Oyster Shore (The Rosecraddick Chronicles) by Ruth Saberton

Author:Ruth Saberton [Saberton, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: animals, armistice, Author, Beach, best-seller, bestselling, boat, Boats, Britain, British, coastal romance, Cornish Author, Cornish, cornish escape, Cornish Fiction, Cornwall, cottage, creek, Daphne du Maurier, dog, Drama, England, English, estuary, family, family saga, fans of Daphne du Maurier, fans of Rosamunde Pilcher, Female, Fisherman, Fishing, Fowey, friendship, garden, gardens, ghost, Happy Ever After, harbour, Historical, historical suspense, historical fiction, history, holiday reading, Holidays, Kernow, land rover, letter, legacy, Love, Love Romance, magic, Manor House, marriage, medium, murder, Mystery, novel, Oxford, passion, photo, photographer, Poet, poetry, Poppies, Poppy, Post traumatic stress disorder, PTSD, pub, publishing, relationships, Rememberance, research, river, Romance, romantic, Rosamunde Pilcher, Ruth Saberton, Rupert Brooke, Saberton, saga, seaside, Shell Shock, Sigfried Sassoon, small town romance, soldier, teachers, The Somme, top ten, vicar, war, War & Military, war graves, War Memorial, war poet, wedding, Western Front, Wilfred Owen, Winston Graham, Women, Women's Fiction, WW1, World War One
ISBN: 9781914508004
Publisher: Millington
Published: 2021-11-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

August 1904

Oyster Shore

Ned

The summer of 1904 was the hottest Ned could remember. The heat pressed down on Trevellan like a living entity, and the river flowed listlessly as though oppressed by the heavy air. On the Trehunnists’ farm the crops ripened earlier than in living memory, and as the grass yellowed and the wheat toasted the whole world seemed gilded. All the village children were called upon to help gather the harvest in, and they peppered the fields for days trailing the horse-drawn reaper to rake up the crop and bind the sheaves.

The Carew family always took part in the harvest. It mattered little in Trevellan that Edgar was the schoolmaster rather than a farm labourer, for harvest time was when the whole village came together; even Reverend Tullis rolled up his shirt sleeves and joined in. It was Biblical, he told Ned and Bess, for hadn’t our Lord told the parable of the sower? And did not Isaiah say that mortal flesh would be cut down like grass? Ned wasn’t sure that he liked the sound of this, but he did like being a part of something bigger than himself and usually enjoyed being in the fields with his friends until the dusk smoked from the hedges and the pink moon rose.

But this year time spent helping with the harvest meant time away from Madalyn, and Ned found himself itching to escape. That Gerald could be on Oyster Shore with her when he could not was hard to bear, almost as hard as biting his tongue when Gerald had declared he was going to become an author. Whether this was because Gerald had been so impressed by Kit Rivers or simply because he wanted to best Ned was anyone’s guess. Maybe a mixture of both, Ned had decided. He wouldn’t usually mind – after all there were enough words and stories in the world for them both – but being accustomed to writing on the river bank all morning while Madalyn sketched or gathered shells, it rankled to know that Gerald was enjoying her company now, when he couldn’t.

There was also something about Gerald’s behaviour that made Ned uneasy. Madalyn hadn’t said much, but he knew she didn’t relish the other boy’s company and often made excuses to return home when he joined them. She flatly refused to swim if Gerald was there, which Ned hadn’t understood since Madalyn was far more accomplished than Gerald, who shrieked if a strand of weed so much as brushed his big toe. It was hard work being a teacher. His father was a saint.

“I don’t want to swim with Gerald,” Madalyn said.

“It’s perfectly proper,” Ned assured her. “You have a bathing costume.”

Madalyn certainly did. Woollen and heavy, it was only suitable for paddling. Whenever she tried to swim it become waterlogged and threatened to sink her, so she’d taken to swimming in her shift, which Gerald thought quite scandalous. During their last swimming lesson he’d stared at her so openly that Madalyn became so self-conscious she sank every few strokes.

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