All went as scheduled. I entered brightly with the flowers, answered all the questions as to dear mamma’s health, how the boys were doing at school, how long my holidays were to last, and generally kept my end up So well that I clean forgot any danger from religion. I had my trump card to get out on—that they would be getting hurried at home if I were late for dinner—and rose from my chair with easy confidence. Alas! Cousin Jane rose too, spread herself majestically between me and the door, raised her hand, and said,
‘I trust, my dear child, that you have decided for the Lord?’
Now I had gathered from the boys that anyone who is mad or drunk or peculiar in any way must be humoured. So with all the glowing enthusiasm I could muster I replied,
‘Oh, yes, Cousin Jane!’
Seeing her look of extreme pleasure, I sought to complete my stroke, and added, ‘Rather!’
At this she was so astonished that she was literally struck dumb, fell back a pace, and allowed me to slip past her, through the door, and out to freedom.
For one period every year there was a surfeit of outdoor work for all. At harvest-time the whole place far and wide became a tornado of doings. Tony was anchored to the kitchen, producing portable food for the men in the fields and for us children. There was a great brewing of ‘herby beer’, which I once tasted because Edgar said it was good. Jars of this horrible liquor and of cider were everywhere available. The boys were all in two places at once. Uncle Joe was riding about on his horse, telling everyone that this glorious spell of fine weather must be made the most of, for it surely couldn’t last. And how we did work! There were no cutting-machines in those days, let alone binders. When I pass a harvest-field today I think how dull it seems. Yet how thankful Uncle Joe was when he was able to hire a machine for lifting the corn on to the rick.
Even I, the youngest of the crew, was able to do my bit, and I became quite an expert at binding, but could never equal the rate of the boys, who raced one another along the rows. Dinner-time was jolly. Not minding the heat we sat under one of the newly built corn-cocks, and devoured our pasties and cider. Then to work again, with no thought of anything so effeminate as tea, until dusk, when we returned to supper, weary and dirty, and went to bed early so as to be ready for the next day’s work.
One day of my childhood was completely lost, and a glorious sunny day at that. Very rarely, for it was an expensive treat, the whole family, grown-ups and children, would go off to some distance for a long day. Sometimes it would be Penzance and the Land’s End, sometimes the Lizard, sometimes Falmouth. It was usual to hire two long wagonettes, lunch at an hotel, and be free of the trouble of a picnic. Now a particularly favourite spot for such an expedition was Prussia Cove, which was full of possibilities, and more homely than the show places. There were little fishing-vessels in which we could have a sail. Shells of a rare and beautiful kind were to be found on the beach. Bathing was safe in the deep pools, and there were endless bits that we could sketch. The inn had once been the headquarters of a famous old smuggler called the King of Prussia, and they could show you the false walls behind which he used to stow his kegs of brandy.
Well, one day we all set out for this desired haven, plotting during the long drive the special schemes that each had in mind. A big spread was to be provided for midday in the inn, and our only duty was to get up an appetite.
Arrived, my one and only thought was the sea. I ran on to a rock and promptly fell headlong into a pool.
‘Oh, that’s all right, darling,’ said Tony. ‘Come into the inn and we’ll pop you into bed while we spread your clothes round the kitchen fire. They won’t take above ten minutes or so.’
I fell fast asleep, and never woke until they were all getting ready to go home. I could have borne the misery of disappointment better if they hadn’t said that they thought the sleep would do me good. As if one went to Prussia Cove for one’s good!
XII. Indoor Doings
CORNISH people are nearly amphibious. Their peculiar mist of fine rain surrounds you in such a way that an umbrella is useless. Both this mist and slight showers are hardly regarded. But a steady downpour will occasionally keep you in if there is no pressing need to go out. On a really wet day, therefore, we children had to amuse ourselves indoors.
