To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘What are you doing, Seth?’ Emma asked.

  At her words, Seth turned on the narrow rung of the ladder and almost fell off. Thick, brown paint slid from his brush onto the window. He grabbed for a rung up above his head to steady himself, then jumped to the ground. He walked towards Emma, a shy smile on his face, but a smile that reached his conker-brown eyes all the same. He looked, Emma thought, as thrilled to see her as she was to see him.

  ‘As you see, Emma. Painting window frames. But I’ve been interrupted now and glad to be. My, but it’s good to see you.’

  Emma felt a blush coming. Not just at Seth’s obvious pleasure in seeing her but because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Emma could understand him wanting to be cooler because it was an unseasonably warm day for April. Hot even. But how broad Seth’s chest was. How dark the hairs that ran from his chest down over his stomach until they disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.

  ‘And me, you,’ Emma said as the flush spread up the sides of her neck, pinked her cheeks. ‘Thank you for the flowers.’

  Mrs Phipps had put the stocks Seth had brought round in an old – and not very well washed-out – jam jar. But their ugly container had done nothing to take away the gloriously heady scent of the flowers.

  ‘It was the least I could do. Mrs Phipps wouldn’t let me in over the doorstep to see you, though.’

  ‘And just as well,’ Emma said. ‘I wasn’t a pretty sight.’

  She stared down at her shoes – she wasn’t a pretty sight now, either.

  ‘Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,’ Seth said, and Emma looked up at his words. He was still smiling at her – with his eyes, not just his lips. ‘You’re bound to have been affected by the loss of your ma and Johnnie.’

  ‘Not forgetting my papa,’ Emma said, her words coming out sharper than she’d intended them too.

  But Seth hadn’t lost his father to the sea, had he? Even though their fathers had been on the same boat – The Gleaner – that fateful day. And his father hadn’t lost The Gleaner either because by some miracle it hadn’t sunk, even though some of his crew had been tossed into the sea. The boat had been overloaded with fish, so rumour had it, but nothing had been proved. No, it was only Emma’s father, Guillaume, who had drowned.

  Emma couldn’t bear to look towards the harbour because she knew The Gleaner was likely to be there and her father was never going to jump from it, with a basket of fish for their own supper, ever again.

  ‘Not forgetting your pa. Never. But you’re a sight for sore eyes, Emma Le Goff, that’s for sure,’ Seth said, his smile widening now. ‘I’m pleased to see you better. You’re a lot thinner, but …’

  ‘I’m pleased to see the cottage is being smartened up a bit,’ Emma interrupted him. She didn’t need reminding how thin she was – lying in bed at Mrs Phipps’ her pelvis had held the sheet off her body it stuck out so much. ‘You’re making a lovely job of my windows.’

  Seth looked away from her then. He stared into the distance, unable to meet her eye. ‘They’re not your windows, Emma. They’re my pa’s,’ he said. ‘You know Shingle Cottage is his …’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Seth Jago. Of course I know that.’

  ‘Then you’ll know it has to go to one of Pa’s crew. Someone’s already been taken on. My pa owns most of the cottages in this row,’ Seth made a broad arc with his left arm, then with his right, to show Emma just how much of Cove Road his father owned, ‘all lived in by his crew.’ He was speaking slowly, his voice gentle, and smiling at her again now.

  He ran a hand through his hair and Emma wished he wouldn’t because the sight of him doing it and smiling at her so kindly was doing funny things to her insides.

  ‘But I live here. It’s the only home I’ve ever known,’ Emma said, swallowing back the beginnings of a sob. ‘My pa always kept it so tidy. He would have painted the window frames if he hadn’t drowned.’

  And hadn’t he always been so proud of the vegetables he grew in the little back garden? Every inch of ground filled with flatpole cabbages, potatoes, onions, leeks, radishes. Herbs, too – parsley, and thyme, and sage. And hadn’t her mother always been so happy turning the insides upside down for the spring cleaning, singing as she washed walls and beat rugs and rinsed curtains in the tub? Making a home for them all. The only time she’d ever seen her mama sad was when she’d lost the babies she was carrying. Time after time she’d lost babies. Until Johnnie. He’d been the apple of her eye. Not her favourite, but special because she’d waited so long to have him – nine years after she’d had Emma.

