabit a different world from Alan. He, as one of Vicky's friends makes clear, belongs to London's East End - and to Dora . . .

Release date: February 6, 2014

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 448

Sample

In the wireless office of the fast torpedo boat HMS Viper, Telegraphist Alan Carter sat in front of the ship’s radio receiver, earphones linked over his head by a flexible metal band. A Morse key was close to his right hand should he need to respond to a message from the wireless station at the torpedo boat’s base in Falmouth, but his mind was far from war.

In front of him on the desk was a cardboard-covered exercise book in which he was writing a poem dedicated to Dora, the wife he had not seen since the final day of the week-long honeymoon they had spent at the home of her aunt at Eltham, in Kent. That had been eighteen months ago, early in 1916.

Immediately afterwards, he had been drafted to the Viper, based in southern Ireland, carrying out anti-submarine patrols in the western approaches to the ports of Britain. He had remained in Ireland until only a month ago when the Viper had been ordered to join a torpedo-boat flotilla based in Falmouth, newly formed to meet the increasing threat posed by German U-boats to Allied shipping in the English Channel.

Although he was once more on the British mainland, naval censorship had prevented Alan from passing information about his whereabouts to Dora, while the seriousness of the U-boat threat meant there was no possibility of obtaining leave to visit her at the home she shared with her parents in the east London borough of Hackney.

Since joining the Viper Alan had written a great deal of poetry, together with a number of short stories, mostly composed during the monotonous night hours when the torpedo boat patrolled off the coast of Ireland, ready to speed to the assistance of any merchantman threatened by the German navy’s underwater predators.

Glancing out of the porthole, Alan could see the high, rugged cliffs of Cornwall’s Lizard peninsula, the most southerly point of Great Britain, only a short distance away. He had been stationed in Cornwall for little more than four weeks, but had already fallen in love with this remote corner of the British Isles. It was certainly conducive to the writing of articles, short stories and poetry, a talent he had developed during his time in Ireland and was now finding increasingly – and unexpectedly – enjoyable. He doubted whether he would have made such a discovery had the war not come along and taken him from the slums of London to more congenial parts of the land.

Other members of the Viper’s crew were also thinking of matters that had little to do with the war which had been raging for almost three years.

In the torpedo boat’s engine room the muscular stoker ‘Gruff’ Griffin was hoping there would be work for him at the Arabian Bar in Falmouth’s main street that night. Employed to eject the occasional customer who exceeded the bounds of acceptable behaviour, he earned more in one night than the Navy paid him each week.

Eric Fairgrove, the petty officer coxswain at the wheel of the Viper, was hoping that Davy Rowe, husband of the receptionist at the Green Lawns hotel, would be on duty at the town’s fire station when he called on her at the hotel that night.

Lieutenant Andy Cameron, commanding officer of the Viper, was also looking forward to an illicit romantic evening. He was in the habit of spending his off-duty evenings – and occasional nights – with the Honourable Amelia Carew, wife of the heir to Baron Lelant, currently serving in France with the British army.

Suddenly, Alan’s muse was interrupted by the staccato sound of Morse code spelling out the Viper’s call sign, penetrating the crackling in his earphones. The Falmouth wireless telegraphy station had a message for the torpedo boat. Flicking the switch on his Morse key, he signalled his readiness to receive the message.

The message was coded and brief, but it was prefixed with a letter which indicated it was of the utmost priority. Hurriedly removing a code book from the small safe beneath his desk, Alan set about making sense of the five-letter groups he had written on the signal pad in front of him.

His excitement grew as the message unfolded. Even before it had been completely decoded he was pressing a buzzer that sounded on the bridge, beside the stool where the Viper’s commanding officer would be seated.

Lieutenant Cameron’s voice came down the voice pipe to the wireless office. ‘Yes, Sparks, what is it?’

‘An “immediate” message from Senior Naval Officer Falmouth, sir. Lizard coastguards have reported a trawler, the Lady Tamsin, being attacked by a surfaced U-boat, five miles east-south-east of Lizard Point.’

‘Signal back “Am actioning”, Sparks.’

With this brief order, the cover of the voice pipe was slammed shut on the bridge and a few moments later the Viper performed a tight 180-degree turn. Heading back into the English Channel, bow rising, the torpedo boat shuddered under full power as it surged through the water.

