by Jane Jackson
‘Oh.’ Grace bit her lip.
‘I know. You feel horribly self-conscious. Turn your chair away a little. Now forget about me. Watch the crowd. People are so interesting, especially when they don’t realise they are being observed. I expect you’ve been rushing about all morning so think of this as a well-earned rest.’
While she was speaking Dorcas had begun to draw. Her pencil strokes quickly captured the shy tilt of Grace’s head, the softness of her mouth. As she brought the curves and hollows of Grace’s face alive on the paper a couple stopped to watch. They were joined by several more. Some moved to look over Dorcas’s shoulder and watch the portrait take shape. Mostly they stood silent as if afraid to disturb either artist or sitter. When Dorcas sat back there was a collective sigh.
‘Dear life, that’s ‘andsome,’ announced Mrs Rawling, the butcher’s wife, her hands folded under her pillowy bosom. ‘How much are you charging?’
A boy clutching a china plate wriggled through the watchers. ‘Minister said I was to give you this.’ As Grace took the plate he opened his other hand and dropped three silver sixpences and six pennies into it. Errand discharged he turned and ran.
Dorcas saw Grace’s blush as she set the plate on the grass, picked up her hat, and rose to her feet.
‘Mrs Renowden is only charging sixpence.’ Above the rustle of whispers she continued. ‘This is a rare opportunity, and for such a good cause.’
Dorcas unpinned the portrait and handed it to Grace whose face registered shock, then pleasure and uncertainty.
‘Oh, it’s … it’s …’
‘It’s you,’ Dorcas said simply.
‘It’s wonderful,’ Grace breathed. ‘I had no idea I looked like –’
‘Caught you just right she did,’ Mrs Rawling said with the confidence of a connoisseur. ‘I’m next.’ She settled herself on the chair. ‘Better than any photograph this is. But I won’t be taking my hat off if it’s all the same to you. I’ll never get ‘n on straight again, not without a looking glass. Don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ Dorcas smiled, swiftly pinning another sheet of paper to the board. ‘It’s a most charming hat. And it suits you so well.’
Mrs Rawling’s imposing chest swelled with pride, and pleasure lit her face.
Dorcas’s pencil flew over the paper. ‘Grace?’ she murmured without looking up. ‘Would you be kind enough to fetch me a cup of tea?’
‘Of course. I should have – I’ll go right away.’
An hour and five portraits later people had drifted away to look at other stalls. Glad of the respite Dorcas stretched, wondering what had become of her promised cup of tea. Reluctant to move while waiting for Grace she turned the board on its side, pinned on a fresh sheet and began an impressionistic sketch of the scene.
Zander had always insisted that raw talent was useless without draughtsmanship to contain and guide it. He had taught her how to draw, how to use perspective, and how to alter her focus so she would see objects in terms of the space around them. During the few short years they had shared she had evolved from child to woman, from chrysalis to butterfly.
Zander had been her father’s friend. Her mother hadn’t liked him though she would never say why. He had declined the trip because he was busy with a painting. When news of the tragedy arrived it was to Zander she had run, meeting him on the road for he had been on his way to her.
She had soaked up like a sponge everything he could teach her. Understanding his need for solitude she would often take her drawing board into the garden and leave him alone in his studio. It was there that he died one summer afternoon, lying on the couch where she had so often posed while he painted her, and where they had first made love.
He head was turned away and at first she thought he had simply fallen asleep. The day was hot and he had been working since early morning. She had laughed, calling his name, ready to tease. But he hadn’t stirred and something about his stillness had tightened her skin.
Kneeling beside him, her heart refusing to accept what her head recognised, she had gently turned his face toward her. His skin was cool, his brows drawn together in a slight frown, as if death were an irritating interruption.
Sitting on the floor she had rested her face against his, holding him while the sun went down and his body grew cold. She had wept for all the years they would not have and for a future without him. Yet in the midst of her shock and grief she was glad his passing had been so swift, that it had occurred in his studio where he had created such wonderful work and they had spent so many happy fulfilling hours.
