Polsinney Harbour: A heartwarming family saga set in Victorian era Cornwall

by Mary E. Pearce

  Chapter Eight

  The weather had improved during the night; the wind had gone round to the north, and although there was still plenty of sea, the waves were no longer breaking; and all morning, around the harbour, there was much bustle and noise as the lugger crews made ready for going to sea with the afternoon tide.

  At half past two Brice and his crew were at the net-store under the sail-loft, loading their bait-nets and baskets of line onto a handbarrow, when Gus appeared in the cottage doorway and called Brice inside.

  Brice, with the events of the previous day very much in his mind, entered the kitchen with mixed feelings, but, as he stood before Gus and Maggie, not knowing what to expect, he had little time to speculate, for the old man, without preamble, put the deed into his hands and bade him read it.

  As he read the deed of gift, Brice was not only surprised but deeply moved, and when he looked at the old man he found it difficult to speak.

  ‘I don’t really understand.’

  ‘No doubt you think I’m off my head. Nothing but needling yesterday and today I’m giving you the boat. You must put it down to senility.’

  ‘Uncle Gus ‒’

  ‘Never mind about thanking me. It’s more Maggie’s doing than mine. As you know, it was her idea, so she’s the one you have to thank.’

  ‘I thank you both,’ Brice said simply.

  Maggie was standing nearby; he knew he would have to look at her; and just for a moment he was afraid. What had passed between them the day before was too disturbing, too immense, and he felt he would give it away in a glance. Yet when he did look at her, her gaze was so steady, so serene, that the weakness he feared he would betray passed completely out of him and he felt instead a renewal of strength, warm, quiet, reassuring.

  Still, there was constraint all the same, and he was relieved when his uncle Gus suggested calling in the crew, to hear the news and to celebrate it ‘with a nip of something warm’.

  The crew were called and came clumping in, in their great stiff leather sea-boots. On hearing the news about the boat, there was a murmur of approval among them, and when a bottle of rum appeared, together with a proper number of glasses, there was only a modicum of protest, delivered for the sake of form. Being staunch Methodists, they were teetotallers to a man, but, as Gus dryly observed, were always willing, with a little persuasion, to set their principles aside.

  ‘Seeing how tes a special occasion …’

  ‘And a celebration, you.’

  ‘Don’t want to be a wet blanket, do us, and spoil it all for everyone else?’

  ‘Not too much for me, skipper. Just to the top of the glass, that’s all.’

  ‘I’d like to give the toast if I may,’ said Billy Coit, raising his glass. ‘To the old boat ‒ and her new owner.’

  The toast was echoed with a warmth that took Brice by surprise. Plainly the crew were pleased for him. And of course, although it hadn’t been mentioned, they were pleased for themselves, too, since it meant that in future the Emmet’s profits would be shared between six men instead of seven. The glasses were drained and put down. Gus leant forward and filled them again.

  ‘So you’re going out?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brice said. ‘The whole fleet’s going out tonight. We thought we’d try the Bara Breck.’

  ‘Good place for pollack.’

  ‘Yes, and hake.’

  ‘Might even get the odd turbot there.’ Gus cocked a bushy brow. ‘I haven’t had turbot for many a day.’

  ‘Right. We’ll see what we can do.’

  Brice emptied his glass and set it down and the crew, catching his eye, did the same. Together they moved towards the door, each man nodding politely to Maggie, and young Reg Pascoe, staring at her, stumbled against a small stool. His father, Clem, apologized for him.

  ‘Reg edn used to strong drink, you see, especially tip-top stuff like that.’

  ‘Went down handsome!’ Reg said with a grin.

  ‘Straight into his feet,’ said Billy Coit.

  ‘He’ll be all right when we get to sea.’

  ‘Aw, that’ll sober him up, sure nuff.’

  Brice and his crew went back to their task of loading bait-nets and baskets of line onto the old handbarrow. The crew were all in good spirits; the rum ran merrily in their blood; they had an item of fresh news to pass on when they got to the quay; and in another few hours would be out at sea after fish for the first time in a whole week.

