by Graeme Lay
‘Six and a half thousand pounds.’
He drew breath, sharply. ‘Six and a half thousand?’ Then his voice failed him completely.
‘Yes. On Sir Stephen’s advice, I must sell Moorland Close. And you cannot go up to Cambridge. The fees—’
He found his voice. ‘Sell this house?’ He looked around helplessly. ‘But our family has lived here for—’
She cut him off sharply. ‘Do not tell me what I am already well aware of, Fletcher.’ She fixed him with her beady eyes. ‘It was me who brought this house to my marriage to your father. It has been in the Dixon family for generations.’ She gave a dry little laugh. ‘People in the town describe it as “half castle, half homestead”. I’m aware of that insult.’ She looked down again. ‘But now I have no alternative but to sell the property to pay at least some of my creditors.’
Fletcher swallowed hard. ‘Have you let my brothers know about this matter?’
She gave a wave of her left hand. It was encrusted with rings, leading Fletcher to wonder whether she had considered putting some of them on the market. ‘I have written to Edward and Charles, informing them of my distressing circumstances, and the reasons. Edward agrees that this house must be sold.’
‘And Charles?’
‘He has not yet replied.’
For some time both she and Fletcher said nothing. He felt crushed. Realising how shocked her son now was, his mother lifted her chin in a small gesture of defiance. Pursing her lips, she said, ‘I did what I thought was right. The debts were incurred to guarantee my sons received the best possible education.’
Fletcher said dully, ‘But it was not right, Mother. And now, unlike my brothers, I cannot go up to the university I have dreamed of attending for years.’
Closing her eyes, she began to cry. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her face. Shoulders convulsing, she said, ‘Fletcher, I am so sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to Cambridge.’
He went over to her, sat down and put his arm around her shoulders. He felt as if he had been struck about the head with a plank. His future, his family’s future, dissolving. How could she have done this? His mind seething, he asked, ‘Is there no way that we can keep this house?’
Eyes still shut, she shook her head. ‘The debts are too great.’ Head bowed, she said in a whisper, ‘I am destitute. Moorland Close must be sold. For me it is either that, or the debtors’ prison.’
Fletcher allowed a silence before asking, ‘And after it has been sold? What will you do? What will I do?’
Lifting her head, she said in a much firmer tone, ‘We will move to the Isle of Man. Edward advised me in his last letter that my English creditors have no authority there. The island has a separate jurisdiction.’
‘But where will we live there? How will we live?’
Squeezing the handkerchief in her hand, she said defiantly, ‘We will live at Milntown. On the estate of your father’s family. They are wealthy and influential.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I brought Moorland Close to your father, so the least his family can do is return my family’s bounteousness.’
She makes it sound like a threat, Fletcher thought. Which perhaps it was.
30 SEPTEMBER 1779
Before this he had travelled no further than Cumbria, and within that region only to Carlisle and Barrow-in-Furness. During past summers they had holidayed in the two towns, alternately each year, he and his mother and his brothers, staying in terraced guest houses on the waterfront. He enjoyed those holidays, being so close to the sea, unlike Cockermouth, which was really just a river town.
During the holidays he had spent most of his days on the waterfront, staring out at the Irish Sea, watching the fishing boats returning with their catch and the merchant vessels discharging their barrels and loading timber and sacks of grain. Watching the seamen and the stevedores, Fletcher often wondered, what sort of a life was that? Living on the sea, battling the elements, visiting new ports, getting to know England’s bustling coastline.
But that life was not for him. His future lay in the cloisters and quadrangles of St John’s, reading history and philosophy, listening to choristers, punting on the Cam. Edward had told him so much about the place. ‘It’s a world in itself, Fletcher,’ he had said. ‘A place of unbelievable beauty, of hallowed halls, distinguished teachers and a love of learning. You will love it, brother.’
Now he and his mother were travelling by coach-and-four to Whitehaven, another busy port town on the north-west coast of England, a place of arrival and departure for the ships of Nicholson’s Packet Service between the Cumbria coast and the Isle of Man, thirty-five miles away.