The marauding German submarine was on the other side of the Lizard peninsula, on the edge of Mount’s Bay. It was a matter of only minutes before the Viper, travelling at full speed, cleared Lizard Point and entered Mount’s Bay, about to fulfil the role for which it had been designed and for which it had been patrolling the waters of the English Channel. Finding and destroying enemy submarines.

The U-boat was between the Viper and the Lady Tamsin, firing from its deck gun at the unarmed trawler, which had already cut its nets free in a bid to escape from the enemy submarine. After desperately steering a zig-zag course to distract the German gunners, the trawler had been struck by a couple of shells and now, without power, was at the mercy of the U-boat.

Concentrating their attention on the unarmed trawler, the crew of the U-boat were not aware of the presence of the Viper until it came within range of the submarine and opened fire from its single gun. The first shot fell short, but the second was loaded and fired within seconds. By the time the men on the U-boat became aware of the danger they were in, the Viper’s gun crew had ranged upon the German craft.

When the U-boat turned in order that it might bring its main deck gun to bear upon the torpedo boat it presented a broadside target to the Royal Navy gunners.

‘Shall we try a torpedo attack, sir?’ Midshipman Donald Ferris called up to the bridge from the deck.

‘No!’ The captain’s reply was positive. ‘The U-boat’s in a direct line with Newlyn. If we miss we’ll cause havoc on shore. Chivvy the gun crew into increasing their rate of fire.’

The gun of the torpedo boat was inferior to that of the U-boat, but the Viper was maintaining a steady course and rapidly closing upon the enemy submarine. However, once the experienced German gun crew brought their weapon to bear upon the Viper, the results were catastrophic for the British torpedo boat.

As Alan was signalling to the Senior Naval Officer Falmouth that the Viper was engaging an enemy submarine, the U-boat gun crew scored a direct hit on the Viper’s bridge with their very first shot.

The explosion blew a hole in the corner of the wireless office, situated immediately beneath the bridge. Thrown across the office with his chair, Alan crashed heavily against the bulkhead. He felt a severe pain in his upper left arm and shoulder and was temporarily disorientated as the torpedo boat executed a tight change of course. When it resumed an even keel, Alan realised he had been wounded. There was a hole in the deckhead of the wireless office and Alan became aware of a great deal of shouting from the Viper’s crew, outside on deck.

When he bent down to pick up his chair from the floor of the office he discovered he was bleeding profusely, the blood streaming down his arm and dripping to the floor from his fingertips. Although not immediately aware of the source of the blood, he had, in fact, been hit by a piece of shrapnel from the shell that had struck the Viper’s bridge.

Checking his wireless and discovering it was still operational, Alan shakily resumed transmitting his message as the clatter of feet came from the metal ladder leading from the bridge. A young seaman slipped down the last two rungs and Alan called, ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’ve had a direct hit on the bridge. The skipper and the coxswain are both dead … I’m going to fetch help …’

As the seaman hurried away, the torpedo boat juddered beneath the impact of another shell from the submarine. Quite as effective as the previous shot, this one exploded in the boiler room. Although the Viper was still under way, its speed dropped dramatically. Nevertheless, its gun was still firing and an excited shout went up from the gun crew as one of their shots struck home low down on the submarine’s conning tower.

‘The U-boat’s running away … Keep that gun firing!’

Alan had completed the transmission of his message and the voice which came to him through the bridge voice pipe was that of Midshipman Donald Ferris, barely out of his teens and serving on only his second ship. Alan realised with a start that in spite of his inexperience, Midshipman Ferris was now in command of the Viper.

‘Sir!’ Alan called out urgently to the young midshipman. When he had his attention he said, ‘Will you get someone to give me a bearing on the submarine’s course? I’ll signal and tell the Senior Naval Officer Falmouth what’s happened.’

‘Yes, of course … Are you all right down there, Sparks?’

‘I’ve been hurt but I don’t think it’s too serious. I’ll have it seen to when we’ve got the signal off. It’s urgent, sir. Falmouth will want to send someone after the U-boat, especially if we’ve hit it hard enough to keep it on the surface.’

