Polsinney Harbour: A heartwarming family saga set in Victorian era Cornwall

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘I did the right thing when I married this girl. There’s nothing suits a man so well as having a woman to wait on him. You ought to try it yourself, my boy. ‒ Take a leaf out of my book and find yourself a decent wife. You shouldn’t have to look very hard. Polsinney is full of docy maids keen to snap up a fine chap like you.’

  ‘Is it?’ Brice said, evenly. ‘Then I must certainly give it some thought.’

  ‘Don’t spend too long thinking,’ Gus said. ‘You can miss a lot of good chances that way.’

  Brice, at this point, changed the subject. His uncle’s jokes were too close to the bone. And as soon as he had drunk his rum he rose to go.

  ‘What, leaving already?’ his uncle said.

  ‘Yes. I have things to do at home. And my mother is too much alone as it is.’

  ‘Dunt she like her own company? Well, I can’t blame her!’ Gus said.

  These visits to his uncle Gus, now that the old man was married to Maggie, were something of a strain to Brice and sometimes he thought of giving them up. But that would only create fresh problems; for one thing he had no valid excuse; and he knew he would have to resign himself to the visits and the torment they caused.

  Sometimes he felt the perverse satisfaction that a man feels when he has a wound and exults in hiding it from the world, and with this went a kind of elation because he knew he had the wit to act out the part he had set himself. It was a challenge. A trial of strength. And if his uncle’s barbed remarks made it more difficult, all the more triumph when he won.

  The old man might suspect that his nephew was still in love with Maggie but at least he would never know for sure. Nor would Maggie herself ever know. Brice was grimly determined on this; it was important; a matter of pride. So the weekly visits continued and gradually, over the months, fell into a sort of pattern.

  ‘Not found a wife yet?’ his uncle would say. ‘You’re letting the grass grow, aren’t you, my boy? It seems you must be hard to please!’

  Mostly Brice merely laughed and shrugged but once, by way of a change, he said:

  ‘I’m in no hurry. Why should I be? I’ve got plenty of time yet before I need think about settling down.’

  His words brought a frown to the old man’s face and a shadow seemed to fall on him.

  ‘Yes, and you’re luckier than you know. You’ve got your life in front of you. What are you now? Twenty-four? The years go slowly for young men like you but for me they go at a rate of knots.’

  Time, for Gus, was slipping away; he and Maggie had been married a year; baby Jim was growing fast and the earth was spinning relentlessly on. But there was much to be thankful for and Gus was the first to admit it.

  ‘I’m in better shape now than I have been for years. I have a good appetite for my meat, I get five hours’ good sleep every night, and I’ve still got enough command of my brain to manage my bits of business affairs. Not bad for a dying man, eh?’

  ‘Have you seen Dr Sam lately?’

  ‘No, nor I don’t intend to,’ Gus said. ‘He can come and see me when I’m dead and according to what he’ve already told me, that’ll be in the next eighteen months.’

  ‘Looking at you right now,’ Brice said, ‘I find that impossible to believe.’

  When baby Jim began to crawl he did not go on all fours as most babies do but by sitting with his left leg under him and his right leg thrust out in front and, with little humping movements of his body, aided by movements of the right leg, propelled himself forward comfortably, remaining always in an upright position. People were highly amused at this; they had never seen such a thing before; and Gus said it showed great intelligence, for by this method of locomotion, Jim could always see exactly where he was going.

  According to Gus, who doted on him, Jim was forward in every way. No other child was so sturdy, so strong, or so quick in the uptake. And certainly no other child of his age ever showed a more resolute will. Maggie said that this son of hers was in danger of being spoilt because Gus, as he sat in his wheelchair, would let the child climb all over him, doing pretty much as he liked; and what Jim liked best was to rummage through the old man’s pockets where, more often than not, he would find a stick of barley-sugar or a couple of hazelnuts.

