The Forgotten Story

  Her position in Falmouth had been a little difficult ever since she left Tom. There were some who said she deserved a good whipping for turning her back on a well-to-do young gentleman who had done her the honour of marrying her. This view was strong among those who would have liked to marry him themselves or had eligible daughters. Marriage vows were not to be treated like waste paper; what would the world be coming to if everyone acted in such a fashion? Besides, it was a wicked bad example for all the young folks growing up. Pat Veal, they said, had shown her upbringing and her parentage: the Veals were a queer lot nowadays – all except Miss Veal of Arwenack Street. Young Mrs Harris must be carefully and systematically cut.

  Then after the contents of the Will became known she noticed the onset of another change. Young women who had come in for a good deal of ready money, considerable property and a complete shipping line were somehow more entided to their impulses and foibles. But young women who had been practically disowned and left penniless would be well advised to eat humble pie and go on eating it. If they did not do so, then so much the worse for them.

  Now, after this afternoon, the town would be well confirmed in its worst views.

  Not that it mattered, she told herself. What did anything matter any more? They would go their way and she would go hers. She did not yet depend on their patronage.

  ‘You know we’re leaving by the morning tide, don’t you?’ said Ned.

  She nodded, but the information chilled her afresh. Ned was a good friend who had stood by her in everything. His friendship did not waver with changed circumstances. He was one of the few who were worth knowing.

  They were quite alone in the little parlour, and the last sun had left the room. It was dark and quiet and smelt of damp earth from some ferns in the window.

  ‘Why don’t you come away with me?’ said Ned.

  She looked at him startled.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He grunted. ‘I don’t mean in The Grey Cat, of course. I could cut that and stay behind. What I mean is … Well, I can’t ask you to marry me, because you’re already married. But why not come away with me somewhere? Later on Harris will get tired of hanging on and will divorce you. Then we can do things legally. But … that may be a year or two. Come away; let’s leave the country altogether. You can’t stay in Falmouth. Everybody’ll talk and talk. You can’t live on what you’ve got. Well, I’ve not much, but I can earn. I can earn enough for two. We can go to Australia, start a new life. Nobody’ll know us there. It’ll be dropping all this and starting all over again. What d’you say?’

  It is doubtful if Ned Pawlyn had ever before said quite so much without a break. Patricia stared somewhat startled at the sudden vista which opened before her. She had never contemplated such a thing; but she suddenly found the prospect not without its attraction. Two months ago she would have dismissed the idea with scarcely a thought. Then life in Falmouth, for all the break-up of her marriage, was good. She enjoyed the life of the restaurant; besides, she was so young that she looked into the future eagerly and without fear. But now … the restaurant was closed and Aunt Madge was making as yet no effort to open it. Even if she did, she, Pat, would not feel the same proprietorial interest in its success. And she had lost her father and the respect of most of her neighbours. If Uncle Perry eventually found somewhere to retire, as he still talked of doing, the household might boil down to no more than herself and Madge; and although she had no special complaints to lodge against Madge as a stepmother, there was no pleasure in looking forward to having her as a sole companion. (Besides, Madge had made no secret of her view that Pat’s proper place was in her husband’s house; when Pat first returned she had always been going on at her about the sanctity of marriage vows: on and on in her best water-weareth-away-stone manner. Though in fairness, Pat had to admit that she had never suggested it since Joe died.) But what alternative was there now except either to return to Tom or to live with Madge? With only a few hundred pounds she could not set up in a little cottage of her own.

  Here was an alternative suddenly before her eyes … Australia was a new conception: a big hot land of rolling sheep farms and miles of ripening wheat. Life there with Ned might be adventurous and new. Men had made big fortunes out there in the last few years; why not Ned? She pictured herself as his partner and companion all through life, living in a wooden shack, then later in a big ranch house, sitting on a veranda with a warm, sweet wind blowing in from the miles of grass land, and perhaps two or three children tumbling about at her feet.

  ‘What d’you say, Pat?’ Ned repeated.