While he waited for the information he had requested, Alan hastily scribbled out a signal, trying to ignore the increasing pain in his arm, but it was not easy now.

He had already begun transmitting the message when a seaman came in with the course and estimated speed of the U-boat. While Alan was sending it, and despite his protests, the seaman slit the sleeve of Alan’s jumper with his knife, acting on the orders he had been given by Midshipman Ferris. Next it was the turn of the white shirt, which he cut from the square neckline down to the elbow. When it was done the seaman stood back with a worried expression on his face. ‘I can’t deal with this, Sparks. I’ll fetch Doc to have a look at it. He’s down in the engine room right now.’

‘Doc’ was in fact a sick-berth attendant, the only medical staff carried on the Viper.

His transmission completed, Alan peered back over his shoulder at the wound and received a shock. It was far worse than he had realised. A deep and jagged gash stretched from behind the shoulder to his upper arm, and it looked extremely ugly. For a few moments he felt a very real fear. He was losing a great deal of blood … could it possibly prove fatal? He shook off the thought, but realised the bleeding needed to be stemmed.

Morse code began chattering through his earphones once more and Alan automatically began translating it into words. It was a message from the base victualling officer, complaining of a discrepancy in a requisition form issued by the Viper … for potatoes.

The sick-berth attendant arrived at the wireless office about ten minutes later. Stained with oil and blood, he was pale and drawn, and close to tears. It was the first time he had been called upon to tend men killed and wounded in action, without a surgeon being present to guide him.

Alan’s wound was an awkward one to deal with and he was still struggling with it when Midshipman Donald Ferris appeared in the office doorway.

‘How is he, Doc?’

‘I’m having trouble stopping the bleeding,’ was the tight-lipped reply. ‘He needs to get to hospital quickly … and so do some of the others.’

The midshipman was showing the unaccustomed strain of command and his next question, to Alan, was almost a plea. ‘Will you be able to send another message to Falmouth?’

Alan was in pain and beginning to feel light-headed. Not trusting himself to reply, he nodded his head.

‘Good man. Say I’m going alongside the trawler and will take it in to Newlyn. We have thirteen casualties on Viper and there are more on the trawler. Request ambulances and urgent medical assistance to meet us at the harbour.’

‘Sir.’ It gave Alan something to think about and took his mind off his own troubles.

It took great concentration to send the midshipman’s message. His hand felt heavy and the delicate touch required to operate the Morse key was missing. Nevertheless, he succeeded in sending the message and, gratefully, leaned back in his chair. Then he saw the exercise book in which he had been writing his love poem when the action started. He had bled over it, obliterating some of the words.

The incongruity of it provoked a weak smile. Love and war … the pen and the shell … blood and ink. He should work it into a poem …

It was the last thought he had before he slumped forward, his head coming to rest on the desk beside the Morse key.



When Alan came to, he was lying on his right side in a very large hut that had been fitted out as a hospital ward. He had a vague recollection of regaining temporary consciousness upon a stretcher in a vehicle that seemed to be travelling extremely fast over an indifferent road, but he had no idea how long he had been in the vehicle.

Moving his head, he recognised one or two men in the beds that lined both sides of the hut.

‘Hello, Sparks. How you feeling?’ The question was called out from the other side of the ward by the heavily bandaged stoker, Gruff Griffin, who was sitting up in a bed. His hand and arm badly scalded, he would never again eject unruly customers from Falmouth’s Arabian Bar.

‘Where are we?’ Alan countered, as memories of all that had happened returned in rapid but disjointed confusion.

‘In hospital … in Newlyn. The doctor’s spent quite some time working on you.’

Alan’s left arm felt numb and uncomfortable and as he tried to move he realised the upper arm was bandaged and strapped to his body. Moving was both difficult and uncomfortable. There was also a tube from the lower part of the arm leading to a bottle which looked as though it contained blood.

‘Don’t move too much, Mr Carter. Dr Scott has worked very hard removing a piece of shrapnel and stitching you up. You don’t want to break the stitches.’ The voice was that of a nurse who approached the bed from behind Alan. She was accompanied by Midshipman Ferris.

Fussing at his bedclothes, the nurse went on, ‘If you want anything, don’t try to help yourself, at least not for a while. Call for a nurse.’ To Midshipman Ferris she said, ‘Don’t keep him talking for too long.’

