A Time for Courage (6 page)

Arthur was going to university, Oxford of course, but Classics held no appeal for him either. It was mining that did, but he dared not tell his father that for he knew the answer. It would be, ‘To work in a tin mine is not what you’ve been educated for.’ He could imagine the fuss it would cause, and it wouldn’t help that it was his mother’s family mine.

Damn the tin slump. He’d be willing to bet that if there’d been the chance of money it would be a different story. He ground out the stub of his cigarette in the grass, close-cropped by the sheep which grazed on the thin scrub. He could smell the charred earth, the blackened tobacco as he looked at his father whose cap was tipped over his face as he breathed evenly, his head down on his chest. He was asleep. Harry loosened the knot on his black tie, undid the top stud and lay back with his hands beneath his head, glad that the mourning period for Simon would not last for ever. He had a grand tweed tie he wanted to try. He watched a bird circling high above him. Sam, Eliza’s husband, had promised a trip to the mine for tomorrow. Hannah would be coming too. He looked at the bird again, breathing in the warm air. There was something about the mine which made him feel alive. Was it the scale of it, the smallness of men against the earth? Or was it in the blood, like his grey eyes which were those of his mother’s family, mine-owners for generations? He laughed quietly at himself. What did it matter what it was? It would never happen. He’d be prancing about in fancy dress and polished boots for the rest of his life and the mine would just fade away.

The sun was flickering through the branches of the tree, the bird was gone, and it was quiet in the midday heat. He sat, his eyes heavy, and it was some while before he heard his father stir.

‘Come on then, Harry. We haven’t caught anything yet. Stuff the plates back in the basket and let’s get back to it. There are clouds coming in from the north.’

There was a breeze and the water seemed colder as Harry waded back in and, although he again stood with a still rod, there was, after all, a jerk on Harry’s line and his father gripped his arm. ‘Play it in, boy.’

And so he did, the rod alive in his hands, but he could not see the fish and he would not think of it either. His father stood close, his own rod still out, the water still snatching at the line as the wind freshened further and then his line, too, jerked. In they came, and Harry could see them now, the two small fish twitching and drowning in the air.

‘Get the basket, Harry,’ roared his father, his pale, long-nailed hand reaching for the thrashing body, and Harry backed up to the bank and pulled the fish basket over to the edge, nearer to his father.

He grasped his small brown trout, feeling the cold, wet, struggling life, dragging it off the hook, not looking as he did so and then he threw it towards the basket. He wiped his hand down his shirt. ‘Damned messy business,’ he muttered to himself and his voice was shaking. His father was wading towards him, his face lit with a smile.

‘Mine is half a pound at least. How about yours?’ Harry looked down. His had missed the basket and lay gasping and flaccid on the bank and he could not move to touch it. His father answered for him looking towards the fish. ‘Not bad, quarter of a pound, I should say, but they’re small down here so that’s a good catch.’

Harry stood aside wanting him to reach the bank first. The pony was cropping grass nearby and he could hear the tearing of the grass and the clink of the bit as it chewed around it. A string of green slime hung from the corner of his mouth. He would not look at the fish but from the corner of his eye he saw his father lift a rock which he had levered from the bank and bring it down, crushing the fish’s head before he threw it in the basket. He saw the leather strap being pulled tight, heard the creak of the wicker as it was buckled, and then watched the tilt of his father’s head as he looked out over the moor towards the north. Saw him check his watch, cupping it in his hand, pulling his face into a frown. Harry breathed deeply; he would look at all this and forget the thrashing body he had felt in his hand. He wiped cold water on his face and felt the wind, fresher still. The branches were moving and the pony’s mane was lifting.

He looked at his father with a question in his face. Don’t say we’ll fish on through the storm, he groaned silently, for he knew from the sky and the wind that one was coming, and soon. His father leant over and picked up the jackets, handing the smaller one to Harry.