  But now they were all gone.

  Tears burned the back of Emma’s throat and she gulped to swallow them. Fear replaced them. What was she going to do? She had no home …

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma,’ Seth said. ‘About your pa. He …’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got to say that,’ Emma said.

  ‘Stop putting words in my mouth, Emma. It wasn’t like that. The boat had been out three days and the catch had been good. But that made the going slow, especially when the wind dropped. So they had a drink or two to pass the time. Then, when …’

  ‘Not my papa!’ Emma stopped him. Her papa had never gone down the alehouses with the rest of the crew. He always came straight home to his family. And if he drank at all it would only be a glass of cider of a summer evening while he tended his vegetables.

  Emma dropped her carpet bag on the path and folded her arms across her waist in an attempt to hold herself up, stop herself from collapsing with weakness and hunger.

  ‘Emma,’ Seth said, ‘I can understand your anger. But if you’ll just listen for a moment …’

  ‘I don’t think I want to hear it.’

  ‘No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Your pa died a hero. He jumped in to try and save Herbie Adams who couldn’t swim. My pa threw a line and your pa grabbed it and tied it to Herbie Adams. Pa soon got Herbie on deck but when he went to throw the line again he couldn’t see your pa anywhere – he’d gone under. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘Is it?’ Emma said. There was something about Seth and the way he was standing so tall, so dignified despite being splattered with paint, his gaze holding hers, that made her want to believe him. But could she?

  She remembered asking her mama more than a few times what had happened, exactly, that day her papa had drowned, and always her mama had said, it didn’t matter, he was dead and he wasn’t coming back, and she was to stop asking questions.

  ‘That’s the truth, Emma.’

  ‘I wish I’d known when Mama was alive,’ Emma said. ‘I could have comforted her, perhaps. But someone could have told me.’

  ‘They could. And for my part I think they ought to have done. But straight after – what with your ma taking it so badly – my pa didn’t want to intrude on her grief. It’s why he let you all stay on in the cottage instead of evicting you …’

  ‘Evict us? That would have been a cruel thing to do. He …’

  ‘Life often is cruel, Emma,’ Seth said.

  ‘So I’m finding out all by myself,’ Emma said as the reality of her situation came crashing down on her head, along with the fear. ‘I don’t know that I need you to tell me.’

  ‘Don’t fight me, Emma, please. I feel bad enough about this as it is. I know all this is a shock.’ Seth waved an arm towards the windows he’d been painting. ‘But my pa’s not all bad. He sent Dr Shaw around to your ma – paying the bill and that.’ Seth halted, as though waiting for Emma to take in the information.

  Yes, she remembered Dr Shaw sitting in the kitchen while her mother cried, telling her it was all raw for the moment but she had the children to think of now. She had to be strong.

  Emma nodded.

  ‘I remember the doctor calling a few times, but I’m sure my mama would have had money to pay him.’

 
‘Maybe she did, Emma,’ Seth said. ‘I’m only repeating what my pa told me. Anyway, all the potions Dr Shaw could give your ma were no good because she jumped …’

  ‘She didn’t jump. My mama would never have jumped. She must have slipped. The Coroner said so, too. Accidental death, he said. Ma and Johnnie wouldn’t have been buried in the churchyard if she’d been a suicide, and you know it as well as anyone.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  Emma put her face in her hands. She wouldn’t allow her emotions to show – and especially not to Seth Jago if she could help it. And she didn’t want to permit herself to think what was forcing itself into her mind unbidden – the way filthy flood water creeps under doors and through windows – that her mother had been pushed. Although who would have done such a thing? Emma couldn’t imagine.

  She looked up, held Seth’s gaze for a moment. He mouthed the word ‘sorry’ at her.

  ‘Accepted,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t put your shirt on soon, Seth Jago, you might burn, even though you look tanned already.’

  ‘Do I now?’ Seth said. He sounded pleased that Emma had noticed.

