In the Bleak Midwinter

by Stan Mason

‘Ten!’ replied the octogenarian with surprise. ‘Too dangerous with ten. Happen ‘e’ll need more’n twenty-five. T’aint worth workin’ the mine with ten.’

  ‘Do we have to listen to this drivel,’ cut in Morris testily.

  ‘Did ‘e know the Cornish pasty came about because of the miners?’ went on the old man as his tongue began to loosen freely.

  It was too much for Morris to endure and he pulled Baker towards him by the lapels on his coat. ‘If you don’t get rid of this silly old goat,’ he spat angrily, ‘I’m going to strangle the blighter. Now get rid of him!’

  Baker led the old man away on a feeble excuse. Despite the adverse attitude of Wesley Morris, Trevelyan had been useful to them filling in a number of blanks with regard to their inadequate knowledge of mining and specifically of the Botallack mine. However Morris was right in his assessment. Trevelyan was a man of the past who worked there without electricity, gas or oil, and they were now going to dump him into obscurity. That was progress in the eyes of an advancing progressive technological society... a cameo of man’s activities of previous generations. Onwards... onward with the new... dispensing quickly with the old was well as the past. It was the only way of being certain to relive history... and to regain the advantage of repeating man’s weakness of perpetrating all the same errors over and over again!

  ***

  The fate of the Russian students remained unresolved until some months later. The Government then decided, in its wisdom, to an area deep in the south of Cornwall where they were to work temporarily on the land. International antagonism had died down but the situation still remained in limbo with senior officials of both countries arguing their cases. The students were extremely reluctant to accept the change, working at a menial level on the land but, without Ivan to lead them against an uncaring intransigent Government, they were lost and forgotten. On the day they were taken there, Anna alighted with them under a cloud of depression. The wild open countryside with its steep hills and granite quarries invoked an experience of sheer remote loneliness, causing her to feel totally exiled from the outside world. This was not what they had expected when they had started out. Even Peter, who had lived in the country was taken aback by the remoteness and the ruggedness of the place. For some peculiar reason, life for him seemed to lunge from one dismal situation to another. He reflected the tragedy of his wife and son, the defection to the West, his marriage to Anna, the birth of Ivan’s child, and now this move to an outlying region.

  They were met by a junior government official who tried hard to deal with their immediate needs. Anna and Peter were allotted a cottage built of large granite blocks. The rooms were very small and dull, the walls having been distempered in a mould yellow colour and there were no utilities Water was obtainable only from a nearby pump, light at night was produced means of paraffin lamps while heating was made available by burning timber in an old wood stove. The old worn furniture had been left for them to use but an air of mustiness filled every room with a strange undesirable odour.

  ‘Oh, Peter!’ complained Anna unhappily. ‘This is a terrible place!’ The expression on his face showed that he was similarly dissatisfied but there was nothing he could do. ‘I’m sorry,’ she went on reading his thoughts. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I’ll make this place look like a palace for you,’ he promised although he knew that it was false. Nonetheless, for the next five days he worked from morning ‘til night, scraping, repairing and painting every room in the cottage. However, on the morning of the sixth day, he lay in bed unable to move.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Anna with concern, for her husband was a man who boasted that he head never suffered a day’s illness in his life. ‘

  ‘My bones ached and I feel weak,’ he replied in pain. He lifted his shoulders wearily and sank back heavily into the mattress. ‘I’ve never shirked a day’s work in my life... and I never will.’ He raised himself up again with a great effort and got to his feet shakily. ‘There!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘I’m all right now.’ His face had turned exceedingly pale and his eyes seemed to have retreated deeper into their sockets. He started to sing a Russian song loudly until Anna reproached him.

  ‘Quite!’ she chided. ‘You’ll wake the baby!’