  The old man’s wheelchair fascinated Jim and one of the first words he learnt was ‘ride’. He would scramble up into Gus’s lap, turn himself round to face forwards, and, with his hands on the arms of the chair, would bounce up and down, shouting: ‘Ride! Ride! Ride!’ And Gus, always willing to oblige, would take the little boy for a ride round the yard, passing so close to the barking-house door that Eugene, if he chanced to step out, was in danger of being run down or having his nose taken off, as he said.

  As soon as Jim learnt to walk he became so adventurous that everyone who came into the yard had to be careful to close the gates. When the fishermen brought their nets to be barked, they had to take extra care because while they were wheeling their wheelbarrows in, Jim would dart out from some hiding-place and go rushing past them into the road. They would have to go after him and Jim thought it a huge joke to be brought back into the yard, tucked under some fisherman’s arm or sitting astride his broad shoulders, especially if that fisherman happened to be his uncle Brice.

  ‘See what I’ve found!’ Brice would say. ‘Has anyone lost a boy called Jim? A little tacker in petticoats with liquorice all over his face? If not I shall have to keep him myself and take him out in the Emmet with me ‒’

  ‘Here, give him to me!’ Gus would say, and Brice would deliver the squirming child into the old man’s outstretched arms.

  At this time, being so small, Jim was not allowed into the barking-house because of the open furnace fire and the stinging fumes of the boiling cutch, and Gus, taking him into his lap, would keep him there under restraint until the barking-house door had been closed. Jim would squirm and struggle and kick and make such a hullabaloo that Maggie would come running out of the house and Gus, with a laugh, often said to her:

  ‘Just see what a temper he’ve got in him! He’s more my son than he is yours!’

  But Jim learnt better behaviour in time because Gus, though indulgent, meant to be obeyed, and if the little boy went too far he would receive a smart slap on his leg. So he learnt discipline early in life and because of it he and Gus were good friends. Each was amused by the other’s antics and Maggie, whenever she watched them together, marvelled at the old man’s patience and gave thanks for it in her heart. No child in the world, lacking a father of his own, could have had a better substitute.

  Sometimes, however, she was anxious for Gus because of the demands Jim made on him.

  ‘Don’t let him climb all over you. He’s so energetic, he’ll tire you out. Hadn’t I better take him indoors?’

  ‘Leave him be. He’s doing no harm. Just look at me! ‒ I’m as strong as a horse!’ And Gus, to demonstrate his strength, lifted Jim high in the air, holding him up at arm’s length for perhaps half a minute or so, then setting him down again. ‘There!’ he said, breathing hard. ‘I couldn’t have done that two years ago. I wouldn’t have dreamt of trying it. But these days I feel I could lift a whale and if only my legs were as strong as my arms ‒’

  He gave a little wistful sigh. His legs were not much use to him. He still could not walk more than a few yards at a time.

  ‘But if they’re no better, at least they’re no worse, and I must just count my blessings,’ he said.

  At least he could still put himself to bed, and get up in the morning and dress himself, and he valued these acts of independence, guarding them with fierce obstinacy. What he could do he would do and wanted no help from anyone. Maggie understood this and never tried to interfere. She would take hot water into his room; then she would come out and close the door; and only when Gus had emerged fully dressed, wheeling himself out in his chair, did she venture into the room again, to empty the basin and make the bed.

  As for the hundred and one things she did for him during the rest of the day
, he accepted them without demur, even with a certain complacency. Sometimes he pretended to grumble. ‘Maggie sews my buttons on even before they’ve come off,’ he would say, and, ‘I have to change my clothes every week now that I’m a married man.’ But in fact he enjoyed Maggie’s attentions and was often touched by the trouble she took in putting his boots to warm by the fire, in bringing him hot cocoa to drink when he sat out of doors on a cold day, and in cooking those meals she knew he liked best, such as rabbit pasty with turnip and thyme and plenty of pepper in the crust.

