Polsinney Harbour
Mary E. Pearce
Copyright © 2019 The Estate of Mary E. Pearce
This edition first published 2019 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1983
www.wyndhambooks.com/mary-e-pearce
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover artwork images: © fotorince / Helen Hotson (Shutterstock)
Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd
Books by Mary E. Pearce
The Apple Tree Saga series
Enjoy all five books in the Apple Tree Saga series
from Wyndham Books
Apple Tree Lean Down
Jack Mercybright
The Sorrowing Wind
The Land Endures
Seedtime and Harvest
and these standalone novels, also by Mary E. Pearce:
Cast a Long Shadow
Polsinney Harbour
The Two Farms
The Old House at Railes
www.wyndhambooks.com/mary-e-pearce
Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers
Wyndham Books publishes the first ebook editions of bestselling works by some of the most popular authors of the twentieth century. Enjoy our Historical, Family Saga, Regency, Romance and Medical fiction and non-fiction.
Join our free mailing list for news, exclusives and special deals:
www.wyndhambooks.com
For
Carole, Roger, and Caryn
and
in memory of Delyth
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Also by Mary E. Pearce
Chapter One
1869
Strangers were rare in Polsinney and the girl attracted attention at once, from the moment she was first seen, a tall figure, slim but well-made, carrying a bundle slung over her shoulder, coming down the rough track that wound its way over Wheep Moor to join the road leading into the village.
It was an evening in July and up on the moor, close beside the track, three men were cutting turfs. They stopped work and leant on their spades, watching as the girl came over the brow, past the old ruined engine-house of Bal Kerensa, and across the footbridge over the stream. A little way along the stream she paused and got down on her knees on the bank, letting her bundle slip to the ground while she cupped her hands into the water. The men watched her drink and bathe her face.
‘What maid is that?’
‘She’s a stranger to me.’
‘Ess, and to me,’ the third man said.
The girl rose, shouldering her bundle, and came on down the track, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun as she gazed upon the roofs of the village, huddled together, below the moor, with the glittering blue sea beyond. When she drew level with the men she stopped again and spoke to them.
‘What is the name of this place?’
‘Why, this is Polsinney,’ one man said.
‘Is there work to be got there?’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Anything.’
The turf-cutters stared in astonishment. A stranger was rare enough but when that stranger was a young girl, tramping the roads and asking for work, it was a thing that passed belief. They eyed her with stern disapproval, noting that her skirts were grey with dust from the frayed hem, drooping about her ankles, right up to the very waist. Noting, too, that she wore no hat ‒ not even a kerchief over her head ‒ and that consequently her face and neck were burnt brown by the sun. And she, seeing that they were struck dumb, put another question to them.
‘Is there seining in Polsinney?’
‘Ess, there’s three seines in Polsinney, but seining haven’t started yet.’
‘Perhaps I could get work on the farms?’
‘I dunnaw. Maybe you could.’ The man who spoke was scratching his chin. ‘You could try Boskillyer, I suppose. Mrs Tallack has girls to help her sometimes. But they don’t generally stop there long cos Mrs Tallack is hard to please.’
‘Where’s Boskillyer?’
‘That’s it down there.’
The girl looked down at the tiny farms, lying strung out, half a mile below, between the road that skirted the moor and the cliff-edge with its wind-bent trees. The man was pointing to the farm that lay farthest from the village. It had three small fields, enclosed by stone hedges, and the house which stood with its back to the road, looked down over these fields and out over the curve of the bay.
‘Mrs Tallack, did you say? I’ll try my luck with her, then.’ The girl began walking away and one of the men called out to her.
‘Where are you from, maid? What’s your name?’
‘My name’s Maggie Care,’ the girl called back. ‘I’ve come from the other side of Mew Head.’
The man called out another question, but the girl was already well on her way, walking with a long, almost boyish stride that carried her quickly down the track, so that the question went unheard. The men stood watching her for a while and then returned to their turf-cutting.
‘She’ve walked a good many miles,’ one said, ‘if she’ve come from the other side of Mew Head.’
‘Ess, you, but what’s she about, trudging the roads, looking for work, a young well-spoken girl like her? I never heard such a thing in my life.’
‘Maybe, there edn no work to be had, downalong, where she’ve come from, you.’
‘And where have she come from, I’d like to know? “Other side of Mew Head,” she said, but that dunt tell us nothing at all.’
‘Maybe she didn want us to know, but Rachel Tallack, down there at Boskillyer, she’ll get it out of her, you mark my words.’
The turf-cutting was warm work and every so often the men paused, looking down at Boskillyer, wondering how the girl had fared. But although the house was visible to them, its door and yards were completely hidden because of the clustering outbuildings, and so far, whenever they looked, there was nothing to be seen of Rachel Tallack or of the stranger, Maggie Care.