Fletcher and his mother had been joined in the coach by a middle-aged couple, also from Cockermouth. The woman was overweight and fussy, constantly rearranging her gown and shawl, while her husband, a small man with a face like a dried apricot, kept peering through the coach window, as if expecting a highwayman to strike.
The coach jostled along the road, shaking over the ruts and bumps. Inside, the air was stale and smelt of horse farts. Soon after they left the coaching station in Cockermouth the woman had leaned forward and said to his mother, ‘I believe that Moorland Close is to be sold, madam.’
Ann Christian eyed her coldly. ‘It is.’
‘And you and the lad here are leaving Cockermouth.’
‘We are. As must be perfectly obvious.’
Not taking the hint, the woman continued, ‘I heard you’ll be moving to Douglas. On the Isle of Man.’
‘You heard incorrectly. My son and I will be living near Ramsey.’
‘Ramsey? Never heard of it.’
‘You have now.’
His mother turned away, staring out the coach’s other window. With an offended expression, the woman fell back in her seat and said no more. Fletcher patted his mother’s hand reassuringly. His admiration for her had grown over these past months since the news of the bankruptcy had broken. She had gone about organising her affairs crisply and without sentiment, spending most mornings seated at the table in the drawing room, quill in hand, writing letters to friends and family, and the afternoons supervising the packing up of the household belongings.
On most occasions she remained composed. But two days ago Fletcher had come across her in the drawing room, sitting in the chair by the fireplace, crying. Her hair was loose and bedraggled, which it never was, and her eyelids were puffy.
The portrait of Charles Christian had been removed earlier that day by the carriers, and taken away for storage. In the space where the painting had been hanging, a rich yellow rectangle of wallpaper stood out, contrasting with the faded lemony shade surrounding it. The yellow space was like a symbol of reproach, a metaphor for their impending loss. Upset at his mother’s distress, Fletcher had done his best to comfort her, while still resentful that her reckless investments had ruined the academic future he had so long dreamed of.
Moorland Close had not yet gained a buyer, but the property was on the market, and Sir Stephen Galbraith had been instructed by Ann Christian, ‘You are not to accept any offer necessarily. Instead you must insist on the best possible price you can obtain. As you well know, I need every penny I can get.’
The household furniture, carpets and paintings had been packed and placed in a warehouse in Cockermouth. The contents of the trunks strapped to the coach’s roof were mainly clothes, footwear and books. The rest of the belongings would be forwarded to the Isle, once suitable accommodation had been confirmed.
The coach jolted on. Leaning back in his corner, Fletcher’s mind seethed with recent memories. Farewells, so many farewells.
Mr Rawlings, the schoolmaster, shaking his hand. ‘You’ve been a fine student, Christian. Disappointing about Cambridge, but I’m sure you’ll do well, whatever vocation you eventually choose.’ And he had presented Fletcher with a copy of A Voyage towards the South Pole, and round the world. Performed in His Majesty’s ships the Resolution and Adventure, in the years 1772, 1773, 17
74, and 1775. This was the account of the voyager Captain James Cook’s second global circumnavigation, written by the great navigator himself. The book had been published just two years earlier. Fletcher accepted the gift gratefully, touched by the schoolmaster’s consideration.
There were other farewells. The small boy whose aid he had come to a few weeks ago, Wordsworth, had approached him in the schoolyard on his last day there, and shyly presented him with a card. ‘When I heard you were leaving, I wrote something for you.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Opening the card Fletcher asked, ‘Has Chudleigh bothered you again?’
‘No, not at all. He sneers at me, but keeps away.’
‘Hah! Good!’
The message read, in a small, well-formed hand:
For my friend Fletcher
Your strength and kindness go together
Close as clouds and sky, as ’twined as the weather
Wherever you go, may you stay out of danger
From peril on land or sea, or from a total stranger
Go forth, loyal friend, I will not forget you!
