The Room of the Past
I shut the door behind me and stood undecided for a moment in the passage. Manack was talking. But his voice came to me as an unintelligible drone through the thick oak. The passage was a pool of lamplight fading into dark shadows. The chill of it struck through me, reminding me of my wet clothes. I shivered. What the hell was I going to do now? I could, of course, walk right out of the house. There was nothing to stop me — nothing at all — except that I was a deserter. I felt bitter and angry and helpless. Manack was dangerous; far more dangerous than Mulligan. That talk about implicating me with the affair of the revenue cutter — he'd meant that. Those eyes of his and the wild look he'd had. That was nerves. He was the sort of man who lived on his nerves. He was like a man walking a tight-rope. That was it — a man walking a criminal tight-rope. That sort would take any risk.
Through the oak door I heard Mulligan's voice on a higher note. Then Manack's voice cut in, sharp and peremptory. I was shivering and my teeth chattered. I couldn't hear what they were saying. Irresolutely I set off down the passage to the kitchen. I'd feel better with dry clothes and some food inside me. The thought of food brought the juices up under my tongue. I hadn't eaten all day. Time enough when I'd eaten to decide what I was going to do.
When I opened the kitchen door the girl was still at her ironing. She looked up and smiled. It was a slow, friendly smile. I went over to the fire. The smell from the pots was good. 'What time do you feed?' I asked.
She glanced at the alarm clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after eight-thirty. 'About nine,' she said. 'We're late tonight. I'll show you your room afterwards. It's being got ready now. Have you any things?'
'No,' I said. I had got myself right in front of the fire and my clothes were beginning to steam.
'Well, I'm afraid you won't be able to borrow any pyjamas,'
She was looking straight at me. 'You're a bit larger than any of the men in this house except Mr Manack, and he wears a nightshirt.' Then she noticed the steam rising from my clothes.
'You'd better get your clothes dried.' She stripped the blanket off the ironing board. 'Here you are,' she said, and tossed it over.
Take them off and wrap that round you.' And when I hesitated, she said, 'Don't worry about me. I'm used to half-naked men around. Wheal Garth's a pretty wet mine.'
As I stripped off my things and hung them on the clothes horse, I saw her looking at me several times curiously. I felt flattered. It was good to have a girl around again. But then she said, There's something strangely familiar about you.'
'How do you mean?' I asked, wrapping the blanket round me and slipping out of my wet trousers.
'I don't know,' she answered, with a puzzled frown. 'Almost is though I'd seen you before.'
'Ever been out of England?' I asked.
She shook her head and smiled. 'Never been out of Cornwall,' she said.
Then you can't have seen me before,' I told her, This is the first time I've been back in England since I was four.'
'Oh.' But the puzzled frown was still on her face. 'What's your name?' she asked.
'Jim,' I said. 'Jim Pr — ' I just stopped myself in time. 'Jim O'Donnel. I'm a Canadian.'
She smiled. 'You're a deserter, aren't you?'
That startled me. I started to deny it. But I stopped and said, 'How did you know?'
'You have to be a deserter or a jailbird to get a job here.' There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and she bent over her ironing.
'What's the racket?' I asked.
She looked up then, her face stony and sullen. 'Ask Captain Manack,' she said.
I didn't say anything then. I turned and let the glow of the fire warm my belly through the blanket. A chair was set beside me and two hands took hold of my shoulders and pressed me into it. Her hands were still touching me as I sat down and her face was close to mine. It was a nice face, flushed with the heat of the fire and the lips slightly parted to show the gleam of white, even teeth. The lips had no make-up on, but they were red. I suddenly wanted to kiss them. God, it was ages since I had had a woman.
I think she sensed my urge for she drew quickly back, but her eyes sparkled and I knew she wasn't angry. She was a big girl, but well proportioned with firm breasts that thrust at the cotton of her blouse, so that I could see the outline of her nipples.
I looked quickly down into the hot glow of the fire. I heard her go back to her ironing. 'You've got fine shoulders,' she said softly. 'You're not a miner, are you?'
'Yes,' I said.
'You said this was the first time you'd been back in England since you were four,' she said. 'What were you doing over here at the age of four?'
'Getting myself born,' I told her.
'Getting born? You mean you were born over here? Where?' There was a note of excitement in her voice.
'Redruth,' I said.
'Then you're Cornish?'
'I suppose so — by birth,' I added cautiously. 'My father was, anyway.'
'Your father was a Cornishman?' She seemed unusually interested. 'What about your mother?'
'She was Cornish too.'
'Is your mother still in Canada?'
'No,' I replied. And then for some reason I added. 'I don't know where she is. She ran off with somebody else. That's why we went to Canada.'
I suddenly realised that she had stopped ironing. I looked round quickly to find her leaning on the iron, staring at me with her eyes wide and that puzzled expression on her face. 'What's your name?' she asked.
'I told you,' I said. 'O'Donnel.'
'No, no,' she said impatiently. 'Your real name?'
At that moment the door opened and Manack came in. He glanced quickly from me to the girl and then back to me again. 'I see you've made yourself at home,' he said, and I thought there was a trace of sarcasm in his tone.
'I'm getting myself dried,' I explained.
'The men here have their own quarters,' he said.
'The stove's not lit in there,' the girl put in. 'They haven't come in yet, and it's not worth lighting it now. They'll go straight to bed if they're to get up at the time you want them in the morning.'
Manack nodded. 'Come into my office,' he said to me. 'Mulligan's gone. I want to talk to you about the job I want done. Don't bother to put any clothes on. If Kitty can put up with you half-undressed, no doubt I can.'
I followed him along the passage to his office. He shut the door. 'Better get near the fire,' he advised and poured me out a stiff drink. 'Take it you don't mind Italian cognac?'
