‘Yes, so had I,’ Maggie said, and was filled with shame. ‘I’d better go and see her straight away.’
Jim, with Clem Pascoe’s two younger sons, had gone aboard the Maid Molly and was talking to Sam Cox and his crew. Maggie went to tell him that she was going to Boskillyer and the boy looked at her with a frown.
‘Shall I come with you, mother?’
‘No, there’s no need,’ Maggie said. ‘Go home when you’re ready. I shan’t be long.’
She pushed the empty wheelchair home and left it in the yard. She spoke briefly to Eugene Kiddy and walked up to Boskillyer Farm.
Rachel was in the kitchen, busy preparing the midday meal. She had seen the first boats coming in more than two hours before and, assuming that the Emmet had been among them, she expected Brice home at any moment.
When she opened the door to Maggie, her face at first was blank with surprise, but slowly it darkened with instinctive foreboding.
‘Mrs Tallack, there’s bad news,’ Maggie said.
Rachel was silent, absorbing the words. Bad news meant only one thing; there was no need to ask the nature of it; only the details remained to be told. For a moment she stood with her hand resting on the door. Then, with a gesture, she stepped aside.
‘I think you’d better come in,’ she said.
On getting home from Boskillyer, Maggie revived the fire in the stove and put the mutton stew on to heat again. While she was laying the table Jim came in.
‘Did you see Mrs Tallack?’
‘Yes, and I’m very glad I did. She hadn’t heard the news at all. It was a terrible shock to her.’
‘Did you tell her Uncle Gus had gone out in the Bright Star to look for the punt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some of the folk out there seem to think he’s wasting his time.’
‘Did they say so?’
‘Not straight out. But I heard Dicky Limpet and Skiff Annear talking about other boats that’ve been run down by ships. They said there’d been a good few of them, though never one from Polsinney before. They said they could think of five at least. And I heard Dicky Limpet say ‒’ here Jim took a tremulous breath ‒ ‘that out of those five boats only two men were saved.’
Mother and son looked at each other.
‘We must just have faith,’ Maggie said, ‘like your uncle Gus.’
Jim went off to wash his hands. He had carried fish home for old Horace Wearne. When he returned and came to the table he found his bowl filled with hot mutton stew. He sat down and stared at it numbly.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You must eat what you can.’
‘Horace Wearne said if the punt is out there, there edn much chance of the Bright Star finding it today. Only by a miracle, and that’s too much to expect, he said. So when it gets dark the Bright Star will heave-to for the night and start looking again in the morning.’
‘Yes, and the fleet will be out there by then. They will be searching, too. Matthew Crowle told me that.’
‘I wish there was something we could do.’
‘Yes, so do I,’ Maggie said.
Jim picked up his spoon; fished a piece of meat from his stew; blew on it; put it into his mouth. Maggie, too, began to eat, glancing up at the clock on the wall. The Bright Star had been gone an hour.
It was a typical April day that day, with the wind veering between north and west, bringing a skitter of rain now and then, short and sharp and rather cold. These showers came down from the moor, ‘off the top of Teeterstone Hill’ as folk in Polsinney always said; they darkened the slate roofs of the houses for a few minutes at a time; then blew away out to sea and were seen like dark patches of smockwork puckering the flat grey surface.
The fishing fleet left early that day and there were more people than usual gathered on the quay to watch. Maggie was among them, having been to Mrs Beale’s for food to replenish the empty larder, and although it was only three o’clock, Jim was there, too, for the schoolmistress, Miss Trembath, finding the children restless, had closed the school early and sent them home.
‘Cissie Birch kept crying,’ Jim said. ‘She said her grandfather was drowned and would only come back as a seagull.’
Cissie Birch was barely six. Her grandfather was Billy Coit.
‘Do you think it’s true,’ Jim asked, ‘that when seamen drown they come back as gulls?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s what people say, but I don’t know.’
Out in the bay the fishing fleet was standing boldly out to sea, each boat under full sail and ‘keen as mustard to do ten knots’ as one old retired fisherman said, leaning over the harbour rail.
