To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Hey!’ someone said from behind her. ‘That’s no way to treat a book.’

  Emma’s blood seemed to freeze in her veins. The new tenant. He must have arrived and it was nowhere near nightfall, although the sun was beginning to slide down the sky now. And it seemed to be getting chillier by the minute.

  She tried to run towards the gate but her legs didn’t seem to want to move. She began to shake. She listened hard for footfalls in case the new tenant was walking towards her, but she couldn’t hear any. Taking a deep breath Emma moved one foot forwards, then the other. But it was as though she was walking in slow motion.

  Slowly she turned her head to see who it was she was trying to run away from – who it was that was going to sleep in a bed that had been her parents’. Who it was who was making her homeless.

  Emma blinked. The new tenant was younger than she’d imagined he would be. But not as young as Seth. He was about thirty at a guess. And he was taller than Seth – who was a good six foot – too. His hair was somewhere between fair and ginger – and long; it reached his shoulders almost. He was standing on the doorstep, his hands in the pockets of a pair of black trousers, looking at her. His blue-and-white striped shirt was only half done up, as though he’d been having a wash and she’d disturbed him when she’d thrown the book at the gate and he’d come hurrying out to see what the noise was.

  ‘It’s my book,’ Emma mumbled under her breath. ‘I can throw it if I want.’

  But he must have heard her.

  Frozen to the spot with fright, Emma could only watch as he walked past her and picked up the book. ‘And you are?’ he said, returning to where Emma stood, shivering now with nerves.

  ‘Emma Le Goff. This used to be my home.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘All is becoming clear. I’m Matthew Caunter. I’d shake your hand but I’m not sure you’d want to shake mine in return. At a guess I’d say you aren’t thrilled not to be living here any more.’

  ‘You guess right,’ Emma said.

  ‘Take it. I’ve no use for books.’

  Matthew Caunter thrust the book at her and Emma snatched it from him, clasped it to her chest. She couldn’t imagine how a life would be that had no space in it for books. She could read in both English and French, thanks to her papa. And she knew a bit of Breton, too, although only to speak it, not to read it or write it.

  But if she kept the book, what would she do with it? She’d have no lamplight to read by in the outhouse, would she? And then she realised she wouldn’t be able to sleep there now because this man knew she was here.

  ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll go now.’

  ‘Your decision, Miss Le Goff. But I was just about to make a pot of tea. You’re welcome to join me. You know the way.’

  Matthew strode towards the back door and despite her misgivings that this could be the worst decision she would ever make, Emma slowly followed. From the open doorway Emma saw him take two cups – neither of which Emma recognised as having been her mama’s – from hooks on the dresser. She licked her lips. Her mouth was as dry as ash from thirst and nerves. Matthew Caunter was seriously tempting her by his action with the cups.

  ‘And I’ve got some scones here I bought from Callard’s Bakery,’ he called out to her. ‘I’m sure I could spare you one.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Emma said. ‘Mrs Drew fed me up handsome.’

  She patted her stomach as though to show this man how full Mrs Drew’s good food had made her.

  ‘Just the tea, then?’ he said. ‘You’re in luck because I drew water from the pump at the end of the lane earlier.’

  Emma licked her lips again. Yes, she could drink a cup of tea. When might she get the next one if she didn’t?

  Chapter Three

  Emma woke with a start. Where was she? Slowly her eyes became used to the darkness. A stub of candle flickered in a holder on the windowsill.

  And she was lying down. On a bed. The bed that had been her mama’s and her papa’s. She turned her head into the pillow, now without a pillowcase on it, and caught the scent of the tobacco her papa had smoked, and she was suddenly suffused with gratitude that Reuben Jago had at least left this, even if he had only left it for the next tenant to have somewhere to lay his head.

