The Angry Tide

  II

  The news reached Sawle on Friday night, and a tinker who plied regularly between St Ann’s and St Michael tossed it in casually to Drake as he passed early on the Saturday morning. Drake went white to the lips, sat down, put his head in his hands. Yesterday Rosina had been over here with Parthesia and her two-year-old and the two-week-old baby, and then had laughingly rearranged some cushions and re-hung the curtains and Rosina had brought some cushions she had worked and had said, blushing, that Art Mullet would carry over her box Sunday evening. In it were the small treasures of a lifetime. Clothes, of course; a cloam teapot, three good spoons, two pewter tankards, a pretty case decorated with shells, a bead necklace, a book on needlework, a length of silk given her by Jacka from the wreck of 1798, embroidered slippers, a bonnet or two, a Prayer Book, a lucky charm.

  These would come Sunday evening after the wedding. There would be laughter, some coarse jokes, a bit of horseplay, and then they would be alone. After the wedding.

  Drake got up and went to the forge. It was still early and the Trewinnard twins had not yet come. It was only by chance that he had been up and near the gate when the tinker passed. He clenched his hands and cried to God. God did not seem to hear him. Nothing changed. He was standing at the entrance to Pally’s Shop – which someday soon people might begin to call Drake’s Shop – and looking over the steep declivity of the lane to where it began to rise towards St Ann’s. In the distance a mine chimney smoked. A Warleggan chimney. Seagulls screamed in the upper air. Wind blew across the rough grass, ruffling his hair. And he was betrothed and sworn to a sweet, intelligent girl whom he did not love, but might learn to love.

  And nine miles away the object of his real love, his consuming love over the whole of his adult life, a tall young woman in black, a mother, a vicar’s wife, an unsuitably well-connected and genteel person who since she married had taken on a totally new personality, was suddenly, arbitrarily, become a widow. What did it mean? What did it mean for any of them? How could this indissoluble but insane fact be in some way absorbed into the more or less sane world?

  The first thing was to be sure. Rumours in Cornwall flew quicker than crows, and sometimes as thick. Drake ran across to the field where his pony was grazing. The pony did not wish to be caught, but Drake’s need was the greater, and in a few minutes he was riding bareback up the hill towards the low ill-kept cottage that passed for a vicarage.

  He found Mr Odgers crouched in a dressing-gown and a blanket over a small coal fire trying to write a letter between fits of coughing. Mr Odgers did not like Drake, for he was the brother of the leader of the renegade Wesleyan set who had gained – or regained – such a hold in the neighbouring villages. Also, although this was unknown to Drake, Mr Odgers had been the first person to tell George Warleggan of Morwenna’s unsuitable attachment and so had precipitated what followed. Nevertheless the young man looked in such distress that he answered the questions put to him.

  ‘What? Yes? Oh, he’s dead for sure. And I am summoned to the funeral. It is all very well, you know, for a fit young man; but I am no longer young and far from well – this bronchitis keeps me awake every night, every night without fail – and nine miles on a hired nag in the depths of this wicked winter may well cause me to follow him within the month! And who would be the gainer from that? Not Mr Osborne Whitworth, who has already gone to make one of the blest above. His mother and his widow, no doubt, and other clergy living nearer, would benefit by my presence . . .’ He stopped and coughed long and almost lovingly into his handkerchief. ‘The wind whistles under that door and has done throughout this month and last. And we have no heat in our bedroom. At night we pile things upon the bed, and then I find the weight oppressive to my cough and cast them off, and so the freezing cold creeps into my bones day and night, day and night.’

  The marble clock on the mantelshelf struck eight. Mr Odgers pulled his blanket closer.

  ‘I am writing this moment to the Bishop, explaining my situation, my plight . . . What? Well, there is no suggestion in the letter of foul play. Just fell from his horse. Fell from his horse. Broke his neck. Was found at midnight with one foot still in a stirrup. Broke his neck.’ The slightest suggestion of un-Christian relish had crept into the little curate’s tones. While Mr Webb had been vicar Mr Odgers had at least been left undisturbed in his poverty. Life under Ossie had been a bed of nails.