‘Handsome wind for them,’ said another, ‘and let’s hope it d’hold as it is, cos they won’t be hindered with fog, not while it do blow like this.’
The boats sped away over the sea, growing smaller all the time, and at last vanished beyond Struan Point. Maggie began walking home and Jim, without being asked, took her basket and carried it for her.
‘Tis strange to think Uncle Gus is at sea. I can’t get over that at all.’
‘Yes, it is strange,’ Maggie said. ‘And the house seems terribly empty, too, without him in it.’
‘Mother, when you think of Uncle Brice … out there, on the sea, I mean … do you see him dead or alive?’
Maggie hesitated. She had already told Jim that they must have faith. She could not possibly tell him that she was filled with dread for Brice; that, having lost three men to the sea, she had little room in her heart for hope; so, after thought, she told a lie.
‘I see him in the punt, alive.’
‘With Billy Coit and the rest of them?’
‘Yes, I see them all,’ she said.
‘That’s how I see them, too,’ Jim said.
Jim could not bear to stay indoors. He had to be out and about the harbour. And Maggie, having given him his tea, did not attempt to keep him back.
It was no good expecting news that day because even if the Bright Star found the Emmet’s crew at once, say forty miles or so from home, she would not be back until well after dark. Jim was well aware of this but the harbour was the place to be all the same and he, with other boys of his age, was drawn more than ever to the company of those old retired fishermen who leant on the wall and looked out to sea.
Jim and Clem Pascoe’s two younger sons could not have enough of the seamen’s talk as they argued out the chances of the Emmet’s crew being found alive. And Jim persuaded William Nancarrow, now eighty-four and long retired, but once the most respected skipper all along that stretch of coast, to tell again the familiar tale of how, as a young man of twenty-six, he had been swept overboard in a gale, some twenty miles off Kibble Head.
‘The old Sea Owl I was in at that time, and the crew soon turned back to look for me. But there was some old sea that night and Wally Davey said afterwards, the only reason they found me was because I’d got white oilskins on. They’d never have seen me else he said, cos the night was just so black as a shaft, and of course I was too far gone to shout. But that’s how twas in those days. ‒ A lot of us always swore by white oilskins because we knowed they showed up in the dark.’
‘My uncle Gus has got white oilskins. He’ve taken them with him in the Bright Star.’
‘Ess, and he’ll be glad of their warmth, out there on the sea tonight, even though tis April month and we’ve got a touch of spring in the air.’
Once Jim and the other boys climbed the cliff above Porthvole because from there they could see out as far as Burra Head and the wide stretch of open sea beyond. There was nothing to be gained from seeing thus far; it would not bring the Bright Star back any sooner; it was just something to do.
And yet, even so, the sight of a sail, out there abeam of Crockett Lighthouse, was enough to bring their hearts to their mouths. It was only an old hooker, making its slow way into Polzeale, and they told one another they had known that the instant she had hove into sight. And so they had known
it, sure enough, for what else could she be? But they felt disappointed all the same.
They made their way down to the harbour again; helped Dick Geach and Figgy Tregenza to unload lobsters from their gig; and were still loitering on the slip when the sun went down behind Mump Head and the harbourmaster came out of his cottage to light the lamp on the quay-head. Lights were showing in the houses, too; the boys knew they would have to go home; they separated and went their ways.
On his way home, thinking of his mother alone all these hours, Jim felt guilty and hastened his step, for his uncle Gus had told him that he was to take care of her. But his mother was not alone. She had Martha Cledra with her, her old friend from those days long ago when they had both worked in the fish cellars. Martha worked in the cellars still, in the summer seining season, but she was Martha Jenkin now and her husband was the giant, Pony Jenkin, who was one of the crew of the Bright Star.
‘I’ve been keeping your mother company over a nice cup of tea. Tes lonesome for us women, you know, when our menfolk are all away. And you’ll be off yourself, I daresay, not many years from now, though it won’t be in the Emmet, will it, now she’ve gone to the bottom of the sea?’
Jim did not know how to answer this but Martha, heaving herself from her chair, was already preparing to leave.