'I'm pretty used to it,' I said.
His eyes watched me as I raised my glass and drank. They were steel grey and their movements were quick as though he found it a strain to look at anything for more than a few seconds. His hands were long and slender, and when his fingers weren't drumming on the arm of his chair or running through his thick, wiry hair, they hung loosely from the wrist. Sitting there with only a blanket and a pair of pants on I felt at a disadvantage. He knocked back his drink and poured himself another. 'Rotgut,' he said. 'Still, it's better than nothing. If that revenue cutter hadn't butted in we'd have been drinking French brandy or champagne. Damn 'em.' He filled my glass. The liquor was warming. 'What's your name?' The question came abruptly.
'O'Donnel,' I said. 'Jim O'Donnel.'
His eyes met mine with a glint of amusement. 'Irish, eh?' He smiled. 'Funny thing. You fellows always pick on Irish names. You seem to think it fits this sort of job. There's a boy working for me here now — O'Grady he calls himself. Cockney right through to his backside.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'What experience have you had of mining?'
'Pretty fair,' I told him. 'Started working underground in the Canadian Rockies when I was sixteen. I'm thirty-two now and, with the exception of four years in the army, I've been working in mines all the time — various goldmines in the Coolgardie district of Australia, a short spell in Malaya on tin, and finally in lignite mines in North Italy.'
'Know anything about blasting?'
'I ought to,' I said. 'You can't help knowing about it after twelve years of mining.'
He nodded as though satisfied by my reply. His fingers were drumming on the chair arm again. 'You understand the nature of the business we're engaged on?' It was more a statement than a question and he looked at me sharply.
I raised my glass. 'I guess so,' I said. 'Liquor running.'
He nodded and pulled a sheet of paper towards him across the desk.
'Suppose I tell you I don't want anything to do with it?' I said.
He swung round on me then. 'You've no alternative,' he barked. 'Get that clear right from the start. I wasn't joking when you were in here with Mulligan. You're here and you'll do the job I want doing before you leave.'
'That's not the way to get good work out of a man,' I told him. He didn't reply for a moment. He just sat there staring at me. Those eyes of his — they worried me. Most people, when you look them in the eye — you feel in touch with them, you can see their mood even if you can't see what they're thinking. But not with Manack. His eyes told me nothing. I've seen it in animals, particularly dogs. Often as not when you can't trust a dog his eyes have a wild look, they shut you out — you can't see what he's feeling. That's the way Manack's eyes looked.
'Listen,' he said suddenly. 'You come here without a friend in the world. You're broke and the world's against you. Do this job and you get your hundred and forty-five quid back plus a further fifty. Not only that, but I'll fix you a passage anywhere you want to go.'
'And if I say No?'
He nodded to the phone on the desk. 'Then I'll ring the police.'
'Isn't that a bit risky for you?' I asked.
But it's no use trying to scare a man like Manack. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'I'm pretty well known around this end of Cornwall. I've made it my business to be. At worst I'd have to lay off a shipment or two. But you stand a chance of hanging with the evidence that would pile up against you.'
'You mean I'd be accused of having a hand in the revenue cutter business?' I felt a surge of anger at the injustice of it. But it was swamped by my sense of helplessness. What could I do about it? What the hell could I do?
He nodded his head slowly like a doctor agreeing with his patient's worst fears. 'Well, O'Donnel, what do you say?' I thought I detected a derisive emphasis on the name of O'Donnel.
I shrugged my shoulders. Damn it, why wasn't I dressed? Perhaps if I'd been dressed I'd have had the guts to call his bluff and walk out of the place. But one glance at his face told me it wasn't bluff. It wasn't that his features looked fierce or cruel, it was just that it was a tense, reckless face. The man would do what he said. 'How long will the job take?' I asked.
'Not being a miner I wouldn't know,' he replied. 'It might take a week, maybe two. My offer is twenty pounds a week and a fifty-pound bonus on completion of the job. And all free of income tax.' He smiled. It would have been a friendly, pleasant smile but for those eyes.
'Okay,' I said. My voice sounded hoarse. 'What's the job?'
'That's more like it,' he said, and seemed to relax. His gaze wandered to the bottle. 'Another drink?' I finished mine at a gulp and held out my glass. I needed that drink. That's another thing,' he said as he poured it out, 'there's no shortage of liquor in the place. But I only serve it out after dark. That's just so as nobody goes up to the village drunk.' He picked up the sheet of paper from his desk. 'Now then, what I want you to do is to blow a hole in the sea bed.'
'Blow a hole in the sea bed?' I stared at him in astonishment.
But he was quite serious. 'Yes,' he said. And then added after a moment's thought, 'No point in my not telling you why, since as soon as you see the layout you'll be able to figure it out for yourself. At the moment we bring the stuff in by boat to the main adit of Wheal Garth. The adit empties into a big cave and we've got a large, flat-bottomed barge in there. Well, that method is too dangerous. We've got coastguards' look-out as close as Cape Cornwall, which is the next headland but one to the south. Not only that, it means fine weather runs only. Sometimes our boats have to lie off for several days pretending to fish until the sea's calm enough for the operation to be carried out.'