William
Fletcher nodded. ‘It’s a fine poem, Wordsworth. Thank you.’ He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘May there be many more.’
His brother Edward came from Cambridge to farewell them. The day after he arrived, he and Fletcher walked across the property to the hill above Moorland Close. Two years older than Fletcher but a little shorter, Edward had deep-set brown eyes, a square jaw and a receding hairline.
The pair of them sat atop the hill. Tugging at a clump of grass, Edward stared into the distance, in the direction of the sea. ‘I cannot begin to say how much I regret what has happened, Fletcher.’
‘Your regret cannot be worse than mine.’
‘All I can say is that I know you will do well, in spite of losing Cambridge.’
‘How can you be sure? My prospects are so much reduced.’
‘Because you’re well liked and diligent. Our father’s family will offer you prospects, I’m certain of it. We have uncles and cousins over on the island, and all are well connected, I believe. And their investments are considerable.’
Fletcher made no reply for some time. Then he stretched out his legs and said, ‘I find it hard to forgive Mother for what has happened. It was so irresponsible.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘But she’s vulnerable now, so you must do what you can to support her until Charles and I complete our studies. When I’m qualified in the law and Charles is a practising physician, we can both help her.’
Fletcher grunted. ‘But how can I help her? Now that I have been denied the chance of a higher education?’ He heeled a thistle viciously. ‘She has destroyed my future.’
Edward glared at him. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. Mother has not destroyed your future. She has merely altered it. And you never know, that alteration may be for the good. When one door shuts, another may open.’
‘At the moment, all doors seem closed to me.’
‘That may seem so, but something good will come your way, I’m sure of it.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, we must get back to the house. Mother will be expecting us.’
Fletcher met his school chums Isaac Wilkinson, Toby Hayes and Thomas Newbourn for a farewell pint at the Duck and Gun, in Cockermouth’s High Street. Isaac wrote poetry; Toby and Thomas were scholars and athletes, like Fletcher. And all four young men were virgins.
The trio drank and slapped his back and toasted him good fortune. Toby said, ‘I hear tell, Fletcher, that the girls on the Isle of Man are not only beautiful, they are wanton.’
Thomas grinned. ‘Yes. They say the place should more properly be called the Isle of Women.’
Fletcher laughed. ‘The girls there are more wanton than those in Cockermouth?’
‘That’s what’s said,’ Isaac added knowingly.
‘I’ve heard that too,’ added Toby. ‘Moreover, the Isle of Man’s flag, the one with three legs on it, joined at a thigh, shows three girls’ legs. And the thigh is theirs.’
Warming to this topic, Isaac said, ‘And it’s said that the Manx girls’ thighs are freely available to any good-looking young Englishman, such as yourself.’
Smiling, Fletcher said, ‘Well, I shall do my best to make a scientific comparison. I shall research the subject thoroughly.’
Although the others laughed, Fletcher became pensive. His mind flashed back to another, even more poignant farewell, one which he had made last Wednesday.
‘You will come back, won’t you, Fletcher? Come back to me, I mean.’
‘I will.’
Clarinda lay back in the grass, staring up at him. Her lightly freckled cheeks were flushed, her grey eyes wide and fixed on his. Her brown hair had been tied up in a bun on top of her head, but the comb had come loose so that her hair had fallen around her face. He found the dishevelled look irresistible.
They were lying together in the long grass, in a place well off the walking path that followed the river. She was thirteen, two years younger than him, but seemed much older. She was from a farm outside the town, and came to Cockermouth every market day to sell the eggs produced from her family’s property. Since one of Fletcher’s tasks was to buy the eggs for Moorland Close, he had got to know her. They had walked together regularly along the river path in the afternoons, after the market had closed. He had kissed her, often, but done nothing more. He was uncertain how to proceed after that.
He put his face close to hers, brushed her cheeks with his lips. She nibbled at his mouth. He could see, could feel, her chest rising and falling, rising and falling, and her breathing was quick, almost gasping. Coming from her was a marvellous fragrance, like nothing he had ever smelt before. Putting his face very close to hers, he drew a deep breath, absorbing her wonderful scent.
