The Packet is serialising Falmouth-based journalist Nicola K Smith’s debut novel, A Degree of Uncertainty, printing one chapter a week for six weeks to help keep readers entertained in these straitened times.

A Degree of Uncertainty was published in November 2019 and has since sold more than 500 copies, as well as attracting more than 130 free downloads as part of a St Piran’s Day promotion in March.

It has been continually on loan at Cornwall’s libraries too.

The book tells of a fictional Cornish community divided by its growing university.

Formidable Vice Chancellor Dawn Goldberg is pushing for expansion, while local businessman Harry Manchester is fighting to halt further growth and protect his beloved home town from what he sees as certain ruin.

A Degree of Uncertainty is inspired by Falmouth, but is set in a fictional Cornish community with imagined characters.

It has been variously reviewed by readers as “a fast paced story seething with romantic subplots and small town jealousies”; “very well written, and full of colourful characters that kept me hooked from start to finish” and “a great study in human nature”.

For readers wanting more, you can buy the paperback from the Falmouth Bookseller (currently online only at www.falmouth-bookseller.co.uk/), direct from Nicola’s website at www.nicolaksmith.com (postage is free) or download the ebook online at Amazon (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Degree-Uncertainty-Nicola-Smith-ebook/dp/B0825Y8PTS/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=)

This week it is chapter two and you can read chapter one here.

CHAPTER TWO

Sylvia was tired. She had been awake since four o’clock that morning, listening to the crash of the distant waves and the cry of the gusting wind. She had momentarily forgotten that Harry had left but the other side of the bed was undoubtedly empty, the pillow pristine in its plumpness, the duvet unworried by the nocturnal thrashings of another body. It was what she had said she wanted – space, time, peace. But how could she really have known what that would feel like?

She had forced herself to get up, the freezing water on her face a sharp reminder of the day ahead. She had sought some sort of solace in routine, as she always did, pulling on jeans and jumper, descending the stairs, filling the kettle, stroking the cat as it stretched and yawned, putting the radio on. Then she had gazed out of the kitchen window into the darkness of the winter morning, the meaningless drone of the World Service just enough to keep her from her own thoughts.

Beyond the boundaries of her garden, still cloaked in its night shroud and just a little further than the neglected field beyond, the sea rolled and shattered on to Poltowan Beach, spewing great lengths of brown straggly seaweed onto the crescent of sand that glittered like gold in summer.

The day had dragged. There was little to do in the garden in January and everything lay exhausted and sodden after a night of heavy rain. She had slept for some of the afternoon, before watching the half-hearted daylight quickly submit to the weight of the evening; another day consigned to history. She had been contemplating embarking on her night-time routine when Harry’s call had disturbed her.

His arrival was boisterous and dramatic as always, his large frame suddenly filling the kitchen, changing the shape of the house, bringing its walls alive with his energy. If only she could capture his vitality and suffocate this wretched black dog that had moved in almost permanently since he’d left.

Of course, it had toyed with her for years. It was why she had finally urged him to go. As much as depression had destroyed her, it had eaten away at his life, pushing him further into his work and doubtless helping to spawn his Local Houses for Local People campaign. It was a way of allowing him to sidestep the reality of her crippling illness after countless futile attempts to help.

She listened as he talked her through the assault, once again describing an attacker who was larger and more formidable than he actually remembered, and throwing in an extra kick for good measure. She watched impassively as he rubbed his knee, and then his head, a pained expression contorting his face as he did so. Sylvia wondered if the grimace arose not from the pain itself, but from his being unable to decide which injury was more deserving of her attention.

As it turned out, neither Harry’s pounding head nor his wrenched knee received undue sympathy. After twenty minutes or so he emerged from the fog of victimhood and returned his attention quite suddenly to the kitchen of his former home and the pale face of his estranged wife, watching him intently with an odd mix of curiosity and boredom.

Nausea flooded him. He hobbled out of the kitchen door, across the hallway and into the downstairs toilet, having the foresight to flick on the exterior light switch before banging the door behind him.

Sylvia heard him retching and crossed the kitchen to the sink to fill a glass of water. She handed it to him when he returned, his face now approaching the same pallor as her own, although she was unaware of quite how drawn she looked, not having thought to consult a mirror for several days.

‘Must be shock,’ he said matter-of-factly as he took the glass from her.

Harry’s sips of water quickly became greedy gulps as an acute thirst gripped him. Sylvia had forgotten quite how much noise accompanied even the smallest of his actions; yet still she marvelled at the guttural sounds that issued from his sturdy anatomy.