He handed me the sheet of paper. 'There's a plan of Wheal Garth at the hundred and twenty fathom level — that's fifty feet below sea level. We've de-watered the mine down to this level which is the first of the undersea levels. Now then, see that long gallery running out under the sea?' He pointed it out to me on the plan — a finger of ink stretching almost straight out from the coast. Beside it was the name Mermaid. 'That gallery is half a mile long. I've had two men working on it for nearly a year — deserters, same as you. One of them is a stone mason, the other a quarry man. We've straightened it out, squared it off and built up a neat ledge along both sides. On these ledges a carriage drawn by a hawser can run — even when the gallery is full of sea water. No metal rails to rust, you see. What I want you to do is — '
He stopped then, for the door had opened. I looked round. An elderly man had entered. He was tall and blond with a short, pointed beard and small, round eyes that looked at me from beneath shaggy eyebrows. 'I didn't know you'd anybody here, Henry,' he said to Manack and made as though to go. His voice was soft and, but for the trace of a Cornish accent, I would have said he was a Norseman, so fine a figure did he make as he stood there with the firelight glowing on his rugged, bearded features.
'Just a minute, Father,' Manack said. This is Jim O'Donnel. He's going to work here for a bit. He's a miner.'
The old man's eyebrows lifted and there was a glitter of something like excitement in his eyes. 'A miner, is he?' He smiled. It was a nice smile, the sort of smile that seemed to warm the room. 'Well, my boy,' he said to me, 'it's good to know there'll be a miner working here at last. I've been trying to persuade my son to take on miners here ever since he came back. But there've always been — ah — difficulties,' he added vaguely. He turned to Manack. His eyes were shining. 'This is kind of you, Henry.' He shook his head sadly. 'Pity you didn't grow up to be a miner. You'd have understood the possibilities of Wheal Garth then. However, one's a help — a very definite help. At least we can make a start now.'
'O'Donnel is working for me.' Manack's voice was sharp. The old man's eyebrows went up again. It was a trick he had. He was all tricks, but I didn't know it then.
'Working for you?' he said. 'And what, may I ask, can you be wanting a miner for? You know nothing about mining. He must work for me. If he's a good miner, then I'll prove to the world that the Cornish mining industry isn't dead.'
'Well, you may as well know about it now as later,' Manack said. 'I'm letting the sea into the Mermaid gallery.'
'Letting the sea in!' The old man's beard shot up. 'You're mad. You can't do it. I won't allow it.'
'I'm afraid that's what I'm going to do.' Manack spoke flatly as though it were all settled.
The old man strode across to the desk. His eyes were wild and he was quivering with anger. 'Do you realise that Wheal Garth belongs to me?'
'Yes, but I provide the money,' replied his son calmly. 'When I came back the mine was full of water right up to the adits. It's only because I've provided the money that you've got it clear of water to the hundred and twenty fathom level. And if there's going to be any more money I've got to let the sea into the Mermaid.'
'I tell you I won't allow it,' thundered the old man, crashing his fist down on the desk.
'You've no alternative,' was the reply. Manack turned to me. 'Leave us, will you?' he said. He had to repeat his request before I moved, so fascinated was I by the astonishing altercation.
As I left the room Manack senior was saying in a voice that quavered. 'For twenty years and more, Henry, I've lived and dreamed of nothing but this mine. I knew it was rich. I knew it. I thought it was only rich at depth. But I found the seam. I found it. I showed it to you the other day. My God, if you'd only gone into the mines as I wanted you to you'd understand what that seam is. There's a fortune in it.'
As I slowly closed the door I heard his son reply in a hard, almost sneering voice, 'Yes, but unfortunately not a tax-free one.'
I went back to the kitchen. The girl was serving food with a stocky little man at her elbow wisecracking in an accent that brought back memories of Kalgoorlie. He had a round cherubic face and the crown of his head was bald. He was like a diminutive monk with his pot belly and round, rosy cheeks. 'Blimey,' he said as he caught sight of me, 'the horiginal wild man from Borneo. Goin' for a swim, mate?' He grinned. It was the widest grin I'd seen in years. It seemed to split his chubby face open and it revealed two red lines of gums propped open by half a dozen decaying teeth. 'You stay in' or just passing through?' he asked.
'He's going to work here,' the girl said. She was half-laughing. 'He's a miner.'
'Thank Gawd!' he said. "Bout ruddy fed up I am o' never bein' sure when the roofs goin' ter come in on us.'
'My name's O'Donnel,' I told him. 'Jim O'Donnel.'
The devil it is. It's Oirish I am meself. Me name's O'Grady.' He held out his hand. 'It's grand tales we'll be afther telling each! other, man, of those happy days back in Oireland.' The girl I laughed. It was a pleasant sound.
'I thought you were Australian,' I said, 'by the way you were talking just now.'
'Australian! Gor' blimy, that's a good one, that is,' he said, falling back into his original accent. 'The nearest I ever got to Australia was coaling a P. and O. boat at Southampton. That was back in thirty-one when the only work I could get was stevedoring. Come on, mate,' he added, 'you'd better get some cloves on if you're goin' to 'ave grub wiv us. You can put 'em on in the men's dining hall.'
He picked up two dishes from the table. I got my clothes and allowed him. The girl watched us silently. I stole a quick glance at her as I left the kitchen. She was watching us, a hint of laughter in her eyes. But as she met my gaze the laughter was over-shadowed by something else, and she frowned as though she were still puzzled about something.
We went through the cold scullery and through some old sables. The floor was cobbled here, and there were stalls for horses and curved iron mangers, 'You been here long, O'Grady?'
I asked.
'Better call me Friar,' he said. 'Everybody does. O'Grady's sort of a nom de gare — same as your moniker is. You ain't no more Irish than wot I am. Yes, I bin 'ere aba't a year nah. Gettin' quite like 'ome.' He pushed open a door and led the way into a small, bare room with canvas chairs set round a plain, scrubbed table. It was lit by a single oil lamp. An anthracite stove in the corner looked dead and cold, but an oil stove speckled the ceiling with its round ventilation holes. The walls were thinner here and they shook under the full force of the wind. The rain beat against the single curtained window. In one of the canvas chairs a long, cadaverous-featured man sat playing with a knife. His hands were rough and grey as though ingrained with dust. He inspected me slowly out of dark eyes. 'New bloke,' said Friar by way of introduction. 'A miner. Says 'is name's Jim O'Donnel. This 'ere's Slim Matthews.'
