The Forgotten Story

by Winston Graham

  On another occasion, hearing gruff and unfamiliar voices in the room below, Anthony saw the master and mate of Lady Tregeagle being entertained to a glass of rum and milk. This was the first time he had seen anyone invited into that private office. When they had finished their drink Joe brought out a piece of foolscap paper and signed his name on it, and they both signed their names after him. He did not however give them this paper but kept it himself; and when they had gone he sealed it up in an envelope and stood hesitantly in the middle of the floor for some seconds. Eventually he went to a small oil painting of an old lady on the wall and taking it down clicked it open on some sort of a hinge, so that between the painting and the back there was room to slip the paper.

  Anthony tried to take a firm hold on himself over this matter of peeping. He seldom yielded to the temptation without feeling mean about it afterwards; also he had no lock on his door and knew that if someone were to come into his room while he was so engaged he would never live down the shame.

  No word came to him during these weeks from his father. He had received one letter only since his mother’s death, and he anxiously awaited another. He was quite happy in his new life, chiefly because of Patricia; but he longed to see his father. He longed above all to be in the company of someone to whom he personally belonged. He could not-quite get over the feeling of not belonging here. It was as if he had been in the centre of a circle of friends, and suddenly he had lost that circle, and now he was attached to another circle, but was only at the extreme outer edge.

  He did not come to know Aunt Madge any better than the day he first arrived. That small precise face built upon its column of chins seldom carried much expression beyond a certain vague distaste for the vulgarity of the world around it. The large, shapeless body, with its fondness for ornament – overburdened, one felt, as much by clothes as by flesh – seemed to dominate the kitchen without stamping the impress of a personality upon it. The weak, husky voice was what Anthony chiefly remembered when she was not before him, its habit of breaking off before its objective was reached, its capacity when angry of endless reiteration without being raised a semi-tone.

  But he sympathised with Uncle Joe for having married her even though she was so unattractive; for she was a real commercial asset. With her to do the cooking, Patricia to charm the clientele with her pretty ways, and Joe himself to drive his hard bargains at the door, the supremacy of the restaurant was secure.

  The only times Anthony was really uncomfortable were on the Friday and Saturday evenings. These nights might have improved since the law case, but they were still rowdy enough. The boy had few thoughts on the ethics of the matter, but he didn’t like Patricia being in contact with a crowd of singing roisterers and he always felt a sensation of relief when Saturday drew to a close without having given rise to another mêlée.

  This business of Friday and Saturday evenings was the only one on which Uncle Perry condescended to compromise his amateur status. When the fun got fast and merry he was usually somewhere in the middle of it with his laughing buccaneer face and Spanish-black hair. Sometimes he would be persuaded to sing, and he had a fine repertoire of comic songs with an occasional bawdy number thrown in. He would stand under the figurehead of the Mary Lee Melford, which had sunk off Maenporth, smile his attractive wayward smile, and sing his songs accompanied by the lame accordionist, while the crowded room roared the choruses.

  One night by way of a change he chose the ‘ Song of Tregeagle,’ and Anthony knew for certain the identity of the nocturnal carouser who still periodically disturbed his sleep.

  ‘They heard the Black Hunter! and dread shook each

  mind;

  Hearts sank that had never known fear;

  They heard the Black Hunter’s dread voice in the

  wind!

  They heard his cursed hell-hounds run yelping behind!

  And his steed thundered loud on the ear.’

  The boy came to know much of Falmouth during these weeks, for he was constantly out and about, rowing Joe to a ship in the bay, accompanying Pat on shopping expeditions among the huddled narrow streets and courtyards, shopping on his own for Aunt Madge, roving round the town with Uncle Perry when Uncle Perry couldn’t get his favourite baccy at the usual shop.

  He came to appreciate and understand the pulsing life of the port. News would come through that one of the big nitrate ships was becalmed off the Sollies, and at once rival pilot cutters set off to race to meet her. Then one by one over a period of weeks the great grain ships arrived in the bay, standing well out in the calm sea, sails furled at last after a world passage of anything up to half a year’s duration. Sometimes there were fifteen to twenty of them at once, awaiting their orders; then one by one as they received them they would slip away in the night, off to Queenstown or Liverpool or Clydebank or the Thames. The crews from these ships did not come ashore, but many of the masters and mates crowded into Smoky Joe’s and sat there over their food talking of storm and stress which scarcely seemed believable with the quiet sea lapping the old stone wall outside; of scudding down the roaring forties, of heat and boredom in the doldrums, of rounding Cape Horn in the black of the night and losing men swept from the frozen yards, by the giant seas.

  Sometimes there were as many as two hundred head of sail in the roadstead and the bay, and among them all almost the only steam belonged to the Irish coastline boats. During busy periods keen-eyed old men sat in Woodhouse Terrace, the highest in the town, and scanned the horizon with powerful telescopes. As soon as a sail was sighted word went secretly down and the competing bum-boats and tailors’ cutters tried to slip quietly out of the port without arousing suspicion in the breasts of their rivals. Once the news became public it was a free-for-all race to the incoming ship to reach it first and bespeak it for re-victualling and supplies.

