Haunting Greg - Book 1, The Porth Kerensa Series

Chapter Nine

The first Penwith of any note was a young Cornish fisherman called Jowan, who lived in the 1500s. He was a poor man; no one special to anyone, except to his wife, young son and baby daughter. He worked hard to keep the crumbling old roof over his family’s heads, and to put food in their hungry mouths. Home was a ramshackle two roomed cottage on the outskirts of Porth Kerensa. It was from there, that Jowan left, in the early hours one morning and made his way down to the dark beach. He launched his small fishing boat and headed out to sea to make an early start on the day’s work.

 Jowan changed his family’s whole life, and the lives of his ancestors, that night. As he sailed out to sea, his eye was caught by lights on the coast that should not be there. It didn't take him long to realise they were wreckers, out for a grim nights work. Abandoning his fishing, he intercepted a ship, that only moments before had been heading for certain peril on the rocks. For what seemed like hours, he piloted the ship, to safety up the North Cornish coast, until they made harbour. The ship's captain rewarded Jowan handsomely in coinage, and the modest young fisherman made his way back to Porth Kerensa, happy in the knowledge there was enough money now to see his family through the winter.

It took several months for Jowan to receive word that the ship he had saved was carrying a hold full of Coronation gifts for the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth I. In recognition of his bravery and service to the crown, the young queen rewarded Jowan with the title, Lord of the Manor of Penwith Chy; a hereditary title that would come with land, a manor house built in the time of Elizabeth's father and more money than Jowan would ever spend in his life time.

In 1841, the tenth Lord of Penwith Chy decided to have a new manor house built, along with new boathouses and jetty. The Penwith family were still fishermen, even though Jowan had never had any need to work again. The man had shown surprising business acumen; investing his money wisely, building his own fishing fleet and opening fishmongers across Cornwall to sell the fish he caught.

The new Penwith Chy was completed, seven years later by the eleventh Lord, and the old Tudor house was flattened and forgotten, its ruins still somewhere in Kerensa woods.

Lord Derrick Penwith was the sixteenth Lord and MD of PenKeren Fisheries, a multi-million pound company whose biggest rival was John West. The family had come a long way from the humble beginnings of Jowan Penwith all those hundreds of years before. Perhaps in another lifetime, Derrick would only ever be famous as a Lord and millionaire, but in this one his name is infamous for a much darker reason.

Lord Penwith ended his family line himself, the night he blew away his wife and daughter, then shot himself with his shotgun. None of us will ever know why; the best we can hope to achieve is an educated guess. What I do know, is that he left behind such misery and loneliness, that there is no eternal rest, or peace, for at least one of his victims.

Today, she roams the halls of Penwith Chy. She is ethereal and lonely; as beautiful in death as she was in life. She is haunted as much by her death, as the house is by her. I have seen her, I have spoken to her and I am going to tell her story.

His typed words, shining brightly on the screen of his laptop fill me with excitement. I have never shared anything like the experience in the gazebo with anyone before, I didn't even realise I had the power to make someone else see my memories. It wasn't something I did consciously; it just happened. It was as if the emotion of the moment joined us in a way I have never connected with anyone. Although, I wish I had broken the bond before he saw the last memory I have of my mother.

Reading about Jowan Penwith brings back things I haven't thought about for years and years. When I was a little girl my father would tell me about the first Lord. He took me out on his fishing boat a few times; trying to recreate the journey up the coast, as he told me the tale of our ancestors. Perhaps he thought it would mean more to me, but I was always too busy throwing up over the side of the boat to appreciate the story as much as I did, at home in the library. As I grew older, and my sea legs got worse the trips tailed off. By the time I was eleven they had ceased altogether. I know Father had hoped I would grow out of my seasickness, but as I grew older he realised I had not inherited the Penwith sailing gene. I was a shitty sailor.

Sometimes, on days off from school, he took me into his office on the outskirts of Newquay. I would sit in the corner of the room, doing homework or reading a book while he made phone calls and had meetings. I knew he was trying to spend time with me; to show me what I would inherit one day and perhaps ignite a spark of interest in the business. Yet I remember resenting the outings, never feeling as if they had been done for me, and always wishing I had been allowed to stay at home with Mother. However if I asked to stay home he would say that Mother needed time alone too; time to paint, time to rest or go out and socialise with her friends. I never understood why she would want to spend any time with those hideous women she called her friends; surely she had much more of a good time with me.

I put a stop to the trips to his office when I turned thirteen. With all the tact and grace of a teenager I told him I was quite capable of staying at home, out of Mother's way, instead of being bored to tears in his tedious old office. I didn't notice the light in his eyes die though, I was too happy at getting to spend an extra day with Mother.

As it turned out, Mother took herself off for the day with a mysterious smile and an admonishment to not prove that I couldn't be left alone. As if I was ever alone in a house full of servants!

I had been many years dead when I finally realised what I had seen on Father's face and in his eyes that day. It was the light of hope dying, to be replaced with dull resignation. One day PenKeren Fisheries would be run by someone who wasn't a Penwith, someone who probably didn't come from Porth Kerensa; and his family’s' time would be finished. The spark I saw die in his eyes that day was the realisation that his family line had ended, fifteen years before, in the senseless crash that killed his beloved son, Jory.

Perhaps that was what tipped him over the edge, for Father changed in the year before he killed us. He grew morose and sullen, uncommunicative and always grim faced. Mother, in contrast, as if to balance our household became chattier, sunnier and more radiant with every day that passed. Sometimes I looked at them, either end of the dining table, and I wondered if she was draining him like a battery. Using his energy to power her vivacity.

Mother was all the colours of the rainbow, and he was grey.