Trevennor’s Will, page 24
‘Shame, shame, nearly ’ad un then, Nick,’ someone said.
‘Shut yer mouth, bastard! Pengelly snarled.
‘Now, now, no bad language,’ remonstrated the Reverend Thomas, wagging a trim finger.
Pengelly said something so foul the parson turned beetroot red and hoped none of the women and children present knew what it meant.
The round was over and Pengelly stood slumped and sulky-faced. He glared at the faces around him, resenting their comments on Nick’s fine style and throw.
Pengelly could wrestle well and his Cornish pride rose to the fore. His fair play in the second round surprised Nick but he did not lose his concentration. The points and advantages were divided equally between them in the next ten minutes. At the end, the Reverend Thomas conferred with the other two sticklers and after an anxious minute he announced the match a draw. Murmurs went round from Nick’s supporters and Pengelly beat his chest like a madman, making the serving maid go white with fear. The Reverend Thomas called for the deciding five-minute round.
‘I’ll get ’ee now, you rotten young sod!’ Pengelly boomed.
‘You won’t win this time, not even by cheating, you scum,’ Nick retorted, his hands spread out, wishing he could put them round his enemy’s neck.
‘No talking,’ a stickler warned.
Soon after the handshake, the two men got a grip on each other’s sash. Pengelly leaned in and rammed his corkscrew thatch under Nick’s chin, making him choke. The Reverend Thomas slapped Pengelly’s thick arm when he refused to break the foul move and he gave way grudgingly. On the next hitch, Nick went straight for a ‘flying mare’, gripping Pengelly’s sash at arm’s length, one hand above the other, then pivoting on one foot to face the same way. Pulling hard with both hands, he moved forward several paces, picking up speed until he gained good momentum. He stopped abruptly, arched his back, pulled on Pengelly’s weight to hit his buttocks and carried the brute up over his bowed head and shoulders and dropped him on his back.
Pengelly smacked the ground amid a hail of cheers but managed to hold his brawny shoulders off the ground. He blasphemed and kicked out, hitting Nick’s knees and bringing him down. Grabbing his shoulders, Pengelly smashed one of his knees into Nick’s face. Nick’s bottom lip split open and blood spurted from his nose. He yelled in pain and anger and two men from the crowd leapt forward to prevent the match degenerating into a vicious brawl.
‘One more action like that, Pengelly, and you will be disqualified!’ Perran Thomas said angrily.
Pengelly howled back curses.
There was no handshake before the next hitch. The adversaries made contact, hanging on and staring into each other’s eyes. Pengelly got the advantage of an arm lock, immobilizing Nick’s left arm in his sweaty right armpit while Nick’s hand gripped his flabby shoulder. Pengelly puffed his vile breath into his face.
‘I swear I’ll find that maid of yourn an’ ’ave ’er yet, Nancarrow,’ he leered.
Nick howled in rage, then drew on his years of wrestling experience to counter Pengelly’s vice-lock arm by stepping quickly across his front with his left leg and thrusting his hip against his bulging middle. Forcing his trapped arm forward through the lock, Nick hooked his right shoulder in the crook of Pengelly’s elbow, pivoted round and lifted his hulk over his hip and put him on his back again. This time all four pins were cleanly on the ground and the spectators’ cheers echoed up and down the village.
Panting heavily, Nick tried to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. It was difficult with so many hands thudding congratulations on his back. The landlord’s wife pushed folk aside and handed Nick the dish towel she had draped over her shoulder. He took it with a nod of thanks and buried his face in it. Money on the wagers began to pass hands and those without any exchanged verbal promises.
‘Congratulations, Nick,’ Perran Thomas said brightly. ‘You contested and won a fair and talented match – on your side, that is.’
Nick emerged from the dish towel with an enormous smile on his face. He had been afraid of what the villagers, his lifelong friends, were thinking of him ‘courting’ Deborah Kempthorne. Judging by their reaction today, and after what Jimmy had not long ago told him, he was sure that Meena Rowe had been busy with rumours of him ‘being up to something’. Nobody argued with that tiny old woman for long. Nick stayed still while the landlord’s beaming wife retied his ruffled hair.
‘You’ve given us gathered here a good deal of pleasure.’ Perran Thomas stuck out his hand and pumped Nick’s. He put out a leathered, buckled foot and pointed at Pengelly’s defeated form. ‘It is a great pity this man is not a sporting fellow but then I do not consider him a true Cornishman no matter where he was born.’
Shouts of ‘aye’ went up and the landlord offered Nick a large tankard of ale. He downed it in seconds to more cheers and backslapping then received some ardent kisses from most of the women there.
Some money was pressed into the palm of his hand.
‘Just a little collection fur ’ee, boy, to show our appreciation,’ the landlord said with a cheery grin.
‘Thanks, all of you,’ Nick said, feeling humbled, ‘But ’twas a pleasure for me.’
‘Not much of a prize but you deserve something.’
Nick made his way towards the rest of his clothes. He wanted to get away before Deborah Kempthorne got word of what had been going on and demanded to know how and why it had happened and fussed over him with her deadly scent and cloying arms. He couldn’t bear such a spectacle to take place in front of the villagers.
A scream and a yelled warning made him whirl round and he saw Gyver Pengelly hurtling towards him like a raging bull.
Nick flattened the beast with one crushing blow of his fist. As he shook his skinned knuckles, Pengelly sank into oblivion.