  ‘This’ll be a good trip for us, I seem,’ said Martin Eddy, confidently. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

  At three o’clock Brice went home to collect the big bag of provisions his mother had filled ready for him. He told her the news about the boat and gave her the deed of gift to read.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed, having read. ‘To think that after all these years he’s done something decent for you at last!’ She laid the document on the table and put away her spectacles. ‘And what about her? That wife of his? Does she know he’s given you the boat?’

  ‘Yes, it was Maggie’s idea,’ Brice said.

  ‘Was it indeed?’ Rachel said, and then, recovering from her surprise: ‘Well, I suppose it’s the least she could do, seeing she’s robbed you of everything else.’

  ‘Have you no charity in you at all? Do you still feel the same about her, even now, after all these years?’

  Rachel looked at him long and hard.

  ‘You still feel the same about her. It’s just that your feelings are different from mine.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, I love her,’ Brice said.

  ‘Does she know it?’

  ‘Yes, she knows.’

  ‘And does she care tuppence what you feel?’

  ‘Yes, she cares more than I deserve.’

  He slung his crowst bag over his shoulder, took up his oilskin smock and sou’wester, and left the house. Rachel followed him out through the yard; his tidings had given her food for thought; and at the gate she did her best to put her thoughts into words.

  ‘If, as it seems, your uncle Gus is trying to make some amends for his meanness to you in the past, then I think perhaps it’s only right that I should go down and call on him. In other words let me say, my son, that I am willing to do my own part in putting things right between us all.’

  Brice looked at her with understanding. He knew what this speech must have cost her pride. And on an impulse of the moment he did a thing that was rare with him: he bent towards her and kissed her cheek. Then he went striding out of the gate.

  When he arrived at the fish-quay he was hailed from all sides by the other skippers and their crews who had heard the news from Billy Coit. There was banter from some of them and especially from Ralph Ellis whose boat the Bright Star was berthed immediately next to the Emmet.

  ‘So now you’re owner as well as skipper? No wonder you look some pleased with yourself. But dunt that feel queer to be in a boat after sticking at home so long? Maybe you’d better follow us, else you might get lost in the bay!’

  Brice merely flashed him a glance, jumped down into the Emmet, and stowed his gear away in the cuddy. He then went to help his crew, who were lashing the baskets of line to the bulwarks, for although there was only a slight swell in the bay, it would be a different matter ‘outside’.

  ‘We’ll get it out off Burra Head,’ Clem Pascoe observed to his son, ‘and the motto on this boat is “never leave anything to chance”.’

  From all along the quayside now came the krik-krik of masts being stepped, the grunting of men as they strained at the falls, and the cheep-cheeping of blocks and pulleys as sails were run up and made secure. A flapping of canvas here and there; men’s quiet voices talking, sometimes interspersed by a shout; and the first boats moved away from the quay, gliding towards the harbour mouth. No sweeps were needed today; they had all the wind they required; and first the Speedwell, then the Swift, followed by the Sea Horse and the Minette, passed out of the harbour into the bay.

  The Emmet was the next boat ou
t and Brice, at the helm, turning his head, saw Maggie and his uncle Gus and young Jim, just home from school, watching from the yard above the old quay. They waved to him and he waved back and his uncle Gus called out something that he failed to hear.

  ‘He says to remember and bring him a turbot,’ said Jacky Johns, who had sharp ears.

  Behind the Emmet came the Bright Star and, the wind coming down hard upon them the instant they left the shelter of the harbour, they were soon beating swiftly across the bay, standing out on the first tack that would carry them past Struan Point. The Bright Star was keeping close ‒ ‘Too blamed close,’ Clem Pascoe said ‒ and Ralph Ellis, enjoying himself, wedged the tiller between his legs so that he could put up his hands and cup them about his mouths to shout.

