The Twisted Sword by Winston Graham
He took her arm. ‘It is not the old bogeys rising again?’
‘A small matter maybe. But I have never had a daughter-in-law before, and because of what has happened it is bound to be difficult.’ She gazed round disparagingly at her garden. ‘If I had time I could do better with the wild flowers on the cliffs! There’s heather in plenty, and knapweed – and there’s lovely fresh gorse at the top of the Long Field.’
‘Well, it will take you no more than half an hour. I’ll hold the fort while you are gone.’
Demelza shook her head. Sick fancies these days: she had a sudden vivid picture of coming into this house, before she married Ross, a servant girl carrying a sheaf of bluebells, and finding Elizabeth had called.
‘Why are you shivering?’ Ross asked.
‘Was I? It is of no moment . . . I think Stephen is gravely ill, Ross. I wish I knew what Dr Mather had written to Dwight.’
‘I will go myself tonight and ask him. He’ll tell me. But in injuries like this the surgeons can do little. It all depends on the patient and how bad he is hurt.’
‘My dear life!’ said Demelza.
‘What is it?’
‘I think they are here.’
V
‘He don’t seem to get rid of the fever,’ said Jason.
‘No. I hope Dr Enys will come again soon.’
‘Reckon he did no more than Surgeon Mather.’
‘It is just that I have known him so long and trust his judgements. I had hoped . . .’
They were eating some fried soles that Jason had bought, with potatoes and a pease pudding. Clowance had listlessly prepared the meal and ate without appetite. It was the evening of the Tuesday, still light because the sun, though setting over the land, reflected an incandescence from the water of the bay. Dr Mather had been in this afternoon and given the patient a draught which had put him to sleep, and had left another for the night. They were taking it in turns to be with him and had put up another trestle bed in the room so that each in turn could spend the night there. Stephen was in some pain now, but he was too weak to be irritable. All the same his weakness had not prevented him spending a part of the morning planning with Jason the boat that he intended to buy or have built, a smallish brig or a twenty-five-foot lugger, for Jason to command until he was experienced enough to merit something bigger.
Nor had it prevented him seeing three visitors: Andrew Blamey, Sid Bunt and Timothy Hodge. The first had been just a friendly call, a hail and farewell, for Andrew was sailing for New York on the morning tide and came to wish him well. The last two had been on business, for trade had to continue even with the owner laid up.
Clowance had hardly spoken with Tim Hodge before: he was so swart, so dark of eye and skin and tooth, so squat, that it took a time to overlook his appearance; then you couldn’t fail to appreciate his practical talents. If Stephen was to be laid up for a long time he was the obvious man to help to run things. If she had not been so preoccupied with Stephen she might have had time to wonder how a man of such parts, now in his mid-forties, should still have had to enrol as an ordinary deckhand in a makeshift privateering venture.
Jason said: ‘Father’s a real popular man. Folk stop me in the street, say, how is he, seem real concerned.’
‘He has a way with him,’ said Clowance. ‘He gets on well with everyone.’
She looked across the table at Jason, whose appetite was good and who ate with a relish worthy of a starving sailor. Since Stephen’s accident she had seen a lot more of his son. He seemed the natural person to help her at a time like this. She saw in him some of Stephen’s traits, both disagreeable and endearing, particularly among the former his tendency to fantasize on his own prospects; his ability in his own mind to rearrange the world to his own wishes. He would never be as good-looking as Stephen, nor, she thought, as physically, as vitally, attractive; but he had an engaging manner, an optimism, a resilience that reminded her very much of the man upstairs.
Thinking these things, Clowance said to him: ‘Tell me about your mother.’
Jason blinked, then smiled. ‘What do ye wish to know, ma’am?’
‘Well, do you think you are like her?’
‘Nay, she were dark and thin – real thin in later years – and small-boned – like a quail. I’ve taken from my father.’
‘You are not quite as big as he is. Did she have any special abilities?’
‘Abilities?’
‘Well, I mean, was she, for instance, a good cook? I’m not a very good cook.’