  He lapsed into silence and sat on the bed to put on his socks. ‘Many years ago,’ he mumbled, ‘there was a tramp and I gave him some good advice to help him. Pull up your sock and take hold of yourself, I told him. The tramp pulled up his trouser leg and said I have got any socks. Look... see for yourself! And he was right.’ He stood up, this time more shakily, swaying wildly with his eyes shut tightly. He opened them to stare at himself in the mirror. ‘I look awful!’ he groaned. ‘I must pull myself together!’ He turned to walk to the door but after taking only a few steps he collapsed to the floor like a felled tree trunk.

  ‘Peter!’ cried Anna leaping from the bed and leaning over him. ‘Speak to me... say something!’ She lifted his head in her arms but he lay lifeless with his mouth wide open. She clutched him to her body in a state of shock crying out loudly, causing the baby to wake up with an incessant piercing wail. She lowered her husband’s head and pulled a blanket from the bed to cover his body and to place a pillow beneath his neck. Then, wrapping herself in her dressing-gown, she picked up the baby and ran as fast as she could from the cottage, racing down the stony lane with only bathroom slippers on her feet. She stumbled on every rough patch but never shook the baby excessively to cause him discomfort. Although she attempted to hurry, the weight of the child, and her peculiar style of running... with her legs striking out at awkward angles... slowed her down considerably. Panting whimpering and sobbing, as the tears ran down her face, she found her way along the grassy path at the end of the lane with a great deal of effort. As soon as she reached the place where Josef lived she struck feebly on the door with her fist repeatedly, falling into her brother’s arms when he opened it.

  ‘Quick!’ she gasped.. ‘It’s Peter!’

  She sank into a chair, her breasts heaving as her tired body craved for air. Josef pulled his jacket from the back of a chair and raced to the air of his brother-in-law. When he arrived at the cottage, he knelt down beside the unconscious man, lifting one of his eyelids to check the pupil, and then ran out to seek the assistance of a doctor. The village was quite far away, reached only by climbing a very steep hill. By the time Josef arrived at the first house, the blood was singing in his ears, while the taste of his saliva carried a strange salty taste. His heart pounded like a great drum in his chest and only a sense of urgency prevented him from pausing to rest. At the surgery, he conveyed his message between gasps in staccato fashion as the aged doctor listened patiently. Without delay, they climbed into an old motor car and the doctor drove down the hill to tend to the sick man. It was soon diagnosed that Peter was suffering from a mutant strain of chronic influenza. It was the first time in his life that he had succumbed to any virus. To his credit., he lay quietly in bed without complained although he perspired incessantly. Anna made hot drinks for him all day long in order to prevent him from dehydrating. However as soon as he swallowed any liquids they seemed to seep out of every pore in his body as though he was a human sieve.

  For Anna, Peter’s illness was a nightmare. Her first priority was to attend to the baby, then she had to cook, wash and care for her husband constantly. Sleep became a non-existent factor while mental and physical fatigue were normal features of life. It became imperative to find hidden strength and patience for her labours. Even the baby seemed to recognise her difficulties for ostensibly he seemed to react with an element of self-control as he had never done before. Peter kept silent about his discomfort at all times. Every two hours, Anna pulled the sheet away from beneath him, because it was saturated with perspiration, and she removed his wet pyjamas to replace them with those she had just dried. She had no option but to wring out the washing with her bare hands and
hang it over the fire to dry. It was a constant race against time because there were only two hours between each change. The process had to be completed virtually day and night, For three days she slaved, wondering whether her husband wound survive. On the fourth day her prayers were answered for the sweating stopped. The virus which had almost beaten him was finally defeated. He sat up in bed to devour a small amount of solid food and, as he improved, the pressure eased considerably on his wife. It was no longer necessary to wash and dry his sheets and pyjamas at such a rapid rate. When she finally relaxed, the result of her efforts began to take effect. Her face assumed a weary appearance with dark shadows under her eyes and the formation of tiny lines which ran from the side of her nose down to the corners of her mouth. Peter noticed the change and suggested that she should rest more now that he was better but the tiredness in her face remained. Her elfish-like appearance had gone within the span of a few days... it had gone for ever! Her face exhibited the look of responsibility that came with age, and it would never leave her!