  Slowly her eyes came back to the drab little room and to the dark-browed eager young man opposite. With Ned. That was the point. With Ned. Slowly the vision faded.

  ‘It’s sweet of you to ask me,’ she began.

  In a moment he was kneeling beside her, one arm resting upon her knees.

  ‘I needn’t go tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Stevens can get someone else. There’s a ship leaving for Brisbane one day next week. We can make a long honeymoon of it.’

  She felt that she wanted to refuse him, but she did not seem to have the strength left. And, although the vision had faded, there remained a thread of self-knowledge in her mind which told her that this was what she was really cut out for: not to be a lawyer’s wife, not to live as a grass widow in a narrow circle of relatives and friends, not to live in a provincial, respectable, genteel comfort, but to launch out with the man she loved, risking hardship and overcoming difficulties, finding adventure and frustration and fulfilment.

  ‘I’ll think it over,’ she said. ‘ I’ll think about it, Ned, truly I will. If –’

  But he knew that such a favourable moment was unlikely to return. Tomorrow things might look different to her. But he knew that if he could coax a promise out of her tonight she would stick to it tomorrow and the next day.

  And, if nothing happened, he was due to sail on the morning tide. In a few hours he would be gone.

  He bent towards her and found her face closer to his than it had ever been before. It delighted him and he kissed her gently on the mouth.

  Her lips were yielding; they did not respond but they were not unfriendly. He kissed her again, and the success went to his head. He puy his arms about her and drew her towards him and tried to kiss her again.

  And then suddenly he found that she was resisting him, unmistakably resisting him. They strained for a moment or two and then he let her free. She rose to her feet quickly and went to the window. He could see her breath coming quickly, misting the pane.

  He went and stood beside her, put a hand upon her arm.

  She turned. ‘Please, Ned,’ she said quiedy, and her face was white. ‘Please, Ned; take me home.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Amid the opal clouds of dawn The Grey Cat slipped out quietly into the bay. Anthony was awake and craned his neck from his window to watch her shake out her sails one by one like a white flower unfolding its petals at the touch of the sun. He was sorry to see her go, for he liked the burly mate with his long legs and his quiet, slouching walk and felt sympathy with him in his obvious devotion to Pat. Since his pact with Tom, however, he had experienced a sense of constraint in Ned’s presence and had tended to avoid him. He felt as if he were accredited to an unfriendly power and did not want to abuse his diplomatic privileges.

  It was a beautiful morning with the early autumn sun dispersing a scarf of mist which clung to the low hills on the other side of the harbour. Anthony was the first stirring in a house which had curiously cut adrift from its old routine since Joe died. In the old days Perry had been the only member of the household to stay late in bed, but with the incentive of business removed Aunt Madge was now not rising until about half-past nine, and little Fanny, a reluctant waker at the best of times, usually succeeded in putting in an appearance a bare ten minutes ahead of her, like a saucy frigate in front of a ship of the line.

  Patricia was usually the first about, with Anthony close behi
nd her, but this morning he was down much earlier. When he happened to go outside and saw what someone had written in white on the pavement outside the shop and on the shop window, he felt there was a reasonable hope, if he was very quick, of being able to remove the writing before Patricia came down.

  Although he had not been at the police court, Aunt Madge and Uncle Perry had discussed it in front of him later in the evening, and he realised that the inscriptions had some reference to what had passed there. The writing on the window said: ‘SAILORS ONLY.’ That on the pavement was more explicit, and ran: ‘CALL IN ANY TIME YOU ARE IN PORT.’

  There was another reason for haste, for it was now full daylight. The street was at present deserted, but people would soon be passing this way.

  The shop door was not open, so he had to carry a bucket round from the kitchen door and up the steps at the side. He realised he had brought nothing to work with and ran back for a cloth and a scrubbing brush.

  He began on the window, and at once found that the stuff used was not whitewash, as he had first thought, but paint, and it had been dry several hours. The letters would be removable only with great difficulty. He could barely reach the top of the letters, but that did not matter so long as he made them unreadable.