‘Hello, Sparks. I’m glad to see you conscious again. I was worried about you. We all were.’ The events of the day had left the young midshipman looking strained and tired, but he seemed well pleased with himself and explained why. ‘I’ve just been talking to the Senior Naval Officer Falmouth. He had some splendid news. Thanks to your signal an airship and two destroyers were sent after the U-boat. The destroyers found it first – and sunk it. The captain wants me to submit a full report on our action. What’s more, he’s coming to Newlyn tomorrow to meet you and the other casualties from Viper.’

‘Why?’ Alan was genuinely puzzled. Compared with the desperate fighting going on in France and the battles that had taken place between the German and British fleets, this had been a very minor action. He expressed his thoughts to Ferris.

‘That was my first reaction, Sparks, but it seems that at the moment there’s a power struggle going on between the Royal Naval Air Service and the regular Navy about the best way to combat U-boats round the coast. Thanks to Viper’s action in crippling the one that attacked the trawler, and your prompt signal, Falmouth was able to divert destroyers to sink it. I’ve been told I’m to be recommended for a DSO and there should be a DSM for the chief stoker – and for you.’

Alan was momentarily speechless and the midshipman added, ‘By the way, I have to notify your next of kin that you’ve been wounded. I believe you’re married now, but your next of kin is still on record as an aunt. Could you give me the name and address of your wife?’

‘No!’ It was too abrupt and Alan felt the need to explain. ‘I don’t want to worry her. One of her brothers died at Ypres. My wound isn’t life-threatening. I’ll tell her about it when I see her. I’ll no doubt have some sick leave to come when I get out of here.’

Donald Ferris looked at Alan uncertainly. ‘I really should let her know, Sparks. It’s procedure.’

‘I’ll put it in writing that I’ve insisted she shouldn’t be told,’ Alan said firmly. He was twenty-four and older than Ferris. Although an officer, the midshipman was still young enough to be influenced by age and experience. Alan added, ‘I really don’t want her upset. She almost had a breakdown over her brother.’

‘Well, as you say, you’ll be given convalescent leave when you’re well enough,’ agreed Ferris uncertainly. ‘But perhaps you ought to put your refusal to supply a next of kin in writing. I’ll place it in your personal file and see that it’s removed when you’re fit and well once more. Now I’d better go off and speak to some of the others. I’ll see you again tomorrow when Captain Kilpatrick arrives from Falmouth – and thank you, Sparks. If you hadn’t remained at your post when you were wounded, and used your initiative, things might have turned out very differently.’

Captain Patrick Kilpatrick, CB, DSO, was a small, busy officer who had been a commander on a battleship at the Battle of Jutland. He would much rather have continued the war in a sea-going appointment. Instead, he had been consigned to an office as Senior Naval Officer Falmouth. However, he was extremely efficient in his post and had a reputation of looking after the men under his command.

He told the wounded sailors of the Viper they had done well and assured them that the sacrifices made by the captain and other crew members had not been in vain. Thanks to their courage a German U-boat had been sunk and, as a result, hundreds, possibly thousands, of British lives saved.

Captain Kilpatrick had particular praise for Alan and for the chief stoker, who was suffering from serious burns, caused by the burst boiler. In addition to the recommendation for medals for both men, Midshipman Ferris received immediate promotion to sub-lieutenant and Alan was told that when he returned to duty he would be a leading telegraphist, a promotion that carried with it a small but useful increase in pay.

The Senior Naval Officer was a very busy man and did not remain long at the small Newlyn hospital. When he had gone, Donald Ferris returned to speak to Alan. With him he brought the bloodstained exercise book in which Alan had been writing when the presence of the U-boat was first reported.

He also brought a new exercise book and a handful of pencils, explaining, ‘I thought you might like these, Sparks. Your book is so badly stained I asked the woman who drove you here in the ambulance if she could buy another for me, together with a couple of pencils. I told her that you enjoyed writing stories and things. I hope you don’t mind. She seemed very interested.’

Embarrassed that the activity he had managed to keep secret from his colleagues for so long should have been discovered, Alan took the presents with no more than a brief ‘Thank you’, but Donald Ferris pursued the matter.