  Peter recovered quickly and he began to assist Josef on a neighbouring farm. The work was not to his liking but he laboured hard. It was now Spring. The sun shone and field animals began to awaken from their hibernation. One evening he came home after tending the livestock. He washed his hands and face and stood before the wood burner holding out his hands for the warmth. Anna made the dinner and, after the meal, they sat in the lounge staring at the flames.

  ‘You said very little this evening, Anna,’ he commented softly.

  She turned her head towards him slightly. ‘How much money do we have?’ she asked directly.

  Without a word, he went into the bedroom. Reaching to the top of the old wardrobe, he brought down a metal box with an ornate design carved into its lid. He carried it back into the lounge to count out the money. ‘Not much,’ he told her. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought we might take a holiday... to Plymouth.’

  Peter failed to react although a surge of unhappy memories flooded through his brain. ‘Plymouth is evil!’ he hissed angrily. ‘The people there care only for themselves.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she challenged. ‘You were there for such a short time.’

  ‘It was long enough!’ he shouted, slamming the lid of the box. ‘I can’t adapt to the ways of this world with all its injustice. We thought that we could escape the tyranny of the East but look what’s happened to us in the West. I had thought that suppression by the State was the normal way of life even though I tried not to believe it. know for certain that it’s true wherever one lives in this world.’

  She picked up a book that had fallen to the floor and rested it on her lap. ‘You considered yourself to be a democrat,’ she retorted. ‘Now you tell me you’re a fool. Forget about politics and think about us.’

  They lapsed into silence as the fire roared in front of them. Anna opened the book and began to read, straining her eyes to see the print by the firelight. Peter placed the metal box on the floor and stared directly into the flames.

  There’s another reason why I won’t go to Plymouth,’ he confided. ‘If I come face to face with Ivan, I would probably kill him.’

  ‘That’s foolish!’ she scoffed. ‘There’s practically no chance of us ever meeting him there. He’s probably long gone.’ Silence reigned awkwardly and she pretended to read her book. ‘But perhaps you’re afraid that I would meet him,’ she added in due course.

  There was a long silence as he refused to reply to her challenge. A short while later, Anna laid down the book to face him. ‘Peter,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s been something I’ve been meaning to say to you about my son.’

  ‘Your son!’ he retorted with surprise. ‘He’s my son!’ His response was so firm that she was startled momentarily fearing that the illness had somehow affected his mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ he scolded. ‘The past is something that no man can change and is best forgotten. Do you think I feel any different towards little Ivan because he doesn’t carry my genes in his veins. He’s my son and I love him. A father’s a person who brings up the child he loves. He plays with him when he can and looks after him when he’s sick. He feeds him, acts as his mentor, takes care of him and teaches him right from wrong. That’s a real father. Ay fool can mate with a woman and then walk away from all parental responsibilities. That’s not a real father!’

  Anna felt a lump in her throat as she held out her hand to him fighting back the tears. He clasped her fingers, smiling at her and, for the first time in her life, she realised that she was loved him... not with the same passionate desire reserved for Ivan, which was something quite different, but a more profound satisfying love that was perhaps the truest love of all!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sadler began to annoy Morris. They had collected the key to the main gate at Botallack and the fat man had told Della Lancaster that they had purchased the mine. There was no reason for them every to go to the wooden bungalow to see her again yet the banker insisted that they should do so and give her a present for her past services. Morris lost his temper and stalked off to enter the mine leaving Sadler to his own devices. Della Lancaster opened the door wearing her bathrobe and the banker moved slightly inside to shield himself from the howling wind. However she viewed his actions as far too familiar, refusing to move back to allow him inside.

  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he told her once again with admiration, unable to tear his eyes away from her face. ‘I dream about you every night. I think about you every day.’