  Nothing more was seen of Tom Harris. He had apparently given up his erring wife as a bad job. As for Patricia, she pursued her light-hearted way, being taken out in turn by several good-looking young men, though the perceptive might have detected an element of determination in her gaiety.

  The one obvious cloud in her life now was Joe. Joe appeared to be sickening for another bout of his old complaint. He carried on his unfailing routine without break, working in his office in the mornings and sitting the rest of the day behind the counter of his shop, fierce and intractable and dry. But although the spirit remained indomitable the flesh was weak: he could eat practically nothing, and his small terrier eyes had sunk deeper into a face narrow and hollow and grey. His appearance began even to affect the attendance at the restaurant on Friday and Saturday nights. People did not like to be jolly with a sick man serving their food.

  Aunt Madge pressed him to take a couple of weeks in bed to see if that would help, and everyone joined her in urging him to see a doctor; but he refused to do either. If he took to his bed who would carry on the supervision of his numerous interests? And a doctor would only prescribe sickly potions which would do him no manner of good. Besides, doctors were expensive; they were the luxury of a rich man. One did not throw away one’s shillings soliciting useless advice.

  And doctors, he argued, could not rid him of a fluke-worm. He knew what to take and was taking it. Plenty of purgatives and a starvation diet. When the attack subsided he’d soon pick up again.

  In August the town was visited by Poulton’s Players, a company of itinerant troupers who toured the south-west with their melodramas. This was an event of popular importance in the life of the community. Ma and Pa Poulton being respected figures and their return visits awaited with pleasure. Not for Poulton’s Players the inconvenience of performing in strange halls with makeshift scenery and unpredictable lighting. Snail-like, Poulton’s carried their house on their back in the shape of a tent, and this was erected on the Moor and the plays given before a select audience for which suitable seating accommodation was provided – easy chairs and couches for the patrons who came in evening dress from the big houses of the town,
grading finely down to hard wooden benches for those who had not the money to afford better.

  Patricia went to an early performance with one of her friends and enjoyed it so much that she persuaded her father to let Anthony go with her on the following night. Anthony had never been to a play in his life, and they set out together bubbling over with excitement at the thought of it all.

  The Moor was centrally situated and they had only a short distance to walk. Patricia was wearing a blue dress trimmed with velvet which showed up her slender waist, and a feather boa. Her face was pretty and piquant under a small straw hat. They were talking animatedly as they walked, when Pat suddenly gave a little exclamation and was silent. The boy saw that on the other side of the street and plainly bound for the Moor himself was her husband.

  At the moment Tom Harris turned his head and saw them; he stopped and crossed the street, hat in hand.

  His manner was more friendly than it had been last time.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you would care to admit to your society a member of the ancient borough of Penryn,’

  Patricia, after a moment’s embarrassment, evidently decided to meet him on his own ground.

  ‘Well, Tom,’ she said. ‘So you’re going to the play too. I thought you would not consider it quite respectable.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It is not so much where one goes as the company one keeps.’

  Anthony felt rather than saw the girl begin to flush darkly. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘I am sure you would not wish to be admitted to our society. Good night.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said, quickening his pace with hers. ‘I thought you might sit with me in the theatre.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pat. ‘I’ve promised to take my cousin. We’d prefer to sit alone.’

  ‘So this is your cousin,’ said Tom. ‘How d’you do?’

  ‘How d’you do, sir,’ said Anthony, lifting his cap, not to be outdone in the frigid courtesies.

  They climbed the hill towards the tent. From the summit of the ‘theatre’ a flag fluttered briskly in the breeze.

  ‘I suppose you know,’ Harris said, ‘that I’ve resigned my job.’

  Patricia looked at him quickly. ‘You’ve –’

  He nodded. ‘I want a change.’

  She seemed to suspect some calculated manoeuvre on his part. ‘Why did you do that?’

  They had come now to the crowd of people who gathered about the entrance to the tent.

  ‘I said before I should like a word with you in private. Otherwise,’ he added, ‘I might take the seat next to yours and spoil your evening’s enjoyment.’

  She hesitated a moment longer, biting her lip.

  ‘Anthony,’ she said, ‘will you buy our tickets, please. I’ll join you when you’ve got them.’

  She passed him the money and he fell in reluctantly at the back of the queue, already aware that Tom Harris had begun to speak to the girl in a steady undertone.

  The queue was slow in moving. There was some dispute at the booking window.

  Then a voice in front of him said: ‘That’s Joe Veal’s girl over there.’

  Anthony glanced up quickly at the speaker. He knew him by sight, a tall man with a drooping moustache called Treharne, who kept the public house on the corner of the street. Anthony had often seen him standing at the door of his place, and sometimes he had been in to Smoky Joe’s for a meal. Treharne belonged to that strange breed of people who always have confidential, advance information upon any subject which crops up for discussion. If the King has gone to Scotland they know why; if there has been unrest in the Welsh coal districts they know where; if a fine ship has run aground in a fog they know how.

  ‘Who’s she with?’ asked his companion, peering. ‘He’s a new one to me.’

  ‘Well, not to her,’ said Treharne. ‘That’s Tom Harris, her husband, from Penryn, that’s who that is.’

