“Nay,” said the other woman, wiggling her toes. “You’re mistook. ’Twas a rat maybe. Or wur it little Julia a-stirring in ’er cot, an? Go see, will ’ee, and save my poor feet.”
“Couldn’ be that,” said Jinny. “It were a man’s voice—grumble, grumble, grumble, like an old cart wheel—coming up from the cellar steps.”
Prudie was about to contradict her again, but then, with a thoughtful look, she pulled on her slippers and rose like the side of a mountain creakily out of her chair. She flapped out into the hall and peered through the cellar door, which opened in the angle made by the stairs.
For a few seconds the murmur was too indistinct to catch any words, but after a while, she heard:
There was an old couple an’ they was—was poor.
Tw-tw-tweedle, go tweedle, go twee.
“Tes Jud,” she said grimly to the anxious Jinny. “Drownin’ his guts in Cap’n Ross’s best gin. ’Ere, stay a breath, I’ll root en out.”
She flapped back to the kitchen. “Where’s that there broom ’andle?”
“In the stable,” said Jinny. “I seen it there this morning.”
Prudie went out to get it, Jinny with her, but when they came back, the song in the cellar had stopped. They lighted a candle from the kitchen fire and Prudie went down the stairs. There were several broken bottles about but no signs of Jud.
Prudie came up. “The knock-kneed ’ound’s wriggled out while we was away.”
“Hold a minute,” said Jinny.
They listened.
Someone was singing gently in the parlor.
Jud was in Ross’s best chair, with his boots on the mantelpiece. On his head, hiding the fringe and the tonsure, was one of Ross’s hats, a black riding hat turned up at the brim. In one hand was a jar of gin and in the other a riding crop, with which he gently stirred the cradle in which Julia slept.
“Jud!” said Prudie. “Get out o’ that chair!”
Jud turned his head.
“Ah,” he said in a ridiculous voice. “C-come in, good women all, good women all, g-good women. Your servant, ma’am. Damn, ’tis handsome of ’ee to make this visit. Tedn what I’d of expected in a couple o’ bitches. But there, one ’as to take the rough wi’ the rough, an’ a fine couple of bitches ye be. Pedigree stock, sir. Never have I seen the likes. Judgin’ only by the quarters, ’tis more’n a fair guess to say there’s good blood in ’ee, an’ no missment.”
He gave the cradle a prod with his riding crop to keep it rocking.
Prudie grasped her broom.
“’Ere, dear,” she said to Jinny. “You go finish yer work. I’ll deal with this.”
“Can you manage him?” Jinny asked anxiously.
“Manage ’im. I’ll mince ’im. Only ’tis a question of the cradle. We don’t want the little mite upset.”
When Jinny had gone, Jud said, “What, no more’n one lef? What a cunning crack ye am, Mishtress Paynter, getting’ quit o’ she so’s there’ll be less to share the gin.” His little eyes were bloodshot with drink and bleary with cunning. “Come us in, my dear, an’ lift your legs up. I’m the owner ’ere; Jud Paynter, eskewer, of Nampara, mashter of hounds, mashter of cemeteries, justice of the peace. ’Ave a sup!”
“Pah!” said Prudie. “Ye’ll laugh on the other side of yer head if Cap’n Ross catches ’ee wi’ yer breeches glued to ’is bettermost chair. Ah…ye dirty glut!”
He had upended his jar of gin and was drinking it in great gulps.
“Nay, don’t ’ee get scratchy, for I’ve two more by the chair. Ye’ve overfanged notions o’ the importance of Ross an’ his kitchen girl in the scum of things. ’Ere, ’ave a spur.”
Jud leaned over and put a half-empty jar on the table behind him. Prudie stared at it.
“Look!” she said. “Out o’ that chair or I’ll cleave open yer ’ead with this broom. An’ leave the cheeil alone!” The last words came in a screech, for he had given the cradle another poke.
Jud turned and looked at her assessingly; through the blear of his gaze he tried to see how far his head was in danger. But Ross’s hat gave him confidence.
“Gis along, you. ’Ere, there’s brandy in the cupboard. Fetch it down an’ I’ll mix ye a Sampson.”
