Chapter 5
The storm moved its way north and expended its wrath over Perranporth.
The windless calm had lasted until just after dawn after which the wind began to blow. It rose in strength throughout the morning and each hour grew in ferocity. Thick and heavy clouds closed in and spread over the sky rendering it an ominous black. In the countryside near the village great trees were torn out of the earth and left lying in the narrow lanes and fields.
The wind did not abate and increased in strength through the day. The sea rose and fell in great plunging waves throwing salty foam ashore and rushing over the sodden beach and pounding the rocks beyond. On the horizon boats pitched and tossed yet somehow stayed afloat.
By the time the villagers dared to look outside, the streets were awash with dirty water. By the grace of God, the cottages had been built on higher ground and did not flood.
Roofs and windows were battered with hard and heavy rain. There was a great fork of light from the sky and the people stopped to count before the inevitable roar of thunder.
“A count of fifteen,” said a man.
“It’s three miles off,” said another.
There was another great flash followed by a roar from above.
“Count of ten,” said the man.
“Two miles. Getting closer,” said the other.
“It’ll be right on top of us soon enough,” said a woman, a fisherman’s wife whose husband had not yet returned from sea. She scanned the horizon with eyes wild with fear as the sea seemed to boil as the tempest vented its fury all around.
“Don’t fret, Martha,” said the first man. “Your Tom’s a good fisherman. He knows the weather around these parts. He’ll have seen the wind rise and rowed into some cove yonder up the coast and will have taken shelter. He’s no fool, he knows these shores well enough.”
Martha gave a nod and fought her way through the wind and went back to her cottage. She pushed her body against the wind to force her door closed and managed at last to shut out the rain.
While the storm raged without, all was warm and dry in John Wickham’s house. Darcy and Lizzy sat in the front room looking out of the huge bay window and marvelled at the dramatic force of nature. John Wickham had lit a fire and his wife brought in a large jug of steaming punch. She poured a tankard for Lizzy and Darcy and they drank gratefully. Darcy looked around.
“Where is your brother, Mr Wickham?” he said.
“Has he gone to work down the mine?” sad Lizzy.
“George? No, he wouldn’t go out in this weather. Whenever there has been anything heavier than drizzle outside he makes sure he stays inside.”
“What about the other miners?”
“They’ll be there, hard at work.”
“Even in this weather?” said Darcy.
“Oh yes. They’ll have walked the couple of miles to the mine this morning, same as ever. Working hard, bringing up the tin to sell to all those far flung places east and west. Not George though. He’ll have taken one look out of the window and thought it too wet and windy to walk all that way to the mine. No doubt he’ll have told that pretty wife of his that the mine will probably be shut on account of the storm and gone back to sleep.”
A little later Lydia came in.
“Good morning,” she said. “Have you ever seen such a storm? Poor George, he was looking forward to a hard day’s work but he says the mine will be kept shut today due to the inclement weather.”
“So, what is he doing now?” said John. “Making himself useful I trust?”
“He went back to sleep,” said Lydia.
“I hope the thunder doesn’t wake him,” said Darcy sardonically.
“Oh no,” said Lydia brightly, “George sleeps like a log.”
“Be sure to wake him for lunch won’t you,” added Lizzy.
The tempest continued outside and there was no respite from the howling wind and pounding rain. The rain turned to hailstones which clattered and bounced against the walls and windows of the defiant little cottages. So great was the noise against the large bay window that Darcy and Lizzy were unable to hear one another speak until it subsided at last, replaced by a steady fall of rain.
George Wickham came downstairs. He had dressed but his hair was awry and his face still puffy from sleep.
“Good morning,” he said.
“It’s twelve thirty,” said John.
“Well in that case,” said Wickham, “good afternoon. Is lunch ready?”
“Agnes is preparing it now.”
“Oh good. Have you seen the weather? It’s blowing hard outside. That’s why I didn’t go to the mine. It’s certain to be shut, isn’t it?”
“It never shuts,” said John. “Not on account of the weather anyway.”
“Oh really?” said Wickham. “So, I could have gone to work after all? What a pity.”
“You could still do the afternoon shift, you know,” said Darcy.
“Hardly worth it, is it?” said Wickham. “by the time I put my work clothes on and walk to the mine it will almost time to finish work and come home.”
“The mine shuts in the evening, George,” said John quietly.
“True. However, it would be rude to miss lunch though, wouldn’t it? Put your Agnes to all that trouble making my lunch and then not eat it? No, I couldn’t do it to her.”
“And you wouldn’t make my George walk through this terrible storm would you, John?” said Lydia plaintively.