‘Thanks,’ he said, placing the glass back on the worktop.

She waited in the cold draft of air by the kitchen door as Harry mumbled to himself in the garage, shifting and pulling at boxes before appearing with a red file. He came back into the kitchen and leaned against the door until it clicked.

‘Did you lock it?’

He gestured to the key hanging off his finger. Sylvia took it from him and hung it on the hook in the corner. As they sat across the kitchen island from each other, Harry poring over old pieces of paperwork, it occurred to Sylvia that the physical tension that had been gripping her for weeks was dissipating. She felt her shoulders relaxing, a sense of calm beginning to ease itself under her skin, and the weight of her head became less of a burden.

Harry too was taking a certain comfort from being back in The Oaks, sitting on one of the stools they had bought together in Habitat not long after they had moved in. He settled into the familiar grooves, the foot rests exactly where he knew they would be.

Eventually he announced that he had found the piece of paper he needed. Sylvia straightened her back, folding her arms more tightly as he pushed an endless number of buttons to direct him through the virtual and unfathomable corridors of the bank’s telephone network. Finally, a chirpy automated voice informed him that his call was important and that a human being would shortly be available to meet his every need. The pledge was quickly followed by the elegant violins of Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the brilliance of the composition marred almost irreparably by jangly acoustics and over-familiarity.

He pushed the speaker button and let Mozart fill the room, locking his eyes with Sylvia's. She raised her eyebrows ambiguously in response before shifting her gaze towards the Aga. Its hulking form stayed silent, as if deciding to remain non-partisan. Harry saw once again that faraway look steal into her eyes, like a curtain coming down across her thoughts as she retreated to that unreachable place.

‘They only play this stuff because it’s out of copyright,’ said Harry, watching as she clawed her way slowly back to the present. ‘It’s cheap, that’s all. You’d think they might be a bit more creative, a bit more original, a bit more on brand. It’s an affront to Wolfgang.’

There was a muffled bang and Harry jumped while Sylvia watched Sting appear through the cat flap, his head tilted to one side. He paused in the middle of the kitchen and looked from Harry to Sylvia and back, as if expecting an explanation. None forthcoming, he leaped neatly onto Harry’s lap.

Harry yelped as the cat’s weight landed on his injured knee, swearing before nuzzling the furry neck and reverting to an affectionate jargon that was meaningful only to himself and Sting.

‘How’s he been?’

‘Easily pleased, isn’t he? Doesn’t know he’s born.’

‘Spoiled.’ As if in response, Sting jumped off Harry’s lap and sprang on to Sylvia’s.

‘I miss him,’ said Harry.

Mozart filled the ensuing silence. Sylvia focused on the comforting weight and heat of the cat in her lap, its eyes locked on hers. Sting was studying her, his green eyes intent. She bent to kiss him on the back of his neck, seized by a moment of pure love. Harry looked away, taking in the oddness of the familiar room, drumming his fingers on the work surface as the violins played on.

‘Did you see the local news?’

Sylvia nodded, her hand working the cat’s fur vigorously.

‘Well?’ said Harry.

‘That dreadful ringtone,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s awful at the best of times, let alone on live television.’

Harry shook his head, the dull ache around his skull returning. ‘Need to get my phone looked at. But what did you think?’ His foot tapped nervously against the stool.

‘Nothing Dawn Goldberg does surprises me. She obviously timed the announcement to catch you off guard. Very clever. She certainly plays tough.’

Harry nodded, waiting for her to continue.

She noticed his eyes were shadowed underneath and watering slightly behind his glasses. ‘You’ve got your work cut out.’

‘And I’m going to step up the campaign. If she wants to fight dirty, so can I.’

‘It’s not your style.’

‘What is my style?’

Sylvia thought for a moment. ‘You’re simple.’

Harry frowned.

‘I mean, people trust you. You’re upfront, you tell the truth. You do what you say you’ll do.’

‘Do you think so? You think people will trust me to stop this rampage through our town? I mean, a lot rests on it – my reputation, the business…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Is it wise for me to keep going?’

Sylvia’s gaze dropped. ‘You’re all they’ve got.’

‘Oh, cheers,’ he said, rubbing his swollen knee, which was now giving off a powerful heat.

Sylvia’s pragmatism had often infuriated him, her dispassionate way of looking at things, her inability to view a situation in anything but the most commonsensical way, oblivious to the occasional need to speak half-truths in the name of duty or even kindness.

‘But how did I come across tonight – was I OK?’