  He had been at work about five minutes when Warne’s milk cart stopped at the corner. Fred Warne, the big, overgrown son, came down the narrow, sloping street carrying a milk churn. He stopped at the sight of Anthony and set down his can.

  Fred Warne was the result of a marriage of first cousins and was not among the brighter intelligences.

  ‘Whar’ee doing that fur?’

  Anthony stopped a moment and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘L-O-R-S,’ spelt Fred laboriously. ‘O-N-L-Y. That don’t make sense. Who’s been writing on the pavement?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Out early this morning,’ said Fred. ‘Don’t b’long to see anyone stirring round ’ere s’early as this. Not since the Ole Man died. What are ’ee out s’early fur?’

  Anthony began to sweat with the effort of his work. Fred Warne watched him with a slightly open mouth. There was silence while the L O disappeared.

  ‘Call-in-any-time-you-are-in-port,’ Fred read out, putting his tongue round his mouth in between words. ‘What fur should anyone want fur to write that, eh?’

  ‘Isn’t it time you delivered the milk?’ the boy suggested.

  ‘Reckon you’re opening again,’ said Fred, suddenly struck with the idea. ‘ Reckon that’s what ’tis. ’Tis a bit of a joke fur to attrack people. Did Widow Veal ask fur that there notice to be splashed on the pavement, eh?’

  ‘Your horse is straying,’ said Anthony, glancing up the road. ‘Look …’

  Fred scratched the fair stubble on his chin.

  ‘E can’t do that fur ’e’s tethered to the lamppost. Reckon that’s another joke, eh?’ He burst into hearty but contemptuous laughter.

  ‘You’ll waken everybody.’

  Fred shifted on to his other foot and leaned a hand on his milk churn. ‘ Well, ’tis daylight. Didn’t people ought to be woke up when ’tis daylight, eh?’ His hearty laughter brayed out again. A small child came to the end of the street and stared down with his finger in his mouth.

  ‘Call-in-any-time-you-are-in-port,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll tell fathur ’bout you opening ’gain. Maybe you’ll be wanting more milk again, eh?’

  A window opened above their heads. With a sinking feeling the boy saw Patricia looking down.

  ‘Anthony! Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘I thought,’ said Anthony. ‘ I thought I’d – I’d clean the windows. They were dirty and I thought it would be –’

  ‘What’s that writing? Move the bucket, will you? I –’ She broke off and her face went a sudden white.

  ‘Shall I tell fathur you be goin’ t’open up again, eh?’ called Fred.

  She quickly shut the window.

  ‘Don’t seem to like it, eh?’ said the milk boy. ‘ What’s the matter with she?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’ Anthony suddenly snapped, losing his temper. ‘ Get on with your milk round …’ He stared at the shop window. The R S had gone. ONLY did not convey much. He glanced at his water, which was now a greasy grey.

  ‘You must be windy ’ bout something,’ said Fred Warne. ‘Getting snappy an’ –’

  But the water had been suddenly emptied on the pavement, swilling almost over Fred’s feet, and Anthony and the empty bucket were gone.

  In the kitchen Anthony came full tilt into the girl. He swerved past her and hurriedly clanged the bucket under the kitchen sink and turned the tap on full. She came and stood beside him without speaking while the bucket filled; he could see one white sleeve of her dressing-gown trembling against the table.

  The tap was turned off and he grabbed the bucket.

  ‘Leave it, Anthony,’ she said, speaking rapidly but with some difficulty. ‘What does it matter? Leave it. Don’t – show that – we care …’

  ‘It’ll be gone soon,’ he gasped, and rushed out up the steps and round the corner to the front of the shop.

  The small boy and a strange man and Mrs Treharne, the publican’s wife from the corner, had joined Fred Warne. An effort of will was needed to go out and ignore their questions and their sly looks and get down on your knees and begin to scrub for dear life. Learning from experience, Anthony concentrated on the important words: CALL, TIME and PORT.

