Chapter 2: Gossip

Saturday Midday.

As Martin drove away in the opposite direction of the traffic stream heading into the fairgrounds he began to relax a bit. He drove the rattley old Ford on the moor road, sailing along by himself until a road block appeared ahead.

He was fourth in a line of vehicles held up by a man with a stop sign. Up ahead there appeared to be some sort of commotion going on, focused on a man and a woman in old fashioned dress, sitting in a 1930s vintage car. They appeared to be arguing about something, as a crowd of people in modern clothing gathered around them holding large cameras, lights, and boom microphones. A man wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap yelled "Cut!" then directed the couple to go through their scene again. The director made some imperceptible adjustments to the lighting and the way they were sitting, then made them go through it a third time.

Martin sat there fuming in the cramped little sedan until the film crew moved the equipment out of the way and the traffic warden waved him and the other waiting vehicles through. In the rear view mirror he could see the crew move everything back in for another run through the scene.

He continued on his way to Havenhurst Farm, where he got his medical bag out of the boot. He knocked and let himself in the kitchen door. A fresh baked smelled filled the house. "You're late," said Aunt Joan. She was seated at the table with a cup of tea. A plate of sandwiches sat ready, as an apple cake was cooling on the counter.

"You didn't fill up on pasties and cider at the fair, did you?" she teased him.

"Certainly not. Your fresh chicken salad and homemade whole meal bread are far healthier than any fair food," Martin replied. "But first, I need to examine your leg, from where you were, um…"

"Pumped full of shotgun pellets?" she said.

His mind flashed back to that day, when he was in this very kitchen, wrapping her other ankle where she had sprained it, and Colonel Spencer was blathering on about the chough birds out on the cliff. The colonel had left the shotgun he was supposedly an expert with loaded and propped upright on a chair. When Martin went to grab his medical bag the bloody thing fell over and went off, blasting some crockery - and Joan.

The Colonel shouted "Oh God! You've killed her!"

For one awful moment, Martin was really scared, as scared as he had ever been in his entire adult life before. Then his aunt's shout of "you bloody, bloody fool!" reassured him that she was very much alive and very justifiably furious.

"I should remind you that was an accident," Martin said. Joan gave him a stern look. "Er yes, well, I should have been more cautious. Sorry about that."

"Well you were careless with that gun, and so was the Colonel, but I managed to survive. No hard feelings, Marty." She smiled at him and patted his shoulder as he unwrapped the bandages. "It seems to be healing nicely. Doesn't stop me from getting around."

"Yes, everything looks fine. You should have no long term effects, but you should still rest up and use your cane for at least another week," he said. "Right then, you relax and I'll set the table."

He poured himself a cup of tea and sat down with her. "So you were at the fair," she said. "I wouldn't have missed it, but for being temporarily laid up. Jim Sim used to be a regular favourite with farmer-pig look-a-likes. How did they manage to persuade you to be a part of it?"

"Strictly a one-off only. Favour for a friend."

"Louisa talked you into it, didn't she. So she's having an effect on you after all. Stands to reason, you two have been through a lot together lately."

"Mm, yes. She's gone off to stay with a friend in London for a few days, just to, er… recuperate, clear her mind with a change of scene she said, before the new school term begins."

"Not a bad idea. You should consider taking a break from work after such a stressful incident, Marty. You were lucky no one really got hurt but it must have been so frightening. It wouldn't surprise me if everyone involved ended up with a measure of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"I do not have PTSD and you should leave the diagnosing to me. I simply prefer not to dwell on things. Working is how I relieve stress."

She chuckled and took a sip of tea. "I suppose you must miss Louisa though."

The tips of his ears turning pink, Martin was eager to change the subject. "I, erm… ran into a road block coming out here. Some sort of commotion on the moor road."

"Oh, that'll be the film crew then," she said. "They'll be around for weeks to come so you'd better get used to them. It's been in the papers and on the radio. The daily filming schedule is posted at the Village Hall, telling where and when the crew will be so people know what roads to avoid. Don't you ever pay attention to the local goings-on, Martin?"

He grunted. "Bloody nuisance."

"Most people don't mind. It's only temporary and it showcases the natural scenic beauty around here. Brings in the tourists, and tourism is the lifeblood of Portwenn, just as much as fishing and farming."

Their sandwiches finished, Aunt Joan started to stand to fetch the apple cake but he insisted she remain seated while he got it. He even consented to having a small piece, knowing it made her happy.

"Some of the filming is over at Wenn Hall," she said. "Not that the Wenn family is hurting for money but it can't be easy keeping such a large house and estate in good repair. Michael Wenn was due for a run of luck after losing his wife in the boating accident last year. Mind you, he hasn't exactly taken to his bed with grief. I understand he came back from abroad with a new wife recently. A much younger wife."

Martin snorted in derision. "I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to the local goings-on, remember?"

"Of course, you're above such things," she said in a sarcastic tone. Then, with a sparkle in her eye, she added, "so, did you see him?"

"Did I see who?"

"Well, Jago Powell of course!"

"Who?"

"Jago Powell! The movie star! He's only won two BAFTAs and an Oscar nomination. Named People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive two years ago. Oh Martin, you really should pay more attention to things. He's here doing a remake of Rebecca, that's what all the filming is about, with that American actress Wynnie Barlow. He's simply gorgeous. If I were 20 years younger I'd be right out there offering to be his, um, personal assistant."

Martin was appalled. "Oh, Auntie Joan! Do you really think that's appropriate at your age?"

"I'm not dead, Martin, I can still appreciate an attractive man. There was a rumour going around last year that he was in the vicinity scouting out filming locations so everybody's excited it turned out to be true. And on top of everything, Jago Powell is a local boy, spent a whole school term here once before his family moved again. And now he's all grown up and famous. It just adds to the excitement."

"Hm. A whole school term here in Portwenn. He's about as much of a local as I am then." Martin scowled. "Why do they need to remake Rebecca anyway? It's a Hitchcock classic."

"Oh, Martin." Aunt Joan chuckled again. "So you do know something about popular culture, even if it's a movie that came out when I was a girl."

On his way home, Martin took the long way round, making sure to give the film crew a wide berth. When he finally arrived in the village he pulled in to the car park at Kernow's Garage and turned off the engine. The old Ford sedan was quite cramped and uncomfortable for a man his size, not to mention generally being an embarrassment to be seen in. He was relieved to be getting his own car back, after the damage done to it by that idiot Jonathan Crozier.

Martin thought back to That Day, just about a week ago. As bad as it was when Aunt Joan got shot, things only got worse from there, when the mentally unstable patient turned what had started out as a very bad day into one of the worst of Martin's life.

To be continued...