A Time for Courage (11 page)

I owe you, lad, Sam had said. I’d not have been quick enough. He looked at him closely, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. You’re blooded now, Harry. Harry set his shoulders back. By God, and so he was. He’d beaten the mine, he’d known it was coming for him and he’d bloody beaten it. Wait until he told Arthur. He jumped on to the upward rod and called down to Sam.

‘Don’t tell Hannah, or the family.’ He listened, leaping on to the rod, straining to hear Sam’s reply.

‘She’ll have to be told, Harry. She’ll have heard the noise, seen the dust and even if she hasn’t, the men who came down to help will have told her.’

Harry shook his head. ‘God, I hope she keeps quiet about it.’

‘She’s bound to, isn’t she?’ Sam called up. ‘She’ll have to if you want to be allowed down the mine again.’

Harry did want to, now more than ever.

Hannah had moved from the bank soon after Sam and Harry had disappeared. The wind had grown cooler up there with no shelter and she had walked about Penhallon, seeing the piles of ore, the sheds, the stables which housed the ponies. Watching the shift that changed while her uncle and Harry were below.

She had seen the grimed men walk unsteadily from the moving rod, their faces drawn with tiredness, black blood from a cut ran down the cheek of one and she wondered where they would go when age took their livelihood away from them. To the workhouse too, to be separated from their wives for the rest of their lives? It was too dreadful to think about but she must. Joe had said she must.

She had taken baskets with Mother one Harvest Festival to the workhouse which served the area lying to the back of the Crescents. When they had entered the green-tiled room which lay at the end of a cold stone corridor she had thought it was empty, but then the small grey-clothed women sitting in chairs set against the walls had moved to see what the disturbance was before settling back again into their stillness. There had been a smell, not of dirt but of age and carbolic soap, and as she passed the Michaelmas daisies the hands that reached for them were gnarled and big-veined. But she hadn’t felt sad; she hadn’t wondered then where these people had come from, hadn’t felt this confusion that was tearing at her now.

Then as she stood there, she had heard the noise, a muted roaring, and felt the earth shudder; had seen the men so tired and bowed turn and run back to the shaft. Dust had wafted up from the blackness and she knew what had happened. But who was hurt? Was it Harry? Or Sam?

She called to the men. ‘What is it?’ Wanting to clutch their arms.

‘A fall,’ one called, his tiredness gone, his voice urgent. He had not turned to speak to her but waited impatiently in the queue which was moving quickly back down the ladder. There had been no panic, just determination. The clerk from the office had come and stood with her. He was an old man and used to this, he told her. It happened frequently. But that did not help the feeling of fear and helplessness that gripped her. I’m not used to it, she had wanted to scream, wanting him to go and find out if her brother was safe, not stand there with a resigned expression on his face. Do something, she wanted to shout into his face, or let me do something, but by clasping her hands together she was able to hold herself back; was able to tell herself that the men climbing down the ladder were the only ones who could help. But Harry was her brother.

The wait was so long. The clerk wanted her to move over to the office but she couldn’t. Not until she knew.

And then at last she saw him climb from the ladder, his face dirty and streaked with sweat, his smile wide. She did not run to him, though she wanted to, but walked across.

‘Are you all right, Harry?’ her voice was steady but her nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists, fighting to appear calm.

‘Not a scratch, Hannah. No one was hurt. It was just one of those little things that happen.’

Hannah saw Sam climb up now. He looked tired but he also smiled, and slowly she allowed herself to believe that her brother was still here, still whole, and she wanted to weep and clutch him to her, feel his breath on her face again as though it was a sunny day in the old garden.

Instead she said, ‘So you’re a real miner now, Harry.’ Her voice sounded firm and strong but as he smiled at her she gripped his hand and held it to her mouth.

‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she whispered, her eyes holding his.

Harry felt the warmth of her lips, the strength of her hand, and for an instant wanted to hold her close as he had once been able to do when they were very young. But men were climbing out, pushing past them, and he squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t tell Father,’ he said. ‘Please, Hannah.’

She held his gaze, then looked past him to Sam and nodded. ‘I promise, Harry.’ She wanted to wipe his face, to gently bathe the dirt away. ‘If Beaky saw you now, she’d scrub you raw,’ was all she said.

