The Main Cages (22 page)

The sun was high overhead and most of the passengers settled themselves in the shade of the new deckhouse. As they pulled out to sea, they caught the cool of the breeze.

‘That’s better!’ said Mrs Bryant.

‘We’ll see about that.’ As a veteran of several Atlantic
crossings, Lady Rafferty knew better than to trust the weather at sea.

Two nannies were sitting together while their charges darted in and out between the rows. ‘Come out here, where we can see you!’

The couple staying at Bethesda were there and their son was holding his model yacht and saying, ‘Mummy, how long till we get there?’

An elderly couple from Wales sat in the front, side by side, in a benign and smiling silence. The Frankses were beside them with the Master and he was in contemplative mood, wearing his crisp white suit and leaning on his cane. Mr Bryant was introducing Sir Basil to Parson and Mrs Hooper.

Anna had made her way aft to the last line of benches. Away from everyone, she leaned on the rail and watched the town’s confetti of houses as they slipped astern.

At the bar were the cavalry officers. Two of them were facing it, ordering cocktails. Birkin, bridegroom-to-be, was in the middle. He was looking back over his fellow passengers. ‘I say – there’s that Spanish girl!’

‘Here,’ Travers gave him a large gin, but within a minute he had finished and was wiping his moustache. ‘Mind if I go and see her now?’ he asked. ‘She’s all on her own.’

‘Steady, old man.’ Travers placed a second gin on the bar beside him. ‘They’re good for you.’

‘I’ll have another and then I’ll go and talk to her. She’s awfully lonely.’

Just then they came round Pendhu Point, and the first of the easterly swell began to nudge the hull.

A
t Crowdy Farm everyone was out harvesting. Jack and Croyden and Coxswain Tyler wandered through the empty stackyards. They found the water-cart promised by Ivor Dawkins and then they found the horse. He was in the paddock. He was standing head-down in the shade of a barn wall. The ribs showed through his flanks and he was asleep.

‘Oh God!’ groaned Tyler.

‘Be hard pushed to pull his own tail, him,’ said Croyden.

‘Damn ’ee, Dawkins!’

‘Don’t Parson have a horse, Jack?’ asked Croyden. ‘Think he’d lend’n?’

‘It’s worth asking.’

‘You ask, Jack. You’re one o’ his.’

Jack found Parson and Mrs Hooper just leaving for Porth regatta. Hooper agreed – provided they brought some water for him. ‘My new plants are just wasting away!’

Job was happy in the loose boxes. He was not at all keen on going outside with Jack into the hot sun. He moved slowly
up towards Crowdy and even slower when hitched, but Croyden slapped his haunch as they left the farm, and clicked his tongue and urged him on. ‘Come on, boy!’

They followed the marled track to the main road and then along a steep-sided valley. Away from the breeze, the heat clogged in the still air. The empty cart bounced and rattled behind them. A stream ran parallel to the road, dry since June when the dam was begun. Then they climbed and came out on top and caught the wind and Job came to a halt. They let him graze the verge and Croyden and Tyler leaned on a gate and looked over the fields to the sea. They could make out the haze-wrapped shape of Kidda Head and the dusting of sails around Porth harbour.

‘Charlie crewing?’ asked Tyler.

Croyden nodded.

‘He’s a devil for the yachtin’, in’t he?’

‘Only for the money.’

After another mile they left the main road and cut down a ferny slope back to the valley bottom. The track was deeply rutted, the mud as hard as rock. Several times Job stopped and they had to lean against the back of the cart to help him heave it out of a hole. Where the valley narrowed they came out into open ground and there was the dam – half-built, head-high.

Croyden lobbed a rock over the wall. There was a pause, then – splash!

‘We’re in luck!’

A terrier came running up to them, circled Job and yapped. Edwin Stephens appeared from above the dam with his two boys and Double Walsh.

‘What happened?’

‘Dawkins’s horse were no good,’ explained Tyler.

‘You got the buckets?’ asked Edwin.

‘You was going to bring buckets!’

‘We got no buckets!’ As Cox, Tyler had a deep fear of inefficiency. ‘Just like a bloody Stephens – hopeless!’

Edwin confessed it was his fault, but said it didn’t matter,
there was plenty of time. He sent his boys back to town to fetch buckets and they all watched them run off down the track, the terrier after them. By the time they reached the trees, the boys were walking.

Jack unhitched Job. There were white lines of sweat where the traces had rubbed. He led him round the dam wall and down to the pool of water above it. Job dropped his neck towards it, let his whiskers brush the surface, then pursed his lips and drank. Jack hobbled his legs and followed Croyden and Tyler up to the well.

Since Jack had last been here in the spring, Pennance had changed almost beyond recognition. The valley was now open to the skies. The grove of beeches had been cleared. Their great pale trunks now lay in log-piles on the slope. The trees’ sawn-off stumps were dotted across the scoured soil. In the middle of this waste ground remained the slate grotto of St Pinnock’s well, its open mouth still bearded with ferns.

One by one they ducked into the darkness of the well. It was cool inside and their splashes echoed off the walls.

‘Best water in Cornwall,’ said Croyden as he emerged.

‘I reckon,’ concluded Tyler, ‘that’s the best water in the world.’

Croyden leaned against the side of the slate canopy and looked down towards the dam. ‘How high’s that wall to be, Cox?’

‘About twenty-five, thirty foot.’

Croyden looked at the dam and he looked at the well. ‘The last we’ll see of this. A year’s time and ’ee’ll be under.’

Tacker Garrett stepped into the
Golden Sands’s
wheelhouse. The door was rattling with the engine. Jimmy was staring straight ahead. They were coming into the open sea and beginning a slight roll.