  He was always praising Maggie’s cooking, especially when Brice was there, and he said that Maggie’s heavy cake was the best he had tasted in his life. Sometimes when Brice came on Saturday he would stay and have supper with them and on one of these occasions Gus suddenly said to him:

  ‘Did Maggie ever do the cooking when she was up at the farm with you?’

  ‘Yes, she did, quite often,’ Brice said.

  ‘Then your mother must’ve been properly mazed when she turned Maggie out of the house. Still, there tis! Your loss was my gain. And if you and Rachel have any regrets you’ve only got yourselves to blame.’

  Brice said nothing to this. He was inured to these jibes by now. But he noticed that Maggie, clearing the dishes, frowned at Gus reprovingly.

  Gus, however, would not be reproved. He was in an ebullient mood. And when Maggie came close to his chair he suddenly caught hold of her and, pulling her roughly down to him, kissed her clumsily on the mouth.

  Maggie was taken by surprise. Released, she stood staring at him, her eyes at once puzzled, vexed, amused. A flush of warm colour came into her cheeks and she turned away with a little laugh, glancing quickly towards Brice but without directly meeting his gaze.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with your uncle tonight. It must’ve been something I put in the pie.’

  ‘Damme!’ Gus said, in a boisterous voice. ‘I was just showing my gratitude at having a wife worth her weight in gold.’

  ‘Perhaps it was too much pepper and salt …’

  ‘ “So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies”,’ Gus said, quoting the Scriptures. ‘ “He that loveth his own wife loveth himself”.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Maggie said, ‘no wife can ask more than that.’

  She busied herself, washing the crocks, and the two men went to sit by the fire, Gus now talking soberly of his new business venture at Steeple Lumbtown, and of how many lengths of herring-net the looms were producing every week. After a while Maggie joined them, bringing a pile of mending to do, and the evening passed as usual. But as soon as Brice had left the house she put her needlework into her lap and looked at Gus with challenging eyes.

  ‘Why did you kiss me like that?’ she asked.

  ‘My dear soul and body!’ Gus exclaimed. ‘Can’t a man kiss his own wife?’

  ‘You never have done. Not till today.’

  ‘I’m not going to make a habit of it, if that’s what is worrying you. Tes just that I’ve got a devil in me and Brice always seems to bring it out.’

  ‘So is was for Brice’s benefit? I had a suspicion it might be.’

  ‘I just wanted to stir him up. See the look on his face and maybe find out what he’s made of. But Brice doesn’t give himself away. He’ve got too much nous for that. He might be a block of wood sitting there for all you can see what goes on in his mind.’

  ‘It seems you were disappointed, then.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is, why you should want to stir him up.’

  ‘Because it amuses me, that’s why, and because it’s only what he deserves. He was in love with you ‒ you know that ‒ and yet he let that mother of his turn you out into the road and never lifted a finger to help although he knew what trouble you were in.’

  ‘All that’s in the past,’ Maggie said. ‘There was nothing Brice could have done for me. There was nothing I wanted him to do. And whatever he thought he felt for me was all over and finished with when he knew I was going to have a child.’

  ‘If he’d had any gumption in him he would’ve married you just the same. I told him that myself at the time but he was so full of his own injured pride that he wouldn’t hear of such a thing.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t! What man would? And I could never have married him. For one thing I didn’t love him ‒’

  ‘You didn’t love me, neither, but you were willing to marry me.’

  ‘That was different,’ Maggie said. ‘It was a business arrangement between us. You said so yourself. But a marriage like ours wouldn’t do for Brice. He wants more from a wife than that and in time when he falls in love with some girl ‒’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Gus exclaimed. ‘You don’t have to defend him to me. Brice can take care of himself and he knows I don’t mean him any great hurt. He is my brother’s son after all. I’m fond of him, believe it or not, and I think in his way he’s fond of me. Tes jus that sometimes when he’s sitting there ‒’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ Maggie said. ‘The fact that Brice is your own kith and kin and that if I hadn’t come along ‒’

  ‘You troubled with conscience, suddenly, because you’re getting my property and Brice is getting nothing at all?’