She knew what he was driving at, acutely aware of his need for frequent reassurance and liberal amounts of praise. She could barely muster the energy to be honest, let alone find the resources to be creative with the truth.

‘Yes, you did OK. Not bad.’

Harry leaned forward on the island, his eyes trying to fix hers. ‘How OK? What does OK mean?’

‘Well, you asked if you did OK. I’m saying you did – OK.’

‘But good OK, average OK? Where are we on the OK scale? Did I make my position clear? Did I—’

‘Shouldn’t you get your head checked? Call in at A&E on your way back?’

The violins ceased abruptly and a voice spoke. Harry clicked the speakerphone off and entered into a lengthy stream of monosyllabic answers punctuated by heavy sighs.

Fifteen minutes later he was leaving the house he jointly owned and thanking the woman who remained his wife. He hovered in the doorway, the hostile night air engulfing the two of them, figures framed on the threshold in the stark porch light.

‘Are you alright, Sylve?’

‘It’s you that’s had a shock. Not me.’

‘You know what I mean. You look tired.’

‘Harry, I’m fine.’ She pulled her cardigan more tightly around herself, hunching her shoulders for warmth. ‘You’ve got your life, I’ve got mine. There’s no need for you to worry.’

‘I can’t help worrying.’

‘Save your worrying for Jo.’ Sylvia paused, narrowing her eyes and peering over Harry’s shoulder in search of Sting, who had slunk out into the darkness. It seemed odd to say her name out loud, this other woman she could only imagine, a shadowy being, yet charming, witty, beautiful, all the same. ‘She’s your priority now.’

Harry was about to remonstrate but thought better of it. His wife's expression was hard to discern.

‘It’s early days, you know.’

She held up her hand sharply, as if by doing so she could stop, or even erase, his words. ‘We agreed. You’ve moved on – we both have.’

Harry nodded. ‘Thanks again for the file.’

Sylvia closed the door, turned the lock and put the chain on. She lingered in the dark hallway and watched through the frosted glass the tail lights of the Mercedes receding, heard the low hum of his engine retreating into the night. Then she switched off each of the lights in turn and made her way up the stairs.

Harry glanced in his rear-view mirror as the house fell into darkness. He could almost hear the creak of the final stair as Sylvia stepped on it on her way to bed, the tread he had promised to investigate but never got around to fixing. She had not been angry with him towards the end; her paralysing depression left her no room for active resentment or festering recriminations. She had not moaned, just slipped into a state of quiet resignation as he became swallowed up in the politics of Poltowan, the demands on his time, on his influence, growing incrementally until they absorbed his every waking hour, came to monopolise his every thought. When she told him to leave, over and over, he finally realised that maybe this was her only hope of getting better.

He passed the winding drive leading up to the Chyangwens Hotel. It was where he and Sylvia had held their wedding reception on that windy September day all those years ago. The sign looked a little tired now, the once proud Cornish wall where they had happily posed for the photographer crumbling slightly, unable to hold up its end of the bargain.

Harry had thought he knew it all then. At twenty-five years of age, he had the woman he loved on his arm and big plans to take over Maycroft’s estate agency. He would be successful and wealthy, but just as importantly, he would be liked, combining the three things in a way that many before him had seemed incapable of doing.

Dawn Goldberg’s face returned to mind. She might have a PhD and a lengthy CV but she lacked soul. She didn’t understand what made Poltowan special, or how its delicate societal mix made for a rich and thriving community. She had marched across the Tamar clearly expecting the Cornish people to capitulate as her shadow lengthened. But no academic qualification could prepare her for this fight. Sylvia was right: the people of Poltowan needed him to lead them to victory.

He opened the window to let some of the briny night air blow in, shifting in his seat as he turned down Bosvennen Avenue. He swore suddenly as he recalled his phone call to the police, banging the steering wheel in frustration. He should never have reported the incident. He could already picture the front page of the Poltowan Post: ‘Local Businessman Mugged in City’, a picture of his bespectacled face grinning out, blow-up guitar held aloft. They always seemed to dig out that shot from last year’s carnival, even though he had sent the newspaper's editor Dennis Flintoff at least two professional portrait photos since.

He swore again, this time louder, taking pleasure from the release it gave him. Harry rarely swore. He found it unbecoming in others and was of the opinion that it very rarely added impact to an argument or helped to articulate a point – it was unimaginative, lazy. Yet in the isolation of his car he experienced a strange thrill. He pulled into a parking space just along from Jo’s apartment and turned the engine off. He repeated the obscenity, this time shouting it as loud as he could, his headache pounding now as the word reverberated back at him.

