by Lay, Graeme
She nodded. Her face was pale and glazed with sweat, her hair damp and matted. ‘I’m sorry, James,’ she said miserably. Seeing her shivering, he hugged her and she wiped the spittle from her lips with the handkerchief. He helped her back into the coach. A nearby milestone read ‘17’. Miles to Thirsk, James guessed. Sinking back against the seat, Elizabeth closed her eyes and placed her hands across her stomach. Still with her eyes closed, she said in a low but forceful voice, ‘I do not want to lose another child, James.’
After Northallerton the road rose steeply, climbing around the moorland, and the horses neighed and shuddered with the strain. Fat snowflakes began to whirl down from the upland. After an hour of struggle they reached a treeless plateau. The land was streaked with snow, wind-driven mist swirled about the coach and the sky had vanished. The road rose, fell, rose and fell again, descending to a hollow.
As they reached the bottom they felt the coach begin to slide sideways. Elizabeth cried out, James leapt up, braced himself, then held her. The coach slumped heavily, there was a shouted cursing from Liggins, whinnying from the horses, then a lopsided stillness. James pushed up the other door of the coach and he and Elizabeth scrambled out. Standing in the slush, they saw that the right rear wheel of the coach had skidded into a ditch. Liggins stared at the stuck wheel, his face contorted with frustration. ‘Call this a road?’ He swore. ‘No better than a bloody sheep track.’
After unloading the trunks and levering up the wheel with a log, and with James’s shoulder to the rear and Liggins urging his team forward, they hoisted the wheel out of the ditch. While the recovery was carried out and Liggins and James checked to see that there was no damage to the wheel’s spokes or axle, Elizabeth stood on the snowy verge, gloved hands inside her muff, face red and chafed with the cold. Snowflakes whirled down and alighted on her bonnet and cape so that she took on a ghostly appearance.
They drove on, climbing higher still, the snowflakes whirling down from the sky like fluttering doves. Liggins squatted dismally, like an abandoned snowman, on his seat. Visibility was limited to a few yards and the snow lay thick on the surrounding hills as the coach bumped and ground its way across the upland. James’s sodden cape hung on a hook beside his seat; Elizabeth lay across the seat, blankets over her, expression wan, eyes closed, her shawled head tipped back.
At last the road began to descend, from the moorland down to the plain of the Tees and towards Stockton. The snow had stopped falling, replaced by sleet, but as James glimpsed the river between the icy squalls, his spirits lifted. As if recalling a dream, the landscapes and towns of his boyhood gradually materialised. Not far now from Marton, his birthplace, not far from Great Ayton, the village where he had spent his boyhood. It was a relief to the three of them when they drove down into Stockton, where Liggins’s aunt ran the Garrick public house. There they rested and victualled themselves and the horses. As Elizabeth sipped bacon hock broth in front of the inn fire, James put his arm around her. ‘Nearly there, Beth. Just a few more hours. We’ll reach Great Ayton by nightfall.’ She gave him a brave, tired smile.
Again they changed coaches, this time for a local one which ran from Stockton to Middlesbrough, Great Ayton and Redcar. The way was now level and the sleet had eased.
As they came closer to their destination, James began to feel apprehensive. Although he had written to his sister Christiana, the only other member of his family who could read and write, letting her know the probable day of their arrival, doubts now assailed him. His father was 77, having already outlived his wife, Grace, by six years. In what state of health was he? How was he coping alone? And the other question which nagged him: how could he begin to explain to his father the way of life that he was devoted to? That he could never leave the sea and return to Great Ayton?
Fourteen years it had been since he was last here, in 1757. Then he had been in the King’s Navy for a little over a year, and was a mere able seaman. So much had happened since, so many tides of his life had ebbed and flowed. He was now a naval captain and had circumnavigated the world, whereas his father had hardly left Great Ayton, his adopted village. Since leaving Roxburghshire in his native Scotland in 1718, and taking work as a day labourer in Cleveland, then as the hind on Aireyholme farm in Great Ayton, his father had never again crossed the Tees. But in the mid-1750s he had built a cottage in the village with his own hands, helped by money James had sent as part of his mate’s pay on the Whitby collier, Friendship. The local Great Ayton landowner, James’s boyhood patron and his father’s employer, Thomas Skottowe, had granted James and Grace Cook the lease of a parcel of land he owned. James’s father had fired the bricks and tiles for the cottage in a local kiln, then carried and laid them. He had pit-sawn the timber for the cottage’s rafters, staircase and flooring. When he first saw his parents’ completed home, James had thought it a palace compared with the primitive biggin where he and his brothers and sisters had been born. Grace Cook had died in the house, in 1765.
