The whole hillside seemed strewn with weeping women and bewildered men, and crying children with poor broken little bodies lying higgledy-piggledy, awaiting medical attention. Morwen and Bess almost fell from the trap in their haste, their hearts pounding with sick fear.
* * *
‘Morwen! Over here!’
Even as she and Bess stumbled across the sodden earth, and it slowly began to dawn on her that folk were avoiding her eyes, Morwen heard Ben’s voice. Ben was here already! For a split second Morwen felt wild relief, for Ben was always capable of taking control and putting everything right.
One look at his face, and she knew something had happened that even he couldn’t undo.
‘What is it?’ she whispered, as his arms went around her. Somehow his arms seemed to enclose Bess as well, and Morwen heard her mother begin to weep hopelessly as Ben told them.
‘Not our Sam. Oh, dear God, not our Sam!’ Bess wept, her bones seeming to crumble to chaff as she leaned against her son-in-law for support.
‘They’ve taken him to a lying-in room at Penwithick church, and your Daddy’s gone to tell Dora,’ Ben said, his voice thick at having to tell them.
He, too, was as sick inside as a man could be. He had lost a good brother-in-law and held himself totally responsible for all the pain here today, and God knew what the costs of the day would be.
He took on the knowledge unflinchingly, and although this wasn’t the time to be thinking of his own future, the sickness was in his soul all the same. And he would have given the earth to spare his wife these agonising tidings about her brother.
‘We must go to the cottage,’ Morwen sobbed. ‘Dora will need us. She can’t be alone with the children. I’ll stay with her if she’ll let me, Ben. You can send up some of my clothes—’
It was terrible to think about clothes, but being practical took away some of the horror for a moment or two. She still couldn’t believe Sam was dead. She wouldn’t believe it yet. It was the same when Celia had died. Until she saw Celia lying-out… until she touched her and kissed her, and made her peace with her, she hadn’t been able to believe it.
The thought of seeing and touching Sam didn’t frighten her. He was still her brother, and she needed to say goodbye.
‘You’re strong, Morwen,’ she heard Ben say raggedly in her ear. ‘Be strong for your family.’
She gave a small nod, knowing that she didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to scream that this wasn’t happening… but Bess needed her daughter’s strength. Her mother suddenly seemed so small and frail and dazed.
Dora would need her too. And the children. She and Ben were godparents to Sam’s children. They were partly their responsibility now. She put her arm around Bess.
‘We’ll go to the cottage right away. Will you come with us, Ben?’ Her eyes pleaded with him. If so many folk needed her, then how much more did she need him. He shook his head.
‘I shan’t leave here, dar, until the last person is safely taken home or to hospital, and the wreckage is recovered. And then I shall go immediately to see Daniel Gorran and Richard Carrick, and get in touch with the Bodmin engineers. I shall see you when I can.’
She turned away with her mother, not wanting to add to Ben’s troubles by weeping for his company. Their lawyer would have plenty to say on the negligence of the new chief engineer in pronouncing the rail tracks safe.
But in the end it was Ben’s railway, and Morwen knew very well that he would shoulder the blame and compensate where he could. For the first time, the snide remark made in Fielding’s Tea Room struck home forcefully. Could this really ruin him? It was too awful to think about, and she blotted it out of her mind for the time being. She helped her mother carefully into the trap and took her to Sam’s cottage.
* * *
‘She don’t want to talk about it,’ Hal muttered, when they had put their arms around Dora, and found her to be as cold as a statue. ‘She keeps saying Sam’ll be home later, and she’s not goin’ to worry her head about it just now. I’m feared for her. ’Tain’t natural. She should weep and clear her soul—’
Bess sat bouncing Primmy on her knee. The child cooed and smiled, and no-one noticed her. The little boys climbed all over Morwen, asking curious questions.
‘Why be ’ee all so sad?’ Walter demanded to know. ‘We didn’t know ’ee was coming to visit. Can I come to the big house one day?’