He sat for a moment, rehearsing the words he would say to Jo. He didn’t want to alarm her, he didn’t want any fuss. Just some quiet sympathy, an understanding hug, a cold beer.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

Harry jumped at the unexpected voice, raising his hand with the keys pointing outwards, poised as if to attack.

‘I could hear you at the end of the road, effing and blinding. What is it?’

Jo was shivering as she looked in through his half-open window. She was dressed in pyjamas, her thick white dressing gown clutched tightly across her generous cleavage. He closed his eyes in relief.

‘I forgot it was open.’ He pushed a button, the window drawing silently up between them. He eased himself out of the car, angling his knee carefully as he stood up.

‘Just letting off some steam.’ He exhaled noisily. ‘Sorry,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear. What have you done to your leg?’ Jo was unused to him being anything other than dynamic and positive. Now his every movement seemed fraught with uncertainty, slowed by some invisible force, while even his face looked different, his glasses sitting clumsily.

He touched her arm, summoning the calmness she would expect from him. ‘Honey,’ he said, ‘go on up, it’s freezing. I’m right behind you. I’ll explain in a minute.’

She retreated along the path and into the building. Harry could see the man in the ground-floor flat peering through the gap in his curtains, unconcerned about being observed.

The flat was warm, lit with a welcoming glow, a smell of vanilla drifting from the tiny lounge. Harry had not yet told Jo of his dislike of incense sticks. He placed his leather briefcase down by the door, loosening his tie.

Jo stood on tiptoe, throwing her arms around his neck, the sweet smell of white wine on her breath, her lips pressing against his. He winced, trying to disengage himself, the pain in his head returning.

‘You look done in.’ She eased his jacket from his shoulders and led him by the hand to the lounge, encouraging him on to the sofa and rubbing his solid, sinewy neck, kissing his head. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Harry. You showed that high and mighty so and so who’s boss.’

He eased her down next to him. She studied him, removing his glasses and frowning at the broken lens, then at the deep red indentations on his nose. She believed his thick glasses obscured possibly his best physical feature: brilliant blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes.

She remembered the first time she had noticed them. He had stood chatting to her while removing his glasses to wipe away a speck of dust. His eyes had quite taken her breath away, and it was as if in that moment he had revealed himself to her; the strong physique, concealed slightly by the extra pounds he carried, thanks to his liking for good food; the dark hair that had once been thick and plentiful, now teasingly revealing his temples; the kindly smile that radiated amiability; and those blue eyes, paired with a telling network of laughter lines that only underlined his lust for life. It had been like seeing him for the first time.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Jo, but I was attacked after I left the TV studio.’

She cupped his face in both her hands. ‘Darling! Oh, God, are you OK? What did they do? What did they take?’

She noticed the bruise that was rapidly appearing around his left eye. He looked more vulnerable than she ever remembered seeing him.

Harry ran through the details again, almost starting to believe that there had been a group of attackers, and feeling anew the impact of the parting blow to his knee that the attacker may or may have not have delivered after he fell.

She held him close. ‘How am I supposed to look after you properly if you’re not wholly mine? Not really. Not until you’re free of—’

Harry groaned, his body growing suddenly rigid, a sharp pain shooting from one temple to the other. Jo knew better than to continue down that particular path tonight. She would revisit the topic tomorrow. Her more worldly friends had advised her that a drip-feed approach was the best way to expedite his divorce proceedings, coupled with some judicious references to making a proper home together. Soon they would be out of her poky flat, perhaps enjoying a house by the river, and Harry would be truly hers.

Jo pressed a cold beer into his hands, removed his shoes, placed ice on his knee and massaged his temples until his eyes closed. He could see why young boys with scraped knees and grazed knuckles sought easy solace in her arms at Poltowan Primary School. She oozed compassion and warmth, her voice soothing to the soul. She’d made caring her life’s work, at first looking after her disabled mother at the expense of most of her own youth, and then belatedly training as a teacher. Caring was the very essence of Jo.

At times her maternal ways would irritate him, force him to withdraw into himself. On other occasions, like this one, he readily gave himself up to the tsunami of tenderness, playing his part willingly and well.

Thoughts of Sylvia slipped slowly from his mind, and even Dawn Goldberg’s face became less distinct, her features starting to merge with those of Jenny Trundle, and then legs swam into his mind, lots of legs, as Jo tended to his every need, his beer sitting unopened in his hand.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.