Luke winced at the sight and smell of her. Jessie never washed the family’s clothes, rarely washed her body. Lew Trevail was a rotten dirty bastard for going with her and fathering another child to drag him down.
The baby whimpered, the pitiful, neglected sound of miscomprehension of an infant starving. Luke glanced down at his youngest sister, lying in her own filth in a corner of a drawer, half pulled out of the dresser. Marylyn’s skin was grey and biscuity, her eyes staring unnaturally out of hollow sockets. Pity his mother’s promiscuity and drinking habits hadn’t rendered her infertile.
‘You can’t expect keep if I don’t get no bloody food.’
‘I bet you’ve had a drink.’
‘I work flaming hard! I deserve a drink. I’ll give you nothing. Where’s the couch? I need something to sleep on when I’m here.’ He glanced at his other sister and his brother, six and seven years old, huddled pathetically in worn-out clothes at the stone hearth in a vain attempt to get warm from the smouldering twig fire. ‘And the kids’ good clothes and shoes I bought ’em? You’ve sold them, you bitch! What for? A few shillings’ worth of Mardie Dawes’ homemade poison?’
‘Luke, please,’ Jessie appealed as she got the shakes. She had trouble striking a match.
‘You can go to hell.’ He searched the cupboard built into the recess next to the fireplace. Pulled out a small tin that had once contained boot polish. Took off the lid. ‘Bloody empty!’ Gone was the money he’d left for Rex to buy food, milk and candles, and to pay the rent. He’d left more than enough for the month he’d been away. He wouldn’t have minded so much if there was something to show for it. Jessie must have beaten Rex, and probably little Molly too, until the boy confessed where he had hidden the tin. It would account for their fresh bruises.
Rex and Molly were used to the verbal abuse of their mother and brother on the few occasions Luke was home, but they were not listening to the quarrel. They watched Luke from gaunt, hungry eyes, hoping…
Cursing his mother, Luke put his hands into his jacket pockets. Jessie watched him avidly, greedily, like a ravenous she-wolf.
‘Here,’ he said to Rex, ‘I thought you’d still be up, and starving hungry. I’ve got something for you and Molly.’
Rex got up on bare, chilblained feet, held out eager hands. Jessie dived between her sons. Luke grabbed her by the arm and pushed her away.
‘They can’t live on fresh air, woman. The place stinks. Have you been sick again?’
While Rex and Molly gulped down meat pies and wrinkled-skinned apples, he hunted about, tossing the odd sticks of furniture out of his way. He kicked at a filthy rag and howled in disgust. A heap of dried vomit was underneath it, adding to the stench of urine and faeces which seemed to emanate from the very structure of the cottage. Luke pressed his knuckles to his forehead in shame and despair. This was his home, a cramped, dark and dank, sodden, mouldy cave.
Jessie made to run for the rope ladder that led to the upstairs room, which was reached through a hatch. Luke gripped her scrawny shoulder. In the worst language ever heard in Parmarth, he berated his mother. ‘Clean it up or I’ll throw you outside for the bloody night. It’s all you’re fit for, the gutter.’ He pushed her towards her offence. ‘This place is worse than a god-damned pigsty!’
‘You don’t have to live here,’ Jessie screeched, scrabbling with the rag. ‘Just piss off and leave me alone.’
‘I wish I’d never looked you up. You deserted me, leaving Gran to rear me. We were poor but everything was clean and not crawling with fleas. I always had food in my belly. I’d have gone off ages ago and never come back if it wasn’t for the kids. I don’t want to see any more of ’em in the churchyard. You go, you filthy whore! We’d be better off without you dragging us down.’
Seven children his mother had borne, each from a different father, none with the benefit of a wedding ring. Luke had been her first. He had dark gipsy looks, had spent a lot of time with gipsies and assumed his father had been one. He was cursed with the gipsy desire to keep on the move. Open spaces were as precious to him as the fresh air he breathed. Right now, he felt he was suffocating.
Dirty and wearily pale, Rex and Molly gorged the food without a murmur, gazing alertly at the pair scrapping and swearing.
Pointing at the baby, Luke asked Rex, ‘She had anything today?’