‘I’d better get back to my childern, I suppose. They dunt much care for Granfer Dark. They’ll be wanting a candle to go to bed.’
The door closed. Martha was gone. And Jim, shivering, drew near the fire, spreading his hands close to the flames. Evening and the fall of darkness had banished his bright optimism and touched him with fear. A cold, cruel fear that squeezed his heart.
‘I suppose she thinks, like all the rest, that Uncle Brice and his crew are drowned.’
‘I don’t know what she thinks,’ Maggie said. ‘I don’t know what to think myself. All we can do is pray for them.’
’Even praying won’t help,’ he said, ‘if they’re already dead, will it?’
His voice broke and he bowed his head, and Maggie, with a little cry, drew him fiercely into her arms.
Maggie did not go to bed. She sat fully clothed in a chair by the fire, listening for footsteps in the yard and a knock at the door that would mean news of the Bright Star’s return. But the night passed without bringing news and towards morning she fell asleep.
She awoke to a loud noise of wind and knew at once it had changed direction by the way it blew down the chimney and flue, keeping the embers alive in the stove. She got up and poked at the ashes; put more wood on the fire; swung the kettle onto the hob. Dawn was a greyness at the window. It was nearly five o’clock.
Jim came downstairs, barefoot, in his nightshirt.
‘Wind’ve gone sou’westerly. Tes getting up rough by the sound of it.’
‘Did you manage to sleep?’ Maggie asked.
‘Yes, but I’m not going back to bed.’
‘No. Well. You can fetch me some more coal. There’ll be hot water soon for you to wash.’
Just after six Jim was on the quay. There were red streaks in the eastern sky and as the sun rose above Goonwelter it made a crimson splash on the sea, all around Black Pig Rock, and a red rippling path across the bay. There were quite a number of people about, some going to their work, some standing in groups on the wharf and the quay. Most of these were women and girls and, huddled against the wind as they were, their heads and shoulders rounded by shawls, they looked, Jim thought, like the grey seals that sometimes came ashore at Porthmell.
He hurried past them, awkward and shy, for he knew that they, like himself, were out watching for the Bright Star, and if they were to speak to him he would not know what to say. Martin Eddy’s wife was one and he was afraid of seeing her tears. He walked out to the end of the jetty, stayed for an hour looking out to sea, and walked back again. There was no sign of the Bright Star. He went home and ate his breakfast.
‘Do I have to go to school?’
‘Yes,’ Maggie said. She thought it best. ‘You’ll hear at once if there’s any news.’
All morning the wind blew hard from the south west, bringing black ragged clouds up with it, but no rain.
‘That won’t come till the wind drops,’ Isaac Kiddy said to Maggie, ‘and there edn no sign of it dropping yet.’
Neither he nor Percy Tremearne were doing much work in the sail-loft that day. They kept coming out on the stairs, the better to see across the bay. Eugene, too, was on the watch, from the door of the barking-house, and once Maggie heard him say:
‘I dunt like the sound of that wind. There’s more than a mite of spite in it. Twill get a lot worse before tes finished.’
Maggie tried to keep herself busy. There were plenty of chores to do in the house. But she could not make herself concentrate and when she heard the sound of the tide beginning to slap at the sea wall immediately below the house, she abandoned all thought of work and, putting on her shawl as she went, hurried out to join the people waiting and watching all round the harbour. The wind was now blowing ferociously and on the fish-quay itself the watchers stood close in under the wall or sheltered behind the fish-merchants’ carts. It was after ten o’clock. The fleet was expected imminently.
‘They said they would stay out all day and help to look for the Emmet’s punt but with this gale blowing up ‒’ William Nancarrow shook his head. ‘They will have to think of themselves,’ he said to Maggie, with simple directness, ‘and that goes for the Bright Star, too.’
At eleven o’clock the first boats appeared, running swiftly before the gale, and William Nancarrow and Peter Perkin, watching them through their telescopes, called out their names to the waiting crowd: Speedwell; Jenefer; Ellereen; Little Hob; Midge and Minette; and these six were soon followed by others: Starfish; Sea Breeze; Betty Stevens; Trelawney; Swift; John Cocking; Boy Dick.