Although Reskadinnick was intricate and rambling enough to satisfy any child, it had a nucleus or nerve-centre round which the whole life of the place seemed to revolve. It was called the ‘front kitchen’, but had nothing of a kitchen about it. It had been the main living-room of the original old farmhouse, but now served no definite purpose at all. Like some large-hearted friend it had no absorbing worries of its own, and was always empty and free for anything you wanted. Nowhere else have I come across a large room set aside for no purpose, and yet used continually. The dining-and drawing-rooms were solemnly devoted to Sundays and visitors; but the ‘front kitchen’ was far more dignified than either, in its homely aura of quiet.
Along one side of this room ran a row of casement windows, provided by nature with a long window-seat. This formed a perfect hiding-place if you stretched your length and kept your head down, because a colossal table of snow-white wood, hard as iron, was placed close alongside the window. The only other furniture consisted of a high-backed settle, a chair or two, and a grandfather’s clock in a recess. At one end was the fireplace, with a high mantelpiece, holding two shapeless china animals, probably cats, always staring, reminding mother of the Cornishman who said his wife was ‘no better than a cloamen cat’. The floor was paved with flagstones, never sanded as the ordinary kitchen was, and uncumbered by rug or carpet.
Here were held all family councils of moment, indignation meetings, and breaking of sad news. Here came Uncle Bill after he had written an important letter, to read it aloud, not to all the grown-ups together, but to each one in turn, to receive their admiration and slight improvements in the wording.
For one half-hour every day Tony would come here to ‘do the milk’. The bulk of the dairy produce was sold to the cottages scattered over the downs, and for this purpose a stolid widow, named Mrs. Veal, trundled round a two-wheeled barrow holding a big container with tap attached. Very slowly she laboured up hill and down dale, without ever speaking a word apparently. Nothing could ruffle her, and goodness knows we tried hard enough. On her return Tony would take a seat at the great white table and spread out her business paraphernalia, consisting of a slate, a little account-book with pencil attached, and a kind of missionary box. I often slipped into the window-seat to listen to the rare sound of Mrs. Veal’s voice, and marvel at her feats of memory. The ritual never varied: Tony read from her book the first name, thus: ‘Mrs. Bray,’ and Mrs. Veal would say, ‘’Aporth and paid for et,’ laying down a halfpenny on the table. Tony put this into the box, made an entry on the slate, and went on to the next name—Mrs. Pendray. Then Mrs. Veal: ‘’Aporth and dedn’t pay for et.’ Another entry and another name. No one ever seemed to have more than a ’aporth, but many ‘Dedn’t ’ave any’. Watching this I hardly wondered that Mrs. Veal never indulged in idle chat, while her memory was functioning.
Once a week the big table was used for folding and ironing the huge family wash. For this purpose the irons were put in the fire till red hot and then slipped into brightly polished steel boxes with wooden handles—click, click they went over the enormous sheets and tablecloths. One day when Barnholt was tiny he insisted on walking on the table all in the midst of the operations. ‘Heave ’e down, Miss Tony,’ suggested one of the servants. ‘No heave ’e down,’ cried Barnholt, and heaved down he was not.
Apart from these domestic ceremonies the table was always available for anything that required elbow-room, such as wetting, stretching, and pasting on to boards the large sheets of drawing-paper that mother, Beatrice, and Charles used for their water-colour sketches.
Such a room positively called for theatricals, and not content with mere charades we once attempted a real play, a full-blooded melodrama, whose only light relie
f was the unintended. Charles and Beatrice produced it, and we underlings just did as we were told. Mina was pretty and made a fine heroine, but refused to sing in public. The operatic air that was essential for the piece had to be sung by Beatrice behind a screen, while Mina kept opening and shutting her mouth. Beatrice was the queen mother, Charles the heartless villain, and Edgar the hero. He had to look brave and say almost nothing. In fact he had but one speech: ‘Draw your sword at once, Sir, and do not chatter.’ This came at the crisis before the duel, but Edgar, who was quite word-perfect in it, and was tired of being the strong, silent man, always burst out with it before the time.
Rehearsals went on all day, and whenever the rain stopped we would run out and go over separate bits ‘obscenely and courageously’ in the garden. Old wardrobes and chests were ransacked for our dressings-up, and there was much competition for a blue quilted petticoat, a many-coloured silk shawl that mother had brought from Spain, and a black velvet cape lined with crimson. I say rehearsals, because the play never reached fruition. Not only did Charles and Beatrice come to continual loggerheads over the details, but the weather improved on us to such an extent that outside distractions were too strong for the team to be kept together.