  ‘This’ll take the creases out of your sails!’ he roared, and then, as he bore away from them: ‘I suppose you still know what a fish looks like? If not I’ll draw you one on the slate!’

  The Emmet’s crew, with fine dignity, swallowed these jibes and said nothing. And it happened quite soon that they had their revenge.

  They were two hours south of Crockett Lighthouse, a distance of some fifteen miles, and the sun was going down dimly in a misty greyness that hid the sea-line. As it vanished from sight completely Brice gave orders to heave-to and here, with the early twilight settling about them, they shot their four drift nets for pilchards to use in baiting their lines.

  As darkness grew they lit their lamps and all around them, mistily, other lights began to glimmer, showing the rest of the fleet strung out like a necklace of stars afloat on the sea. With the coming of darkness the wind had changed and now blew straight from the west. There was less tide now and the sea had settled to a slow swell.

  Hauling took less than an hour and soon they were getting under way, beginning at once to cut up the pilchards and fasten the bits to the hooks on their line. Some of the fleet had already gone; most of the others were making sail; but a few boats still remained, having so far failed to get their bait, and the Bright Star was one of them. Brice, with a word to his crew and a touch of helm, altered course just enough to bring them within hailing distance of her and this was when they had their revenge.

  ‘Not got your bait yet, Bright Star?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not a sniff of’m!’ Ralph called back. ‘But no need to ask if you’ve got yours, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, first shot, no trouble at all. Ten or twelve stone. Just enough and no more.’

  ‘Where did you shoot?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘We shot where the fish were!’ Brice replied, and aboard the Emmet as she went on her way there were chuckles of satisfaction because the score had been evened out and because surely, with such a beginning, the night was bound to go well for them.

  Four hours’ sailing brought them to the Bara Breck where, already, the sea was dotted with boats from Carnock, Polzeale, and Porthcoe. This meant that the Polsinney fleet had to press on, further west, and it was almost midnight when the Emmet at last found a berth, well clear of the other boats, and shot her line before the tide, which was now running from west to east.

  By this time there was fog coming up, blowing in swirls before the wind, and the lights of the boats eastward of them were slowly dwindling and fading away.

  ‘West wind, best wind, when fishing the Bara Breck, but why did it have to bring this fog?’ Martin Eddy asked gloomily.

  ‘Aw, you can’t have it all ways,’ Jacky Johns said, ‘and there’s fish down there, I’m sure of that.’

  While they ate a bite of food and drank the hot tea Reg Pascoe had made they drew lots and settled the watch. It fell to the two Pascoes so Brice and the other three men made their way into the cuddy, stretched themselves out on their narrow bunks and, with the ease of long practice, fell asleep instantly, lulled by the motion of the boat rocking gently on the swell.

  When they emerged, an hour later, they found that the fog had gathered and thickened. It pressed up into their faces in dense, blinding swirls and surged about them, impatiently, cold and wet and enveloping. The Emmet was completely enclosed, cut off from all other sight and sound of life except that every now and then there was a faint mew, mew, from the gulls that floated, unseen, on the sea around them. No other boats’ lights were visible now. The fog had swallowed them utterly. Even their own masthead light could not be seen from below, and the big lantern on its spear amidships cast only the dimmest glow, in which the fog twisted and squirmed.

  ‘Some old skew,’ Clem remarked, as Brice and the others joined him. ‘You won’t have seen many worse than this.’

  ‘No,’ Brice agreed, ‘it’s as thick as cheese.’

  ‘Thick as Grammer Opie’s breath,’ said Jacky Johns, close behind him. ‘We shall need our magic specs on if we’re to see the fish tonight.’

  Dark shapes in the swirling fog, the crew came together around the lantern, shrugging themselves into their oilskins and strapping on their sou’westers. There was no time wasted that night and they were soon ready to begin their task of hauling in the three miles of line.

  ‘Tedn no night for hanging about,’ Billy Coit said to Brice. ‘We shall have some old job of it, as it is, getting home in this old skew.’

