Jeremy Poldark by Winston Graham
“She’s but seventeen,” said Jacka, filling his pipe. “There’s many a young rip’ll be coming after she afore long.”
“Maybe an olderer sort of person would be more fitty like,” said Kempthorne, licking his lips.
“An’ this old couple,” sang Jud, “’ad got no gold. Tweedle, tweedle, go-twee. So they was feelin’ fair bedoled. In the lewth of the elmin tree.”
“Now me,” said Kempthorne, “just for instance, as you might say. I aren’t doin’ so dusty out o’ my sailmaking an’ suchlike. Getting’ a little nest egg together. Mind, I got two childer, one of—”
“Aye,” said Jacka, “poor little brats.”
“There’s naught amiss with them that growin’ up won’t cure. What they need more’n aught else is a woman’s care. I’ve had a thought for Mary Ann Tregaskis; but—”
“If she’d ’ave you.” When he was in his first drink was not the time for Jacka Hoblyn’s nature to show at its most agreeable.
“Well, that’s as may be. I ’aven’t asked her. But there’s many as would jump at the chance. I got a bit o’ ground back of Andrewartha’s for swedes, an’ I shall be havin’ a litter of veers next month. An’ sailmaking’s maybe not all I shall do with the needle afore I’m through. I got me ten yards o’ black velveteen in to Redruth last week, cheap, at two shillings the yard, and I’ve a mind to cut it out and make it up as breeches in a genteel way; twould sell to folk aiming to be gentry if not to the gentry themselves. And there’s other things I got, picked up here an’ there, that’d maybe surprise you.”
“Yes?” said Jacka, pouring another drink.
“Yes. An’ I ’ad the thought twould fit in very well for a girl as is ’andy with a needle to fix up with a man who’s ’andy the same way, like. I ’ad that thought.”
“You ’ad, eh?” said Jacka, and stared appraisingly at Kempthorne. He brooded for a minute. “How old are you, Charlie? Nearly so old as me, I reckon.”
“I’m only thirty-nine,” said Charlie.
“And d’you spit blood still?”
“Nay, I’ve not done that for near on two year. Look, Jacka, I tell ee, I’m getting on in the world, and, there’s many a maid could do worse…”
“Maybe the maid would have somethin’ to say ’bout that herself.”
“Nay, Rosina’s an easy-natured sort o’ girl—takes after her mother. An’ you, Jacka, o’ course. An’ you. She’d do what her dad thought right, I’m sure of it.”
“Aye,” growled Jacka, “maybe she would. Maybe that’s the way she’s been brought up. But I aren’t one for doing things in haste—except when there’s need for haste. And there’d better not be now.”
“No haste at all! Just think around it in your leisure, like. And maybe I’ll drop in an’ see Rosina now and then, if tis all the same to you, just to see how the land lays…”
“Now, this old couple,” sang Jud, “was poddlin’ around. Tweedle, tweedle, go-twee; when they seen a long-cripple come out o’ the ground. From under the elmin tr-tree…”
***
Later that night Jud made his stumbling way home towards Grambler under the hasty light of a half-moon rushing through high white clouds. The air had turned keen and if April had not been well advanced one might have expected frost. Jud was still in a jovial mood, though not untinged with forebodings about the eternal damnation of the world. Now and then he forgot it and went on with his interminable song, for which there always seemed to be a new verse; now and then he stumbled over a rut or a stone and consigned the world to the hell-fire and brimstone from which he’d long been trying to save it.
But it was after one of his rarer quiet periods that he heard the footsteps behind.
Time had partly lulled the fears of autumn and Christmas, and tonight the drink had warmed him and given him courage; all the same he turned quickly, his hackles up and reaching for his knife. It was the lonely stretch just before you reached the first cottage of Grambler; gorse bushes and heather and a few wind-contorted trees.
There were two men, and in the half-darkness he realized with a sinking feeling that they were strangers; one was tall, wore an old hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Mr. Paynter,” said the short man, and Jud thought he had heard that voice somewhere before.
“What d’ye want?”
“Nothing partic’lar. Just a little talk.”
