Music poured milk into five tin lids and distributed them around. He didn’t have a saucer for his own cup because the last had broken at Christmas, but the cup had a handle and only one crack. They drank in silence except for the sounds of splashing from Whitey who was a noisy drinker. Then Music brought the pilchards and put one in each tin dish on top of the droplets of milk, and cut a slice of cold bacon for himself. He crumbled a hunk of bread into smaller pieces, and scattered some of it among the chickens on the floor. There was again a degree of silence.
It was a bare room: one wooden table, three wooden chairs, another table by the wall piled with sacks and smelly fishing tackle and a few tin plates; beside it was the fire, a few sticks just smouldering now from having boiled his kettle; a furze oven seldom used, a bucket half full of stale water; on a shelf above, the remains of a loaf, the piece of bacon, two onions, a cardboard box with potatoes, two more cups and a jug. Then the stairs, leading up to the one room with the three straw mattresses; outside a lean-to shed and a privy; beyond, the rough edges of the moor.
Music never had much conversation for his cats, but they understood each other. Occasionally he would stick out a long finger, usually for Whitey to rub his head against, sometimes to touch one of the others to establish contact. The thin black sleek female killer always growled if she was touched while eating, but Music paid no attention.
Wrapped in a piece of old newspaper was a sizable bunch of asparagus he had got for Dr Enys. Once a week, if he could find something, he took a little present to Dr Enys, left it at the kitchen door for him. It was a way of saying thank you for his unpaid help over these last two years. He had given Music the confidence to try to walk on his heels, and it had been part successful. And he had tried lowering his voice when speaking, lowering it an octave or so. It had worked, but as usual it only provoked laughter from those who heard him. All the same, he was improving.
Dr Enys was none too proper himself, fever or the like had caught him; didn’t do for a doctor to be slight, didn’t do at all. It had crossed Music’s mind more than once to go see Widow Crow, who was sure to be at the Midsummer Fair, and ask her for a potion; but even he could see how hard it might be to persuade Dr Enys to take any draught made up by a rival.
Music had not much idea of time, so his hours off tended to contract or extend according to what he found to fill them; but so long as he was back to lock up the stables before dark each night it was usually all right. Since Mr Pope died Mrs Pope had extended her staff to include four men – two young footmen to wait at table – another boy in the stables, and Saul Grieves to take charge. Grieves had been an ostler at the King’s Head in Redruth and gave himself airs. He did not much like Music and often made jokes at his expense, but he grudgingly acknowledged Music’s gift with horses.
It was a dismal day: skeins of misty rain drifted across the dripping countryside and the clouds were so low it was not possible to know how far the daylight still had to run. It was quite a walk to Killewarren so Music did not linger over his tea. He shooed the cats and the chickens out and shut the half door and slid the bolt. However, as the top half was never shut the cats could easily claw their way over and the chickens could flutter in again if they’d the mind.
Clutching his bundle of asparagus in its dirty newspaper, he went tiptoeing out of the village with his dancing walk, and had gone half a mile before he remembered to lower himself onto his heels. He passed the church and took the short cut over the stile towards Fernmore. As he neared the gates he saw two figures approaching. They had not come out of Fernmore but out of The Bounders’ Arms a few hundred yards further down the lane. A woman was linking a man and supporting him.
It was Emma Hartnell and Ben Carter. Seeing Music, Ben straightened up and rubbed his free hand across his mouth.
‘Av’noon,’ said Music. ‘Av’noon, Ben. Av’noon, Emma. Squibbly ole day, edn ee. Squibbly down, the rain d’come. Goin’ far, are ee?’
‘Not so far nor so fast as I should like!’ said Emma, out of breath. She was wearing her scarlet cloak but was hatless, and the rain made a spider’s dew of her hair.
‘Reckon I can manage from here,’ said Ben gruffly. ‘Do you go back now.’ He unlooped his arm. ‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll thank you to leave me go.’
He took a step or two but his knees were not supporting him and he would have fallen had Emma not caught him again and steadied him.
She laughed but without humour. ‘Reckon Ben edn quite himself just now. Are ee, Ben? Never mind, my ’andsome. I’ll fetch ee ’ome in due course.’