However, as the dressing-up was the chief attraction, this we could do at any time for less ambitious acting. Getting away from the boys one afternoon, we plotted to take them in. Beatrice and Mina laid themselves out to dress me up as a nun. My forehead, ears, and throat were swathed in a towel (how hot I was!), a black kerchief was drooped over my head, and a big black cloak pinned all round me. Then, watching my opportunity, I staggered out among the trees a little way down the drive, and thence approached the front door and knocked. This door was not often used except by strangers, and I had to wait till the housemaid had arranged herself to answer it. I had prepared a humble voice, and begged to see the lady of the house for a minute. I was then ushered obsequiously into the drawing-room. Choosing a seat with my back to the light I awaited my rather severe Aunt Knight. Thankful that it was not Tony, who would have spotted me, I began a most urgent appeal for a Home for Incurables. Now this was the kind of thing Aunt Knight liked, and she became quite emotional and full of inquiries. I worked myself up in describing a bad case, and she left the room to fetch a donation. At the door I heard her say, ‘Do go in and speak to her a moment, Tom, it all seems very sad,’ and who should come in but my brother, all politeness. I now pitched my tale a little higher, describing the harrowing scene when a patient was told that he was incurable, and should not we, who enjoyed such robust health, &c. I had not expected to encounter my eldest brother, who was only on a short visit and reckoned almost a grown-up, so what was my delight when I saw him putting his hand in his pocket as he murmured sympathetic dear-me’s. When once I had grabbed his half-crown, I unveiled, and when Aunt Knight returned with her contribution she found us both in unseemly laughter.
Another time we all combined to disguise Charles as a distant cousin, a lady from the Cape, impersonating someone actually possible with a name that would ‘go down’. Beatrice provided a dress and a flowing hat, and a pair of glasses made the get-up complete. When ‘Miss Symons’ had been ushered into the drawing-room, my aunts hurriedly improved their toilet, ordered tea to be laid in the dining-room, and swept in all graciousness of welcome. Mother never bothered to alter her attire for any one, but was equally taken in. Charles poured forth an endless flow of patter about the flora and fauna of South Africa, the beauties and dangers of the voyage, the impertinence of his steward, and so on, answering all inquiries with careful accuracy (for we had prepared a few to ask him). All went swimmingly, and we were well through tea when Barnholt began to splutter, and the game was up.
It was an uncertain afternoon, neither rain nor shine, when someone started the idea of a war between boys and girls. It went with a swing. We girls agreed to remain in our big long bedroom, with windows on two sides, and pretend to be besieged in Lucknow. The boys were to be natives and make the attack. We sat tight and handed round apples as our last rations. Soon there was a thundering on the bolted door. At this we laughed, for it was only to frighten us. Next thing we knew was Edgar’s head upside down at one of the windows. He knew the roof well and was hanging over. While we were making it hot for him with hair-brushes, Charles and Barnholt were at another window actually squeezing in. Our poor aims with pieces of soap and nail-brushes had no effect, and soon the battle was raging fiercely through the streets of Lucknow, round and under the beds, with pillows, bolsters, and knotted towels as weapons. When the place was a shambles, and sahibs and natives lying dead from laughter or exhaustion, Tony appeared to say what was all the noise and tea was ready.
Many a wet day was spent by Mina and me in exploring the house itself, in its cupboards, passages, and dark corners. In my grandfather’s alterations and addition of the new house, the actual blending must have presented difficulties, and in one place a large empty space had been walled in between the new and the old. This space was the occasion for superstition. It was inhabited by a ghost, and possibly a skeleton. In Cornwall omne ignotum pro mystico. One of the ‘new’ bedrooms had a deep closet-cupboard standing immediately over this space, and the breakfast-parlour in the ancient part of the house had a cavernous cellar-cupboard running along underneath this space.