Suddenly she brought her hands up to her blouse and in one deft movement drew the blouse and the vest beneath it wide open.
Her breasts were very white, the nipples large and pink. Thinking them the most beautiful objects he had ever set his eyes upon, in an instant he was upon them, putting his lips around each in turn, feeling them swell and stiffen under his kisses. The rigidity inside his breeches tightened until it became almost painful, and he tried to adjust himself.
Clarinda giggled. ‘Kiss them again,’ she said, pushing her breasts up into his face.
He was only too willing to obey. At the same time he slid his right hand under her gown and between her legs.
She stiffened. ‘No, Fletcher, no. Not that. Not now.’
‘When, then?’
‘When you come back to me. From the island. Then you can have it. Have it all.’
Inside the coach, dwelling on the memory of those wonderful breasts and the confection of her nipples, his cock hardened again. Abashed, he tried to adjust it inside his breeches with his left hand, surreptitiously, hoping his mother and the ugly old couple wouldn’t notice. Managing to make himself a little more comfortable, he sank back into the corner of the coach and closed his eyes. Clarinda, Clarinda, will I ever see you again? Will that promise of your body ever be redeemed?
He managed at last to put these questions aside. But they were replaced by other, more immediate ones. What, and who, now lay ahead?
The island came into clearer focus. From the larboard mid-deck of Nicholson’s two-masted packet boat Lioness, Fletcher could see through the mist the island’s long, undulating shape. A valley was discernible, separating hills to the north-west and south-east of a small town. Visible too was a beach of pale sand and beyond it a row of dockside buildings.
The voyage across the Irish Sea from Whitehaven had taken only half a day, aided by a north-easterly wind which chopped the sea but kept the vessel moving steadily. The captain was anxious to have them inside the harbour before nightfall, the helmsman told Fletcher when he enquired about their progress.
Although the wind was dropping, at this rate they would be, Fletcher thought. He had spent most of the voyage on deck, watchin
g the sailors going aloft and adjusting the sail-setting under the direction of the schooner’s burly master, bellowing his instructions from the deck. Fletcher had watched and listened, intrigued by the business.
After they came closer to the island he went below again. His mother was accommodated in a small cabin abaft on the larboard side. Weary after yesterday’s coach journey, she had taken to this berth shortly after Lioness cleared Whitehaven’s harbour and been ill for virtually the whole crossing. Several times he had come down to check, concerned at her pallor and listlessness.
On the table beside the berth, held in place by a bracket, was the jug of water he had brought her. He poured her another tumbler full. ‘More water, Mother?’
After she groaned and waved him away, he closed the cabin door and went back up on deck.
During the crossing he had felt not the slightest bit ill. Instead he found the chill of the wind and the sea’s salty scent invigorating. And now there was a growing sense of anticipation. Other passengers had come up from the saloon and were standing along the starboard rail, staring at the island.
The sky was darkening now and the air had become chillier. Although the coast was in shadow, Fletcher could see that the waterfront buildings were substantial, and that ahead and a little to starboard a pair of mandible-like breakwaters enclosed the harbour entrance. Within the harbour the masts of several bare-poled ships stood up like leafless trees. Above the harbour and town was a range of forested hills.
In spite of himself, he felt a tug of emotion. This was the island where his paternal forebears had lived for many generations, where his father had grown up. Some of that land, some of those ships, may be owned by his relatives, he thought.
The master was shouting, ‘Stand by to take in the flying jib! Stand by to take in the main sail!’
Men scampered up the shrouds to obey his commands. The ship’s sails were reduced, she slowed and the helmsman adjusted the wheel, preparing to aim for the harbour entrance. Staring up into the yards, sails and sheets, watching the men clinging there or inching along the yardarm, working as a team, Fletcher felt a stirring of interest in their work. I could do that, he thought. It could be no harder than climbing the top boughs of the elms at Moorland Close, which he had done for years.