‘I know I had no right to pry, Sparks, but I looked at what you’ve been writing. The poems are very good. You should do something with them. There are a great many army poets, but few from the Navy – in fact I can think of no one in particular since Rupert Brooke died. I noticed you have made notes for stories too. Have you done anything with them?’

Alan nodded. ‘One or two – but they need a bit more work put in on them.’ He was not certain whether to be pleased by the midshipman’s praise, or indignant that his poems and ideas for stories had been read by someone else.

‘I’m serious about the poems, Sparks. Look, I’ll write to my father about you and give you his address. He owns a London publishing house and has interests in a great many other publishing ventures. He is always happy to publish poetry and the occasional story – especially if it’s about the war. Send something to him.’

While Alan was still thinking about his words, the newly promoted sub-lieutenant turned to leave. He had a great many duties to attend to, not least of which was composing letters of condolence to send to the next of kin of those members of the Viper’s crew who had died in the action with the U-boat.

Suddenly, he turned back. ‘By the way, make a list of the personal belongings you’re going to need over the next few weeks. Give it to me when I come in tomorrow. It will probably be the last opportunity I have to visit you. Viper is going to Devonport dockyard for an inspection to see whether she’s worth repairing. Any kit you don’t need right away will be taken to the barracks and stored for you until you return to duty.’

When Ferris had gone, Alan felt a keen sense of loss at the thought of leaving the Viper. However, had he given the matter any thought he should not have been surprised. The boat had been badly damaged and was likely to be scrapped. Even were it possible for it to be repaired, the Royal Navy would not keep the surviving members of the crew standing by the craft, doing nothing. They would be accommodated in Devonport barracks until they were drafted to other ships.



The Newlyn hospital, built high above the fishing village and overlooking the bay, was a temporary wooden structure with a corrugated iron roof. It was staffed by Red Cross nurses and local volunteers, and among its patients were men from the Royal Naval Air Service airship and seaplane base situated on the waterfront. Professional skill was provided by a doctor who travelled to the hospital daily from the larger, permanent hospital in nearby Penzance.

Alan remained there for a week before it was decided he was well enough to be transferred to the naval hospital at Devonport, the large naval base adjacent to the Devon city of Plymouth. He and two other wounded members of the Viper’s crew were to be taken there in the same ambulance that had brought Alan to the hospital from the harbour where the torpedo boat and the crippled trawler had docked.

The three men were seen off by some of the crew of the Lady Tamsin. Together with members of their families, they had been regular visitors to the casualties from the Viper, bringing them whatever treats they could afford.

Alan had become particularly friendly with the skipper of the rescued trawler, Tom Penhaligon, and his sister Prue. They had exchanged addresses and Tom had extracted a promise from Alan that he would return to Newlyn with Dora and spend a holiday with them one day.

The driver of the ambulance wore the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, known as FANYs, and was the same young woman who had driven Alan to the hospital. Introducing herself as Vicky Hazelton, she greeted Alan warmly, saying, ‘You were unconscious when I delivered you here. I’m happy to see you up and about.’

Alan’s bandaged arm was supported by a sling and, holding it up, he said, ‘It’s wonderful what a good doctor and a few pints of blood can do. They say it’s better than Guinness.’

With a faint smile, Vicky said, ‘I wouldn’t know about that, but you have some of my blood flowing in your veins. They put out a call for donors soon after you arrived and it seems you and I have the same blood group.’

‘Then I have to thank you for helping me on the road to recovery,’ Alan said gratefully. ‘I’ll always be in your debt … but where do I go? There are only two stretcher beds in the ambulance.’

‘You’re well enough to ride in the front with me,’ Vicky replied, ‘but we’ll put a cushion behind your shoulder. The road between here and Penzance isn’t the best I have driven on.’

Inside the cab a number of large, flat parcels were piled upon the passenger seat. Apologising, Vicky stowed them carefully in a rack built into the roof space above their heads. As she did so, she explained they were paintings she was taking to a gallery on the Barbican, in Plymouth.

‘Are they yours?’ Alan asked.

‘Some are. The others were done by artists who live here in Newlyn. There are a surprising number of us.’

‘You’re an artist?’ Alan was impressed. ‘Do you sell your work?’