‘Where be gwain?’ Music asked.
‘Never you mind,’ said Ben.
‘I best be gwain too,’ said Music. ‘I be gwain Dr Enys’s, see. Got somethin’ for ’im, see. I best be gwain too.’
He went past and they continued on their way. Music stopped and looked back. Emma was a big girl and Ben not a big man, but his dead weight, which came on her now and then, was near to pulling her over. Music had never seen Ben like this before and wondered if he had had an accident at the mine. He ran back.
‘What’s amiss?’ he said. ‘’Ere, leave me, Emma. I’ll take’n for ee. What’s amiss, Ben? Took a fall, ’ave ee?’
‘He nigh took a fall in my house, Music,’ said Emma. ‘Been here all day, haven’t ee, Ben? It has been a sad and sorry day.’
With one holding each arm they began to walk him towards Sawle.
‘Didn’t know what to do,’ said Emma, eventually. ‘Ben’s been here all day. Should’ve turned him out sooner, I suppose. Didn’t like to, him being in a mood. In a mood, wasn’t you, Ben. Ned’s in to Truro. Ben come at eleven and stayed on. I got him a bite t’eat but he wouldn’t touch’n. Just rum. One after another. Just rum.’
It occurred to Music for the first time what might be amiss with Ben. He started to laugh and then stopped. Ben was an important man. Underground captain of Wheal Leisure mine. And Katie’s brother. It wasn’t like him. Lots of folk got slewed; not Ben.
‘Ned’s in to Truro,’ said Emma. ‘Not be back afore ten. Went in on a wagon. I told him tis cheapness for cheapness sake. He should’ve took the pony.’
Ben said: ‘Leave me bide, do ee. I can walk.’
Emma said to Music: ‘I thought t’aid him just so far as the church, him being a thought unsteady, like; but so soon as we got out in the air his knees give way.’
Ben said: ‘I don’t want no help. You go back to your taproom, Emma.’
‘Tis not my taproom I’m concerned for,’ said Emma, ‘tis Sammie and Beth. Never mind, they’ll fare for theirselves this once. Now we’re making progress.’
At Grambler Ben insisted they should go on the old path behind Grambler Mine, not wanting to be seen by all and sundry in such a state. It was specially humiliating that one of his helpers should be Music, the village buffoon; but at the mine Emma excused herself and accepted Music’s assurance that he could manage. So she went running back towards The Bounders’ Arms.
Ben’s weakness was not quite the normal drunken kind. His head was clearly dazed with drink but every so often a sort of faintness would come over him and he would almost collapse. So every so often he sat on a wall or a hedge to gather his wits and his strength, while Music stood faithfully by.
The day was drawing in. Such sparse trees as there were leaned crookedly to landward, crouching from the expected lash. The stooping clouds moved faster than they seemed to have any reason to. All colour except the greyest of greens had gone from the countryside; it had a look of a leafy December.
There were few about in Sawle to watch the ill-assorted couple hob-nailing down the lane. Only one or two stared and called greetings, and Music answered cheerfully for them both. As they came to the shop Ben stopped and swayed and tried to straighten his kerchief.
He said: ‘Tha’s enough. I’m home now. Off ye go, young Music. An’ thank ee.’
He swayed to the door of the shop and his knees buckled under him.
So Musi
c ended by shoving open the door of the shop, which was temporarily unattended, and then hauling Ben inside and half carrying, half dragging him up the steep dark stairs to his bedroom above.
He had got him as far as the bed but not onto it when there was a rattle of footsteps and Katie appeared.
‘What’s to do? Music, what’re ee doing here? Ben, where you been? Mother’s been in a rare dido. Where d’ye find him, Music?’
So there was talk and explanation while they got Ben to bed. Music was never good at explanations, and the fact that it was Katie who was demanding them tied his tongue worse than usual; but truth wormed its way out. Ben hadn’t eaten for a week, and the last few days had been the worse for drink as well. Jinny Carter was out now, taking advantage of Katie’s visit to leave her care for the shop while she went to see her mother and father over at Mellin, to find out from them whether Ben was up at the mine or eating with them or what.