Slim Matthews nodded. 'What's the grub?' he asked Friar. He had a bitter, discontented voice.
'Stoo and two veg.' Friar dumped the dishes on the table. 'There y'are, mate.'
I got close to the stove and slipped into my clothes. The two of them began to feed silently. 'Who's the girl in the kitchen?' I asked.
Friar looked up, his mouth full of food. 'Kitty Trevorn,' he said. 'She's the daughter of old man Manack's second wife by her first marriage.'
'He means she's the old man's stepdaughter,' Slim explained.
'That's wot I bin tellin' 'im, ain't it?' Friar answered heatedly. 'Just because yer bin to a Public School. That's a larf nan, ain't it? Slim was at 'Arrer. An' wot's 'e do? Finishes up a ruddy stone mason. If that's all eddication can do for a man, reck'n I'm just as well orf without it.'
Slim Matthews said nothing. He just sat slumped in his chair concentrating on his food and looking down his long nose. He reminded me of some unhappy cur kicked around in the dust of an Arab village street. Then you're the quarry man?' I said to Friar to change the subject.
'That's right,' he replied. 'An' there ain't many blokes can swing a biddle like I can. But I'm aba't bra'ned off wiv working da'n there under the sea. It ain't nat'ral, that's wot I say. It ain't the way a man's supposed to work. Fair gives a bloke the creeps. An' wet as a latrine. The Capting says there's thirty feet of rock between us and the sea. But it don't feel like that, I tell yer. The water streams da'n the walls an' most of the time we works wiv the water swurling ra'nd our ankles. Still — " He sighed and scooped up another mouthful of stew in his spoon. 'Mustn't grumble, I s'pose. The pay's good an' nobody don't ask no questions. An' the grub's all right too. They got their own farm.'
That stew seemed about the best food I'd ever tasted. I helped myself to more and asked what the idea was in letting the sea into the Mermaid gallery. He looked at me narrowly out of his small, bright eyes. 'Well, if the Capting ain't told yer, mate, mebbe I'd better keep me ma'f shut. But you mark my words, it's a ruddy good idea he's got. But then 'e's clever as a monkey. Kitty slid you come from Italy. Was that where you met the Capting?'
'No,' I said. 'A friend of mine sent me to him.'
'Oh.' He removed a bit of meat from a back tooth with his nail. 'Wonder yer didn't hear of 'im a't there though. Seems 'e was quite a lad. Mulligan — do you know Mulligan?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I come over with him in the Arisaig.' 'Well, Mulligan told me 'e was one of the most reckless officers in the 'ole of the Eighth Army.'
'How the hell would Mulligan know?' I said.
He shrugged his shoulders, 'I dunno. Mulligan ain't been anywhere near any fightin'. I know that. Razor slashing, that's the nearest 'e ever bin to any fighting. I 'sped 'e was talkin' of wot 'e 'card. The Capting was up in the mountains most of the time organising the partisans. Seems 'e was always getting behind Jerry's lines. Looting, I wouldn't wonder. Mulligan says 'e's got a mint of money locked up in Italy.'
'Then why didn't he stay out there?' I suggested.
'Cor luv ol' iron, you're as full of ruddy questions as a sieve is 'oles,' he answered, grinning. "Ow should I know? If it comes to that, why did you leave Italy? Reck'n it got too 'ot to 'old ye. Same wiv the Capting. Or mebbe 'e thort Wheal Garth an sxcitin' toy to play wiv. Always after excitement, that's the Capting. Lives on 'is nerves and liquor. If 'e wasn't doin' something wrong, 'e'd die of boredom. It's 'is sort wot war was made for, not the likes of you and me. A soldier of fortune — blimey, if 'e'd lived in the ol' days 'e'd bin a ruddy general.'
'What about the old man?' I asked. 'How does he react to havin' his mine opened up for liquor running? He got pretty mad at his son this evening when he told him he was going to let the sea into the Mermaid gallery.'
'Oh, you don't want ter take no notice of the old man,' Friar answered. 'He's ab't as daft as a coot. Only 'e doesn't look daft. Reck'n 'e oughter be shut up in the loony-bin. Spends all 'is time da'n in the mine, jabberin' away to 'isself. An' yet 'e's a fine-looking ol' cove. Bet 'e played 'avoc wiv the ladies when 'e was a young man. 'E's bin married twice, yer know. The Capting's 'is son by 'is first wife.'
'An' the girl's his daughter by the second?'
'No. She ain't nuffmk to do wiv 'im, as yer might say. She's 'is stepdaughter. I told yer that afore. 'Is second wife was 'er muvver. Then there was some sort of 'ousekeeper 'e 'ad 'ere. She went and walked over Botallack 'ead. There's some wot say as 'ow she did it because 'e didn't love 'er any more. An' there's others wot say she was driven to it by her conscience — there's a story that she killed 'is second wife — that's Kitty's muvver — on account of 'er 'aving stolen the ol' man's haffections. I dunno wot truth there is in it. Usually there ain't no smoke wivout there 'aving bin a bit o' fire. But don't go talking to Kitty aba't it. The poor kid's muvver was fa'nd at the bottom o' one of the shafts up the 'ead. Anyway, 'e certainly knocked 'em da'n the ol' Kent Road. But now e's reckoned to be a bit daft. Yer see 'e ain't interested in nothing but the one thing — Wheal Garth. 'E's got a bee in 'is bonnet that this is the mine wot'll put the Cornish mining industry on its feet again. Terrible ra's 'im an' the Capting 'as. They were at it only last night. You wouldn't fink by the way they carry on that they was father and son.'