It had once been Prudie’s favorite drink: brandy and cider and sugar. She stared at Jud as if he were the Devil tempting her to sell her soul.
She said, “If I want drink I’ll get it and not akse you, nor no other else.” She went to the cupboard and genteelly mixed half a Sampson. With greedy, glassy eyes Jud watched her.
“Now,” said Prudie fiercely, “out o’ that chair!”
Jud wiped a hand across his face. “Dear life, it makes me weep to see ’ee. Drink un up first. An’ mix me one too. Mix me a Sampson wi’ his hair on. There, there, be a good wife now.”
A “Sampson with his hair on” was the same drink but with double the brandy. Prudie took no notice and drank her own. Then, gloomily, she mixed herself another.
“Tend on yerself,” she said. “I never was yer wife, and well you know it. Never in church proper like a good maid should. Never no passon to breathe ’is blessing. Never no music. Never no wedden feast. Just I was. I wonder you sleep of nights.”
“Well, a fine load ye was,” said Jud. “An’ more’s been added. Half enough to fill a tin ship now. And you didn’ want no wedden. Gis along, you old suss. ’Twas all I could do to get ’ee ’ere decent. ’Ave a drink.”
Prudie reached for the half-empty jar.
“Me old mother wouldn’ have liked it,” she said. “Tes fair to say she was happier dead. The only one she reared, I was. One out of twelve. Tes hard to think on after all these years.”
“One in twelve’s a fair portion,” said Jud, giving the cot another push. “The world’s too full as ’tis, and some should be drownded. Ef I ’ad me way, which mebbe I never shall, an’ more’s the pity, for there’s precious few has got the head on ’em that Jud Paynter has got, though there’s jealous folk as pretend to think other, and one o’ these days they’ll ’ave the shock of their lives, for Jud Paynter’ll up and tell ’em down-souse that tes jealous thoughts an’ no more keeps away a recognition that, if he ’ad un, would be no more than any man’s due who’s got the head on ’im. Where was I?”
“Killin’ off me little brothers and sisters,” said Prudie.
“Ais,” said Jud. “One in twelve. That’s what I say, one in twelve. Not swarming like the Martins an’ the Viguses an’ the Daniels. Not swarming like this house’ll be before long. Put ’em in the tub I would, like they was chets.”
Prudie’s great nose was beginning to light up.
“I’ll have no sich talk in my kitchen,” she declared.
“We bain’t in your kitchen now, so hold yer tongue, you fat cow.”
“Cow yerself, and more,” said Prudie. “Dirty old gale. Dirty old ox. Dirty old wort. Pass me that jar. This one’s dry.”
• • •
In the kitchen Jinny waited for the crash and commotion of Jud’s punishment. It did not come. She went on with her work. Since her youngest, Kate, had begun to get her fingers in things she had given up bringing her to work and had left her in the care of her mother, to grow up along with the other two and with the younger ones of Mrs. Zacky’s brood. So she was all alone in the kitchen.
Presently she finished her work and looked about for something else. The windows could do with a wash. She took out a bucket to get water from the pump and saw her eldest, Bengy Ross, come trotting over the fields from Mellin.
She knew at once what it was. Zacky had promised to let his daughter know.
She went to meet the child, wiping her hands on her apron.
Bengy was three and a half, a big boy for his age, showing no hurt for his ordeal except the thin white scar on his cheek. She met him at the edge of th
e garden by the first apple trees.
“Well, dear?” she said. “What did Gramfer say?”
Bengy looked at her brightly. “Gramfer says the mine is to close next month, ma’am.”
Jinny stopped wiping her hands. “What, all of it?”
“Ais. Gramfer say ’tis all to close down next month. Ma’am, can I ’ave an apple?”
It was worse than she had expected. She had thought that they might let half of it go and keep the richer lode. She had hoped no worse. If all Grambler was to close, it meant the end of everything. A few lucky ones might have savings to last the winter. The rest would find other work or starve. There was no other work about unless a few got on at Wheal Leisure. Some might try the lead mines of Wales or the coal mines of the Midlands, leaving their families to see for themselves. It would be a breakup of lives, of homes.