  ‘No, no,’ said Mr Odgers, ‘I know nothing more.’ He stared at Drake, for the first time allowing his self-absorption to slip and suspicion to creep in. ‘What is it to you, boy? What is it all to you? I am to marry you tomorrow, isn’t it, to one of the village girls. Mary Coade? No, Rosina Hoblyn, that’s it. There will be six couples to marry. I trust I shall be able to get through the ceremony.’

  ‘Thank ee,’ said Drake. ‘Thank ee, Parson.’

  ‘Why are you asking?’ Odgers said. ‘Why are you asking?’ he called after the closing door. But Drake was gone and only the draught of his going remained.

  Drake rode on as far as the higher ground by Maiden Meeting House, and from there he could see both the roof of his brother’s house and the chimneys of Nampara. But to talk to his brother about this would not help, for he knew already everything that Sam would say. He could not have been more certain. Demelza was much better – she would understand, might understand the agony of mind in which he now found himself. But this wedding with Rosina was partly of her making; there could be no doubt about that. She would listen to him and be truly sympathetic – for when was Demelza anything less? – but she could not but advise him in the same way as Sam. There was no one, no one from whom he could get an unbiased answer. There was no one to trust but himself.

  He rode down to Nampara and across the bit of rough ground to the stile leading to Hendrawna Beach. There he looped the pony’s reins over a post and left him, left him to walk on the beach alone.

  It was not a suitable day for the beach, but the weather matched his mood. A watery sun was out at present; the wind kept blowing the clouds into smoke; they drifted in streaks before the washed sky, then re-formed in masses with the swiftness of moving scenery. It was half tide, and the surf made a noise like another wind, hissing and roaring. Icebergs of foam slid about in the surf, twisting and turning as they did so.

  He walked for an hour, the wind blowing and shaking him and unsteadying his steps. He passed the Holy Well where – long, long years ago, it seemed – he and Geoffrey Charles and Morwenna had traced three crosses on the surface of the water, put in their hands, said a prayer and made a wish. He could hardly, he thought, none of them could hardly have done worse if they had prayed to the Devil.

  He reached the foot of the Dark Cliffs where the gaunt skeleton of the wrecked brig was just clear of the present tide and surrounded by a lake of water that was still black and grainy. He turned and began to walk back. The sand was very soft and his feet in places sank so deep it was like walking through thick snow. The tide was making rapidly. Tongues of water came rushing over the sand at him, bubbling and sliding, receding again, leaving fringes of froth behind and the new-wet sand swelling and sinking. Foam detached itself and trundled across the beach, hurtling as far as the cliffs before it disintegrated. The tide would beat him to the Wheal Leisure cliffs – by the time he got there it would be suicide to try to reach the next piece of beach. Perhaps it would solve everything if he did so try. But solve what? Only solve everything for him, and that was the coward’s way out.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘oh, Lord . . .’ and stopped. The Lord is my shepherd,’ he said, ‘therefore can I lack nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort . . .’ He stared at the raging sea and wondered what comfort his present walk had brought him. Had his mind been working at all on this long slogging tramp?

  Perhaps. Some thoughts, some decisions were formulating, though they owed more to feeling than logic. It was as if the news this morning had shaken his soul into such a violence that for a
time he could not know himself at all; now the news, the shock, was sedimenting and giving his mind its first stability back again. He began to mount the cliffs and presently passed the abandoned sheds and stone buildings of Wheal Leisure.

  He knew what he must do first. He must see Rosina.

  III

  The news that Drake had gone from his forge reached Demelza early Easter Sunday morning. Sam brought it.

  She stared at her brother. ‘But – he is to marry today! We are all to be at the wedding . . . What d’you mean, Sam, gone? Where has he gone? . . .’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Judas God!’

  Sam nodded. ‘Tes true, I fear. Though I’ve prayed it might be different.’

