Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  “What! In the water?”

  “Not in the water then. That came after. At first when they built the Abbey they were all very good men, very religious; they spent their time praying and doing good works. It was when St Augustine brought Christianity to Britain.”

  “Oh yes,” I urged, fearing it was going to stray into a history lesson.

  “People came from far and wide to visit the Abbey and they brought gifts with them. Gold and silver, wines and rich foods, so that instead of being poor the monks all became rich. And then they took to evil practices.”

  “What were those?”

  “They loved their food. They drank too much; they had wild parties; they danced and did all sorts of things which they had never done before. Then one day a stranger came to the Abbey. He brought them no rich gifts. He just went into their church and preached to them; he told them that God was displeased. They had turned their beautiful Abbey, built to serve Him, into a den of iniquity, and they must repent. But the monks by this time were too much in love with their way of life to give it up, and they hated the stranger for warning them. They told him to leave without delay and if he did not go they would drive him away. He would not go and they brought out whips and sticks which in the past they had used to chastise themselves which was supposed to make them holier—though I could never see why. They turned on him and beat him, but the blows just glanced off his body and did not harm him at all. Then suddenly a great light surrounded him. He lifted his hands and cursed St Branok’s. He said: ‘Once this place was considered holy, but now it is accursed. Soon it shall be as though it never existed. Floods shall carry it away from human sight. Your bells will be silenced … save when they shall proclaim some mighty disaster.’ And with that he disappeared.”

  “Did he go to Heaven?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I bet it was St Paul. It was just the sort of thing he would do.”

  “Well, whoever it was, according to the legend, he spoke truth. When they tried to ring the bells no sound came. Then the monks began to be afraid. They started to pray but it was no good. The bells were silent. Then one night it started to rain … and it rained and rained for forty days and forty nights and the rivers were overflowing and the water rose and rose until it covered the Abbey and in place of it was St Branok’s Pool.”

  “How far down is the Abbey?”

  She looked at me and smiled. “It’s just a story that has been made up. When there was a disaster at one of the mines people said they heard the bells. But to my mind, when something dreadful happens, people fancy that they heard them, because you never hear about the bells until after the event. It is just one of the old Cornish legends.”

  “But the pool is there.”

  “It’s just an inland lake, that’s all.”

  “And is it bottomless?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Has anyone ever tried to find out?”

  “Why should they?”

  “To see if the Abbey is down there.”

  “It’s just one of those old Cornish superstitions. No one investigates them. No one examined the water in Nun’s Well at Altarnun to see what it contains to prevent insanity, or St Unys Well at Redruth to see if it could prevent those who drink it from being hanged. There are just people who like to believe these things … and the rest are skeptical. It is the same with Branok.”

  “I should like to hear the bells.”

  “They don’t exist. I doubt there was ever an abbey there. You know how these legends grow up. People fancy they see or hear something which they can’t explain. Then the legends start to grow. Don’t go too near the place though. It’s unhealthy. Stagnant water always is … and as I say the ground is marshy.”

  I must say I did not think very much about the pool then. There were all sorts of stories about weird happenings such as certain people ill-wishing others and how some had the power to do harm by making waxen images of them and sticking pins in vital parts. There was a man who died suddenly and whose mother accused his wife of killing him by sprinkling salt round his chair—a method which would not be considered evidence of murder in a court of law. There was Maddy Craig who was a Pellar which meant that an ancestor of hers had helped a mermaid, who had been stranded on the shore, to get back to the sea. Pellar families were those which had been endowed with special powers because they had assisted mermaids. So I did not attach much significance to the bells of St Branok.

  My mother was very interested in our family and knew a great deal about it because so many of them had kept an account of their lives. Most of these were all bound and kept at Eversleigh which had been the original home of the family; but marriages throughout the years tended to send people off to different places; and Eversleigh was now the home of what was almost another branch of the family. We visited rarely because it was such a long way to the other side of England—the south-east, whereas Cador was in the south-west.

  My mother had seen some of the volumes and she would tell me about them. I was very interested in my ancestor Angelet. She had had a twin sister called Bersaba and both had married the same man—Angelet first and her sister Bersaba afterwards: that was when my namesake had died.

  At Cador there was a picture gallery, and the portrait which was of greatest interest to me was that of my grandfather. As he looked down on me his eyes seemed to follow me wherever I was in the gallery and I could fancy his face changed as he watched. It was a clever portrait, I suppose, because one had the impression that at any moment he was going to step out of the frame. He was dark; there was a great strength in his face; his mouth seemed to turn up at the corners as one watched and there was a twinkle in his eyes. He looked as though he thought life a great joke.

  My mother discovered my interest in the picture.

  “You are always gazing at it,” she said.

  “It seems as though he is really there. The others are just paintings. He looks alive.”

  She turned away; I knew she did not want me to see how moved she was.

