Two Sisters for Two Brothers: A love story

Two Sisters for Two Brothers: A love story

Especially for Valentines Day, here's a love story written by Anna Maria Murphy as heard on the road to Truscott, told by Lin Caudle on Launceston to Bodmin Moor walk

Two Sisters for Two Brothers

The road to Truscott is a tangle of toughed vetch, meadow sweet and Campion. You may not know that if you touch a Campion your blood will flow round the other way. We know this, because when Cyril Trescida fell down the treacle mines at Langouve, he was cut to the bone and we saw it do that very thing.

If you were passing through, you could never guess that the Truscott pond was well known for courting, ideal for this purpose due to the cover of the towering yellow flag iris.

Saturday nights were a good time for loving, that’s true of anywhere, not just Truscott, also, handy for confession on a Sunday in the chapel if you were that way inclined. The stitchwort and milkmaid flowers that carpeted the banks of the pond were often to be found flattened on a Sunday morning, where heads and other parts had lain.

Cyril Trescida (the one whose blood flowed the other way) loved Ivy, and Ivy, she loved Cyril. But Cyril thought that Ivy loved Alfred, who was his brother, and Ivy thought that Cyril loved Gwen, who was her sister. And Alfred thought that Gwen loved Cyril, and Gwen thought that Alfred loved Ivy.

But really, Cyril loved Ivy, and Ivy loved Cyril.

And Alfred loved Gwen, and Gwen loved Alfred.

This was because when Cyril came calling at the two sisters’ house, he was so overcome with love for Ivy, he could only speak to Gwen, and Alfred was so overcome with love for Gwen that he only spoke to Ivy.

This went on for years. Ivy would leave the room when Cyril came, she would go to her room and soak the bed with tears, whilst Gwen and Cyril would discuss the weather and the types of rain that had fallen that week, till the tea that neither of them had drunk had gone cold.

And Gwen left Ivy with Alfred when he came round. Gwen would go to the barn outside and kick seven types of hell out of the tractor.

If it hadn’t been for a scarf that Ivy always wore around her hair, to keep her wild curls from escaping, the truth may never have been discovered.

She left it on the back of the chair that Cyril was sitting on during one of the unbearable visits and conversations about rain. Gwen left the room to refill the teapot and take her frustration out on the stove, or dresser, or cat, and as she stood in the doorway to return she saw that Cyril had taken Ivy’s scarf and smothered his face in it. It of course smelt of her, the scent of heather and gorse (Gwen’s scent was more hay and grass).

“Ivy!” he said under breath, “Oh Ivy!”

They married. Ivy to Cyril, Gwen to Alfred, and they live together in Trescida House.

Or they did, as they are gone now, like the treacle mines of Langouve.

So take my advice, if you love someone, tell them straight away.

There’s no time to waste.


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