  ‘Did he know of Mr Whitworth’s death? Yes, I suppose. But what . . . Are you sure? He couldn’t, Sam. He’s pledged to Rosina! He couldn’t leave her just like this on her wedding day! It would be too cruel!’

  Sam shuffled his feet. ‘Drake have very strong feelings, sister. Very strong – loyalties, even if they be wrong directed. Oft there was trouble in his early days when he was seeking God. At times he wrought mightily and failed to end his estrangement—’

  ‘But this!’ Demelza interrupted him. ‘This is not religion . . . Forgive me, Sam, I don’t wish to offend, but we do not all see these matters in their – their true importance, and to me – just at this moment – and to most folk, indeed, it is worldly behaviour that seems of the greater import. Has Rosina . . . been told?’

  ‘He told her himself,’ Sam said, ‘yester eve. He told her and they talked for ten minutes, she d’say, and then he left’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Just left. It seemed that afore ever he proposed marriage to Rosina he told her all ’bout the kouble he’d had and how he’d loved this young woman and how this had been the love of his life and no other, and because that was over, would Rosina take him as he was? And she did so. But now yester eve he come to her cottage, all of a sudden, haggard and wild, praise be while Jacka was at the kiddley, and telled her of the news that this young woman was widowed and in dire distress and he must go to her, go to her whether or no, to see her, to see how he could help, to be at her side at this time. And Rosina . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She could not stop him. She is trying to understand.’

  ‘Judas God,’ said Demelza again. It was not often now she used her old expletive. ‘So there’s to be no wedding today . . .’

  ‘It ’pears not. There cannot be without Drake.’

  Demelza took a pace or two up and down the room, biting her thumb. ‘So I should not have interfered.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘You know, Sam, as well as I do, that we half persuaded him into this marriage, thinking twas for his own good.’

  ‘So twas, So twas. Rosina would have made him a proper little wife. They’d have grown happy and served Christ together.’

  ‘Maybe. But not now. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless?’

  She made a despairing gesture. ‘There is no hope now, I suppose? How is Rosina taking it?’

  ‘Nobly.’

  ‘Poor girl. But others will not take it so nobly, Sam.’

  ‘No . . . Jacka would barely allow me in the house. Purple, he was. Half the blame were mine for being his brother.’

  Demelza put her clenched fist to her head. ‘Oh, God, Sam, is this not tbe greatest of a mess? I so wish Ross were here! I do wish he were not always away. What can we do?’

  ‘Naught. Except wait, I reckon.’

  ‘. . . It will not be only Jacka. Folks in the villages . . . It is not good to promise to marry a girl and then go off and leave her! You and he are still foreigners to some folk. Illuggan’s a long way. You’re popular. So’s he been. But for a foreigner to promise as he’s done and then leave the girl the day before, when everything is arranged, when it is all set, all prepared, down to the last detail. There’s Art Mullet too. Parthesia is sure to be angry and to egg him on. Drake may not even be safe when he returns – if he returns.’

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Tis easy to see the dangers. If he returns. Especially if he bring the young woman with him.’

  ‘That could hardly be,’ said Demelza.

  Chapter Seven

  I

  The funeral of the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, BA, vicar of St Margaret’s, Truro, and St Sawle-with-Grambler, took place at eleven a.m. on Easter Monday. The funeral of Mr Nathaniel Pearce, who did not die until the Saturday, was postponed until Tuesday. (Possibly there was some premonitory knowledge in deaf old Mr Pearce’s parting wink and leer. Ossie, after all, was to be there before him.)

  It was a big funeral, conducted by the elderly Dr Halse and attended by most of the important figures of the town. The widow and her mother-in-law were attired in long black dresses and the heavy veils that custom dictated to hide their expressions from the common gaze, though at one stage Lady Whitworth threw back her veil and glared round at the company with her underpouched piercing eyes as if the better to see that all who should have been were there. (Mr Odgers was a notable absentee, and the fact would be noted against him.) Mr Arthur Solway came, though not Mrs Solway, which was strange, for Mrs Chynoweth had come from Bodmin accompanied by her daughter Garlanda. It was later understood Mrs Solway was away.

