A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  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.

  3

  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.

  He had met the cart last night, down at the gate about a hundred yards from the cottage and had leapt up into it once he had latched the gate behind him and shaken her hand while he talked and laughed with Eliza. His hand had been hard and rough and in the fading light he had looked brown and strong. Eliza had told her that he was seventeen.

  He held the door wide now, sweeping his hand in a mock bow. ‘It’s damp and gloomy in here, don’t you think?’

  She paused, not knowing whether to nod. It seemed rude somehow to criticise the house and she must practise being polite or she might never return to her mother.

  They walked past the bottom of the stairs, but this time she saw the passage which ran alongside and ended in a white-painted door.

  Joe edged past her and opened it, pressing back for her to go before him. She shook her head and looked first at him and then back into the room. The light was vivid after the dark and she could see the corner of a deal table and the open garden door. She had never been in a kitchen before. ‘Do please go first,’ she said, keeping her voice to a whisper.

  Joe smiled. ‘It’s difficult the first time in a new place, ain’t it,’ he whispered. ‘Follow me, but remember that Mother doesn’t eat girls, not on Thursdays anyway.’

  She felt the smile begin as she walked in behind him. His voice was gentle and his smile was so wide that it seemed to take up half his face. His fair hair was tinged with red and he had freckles on the bridge of his nose. Her shoulders began to relax as she followed his broad back.

  Joe’s mother was standing by the sink, wringing out some washing. She turned. ‘Come in, my dear. There’s bread on the table, butter and marmalade. Joe, you help Hannah find her way around and I’ll make some tea.’

  Her smile was also broad and her voice drawled like Joe’s. She was dressed much as last night in clothes that flowed about her body instead of pinning everything up inside like a suit of armour. Hannah pulled at her bodice again. Mrs Arness wore her hair in a long loose plait which hung down her back, not coiled round her head as it had been when she had stood at the doorway with the oil lamp blowing in the evening breeze. Now, in daylight, Hannah saw that it was the same russet colour as the blouse she was wearing, a blouse that was undone at the neck. Her skirt was red and full. Hannah felt her collar. Yes, it was safely buttoned. She hardly dared look at Mrs Arness again, at her open neck which her parents would recoil from and claim was indecent.

  ‘Sit down then,’ Joe said, pulling out a chair from the table. He sat opposite in his tweed suit, the jacket of which had leather patches on the elbows, and pushed the wooden board that held the round cottage loaf over to her.

  Hannah took a piece, covering her confusion with action, intrigued by the newness of this way of life. Was this how all Americans lived? Where was the silver toast rack and the servants who quietly served them? Where was the tension of correct behaviour? Beads of water pushed to the surface as she spread some butter, still ridged from the wooden platters. Joe pushed marmalade towards her.

  ‘Quince marmalade,’ he said. ‘Mother has made it every year since we’ve been here.’ He looked over his shoulder towards his mother who was hanging ironed sheets on the wooden slats of the airer, which she had lowered in front of the black leaded stove. Hannah liked the bitter taste, liked the warm soft neck of Mrs Arness which she now glanced at again and again as she stooped and stretched with the clean linen. Joe turned to her.

  ‘Excuse me, Hannah.’ He pushed himself up from the table with his hands and again she saw how rough they were, how big. His eyes were blue, like his mother’s, she noticed, as she watched Joe take the rope to raise the now laden airer. He was as big as Harry but not as big as her father and he had only a faint moustache, fair like his hair. She hoped he would not grow a beard because too much hair would hide his smile. She sat back in the chair, feeling its spokes against her back. The sun was pouring in through the door and windows and the room felt warm and dry; her back loosened and her shoulders drooped with the pleasure of just being.

  Joe was talking to his mother as he carried out the washing she had just finished. Did people in Cornwall always talk to one another, she wondered, talk and laugh and eat in the kitchen? But she knew that was not so because at Eliza’s it was just like being at home.

  There was a washing-line running along the path which led from the door and Joe was handing his mother the clothes. How very strange. She had never seen a man do that before and it pleased her, made her feel complete. Polly sent their washing to the woman who lived in the back streets. Hannah took more marmalade. It was good, very good. She watched as Mrs Arness came back towards the door.

  ‘Put a kettle on, would you, Hannah. I meant to but forgot.’ She smiled and returned to the garden, her skirt swirling out and the plait catching the sun.

  Hannah felt uncertain again as she looked around the kitchen. Where was the kettle? What was a kettle? She wiped her hands, sticky from the quince, on her serviette and rose, looking through the door at Joe and his mother. They were talking again, not looking at this visitor of theirs who was so ignorant, so unworldly. She wanted to groan aloud but there wasn’t time. She hurried to the sink but there was nothing there. Perhaps it would be in the cupboards underneath – but there were only black pans like the old one that the gardener used to shell the peas into sitting on the glasshouse step. Would it do? Her skirt was dragging on the flagstoned floor. She moved one of the pans; it was heavy and black. She wanted to cry or to run away. Would Mrs Arness tell her father of her stupidity?

  Then she heard footsteps behind and stood up, turning towards the sound. Would they stop smiling now that there was no kettle, no boiling water? But Joe did not; neither did his mother who said, ‘The kettle’s over on the side hob, Hannah. It’ll need filling, I’m afraid.’ She was pointing to the fire and Hannah nodded, brushing the dust from her skirt before she walked past the table and grasped the kettle. It too was heavy and she began to understand why Mrs Brennan insisted on employing only a good strong girl to help Cook in the kitchen.

  At the sink the water splashed red-flecked from the tap into the kettle’s dark insides, and as it grew heavier in her hand her arms began to shake
. She tightened her grip. The geranium on the windowsill was splashed from the force of the water and its smell was acrid. She turned to Mrs Arness.

  ‘Is it all right?’ she asked, pointing to the strange water, but suddenly the kettle was full and water began spilling over. She heaved, feeling the strain in her shoulders, and as she lifted it the gushing flow caught the edge of the kettle and sprayed her. It was cold and sank through to her skin but she held on to the kettle, heaving it on to the scrubbed drainer.

  ‘Oh, Hannah, not quite so much next time.’

  Hannah flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’ She brushed at her soaked bodice and took the towel that Joe offered but at least Mrs Arness had said there would be a next time and it gave her a feeling of pleasure.

  ‘Rub yourself down with that,’ Joe said. ‘We’ll go out soon and the sun will sort it out for you.’ He tipped some of the water out into the sink and again she saw the red flecks.

  ‘That’s what I meant really.’ Hannah pointed to the red flakes which now lay on the bottom of the deep white sink. ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re iron. They’ll make you good and strong, bring some colour to your cheeks.’ He turned and put the kettle on the hob and Hannah thought she would only have one cup because colour was something her mother did not like. She had a boiled egg too, while she waited for the tea.

  ‘If you don’t mind having things the wrong way round,’ Joe’s mother said, and Hannah did not mind; she loved the ease of this woman, this boy.