Rachel Tallack had finished milking and was turning the cows into the field. They lumbered past her, taking their time, and when the fourth and last cow began loitering in the gateway, she closed the gate hard on its heels, giving a little snort of impatience.
On her way back across the yard she stopped and looked out over the bay where the fishing fleet, some thirty-odd boats, was putting out on the first of the ebb, brown sails beginning to draw as they moved from the shelter of the harbour into the freshening offshore wind. Although she was in her early fifties, Rachel still had good sight, and she could distinguish her son’s boat, the Emmet, among the leading clutch of five which, already picking up speed, were standing out on the tack that would carry them past Struan Point.
The pilchard season had been good so far. The weather on the whole had been fair and the shoals were moving in the Channel. ‘God grant it continue so,’ Rachel murmured as she turned away.
She was about to enter the house when she heard footsteps on the road and a girl with a bundle over her shoulder turned into the open yard.
‘Mrs Tallack?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I was told you might want help on the farm.’
‘And who was so good as to tell you that?’
‘I met some men cutting turf on the moor. I told them I was looking for work and they sent me to you.’
‘I’m much obliged to them, I’m sure!’
The girl let her bundle slip to the ground and Rachel looked at it with distaste. She noted the dust on the girl’s skirts and saw that her boot-soles were well worn down.
‘Wherever have you come from, girl, to get yourself in such a state?’
‘Today I’ve walked up from Mindren. Before that I was at Tardrew. I’ve been moving about these parts three weeks, working on different farms, helping with the haymaking.’
‘That’s no life for a young girl, living like a vagrant,’ Rachel said. ‘What are your family thinking of to let you roam about like that?’
‘I’ve got no family. They’re all dead.’
‘Surely you must have a home of some sort?’
‘I did have, once, but not any more.’ For a moment the girl seemed to hesitate. Then, with a wave westwards, she said: ‘I’ve lived all my life in one place, further down the coast from here, and three weeks ago I made up my mind to leave it and try somewhere new.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Maggie Care.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Are you used to farm work, besides what you’ve done these past three weeks?’
‘Yes, I’ve done it all my life. I worked on a farm near my home. I was dairymaid there for six years.’
‘And left it to go tramping the roads!’
Rachel frowned suspiciously. The girl’s story was incomplete. That much at least was obvious. ‘And if I had any sense at all, I’d send her packing straight away.’ But Rachel had to admit to herself that help was needed on the farm. Only that afternoon, Brice had talked of going to Penolver to ask if one of the Pentecosts could come and help with the haymaking, but Rachel was always reluctant to ask any favour of her neighbours, and she had rejected her son’s suggestion. Now this stranger stood before her: a girl she knew nothing about; but a stranger might perhaps, after all, be preferable to a gossiping neighbour.
‘I’ve had girls working here before but they never stay long. As soon as seining starts they’re off, to earn more money in the fish-cellars. I’ve never had a dependable girl, nor one who really knew how to work.’
Rachel paused. She hoped that her keen scrutiny would break down the girl’s reserve but in this she was disappointed. The clear grey eyes remained steady and although the girl had come asking for work, and looked little better than a beggar, there was no trace of humility in her manner or in her glance. Rachel resumed her questioning.
‘Have you got a written character?’
‘No.’
‘And yet you expect me to give you work!’
‘Did your other girls have written characters?’
‘They were from local families, known to me by repute.’
‘Yet none of them was dependable.’
Rachel’s eyebrows rose sharply. A dry smile touched her lips.
‘You make your point, girl, I grant you that. And you’re not afraid to speak well of yourself, promising to do better than they.’
‘At least I’m not afraid of work. Certainly I can promise that. And all I ask in return is my keep.’
‘Yes, very well, we shall see!’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll take you on for a month’s trial and then if I find we deal well together I’ll think about keeping you on for good. Now you’d better come indoors and have a bite of something to eat. You look as though you’re in need of it.’
She went into the house and the girl followed. Inside the porch, on a bench at one side, lay a coil of rope and a few cork floats and an old kedge anchor, coated in rust, with one of its flukes broken off.
‘Is your husband a fisherman?’
‘My husband’s been dead six years. My son, Brice, is a fisherman. He’s off for the night, pilchard driving, and won’t be back till tomorrow morning.’ Rachel spread a cloth on the kitchen table. ‘Were your own family fisher-folk?’
For a moment it seemed the girl had not heard. She was stroking the big tabby cat who sat in a corner of the settle. Rachel, with a frown, repeated the question, and the answer was given reluctantly.
‘Yes, they were all fisher-folk.’
While Rachel was busy in the kitchen, the girl went out to the yard again, to beat some of the dust from her skirts and to wash herself under the pump. Rachel then called her in and the two of them sat down to eat.
‘You still haven’t told me where you’re from.’