  ‘I’m hoping it will have cleared by then.’

  ‘No harm in hoping, I suppose.’

  But although the wind blew steadily, keeping the fog on the move, it still came pressing up in waves, closer and denser all the time. It was like flannel, Billy said, and wrapped them round, cold as a shroud, in a silence as of the grave. Somehow the boat felt very small, shut in as it was by the fog, and every sound the men made as they prepared for the night’s main work was muted and muffled and made unreal by the fog’s close density.

  The noise of the hatches being removed, the squeak of the capstan as it wound in the warp, and the tramp, tramp of the men’s feet as they trudged stolidly round and round, all had a dim, dead quietness as though falling on ears gone deaf. And when, as the first length of line came aboard, bringing the first few fish, and the waiting gulls rose from the sea and came floating pallidly out of the darkness, the cries that issued from their throats were small and thin, almost pathetic, as though they were nothing but the ghostly echoes of cries they had uttered in the past.

  By now the tide had turned again, thus lifting the line from the bed of the sea and making their task that much easier. Some lengths of line came in without any fish on the hooks but if this caused disappointment at least it meant less work. At the end of two hours the whole line was in and they had, at a rough estimate, a hundred and ten stone of fish. It was mostly skate and ray, with some conger, pollack, and dogfish, and a small number of cod and ling. There were also three sizeable turbot and these were carefully put on one side.

  ‘Could’ve done better, could’ve done worse,’ Billy Coit said to Brice. ‘But tedn a bad catch, I suppose, for your first catch as owner, eh? At least it came in without any hitch and you’ve got the old skipper’s turbot all right. He can take his pick of three.’

  ‘Yes, we haven’t done badly, all things considered,’ Brice agreed.

  The baskets of line were stowed away, blood and fish-slime were swilled from the decks, and hatches were replaced over the holds. Reg had been sent to make tea and was taking a long time over it and now that the others had finished their tasks they were beginning to grow impatient.

  ‘Drat the boy! Where’s he to with that tea? I reckon he’ve fallen asleep down there.’

  ‘Tell him if he don’t hurry up, we shall go without’n!’ said Jacky Johns.

  In his own good time Reg came and the men, now gathered in the stern, ate their food and drank their tea. The fog was just as thick as ever and nothing much could be seen beyond a distance of ten feet. It would be a difficult journey home and although they talked cheerfully enough they were acutely aware of it. Seamen feared and hated fog; it preyed on their nerves; and Billy Coit spoke for all when he said: ‘Give me a gale of wind any time. At least
you can see what you’re up against then.’

  The crew, as they ate and drank and talked, kept glancing towards Brice, who had lit the lamp in the binnacle and was closely studying the compass. They were aware of the tension in him; could sense the deep concentration of thought as he took his bearing and worked out his course; and they knew that all his faculties were keyed up to the highest pitch as he faced the task of getting them home. He, as skipper, would take the helm; on him would lie the responsibility of guiding them through the fog; and they knew what a strain that put on a man.

  But they had complete faith in him. He had brought them through fog many times and never once in thirteen years had he failed to make a perfect landfall. He was like his uncle Gus in this. There was a particular quality to be found in certain seamen, as though they had some special knowledge, implanted in their very bones, and although it was a difficult thing to define, it was always quite unmistakable. Gus Tallack in his prime had had it, and Brice Tallack had it too. The Emmet’s crew recognized it in him; acknowledged it without question; and, to a man, put their faith in it.

  Brice, having finished his deliberations, stood erect. He finished his food and drank his tea. Although keyed up, his senses alert, he was at the same time perfectly calm, with the calmness of self-confidence, and, finding that his crew were watching him, he said:

  ‘I’m setting our course east by north. That way we don’t run any risk of overshooting Crockett Light.’

  ‘Two man watch?’ Billy enquired.

  ‘Yes, and eyes well skinned,’ Brice said. ‘There’s a good hundred sail of boats out there.’