“I don’t want no talk. Keep yer distance or I’ll slit you wi’ this knife.”
“Oh, indeed. Quite a warrior now, eh? More of a warrior than you were last September.”
“I don’t know what yer mean,” Jud said anxiously, backing away. “Tes all foreign to me.”
“What, don’t remember getting some money on the cheap, like, eh? Just thought you could tell as many lies as you liked and get away with it, eh? Clever, aren’t you? Smart. All right, Joe, let ’im ’ave it.”
The little man sprang forward and Jud’s knife flashed in the moonlight, but before he could turn, the tall man lifted a heavy bar he carried and crashed it down with great violence upon Jud’s head. There was a rush of moonlight and then his knees gave way and he fell forward into the dark.
***
When Prudie heard that her husband had been murdered she gave a piercing scream and rushed out in the early morning light to greet the cortege that wormed through the village towards her. Two old scavengers, Ezekeil Scawen and Sid Bunt had found the body in the ditch beside the road and some miners had brought a board and were carrying him on his last journey home. Whether the attackers had intended to make it a killing job or whether the savage blow and the night’s exposure had together proved too much for a constitution weakened by years of drinking no one would ever know. Robbery was believed to be the motive, and two crippled sailors working their way along the coast to St. Ives were set on and might have been roughly handled if they had not been able to prove they had spent the whole night in the lowly house of the Revd. Clarence Odgers.
Ross wouldn’t let Demelza go over, but he went himself and conveyed his sympathy to Prudie. In a queer way Jud had become an institution, not merely in the neighbourhood but in his life. Though they saw little of each other these days, Ross had always been aware of Jud’s existence, grumbling, drunken, and self-righteous in his blundering hangdog way. The district wouldn’t ever be quite the same without him. He said something of this to Prudie, who sniffed into a red duster that had been Jud’s and confessed to Ross her suspicion that Jud’s death was a result of something that had happened at Bodmin, because he’d never been easy in his mind since then—always he’d seemed to be expecting something. Now it had come with a vengeance. Ross didn’t speak, but stood staring thoughtfully out of the window, considering the possibility. After waiting hopefully for some response, Prudie gave it up and said, Well, dear life, whatever was at the root of it, she didn’t know how she’d ever make out now he was gone. And her cousin from Marasanvose, who’d come over for company, sniffed in a corner and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
They had put the body in the lean-to shed that communicated with the single-storey two-roomed shack by way of the back door, and after staring at his old servant for a moment or two, Ross returned to the two sniffing women and said they must tell him if there was any way in which he could help.
“We’m going to teel ’im Thursday,” said Prudie, her hair over her face like a horse’s tail, “an’ I want for to give him a rare good benyin’. ’E was always one to like the best, and the best we shall give un, shan’t us, Tina.”
“A-a-is,” said Tina.
“’E was a proper man, was Jud,” said Prudie. “Reckon we had our ups and downs together, an? Reckon he could be a rare ole ornery monkey upon times, but that didn’t count nothin’ wi’ me. He was my old man, see and now ’e’s dead an gone, strick down from be’ind in the night. Tis ’orrible, ’orrible to think on!”
“Ned Bottrell’s making a box for’n. I d’want it all done proper, like he was a gent, see. We’m goin’ t’ave hymns an’ all. Mester Ross…”
“Yes?”
“I want for ee to tell me if I’m doin’ right. This forenoon when we’d laid ’im out decent I went for to empty out his ’baccy pouch—one ’e carried along with ’im most times everywhere he went, and twas a mercy he didn’t take it Tuesday—for when I come to empty of it, damme if golden sovereigns didn’t scatter ’bout all over the floor like mice that’s seen a cat. Fifteen of ’em there was, and me never knowed nothin’ about’n! Where he come by ’em gracious knows—in the trade, I reckon—but what’s plaguing me is whether tis right and titty to spend the gold on ’is berrying, an?”
Ross stared out through the open door, “The money is yours now, Prudie, to do with as you will. Everything that was his passes to you; but there’s better uses you could put it to than to squander it on a big funeral. Fifteen pounds is a tidy nest egg and would keep you fed and clothed for a long while.”