'What's it about?' I asked.
'The mine. Always the ruddy mine.' Friar had finished his stew and sat picking his teeth with a matchstick. 'Wen I come 'ere first — it was all on account o' my being the Capting's batman when 'e was in England. Cor, the larks 'e used to get up to! I remember when 'e started an illicit still. 'E was making gin in one o' the baths in the officers' mess with yeast and juniper berries an' I don't know wot else. The Colonel was a teetotal — that didn't hexactly 'elp when 'e got to know aba't it. Reck'n that's wot got the Capting sent overseas so quick. Not that 'e cared. Anyway, when I comes 'ere first, the mine was all flooded up to the sea level, ol' man Manack was broke an' the 'ouse was a shambles. Well, the Capting gets in touch wiv me and we start blasting a't the main adit till it's wide enuff ter take our barge, and then 'e starts runnin' cargoes. An' as soon as there's some brass comin' in, there's the ol' man wantin' the Capting to open up the mine. "Not bloody likely," 'e says. I 'card 'im say it meself. Couldn't 'elp it seein' 'as 'ow 'e shouted it at the top of 'is voice da'n in the adit there. Ain't no respecter of persons, the Capting — not even 'is own father.'
'Suppose you stop talking for a moment and get O'Donnel a drink,' Slim Matthews suggested. 'If ye're gettin' firsty why don't yer git it yourself?' 'Oh, all right.' Slim uncoiled his long body from his chair and went out. Friar got up and switched on the radio in the corner. 'See wot was I talkin' aba't?' he said, sitting down beside me again. 'Oh, I remember — the Capting an' the ol' man. Well, a'ter a few runs, the Capting 'as 'is bright idea, see. So 'e gets a pump installed an' starts de-watering the mine da'n aba't fifty foot below sea level.' The radio came on with an announcer reading the news. 'The ol' man's all for goin' deeper. But the Capting 'as 'is own ideas. That's when the ra's begin. Well, one day las' week the ol' man, whose bin ferreting ara'nd da'n in the Mermaid, 'e comes rushin' along the gallery all wide-eyed an' shoutin' blue murder fer the Capting. An' there's 'ell ter pay. The ol' gent's yellin' an screamin' an' the Capting sharp and cool like. I thought the ol' man was goin' right off his — " He suddenly stopped. The announcer's voice had mentioned a name that brought me up with a jolt. The Isle of Mull. ' — out all day searching for the missing ship. The police are also making inquiries about David Jones, captain and owner of the Isle of Mull. So far no report has been received of any ship having sighted the Isle of Mull after the time at which it is believed the revenue cutter may have intercepted her. Penzance police and Customs officials have reason to believe that the Isle of Mull was engaged in running cargoes of wines and spirits into the country. The revenue cutter was sent out on Wednesday to intercept the Isle of Mull. Since then no trace of the crew of four has been found, though the cutter itself was discovered abandoned on a lonely stretch of beach not far from Penzance this morning. Scotland Yard admitted, in an interview, that considerable quantities of liquor were being smuggled into this country and they have reason to believe that it may be coming in through Cornwall and other areas of the south-west.' 'Cor, chase me up a gum tree!' muttered Friar.
'Is the Isle of Mull one of Captain Manack's ships?' I asked, more to see what he'd say than anything else.
He glanced at me sharply. His face, drained of all blood, looked grey and his fat little cheeks seemed to have fallen. He no longer looked genial. There was a mean look in his eyes as though he were scared.
He didn't say anything and when Slim came back with a bottle of cognac, he sat drinking in silence. 'What's upset our chum?' Slim asked me. When I told him about the Isle of Mull he smiled sardonically. But he didn't say anything. He seemed withdrawn into his own thoughts. Shortly afterwards Friar and Slim went out. They took the bottle with them.
Left to myself I realised I was very tired. I got up and went through into the kitchen. An old women was sitting by the fire. I asked her to show me my room. She led the way out into the corridor. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and stood aside. 'The master,' she whispered. The old man was coming down the stairs, a lamp in his hand. It shone on his beard and his eyes glittered in his ruddy face.
80 — 'Ah, O'Donnel,' he said. 'Just the man I wanted to see. Come into my study a minute, will you?'
I hesitated. He went straight on along the corridor, oblivious of my hesitation. I followed him. He was waiting for me at a door at the end of the passage. With a strangely old-world courtesy, he stood aside to let me go in. I found myself in a small and incredibly untidy room, furnished largely in mahogany. There were microscopes and scales and other laboratory equipment all mixed up with a litter of books, papers and drawings.
He sat down in a worn leather-covered horse-hair chair by the fire. 'I've something I want to show you,' he said. He had a mysterious air and the gleam of his eyes was even more noticeable, so that I thought he had been drinking. He went over to a cupboard and brought out a chunk of dull-grey rock. 'My son tells me you're an experienced tinner, my boy,' he said, coming towards me with the lump of rock in his hand. 'Tell me what you think of this.' He placed the rock in my hand.
It was about the size of a man's head and incredibly heavy. I saw at once that it wasn't rock at all. It was ore. Practically solid ore. 'Well?' he asked, and there was excitement and impatience in his voice.
'It's tin,' I said. 'From a mother lode. By the look of it.'
He nodded and smiled a secretive little smile that crinkled the corners of his mouth where his beard was grey. 'Yes,' he said. 'Mother tin. And what would you say if I told you there was a seam of it in Wheal Garth extending from the hundred and twenty level straight down to the sixteen hundred level?'
'I'd say you were a very rich man,' I said.