  Then she said: “He was a wonderful man. I loved him … dearly. When I was young he was the most important person in my life. Oh, Angel, how I wished you could have known him! I sometimes think that our lives are planned for us. He had to die young. He could never grow old. He had lived adventurously, violently even … and then he came to peace with the family he loved dearly … my mother, Jessica, Jacco and me.”

  She stopped, too emotional to go on.

  I slipped my arm through hers.

  “Let us not look at him, Mama,” I said, “if it hurts you.”

  She shook her head. “If he were here he would laugh at me. He would tell me not to grieve. She went with him … my mother … and Jacco too. They all went. They left me alone. Even now … I remember it so vividly. I can never forget … even now I think of that day when they went away and never came back.”

  She told me the story of grandfather Jake Cadorson. “This was his home. He had an elder brother who was the heir to the Cador estate. They didn’t get on well together. Jake left home and lived with the gypsies.”

  “He looks a little like a gypsy.”

  “It was in his nature. He was never afraid of life. He challenged life and life met the challenge … and won in the end. When he was living as a gypsy he killed a man. The man was some aristocrat who had attacked one of the gypsy girls. Jake sought to save the girl. There was a fight and during it he killed the man. He was transported to Australia for seven years. He would have been hanged for murder if your grandmother Jessica had not prevailed upon her father to do all he could to save him. Her father was a very influential man. And so … the punishment was transportation to a new land for seven years which was considered a slight punishment for killing a man.

  “While he was away his brother died and he inherited Cador. He returned to England and married your grandmother. My brother Jacco was born and then I was. We were a very happy family. Then we went to Australia. Jake had prospered there when
his seven years’ term was up and he had some land there. It was while they were in Australia that he went sailing on that terrible day … he, my mother and Jacco. They never came back.”

  “Don’t talk of it.”

  “It affects me … even now. It seems so clear.”

  I put my arm round her. “Never mind. You have Papa and us now … Jack and me.”

  She held me tightly. “Yes. I have been lucky. But I can never forget it. We were all together … and then … no more. That is how life goes sometimes. One must be prepared.” She kissed me and said: “I should not be sad. There were so many happy times with them. I must remember those instead and be grateful for those times. And now I have your father and you and Jack.”

  When I had heard the story of my grandfather, I came more often to the gallery to look at him. In those daydreams of mine I projected myself into the years long ago before I was born. I was a gypsy riding in the caravan with him. I was on the ship which carried us overseas. I was with him on the fateful day when they went sailing. I rescued them all and there was a different end to the story. My grandfather had a prominent place in my repertoire of dreams.

  Then came the day in early April. It was spring and Jack was in the garden with Amy, our nursery maid, and I was with them when my parents came out.

  Jack ran to my mother and clutched at her skirts. She lifted him up. Then she smiled at me. “We’ve heard from your Aunt Amaryllis.”

  Aunt Amaryllis wrote frequently. She liked the family to keep in touch, and she had always felt she must look after my mother since the death of my grandmother in that fatal incident in Australia; for Amaryllis and my grandmother Jessica—although they were of an age—had been brought up together.

  “She’s excited about the Exhibition,” said my mother. “The Queen is going to open it on the first of May. She suggests we ought to go up to see it. It is some time since we visited.”

  I gave a little jump of joy. I loved visiting London.

  “There seems to be no reason why we should not go,” said my father.

  “I’m going too,” announced Jack.

  “Of course you are, darling,” said my mother. “We shouldn’t dream of leaving you behind, should we?”

  “No,” replied Jack complacently.

  “It will be exciting,” went on my mother. “They’ve been months planning it. And the Queen is particularly enthusiastic because it is Prince Albert’s idea. He’s been behind it all along.”

  “When shall we go?” I asked.

  “In a few weeks,” said my mother.

  “We’ll have to,” added my father. “We want to be there for the opening.”

  “By the Queen,” I put in. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it.”

  “I shall write at once to Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother.

  And from then on there was little talk of anything but the Great Exhibition.

  When we arrived in London Aunt Amaryllis greeted us warmly. There was something very thrilling about the London residence. It was situated in a dignified square in the middle of which were enclosed gardens—for the use of the residents, all of whom had a key. They were beautifully kept and there were trees, shrubs and little paths with seats here and there. I thought of it as an enchanted though miniature wood. From the top windows of the house there was a glimpse of the river Thames. I loved to look down on it and imagine the glories of the past when the river was the great highway of the capital. I was Anne Boleyn going to her coronation and later going to her doleful prison in the Tower of London. I was in the royal pageant listening to Handel’s Water Music. I was at the center of many brilliant events and always playing some heroic part in them.

  Aunt Amaryllis must have been nearly sixty by now but she had one of those smooth unruffled almost child-like faces which made her seem much younger. Uncle Peter was older still but he gave the impression of being indestructible.

  Amaryllis embraced my mother with rather special affection. Her eyes filled with tears and I knew she was thinking of my grandmother which she always did when seeing my mother after an absence.