Grace was nearing the front of the long line in the tea tent. No one would have objected if she’d gone straight to the head of the queue. But everyone here had worked equally hard. She would wait her turn. It was a relief to be free of demands for a moment, pleasant to pass the time of day with people around her.
Hearing her name called she glanced towards the entrance. Violet was standing on tiptoe, her normally stolid countenance creased with anxiety as she craned her neck.
‘Miss Grace?’
Immediately abandoning the queue Grace eased through the crush. ‘Violet? What’s the matter?’
‘Thank God I’ve found you, Miss. You’d better come quick. Mistress is in some state.’
Taking the maid’s arm Grace gently pushed her out of the tent away from curious stares. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Tis Martha Tamblin. I never hear the like. I know she’ve had some bad time of it. But going at master like that.’ Violet shook her head. ‘Raving she is.’ Violet pointed to a knot of people clustered near the platform.
Fear gripped Grace. Her mother was already tired. What would this do to her? ‘Go and find Will. Tell him to bring the brougham round to the gate at once.’ She hurried closer.
‘Don’t you bleddy dare tell me to be quiet, Mister Damerel!’ beneath her battered straw hat Martha Tamblin’s face was white with fury. ‘Tis time somebody faced up to you. This lot …’ she flung out an arm, encompassing the watching crowd, ‘they might be scared of you but I aren’t. My man died because of you. Now my Ellie’s husband is going the same way. Twenty-four he is, and his lungs in shreds. All because of your bleddy drills. Do you know how many men in this village are sick and dying because of you? Do you know how many have died in the past ten years? My girl will be a widow soon, and she’s twenty-three. How can you sleep nights? Haven’t you got no conscience?’
Pushing her way through, hearing the low murmuring, Grace saw her father standing in front of her seated mother who, pale and wide-eyed, pressed one thin hand to her bosom. Mary held the other, talking quietly.
Anxiety and embarrassment made Henry Damerel brusque. ‘Mrs Tamblin, this is not the time or the place.’
Grace closed her eyes. Oh Papa.
‘So when is the right time?’ Martha demanded. ‘There isn’t no right time. Not for you. How many more men got to die before you’ll listen?’
Grace saw her father dart a glance at the watching faces, visibly fighting anger at being made a public spectacle. ‘Mrs Tamblin, you have my sympathy. But with tin prices so low we have to get the ore out faster. We can’t do that without the drills.’ Another murmur greeted his words, this time of reluctant agreement.
‘Who’s this we, then?’ Martha shouted. ‘It isn’t you down there breathing all that dust and muck. It isn’t you coughing till you spit blood.’
The rumble from families with sick miners grew louder.
‘No, it isn’t. But those drills are necessary if Wheal Providence is to remain open,’ Henry blazed at her. ‘I employ more than half the men in this village. What will they do if the mine closes? Where will they find work then?’ As he turned away, offering his arm to his wife, Grace saw his hand was shaking.
Faced with the stark reality his words had spelled out the watching crowd began to melt away. At the far end of the field the band struck up a jaunty march. Alone and defiant, Martha Tamblin glared around her with contempt.
‘Mrs Tamblin? This must be a really difficult time for you. May I walk you home?’
As the woman swung round Grace flinched at the bitterness in her expression but didn’t move. Martha Tamblin’s shoulders sagged and tears trickled down her lined cheeks.
‘Want to get rid of me, do you?’
Taking Martha’s arm Grace drew it gently through hers. ‘It must be a dreadful worry for you.’
Martha shook her head. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘What does the doctor say?’ Grace asked as they left the field and walked up the street.
‘About Paul?’ Martha shrugged wearily. ‘Nothing he can do. ‘Tis just a matter of time.’ She glanced across to the workshop of Wesley Grummet, a carpenter who was also the local undertaker. ‘Wesley have took on two new apprentices since Christmas he got so many coffins to make.’ Martha heaved a shuddering sigh. ‘Still, that’s two boys who won’t have to go down the mine.’