The coach left Middlesbrough and turned south, and half an hour later entered Great Ayton in fading light. As they passed High Green, James leaned across to Elizabeth. ‘Welcome to Great Ayton.’ Smiling, he added, ‘It’s not really great, but it has its merits.’ He leaned out the window and called up to the coachman. ‘Bridge Street is just before the High Street. And the house we want is the brick cottage, just before the river.’
‘Jummy! Jummy!’ His father fell forward into his arms, hugging him so hard that James could clearly feel his big bony frame. Then, clutching him as if drowning, the old man began to weep, in great convulsing sobs. The two men were almost the same height, and when James at last released him and looked directly into his father’s grey eyes, he saw the tears spilling from them. Standing back a little, he said quietly, ‘It’s so good to see you, Pa.’ But he was thinking: how he has aged. His hair, long at the sides and stringy on top, was entirely white. So too were his shaggy eyebrows and side whiskers. His cheeks were lined and deeply sunken, and although he had shaved there were little patches of white on his big chin which the razor had missed. He wore a brown leather jerkin over his flannel shirt.
James said, ‘You’re looking well, Pa. Fit and well.’
Still clutching his son’s arms, eyes brimming, the old man said proudly, ‘Aye, still lookin’ after meself, Jummy. Still in me own house.’
James stood back and gestured towards Elizabeth, who was standing awkwardly beside their luggage at the cottage’s front door. ‘Pa, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my father.’
While James carried their trunks upstairs, his father proudly showed his daughter-in-law over the cottage: the parlour where a coal fire was burning in the grate, the adjoining scullery, the two upstairs bedrooms. The house was warmly welcoming, its two levels connected by a staircase which led up from one corner of the parlour. The parlour itself was furnished simply with a hand-hewn oak table, four chairs—one a rocker—and a large sideboard. There was a four-paned window high on one wall. A mat of woven rush covered the floorboards, and on either side of the fireplace were double, high-backed seats into which James and Elizabeth sank gratefully. Over the fire hung an oval iron pot which was giving off an appetising smell. ‘What’s in the pot, Mr Cook?’ asked Elizabeth keenly, leaning forward and twitching her nose.
‘A rabbit stew. Not knowing quite when yerr’d be arriving, I’ve had it cookin’ ferr two days.’ He chuckled. ‘And none of this “Mr Cook” business, lassie. Call me Pa.’ He went over to the sideboard. ‘Now, you’ll have a wee dram, both of you?’
James nodded. ‘I will. Elizabeth?’ She shook her head.
‘Tea, then?’ asked her father-in-law, and she nodded. ‘Please.’
With a hand that James immediately noticed had a distinct tremor, his father poured two generous measures of whisky into a pair of tin mugs, then set a blackened kettle on a hob in the fireplace. As James watched the old man fussing about, hesitating between movements to consider his next action, he was gratified to see that apart
from his shaking hands and the fact that he moved clumsily, he seemed as strong as ever, although his clothes—bally woollen shirt, worn trousers and knitted socks through which each of his big toes and a horny yellow nail protruded—had obviously seen better days.
While they sat in front of the fire and reported on their journey to him, the old man sat in the rocking-chair and sipped his whisky, his still-lively eyes flicking from his son to his daughter-in-law and back again. When Elizabeth mentioned shyly that she was expecting another child next summer, his eyes widened with delight, although she forbore to tell him anything of the ones she had lost. Then, tilting his head to one side, James’s father turned to him and said, eagerly, ‘Christiana read us the news-sheet stories about yerr voyage round the world, Jummy. About that Venus and the Sun business at O-tahee-tee, and the new lands you found in the South Sea.’ He chuckled. ‘What a carry-on, eh?’
