The Family Business
Margaret glanced down to check if the slippery fish had squirted from her fingers just as she wanted it to, listening for the soft thunk that would assure her it had landed solidly in the basket. The three baskets were only filled to a third, and it troubled her that despite the table where she worked holding a huge pile of pilchards, they would be unlikely to record this catch as ‘bumper’. It was the third day in a row that her husband Fred’s nets failed to bring in what was needed.
Her concentration drifted to the money he’d frittered away from their ‘earnings tin’ over the past year. Hardly as safe as a bank, she’d moved the cash from the teapot, and it was now hidden in an old chocolate tin, wedged behind a brick in the fireplace in their cottage…somewhere no one would ever find it, especially Fred’s cousin Jacob. She blamed her husband for the extra oars bought for the boat, for new nets rather than repairing them, and for hiring his useless, moody relative, who was quickly becoming a drain on their dwindling resources and making Margaret increasingly anxious about the future. And none of the new expenditure had made much difference to their finances.
It was Fred’s cousin Jacob who convinced him to buy the new boat oars with two spare, and it was also clear he’d egged Fred on to make other ‘investments’ for the business. All arranged in conversations at the pub each night — whispered quietly and covertly, over the tops of their jugs of beer, where Jake’s oily arguments could be far away from Margaret’s disapproval.
Margaret noticed Jacob’s eyes glancing down at the baskets, too. She could tell what he was thinking…that the catch was way under expectations, and she hoped he felt guilty.
Jacob reckoned that coming to live with his cousin was probably his best luck yet after a lifetime of failures. The idea had come to life after he’d been kicked off his father’s farm. It had been a fraught parting, with his father telling Jake to, ‘Bugger off and find a new family to sponge off.’
Ever the optimist, Jake immediately recognised an opportunity.
He had met his cousin Fred only once before, at a family funeral when they had been teenagers. It meant moving to Portleven, though, which was just far enough away from the farm at Camborne to give him anonymity. It could work just fine. His cousin had married a local girl, and there were no children.
He genuinely liked Fred, a chubby, bear of a man, but, as is often the case with big men, very gentle, trusting, and easily encouraged to change his mind. What he hadn’t reckoned on was Margaret. She clearly did not approve of his intrusion into their lives but said very little about it…just gave him a look here and a glance there, but he got the message. It would take some manoeuvring to win his place in the family business.
Meat
The sign had originally been painted by Billy Butcher’s Aunt Frances. She was the artist in the family and had the steadiest hand that anyone in town could recollect. Rare for a woman, but she got the job as a local sign writer for all the shops along the high street.
Frances led a small life. On Tuesdays, she walked to the Cobb to collect shells and twists of driftwood that lay along the beach. Thursday mornings, she helped her father-in-law milk his five scrawny goats and cook him breakfast of thick bacon and bread fried in butter. Saturdays were spent at the market, refreshing supplies.
Sundays were for God.
Frances adored to draw and paint, and when time folded up neatly before her, providing her rare occasions when her chores ended early, she’d take her palette, pencils, brushes and paper onto the village green, perch herself in the centre on a small mound of stones there, and begin sketching. First, she’d hold a line of charcoal made of blackened driftwood lightly between her thumb and index finger. Too tight and the stick might snap. Next, she’d sweep steady swishes across the paper, conjuring a trail of black dust in the air. Sometimes she’d have to delicately paint over the smudgy mess, patiently drawing out the mysterious vision hidden within.
Meat. The food that feeds you.
Derowen Held Them Together
Derowen held them together. When she joined the family in 1812, shortly after Tamsyn’s marriage to Peter, she’d meant it as a gesture to help her sister adjust to her new life. Now, there were five children to manage, plus the house and all that entailed. There had been tension, too.
It hadn’t always been a strained arrangement. Derowen had originally felt it her duty to support her beloved sister, as she’d been delicate from birth and, frankly, no one thought she’d ever marry, much less deliver five children, including a healthy boy – Christopher (Kitto for short). But without any marriage prospects of her own, her sister’s family became Derowen’s.
Peter had been ill all through the previous winter. Typhus carried away a quarter of the small babies in their village in just six months, and Derowen thought that Peter would go the same way. Whatever the illness he’d contracted, it left him listless and depressed, and a long way from his usual self.
As a young man, Peter had been a popular figure in the village. Many remembered his energy, regularly spinning the Corwedhan or two-handed reel at dances held at the church hall. It was tragic to see that sparkle fade away.
Derowen remembered when she was first introduced to Peter. Their meeting had taken place one dull Sunday, filing out of St Keas church soon after Peter’s family arrived from the North to settle in Camborne. The families had not met formally, and as she stood quietly at the last church pew with her sister, waiting for their parents to finish exchanging pleasantries, Derowen’s shy gaze was drawn to the wildflower poking up from Peter’s lapel. Full of hope, she saw it matched the colour of his eyes…cornflower blue.
Mary’s Day Out
Frederick had hired the horse and cart for the half day, promising its owner he’d have it back by midday. It was a fine, clear morning, and although rain had fallen heavily along the coast over the previous few days, the road surface was firm.
Mary and Josephine graciously agreed to accompany him, although Mary was still a trifle unsure about what to make of his generous and expansive personality. The women were from Port Isaac and, compared to village ladies from St Ives, they usually took a longer time to relax in new company.
Mary looked straight ahead when Frederick made soft kissing noises to the horse, egging the old girl forward, and it suddenly occurred to her that Frederick was now in control of them, including the horse. She surmised it would be a long and tedious ride, convinced she’d only been invited along as a ruse to chaperone her friend Josephine.
She tightened her fingers on the basket resting on her lap, remembering how she argued with Josephine that a few slices of sultana cake would go down a treat once they reached the cliffs. She added a small bottle of cider only as an afterthought, deciding that a man like Frederick would want something with bite to drink.
She tightened her fingers on the basket resting on her lap, remembering how she argued with Josephine that a few slices of sultana cake would go down a treat once they reached the cliffs. She added a small bottle of cider only as an afterthought, deciding that a man like Frederick would want something with bite to drink.
The women relied upon Frederick and his generosity for such an outing, but they had a hidden agenda. One of them needed a marriage proposal, and soon. As Josephine had the more natural, easy-going personality of the two, Mary wondered if it was likely she would succeed before her.
End of the Day
Her son’s boats – one facing east, the other pointing north – snuggled into the craggy rock and patiently waited for the tide to return as it did precisely at the end of each day. Patricia’s day was coming to a close, too. She was already inside, preparing a boiled-potato supper for them, but it would be some while before they ate.
Billy and Jonas had finished their day’s labours, left the boats in their safe haven, and set off to walk the half mile to Tredegar’s Public House. Content with the thought of a cold beer, they scuffled over the rocky path and nudged each other, recanting stories and tales in salty, worn-out voices. Billy cast a final glance over his shoulder to check that their boats were safe before spinning around with a final whack to his brother’s upper arm, but Jonas had moved slightly ahead, and Billy’s fist missed its target. Hardly a punch, more a glancing blow, and Jonas laughed at the younger boy’s lack of coordination.
At the pub, its oak door was easily pushed aside, and the pair bundled themselves in – two chubby balls of shoulders, arms and looping feet to join their companions already at the bar and six pints in.