The boy shook his scurf-ridden head.
‘I’ll go over to Nance Farm and get some milk. Mercy Merrick stays up late. Tomorrow I’m going to see about getting the baby adopted.’
‘You can’t go to the authorities, Luke,’ Jessie wept, shaking uncontrollably, struggling to her feet, her self-abused state forcing her to lean against the dresser. ‘They might wonder how some of the others died.’ She became malicious, mocking him. ‘If they put me away, I’ll say you were in on it. Then we could both hang.’
Luke banged his fist against the cold bare wall. ‘God in heaven, what have I done to deserve this?’ There were times he was afraid he would give way to the utter disgust and loathing which cankered inside him for his mother and beat her senseless.
‘If something better doesn’t happen soon,’ he whispered in despair, ‘I just might…’
Chapter Three
In heavy silence, Jo sat straight-backed and implacable beside Alistair as he drove towards Parmarth. They were bumping along the narrow, winding coast road, which had recently been tarred and gritted for the first time, passing lonely farmsteads, running streams, stone walls, stretches of open moor, all flanked by gaunt boulder-strewn hills.
Alistair always motored idiotically fast and Jo clung to the door strap. Her luggage, heaped on the back seat, was under continuous threat of being pitched on to the floor of the black and yellow Bentley. The air inside the car was choked with the stench of Alistair’s pipe and she wound the window down to draw in a welcome breath of crisp air.
She turned to gaze at the stony entrance of Bridge Lane. A short distance along the quiet thoroughfare, sheltered in a valley, was Cardhu, where she had proposed to live. It was down the lane, on the little flat granite bridge not far from the house, where, as a six-year-old, she had first met Celia. Jo had been washing muck and blood off her hands, knees and dress, after being dragged through a field with cowpats and thistles by the Trevail brothers. She had been brought to the area by Katherine, who had slipped away from the pretence of taking a country picnic, for an assignation with the boys’ uncle, Bob Merrick.
Jo longed to get out of the car and run to the house where she had been treated with such genuine concern, sensitivity and love. This close to Cardhu, she was inspired once again to pursue her dreams, no matter how stupid and futile they seemed to others. She sighed, vexed that her feelings were dismissed in certain quarters.
Alistair crashed the gears as he took a tight bend and ignored her.
They rounded the next bend and the square tower of the village church came into view. Alistair swept the Bentley importantly through the village, making the few people who were about stare and comment huffily at the madness of some drivers.
Jo kept her eyes on the churchyard for as long as she could. Only twenty-four hours ago, she had shivered in the biting winds and wept over the simple coffin of the kindest, most positive person she had ever known. And she had been grieved that so few people had attended the funeral. Celia had been good to the villagers, employing from among them, during a time when jobs were scarce, a washerwoman, a seamstress, a delivery boy and a gardener.
She only caught a glimpse of the school and wondered what it was like inside. In a couple of days she would find out.
Taking her make-up mirror out of her clutch bag, she manoeuvred her head to get an overall view of her face. She touched the pink satin rose, blowing in the draught, on her slouch hat. Free again from her mother’s cold disapproval, she was feeling lighthearted and full of purpose, and she looked it.
‘Why care about how you look?’ Alistair said impatiently. ‘You’re going to live in a primitive backwater. There won�
��t be anything of what we take for granted. There’s probably not even a cricket team. You must be mad coming to this place.’
‘It’s a perfect place to paint in,’ Jo pointed out. ‘Many important artists are using the moors these days for the clear, vibrant light and the glorious scapes, including Mother’s dinner guest last night. There are writers and poets too.’
‘You mean like that D. H. Lawrence fellow who once lived at Zennor, which we’ve not long passed through? If you paint like he writes, your work will be disgusting.’
‘You just don’t understand what he’s trying to say!’
‘Well, all I can say is, I truly hope you don’t.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
Jo felt the Arctic coldness seep through her fur-collared coat. She sniffed the air. She had not lost the senses she had acquired of what the weather had in store. A heavy shower of rain was imminent.
‘Close the damned window,’ Alistair barked. ‘It’s freezing in here.’