‘Perhaps we should be getting back, you know. It’s getting fresh, Harry, and the clouds are moving up. It won’t start just yet, mark you, but if it does the waterproofs are in the back anyway. Get the pony hitched up while I get all this together.’ He pointed to the fish and tackle. ‘I’ll take the reins on the way back,’ he added.

Harry pulled off his waders, they were wet and cold but they did not thrash and gasp.

John Watson held the reins loosely enough to be able to lift his hands and light another cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The wind was coming in harder from the north but the dark clouds, low and full of rain, still had some way to come. The fish would have come up nicely when the rain beat on the surface. He looked around him, at the moors studded with boulders, at the fields he could see in front of them. It was good to have a son, a companion; someone to share his pursuits.

Cornwall wasn’t his part of the country but it was pleasant. As a boy he had lived the other side of the Tamar and he remembered his father telling him about the building of the bridge by Brunei. It had changed his father’s fortunes. While practising as a solicitor he had already dabbled in property investment in Plymouth and when the bridge was begun he had seen the opportunity and had invested in country properties over in Cornwall, selling them at a healthy profit when people realised that, with the bridge, holiday homes were a viable possibility. It had given him enough backing to start up the office in London. Just the two of them, not her, not his mother. He shook himself to remove her memory and looked across at his son. Thank God the boy was a true Watson in spite of those eyes. He was devoid of the flaws which had been run deep into his father’s wife, a woman he refused to call Mother. And what about Edith, his own wife?

He sucked heavily on the cigarette. He did not relish returning to Eliza’s home now that Edith was considerably better and able to join them downstairs. He could hardly bear to look at her; at the woman who hid such sordid lusts behind that sickly exterior.

He grimaced. Was it too much to ask that a man should be able to think of his wife as beyond reproach, nurturer of his home and children? Good God, was it any wonder the wretched woman was unable to bear a living child? Each year they had tried, each year they had failed since Hannah was born. Her lack of decency had brought its own punishment but this afflicted him also and for that she was doubly to be condemned. Such selfishness did not bear thinking of and there was no point in her tears at the side of the empty cradle, no point unless it was to rue her own wickedness, her own sin.

For men, of course, it was different; they needed an outlet for their natural instincts and the correct place to practise these was with the women who were outside the code of chivalry, the harlots who roamed the streets. It was only with these that contraception should be considered, and then solely for protection against disease. How could that woman have even conceived the thought let alone mentioned it as she had done when he had swept from the room that night. A damned tube of sheep gut for use with a wife, he had roared. And what had she said? Only that rubber was available now.

He removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue. Carnal activity without procreation was a sin, everyone knew that. It would mean that a respectable woman was admitting to enjoyment and that, of course, was impossible. He shook his head in despair. Didn’t she understand that by that attitude she debased her value in his eyes, quite apart from repelling him as a companion and provider. She was, first and foremost, the breeder of children. That was her sole purpose, to breed and nurture the family. What would she do with herself if she was not producing children, for God’s sake, and no, he would not think of his own mother.

The wind was strengthening now. He pinched the stub of his cigarette and tossed it over the side of the cart. The pony was labouring, tired from the journey. He lashed the whip, glad that the end caught its hindquarters, pleased to see it start and rear its head. ‘Pass over the waterproofs, Harry.’ His voice was sharp and Harry obeyed quickly. His father did not thank him, he had too much outrage in his head.

What was to be done though, for he needed another son? A man should have more than one, it was too risky. But perhaps his wife had learnt her lesson now; she had been obedient and dutiful since that day. Yes, there was only one thing to do and that was to overcome his repugnance for long enough to produce another child. Please God, not another daughter though. They were nothing but an inconvenience, a burden.

He noticed that the wind had sprung up harshly and that the sky was black. He lifted his head as the lightning came. Then the thunder clapped loudly overhead and the pony shied. They were off the moor and heading down the lane which led eventually to the junction when the pony’s frightened movement brushed the cart against the high-earthed hedge.

Harry called, ‘Steady, Father.’

The pony tried to back in its shafts as the rain came, in what seemed like a solid dark sheet.