“No, Lydia,” he said, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
Agnes returned from the kitchen and said that lunch was ready. The others got up and made their way to the dining room. Wickham got there first followed by Lydia. Darcy, Lizzy and John strolled behind them and took their seats at the large dining table. Agnes served them an excellent lunch and John fetched ale and wine.
When lunch was over everybody went back to the front room. The worst of the storm was over. The rain had slowed and the wind had dropped at last. The clouds began to disperse and a little sunlight peeped through.
“It looks calmer outside now,” said Lizzy.
“Yes, it does,” said John. “I really ought to go and see if any damage has been done.”
“I’ll come out and help,” said Darcy.
“Won’t you help too, Mr Wickham?” said Lizzy.
“I’m not sure I’d be very useful,” said Wickham. “I’ll probably just get in the way.”
“Indeed,” said John, “in that case perhaps you’d better go to the mine and work a few hours there. At least you won’t have to walk in the rain now.”
“Perhaps I can be of use in surveying the damage outside after all,” said Wickham.
The three men went outside. There was an eerie stillness in the air now that the storm had ended. People emerged timidly from their cottages to assess any havoc which may have been caused. A few tiny rowing boats had been flung across the beach but fortunately none were damaged. All were upside down but one which stood on its keel and was filled with rainwater.
John went to work at once. The boat filled with water was too heavy to lift or tilt so he took a bucket and emptied it a little at a time. After some time, the boat was light enough and he tilted it to one side and poured out the water. When it was almost empty he turned it over to let it drain. He lifted the boat above his head and carried it to the beach. He came back and carried the other boats, one by one, and set them down next to the first.
Darcy and Wickham stood and watched, not knowing how to help. Lizzy watched them with interest.
“Can I help, John?” said Darcy.
“Thank you,” said John. “Would you collect any branches from the road and gather any slates that have been blown off the roofs.”
Darcy did as he was bidden. He found a wheelbarrow in a tool shed and gathered up all the slates he could find. He left the filled barrow in front John’s house and gathered up all the fallen branches. When John had taken all the boats to the beach, ready to fish for pilchards, he took
the barrow of slate and helped to repair the damaged roofs with the other villagers. If a front door had been torn off its hinges by the gale, he helped to fix it. If a window had been broken by heavy hailstones, he helped to repair that too.
If any cottage roof had not been damaged the owner helped to repair that of his neighbour. In short, the community joined together to return the village to its former state as quickly as possible. Darcy was industrious and helpful. Wickham was not very useful but, to his credit, he did not get in the way either.
By nightfall all the work had been done. The villagers returned to their cottages, grateful that there had been no widespread destruction. John, Darcy and Wickham returned to John’s house where Agnes had prepared a fine hot supper.
“Thank you for your help, gentlemen,” said John. “Thank heaven none of the boats have been destroyed or holed. We will need all of them when the pilchards come. I have a feeling it will be a good catch this year.”
“When will they come do you think?” said Darcy.
“Any time. It could be today or tomorrow or the day after that.”
“And you are ready? You have enough boats?”
“Well I am concerned about Tom. Martha said he was out at sea when the storm hit. When I spoke to her earlier he hadn’t returned. I told her not to be concerned for Tom is an experienced fisherman. He will doubtless have rowed ashore further up the coast. However, he may have gone so far up that he will not get back in time for the pilchards. Or his boat may have been wrecked. Or worse…”
“You will need him then?” said Darcy.
John did not answer. He looked at Darcy and nodded.
It had been a long and tiring day and after supper they all retired to bed.
Darcy and Lizzy prepared for bed.
“It was remarkable how quickly John and the others cleared up the village wasn’t it?” said Lizzy. “And from what John said the villagers were very grateful for your help.”
“I didn’t do much,” said Darcy.
“You did a lot more than Wickham.”
They continued to dress for bed. Lizzy noted Darcy’s silence.
“I’m sure the villagers are thankful for what you did, my love.”
He gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“I just wish I could have helped more. All I did was pick up some detritus from the road. He lifted all the boats down to the beach. And then he got up on the roofs and repaired the slates. He was so purposeful. The others seemed to follow without question.”
“Why, Fitzwilliam, I believe you are jealous.”
“Not jealous exactly.”
“Envious then?”
“Perhaps a little. Can you blame me though? You remember what I said to you at Pemberley? That I engage in little physical activity and that I am not an adventurous sort of man. John Wickham, however has shown himself to be a man capable of heroic actions.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she scolded lightly, “you have many unique gifts and talents. I love you for the man you are. And luckily for you I like a proud and aloof sort of man.”