‘How is Ellie?’
‘How d’you think? She got four kiddies and her man too sick to work. Nor she haven’t been right since the babby was born.’
Grace’s throat tightened. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes, well,’ Martha patted Grace’s hand wearily. ‘It’s not your fault.’
With all the children down at the fair Miner’s Row was oddly quiet.
‘May I have a quick word with her?’ Grace asked as they reached the cottage.
‘You can try.’ Opening the door Martha led the way in.
Ellie was sitting in an old wooden rocking chair feeding the baby. The sound of her husband’s coughing could be clearly heard from the room above. Martha picked up a filthy toddler from the floor and wrinkled her nose.
‘Dear life, boy. Need changing you do.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Want me to do it?’
Ellie didn’t react. Despite her youth and bearing four children in six years Grace knew she’d always been a caring mother.
While Martha filled a basin with hot water from the kettle on the stove Grace crouched by the rocking chair.
‘Ellie, is there anything you need for Paul or the children? Anything at all?’
Leaning her head back Ellie closed her eyes as someone knocked on the door. Tucking the squirming toddler under her arm Martha opened it.
‘What do you want?’
Grace glanced round, catching her breath at the sight of Edwin Philpotts on the threshold.
‘To help if I can,’ he said quietly.
Martha snorted. ‘Help, is it? Well, you listen here. I don’t need no minister telling me ‘tis God’s will my girl’s going to lose her husband, and four dear children won’t have no father to care for them.’
‘Of course you don’t. Nor would I be so cruel.’
‘Want to talk to the minister, Ellie?’
Eyes still closed Ellie shook her head.
‘Then I won’t intrude. But if you change your mind just send for me and I’ll come. Day or night. Will you remember that, Mrs Moyle?’
Tears slid between Ellie’s closed lids and down her cheeks. She turned her head away.
‘Best if you go too, Miss Grace,’ Martha said. ‘There isn’t nothing you can do right now.’
Grace straightened up. ‘Mrs Tamblin, I know how proud miners are, and how they hate the thought of accepting charity. But the money made from the fair isn’t charity. It’s the village helping its own. Paul was born and brought up here, just like Ellie. They’ve both helped at fairs in the past. Their efforts helped other families facing difficulties. So please, make a list of whatever you and Ellie need and I’ll see that you get it.’
Martha nodded. ‘That’s good of you, Miss Grace. Listen, what I said earlier –don’t pay no mind –’
Grace waved her to silence. ‘It’s already forgotten.’
She walked in silence beside Edwin down the cobbled road.
‘Is something troubling you?’ he asked quietly.
‘It’s Ellie.’ Grace shook her head. ‘Martha’s worried about her.’
‘You’ve offered every help possible. Miss Damerel, the last thing I want to do is offend you, but why do you take so much responsibility for so many people?’
Turning to face him Grace felt telltale heat climb her face. ‘Who will if I don’t? My father owns the mine that is killing these men.’
‘Your father, Miss Damerel. Not you.’
‘You don’t understand. I have to – it was my fault that my mother –’ she clamped her mouth shut, stopping just in time, and stared blindly at the cobbles willing him to excuse himself and go. The silence stretched.
He cleared his throat. ‘May I escort you back to the fair? The children would be so disappointed if you were to miss their dancing. Is it true that your brother Bryce is an expert sheaf pitcher?’
Relief and gratitude were like warm honey in her veins. She glanced up, saw kindness in his eyes, and felt her mouth tremble into a smile. ‘Oh no, not an expert. But he has come third a couple of times.’
Chapter Nine
The camera club met once a fortnight at a harbour-side hotel in Falmouth. Bryce was looking forward to renewing old acquaintanceships and catching up with developments in the photographic world. Both would have to wait until after his talk.