  The other man whistled. ‘ I thought they was estranged. I thought they was separated.’

  Treharne speculated. ‘Hm, well, maybe he’s trying to make it up. Lawyers usually have an eye on the main chance. She’ll have a tidy little packet to her name one of these days soon.’

  ‘Yes, I s’pose.’

  ‘Smoky Joe’ll be a very warm man, mark my words. He had a tidy nest egg when he came back here six or seven years ago, and since then he’s made big money. Big money. He’s never spent a penny, y’know; and that restaurant idea of his was a gold mine. Then there’s the shipping and one or two side lines. Young Harris will have to play her pretty careful; she’s a ’andsome piece of goods but flighty, and there’ll be plenty of other wasps round the jam-pot when she comes in for the money.’

  ‘Well, maybe they’ll have to wait a bit yet. Old Joe –’

  The man broke off as Treharne emphatically shook his head. Then he went on: ‘I didn’t know Smoky was as ill as all that …’

  Treharne shook his head again. ‘ Same thing as his wife, you know.’ He made the observation in a confidential undertone with the air of having received the news direct from the surgeon’s lips. ‘It’s all U.P. when a person gets that.’

  ‘Hm. I’m sorry. Is it …?’

  ‘Well, there we are …’

  Uneasily: ‘It surely isn’t catching.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But I’ve noticed husbands and wives often seem to get it after each other, haven’t you? Of course, mind you, mm-mm-mm-mm …’

  ‘Poor old Smoky.’

  ‘Yes. Poor luck for him.’

  A moment later the men had passed on and Anthony found himself facing Ma Poulton in the box office.

  He bought the seats and waited for Patricia to separate from her husband and join him. She did this almost at once and they entered the tent together. But Anthony’s excitement and anticipation for the evening had dropped from him. Somehow the pleasure of the present had become submerged in a dread of the future.

  Chapter Eight

  Whatever the Poulton Players lacked in the finer points of acting as understood by the sophisticated few, they made up in verve and power and conscientious determination to see that nothing was missed by the slower members of the audience. The play was called The Last of His Line; a title, the boy thought at first, with some aptness for the grey little tragedy which was taking place behind the drawn curtains of Smoky Joe’s. But as the play progressed even the encounters of this evening were driven from his mind by the strange glamour of the footlights. For nearly three hours he lived in a world of Marquises and milkmaids, of mortgages and suicides, of love trysts broken and hearts with them, and of Christmas reconciliations to the sight of snowflakes and the sound of church bells.

  He came out with his mind still staggering under the weight of enormous visual impressions. He was thrilled and delighted almost to the core of his being. But at the very core was a hard heavy weight which seemed to say: ‘This isn’t what’s happening to you; the part of the evening that’s yours is what happened before you went in.’

  As they were leaving the tent Tom Harris joined them again. He asked if he might see them home, and although the boy felt that this was a usurpation of his own position he could see that Patricia was not unwilling to accept the offer. There were bound to be numerous drunks about at this time of night.

  They walked some distance talking of the play. Anthony thought how much more reasonable they seemed in each other’s presence now they were alone, except for himself. Then Tom Harris spoiled it by suddenly saying:

  ‘Patricia, I want you to leave Joe’s. I want you to come back to Penryn with me tonight.’

  She said: ‘I thought we’d finished discussing that, Tom.’

  ‘I don’t know why it is,’ he said. ‘I can’t give you better reasons than I’ve already given you. But I’ve a feeling. I don’t like the atmosphere of the place. I want you to get out of it.’

  ‘I’m not coming, Tom. I’ve told you; I’m not coming.’

  They walked on.

  ‘In a different
way,’ he said, ‘you’re just as obstinate as your father.’

  ‘If knowing my own mind is obstinacy, then I am. But what is obstinacy? Only the determination of another person to do what you don’t want them to do.’

  ‘You’re learning, Pat. You’re learning the art of argument. But don’t get too theoretical, I beg of you.’

  ‘I thought,’ she said, ‘you would like me to get all dry and precise and withered up like Aunt Phoebe.’

  ‘Why should I? Why should I compare the lily and the teasel?’

  Against her better judgment she uttered a brief murmur of amusement. ‘ That’s just right for Aunt Phoebe. She’s hard and dry and – and prickly and rustles when the wind blows.’

  ‘But even teasels have their uses. You’re no botanist if you expect all nature to fit into one mould. If –’

  ‘That’s what’s the matter with Aunt Phoebe,’ Pat said quickly. ‘She’s no botanist.’

  He inclined his head. ‘A good point. But I’m to blame, not she. Nor you. I thought I was a botanist, yet I expected the lily and the teasel to grow in the same soil. Crabbed age and youth … Well … I’ve learned my lesson. Now I’m suggesting that we try again on a different basis.’

  A long silence followed. Tom Harris knew how to argue his point. He carried too many big guns for the girl. Anthony felt that he should not have allowed the conversation to begin, that now it had begun he should exert himself to break it off. But he could not. He still laboured under the disadvantages of childhood. These were adults, arguing out their own problems between themselves. They had forgotten him. He could not muster the necessary self-importance to interfere.