  ‘I don’t lie,’ Emma said. She tried to walk past Seth but he dodged in front of her, blocking her way, his bare chest at eye level. Emma forced herself not to gaze at it.

  ‘Let me pass. There’s things inside I need.’

  Once she’d got inside and made herself a cup of tea – although she’d have to drink it without milk because the milk in the larder would surely have curdled after all this time – she’d feel better.

  ‘Emma, you can’t,’ Seth said. He grabbed Emma’s arm.

  ‘Let me go! Why can’t I go in? Let me by, Seth. There are things of mine in there.’

  ‘Not any more, there aren’t. Pa has had all your stuff cleared out. He sold most of it to cover the weeks when he was getting no rent from the place. There’s only the beds and a table and chairs left. A rug or two and some plates and cutlery.’

  ‘Did you help him clear it out?’

  Seth hung his head.

  ‘How could you?’ Emma shouted, making herself sound much stronger and in control of the situation than she felt. Not caring who heard her. But her heart was hammering in her chest – it made her feel faint and she had to take deep breaths to steady herself. ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘My brothers did most of it. But I won’t lie to you. I did do one cart load, Emma, that’s all. I had no choice. He’s my pa. I had to do what I was told.’

  ‘Even though you knew it was … was immoral.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘I accepted your apology just now, but I won’t accept this one. I don’t think you know the meaning of the word sorry, Seth Jago,’ Emma said. ‘Now let me go.’

  Seth loosened his grip, took his hand away. He reached for his shirt where it was draped over a lavender bush and pulled it on over his head.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ he said. He walked down the path, took a key from his pocket and opened the front door wide.

  Emma sucked in her breath and was afraid she’d never be able to let it out again. Seth was right – there was nothing in the sitting-room but the table and two chairs, which had always been in the kitchen when Emma had lived there with the family. And there had been four chairs then, not just two. A few plates were piled in the middle and some knives and forks strewn across the table. Not even a tablecloth. Her mother would have been mortified to see her table without a freshly laundered cloth.

  Emma raced through the room to the kitchen. There was a kettle on the range but nothing else. Not even a saucepan – and her mama had kept her copper pans so shiny and bright.

  ‘I suppose your pa’s dug up all the vegetables as well,’ she said, yanking on the back door handle. It was unlocked and the force of her action made it bang noisily against the kitchen wall.

  And then she saw it. The remains of a bonfire. There were a few remnants of cloth left unburned. And a book with its spine ripped off had escaped the blaze.

  Emma began to cry then. It was like losing her parents and Johnnie all over again.

  ‘So, you see, Emma,’ Seth said, coming to stand beside her, ‘why you can’t stop here. This is no longer your home.’

  He put an arm around Emma’s shoulders and she wanted more than anything to shrug it off. But she couldn’t. She needed the support. She leaned into Seth, felt the warmth of him. How she’d often dreamed of such a moment – but not in these circumstances.

  And then she remembered that Seth was a Jago and always would be. She ducked out from under his arm.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Emma. I like you. You must know that. I thought you liked me.’

  ‘I do. It’s your pa I’m not keen on.’

  ‘I’m not my pa.’

  ‘But you’ve done his bidding?’

  They stood looking at one another for a long moment. Then Seth put a hand either side of Emma’s head, pulled her towards him and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, Emma, truly sorry. Sorrier than you’ll ever know I’ve had a part – albeit a small one – in all this. But Pa needs this place for the new crewman. He’s on his way from Slapton. He’ll be here by nightfall. Come on. Let’s fetch your bag. I’ll carry it for you to wherever it is you want to go.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I … I wouldn’t want you to carry my bag if you were the last person on earth, Seth Jago. But there’s no need for you or anybody to be carrying it for me because I’m not going anywhere! I’ll be back for my bag – just watch me.’

  Seth put a hand over his mouth to stop himself calling after Emma. He knew it would be useless anyway. Even if she did hear him, she’d probably ignore him. He’d never seen such fire in a person’s eyes before.