James smiled. ‘I found no new lands, Pa. But I did chart the ones that others had found.’
Momentarily the old man looked confused. Then, leaning forward, he looked his son up and down. ‘So tell me this now, Jummy. Yerr an officer in the King’s Navy.’ He frowned, and his tangled eyebrows came together. ‘So, why aren’t yerr wearin’ yerr officer’s uniform?’
Although it remained bitterly cold, and was only light from mid-morning until mid-afternoon, that was long enough for James to show Great Ayton to Elizabeth. High and Low Green, the river Leven—which he explained flowed eventually into the Tees—and the 12th-century village church, All Saints, in whose graveyard his mother and his five siblings were interred. From the churchyard James pointed into the misty distance at the high mound of Roseberry Topping, which he told her he had often climbed as a boy. Then, as they were leaving the graveyard, James noticed a freshly dug grave and stopped and stared at its shiny new headstone. Startled, he read its inscription. ‘Thomas Skottowe, 1695–1771. Lord of the Manor for Great Ayton, Beloved of His Family, Friends and Tenants’. He turned back to Elizabeth. ‘My father’s landlord and employer. We lived in his biggin.’ He paused. ‘Mr Skottowe was the man who allowed me an education, who arranged for my grocer’s apprenticeship in Staithes. Were it not for him, I would never have left this village. Thomas Skottowe changed my life, Beth.’
Three days after they arrived, James’s two married sisters, Christiana and Margaret, came to the village. Another reunion followed, and an introduction to Elizabeth, the sister-in-law whom neither Christiana nor Margaret had met. James barely recognised his sisters, it had been so long since they had all been together. He and Christiana had corresponded sporadically over the years, but only when she sent him family death notices: of little William, their older brother John and their mother Grace. But to James his sisters were now like strangers, only dimly remembered, and he found himself feeling strangely wary of them. Apart from his mother and Elizabeth, he had not been close to any other women. He knew too that he was now a quite different person—almost unrecognisable, even to himself—from that callow youth who had left Great Ayton over 20 years ago. But regardless of this, he was determined now to get to know these women who shared his flesh and blood but from whom he had so long been separated. It was a filial obligation, he decided, that he owed both his father and his deceased mother.
Now 40 and childless, Christiana Cocker was tall and thin-lipped, with greying hair. She lived with her shop assistant husband in Middlesbrough, where she worked as a governess. Remembering that her hair had once been auburn, James was surprised to see that it had turned so grey. She wore it tied back severely, in a bun. Margaret Fleck was much jollier. Not yet 30, she was already the mother of five children. She was broad-hipped, with long fair hair and cheeks as round and red as ripe apples. Christiana and Margaret took lodgings at the King’s Head, an inn in the village, but prepared and ate their meals with the rest of the family in their father’s cottage.
Two days after Christiana and Margaret arrived, when James and his sisters were walking back to the house after visiting their mother’s grave, Christiana said to her brother, ‘Margaret and I have been talking about Pa, James. We feel he cannot live in Great Ayton much longer.’
James stopped abruptly. ‘Why not? He is well, is he not?’
Christiana’s mouth pursed. ‘For the time being, yes. But he’s an old man, and all alone. If he should have a fall—’ She drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
‘And he looks like a scarecrow, in those old clothes,’ Margaret added. She clicked her tongue. ‘As for the scullery—’
‘Yes, it’s filthy,’ said Christiana primly. ‘Stale food and milk on the shelves.’
‘And there are cockroaches,’ said Margaret. She shook her head. ‘It was never like that when Ma was alive.’
James said nothing. He too was aware of the state of the scullery. If it had been a galley he would have ordered it scrubbed out with vinegar. But it was not a galley, and it was their father’s prerogative, surely, to live as he wished in his own house.
Margaret said firmly, ‘We think Papa should come and live with my family, in Redcar.’
James frowned. ‘Have you consulted your husband about this idea?’
Margaret nodded. ‘Yes. He is in agreement. And there is room. He suggests that Papa sells the cottage.’