  “It is lovely to have you here,” she said. “It seems so long. And, Angelet, how you have grown! And little Jack. No longer little, eh?”

  “I am rather big,” Jack admitted modestly.

  And Aunt Amaryllis kissed him tenderly.

  “And Rolf … So lovely to see you. And now your rooms. Your usual, of course. By the way, Helena and Matthew will be here tomorrow for luncheon. Matthew has some business to discuss with Peter in the morning.”

  And there I was in my little room at the top of the house. Aunt Amaryllis knew that I loved to watch the river. She thought of things like that and seemed to have spent her life trying to please everybody.

  There was a great deal of talk about the family during the rest of that day.

  “You must take the children over to Helena’s,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Jonnie and Geoffrey will look forward to seeing Angelet.”

  “Jonnie must be getting on now.”

  “He’s soon to be thirteen.”

  I looked forward to seeing Jonnie.

  The next morning my mother took Jack and me to see the Humes. Matthew was of course with Uncle Peter, but Aunt Helena welcomed us warmly. Aunt Helena was very like her mother but she lacked that innocent belief in the goodness of life which was her mother’s outstanding quality; she adored her family and was very proud of her husband’s achievements. She talked to my mother about Matthew’s progress in the House of Commons and how she hoped the Party would soon regain power and if they did there would certainly be a post in the Cabinet for Matthew. Her father was sure of it and, of course, he had his ear to the ground.

  I went off to see Jonnie’s collection of books on archaeology which he showed me with great enthusiasm. I did not care very much about old weapons and coins and pieces of urns and things which had been dug up and proved when the Stone Age merged into the Bronze; but I did like to be with Jonnie. He was very interested in the Exhibition and told me that he was often in Hyde Park watching the progress of the work. It was going to be wonderful when it was opened and we could see the wonders of that glorious glass palace.

  Geoffrey, two years my senior, was inclined to view me with a certain aloofness as being too young to engage his attention. Jonnie, who was four years older, was quite different. There was something special about Jonnie.

  When we returned to the house in the square Matthew was still with Uncle Peter.

  Uncle Peter was very affable to me and I fancied he gave me a rather special affection. Once he said: “You may not look like your grandmother but you are another such as she was.” And I felt that was a compliment. He must have been fond of Jessica.

  He dominated everything, although he was quite an old man. His hair was almost white now, but he was very handsome; but what was different about him was that rather secretive smile as though life was great fun to him because he had found the perfect way to live it. I could well believe he had.

  The éminence grise … well, there was no doubt of that. Matthew, famous politician though he might be, regarded his father-in-law as a master. Matthew had done a great deal since he had returned from Australia and written that book about transportation and prisoners which was becoming a classic, the book on the subject. Transportation was still in existence and so were the infamous hulks in which prisoners were kept; and the conditions in prisons were still appalling; but Matthew had called attention to these matters and the subject of transportation was constantly being given an airing; there were many who supported Matthew’s views that it should be abolished and it seemed only a matter of a short time before it would be. Matthew had also written a book about child chimney sweeps and labor in the mines. Matthew was a natural reformer. It meant that he was a highly respected member of Parliament, beloved by his constituents, highly thought of by the leaders of his party, and certain of a ministerial post when it was returned to power.

  I was allowed to sit with the
family for luncheon.

  “I shall have Angelet beside me,” declared Uncle Peter. He had great charm and an endearing way with him. It was small wonder that innocents like myself admired him.

  He did most of the talking. He seemed to have, as was once said of him, “a finger in many pies.” I was not sure at that time what his business was, but I knew that it was highly profitable and made him very rich. Later I learned that he owned several clubs of somewhat dubious reputation, but in his view these were a necessity for the community. It kept certain persons from committing misdemeanors which could be a menace to society so he was doing a great service to the country. Amaryllis believed this absolutely, though there had been a great scandal about his activities at one time and through it he had lost his place in Parliament. Even he had to compromise in some way, for he had to content himself with being outside the main action and give himself up to guiding Matthew in the way he wanted him to go. I thought of Matthew as the puppet and Uncle Peter as the puppet master.

  It was not only Matthew whom he manipulated. I was sure Uncle Peter made a number of people do what he wanted.

  It was gratifying and made me feel important to be selected to sit beside him.

  The talk was of the folly of John Russell who was the Prime Minister and a Whig; and as Uncle Peter was a Tory, he had nothing but contempt for Little John, as he called him.

  The Exhibition was discussed at great length.

  “You are looking forward to seeing the opening, are you not, Angelet?” he asked, turning to me.

  I assured him that indeed I was.

  “It will be something to remember all your life. It is an historic occasion.”

  “I understand the Queen is opening it,” said my mother.

  “But of course. Her diminutive Majesty dotes on the idea. And why? Because it was Albert’s brainchild. Therefore in her eyes it must be perfect.”

  “Is it not wonderful to see how happy they are?” said Aunt Amaryllis. “They set such a good example to the nation.”