‘Good ’nough, ma’am. I’m sure my father love the food you give him. Mother? Yes, she did for us well. How my father liked it I don’t know, because, of course, he left.’
‘Yes, he left.’
Jason took a draught of ale. ‘She was a good sewer.’
‘Knitting and weaving?’
‘Knitting special. She helped bring me up wi’ selling things she made wi’ her own hands. This jerkin, f’instance.’
Clowance looked at it and smiled. ‘It was the one good thing you were wearing when you came. The stitch is very even.’
‘Well, she made it for me. She made many things for me – stockings, gloves. This jerkin was one of the last things she made for me, more’n two years ago.’
Clowance put a piece of bread in her mouth. It was home-made and light, but it lacked something. Perhaps it was salt. She cut another slice from the loaf.
‘Two years ago?’
There was a silence.
Jason said: ‘Hark, was that him tapping? I thought I heard—’
‘No, I don’t think so . . . Did you say your mother knitted this for you two years ago?’
‘Oh, nay, ’twas a slip of the tongue. ‘Twas much longer than two year.’ Jason had gone very red.
‘How much longer?’ Clowance asked.
‘I think I’ll go see if he is awake,’ Jason said, pushing back his chair. ‘I wouldn’t wish for him to think he was alone.’
He went out, and Clowance cut the piece of bread into small cubes. But they still tasted ashen and saltless.
After a while Jason came back. ‘No, he’s fast asleep still, but I have lit a candle. The light is failing, and when he wakes it will be good to see a light.’
‘Jason,’ Clowance said. ‘When did your mother die?’
‘What?’ He blinked. His eyes were smaller than Stephen’s, sandy lashed.
‘She isn’t still alive, is she?’
‘Who? My mother? God’s sake, no, she died – oh, some long time ago.’
‘When?’
He scratched his head and then took an uncomfortable swig of beer. ‘I don’t rightly remember.’
‘You don’t remember when your mother died? Oh, Jason, I don’t believe that! Did your father tell you to lie to me?’
‘Oh, nay! But he just said – well, not to talk about her – said it would be like to upset ye.’
Without getting up, Clowance began to tidy the table, putting plates together and gathering spoons. She was doing it instinctively, with no awareness of her actions.
‘Well, it does,’ she said. ‘It does upset me a little to hear your mother died so recent. But now I am upset, I think I would like to know the whole of it.’
‘’Twas a fool thing!’ said Jason. ‘A damn fool thing to let it out wi’ a slip of the tongue! ’Twould distress Father greatly to think I had been gossiping behind his back, like.’
‘You are not gossiping. And I will not tell your father. Was it last December she died?’
‘God’s sake, no! Long afore that.’
‘I thought perhaps as soon as your mother died you came to tell your father, and so turned up here last January?’
‘Nay, nay, she died in the winter.’
‘Last winter?’
‘Nay.’
‘The winter before? You may as well tell me, as I can easy find out.’ (She did not know how, but it was a point to make.)
‘The winter before,’ said Jason. ‘I remember sno
‘January 1814?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Two years ago your father went back to Bristol for a time. Five years ago he came from Bristol here for the first time. Was your father living with your mother, or visiting her there?’
‘Lord no, we never seen him! I’d never seen him, not for twelve or more year before I came here this January, and that’s God’s truth! We didn’t live in Bristol but ten mile outside. We never heard tell of him until I heard of him at Christmas time, last Christmas time. Then a man, a Cornish sailor called Tregellas, he said he knew my father was newly wed and living in Penryn and was well found with a fleet of ships. So I thought to come, and come I did, as you well know.’
Clowance got up now, carried the plates across to the scullery.
When she came back she said: ‘Did your father know of your mother’s death?’
Jason looked startled. ‘Oh, yes! Oh yes! Well he must’ve, mustn’t he. Before he could wed you.’
Chapter Ten
I
The arrival had gone off quite well, and five of them sat down to dinner: Cuby and Clemency, Ross and Demelza and Isabella-Rose. Henry, who usually ate the main afternoon meal with them, was taking it with Mrs Kemp in the kitchen.