'Yes.' He nodded his head several times murmuring, 'Yes' each time. 'I'm a rich man. I'm a very rich man.' He took the lump of ore and held it in his hands as though it was his very heart be held beating there against his roughened palms. 'I'm fabulously rich. I've hit a scovan lode, a mother lode — about the richest in the history of Cornish mining.' Then he suddenly jerked his body erect and flung the lump of ore crashing to the floorboards. 'And my son — damn his eyes — my son doesn't see it; he can't understand.'
He put both his hands up to his head and beat his skull with his clenched fists. 'How can I make him see it?' he asked, swinging suddenly round on me. 'Listen, my boy — all my life I've worked for this. For nearly thirty years nothing else mattered. I worked in Wheal Garth when I was a boy. I saw that ore. I saw it with my own eyes. And no one else saw it. They all missed it. I became a shareholder. I got more shares. They closed the mine. I bought 'em out. Wheal Garth belongs to me. All that tin! And now my son doesn't understand. He's going to let the sea into the Mermaid. And he's got you here to do it. You're the man who's going to wreck my whole life.'
He suddenly took me by the shoulders. His face was so near to mine that his beard touched my chin. 'You can't do it. Do you understand? You mustn't do it, I'll — I'll — " He took his hands quickly from my shoulders. He was trembling all over. He picked up the ore, and fondled it as though it were a child.
I felt sorry for him. I could understand his rage and frustration. Suppose I had struck lucky out there in the Coolgardie and then been unable to get capital to develop. But he could get capital surely. He could float a company. Anybody would back a mine that yielded tin like that. I suggested this, but he rounded on me. 'No,' he cried. 'No, never. Wheal Garth belongs to me. I'll develop it myself or I'll leave it to rot down there under the sea.'
Perhaps he wasn't sure of himself? 'Are you sure it goes right down?' I asked.
'No,' he said. 'Of course I'm not sure. How can any one be sure in mining? All I know is that I saw this lode when I was a boy down at the sixteen level. And only a week ago I found a similar lode at a hundred and twenty fathoms. That proves nothing. But here, look at this.' He threw the lump of ore on to a chair and seized hold of a big diagram. 'When they opened up the Botallack mine they found as many as ten floors of tin, each floor separated by floors of country little more than three foot thick. They were horizontal, beginning with the Bunny. Now, then, look at this. It's a geological map.' He spread the diagram out on the arm of my chair. 'There's Botallack. There's Wheal Garth almost next door. And Come Lucky. See how the strata goes along the coast. It's horizontal. But look at it out here under the sea. It suddenly folds up — from being horizontal it dips at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. When I first met that lode at the sixteen level I was in a gallery that ran a mile out under the sea. The Mermaid is only half a mile out. I can't be sure — but it seems reasonable to suppose that the lode in the Mermaid is the upper end of the lode at the sixteen level.'
'This diagram's accurate, I suppose?' I said.
He nodded. 'It was the result of information pooled by the mine captains of Botallack, Wheal Garth and Come Lucky in 1910 — that's when all three mines were working and making money.' He sighed and rolled up the diagram. 'I'm glad you understand. I've nobody to discuss it with here. If only you were my son.' He fell to pacing the room, combing his beard with his fingers. 'I must stop him letting the sea into the Mermaid. If he does that it will cost so much more to work that lode.' He suddenly turned to me. 'I suppose he has some sort of hold on you. He has on most men who come here. But you could leave this country, couldn't you? How much would you take to leave the country? I'll let you have fifty pounds more than he's going to give you. How much will you take?' His voice was eager. It was incredible how childish was his trust.
I said, 'He would only get another miner.'
'No,' he said. 'No, it's not so easy as that. He's been wanting one for a year, but he couldn't find anyone — er — suitable. And soon he'll get bored with this business of running liquor. It's excitement, not money he likes. Then he'll go away and leave me in peace to develop the Mermaid. Look — I'll give you fifty pounds more than he's giving you and then, when I start work, you shall come back and I'll make you bal captain. We'll start in a small way at first, and we'll gradually build up. The lode will pay for development as we go. We'll start from nothing and build the greatest mine in Cornish history.' His eyes had a faraway look. He was in a dream world of his own. This, I thought, was the real Cornish adventurer — the men my father had talked about, who'd start from small beginnings and build and build and build. Almost he fired my imagination — I who had seen the great mines of the Rockies and Malaya.
'Well,' he asked. 'What do you say, boay?' The Cornish accent had become more pronounced in his excitement.
I said, 'I'll let you know tomorrow, sir.' I was thinking that this was my way out. With money in my pocket I could surely be out of the country before Manack could get the police on my track. I didn't trust Captain Manack. I didn't trust the set-up. The police were on the track of this racket. It would only be a question of time before they raided the place. 'Could you give me cash?' I asked.
He nodded. 'I have a little money put by. How much?'
'He owes me a hundred and forty-five of my own which Mulligan stole from me. And for the work he offered me twenty quid a week and a fifty pound bonus when I'd completed the job. Call it two-fifty.'
'Very well.' He held out his hand. That's kind of you, my boy. And I shall not forget. Let me know where you go finally When I start developing, then I'll let you know, and if you want the job you can come over. That's a promise.'
I left him then. He was standing by the fire, the lump of ore in his hands, and his fine bearded head bent in thought. It was as though all his existence were in that great lump of tin. I remembered the fierce light in his eyes as he told me how he had worked to gain control of the mine. He was a terrible and pathetic figure.
I went along the cold, damp corridor to the kitchen. The girl was there, sitting by the fire, her chin resting on her hands. Her bare arms were red with the glow of the fire. She looked up startled, as I entered. The old woman was making porridge. The girl stared at me for a second, her lips parted. Then she got to her feet and hurried out into the scullery as though intent on some household task. I called out to her. She stopped, looking at me nervously as though held there by something about me that fascinated her.