There would be no choice for Jim when he came out. He would be lucky even to be taken on at the farm. She had lived all her life in the shadow of Grambler. It was no light-seeking venture, easy begun and easy done. There had been ups and downs, she knew, but never a closure. She did not know how many years it had been going but long before her mother was born. There had been no village of Grambler there before the mine: the mine was the village. It was the center point of the district, the industry, a household name, an institution.
She went in and picked out a ripe apple from among the “resters” in the still-room, gave it to Bengy.
She must tell Jud and Prudie—at least tell Prudie, if Jud was not yet in his senses.
Bengy trailing at her heels, she went into the parlor.
• • •
Ross heard the news as he was riding home from his meeting with Richard Tonkin, Ray Penvenen, and Sir John Trevaunance. An elderly miner, Fred Pandarves, shouted it to him as he was passing the gibbet at the Bargus crossroads. Ross rode on, thinking there would be no mines left to profit by their scheme if things went on like that much longer. He had come away from Place House, Trevaunance, in an encouraged mood, for Sir John had promised them his influence and his money provided they built the copper smelting works on his land, but the news of Grambler’s closure set that optimism back.
He rode slowly down Nampara Combe and reached his house, but he did not at once take Darkie to her stable. He had the half thought of going to see Francis.
In the hall he paused and listened to the raised voices in the parlor. Was Demelza entertaining company? He was not in the mood for company.
But that was Jud’s voice. And Jinny Carter’s raised too. Jinny shouting! He went to the door, which was an inch open.
“It is a lie!” Jinny was in tears. “A wicked filthy lie, Jud Paynter, and you did ought to be whipped, sittin’ there in your master’s chair drinking his brandy and uttering such falseness. You did ought to be scourged wi’ scorpions like they say in the Bible. You horrible nasty beast you—”
“Hearear,” said Prudie. “Thash ri’, dearie. Give un a clunk on the head. ’Ave my stick.”
“You bide in yer own sty,” said Jud. “Cabby ole mare. I’m not saying nothin’ but what’s said by others. Look for yerself. Look at the lad’s scar, there on ’is face. Poor lil brat, tedn his fault. But is it wonder folk say ’twas put there as a mark by Beelzebub himself to mark ’is true father for all to see. Folks say—who can blame ’em—who ever see two scars more alike? Like father like son, they say: Ross and Bengy Ross. An’ then they say: ‘Look he was riding off again wi’ she last month but one all the way to Bodmin and lay there the night.’ Tedn my talking, but tedn surprising there’s talk. An’ all the weepin’ an’ shoutin’ in Gristledom won’t stay it.”
“I’ll hear no more,” cried Jinny. “I come in here to tell you about Grambler, an’ you turn on me like a horrible drunk old dog! An’ you, Prudie, I should never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes!”
“Ushush! Don’t take on so, maid. I’m jush sitting here quiet-like to see Jud gets up to no mishchief. After all’s done an’ said—”
“An’ as for that poor lil brat thur,” said Jud, “tedn reasonable to blame he. Tedn smart. Tedn proper. Tedn just. Tedn fitty—”
“I wish Jim was here! Bengy, come away from the beast…”
She burst out of the parlor with a wild look and her face streaked with tears. She clutched her eldest child by one hand. Ross had drawn back, but she saw him. She instantly went very white, the red patches on her face showing up like blotches. Her eyes met his in fright and hostility. Then she ran into the kitchen.
• • •
Demelza reached home soon after, having walked across the cliff way from Trenwith. She found Julia still asleep through all the noise and Prudie with her head in her apron weeping loudly beside the cradle. The parlor reeked, and there were two broken jars on the floor. Chairs were overturned and Demelza began to suspect the truth.
But she could get no sense out of Prudie, who only wailed the louder when she was touched and said they’d both seen the last of Jud.
Demelza fled into the kitchen. No sign of Jud.
Noises in the yard.
Ross stood by the pump, working it with one hand while in the other he held a horsewhip. Jud was under the pump.
Every time he tried to get away from the water, he took a crack from the horsewhip, so he had given it up and was drowning patiently.