In spite of her pallor Cuby looked well. She showed the coming child more obviously than a taller lady on the south coast, who was about as much forward; but like Harriet pregnancy was doing no hurt to her looks. Nor did her bereavement show. Possibly it was the effect of coming to see her late husband’s family in their home for the first time that made her vivacious and talkative – much more so than her quieter, plainer, gentler sister. From her green riding costume she had changed into a plain dress of blue dimity, with blue and white ribbons, velvet shoes. No mourning except for a small posy of black artificial flowers pinned to her breast. She had changed her hairstyle, Demelza noticed, grown it, wore it in bracelets of braided hair. Her rather sulky face lit up when she smiled: good brilliant teeth, warm lips.
They were eating hare soup, a green goose, pickled salmon, cheese cake, almond cream, with cider and beer. It was not elegant enough, Demelza thought, but Ross had said it was right.
Cuby said on the way over she had noticed the barley and wheat had been cut but most of the oats were still standing. The ground had been very wet, Ross said; this wind would soon dry it. He supposed crops were a week or two ahead on the more sheltered south coast? Cuby spoke about the excellent carriageway that had been laid between Truro and Shortlanesend, she swore it was the best in Cornwall. Ross said, yes, yes, it was the work of that man from Ayrshire, MacArthur, or MacAdam, was it? Clemency asked about a mine they had passed near Truro, and Ross said, oh that would be Guarnek, re-started last year; it was said to be doing well. Cuby said, was this your mine, the engine that was working as they came down the valley? Yes, said Ross, industry passes too close here to achieve elegance . . . Cuby said she was sure everyone would welcome some industry close to Caerhays if it would contribute to their income.
‘In fact,’ said Ross, ‘the mine you passed, though it has made us a small fortune over the years, is now costing us money to maintain. At one time we employed more than a hundred and forty people, now it is down to thirty. Wheal Leisure, over on the cliff, is the profitable one.’
‘But you keep this other, this . . .’
‘Wheal Grace. Just in operation. It is partly sentiment, partly that I don’t want to throw men out of work. While I was interned I thought it over and decided it must close. But coming home, with later events in mind, I have kept it open. I think Jeremy would have wanted it kept open.’
The name was out. No one spoke for a few moments. Knives and forks chattered instead.
Cuby said: ‘Lady Poldark, did you hear that Lady Fitzroy Somerset had her baby in Brussels? In May. It was a girl, but I do not know how she has been named.’
‘No,’ said Demelza. ‘After I left Brussels I did not see her again.’
Ross said: ‘I’m told Fitzroy will continue in the army and a brilliant future is foretold for him. He seems completely to have overcome the loss of an arm. The Falmouths say he is in fine fettle.’
‘It is not so bad as losing a leg,’ said Isabella-Rose brightly. ‘Though it may be worse, I dare suppose, than losing only a foot.’
They all looked at this inconsequence in slight surprise, but she was not abashed. ‘Do you know what happened yesterday, Cuby? A kite was hovering over the chicken run, quite close, when Ena – one of our maids – rushed out to save the chick. The kite came down and stuck its claws in her cap and carried it off! It was so comical! We was convulsed with laughter.’
You used always, Demelza thought, to be able to rely on Bella to keep the conversation going on a jolly note; but since learning of Jeremy’s death and Christopher Havergal’s maiming she had been very mopish; often over a meal she hardly uttered a word; so it was a startling and welcome surprise to find her with recovered spirits at such an opportune time.
Now she was asking if Cuby sang, saying that Jeremy had told her she did – using the name without embarrassment – and that Clemency played; so tomorrow they must try duets together before Clemency left; they had a lovely piano – not that old spinet – but a lovely new one in the library that Papa had bought a couple of years ago; and no doubt they would be given permission to play on it for such a special guest.