'Will you show me to my room, please?' I said.
'No.' Her voice sounded abrupt and harsh. Then, as though to cover her abruptness, she added, 'I–I must see about the milk. It may turn sour in this storm.' She turned to the old woman, who had stopped stirring the porridge. 'Mrs Brynd, show Mr O'Donnel to the — attic-room.' That slight hesitation — I don't know why, but it worried me.
The old woman's face wrinkled up in a leathery smile. 'Do a yourself,' she said. Then she glanced up at me and I saw a flicker of some expression in her eyes. I can't describe it. All I know is that it was hostile.
The girl hesitated. I couldn't see it, but I knew she was trembling — like a horse that is afraid to take a jump. 'All right,' she said, heavily. 'I'll show you.' She picked up the lamp and led the way out into the corridor, leaving the old woman stirring her porridge.
She mounted the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. The lamplight threw her shadow grotesquely on the walls of the old staircase. The wind beat against the window at the top of the stairs. We went down a narrow landing with peeling walls and then up a narrow, uncarpeted staircase. There was a door at the top with a queer little hatch cut in it. She hesitated, half turned and looked down at me as though to say something. She raised the lamp slightly. It seemed to me that she raised it in order to see me better. Then she turned quickly and opened the door.
The room was bare and close under the roof. The rain beat on the stone tiles above our heads and the wind howled in the chimney. The dormer window was uncurtained. It was fitted with stout iron bars. She lit a candle on the wash-stand. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. But halfway to the door, she stopped. Again I was aware that she was trembling. She seemed to be trying to say something. Her eyes looked frightened and unhappy in the hot light of the lamp. Suddenly it burst from her, startling and abrupt. 'Your name's Pryce — Jim Pryce. Isn't it?'
The way she said it: I can't describe how it jarred on me. It wasn't only that her voice was brittle and harsh. It had fear and hatred and — oh, it was just horrible.
'Your father's name is Robert Pryce?'
I nodded.
'Is he — alive?' she asked.
'No,' I said.
She seemed to shiver. Then she turned quickly and without shutting the door behind her ran down the steep staircase. I heard her footsteps hurrying away into the silent depths of the house as though she feared to look over her shoulder.
I went slowly to bed, wondering how she knew my name. For a time the peculiar behaviour of the girl excluded every other thought from my mind. But then I began to notice the room. I don't know what there was about the room. I know now of course. But I didn't then. It was such a bare, miserable little place. And there were the iron bars across the window and that strange little natch in the door. It was somehow the way I imagine a prison cell looks I lay in bed and, tired though I was, it was some time before I put the candle out. Even then I could not sleep. I lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds of the storm and thinking over the strange events of the day. Sometimes the wind would be no more than a whimper in the eaves. Then it would come roaring against the house, beating at the walls till they shook to their foundations. It would come like a wall of water flung at the tiny barred window. It would ramp and whine and the rain would beat at the glass like a shower of gravel. Then it would die away to a whimper again so that I could hear the solid sound of the breakers thundering against the granite cliffs. And every now and then a flicker of distant lightning would show me the room, and in the sudden darkness that followed, I'd hear the grumble of the thunder away towards the Scillies.
I must have gone to sleep at last. Perhaps I had only just dozed off. Perhaps I had been asleep for hours. I don't know. All I know is that I was suddenly wide awake and instantly conscious of the room. God, how that room wanted to talk to me! I was trembling and sweating. Then in a flicker of lightning I saw the door opening. It was the click of the latch that had awakened me. My body tensed, expecting God knows what. 'Who's that?' I asked. My voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
'It's me,' a voice whispered back.
A match flared in the dark and was instantly extinguished as a gust of wind crashed against the window. Another match was struck and a candle flame wavered uncertainly.
It was Kitty. She stood there for an instant, the candle trembling in her hand. She had a dark dressing-gown over her nightie and her feet were bare. Her eyes had a wild look and she clutched an envelope to her breast. She didn't say anything. She just stood there looking down at me. It was as though she didn't trust herself to speak.
I sat up leaning on one elbow. 'Why have you come?' I asked She found her voice then, but it was strange and husky. 'Because I promised,' was what she said.
'Because you promised? Promised who?' I asked.
'Your mother.' Her voice sounded small and sad in that strange room. 'I didn't want to,' she added quickly. 'But — I'd promised.' She moved forward. It was a timid movement. There,' she said. Take it.' She thrust the envelope into my hand. Then with sudden relief in her voice: 'I've done what I said I would. I'll go now.' She turned towards the door.
But I caught her dressing-gown. 'Don't go,' I said. 'What was my mother doing here? You knew her. What happened?'
'No.' Her voice trembled. 'Don't ask me anything. Let me go — please. You have the letter now. That's all I promised to do. Let me go, I tell you.' Her voice was frightened now. She struggled, but I had her by the wrist. 'Sit down,' I said. I was determined not to let her go. There were so many questions I needed answered. 'How did you know who I was?'
'It — it was the way you held your head when you asked a question. That and your eyes. You've got her eyes.'
'You knew her then?'
She nodded. 'Now let me go.' Her voice trembled again.
'No,' I said. 'What was my mother doing here?' She suddenly fought to free her wrist from my grasp.
'What was my mother doing here?' I repeated, and she cried out at the pressure of my hand on her wrist. For a moment she fought to free herself then suddenly she relaxed and sat limply down on the edge of the bed. I felt her trembling all over. She was all wrought up. The candle was spilling hot grease on to her fingers. She reached out and set it down on the table by the bed.
'Now,' I said, 'will you please tell me what my mother was doing here?'