Ben snarled at his helpers, saying he was old enough to see for himself and if he cared to take a drink twas no one’s business but his own, and to hell with them both.
Katie thumped her way downstairs to make a cup of strong milky tea and to set a pot on the fire to heat up some mutton broth. Music twice cracked his head on the beams before he learned caution, then fell to examining the organ Ben had built into one wall of the rafters. He was fascinated by this and badly wanted to pump it up and set his feet on the pedals; only Ben’s baleful and ungrateful eye prevented him.
Katie came back, and after first snarling that it would make him sick Ben began to sip the tea and to keep it down. It was nearly dark outside.
Katie picked up a paper parcel and unrolled it. ‘Dear life, what’s this?’
‘Tis ’sparragras,’ smiled Music, who had somehow kept a hold of it all the time.
‘Is it yourn?’
‘Ais. Twere meant for Dr Enys, but then I seen Ben.’
‘Where d’ye get it, Music?’
‘Get what?’
‘The ’sparagus.’
‘Dunnaw.’
‘Course you know. You must’ve picked it.’
‘Well . . . out the garden.’
‘What garden?’
‘Garden at Place.’
‘You mean ye took’n? Or did someone give’n to ee?’
‘Dr Enys, he’ve gotten fever. I thought twas nice for he.’
‘Ye mean ye took it? Stole it?’
A look of unease came across Music’s long face. ‘Tis ’ard to find somethin’ to carry for Dr Enys. I thought twas nice for he.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Katie looped back her hair and took the cup from Ben. ‘Feeling better are ee?’
‘If it d’please you to say yes,’ muttered Ben, ‘I’ll say yes.’
‘I’ll go see for that mutton broth,’ she said, and clattered downstairs again.
Music beamed. ‘Reckon the mine be doing proper, eh? Proper job, that, proper job.’
Ben did not answer.
Music said: ‘That’s ’andsome organ, Ben. ’Andsome, ’andsome. How do it work?’
‘Like any other organ,’ said Ben.
‘Ar.’ Music angled his long body every way to suggest he was about to sit down on the playing stool, but he received no encouragement.
‘They d’say every man jack as works at Wheal Leisure ’ll get a bonus come Michaelmas. Wish I could work at Wheal Leisure.’
‘You’re better off where you be,’ said Ben. ‘Horses you know ’bout. Copper and tin you don’t.’
‘Copper and tin, copper and tin,’ said Music, and went on saying it because he liked the sound of it.
Katie reappeared with a steaming bowl. ‘Drink this, Ben. This’ll put a bit o’ coal on the fire.’
‘I think my fire’s best doused and put out,’ said Ben.
‘Don’t you get so sad for yerself! My dear life, a brother of mine talking like that!’
‘Copper and tin,’ chanted Music. ‘Copper and tin.’
‘’Ere, Music,’ said Katie in alarm. ‘Aren’t you promised back at dusk to see to the stables?’
Music peered out of the window. ‘Tis dusk and dark, I see. Wind’s moaning too. Shouldn’t be astonished at more rain.’
‘Aren’t you promised back?’
‘Ais. I didn’t mind to remember.’
‘Then off you go at once! Off quick! Else you’ll be in dire trouble! That Grieves man . . .’
‘Eh, well, maybe I’d best go.’ Music looked around but did not pick up his parcel. ‘I’d best be off, Ben.’
‘Bye,’ said Ben. ‘And I’ve to thank you for yer ’elp.’
‘Aw . . .’ Overcome at being thanked, Music retreated from the room, knocking his head sideways on the door lintel.
Rubbing his head and muttering, he groped his way down to the empty shop, but before he could go out Katie came clattering down after him.
‘Music. I want a word with you.’
‘Ais, Katie?’ He beamed.
‘You stole that ’sparagus!’
‘What?’
‘You ’eard what I said!’
‘Ais . . . Well, twas just standing there.’
‘Standing where?’
‘In the garden, like. Where it always be.’
‘And no one telled you you could pick’n?’
‘No. I just thought . . .’
‘So you stole it!’
‘Twas not seeming like that.’
‘But twas!’
Music continued to rub his head. ‘Last week in me time off I went for the mushrooms. All down they fields where they belong to grow . . .’