  Hardly daring to look in case she saw something – or someone – she didn’t want to see, Emma peered around the room. But the bed was the only thing in it, apart from the candle in its holder. No remembered dresser with her mother’s tortoiseshell brushes on it, or her scent bottles – not that there was ever very much scent in them. And her papa’s trousers weren’t hanging from the handle of the wardrobe, because that wasn’t there, either. Nor the chair in the corner where she’d sat reading to her mama after yet another miscarriage.

  How had she got here? She remembered drinking tea with … with Matthew. Matthew Caunter. Yes, that was what he’d said his name was. But where was he?

  Emma pulled herself to a sitting position, then slid from the bed, the floor cold to her stockinged feet. There was a bowl on the floor and a jug of water – neither had been her mother’s. She carried both towards the candle and could just make out that the water was clean enough. How dirty she felt, how soiled. But she would give herself a lick-and-promise-for-a-better-one-tomorrow wash and then slip from the house.

  She listened out for Matthew Caunter moving about somewhere but couldn’t hear him. She heard the clank of a chain on the harbour wall; a sound she’d heard many times – a sound that told her it might be the fishing boat with her father on board that had just reached harbour. Except it never would be Guillaume Le Goff ever again.

  She tried to judge the time but it was impossible with the candle flickering against a dark sky outside. So she snuffed it; waited for her eyes to become used to a different darkness.

  Almost morning. Emma could see the sky lightening on the horizon now. Slowly, and as noiselessly as she could, Emma padded down the wooden stairs that rose up from the right-hand side of the fireplace. To her horror, Matthew Caunter was asleep in a chair. The fire still glowed red in the grate. Had he been there all night? Had he given up the only bed that had bedding on it for her? Emma was certain now that he had and she knew that manners decreed she should thank him. Whether he heard her or not didn’t matter – she would do what her parents would have expected of her.

  ‘Thank you for looking after me,’ Emma whispered into the silence of the room.

  There – that would do. Emma yawned then, her mouth drier than the ash that had fallen from the fire onto the slabs of the hearth. What would she give for a cup of tea.

  Tea. Yes, she remembered now. Matthew Caunter had made a pot of tea and poured Emma’s into a cup decorated with brightly coloured birds. The tea had been hot and strong, sweetened with a spoonful of honey. She’d felt warm, drowsy almost. She remembered eating a mouthful or two of scone and then placing her arms on the table and leaning onto them. And then nothing. She must have fallen asleep.

  Emma licked her lips at the memory of that tea.

  ‘Ah, you’re up.’

  Emma jumped, startled. Matthew was awake and uncurling his huge form from the chair. He stood up, stretched. He was so tall that as he did so he had to extend his arms out sideways and his head almost reached the ceiling.

  ‘I am,’ Emma said, ‘and I’m going now. Thank you for looking after me.’

  She began to walk towards the door. But Matthew loped after her, grabbed her wrist. ‘Let me go!’

  Matthew loosened his grip but didn’t let go. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. This was your home, you say?’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘I heard a crewman had been lost to the sea. It’s your late father’s old place on the Jago boats that I’m filling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma whispered.

  How odd
the expression ‘your late father’ sounded. As though he’d forgotten the time and was later getting back than expected, but that he’d be home any moment. Which he wouldn’t be ever again.

  ‘It’s a cruel life,’ Matthew said. ‘But that’s how tied cottages work. My guess is you haven’t got a ma?’

  ‘Not any more. Six weeks after I buried my papa, I buried my mama and my brother, Johnnie.’ Emma delivered the information in a voice that she knew sounded dead and flat and without emotion. It was the easiest way. Certainly, she didn’t want this man’s pity.

  ‘I’m sorry. Truly sorry. But what to do with you?’

  ‘You can let go of my wrist for a start. I can’t stay here,’ Emma said. She wriggled her wrist, and Matthew released her, took a step away from her. She was less frightened of Matthew now, but only a little. ‘People will talk.’

  ‘You’ll more than likely find your reputation is already tarnished, I’m afraid.’