Dry-mouthed, he made his way to the table on which stood the epidiascope he would use to project his photographs onto the large screen. Unfastening his case he opened the folder and removed the prints. The crowded room felt claustrophobic. Suddenly he wished he had declined the invitation to speak. It wasn’t the implied accolade that had prompted him to accept. It was the opportunity to talk about a period in his life when, for the first time, he had been truly happy. That and loneliness.
The most popular speakers were those who left an audience wanting more. Knowing this, he planned to talk for forty-five minutes and allow another fifteen for questions. It had taken him half a day to choose the pictures.
While the founder of the club made a short speech of introduction Bryce poured water from a carafe into a glass and drank. There was a burst of polite applause. The lights were turned off. As the first image appeared on the screen he took a deep breath and started talking.
Within moments all shuffling and coughing ceased. Sensing he had their total attention Bryce relaxed. Time flew by as he talked of sights he and his brother had seen and recounted amusing or terrifying events. Among the portraits he had included a Mishmi tribesman, the district officer at Zayul, and a Kampa woman clad in bright blue cotton skirt and jacket, her plaited hair worn in a coronet revealing heavy silver earrings set with coral and turquoise.
He had allowed himself one photograph of Tarun. Omitting him would have been a denial of invaluable help without which the trip could not have gone ahead. Though that was a legitimate reason it was not the real one. The truth was he could not forego this rare chance to talk about the man who had both saved his life and changed his life. But he chose his words with care and kept a tight rein on his tongue.
After the vote of thanks and more applause people left their seats to gather around the trays of tea and coffee that had been sent up.
Glad it was over Bryce began packing up.
‘Congratulations. It was a fascinating talk.’
Glancing up he saw a man he didn’t recognize. ‘Thank you.’
‘It must have been the journey of a lifetime.’
‘It was.’
‘Marcus Croft.’ The left hand was offered, the right remaining out of sight in his trouser pocket. After a moment’s confusion Bryce shook it. ‘Our esteemed founder spoke very highly of your technique. Now I see why. Those portraits were remarkable, particularly the one of your young assistant.’
Bryce took the compliment at face value, a tribute to his photographic skill. ‘Thank you.’ He placed the prints he was holding into a folder.
Resting his left arm on the epidiascope, Marcus Croft leaned forward, apparently studying the prints still on the table. ‘If you asked people what was the most important requirement on a trip like that the majority would say money, food, porters. But what you really need is total trust in your companions. Especially in extreme conditions when a wrong move might mean the difference between life and death.’
The cold hand of grief squeezed Bryce’s heart. ‘True.’ He kept his gaze on the leather case as he fastened the buckles.
‘It’s a hell of a wrench, isn’t it?’ Croft said quietly. ‘Like losing a limb.’
Glancing up involuntarily Bryce met a look of understanding that stopped his breath. What had he said? Or done? How did Croft know? Despite the weeks that had passed his sense of loss was still raw, a wound no less painful for being invisible. Clenching his teeth he nodded briefly then lifted his case and turned away.
‘It happened to me you see,’ Croft continued. ‘Similar circumstances I daresay. Out in the wilds: danger threatening: fell sick. I was on the North-West frontier.’
Bryce turned back. ‘You were a soldier?’
Croft shook his head. ‘Combat photographer. Until I stopped a couple of bullets during the Malakand campaign.’ He moved his right arm. ‘Kamal, my guide, bodyguard, interpreter, got me to a field hospital. They saved it. Christ knows why for all the use it is. I wanted to stay on. Everything that mattered, everything I cared about was in India. But I was shipped home.’ His ironic smile was laced with bitterness. ‘They tell me I’m one of the lucky ones.’
Glimpsing devastation far deeper than that caused by bullets, Bryce held Croft’s gaze. ‘You survived.’
‘For what?’
Bryce understood. He knew that feeling. ‘How long have you been back?’
‘Four years. I still miss –’ he cut himself short. ‘Feel like a drink? Not that.’ He nodded towards the tea and coffee. ‘A proper drink. At the King’s Arms.’