As the Speedwell came in beside the quay, closely followed by the Jenefer, their skippers and crews were besieged at once. ‘Did you see the Bright Star?’
‘No, not a sign, neither hide nor hair. But visibility was bad. There were black squalls on the Bara Breck. We didn’t like the look of it so as soon as we’d hauled we ran for home.’ Prosper Geach looked around. His gaze came to rest on Betsy Coit and the rest of the Emmet wives.
‘About the Emmet’s punt,’ he said, and had to take a deep breath before he was able to go on. ‘I hate to have to say it, midears, but if the Bright Star haven’t found them by now, there edn no hope for them in this.’ He glanced towards the black south west. ‘Ralph Ellis will be on his way home by now. Else if he edn he ought to be cos there’s worser weather to come yet.’
The women said nothing in reply. They were already watching the other boats drawing in beside the quay. But the question eagerly put to their crews brought the same answer again and again: No one had seen the Bright Star.
The first boats began to unload. Their catches were all fairly small and the merchants and jowsters were soon driving away. Three boats had no fish at all. Alarmed by the weather, they had cut away their lines.
Just before twelve o’clock Rachel Tallack drove onto the quay in the milk-float and Maggie went to speak to her. ‘There’s no sign of the Bright Star yet. Nor any news of her.’
‘How many more boats to come?’
‘Another fifteen,’ Maggie said.
For a while Rachel waited and watched. The Shenandoah and the Rose Allan, the Pintail, the Samphire, the Sea Horse: these were coming in across the bay and their names were called out by William Nancarrow; but still the Bright Star did not come.
‘I must get home,’ Rachel said. ‘I can’t keep the pony standing here. I’ll come down again later on.’
By twenty past twelve all the boats were in. People counted. There were thirty-one. Out in the bay there was nothing to be seen except the grey blur of the rising sea. The wind was blowing harder than ever. It had a loud whining note in it. And as Maggie walked home many people who lived along the harbour road were fastening
the shutters across their windows.
On getting home she made up the fire and began preparing the midday meal. The little house shuddered and rocked, for the tide was well in on the foreshore now and, with the full force of the gale behind it, was pounding high against the sea wall. In her mind she heard Gus saying with relish, as he so often did in rough weather, ‘Ho! We’re fairly getting it now! We’d better put an anchor down!’ But Gus was out on the sea in this gale and suddenly, seeing his empty wheelchair standing in the corner by the door, she was overcome with dread.
‘Oh, Gus,’ she whispered helplessly, ‘I should never have let you go.’
In a little while Jim came in. He had been talking to the men on the quay.
‘They say the gale is going to get worse. They’re worried about the Bright Star.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘She’s a good sea-boat. She’ll be all right. She will be all right. I know she will.’
‘Yes, of course she will,’ Maggie said.
She put a plateful of fried hog’s pudding in front of him. Usually it was his favourite meal but today he looked at it with indifference.
‘There’s no school this afternoon. Miss Trembath spoke to the vicar and he said we were all excused.’
‘Well, when we’ve had our dinner, then, we’ll go down to the quay,’ Maggie said.
She brought her own food to the table and sat down. Together they ate, mechanically, listening to the wind thumping in the chimney.
Although Polsinney, with its stout-built harbour, made a safe anchorage in most conditions, it lay directly open to the fierce south westerly gales that swept in clean past Burra Head with nothing whatever to break their force. And all through that afternoon the gale blew with increasing venom. Huge seas came rushing in, hurling themselves over the quay-heads and causing such waves in the harbour pool that the thirty-one luggers, moored strake to strake along the wharf, were often washed over with foam.
By three o’clock, the greater part of Polsinney was out watching for the Bright Star. All the fishermen were there, numbering nearly two hundred men, and so were most of their families. And in their midst were the two groups of wives, the Bright Star wives and the Emmet wives, standing on the same part of the quay, sheltering in the lee of the wall, yet never quite mingling together.
Polsinney Harbour: A heartwarming family saga set in Victorian era Cornwall Page 21