‘If I’m lucky,’ Vicky replied. ‘But make yourself comfortable before we set off. It’s a lengthy journey.’

Talk was difficult until the ambulance reached Penzance and the road improved. Then, still curious about Vicky, Alan asked, ‘Have you been an ambulance driver for very long?’

Without shifting her gaze from the road, Vicky replied, ‘Long enough. But I’ve only been in Cornwall for a few months.’

‘Where were you before?’ It was a purely conversational question and the reply took him by surprise.

‘In France for much of the time. Taking wounded soldiers from the front to hospitals in Paris.’

Looking at Vicky in a new light, Alan asked, ‘Wasn’t that very dangerous?’

Giving him a brief glance, Vicky said, ‘It had its moments, but I doubt if it was any more dangerous than exchanging shots with a German U-boat.’

They travelled in silence for a short while before Alan asked, ‘What did you do before the war? It couldn’t have been anything to prepare you for what you must have seen in France.’

Her glance this time carried open amusement, but she did not reply until she was giving her full attention to the road once more. ‘I spent much of my time locked up in prison.’

‘In prison! What for? What did you do?’ Alan was genuinely astonished. Vicky quite obviously came from a background far superior to his own East End London upbringing. He could not imagine what crimes she might have committed that would warrant a prison sentence.

‘I spoke at one or two illegal rallies; broke a few windows; caused trouble at political meetings – and hit one or two policemen.’

It took a few moments for the import of her words to sink in. When it had, he queried, ‘You mean … you were a campaigner for women’s rights? You were a suffragette?’

‘That’s right.’ Vicky slowed down to overtake a horse-bus, accelerating once more when it was well behind the ambulance.

‘But … where? Surely not here, in Cornwall.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. There were plenty of suffragettes in Cornwall – and still are – but I was in London, in Dalston. Unless I’m very much mistaken it’s an area you might know well.’ Vicky had lived and worked in London for long enough to recognise an East End accent. ‘But I’ve always wanted to come to Cornwall to meet some of the Newlyn artists and was happy to be sent here.’

‘I know Dalston very well. I was brought up there and my wife is living with her parents not far away, in Scawfell Street. Where exactly did you live?’

‘In a flat above a Chinese laundry, next door but one to Sylvia Pankhurst’s old office in Dalston Lane. The suffragette movement printed a magazine there. I used to do some of the illustrations as well as making posters for putting up around London. I still go up there to visit Sylvia whenever I have the opportunity. I know where Scawfell Street is, too. I once went to a meeting held in the school there. I expect you’ll be returning for a while after you’ve enjoyed a week or two of convalescence.’

‘I hope so. I haven’t been home for about eighteen months.’

‘Do you have any children?’ It was another question Vicky asked without shifting her gaze from the road.

‘No. I was only married for a week before I had to join Viper in Ireland.’

Vicky’s expression showed immediate sympathy. ‘Then your wife will be delighted to see you again. What’s her name?’

‘Dora. Yes, I’m sure she’ll be pleased, although I haven’t heard from her for more than a month now. She’s working all hours as an orderly in a hospital in Edmonton and she’s never been much of a writer.’

‘Didn’t she write when she learned you’d been wounded?’ Vicky voiced incredulity.

‘She doesn’t know. I asked Sub-Lieutenant Ferris not to notify her. I’ll tell her when I get home on leave …’ Alan told Vicky about the death in action of Dora’s favourite brother. The family had been notified that he had suffered a minor wound in France, only to be informed two days later that he had died.

‘That isn’t all you’ll have to tell her, is it? I’ve heard you’re to be decorated for your part in the sinking of the U-boat.’

Alan was surprised that she should know about the award before he had received any official notification. ‘So Sub-Lieutenant Ferris said. I’ll believe it when it happens.’

‘Oh, it will happen right enough,’ Vicky said. ‘The Newlyn fishermen are already talking about it. I know from my experience here, in Cornwall, that they have an uncanny knack of getting news before anyone else – and they’re seldom wrong.’

‘Do you like being in Cornwall?’ Alan felt surprisingly at ease chatting to Vicky.

‘Yes. There are places to go where I can be alone, to think and to sketch.’

‘That must be a great luxury after your experie