‘One day, love,’ Morwen murmured. She looked desperately at her father. The children had to be told. Presumably no-one had done so yet. She looked at Dora.
‘Shall I take the boys upstairs to play with their puppets, and tell them about today?’ she said carefully.
‘All right.’ Dora seemed distant. She sat aimlessly twisting her hands together, not offering refreshment or hospitality to the family wanting so desperately to help her.
Morwen picked up Albert, still miserable with the measles, and told Walter to follow them. They perked up. Morwen was more fun than their Mammie. Morwen would always play with them and tell them stories…
It was Bess who made them all a hot drink, needing something to do with her hands, while Hal rocked Primmy awkwardly. He felt so useless.
‘We’ll have to get a message to our Jack,’ he said abruptly. ‘And we should get Freddie out of school afore somebody else tells un.’
‘And Matt,’ Bess said, her voice catching in her throat. ‘Who’s going to tell our Matt?’
Before Hal could think of anything to say to comfort her, there was a loud wailing from upstairs, and Walter and Albert came clattering down the stairs to throw themselves in Dora’s arms. Their faces were brilliant with furious colour and disbelief. Morwen came slowly down after them, hating herself for shattering their small world.
‘’Tain’t true, Mammie. Our Daddy’s not dead, is he?’ Walter sobbed. ‘I don’t want it to be true—’
‘An’ me don’t,’ Albert’s echoing voice said chokingly.
Dora gathered them into her skirts, closing out the rest of them.
‘They say ’tis true, my babbies. You two are going to be my big men now, and help me wi’ Primmy. Will ’ee do that? Your Daddy ’ould want it. We’ll go an’ see un when he’s laid out nice and smart, and ’ee can tell un so.’
Morwen wanted to swoon at the thought, but the little boys eventually nodded tearfully. They didn’t really understand what it was all about, but as long as Dora insisted it was what their Daddy would want, then they had some purpose. And Dora herself still didn’t seem to take it all in.
‘I want to stay here with you for a while, Dora,’ Morwen said gently. The other girl’s head jerked up.
‘What for? We don’t need ’ee—’
Morwen forced back her usual impatience.
‘I think you do, and I know the doctor will think so too. You’ll need time to get used to – the new way of things – and I can help with the children. Please let me stay, Dora. Sam would want that, too, I know it.’
‘Stay, Morwen. Stay wi’ us!’ the boys chanted at once.
‘Well – I suppose so,’ Dora said grudgingly. ‘But I don’t know where ’ee’ll sleep. There’s the corner where ’ee used to have the curtain across—’
‘No!’ Morwen said quickly.
She still remembered too vividly being in bed when Matt had pulled back the curtain holding the drowned, slime-covered body of her friend Celia.
‘I’ll sleep in the boys’ bed. There’s room for three, if they sleep end to end and leave me one side. They’re only little uns.’
Poor little waifs, she thought suddenly. And what was going to happen to them now, with no man to bring in money to feed and clothe and house them?
Morwen insisted on the arrangement, and the boys were enchanted by it, their horror at their father’s death already diminishing a little in their young minds by this new exciting turn of events, and by their mother’s calm acceptance.
Was Dora right after all? Morwen wondered. She knew her own family better than t
he rest of them. But she wasn’t convinced. A woman should cry for her man, just as in other circumstances a man should cry for his woman and feel no shame.
‘Daddy, I think you should see about informing Jack and Freddie,’ Morwen went on quietly, realising that she was fast taking control at the cottage. She had to, since Dora seemed incapable of coherent thought. She seemed to be carved out of stone, and only when the children needed attention did her arms and her voice respond automatically. Morwen was alarmed by the apathy she showed.
‘The doctor will call in on you when he can, Dora. He’ll want to give you something to make you sleep tonight—’
‘I shan’t sleep,’ she stated rather than commented. ‘I doubt that I shall sleep again without Sam there to warm me.’
‘Dora, love, think of the babbies,’ Bess said worriedly. ‘You must get your rest to care for ’em—’
‘Morwen can do that. She’ll be here. I’ll keep watch for Sam to come home.’