Jo complied, then replied tightly, ‘I’d appreciate it if you knocked out your pipe.’
‘For goodness’ sake.’ He thrust the pipe at her and she was forced to remove its offending matter herself. ‘You can’t expect me to approve of this stupid plan of yours, so stop sulking.’
‘I never sulk, as you well know. I thought you could see things my way a little, that’s all.’
‘You hate it when I take Mother’s side, don’t you?’
‘I simply don’t think you’re being fair.’
‘I’ve driven you to this blasted little place, haven’t I?’
‘You could be more gracious about it.’
‘You could be more grateful. You want everything your own way. Always have. Well, if you make a pig’s ear of it, you’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Have I ever asked you to take the responsibility for my mistakes?’
‘No.’
‘Well, shut up and drive carefully. I’d like to arrive at Nance in one piece.’
Jo’s eyes were drawn constantly to the forsaken works of the Solace tin mine. Laid bare to the weather, set close to the cliff edge a quarter of a mile away, the buildings were silhouetted against the murky, darkening sky, dominating the western horizon as they had done for eighty years.
Hunching his shoulders over the steering wheel, Alistair tacked a path to avoid muddy puddles and the heaps of manure left by livestock. ‘I didn’t really see any harm in you taking up a career, Jo, but to seek such a lowly position, to teach creatures who aren’t worth the bother, is inconceivable. It’s pathetic.’
A mix of determination and indignation became Jo’s expression. ‘When I come into my trust fund, Alistair, I’m going to strike out on my own. Open a school for girls, where they will be given every encouragement to strive for their ambitions, like Celia Sayce did for me, and I shall provide scholarships for girls just like those who live in Parmarth. And the children here are not creatures and they are worth every consideration. How dare you take such a high and mighty attitude towards the lives of people you know nothing about?’
‘You don’t know them. The Sayce woman kept you all to herself. Besides, their families are as poor as church mice. They won’t welcome someone of your background.’
‘I may not know this generation of children but I once mixed with some of the villagers.’ Jo was aware that she knew little of the conditions most of her pupils lived in but she felt an empathy with them. She knew what it was like to be considered of no value. Now she was back on the beloved moors where she had gained her freedom, where she had been loved and nurtured, she no longer cared about Alistair’s views, or her mother’s.
‘What, those scabrous brothers?’ he scoffed. ‘Hardly a recommendation.’
Jo saw no need to justify her actions and fell silent again, reintroducing herself to the moors. The high ground of the coast road afforded spectacular views of the carns and mighty tors, the cliffs and the seaboard.
While she savoured these familiar sights, the first freezing raindrops hit the windscreen. Winter had its harsh grip on the surrounding land. The uninitiated might see only its barrenness and the bleak derelict engine houses, the towering chimney stacks and ugly slag piles; tragic memorials of Cornwall’s once thriving tin and copper industry. Jo, however, saw life and purpose. The vast sweeps of bracken, dead gorse and heather, and the huge granite boulders were coloured in living, vibrant browns, russets, reds and every shade of grey. She sensed the presence of the ancients who had trodden the long-vanished paths, felt the very spirit of the land. She had come back, and it was as if during her absence this soul-stirring beauty had been waiting for her.
Nance Farm’s rambling buildings were situated either side of a bend in the road, and sheltered by high grey stone walls from the vagaries of the wind and rain which swept over the West Penwith moors, the most westerly moors of Cornwall, with unrelenting regularity at this time of the year. Next to Cardhu, it was Jo’s favourite place to come back to.
Alistair stopped the motorcar on the road. ‘Much more sanitary than the farmyard, I’m sure,’ he muttered darkly.
Jo did not wait for him to help her alight. ‘Don’t worry,’ she smirked, ‘you won’t spoil your shoes.’ A path of straw had been laid over the thickly muddied ground, from the wide, open farm entrance to the front door; a thoughtful gesture by Mercy.
Within minutes they had deposited Jo’s luggage inside the porch, then stood gazing at each other, many a remark lying unspoken on their lips. An intense steamy smell threatened to clog their nostrils, but if Alistair noticed the fouled air he chose not to mention it.
He smiled faintly. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, little thing.’