  She sighed for a moment running her fingers through her dishevelled hair with a certain amount of embarrassment. ‘Beautiful!’ she echoed. ‘At this time of the morning? You certainly live in a dream world, Mr/ Sadler,’ she replied trying to keep her eyes open. She stared at him unemotionally, shrugging off the draught creeping into the hallway. She was right. He was an amorous gigolo trying to worm his way into her life and, no doubt, into her family treasure. A fortune hunter, trying to hold her to ransom, acting under the guise of a mine owner. She was beginning to have second thoughts about their accord. When all was said and done, it was an unholy alliance. Sadler hovered inside the tiny hallway with the clear intention of taking her into his arms and kissing her. However she anticipated his action and turned to go into the other room.

  ‘I have to admit I’m not disappointed at relinquishing the key to the mine,’ she told him flatly.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I’d rather it was kept here,’ he responded sadly. ‘This is where it belongs.’

  He may have well saved his breath for she left him standing there and closed the door to the bedroom behind her. For a few seconds, he considered assuming the mantle of a rogue... forcing his way into her warm bed and make passionate love to her. The idea of touching her, and fondling her beautiful body to a successful physical conclusion rolled around in his brain but the thought of her past intimate association with Homer White discouraged him and the urge dissipated. He was unable to cut the cancer of prejudice from his mind where the West Indian was concerned and there was nothing he could do about it.

  For Della, the situation was quite bizarre. She knew instinctively the intention of the banker and how he lusted after her. She also recognised his discomfort to the point of nausea whenever he remembered that she had been touched, fondled, caressed and seduced by a black man, The very thought made her smile for while the foundation for racial prejudice was unacceptable, she could comprehend his emotional distaste. She was still thinking about him an hour later, tucked up cosily in bed with the light streaming thorough the windows. He was clearly a fortune hunter skimming callously over the surface of life; she was a sinner who had fallen on bad times through her own folly. Perhaps they deserved each other, and maybe they didn’t! Whatever he was doing in relation to the mine was his personal problem. It was not her affair. On the other hand, as a Lancaster whose family stretched ba
ck to Norman times, it was up to her to sustain the family heritage. Until now, the American ideals of her mother had led her to an unhappy state of affairs. Such concepts... of love, life and the pursuit of happiness... were not often successful in Britain where traditional attitudes change little among aristocratic families. She had been one to suffer the callousness of a silver-spoon fed tycoon like Clement Lancaster as a result of colonial maternal influence for independence. She had no idea how Amy O’Rourke had coped with the situation but then her mother had been an exceptional woman Della rose and went to the mirror, rubbing her hand gently over her face. Deep down she was a religious person with a pension for honesty. If she considered that Clement ought to be contested for his lack of sympathy towards her it would be based on a false premise. She would rather turn the other cheek than bear a grudge against her cousin. Therefore to consort with Sadler was unthinkable. If she forced herself to continue the alliance with him, she would have to live with the result for the rest of her life... whatever happened. Her mind dwelt on Saint Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians and her mouth moved to silent words. “When I was a child, I spoke like a child. I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known. However there remains faith, hope charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”

  She moved away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bed. In her mind, the die was cast. The alliance with Sadler was over; ended really before it had truly begun. It was now up to her to tell him the news if she could bring herself to do it. The banker would be extremely disappointed at such disloyalty, and probably angry at losing money to secure finance for his venture. Nonetheless she had refused to allow herself to become a party to a devious plan of that nature. Jesus Christ would show her the way to destiny. That was how life was intended to be! Yet the logic of her argument was far easier to accept than to carry out. It was so easy for her to tell herself what was right or wrong but more difficult to explain the truth to others. If she told him of her decision point-blank, he would immediately become a loser. He would fail in his aim to obtain any money from Clement... not that he would dos so anyway. Her treachery would be tantamount to total rejection of him by her. It had to be done soon. It was no good deferring the issue before he recognised that his plan had failed. It was then that she realised the need to compensate him. Was that what Saint Paul, the apostle, had meant when he said: “the greatest of these is charity.” Sadler’s attitude towards her was a clear illustration of the method to employ. It was up to her to make the sacrifice!