‘The other side of Mew Head, a few miles further on from St Lar.’
‘It must have a name of its own,’ Rachel said, ‘and I am waiting to hear what it is.’
The girl remained stubbornly silent, spreading her bread with soft cream cheese, and Rachel spoke impatiently.
‘Perhaps they’ve got the cholera there and that’s why you don’t want to say where it is?’
‘No, there’s no cholera there. The name of the place is Porthgaran.’
‘Well, well, so it’s out at last! And why should you make such a mystery of it? Is it such a terrible place?’
‘No,’ the girl said quietly. ‘It’s a place pretty much the same as Polsinney. A harbour town, built into the cliff, with most of the folk getting their living from fishing.’
‘You don’t seem to have gained much, then, by coming in search of somewhere new.’
‘No. Perhaps not.’
‘You say your family are fisher-folk but you don’t sound like a fisherman’s daughter. You speak decent English, as good as my own.’
‘My mother was a schoolmistress before she married my father and she was strict about such things. But it all depends on the people I’m with. I can speak broad when I’ve a mind to.’
‘You needn’t bother on my account! I hear more than enough of it from my neighbours in Polsinney.’
Rachel herself had been born and raised in an inland village, two miles from Truro, where her father had been the curate-in-charge, and her tone betrayed the contempt she felt, even now, after twenty-five years, for the place she had come to on her marriage. Even when she spoke the words ‘fisher-folk’ it was with a faint touch of scorn. True, her own son was a fisherman, but that was because her foolish husband had muddled away what money he had and as the little rented farm brought only a meagre profit, her son sought his living from the sea, going as skipper in a boat owned by his uncle, Gus Tallack.
Perhaps it was this matter of speech that had prompted Rachel, in spite of her doubts, to receive Maggie Care into her home. And now, as they sat at tea together, she noticed other things as well. The girl’s table manners were good; she ate with a certain fastidiousness; and although her hands were roughened by work, they were shapely and well cared for, the finger-nails clean and neatly trimmed. All these things won Rachel’s approval, and yet at the same time her doubts remained, because of the girl’s stubborn reticence.
‘Your mother did well by you but I wonder she didn’t see to it that you were trained to something better than hiring yourself out as a servant-girl. You’re intelligent enough, I would have thought, to have followed in your mother’s footsteps.’
‘No, I wouldn’t have wanted that. I prefer to work out of doors.’
‘You mean you prefer to go tramping the roads.’
‘Only until I’ve found a place I like well enough to settle in.’
‘And you think Polsinney will suit
you? You are easily pleased!’ Rachel said.
For a while the two of them ate in silence, but Rachel’s thoughts still dwelt on what the girl had told her so far, and something was stirring in her mind.
‘Porthgaran, did you say you came from? Wasn’t there a fishing boat lost from there, not long ago, a month or so?’
‘Yes, the Luscinia, lost with all hands. She capsized in a sudden thunderstorm, only a mile off Garan Head. There were six men in the crew and their bodies were washed ashore at St Lar.’
‘No doubt the men were known to you?’
‘Yes, they were all known to me.’
The girl by now had finished eating and sat, straight-backed, with her hands in her lap. For a while she stared at her empty plate but at last she looked up and met Rachel’s gaze.
‘The skipper was my father, John Care, and my brother David was one of the crew.’ She spoke in a quiet, toneless voice, without any hint of tears in it, but her clear grey eyes had in their depths the coldness and greyness of the sea at dawn. ‘They were all the family I had. When they were gone, and I was alone, Porthgaran became a hateful place, especially as ‒’
‘Yes? What?’
‘My father was held to blame for what happened. The Luscinia was an old boat and he had been warned many times that she was not safe in bad weather. The other four men who were drowned … they were all young like my brother David … and three of them left widows and children. Their families were very bitter, because of the risks my father took.’
‘He paid for it with his own life. Wasn’t that enough for them?’
‘No, and why should it be?’ the girl demanded, and this time she spoke with vehemence; with a sudden angry catch in her voice. ‘He paid for it with David’s life and the lives of four other men besides! I can never forgive him, myself, for throwing away those good young lives.’
‘They didn’t have to go to sea. They knew the risks and they made their own choice.’
‘I can’t forgive him all the same.’
‘Your father must answer to God, not to you.’
Rachel was not without sympathy, but because she believed in self-restraint, it would not easily find expression. Maggie Care’s story, now it was told, was a story only too familiar all along these Cornish coasts. The churchyards were full of fishermen who had forfeited their lives at sea, but still there were many hundreds more prepared to follow the same calling because, as Brice had said once, the sea was there and the fish were in it and that was inducement enough for any man who had his living to win. The girl had suffered a grievous loss, but she was young and had her life before her. She would get over it, given time.
Polsinney Harbour: A heartwarming family saga set in Victorian era Cornwall Page 1