“Ross, Ross! What is it! What has he done, Ross?”
He looked at her.
“Next time you take the day for shopping,” he said, “we will see that better arrangements are come to for the care of our child.”
The seeming injustice of it took her breath away.
“Ross!” she said. “I don’t understand. What has happened? Julia seems all right.”
Ross cracked his whip. “Get under there! Learn to swim! Learn to swim! Let’s see if we can wash some of the nasty humors out of you.”
“Humors” might have been “rumors,” but Demelza did not know that. She turned suddenly and ran back into the house.
• • •
Verity got right home without hearing anything of the decision. They had parted from Captain Blamey at the St. Ann’s Fork, and then Demelza had dismounted at the gates of Trenwith and Verity and Bartle went up the drive alone.
Elizabeth was the only one who looked up at Verity’s coming in, for Aunt Agatha did not hear it and Francis did not heed it.
Elizabeth smiled painfully. “Did the Pascoes let you leave so soon?”
“We didn’t go,” said Verity, pulling off her gloves. “There were miners rioting in the town and—and we thought it wise to leave before the disorder grew worse.”
“Ha!” said Francis from the window. “Rioting, indeed. There’ll be rioting in other parts soon.”
“For that reason, I had not the time to get you the brooch, Elizabeth. I am so sorry, but perhaps I shall be able to go in next week—”
“All these years,” said Aunt Agatha. “Damn me, ’twas old afore I was born. I mind well old Grannie Trenwith telling me that her grandpa-by-marriage, John Trenwith, cut the first goffin the year afore he died.”
“What year was that?” Francis said moodily.
“But if you was to ask me how long ago that was, I shouldn’t know. I’d say ye’d best look in the Bible. But it was when Elizabeth was an old queen.”
Quite slowly the import of the whole scene came to Verity. The meeting of that morning had gone from her mind. She had ridden away from Trenwith obsessed by the decisions that were to be taken in her absence. She had ridden back and not given it a thought.
“You don’t mean—”
“Then the first underground shaft was put in by the other John seventy or eighty year later. That was the one Grannie Trenwith married. All those years an’ never closed. It isn’t long since we drew thousands a year out of it. It don’t seem right to le
t it all go.”
With a subtlety unnatural in her, Verity played up to their assumption.
“From what I heard,” she said, “I wasn’t quite sure… Does it mean the whole mine? Everything?”
“How could it be otherwise?” Francis turned from the window. “We can’t keep one part drained without the other.”
“Why, when I was growing up,” said Aunt Agatha, “there was money to play with. Papa died when I was eight, and I mind how Mama spent money on the memorial in Sawle Church. ‘Spare no expense,’ I heard her say. I can hear her now. ‘Spare no cost. He died as surely of his wounds as if he’d fallen in battle. He shall have a worthy stone.’ Ah, Verity, so you’re back, eh? You’re flushed. Why’re you so flushed? ’Tis nothing to warm the blood, this news. It be the downfall of the Poldarks, I can tell ye.”
“What will this mean, Francis?” Verity asked. “How will it affect us? Shall we be able to go on as before?”
“As shareholders, it will affect us not at all except to destroy the hope of a recovery and to stop us throwing good money after bad. We have drawn no dividend for five years. For mineral rights we have been taking upward of eight hundred pounds a year, which will now cease. That’s the difference.”
Verity said, “We can hardly then continue—”
“It will depend on our other commitments,” Francis said irritably. “We have the farm to work. We own all of Grambler village and half of Sawle, for what the rents will be worth after this. But if our creditors will be indulgent, there will be a minimum incoming that will make life supportable even if hardly worth supporting.”
Elizabeth got up, sliding Geoffrey Charles quietly to the floor.
“We shall manage,” she said quietly. “There are others worse than we. There are ways we can save. This cannot last forever. It is just a question of keeping our heads above water for the time.”
Francis glanced at her in slight surprise. Perhaps he had half expected her to take a different line, complaining and blaming him. But she always turned up trumps in a crisis.
“Can I make a noise now, Mama?” asked Geoffrey Charles, glancing angrily at his father. “Can I make a noise now?”