‘I’m a grown woman, Alistair. I can look after myself.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing. Well, you can always find a telephone and get in touch if you need me, I suppose.’ He kissed her cheek, and before she could reply he left her.
Outside in the rain, she watched as he reversed the Bentley into the yard and drove away, waving until he was out of sight.
Then she turned her back on her family’s disapproval, to relish every inch of the rugged, neglected aspect of the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse. The roof had been slated in 1919 when the thatch had caught fire, taking away some of its charm. A coat of dark green paint had been dabbed on the window frames and splashed on the door, without the old paintwork first being sanded down. Dust, grit and mud had gathered carelessly against the doorstep. The long narrow flowerbeds either side of the porch, once proudly tended by Mercy’s good-natured grandmother, were empty quagmires.
Rubbing the rusty horseshoe nailed to the door for good luck, Jo stepped inside the friendly, cavernous confines of the dwelling. She carried her suitcases and vanity case along the passage and left them at the bottom of the steep, bare, wooden stairs, then made for the kitchen.
In the event Mercy’s two boisterous border collies were inside, she opened the door cautiously and peeped round it. There was no sign of life, but the room was busy and welcoming with the succulent smell of lamb stew simmering in a gigantic saucepan on the iron range, which was incorporated into a huge open chimney. There was enough space for a small person like Jo to sit in the chimney and blissfully toast herself. A massive granite lintel stretched the length of the wall and protruded to form a narrow, untrue mantelpiece. The cooking overpowered the farmyard’s primitive odours. In a few minutes Jo would not notice the unpleasant smells. She hugged herself in sheer contentment. She had always enjoyed coming here, where social class, position, wealth and beauty did not matter, where she had always felt wanted.
She hung her wet coat on the door knob of a tall oak cupboard then warmed herself in front of the great stone fireplace, its higher stones long blackened by soot.
The farmhouse had only the most basic of furniture, mellowed with age, but was heated all through; the walls were constructed of huge boulders and Mercy kept roaring fires. The table, made from wreck timber and long and wi
de enough to seat a fair-sized banquet, was set with preparations for a meal of similar proportions, although for just two people. Suspended from the ceiling was pig meat, bagged in cloth. Jo could almost taste the delicious ham inside it. She would enjoy living here. Mercy was not stingy with anything, fuel, food or affection.
At the back door, she peered across the yard, which was paved with rab, a yellowish clay formed from decomposed granite, and called out Mercy’s name several times. Her eyes flicked from the ricks and animals’ accommodation and she smiled as the hens, geese and ducks, which wandered at will, started a ruckus at her shouting.
She received no human reply; her friend must be out in the fields.
When Jo returned to the kitchen she found she was not alone. From hidden corners of the large orderless house, Mercy’s three cats had crept forth and were blinking at her curiously. Sunny, a fat patchwork of ginger, white and black fur, leapt up on to the window sill over the huge stone sink. Jo followed her slinky movements and saw, propped up against the late Bob Merrick’s cracked shaving mug, a note from his sister. The bold writing stated: Dear Jo, In case I’m not here when you arrive, your bedroom’s next to mine, overlooking the yard. Mercy.
Before Mercy came in, Jo thought it best to change her clothes. Her dress was already attracting cat hairs and Mercy would bring the collies inside with her. More than once before Kip and Hunter had favoured her with a liberal coating of farmyard dirt.
She carried her luggage up to her room, where a hearty coal blaze was crackling in the grate, then she looked out of the dusty window.
Nance, sheltered by a bank of leaning sycamore and thorn trees, consisted of one hundred acres of hill and croft and thirty-five acres of arable land. The fields were rocky and exposed to the ferocious Atlantic gales, and crop growing, apart from animal feed, was impracticable, so that the farm concentrated mainly on animal husbandry. Mercy kept a small dairy herd, mainly Guernseys, which in fine weather Jo would be able to see in the sloping fields at the back of the farmhouse. Encircled by a low straggling stone wall was the paddock where horses were put to roam, and in the field nearest the yard a billy goat would be tethered to an old millstone, while his family of half a dozen grazed unencumbered nearby.
Listening to the Quiet Page 2