Instinctively assuming his quarterdeck stance, James put his hands behind his back. He said coolly, ‘And have you put this suggestion to Pa?’
Christiana smiled, rather slyly. ‘No. We thought that as his only surviving son, and the eldest one, that is your responsibility.’
Well used to commanding men, James now found himself feeling distinctly discomfited in this female presence. His sisters were, in effect, ordering him to carry out this duty. They made a formidable pair. After a reflective few moments he said, ‘And if Pa refuses to leave Great Ayton?’
Margaret replied, ‘If you put it to him clearly, he will see the advantages in leaving. He cannot be allowed to stay here much longer at his great age and in his infirm condition.’
Although James grunted his assent, he thought, if it were me, I would not leave. He said to his sisters, ‘I’ll put the suggestion to him, but not yet. We don’t want to spoil his Christmas.’
Christiana collected some sprigs of mistletoe which grew on the willows beside the river, and hung them above the parlour door. On Christmas Eve the family all traipsed through the snow to All Saints, wrapped up against the cold, their father wearing his heaviest jacket and sturdiest boots. The Cooks sat together in a pew near the front of the church. During his address the frock-coated minister, the Reverend Hubertson, greeted the Cook family personally from the pulpit. ‘And in particular we welcome a famous son of our village, the great world voyager, Captain James Cook.’
After the service, in front of the church, several elderly people who remembered James approached and greeted him warmly. ‘We read of your voyage in the papers,’ one old man told him proudly. ‘Yerr’ve put Great Ayton on the map, Mr Cook,’ an old lady said, touching his sleeve affectionately. ‘It’s Captain Cook, Annie,’ her husband scolded.
James was touched by these sentiments. News of his naval career had evidently been followed closely in the village, and as he chatted he took quiet satisfaction from the fact that here at least his achievements had not been arrogated by Joseph Banks.
On Christmas morning gifts were exchanged at the cottage. James presented Elizabeth with a small pendant of New Zealand greenstone and his father with a Maori war club, carved from whalebone, which he had exchanged for an axe in Queen Charlotte Sound. After James told him it was called a ‘paa-too’, and explained the club’s provenance to him, the old man waved it about delightedly. ‘If any highwayman holds up a coach I’m in, I’ll use this to do ’im in!’ Elizabeth gave James a thick scarf of grey wool she had knitted. After the gift-giving they dined on the goose, roast vegetables and plum puddings which the sisters had brought in hampers with them and cooked at the cottage. Afterwards the whisky decanter was b
rought out.
But throughout the festivities James was bothered by the matter of what he had been deputed to tell his father, so much so that he felt his old hand wound—the one he had received from an exploding powder horn in Newfoundland in 1764—beginning its unwelcome, nagging throb.
After the women had retired upstairs to recover from the lengthy midday meal, James and his father remained downstairs, chatting and sipping their spirits. Again James recounted stories from his world voyage, including nearly losing Endeavour on the reef of New Holland in June 1770. His father listened spellbound, shaking his head in disbelief and muttering, ‘Och, Jummy, what a to-do, what a to-do.’
He got up to pour more coal from the scuttle onto the fire. As he did so he stumbled. Nuggets of coal tumbled onto the hearth, and he lurched backwards. Springing up, James took him under the arm and guided him back to his rocker. When he had settled and was breathing evenly again, James seized the chance. He said quietly, ‘Pa, we need to talk. About your future.’
The old man looked up quickly. ‘My future? What d’yerr mean?’
‘Christiana and Margaret, and myself, think that the time has come for you to leave this place.’
The old man’s eyes bulged. ‘Leave? What’s this daft talk?’
James swallowed. ‘This has been a fine home for you, Pa, but the time has come for you to be cared for.’
His father fired his reply like a fusillade. ‘I can care for mess-self!’
James nodded sympathetically, having anticipated this response. ‘I know. For now. But soon it will be too much. It’s hard for you, keeping the house going by yourself. Cooking, washing, fetching the coal. You could fall and injure yourself, and no one would know.’
His father held up his big, calloused hands. ‘I built this house with these.’ And in a tone of quiet defiance, added, ‘And these hands will look after me, still.’