Sam brought them back to the big house for tea. She still thought of it as Eliza’s house, though it had been her mother’s as a girl too. Ivy covered the walls, and in the autumn this went a deep red and looked warm when all around the chill was settling on the ground. The gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the trap and beneath her feet as she walked over and on to the grass. She reached forward and took a leaf in her hand. It was warm and limp from the sun and was summer-green.

‘Come on then, Hannah, we’re going up to the loft. Tea won’t be for a while.’

She turned. For the men it was as though nothing had happened and she steeled herself to follow suit, for after all she had a promise to keep.

She liked the apple loft. It had been where Uncle Simon had always taken them. He would choose for each of them a green apple streaked with red, a leaf still on the stalk. That way, he had said, it smelt of the fresh air. The wooden stairs which led to the loft ran up from the stable-yard.

Simon had said that the lofts had once held the hay when his father kept a full stable of hunters, but that had been long ago, in the heyday of the mine and so this one had been fitted with slatted benches and put to better use. Hannah ran her hand up the green-mossed banister. It was slimy from yesterday’s rain and marked her gloves. She removed them. The last time she had been up with Uncle Simon was when she was eleven. She remembered now that he had lifted her up on to a hunter he had borrowed and it had seemed a million miles from the ground. It was not possible that he would never come again.

Sam was holding the door open for her and she felt her lips smile as though they were not part of her. Sam said, ‘Eliza will be along soon. She said she’d come down and collect us when the tea was set up. It’s to be on the terrace today. The fresh air will do your mother good. Your father has gone to see the Vicar about tomorrow’s sermon.’

Hannah stepped into the room and smelt the fruit. Harry had already reached the bench and was spacing out the few apples that remained. Some were wrinkled and drying, some as lush as when they were first picked, though there were not many of either left because the harvest would soon be in.

She leant back against the old dresser which had been moved out of the kitchen and now held twine and old flowerpots. Beyond her brother she could see through the open window across the fields and to the sea. It was blue today and ships were plying eastwards to the harbour. She felt very tired now and ran her hands along the surface of the dresser. Its grain had risen with age and she could smell the twine.

It would do her mother good to walk up on the cliffs or, if she hadn’t the strength, perhaps they could use a bath chair. She would ask Eliza if they could arrange it. Yes, that is what she would think about today and later, in the quiet of the cottage when the lamps were out, she would think of other things, of Uncle Simon as he held her hand and ran with her in the orchard.

Harry rubbed a firm apple on his sleeve and took a bite. It was firm and the juice ran on to his chin. It tasted better than any other apple he had tasted and he grinned to himself. Perhaps life is sweet, he thought, never having considered death before. He wiped his chin with his handkerchief and then felt Sam’s hand on his arm.

‘I’ve something I want to show you, now more than ever,’ Sam murmured and walked across to the old desk. Harry followed and waited as Sam opened the top right-hand drawer. Its knob was of brass and was dull and scratched. He withdrew a bundle of letters wrapped in a red ribbon. ‘These are from Simon. I feel this last one is of particular interest to you but take them all. You’ll bring them back of course before you leave for London. Your aunt likes to feel that they are here, where he spent so much of his time.’

Harry nodded, though he did not understand. Simon wasn’t here so what did it matter where the letters were? Once you were dead, you were dead. He took the top one; the one that Sam was pointing to and read it.

Dear Eliza,

It is so very hot still and many of the men are sick with enteric, but this month we have not engaged the enemy. The Boers can hide anywhere. They are quite amazing and will be the death of some of us. But enough of that maudlin talk. Sam would love it here at any other time. The mines, Eliza! Gold and diamonds just spilling out of the earth. I know that a few big names hold the monopoly on the mines but there is still room for the small set up. Cornish miners are already here and more hard-rock men are needed, especially for the gold-fields, which make Penhallon look very small. But, my dear, I can’t write any more. We have to set out again. Take care and my love to you and regards to Sam. Tell him to show this to Harry. Perhaps he would like to come back with me. I’ve bought a smallholding as a base.

The paper was stained and the ink faint. Harry looked up at Sam. ‘Yes, I thought you might be interested.’