  Emma drew her breath in sharply. What might he have done to her up there in the bedroom? She felt the blood drain from her face. Her clothes had all been in place, but …

  ‘I didn’t take advantage of you if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Matthew said.

  Emma pressed her lips together and nodded. She hoped and prayed he was telling the truth about that. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for letting me stop. I’ve been ill. I was lodging with a neighbour – Mrs Phipps – but she didn’t feed me very well and I’ve got thin and weak. As you see.’

  Emma looked down over her now almost non-existent bosoms – bosoms she’d been pleased had been forming so nicely and rounded before she’d been orphaned and become ill – and could see right down to her feet. How scuffed her mama’s Sunday best shoes had become in so short a time.

  ‘You certainly look like you need feeding up. But am I right in saying you’re not lodging with the good Mrs Phipps any more?’

  ‘No. I’d rather die.’

  ‘A very dramatic answer, if I may say so.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Mrs Phipps only pretended to take care of me. She appropriated the food the doctor had sent round for me.’

  ‘So, you haven’t got anywhere to go?’

  ‘No, but I’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘Not before you’ve had a cup of tea and a bite to eat. I’ve got bacon.’

  ‘Bacon?’ Emma said. How long had it been since she’d eaten bacon? On Sundays, if he wasn’t out fishing, her papa had cooked a breakfast of bacon and eggs for the whole family; the one English meal he could see the point of, he’d always said.

  ‘So, you’ll stop?’

  ‘Best not,’ Emma said. ‘The longer I’m here the worse my reputation will get no doubt. All it would take would be for Mrs Phipps to know I’m here and I’ll be being talked about over every table between here and Plymouth and up to Exeter.’

  ‘Oh, I expect I could buy off Mrs Phipps if you just tell me which one she is. There aren’t many women averse to my charms.’

  ‘That would be your opinion,’ Emma said. Honestly, the audacity of the man. Although she had to admit there was something attractive about him.

  ‘But not charming you, eh? Well, you know where the door is. Avoid Mrs Phipps at all costs when you go. And close the door behind you or I’ll have every cat in the neighbourhood in here after my bacon, because I, for one, can’t hold off eating a moment longer. It wasn’t the most comfortable night’s sleep I’ve ever had in that chair.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to sleep in it,’ Emma said.

  ‘And my alternative was?’ Matthew laughed heartily, then walked into the kitchen. To follow or not? She heard Matthew bang a pan down heavily on the range. He began to sing as though he didn’t have a care in the world – which he probably didn’t compared with her.

  Emma crept towards the kitchen. Maybe just a sniff of cooking bacon would be enough – make her feel less hungry?

  But Matthew must have heard her because he turned to Emma and smiled, although he said nothing. He put the bacon on. Took two plates from the rack on the wall that had once housed Emma’s mother’s best Sunday china, but which now held a collection of mismatched plates and bowls. Threw a faggot of wood into the range and raked it to stir the flames, raise the heat. Took two knives and two forks from a wooden box on the draining board. And grinned at Emma. ‘Mr Jago must have assumed I’d have company. There’s two of everything.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t talk about him if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ah, yes. He’s a thorn in the flesh to you, no doubt. I’ll try to keep him out of the conversation from now on.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Emma said, her mouth watering as she watched Matthew turn the bacon, crack four eggs into the pan. Four eggs. Would he eat that many himself if she didn’t stop to share it? ‘You can talk about him as much as you like to anyone else.’

  ‘Fried bread?’ Matthew said, sawing a thick slice from a loaf.

  ‘No, thank you. Just the eggs and bacon will be fine.’

  Gosh, had she really said that?

  Evidently she had because Matthew lifted crispy bacon onto two plates. But just as soon as that bacon and eggs – and maybe a cup of tea – were down her throat she’d be off.

  What would be expected of her now? Some small talk? Around her parents’ table there had always been conversation. Matthew was humming something to himself as he pressed a slice of bread into the bacon fat in the pan.