He smiled. “Yes, that is lucky, isn’t it?”
He took her in his arms and knew how truly lucky he was.
The next morning they dressed and went downstairs for an early breakfast.
“Good morning, Agnes,” said Lizzy. “Where is Mr Wickham?”
“Here, Mrs Darcy,” said George Wickham who had come downstairs with Lydia, “just arrived for breakfast.”
“No, Mr Wickham, I meant your brother John.”
“He’s gone down to the sea,” said Agnes, “to make sure the huers are in place.”
“Huers?” said Darcy. “What are huers?”
“Lookouts who stand on the cliff tops and look for the fish coming in. They alert the boats when they see ‘em. They shout ‘hevva. Hevva.”
“Hevva?” repeated Darcy. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a Cornish expression. I suppose you could say it means here they come or something like that.”
“Oh, how romantic,” said Lydia.
“It’s a serious matter, Mrs Wickham,” chided Agnes. “The pilchards will feed the whole village over winter. It’s the difference between thriving and starving. It’s not some trifling matter you might read in a romantic novel.”
“No, sorry,” said Lydia with a secret little smirk at her husband.
John Wickham came in for breakfast.
“Any sign, John?” said Agnes.
“Nothing. But the huers are ready and will shout loud and hearty when they see ‘em.”
“Have you spoken to Martha? Is there any report of Tom?” said his wife.
“No, nothing. I hope he returns before the pilchards come.”
“Don’t worry, John, everything will be alright, I’m sure.”
“I hope you’re right, Agnes. But he’s a good man with a boat, we’ll need him when they do come.”
In a village outside St Ives the Mr and Mrs Bennet and their two daughters climbed into the coach. They had avoided the worst of the storm by staying put in the little tavern. Now Mrs Bennet wanted to make up for lost time and told Mr Bennet to instruct the driver to head for St Ives with all possible speed. They reached their destination as the sun reached its zenith in the blue sky. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago the great storm had unleashed its deluge on the town.
They made enquiries at one or two taverns but to no avail. Mr Bennet saw the seafarers’ chapel at the end of the beach.
“Sunday,” he said.
“Sunday, Mr Bennet?” said Mrs Bennet. “What do you mean?”
“Sunday. If they were here on Sunday then they must have gone to church. Perhaps they went to the chapel over there. Perhaps somebody remembers them.”
“We don’t even know if they were here on Sunday, Mr Bennet.”
“No, my dear, we don’t. But isn’t it worth enquiring? We have no other clue.”
“Very well but I fear we are wasting our time.”
They went to the chapel and found the door open. Mrs Bennet gave a timid little knock and they went in. They saw Reverend Parry checking the windows to ensure they were still sound after the storm. Mr Bennet cleared his throat and Reverend Parry turned.
“Let me speak to him, Mrs Bennet,” said Mr Bennet quietly.
The good reverend approached them. Mr Bennet shook his hand.
“Good afternoon,” said Reverend Parry. “Can I help you.”
“Why yes, perhaps you can,” said Mr Bennet. “My name is Bennet and this is my wife.”
“Good afternoon, I am Reverend Parry.”
“We are taking a holiday in Cornwall, Reverend, with our daughter and son in law. Unfortunately, we became detached from them near Land’s End. They said they would be heading east up the north coast. They are a young couple, not long married. By any chance did you see them at chapel on Sunday last?”
“Why yes, there was a young couple here on Sunday. They spoke to me about my sermon. I noticed then that their accents were not Cornish. That may have been your daughter and her husband.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“They didn’t say but I believe they were lodging at The Ship inn. You might make enquiries there. It’s just a little way up the road, on the sea front.”
“Thank you, Reverend,” said Mr Bennet and left the chapel.
“Where are we going, Mr Bennet?” she said.
“To The Ship inn of course. We’ll make enquiries there.”
They went to The Ship and Mr Bennet spoke to the landlord.
“A young couple, you say?” said the landlord. “Yes, I seem to remember a young couple staying here. They had fowl on account of the star gazy pie being off until after the pilchards are netted.”
“What does he mean, ‘pilchards’,” whispered Mrs Bennet. “And what on earth is star gazy pie?”
Mr Bennet motioned to her to stop talking and turned to the landlord.
“Did they say where they
were headed?”
“I think my wife said something about Perranporth.”
“Perranporth? Is it far?”
“It’s a few miles. You follow the coast road until you come to the finger post that marks Perranporth. Then it’s around a mile from the finger post.”
Darcy and Lizzy's Cornish Adventure Page 7