Primmy began to cry, and Hal handed her over thankfully to his wife, saying he’d best get off to St Austell and Truro, and he’d certainly be bringing the boys back to his own house with him. As soon as they could, they would want to see Sam.
‘I’ll tell un,’ Dora said graciously. ‘He’ll be pleased to have a visit from all his folks.’
‘Oh, God, what’s happening to her?’ Morwen whispered to her mother. ‘Doesn’t she realise?’
‘I don’t know, Morwen, but I’m thinking ’tis summat for the doctor to sort out. I’ll go wi’ your Daddy, and send word for one of the doctors to call as soon as possible. I don’t like the look on her at all.’
‘Mebbe ’tis the measles coming on,’ Morwen said, and even as she said it, she prayed fervently that it was not.
Dora was never very robust, and for her to contract the measles on top of the shock of Sam’s death was something Morwen didn’t want to contemplate.
Once her parents had gone, Morwen set about preparing a hot meal of soup and bread for the children, and tried to make Dora eat some of it. She merely stirred it about, and then pushed it away, glancing through the window at the darkening sky.
‘We must light the oil-lamps. Sam allus does it, but he’s late tonight. Will ’ee put the babby to bed while I see to it, Morwen? She’s too tired to wait up for her Daddy.’
‘Dora! You know Sam won’t be coming home tonight,’ Morwen said, appalled at this.
‘Well, put her to bed anyway. She’s tired.’ Dora neatly turned away every reference to Sam’s death. It began to horrify Morwen. Dora was as flushed now as she had been pale before, and long after all three children had been put to bed, the girl was pacing up and down, peering through the window as though waiting for Sam’s homecoming.
Ben had called in to see that they were all right, and promised to be back in the morning. He had looked hunted, and Morwen’s heart had wept for him. He had told Dora briefly that he would pay for all Sam’s expenses, and that she wasn’t to worry over her family’s welfare. And Dora had nodded and gave a half-smile.
‘Sam will like that,’ she’d said approvingly.
‘I swear that her mind’s turned,’ Morwen had told Ben when they were out of earshot. ‘I pray that it’s only temporary. Please see if a doctor can call, Ben. I know they are terribly busy right now, but Dora needs help too.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he promised. ‘And what of you? Will you survive, my brave little love?’
Her throat felt thick as she nodded. She had lost a dear brother, but this family’s loss was far greater. And Ben would be suffering for every other family whose members had been injured that day, while his own future was at stake. Morwen’s own feelings seemed of very little importance at that moment.
‘I’m a survivor, remember, dar?’ she said huskily. ‘Please go home and rest for a little while, and let tomorrow take care of itself.’
‘We both know it won’t, but I’ll take some of your advice, for if I don’t rest I shall drop. I shall miss you tonight.’ He held her tightly, and kissed her soft mouth. Tonight of all nights, they should be together, to console one another on the tragedy. But even as she thought it, Morwen knew she must stay with Dora, who would never again know the comfort of her own man’s arms around her.
* * *
They buried Sam in Penwithick churchyard a week later. The Tremayne family formed a silent, dignified group, with Ben Killigrew supporting the young widow, and Morwen holding on tightly to the three little children.
Ben had wanted to buy Dora a fine black dress for Sam’s burying, but she had flatly refused in that strange unreal voice she had used since Sam’s death, saying that he preferred her in light pretty clothes, and she saw no reason to dress any differently, when it was Sam’s day.
She seemed to comprehend what was happening, and yet she had put a barrier between herself and any real pain. The doctor said it was delayed shock, and that once she was able to break down and weep for Sam, the barrier would be broken.
She hadn’t done so yet. Morwen knew it for a fact. They had hardly been apart since she had moved into the cottage, and there had been no sounds of weeping through the bedroom walls, nor any evidence of swollen eyes. Morwen was desperately worried about it.