She gave a sob. I looked up at her. She was staring at the little hatch cut in the door. She wasn't crying — she was fighting for breath. I waited. At last she said in a strangled voice, 'She was — she was Mr Manack's housekeeper.'
The housekeeper. In a flash Friar's words came back to me — and the words of the landlord up at the inn at Botallack. And the name of the licensee above the door at Cripples' Ease. I looked down at the envelope in my hand. It was addressed to 'Robert Pryce, or his son, Jim Pryce.' The ink was faded and the writing shaky as though it had been written by someone very old — or someone labouring under great emotion. 'When did she give you this?' I asked.
'A long time ago.' Her voice was little more than a whisper. 'Before the war. Nine years ago it must be. It was just before — " She hesitated. 'Just before her death,' she whispered.
'How did she die?' I asked.
I felt her body stiffen. She did not answer.
I gripped her wrist angrily. 'How did she die?' I repeated.
'She — she went over the cliffs.' Her voice was flat. She spoke like a person in a trance.
I felt suddenly as though all the breath had been knocked out of me. And yet this wasn't half the horror of it. 'Why?' I asked.
She looked down at me then. Her eyes were wide and staring. So might Macbeth have looked on Banquo's ghost. All sorts of terrible thoughts ran through my mind.
'Why?' I cried out. 'Why did she do it?'
'Read the letter,' she said. She was panting for breath. 'Read the letter. Then let me go. I came to give you the letter. That was all. That was what I had to do. Don't you understand? I don't want to answer your questions. I don't want to think about it.'
'How long before her death did she give you this letter?' I asked.
'I don't know. I can't remember. An hour — maybe two or three. I don't remember.'
'My God!' I breathed. Then it was suicide?'
She nodded slowly.
I ripped open the envelope then. Inside was a single sheet of the same spidery writing. It trembled in my hand as I leaned forward to read it in the dim flicker of the candle. It was headed: 'In my room — 29th October, 1939.' In my room! Not Cripples' Ease, Botallack, Cornwall. Just 'in my room.' As though that were all her world.
Kitty leaned forward and picked up the candle, holding it over the letter for me. It guttered in the draught from the window and the grease spilled across her fingers and dripped on to the bedclothes. I had let go of her wrist and it was only afterwards that I realised that she could have left the room then. Why she didn't, I don't quite know. Curiosity perhaps. The letter had been in her possession all those years. But I'd rather say it was her sympathy — her sense of my need of her company as I read the last thoughts of a woman going out to kill herself on the rocks of Botallack Head, a woman who had once gone through the labour of bringing me into the world.
I have the letter on the desk beside me as I write. That, and the old, faded photograph and a brooch she gave to Kitty they're all I possess of my mother. I'll not attempt to describe my feelings as I read that letter. Here it is — read it and judge for yourself how I felt:
MY DARLING BOB,
Yes, you are still that. All these years the memory of you has been like a light shining in the darkness of my life. Pray God you found happiness. I found none. The thought of you and Jim and all the kindness and the love I left — it has been very bitter. They say I am not responsible for my actions now. But please believe me, Bob — at this moment my mind is very clear. I love you, and I have never loved anyone else.
They have shut me away in this room. The windows are barred. It is more than a year I think since I walked on the headland. I cannot even see my little garden from here. But today — today he has forgotten to lock the door. My mind is made up. I am going up to the headland for the last time. I shall give this letter to Kitty, together with the little brooch you bought me in Penzance that day we went over to the Mount by boat. It is all that I have left of you. Poor child. I grew very fond of her. But she is afraid of me now since her mother died.
Tell Jim I love him. He will not remember his mother, but tell him she never forgot him. Oh, Bob, I have paid dearly for my folly. Please, please do not think too hardly of me. I am going now. If this letter ever reaches you, do not fret at my passing. All I ask of you is that you will remember only that I love you both.
Your unhappy,
Ruth.
I sat for a long time staring down at the faded writing whilst the candle guttered in Kitty's hand. So much was hinted at. So much was left unanswered. I felt dazed and there was a lump in my throat. At last I looked up and in a flicker of lightning saw the bars of the window etched black against the storm. 'This was my mother's room, wasn't it?'
She nodded.
I looked down at the letter again. I must have sat staring at it for quite a time. I came out of my daze to find the girl tugging to pull her wrist free of my hand. She was shivering violently. The palm of my hand was moist on her flesh, and my body was bathed in a cold sweat. 'I must go,' she whispered frantically.
'No,' I said. And then I added quickly, 'I can't sleep here. Not in my mother's room.'
'You must,' she said. 'It'd look queer if you didn't.'
'I can't.' The way I said it sounded like a groan. I was afraid she'd go away and leave me. I didn't want to be left alone. 'She was fond of you, wasn't she?' I said.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'I thought so. But I was frightened. She looked at me so queerly sometimes. But she was kind to me — before.'
'Before what?' I asked.
She hesitated. Then she said, 'Before my mother was killed.'
I thrust the letter at her. 'Read it,' I said.
'No,' she answered quickly. 'No, I don't want to.'
'Read it,' I repeated.
But she stood up, wrenching at her arm. 'No,' she said. Her breasts were heaving in agitation. How perverse are a man's reactions. In that moment of all moments my mind could wander to admiration of her breasts as she stooped to free her wrist from my grip. The candle fell to the floor, flared for an instant and then extinguished itself. In the darkness I heard the skin of her bare feet on the floorboards. Then the door opened and closed and I was left alone in the darkness of that room. A flicker of far-off lightning showed me the sloping ceiling and the washstand like a lone sentinel against the crude flower pattern of the wallpaper. The bars of the window leapt into sight with the lightning. Then darkness again and I lay there, cold and numb, with my mother's letter in my hand.