Prudie scratched herself. “Jud would’ve wanted berryin’ respectable. Tes a matter o’ being respectable, Mest’ Ross. Load me if it ain’t. We must give the ole man a send-off fitty ways. Must’nt us, Tina?”
“A-a-is,” said Tina.
Chapter Ten
Jud’s send-off fitty ways began at two o’clock the day before the funeral. Prudie had submerged her grief in the preparations, and a long table made of old boxes had been fastened together in the larger of the two rooms. More old boxes outside served as chairs and tables for those who couldn’t squeeze in. And there were many such until the heavy rain of nightfall drove them away.
Prudie as chief mourner had managed to gather together enough black clothes to make an impressive display. Her cousin had lent her black stockings, and she’d made a skirt out of a piece of serge bought at Aunt Mary Rogers’s shop. An old black blouse of her own was decorated with mourning beads and a bit of ragged lace, and Char Nanfan had actually produced a black veil. Barely recognizable in this array, she sat in a place of honour at the head of the table unmoving throughout the meal and waited on by Cousin Tina, Char Nanfan, Mrs. Zacky Martin, and a few of the younger end.
The Revd. Mr. Odgers had been invited to the feast but had discreetly declined; so pride of place next to the bereaved widow was given to Paul Daniel, who was Jud Paynter’s oldest friend. On the other side was Constable Vage, who was conducting the inquiry into the murder, and others present were Zacky Martin, Charlie Kempthorne, Whitehead and Jinny Scoble, Ned Botterell, Uncle Ben and Aunt Sarah Tregeagle, Jack Cobbledick, the Curnow brothers, Aunt Betsy Triggs, and some fifteen or twenty assorted hangers-on.
Soon after two the feast began with a long draught of raw brandy all round, and then everyone set to eating and drinking at a great rate as if there wasn’t a minute to be lost. At the outset the splendid widow ate more genteelly than the rest, taking in nourishment under the heavy veil as under a visor. But as the brandy warmed her vitals she threw back the emblem of bereavement and tucked in with the rest.
About five the first part of the feast was over, and by sunset many of the women began to drift off, having families or homes to see to, and the number in the room came down to about a score. This was twice as many as could decently breathe in a cramped space already full of smoke and steam and tobacco fumes. Jugs of brandy, rum, and gin were going round freely, with hot water and sugar to be added to taste. At this point the hymns began. Uncle Ben Tregeagle, as doyen of the church choir, was allowed to lead them, and Joe Permewan scraped an accompaniment like rusty metal on his bass viol. They sang all the hymns and anthems they knew and some they didn’t know, and then got on to patriotic songs. They sang “God Save the King” four times and “And Shall Trelawney Die” twice, and a few ditties that weren’t too savoury if looked at in the most formal light.
But now no one was feeling formal, least of all Prudie, who, her nose shining like a hurricane lamp, allowed herself to be persuaded to get up and sing a song which had the chorus:
An’ when he died, he shut his eyes, an’ never saw money no more.
Then Aunt Betsy Triggs got up and did her famous dance ending up sitting in Constable Vage’s lap. The roar that greeted this dwindled to a shamefaced silence as everyone came to realize they were overstepping the traces.
Prudie worked her feet into her tattered carpet slippers and slowly got up again.
“My dear, dear friends,” she said, “don’t take on on account o’ me, I beg you. Take no heed of my grief. An’ take no heed of the ole man out there that’s going to be teeled tomorror. Tis just a per-personal matter twixt ’im and me. No reason why ye have got to stay quiet as meaders just on account o’ that. Eat, drink, an’ do what you will, for tis no affair of his what I do with his money now ’e’s going to his long lie.” She hunched her great shoulders and glowered. “I-facks, tis more’n I can b’lieve ’ow he did conceal the gold away from me all these many year. Hid it from his own wife, ’e did. Or as near his wife as makes no concern.”
Charlie Kempthorne tittered, but Constable Vage poked him solemnly in the ribs and shook his head; it was not the place to show vulgar amusement.