In one of our explorations of the bedroom closet, Mina and I heard voices in the cupboard below, obviously coming easily through the empty space. This suggested a chance of getting a thrill, and we looked about for someone to frighten. A housemaid at the time, named Eliza, was even more superstitious than most Cornish people. She believed it was the piskies who caused the milk to burn when put on the fire to scald, who induced the turkeys to lay astray, who snatched away Tony’s keys when they were lost and found in her apron-pocket after a widespread hunt (a common occurrence). She was the very one for our victim. We waited for the day when she had to turn out that bedroom. Mina stationed herself on the main staircase, whence she could flit casually about. As soon as Eliza had swept the room and was about to sweep the cupboard, Mina fled downstairs to give me the signal. I went into the cellar-cupboard, and, in the most sepulchral tones I could muster, said,
‘Eliza! Eliza!’
The movement of the broom, just audible to me, ceased. I then repeated my invocation, adding, ‘All is known. Be sure your sin will find you out.’ At this I heard a scream, and Eliza rushing downstairs. Making straight for Tony, she said nothing of what she had heard, but confessed with shaking sobs that she had stolen two of Miss Beetrice’s handkerchiefs, and had eaten some of the apple cake in the dairy that very morning. Tony had to comfort her instead of scolding, and advised her not to go so much to those experience-meetings at her Wesleyan Chapel. Mina and I stood in the offing in quiet sympathy.
Among the treasures we rooted out from old wardrobes was an illustrated Prayer Book, gone quite brown with age and damp. When tired of reading we could get laughter out of its absurd pictures of fat angels and cupids on clouds, saints in imminent peril but elegantly arranged clothes, Isaac gaily stepping to be cut up, John the Baptist’s head dripping on a dish, the Innocents being hurled about, and (a great find) a service for Charles the Martyr and another for the Gunpowder Plot, each with a picture of the critical scene. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs was another feast for us, especially the picture of St. Lawrence on his gridiron. It was always this picture that came to my mind when I saw ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ posted up, for it was many years before I distinguished prosecution from persecution.
We also found a Bible with the Apocrypha, and were astonished at the readable stories it contained. Susannah seemed to us a pretty and amusing tale, but it must be remembered that we were ardent readers of the Arabian Nights, without having the faintest idea of the cruder meanings of the episodes.
Not even the wettest day could keep us confined to the house itself for long. We would make a dash across the yards and over the lane to the barn, and sit reading there w
ith a lapful of apples. Once, we found the barn a foot deep in grain, and immediately began to swim in it, pretending to be Midas swimming in gold. Unfortunately we spoke of our swimming feats at the dinner-table and were forbidden in horrified tones to do it again. It seemed that it was not good for the wheat.
A still pleasanter city of refuge was the granary, a large loft stretching over the whole length of the stables. Its main attraction was the spice of danger in reaching it, as well as the feeling of security from detection when we were up. The ladder to it from the stables was not always in place, and when we had fixed it up it was always shaky. After mounting this ladder we had a nasty scramble through the trap-door at the top. Once up we could race to and fro to our hearts’ content, and watch all the comings and goings in the yard, feeling superior to everyone, even that horrible turkey-cock.
The boys were fond of rummaging in the Office. Here were a high desk and a chest, both containing documents, letters, plans of mines, maps, and account-books. They once unearthed some black stamps, many of which were valuable, being some of the earliest penny stamps ever issued.
When all else failed we fell back on drawing and painting in the front kitchen. I can remember no dull hour at Reskadinnick. And however dreadful the mess we made, Tony would always say: ‘Where there is no ox the stall is clean.’ As a child I thought this a funny remark, but now it seems quite otherwise.
XIII. A Family Club
LEAVING Cornwall was always a misery. Every accompaniment of it was miserable. We had to get up in the dark, choke down some breakfast, say goodbye to the cats, hope the station fly wouldn’t come, wait on the lonely station platform for the fatal appearance of the train, scramble into any carriage, and worst of all wrench ourselves from Tony. Sometimes she would go as far as Truro with us, but that made the parting more prolonged and definitely worse.
A London Child of the Seventies Page 13