Demelza went on with her dinner, picking at this and that, and noticing that Cuby was not eating heartily either, but watching her lips part in a smile. Those crescent dimples appeared and disappeared at the sides of her mouth – something which had so enchanted Jeremy, and not surprisingly. She heard her laugh at something Bella said; and she thought: this girl is here in place of Jeremy, my tall handsome dearly loved son, and she was married to him for only six months and is already laughing; and perhaps in a year, two years she will have almost forgotten him – as I shall never forget him – and will likely marry again and bear more children by some other man; and the episode of her brief marriage to Jeremy will fade into a sad little corner in her early life.
And looking at Cuby in this way, Demelza felt a spasm of resentment within her that in a flash turned almost to hatred.
Judas God! she thought, aghast and sweating, bringing herself up short, what is this I am thinking, what is it I am feeling? This girl was the love of Jeremy’s heart, and in an ordinary life not cut across by bloody war, would have remained so. She is a nice girl, and bearing his child. How can one look beyond that? She has been warm and affectionate to me. Is this feeling I have because, like Clowance, I suspect that if it had not been for her reluctance to marry him, he would not have gone into the army? Or is it something more earthy, more primitive, something every woman feels about another woman who steals her son? In any case it is wrong, wrong, wicked, evil and wrong, and if it is natural to feel it, then I must be unnatural and not allow myself to feel it!
I am Ross’s wife and Jeremy’s mother, not some village woman with mean and narrow and carping thoughts. I am my own person too, separate from Ross, able to choose and decide for myself. Evil thoughts, jealous, mean and petty emotions should be treated like blow-flies, not allowed to settle, driven away. Demelza did not really believe in Sam’s circumstantial heaven, with God the Father waiting to greet her; nor really either in Mr Odgers’ pallid faith; but if Jeremy’s spirit was in any way alive, how humiliated he would be to know that she had harboured such thoughts, even for a moment, about Cuby!
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘if Clemency would wish to stay for a few days we should be some pleased to have her. Of course you must use the piano whenever you want. It will, I suspicion, be badly out of tune, for I have not used it since – we came home. And even Bella has not been quite in the mood. But it would be lovely to have the sound in the house again.’
‘That is kind of you,’ said Clemency. ‘But Mama will be expecting me home. But if I could come again – and soon . .
‘Then let us make the most of today,’ said Bella boisterously.
They made the most of the day, playing and singing for an hour after dinner, and then, under Bella’s leadership, took a walk on the beach. Though it was one of the least favourable of days to venture on it, Cuby professed herself delighted with the expanse of sand and sea and rocks, and her cheeks were glowing in an uncommon way for her when she took tea with saffron buns and almond cake in the parlour. Ross talked about the problem of blown sand, especially with north-west winds; down towards Gwithian the sandbanks in some places were nearly two hundred feet high and a mile wide. He went on to speak of the plan to extend the pier at St Ives and build a breakwater and the nuisance that town suffered from blown sand. He did not know if his listeners were interested – or indeed if he was very interested himself – but it was something to say and it kept the ball rolling while someone thought up another subject unconnected if possible with the late war.
So the day passed, pleasantly enough as far as it could, nobody upsetting anyone else, but still inevitably much of a social occasion. Nothing could change that except day to day contact on a basis of ordinary living.
In the evening after supper the three girls had gone to sing duets at the piano, but presently Cuby slipped away, walked through the drawing-room, across the hall and into the parlour, where she found Demelza sitting alone reading a letter.
‘Oh, pray excuse me . . .’
‘No, no, please to come in. You do not disturb me.’
Cuby moved over to a chair, not sure all the same of her welcome.
Demelza said: ‘It is a letter from Geoffrey Charles. I am only re-reading it. It came on Saturday.’
‘Oh.’
‘You met him of course at his party . . . But not since?’
‘Not since.’
‘He is now in the Army of Occupation in Paris. His wife and daughter should be with him by now. He fought all through the Peninsular War and was wounded two or three times, but survived Waterloo without a scratch. Could you do something for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Those other candles. They will make it more cheerful. Bella and Clemency are playing on alone?’