  There were some strangers, though not many in a town and district where almost everyone who was anyone knew everyone else worth knowing. But one tall dark rough-clad young man was in the back of the church and at the back of the throng surrounding the grave. Morwenna did not see him, for she was so near breakdown that she could not raise her eyes to anyone; but Elizabeth, on George’s arm, saw and recognized. She said nothing to George, but she thought to speak to the young man if the opportunity presented itself. However, she looked around at the end of the committal, and it appeared that he was gone.

  After the funeral there was a discreet tea, with cakes and scones and jams and jellies and tarts. Over the last few years there had been a reaction in Cornwall, particularly among the upper classes, against the massive funeral celebrations of the last decade or so, with one family vying against another, until some men of property had begun to leave instructions in their wills that they were to be buried at night to prevent such extravagances. Lady Whitworth, totally in command of everything, and grieving for her son, if she grieved at all, so privately that no one noticed, had decreed a morning funeral and a well-furnished but simple tea.

  This lasted until two, by which time nearly all had gone, and one by one the relatives congregated in the parlour for a discussion about the future. Present were Mr Pardow, the family solicitor from St Austell; Morwenna – with the sturdy Garlanda beside her, ready to help her sister in any physical or moral way she could; Lady Whitworth, square-jawed and square-shouldered and rasping of voice; Mrs Amelia Chynoweth, Morwenna’s mother, still as pretty as ever in a yielding fragile way – one wondered why she had not re-married; Elizabeth Warleggan, Morwenna’s cousin; and Mr George Warleggan, who had been persuaded, greatly against his personal wishes, to stay.

  The conversation beat backwards and forwards over the problems that had to be faced. How much money had Mr Whitworth left, how long would Morwenna and the three children be allowed to stay on in the vicarage, was Lady Whitworth prepared to continue her allowance – it was the first Morwenna had heard of it – might Morwenna, if pressed for time, live with Lady Whitworth or Mrs Chynoweth until a suitable place could be found? There was a cottage on her property near Goran, Lady Whitworth grudgingly admitted, where a rascally shepherd now lived who had let it fall to ruin, but he could be turned out and with a pound or two spent it might be made into a cosy little home. Unfortunately there was no well water nearer than the main house, and John Conan could not be expected to drink whatever fell into the rain tub. It became fairly clear in the course of the conversation that Lady W. had her priorities firmly fixed. First came John Conan; second, but a poor second, Ossie’s two daughters by his first wife; and third, but s
o far third as to be hardly noticeable, Morwenna.

  Every time Amelia Chynoweth said anything Lady Whitworth talked her down; they had met only once before – at Trenwith immediately prior to and during the wedding – and her ladyship had a poor opinion of all the Chynoweth family, particularly Amelia, whose voice, she thought, was like fudge and whose opinions had as much backbone in them. The young woman her son had married was a faceless non-entity who’d been no good to anybody, except that by some fortunate chance she had produced a handsome vigorous lusty son to carry on the name.

  And that faceless non-entity, that wild-eyed, downcast young woman about whom all this talk swirled and eddied without her ever contributing a useful comment, she was thinking: how Ossie would have enjoyed this meeting; what a pity he can’t be here to join in. But he’s dead. Why am I alive, why am I here? What is my purpose? I would be far better dead and buried like him – only in some distant corner of the graveyard as far from his resting place as it is possible ever to get. He tried to prove me insane – he hoped to put me away somewhere. In those days I was as sane as he was. But not so now. In a moment – any moment – my head will burst open and I shall tear my hair and my clothes and scream to God and high Heaven! They are talking about me as if I were a parcel; as if I didn’t exist. And really it’s true. I don’t exist any longer. Nothing of me – it’s all gone – mind, body – soul, even; I am an envelope, a useless sack of clothes from which has been squeezed all feeling, all reason, all sentiment, all goodness, all faith. I don’t need to be buried, for I am dead already, there is nothing left: ashes, dust, sand, dirt, blood, semen, urine, pus, excrement, ordure—