  ‘It’s not so much a question of conscience ‒’

  ‘Damme! I should hope not indeed! You’re my wife before God and man and in my will I’ve made it clear that everything is to come to you. The property’s yours by entitlement and tes no good getting a conscience now because that’s the way I want it and that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  ‘What I was going to say was, that Brice has been very good about it. There could have been so much ill feeling … just as there is on his mother’s part … but instead he’s always been friendly and kind.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s true enough. Brice has behaved very well. Never a word out of place. Always very proper and correct. Gus’s tone of voice was dry and his glance sardonic. ‘Tes one thing you can depend on,’ he said. ‘Brice will always do the right thing.’

  Maggie looked at him sorrowfully. Then she picked up her needlework.

  ‘You make it sound like a fault,’ she said.

  She herself was grateful to Brice because he had made things so easy for her and one day when they were alone together she tried to express her gratitude. She spoke of it in much the same way that she had spoken of it to Gus but the words did not come so readily and Brice was obliged to help her out.

  ‘You are thinking about the property? But I am not jealous ‒ not in the least ‒ and I hope you won’t let it worry you. It’s true I was taken aback at first when I heard you were marrying Uncle Gus. It was a shock, I don’t deny that, and people were very quick to point out how much I was going to lose by it.’

  Brice paused, looking at her.

  ‘That was the worst part of it, knowing what a lot of talk there was … Knowing that people were watching me, waiting to see how I would behave … But as for losing the property, except for the boat it means nothing to me, and I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I’m glad things have gone the way they have.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Maggie said. ‘Only a generous man could say that ‒ anyone else would have hated me ‒ and I want you to know I’m grateful to you for ‒ for accepting me as your uncle’s wife.’

  Brice had called with a gift of fish and it happened that Gus had gone with Isaac to buy canvas in Polzeale. So Maggie and Jim were alone in the house and the little boy, now two and a half, was helping her to shell peas. Brice sat at the table with them and whenever Jim had difficulty in opening a peapod he would push it across to Brice and Brice would split it open for him.

  ‘I could never hate you,’ Brice said. ‘I don’t think I’m a hating man.’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said, ‘I don’t think you are.’

  ‘You’ve done so much for Uncle Gus. You’ve given him something to live for. And although he and I have our differ
ences I like him enough to be glad of that.’ There was a pause and then Brice said: ‘He seems so much better nowadays … So much stronger in every way … I can’t help wondering if perhaps …’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said, ‘I wonder that, too, and it’s what I pray for, constantly.’

  ‘Is he still refusing to see Dr Sam?’

  ‘Yes. He’s very obstinate. I’ve been to see Dr Sam myself and I’ve told him how much better Gus is, but although he listened to all I said, he wouldn’t say anything much himself, not without examining Gus. “It’s in God’s hands.” That’s all he would say. I told Gus that when I got home and he gave a loud snort and said, “Well, I can only hope that God is a better doctor than Sam Carveth!” ’

  Brice smiled.

  ‘My uncle Gus will have the last word right to the very end,’ he said.

  He got up, preparing to leave, and took his cap from the back of the chair. Little Jim snatched it from him and ran out through the open door. Brice and Maggie followed him and stood in the yard watching as he placed the cap upside down on the ground and, bending over unsteadily, tried to put his head into it. Something went wrong with this plan and instead he tumbled head over heels. He sat up with a look of surprise and gave a little bubbling laugh as he saw that his uncle Brice’s cap had somehow got caught up on his foot.

  ‘Can I have my cap?’ Brice asked.

  ‘No! Can’t have it!’ Jim said.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran off again but Brice in three strides caught up with him, lifted him, chortling, into his arms, and wrested the dusty cap from him. The little boy struggled and squirmed and as soon as Brice set him down again he went running to Gus’s empty wheelchair, standing outside the porch, and began pushing it round the yard.

  ‘The only time he’s ever still is when he’s in bed asleep,’ Maggie said.

  ‘You wanted a son.’