  And what beautiful eyes they were too – the colour of burnt barley-sugar but with greenish flecks in them. Eyes that looked huge in her gaunt face. She looked older – more womanly, more adult, more knowing – since the last time he’d seen her walking behind her mother’s and her young brother’s coffins as the cortège came slowly up the steep path from the lane to the church.

  His pa had forbidden him and his brothers, Carter and Miles, to attend the funeral. When Seth had asked why, he’d received a hard clout across his face and been told not to question his father’s orders. Ever.

  But his father hadn’t said that Seth couldn’t stand between the graves, head bowed. So he had. And his heart had almost broken for Emma.

  He’d made to follow the last mourner in, but had then turned and walked back home, ashamed of himself.

  More shame seemed to pile on his shoulders, seep into his soul, now. He was doing his father’s bidding again, wasn’t he? Aiding his parent to throw the orphaned Emma out of the only home she’d ever known by painting it up for the next tenant.

  Seth couldn’t think how he could ever look Emma in the face again. And he wanted to. She had always had the ability to make him laugh, even when events at home made him feel as unlike laughing as it was possible to get. Just glimpsing her in the distance had made him smile When he’d turned on the ladder and seen her there he’d had to wrestle with his instincts not to rush to her, fold her in his arms, even though he’d never so much as touched her hand before. She was so beautiful, even given what she’d been through – perhaps more so now that a loss of weight through illness had heightened the shape of her high cheekbones. And she was so young. Who did she have to look out for her now? Him? But would Emma ever want anything to do with him, a Jago?

  He watched her go until his eyes misted over trying to focus on her retreating figure. Her illness and her grief had weakened her. Her steps were short and slow – no longer striding and quick like the Emma he’d had to run to catch up with when he saw her scuttling along the pavement on her way to
May’s, or the bank, or the haberdashery. Now she had to grab hold of garden fences to keep herself upright as she went, head held high and with the sun highlighting the copper tints in her dark hair – hair the colour of polished mahogany.

  Seth picked up Emma’s carpet bag from the path and followed her.

  Chapter Two

  Gasping for breath now, Emma hauled herself up the flight of steps, flanked on one side by cottages and on the other by a high stone wall, that were a short cut to Boundary Road, where the Jagos lived. Although the steps were steep it was a quicker route than walking half way into the town and then back again. And time was of the essence for Emma. She bent her head, watching carefully where she put her feet on the slippery, moss-covered steps, and trudged on.

  Everyone knew Reuben Jago’s home – Hilltop House, the Victorian villa, large and imposing at the top of the hill. It would have – Emma was sure – a view that would take in the entire bay, if only she could get that far without collapsing with weakness to see it.

  How dare Seth’s father throw her out of the cottage. And why had he sold all her family’s things? The photograph the journeyman had taken of them all standing by the front door, smiling and holding the pose for so long they’d all laughed afterwards saying they’d thought they were going to be stuck that way forever. Her mama had saved up and bought a silver-plated frame for it from Austin’s. And the china jugs with primroses painted on them that her mother had loved so – where were they?

  He wouldn’t have sold them to cover the funeral costs, Emma knew, because her mama had always paid into a special insurance to cover the cost of family funerals. Emma had given the undertaker from Langdon’s the book when he’d called to arrange the funeral. Emma had always thought the idea of saving for one’s own funeral macabre every time the insurance man called on Fridays for the money.

  And Emma’s own clothes? Had Reuben Jago ordered her clothes to be burned, too? She wasn’t dead, even though it might have been best if she was. Back in Mrs Phipps’, for the first few days, she’d refused to eat, hoping her refusal would hasten her own end. But then Dr Shaw’s wife had crept into the bedroom and hand-fed her a sliver of Victoria sponge. Oh, how wonderful it had tasted, slicked with a smear of clotted cream and strawberry jam that oozed down her chin. She’d kept one, tiny, whole strawberry behind her teeth for ages, not wanting to swallow it, not wanting to let the taste of it, or the kindness of the doctor’s wife in bringing it, go. She wished now she’d thought to ask Mrs Shaw to go back to Shingle Cottage and look out a change of clothes at least.