  ‘Why did you leave Slapton?’ Emma asked.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder,’ Matthew told her, spinning round. And he winked.

  ‘I’d have thought there was plenty of fishing in Slapton,’ Emma said, doing her best to ignore that wink. Her mama had warned her about men with seductive grins and fancy words.

  ‘Then you think right. But it wasn’t the fishing that forced the issue.’

  Matthew wasn’t smiling quite so broadly now.

  ‘A woman then?’ Emma said, then clapped a hand to her mouth. She’d been thinking the words and somehow they’d slipped out over her tongue as easy as honey off a spoon, when she ought to have bitten them back.

  ‘I’ve known lots of women, Emma.’ Matthew added two perfectly fried eggs to Emma’s plate. ‘Now get that down you and then you can go and if you’re as bright as I think you are then you’ll know to keep to yourself what’s just been discussed in this kitchen.’

  ‘Of course,’ Emma said. ‘And I’m sorry for being so outspoken. My papa always said my mouth would hang me.’

  ‘Did he then?’ Matthew said. The kettle came to the boil and he poured water onto the tea leaves, stirred vigorously. ‘And for the record, I don’t think there’s a lot wrong in speaking your mind. I expect there’s lots you would like to say to me considering I’m in the home that was yours.’

  ‘It’s not your fault you are,’ Emma said. She sliced angrily at a rasher of bacon. ‘But Mr Jago shouldn’t have sold my parents’ things without telling me. Or burned what he couldn’t sell.’

  Matthew’s face darkened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He shouldn’t have. But there’s not a lot I can do about that now.’

  ‘All I’ve got left is a book,’ Emma said, willing the tears that puddled her eyes not to fall. ‘And a broken book at that.’

  ‘How old are you, Emma?’

  ‘Fifteen. Sixteen come Michaelmas.’

  ‘Too young to marry at the moment.’

  ‘Marry?’ Emma thought she was going to explode. Did he really think she would have to marry to get out of her predicament?

  ‘It’s a great institution – when it works.’

  ‘It was for my mama and my papa,’ Emma said. ‘I wouldn’t settle for anything less than they had. And I certainly wouldn’t marry for convenience.’

  ‘Shame,’ Matthew said, the grin back on
his face again. ‘I could use a woman around the house. Not that I’m suggesting I marry you. But I do need someone to cook, someone to …’

  ‘I hope you’re teasing me. But if you’re not then I have to tell you I won’t be that someone,’ Emma said. She crammed food – very inelegantly, she knew – into her mouth and chewed and swallowed quickly until it was all gone. ‘But thank you very much for my breakfast and for looking after me last night. I’ll be on my way now.’

  Emma retrieved her shawl from the back of a chair and slung it around her shoulders, knotting it firmly at her waist.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Matthew said. ‘And any time you’re down on your luck, you’ll be welcome to come back. I …’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Emma said. ‘It wouldn’t be right. Last night was an … an …’

  ‘Emergency, Emma. I’m glad I was able to help. But before you go, I’ve got something of yours you might like.’ He strode into the sitting-room and came back with Emma’s book. ‘I’ve mended the spine. The leather’s a different colour, but it’s well stuck down and it will stop the pages from falling out.’

  He held out the book towards Emma and she took it, hugged it to her. Her mama had bought her that book, saving a halfpenny a week until she’d had enough to pay for it in Bastin’s. And Matthew had mended it for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She regretted being so sharp with him now.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Matthew placed a hand under Emma’s elbow and guided her towards the front door. ‘And for what it’s worth, you’ll be a fine young woman once your sharp edges are rounded off.’

  ‘How, how …’ Emma began, all ready to be outraged and sharp with Matthew all over again. Then she laughed. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

  ‘Ah,’ Matthew said, reaching into a box beside the front door, ‘and another thing. You might as well have this. My old landlady must have dropped it in the box as a heavy hint. Fisherman can smell a bit sometimes.’ He laughed and held his nose and Emma couldn’t help but smile.