“My blessed life,” said Prudie, and hiccuped. “He was a whited sepulchre, was my old man, if the truth be known! An old cloamin tomcat hollow to the toes. As cuzzle as they come. I’d as lief trust a beaver. But there twas, that’s how tis, an’ no one can deny it. ’E was my old man, see.”
Paul Daniel grunted. After the merriment everyone was feeling sentimental and full of liquor.
“An’ he was a talker when the drink was in him. Talk! ’E’d outtalk preacher any day of the week, Sundays including. But I seen him goin’ down’ill for months. Twasn’t all murdering lyin’ thiefs what done for him. Twas semi-decay. Tha’s what twas. He’d lived a hard life an’ it told in the end.”
She sat down abruptly before she had finished because her knees gave way. Constable Vage got up. At ordinary times he was a wheelwright.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said. “I aren’t one for slack-jaw as ye all well know; but it wouldn’t do if we ended this feastin’ without a thought or two for our dear brother Jud, newly departed to the flowery fields and green meads o’ paradise. Wicked men ’as struck him down but the law will track them out, never doubt.” He folded his hands over his stomach.
“’Ear, ’ear,” said Prudie.
“So we must not forget the vacant chair at this table.” Vage looked round but could not see even an empty packing case. “The vacant chair,” he repeated. “And it is only right an’ proper that we drink a toast to our dear departed brother.”
“A-a-is,” said Tina.
“To our dear brother,” said Prudie, raising her glass.
The toast was drunk.
“May he rest easy,” said Joe Permewan.
“Amen,” said Uncle Ben Tregeagle, shaking his ringlets.
“Tis a poor life,” said Aunt Sarah. “From the cradle to the grave in two snaps of the fingers. I see it all. Layin’ out and lyin’ in. That’s me job, but it makes you think.”
“Amen,” said Uncle Ben.
“I’d sooner be a fish jouster any day,” said Betsy.
“There’s many I’ve found worser to lay out than Jud,” said Sarah. “’E stretched out a good deal of a long man, but there warn’t so much round the middle as I suspected.”
“Amen,” said Uncle Ben.
“Old hard with your ‘amens’, old man,” said Prudie. “We aren’t in church yet. You can say yer prayers tomorrow.”
Charlie Kempthorne began to giggle. He giggled and giggled until everyone hushed him for fear he’d wake the guests already asleep on the floor.
“I aren’t partic’lar what I do for the living,” sai
“’Ere, Ned,” said Prudie, “do ee go’n draw the spigot of that next keg of brandy. I’m as thirsty as a cat wi’ nine chets. Tis early yet.”
Bottrell winked at her and went into the other room, which had served as a kitchen today. Prudie sat back, her massive arms folded, surveying the scene with a satisfied expression. Everything had gone off handsome so far. Most of the remaining guests would sleep here the night, and tomorrow, pleasurable thought, it would all begin again. The burying was at noon, so they’d have the coffin out early if it was fine, and placed outside the door on a bench of chairs and packing cases. All the other mourners would be back straight after breakfast and they’d begin singing hymns. One hymn and then a glass, another hymn and then another glass until about eleven o’clock. Then the bearers would take up the coffin and carry it a hundred yards or so, and Ned Bottrell would follow behind with an anker of brandy and they’d have a hymn and refreshments, another hundred yards and more refreshments, until they got to the church. They should manage that by twelve o’clock, if they managed it at all. Prudie remembered that real bumper funeral of Tommy Job’s when the bearers had been stretched out flat with half a mile still to go.
Aunt Sarah Tregeagle said: “When I first started layin’ out, mind, it used to shrim me up too, so I did used to say a little charm over to meself that I’d learned from Grannie Nanpusker, that was a white witch. Afore ever I laid me ’ands on one that’d gone dead I used to say: ‘God save us from mystifications, conjurations, toxifications, incantations, fumigations, tarnations, deflations, and damnations. Amen. Rosemary, tansy, sweet briar, herb o’ grave.’ An’ I never come to no ’arm at all.”
“My blessed Parliament,” said Prudie.
“Amen,” echoed Uncle Ben sleepily.
But there was nothing sleepy in the way Ned Bottrell burst back into the room. He wasn’t carrying any brandy, and his face was white.