When her friend, Celia, had died, she had been told that grief after bereavement was as necessary as breathing. It needed to be expressed, and Morwen had already done her own share of it for Sam. She did it now, quietly, as they laid Sam to rest in his own beloved clay country, and one by one they walked around the grave, throwing in flowers for remembrance. For once, Morwen didn’t linger by Celia’s corner. Today was just for Sam.
Ben had sent Killigrew carriages for all of them, and once the burying was over, they all went back to Killigrew House for tea, since the children were now pronounced free enough of the measles. After a week at the cottage, it was strange to Morwen to be in her own home again.
The rooms were so big and high after the cramped confines of the cottage. The children loved the space and freedom, and it was good to see Freddie lose his pallor at today’s ordeal, and begin playing with them on his hands and knees.
Morwen met Ben’s eyes above the small cameo scene. They would survive, all of them. They had to. And Ben had plenty of trouble ahead of his own. She had learned briefly of the daily meetings that Ben was attending, and of how adamant the accountant Daniel Gorran had been against Ben’s initial passionate avowal to tear up the entire railway system and sell up Killigrew Clay immediately.
The idea had been called foolish and a total waste, and that Ben must think again. And that Daniel Gorran would fight tooth and nail to exonerate Ben from this mess in the court case that was being brought against him by the indignant townsfolk, instigated so virtuously now by the Honourable Mrs Stanforth.
Morwen had been shocked to hear of a proposed court case, but Ben had seemed to expect it and to take it quite calmly – in a way, as though one anxiety eliminated a little of the pain of all the rest.
Morwen understood that feeling. She, too, had known it, and had shamedly known a faint relief when she’d thought of the disaster as being old Zillah’s forecasted earthquake. It had happened, and therefore it couldn’t happen again.
And that unworthy thought at such a time had made Morwen feel so guilty she knew she would never ever put it into words for anyone else to hear.
Chapter Nineteen
Bess was thankful for young Freddie’s company at home. The school could do without him for a few days, and Jack didn’t want to stay away from Truro too long. Bess could understand it. There was the added attraction of Annie Boskelly, as well as the job which Jack was obviously enjoying.
His talk was peppered with little anecdotes about Annie, until his mother asked him tartly if he’d forgotten that they had only recently buried his brother, and that it was hardly the time to be talking of frivolous matters.
Jack sounded strained when he answered.
‘I don’t ever forget our Sam, Mammie, but I can
’t live the rest of my life mourning un. Neither should you. Our Sam ’ouldn’t want that. He once said that gloomy faces were a slight against God, who gave us our good country living.’
Jack wasn’t given to religious utterances, and his face reddened at the frankness. But they had truly been Sam’s words, and Bess recognised them at once. Her voice was gentle and sad.
‘All the same, a man can never guess how hard ’tis for a woman to lose her sons.’
Jack put his powerful arms around her small frame, thinking as Morwen had done, how frail she had become. All the comfortable weight she had put on in recent years seemed to have disappeared, and she was as fragile as though a puff of wind would blow her away.
‘You haven’t lost Freddie and me, Mammie. And our Matt will turn up one of these fine days, you see if he don’t.’
Bess felt her eyes mist. They all knew what she tried so hard to hide. That it was like losing a limb to have no news of Matt. If they only knew that he was well, then she would be content. The brief communication passed on through that odious woman, Hannah Pascoe, was completely unreliable as far as Bess was concerned, coming as it did from her awful son, Jude. Even though the woman had died horribly, Bess could still not think of her with any real compassion.
But she made an effort to be more cheerful for her family’s sake. It did no good to wallow in grief once the crying was done, and she had done her crying for Sam. Any more of it would embarrass Freddie, who was at an impressionable age, and hanging on Jack’s every word regarding the boat-building.
She would lose Freddie too, Bess thought sadly. But only over to Truro. He and Jack were not out of reach for ever, like the other two. She didn’t have Jack’s determined faith over Matt’s return. He had made his choice.
‘When can I come an’ work with ’ee, our Jack?’ Freddie was saying eagerly. ‘I don’t need no more schooling—’
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