Harry read through the letter again. God, why did Simon have to go and get himself killed, the stupid fool? He could have got round the old man, persuaded him that this was a better idea than stewing in some God-forsaken cavalry. Look at the money the South African mines had brought to London, the new rich who were buying up the big houses. He threw the letter on the table.

‘It sounds good, doesn’t it, Sam. Will you go?’

‘Good Lord, it’s not for a man my age, but maybe it’s right for you. Anyway you have plenty of time to decide. You’re still at school. But have a look at the rest of the letters. Poor Simon. He had such plans.’ He reached over and took one himself. At least the war looked as though it would soon be over, he thought, but it would be too late for Eliza, who still mourned Simon’s loss so much – a loss which seemed to have made her think that life was very short. He had been grateful to Mrs Arness for encouraging Eliza to help a little with her school; it had helped with the grief but she still cried at night and Simon’s room was just as he had left it.

Hannah heard Eliza’s steps on the stairs and her heavy breathing as she entered. She looked fatter, better somehow, Hannah thought, even in black. She watched as Eliza waved to Harry and came across to her. Her face was softer since she had married Sam, but there were dark marks under her eyes and they were shaded as her mother’s were when a baby had failed to live.

‘Well, Hannah.’ Eliza spoke softly, trying to collect her breath. ‘Dear me, what a climb. I’m not as fit as I used to be. Or is it too much cream?’ She laughed. ‘Sam does like his cream, you know.’

Sam turned at the mention of his name. He was leaning with Harry over the letters on the desk. ‘Don’t go blaming everything on me,’ he called, putting his arm round Harry’s shoulder. Harry caught Hannah’s eye and she saw that he was embarrassed by the gesture. Perhaps he too thought Sam was not quite good enough for Eliza, thought Hannah, but she had decided he was just right. He had changed Eliza into someone easy to be with.

‘So, Hannah, how are you enjoying yourself at the Arness’s? Mr Arness is hung in all the best galleries, you know.’

Hannah remembered the marigolds in her room and was not surprised. There was a vigour to his paintings that pleased her.

‘It’s very different there,’ she replied quietly, looking towards Harry and Sam, but they were bending over the papers again.

Eliza nodded. ‘But are you enjoying it?’ Her grey eyes were questioning; her wide mouth was still slightly open while she waited for Hannah’s answer.

Hannah watched the motes in the light from the window as she picked out her words. ‘Yes,’ she replied finally, ‘more than I could have dreamed I would ever enjoy anything. Being with the Arness family has shown me how people can live and think and feel – if they want to. But I want to ask if you knew what it would be like.’

She had never spoken openly to her aunt before and wondered whether it was safe or if she would be admonished.

‘Yes, I did know, Hannah.’

‘But why did you do it? You know what Father would say and Mother. You knew that I would have to act at the Arness’s in a way which, if discovered, would bring disaster on me.’

Eliza flushed. The child was direct, as Edith had once been, and that was the key of course. Hannah was very like her mother with the same spirit that had once been present in that shadow of a person whom she barely recognised as her sister. And that was partly why she had sent her to the Americans’ cottage. Her spirit was being stifled by that man, by the tenets of the society he so heartily endorsed. He had crushed Edith and was now doing the same to his daughter in spite of the fact that the world was changing, and for the better. Mrs Arness had shown Eliza and Sam. Now she wanted Edith’s daughter to flourish, not to wither as her poor mother was doing. That, though, was only part of the reason but it was the only one she was prepared to admit to herself for the moment, so she said, ‘Because I felt you needed to see another kind of life and it might give you cause to think and consider. Might show you that to enjoy the benefit of some things it is sometimes necessary to engage in a little subterfuge, if that is the only way that it can be brought about.’ She smiled and patted Hannah’s hand. ‘But of course you must plan your advancement in the context of your mother’s health.’

She was looking hard at Hannah now. ‘She is a very tired woman, Hannah. We won’t discuss the whys and wherefores but she must try to achieve a measure of peace. And you must do the same.’ She had turned now, back to the door, and Hannah had to strain to hear her last words. ‘You owe that to yourself and that is where the problems will arise.’