As the Main Cages appeared, Jimmy could see the disturbed
water between the rocks and the land. In the half hour since the Petrels had pushed through, the flood tide had strengthened and the seas were chaotic.

‘What about going outside?’ asked Tacker.

‘And arrive this evening?’

Tacker went astern and told the barman to clear the bar. Since the swell had begun, the passengers had all found their seats. Only the three officers remained at the bar.

‘Bit of a sea ahead,’ Tacker told them. ‘Best sit down.’

‘Right you are!’ said Travers.

Birkin said, ‘Think I’ll go and sit with the Spanish lady.’

He made his way along the rail to the stern. When he reached Anna, he sat down heavily beside her. ‘Hello!’

‘Hello.’

‘I heard that you might be a little bit lonely.’

‘I’m not.’

‘It’s just that you looked aw–’ The boat dropped suddenly to starboard, ‘– awfully lonely here on your own.’

‘I’m happy alone.’

The boat lurched again. Birkin looked at his feet. ‘Feeling a bit funny. Do you feel a bit funny?’

‘No.’

Birkin sat in silence for a while, looking at his shoes. Then, glass still in his hand, he stood and made his way back up the aisle before flopping into a seat two rows forward.

‘Tacker!’ called Mr Bryant, and when Tacker reached him he asked quietly, ‘What is happening?’

‘Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a bit of lump.’

‘Lump?’

But at that moment the motion stopped. They had entered the smooth water before the tide-race. Mr Bryant looked relieved. ‘That’s better!’

‘Well, sir, not exactly –’

The boat fell sharply to port. An excited cry went up from the children. Lady Rafferty put a handkerchief to her mouth. ‘I knew it.’

The
Golden Sands
was now in the tide-race. Her movements became rhythmless. She would rear up, then roll; or a sudden wave would thrust up from nowhere against her sides, spraying the decks.

Tacker stood in front of the passengers. He leaned back against the bar and folded his arms. ‘Soon be through it!’

For ten minutes the
Golden Sands
tumbled about, bows bucking and plunging. The engine raced when the stern rose from the water. Jimmy stood at the wheel, impassively playing the helm and throttle to avoid the worst of the seas. They were almost clear of the race when a sheer-sided wave dropped away from them and they fell down it. Screams of surprise echoed around the deckhouse and a pair of bottles smashed together beneath the bar.

‘Oops!’ Birkin dropped his glass and it started a long roll across the deck before shattering against a stanchion.

There were two bangs amidships. Tacker pulled aside the awning and went forward to look. The new lifeboat had come free and was swinging on its davits. The boat had struck the wheelhouse several times. He secured it and rubbed his fingers over each impact – only paint and some small splinters came away. But the kelson of the lifeboat had also dropped against the new fuel pipe, and the cap was swinging on its chain.

Jimmy shouted from the wheelhouse, ‘Any damage?’

‘No!’ Tacker screwed the cap back on, but the thread was bent. He twisted it hard and it lodged and he went to the rail and lit a cigarette. They were now free of the Main Cages and the boat’s motion had eased. He watched the foamy patch around the Curate rock slip astern. Ahead was Porth and the long curve of land which sheltered it from the east wind and the swell.

He finished his cigarette, flicked it overboard and made his way astern. The passengers watched him come back into the deckhouse. ‘Don’t worry!’ he told them. ‘Be in Porth in no time!’

And he grinned proudly, as though it was he alone who had stilled the troublesome seas.

Just east of Pendhu Point was a group of three farm labourers’ dwellings on their own which, because they were built in a terrace, were known as London. The four-acre field below was also called London and here Ivor Dawkins was driving his binder, harvesting a drought-stunted crop of Cornish oats.

Around the field were several others. Some were scything the crop’s edges to make way for the binder; others were following along behind, gathering the sheaves and building them into shocks. Many of them were working bare-chested, shirts knotted around their waists. Several dogs were running in and out of the oats chasing rabbits and fieldmice, and the children were chasing the dogs and shouting and beating the ground with sticks.

With the crop so short, Dawkins was having trouble setting the blades. When they struck a rock for the third time he stopped the machine and climbed down. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sheavers brought a flagon of cider and they all took a rest in the shade of the binder. When the yellow shape of the
Golden Sands
appeared beneath the hill, Dawkins said, ‘Christ, that’s some bloody colour Garrett’s painted his boat!’

‘Belongs to that hotel now.’

‘Hicks’s place?’

‘No, that new one.’

Bran Johns was looking to the east and the cluster of distant sails around Porth harbour. ‘Porth regatta today.’

Dawkins shook his head and squatted down to fix the blades of the binder. ‘Bloody useless song and dance.’

B
y lunchtime, Porth was filling with people. In a trail of straw hats and caps and striped blazers and white cotton blouses and blue summer jackets they were making their way down the hill from the field where the buses and cars had parked. They were thicker around Thomas’s bakery where Edgar Thomas stood outside, selling pasties and sandwiches from a table. Towards the quay were more standings, offering Corona and Nicey and sticks of brown rock laid out under coloured awnings. Beneath a parasol was a tricycle and a box marked ‘T. Wall’ where a clutch of children were queuing for ha’penny ices. Yards and yards of bunting fluttered above the heads of the crowd. Signal flags ran in multi-coloured waves from window to window, over the road and back again. Union Jacks, ensigns, naval ensigns and Cornish regimental banners hung from upper storeys. The St Blazey Silver Prize Band were erecting their stands beside the Kidda Head Hotel. Captain Maddocks and the Racing Committee had set up shop above the old lifeboat slip, in a direct line with the start.
They had a table lined with trophies and above it an elaborate canopy made from a brand-new length of white tarpaulin. A starting cannon stood on a small purpose-built plinth. Porth had made great efforts in the name of its perennial cause: to be better than Polmayne in whatever way possible.