  Three youths going to work at the docks now joined the gathering, and then a shrewish little woman from a cottage next to the public house who, having had the situation explained to her, gave it as her opinion that after all folks generally got what they asked for in this world, but that boy didn’t ought to be the one scrubbing it off, the one to do it should be her that was in the fault.

  All the time he was at work the audience remained, though in the nature of things it was a fluctuating one. Even with such a pleasant and original spectacle to view and discuss, people in the early morning were generally up at that hour to some purpose, and work called the faithful to their several tasks. But others came to take their places.

  When the thing was at last done, Anthony took up his bucket and brush and, ignoring the last questions and humorous remarks, slid quietiy round to the back of the house, leaving the solitary word ONLY still upon the shop window as a mark of the detainer’s hand.

  Breakfast that morning was a joyless meal. Patricia had gone upstairs and did not reappear, Perry as usual was still asleep, so Aunt Madge presided in due solemnity with Anthony beside her and Fanny occupying an obscure seat at the end of the table. Without the lightening effect of the two other adults Madge was like a blanket, and conversation ran into blind alleys. The only time Madge was ever talkative was when she had a grievance.

  The morning passed, and it was not until lunch time that Patricia came quietly down the stairs and took her seat at the table. She smiled faintly at Perry’s humorous sallies, but bent over her meal in silence until little Fanny had carried off her own meal into the scullery.

  Then Pat raised her head. ‘Madge,’ she said, ‘ don’t think I’m not happy here; but I’m going to get a job.’

  Her stepmother put up a plump, white hand to pat the pad in her hair.

  ‘While I’m alive …’

  ‘Yes, I know, my dear, and thank you. But I can’t stop here on your – charity all my life. Besides, forgive me, but I don’t want to. I’ve been trying to make up my mind for days – ever since the Will was read. This morning has decided me –’

  ‘Pah! What’s there in that to take on about?’ said Perry, patting her knee. ‘You’ve no need to pay attention to a few old gossips. They mean no harm. Everyone gossips. Even me. Even Anthony, don’t you, boy? It will die down in no time. Now in China –’

  ‘What,’ asked Aunt Madge, turning up her eyes, ‘did you think of doing?’

  The girl puckered her smooth brow. ‘I’ve hardly got as far as that yet. T
here’s so few things a woman can do. But I’ll find something.’

  ‘People will think,’ said Aunt Madge, blinking. ‘ People will blame me. Your Aunt Louisa. They’ll say …’

  ‘In China,’ said Perry, ‘there’s a sign language, you know. If they draw one little figure under a roof, that means harmony. If they put two little figures that stands for marriage. If they put three little figures that means gossip. It’s just the same wherever –’

  ‘I don’t see why they should say anything against you,’ said Patricia. ‘I’ll tell Aunt Louisa it’s nothing to do with you. I’m a free agent and –’

  ‘Not the solution,’ said Aunt Madge; ‘not the solution Hi should have … A good husband …’

  Pat’s firm young face did not alter. ‘ I can’t, Madge. I don’t want to go back to him. I want to live my own life, stand on my own feet …’

  ‘Whereas in Japan,’ said Perry, ‘there isn’t the same inducement, as you might say.’

  ‘Not nice,’ said Aunt Madge. ‘A young girl to go out … earning her own … Later. This restaurant. We shall open again. Shan’t we, Perry?’

  ‘Yes, duck. Anything you say. I remember in Yokohama, there’s a geisha palace. I’ve heard it said that they thrash the girls’ bare feet with bamboo canes if they aren’t obliging to customers. Which just shows that there’s two sides to every story.’ He pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘ There’s one side, and there’s the other side. Like young Pat wanting to go out and earn her own living. Some would say it was all right, and others –’

  ‘I shall try in Falmouth first,’ said Pat. ‘But if nothing turns up here I shall try somewhere else. I’m fairly good with my fingers and there might be an opportunity at somewhere like Martins or Crosbies.’