‘Over the side, boy, grab his head,’ John Watson shouted, reining in sharply. Through the deluge he could see Harry as he gripped the halter of the pony, near to the bit. Saw him as he put his hand on its nose, dragging him forward, talking, not shouting, to the beast and then watched as the pony walked on, ears back but steady. Watched as his son came back, jumping up over the side of the cart and grinning at him.

‘He’s fine now, Father.’

Yes, he would need another son.

Hannah lay in the bed. There was red behind her lids which meant the sun was up. The blankets were light on her body, the sheet was tangled about her arm which lay above her head. She stretched, and her fingers touched the cool wood of the headboard, feeling the carved surface that had not been noticeable last night in the dim glow from the oil lamp. She rolled over and only then opened her eyes; the sky was blue and high above were white clouds quite still and separate. Quite quiet. Oh yes, the birds were there, chattering and fluttering beneath the eaves but the sky was quiet.

She missed her mother but she wouldn’t think of that, of leaving the rest of the family together in Eliza’s house, of seeing the lights fading as she was driven away yesterday in the cart to this unfamiliar cottage on the edge of the village of Penbridge, stopping at Eliza’s house only long enough to have a swift supper and separate her luggage from the rest. She would look instead at the window, at the patchwork curtains that splashed colour into the room.

She would have behaved though and she realised now that the thoughts would have to come or there would be no peace. She had told her Aunt Eliza that she would behave but the dogcart had been brought round anyway. It will make a change, Eliza had said. Mr and Mrs Arness have a son just a little older than you and Mr Arness might improve your water-colour technique; he is a very fine artist, well respected here and in America. He comes from one of the best East Coast families; Mrs Arness is Cornish, of course, though you would never know. It’s the voice, Eliza had said, it changes, you see. She’s a lovely woman and your mother would like you to improve your painting. Hannah had not wanted to hear about painting. She had wanted to stay, to cling to her mother. Hannah shut her eyes and saw the red behind her lids again. No, she must not cry, here in this strange house, because her eyes would be red and everyone would know and her mother might be told. She pushed away the sheet and slipped on to the floor. The well-polished boards were cool and she felt better, more in control. Aunt Eliza looked more like Uncle Simon than her mother, Hannah thought. Her hair was yellow, not brown with streaks of grey. But she must not even think of that because it would bring the tears too.

There was no carpet at all, just brightly coloured rugs, and her feet left imprints as she walked across to the wardrobe. Again control returned.

A jug was in the bowl on the marble washstand, blue and white with just one chip on the handle and the water was cold but fresh when she splashed it on her face. The towel was thick and soft.

There was a picture of marigolds hanging on the white wall above the washstand with petals painted so thick that they stood out from the canvas, generous and warm. She touched them with her fingers, tracing the line of the palette knife, for that was what had been used she now saw. Dried flowers hung from the black beams and, faintly, Hannah caught their scent.

As she dressed she wished that she did not have to wear the liberty bodice in this heat. Her fingers were clumsy on the suspenders and her stockings slipped over and away from the button so she had to start again. There was a large mirror hanging on the back of the door and in it she could see the whole of herself. The white thigh against the black stocking, her dark hair rich in curls which still hung loose from the night. She saw and felt the blush which rose to her cheeks and turned away, twining her hair up and into a knot, securing it with pins, then looking into the mirror again, quickly, before she left the room. The stairs leading down were narrow and dark and creaked with every step and she tugged at her tight bodice, pulling it well down, tucking it into her skirt. There had been no breakfast gong and she could hear no voices as she reached the bottom of the thinly carpeted stairs, but there was a door to the left which stood ajar. She knocked and then entered. It was the dining-room but the table was not laid and the sideboard held no covered silver dishes. The room felt damp and was dark though the curtains which hung at the small window were open. She stood, unsure now, wanting to be with someone she knew, somewhere that was familiar. ‘We eat in the kitchen, Hannah. You’ll prefer it.’ It was the son, Joe, standing behind her in the doorway, rolling the words in his strange drawl and he made her start because she had been lost deep in her longings.