‘You wouldn’t find ’em. Tis too early.’
‘I searched and searched. Tis ’igh summer. I thought to find some.’
‘Well you won’t yet. But ye’ll be in real grief if you steal things!’
‘There was more there. More ’sparagus. Don’t b’lieve Mrs be too fond of ’n. Oft times it d’go to seed and no one eaten of ’n.’
‘That don’t matter, Music.’ She took his arm. ‘What d’you think Dr Enys ’d say if he knowed you’d been stealing to give to him?’
Music hung his head.
‘Well?’
‘Don’t know, Katie.’
‘I do. E’d say, what, Music doing that? and ’im going church Sundays reg’lar! Him in choir too!’
Music did not speak. Under his shame was a burning pleasure that she cared enough.
‘So afore you go, I want you promise me ye’ll never steal again.’
‘What?’
Katie repeated her sentence. ‘Because if ye do and someone catches you, ye’ll lose yer job and go jail. Understand?’
‘Ais.’
‘So do you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Faithful? Cross yer ’eart.’
‘I promise,’ Music said again. ‘Cross me ’eart and spit to die.’
‘There now, so be off with ee. And if Grieves be waiting tell ’im what ye’ve been about. ’Elping a man that’s fallen down. Don’t say he were drunk! Say ’e ’d fell down and say who twas. And say e’s my brother, see. The underground cap’n of Wheal Leisure Mine! That’s excuse ’nough, or I’ll know the reason why!’
‘Ais, Katie, I’ll mind to tell ’im. An’ Katie . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘That beer I gave ee to drink that time at Trenwith. Twas not on purpose. Twas not that way ’tall . . .’
‘Aw, forget it, ye great lootal,’ said Katie, and reached up – though she was so tall she hadn’t far to reach – and kissed him. ‘Now be off with ee, do.’
A little later as a waning moon lifted and lightened the clouds, a tall gawky long-necked figure could be seen skipping across the fields towards Trevaunance Cove. Sometimes he ran and sometimes he hopped, always on his toes, Dr Enys’s instructions quite forgotten, and sometimes he gave a little chirrup at the top of his contra tenor voice, and then he would walk a few steps and leap high in the air and then again begin to run.
>
It seemed to Music Thomas just then that a new life had dawned for him. It did not occur to him to wonder why Katie should think she had so much influence with Saul Grieves.
Chapter Nine
I
A letter from Jeremy reporting his safe return, saying there were rumours that the regiment might be moved from Brussels to Antwerp. One from Geoffrey Charles telling of his decision to resign from the army and to join Amadora in Madrid. Whether they would then come home for the baby to be born in Cornwall he was not sure. Amadora, he knew, fancied staying in Madrid until afterwards, and he could well understand this feeling.
A letter from George Canning saying there might be a change in his plans. Lord Liverpool had offered him the Embassy in Portugal.
‘He has promised to do everything in his power to raise the importance of this mission to something much above the ordinary, to make it a worthy task. The Portuguese Regent will shortly be returning from exile, and much tact and goodwill will be needed to ease the strains arising from his return. I confess I am sorely tempted – not for the pomp and circumstance but because my parliamentary career is in ruins, and George badly needs the sun. Even if I refuse this I feel I must take my son abroad somewhere. Compassion, like Charity, begins in one’s own home.
‘If I should agree to go, would you not come with us? I am certain I could persuade Liverpool, through Charles Ellis, to offer you some position which would justify your accompanying me. Perhaps for a six month period. Since you know Prince John, you would undoubtedly be persona grata with him and his family. Why do you not come and help to ease the situation; and bring your wife – whom I have never met but about whose beauty and charm I have heard so much?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ross, when Demelza looked up from the letter inquiringly. ‘I would not go without you and I would not go with you.’
‘But George Canning . . .’
‘Is a dear friend. But I think that, having accompanied the Portuguese Royal Family in that Armada taking them to Rio six odd years ago, I have done my duty in their respect. Prince John has no mind of his own – or changes it as often as the wind. And when his mother was taken aboard ship to go to Brazil they had to fight with her.’
The Loving Cup Page 33