He came round several minutes later. He rubbed at his swollen chin and shook his head to clear his vision. He raged when he saw he had been dragged out of the alehouse yard, down past Trevennor House, the parsonage and the church and dumped on the dusty road where it ran out through the village. He had aches and pains all over his body; some of the villagers had taken the opportunity to get even with him for past hurts.
He vowed his revenge on Nick and Gwithian as a whole.
Pengelly hauled himself up and shambled on down the road, heading for Nellie’s shack. She could clean him up a bit. Suddenly he couldn’t stand the thought of her staring at him from her huge blank eyes. It was the only thing about her that he couldn’t get fully under his control. He usually slapped her about a bit when she stared at him, and she would surely stare at him today with these cuts and bruises. He made himself fume at the vision of her inside his head, until he wanted to see those colourless eyes blank for good. It put him in just the right mood to earn the vast sum of money offered to him by that Jezebel, Deborah Kempthorne.
Nick went straight to the Rowes’ cottage, afraid of what news he would hear there. There was an eerie silence as he went through the gate, along the pathway and lifted the back door latch. He sucked in his breath and braced himself.
Jimmy and Denny were standing at the foot of the stairs. Jimmy was holding his small son in a tight grip, his baby daughter was lying on her back in her crib by the hearth, making no sound as she watched her hands moving about above her eyes. Nick was about to speak but Denny put a finger to his lips for silence.
A stern female voice was heard from the bedroom overhead. It was Meena’s. ‘Now like we told ’ee before, Marion, one more mighty effort and ’twill be all over. Now, push! We can’t do the job for ’ee!’
There was a cry of real anguish from Marion. Denny wrung his hands and checked a fit of coughing. Jimmy pressed his lips to his son’s head to stop himself from crying. Nick clenched the table top.
Marion filled the cottage with the sounds of someone bearing all the pain and effort of the world on herself. The two little ones started to cry, bawling mournfully for their mother and the danger she was in.
Jimmy could stand it no longer. He thrust his son at his father and ran up the stairs. Nick went to the baby girl and picked her up gently and cradled her in his big arms.
The children stopped crying. Jimmy stayed his foot on the top step. There was a new cry. Weak at first, then louder and lustier than its brother’s and sister’s had been. There was another cry from Marion, the triumphant cry of a mother. Then an outbreak of female chatter as those on their feet upstairs got on with the things that needed to be done.
Jimmy came back slowly down the stairs to his father’s side. Nick joined them. The three men and two children waited in eager anticipation for the news. They shifted their feet. They glanced at each other, afraid to speak.
At the top of the stairs Meena’s tiny head peeped round the wall. She grunted at what she saw. ‘What are you lot standin’ about like that down there for? Haven’t any of’ee got somethin’ to be gettin’ on with?’
‘Mother…?’ Jimmy got out in a throaty plea.
Meena’s face broke into a huge smile which screwed her face up like a field vole’s. ‘Bring us up a kettle of water, then put un back on fur a huge pot of tay. We’m got a brand new baby boy up here and a mother with a mighty thirst.’
Jimmy gave a whoop so loud it startled his two older children into crying again. He kissed their heads, he kissed his father, he even kissed Nick, then he danced around the kitchen.
Denny wiped a tear from his eye, grinned at Nick then passed him his other bawling grandson to pacify while he took the kettle upstairs.
Nick was at a total loss what to do to stop the children crying. Jimmy had turned to jelly and was sitting down, rocking backwards and forwards, crying and laughing at the same time. Nick looked at each screwed up little face fighting to be heard the loudest in each of his arms. Denny stayed upstairs talking to Meena and Nick got no sense out of Jimmy when he spoke to him so he took the children outside.
The new environment caught the little ones’ interest and after a few fits and stops they both settled back happily into Nick’s arms. He wondered what Deborah Kempthorne would say if she could see him now; even more, he wondered what Isabel would think of him. He didn’t feel as awkward as he might have done; he’d seen Morenwyn Leddra quite frequently before her fall and she was always asking him to pick her up.
Charlotte Thomas emerged from the cottage. ‘Let me give you a hand, Nick. I’ll take little Mary.’
Nick gratefully handed over the baby girl. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize babies could get so heavy. Everything all right up there?’
‘Yes, it’s all over at last, and with a successful outcome, thank God,’ Charlotte replied, smiling down at the baby held so naturally in her arms.
‘I overheard Meena telling Denny she had quite a bit of trouble, he was a big ’un,’ Nick said seriously, shaking his head at this mystery of childbirth.
Charlotte smiled at Meena’s terminology and Nick’s bafflement. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
Nick was busy trying to adjust Boy Jimmy’s wayward outer clothing and she looked up under his bent head. ‘What has happened to you, Nick? Your face is as battered as the new baby’s.’
Nick grinned wryly. ‘You should see Gyver Pengelly’s.’
‘So that’s it, is it?’ Charlotte said disapprovingly but resignedly. Fighting seemed to be the way of some men. ‘Was anybody else involved?’
Nick looked away cagily. ‘There were a few onlookers about.’
‘Perran? Was my husband there?’
Boy Jimmy coughed and Nick made a great display of patting his back.
‘So Perran was there.’ Charlotte looked at the baby girl. ‘I don’t know. What can we do with them?’
‘What’s the new baby going to be called?’ Nick asked to cover his embarrassment.
‘Joshua!’ came the reply, and a heavy hand thudded on his shoulder. Jimmy was jubilant, dancing all round the yard and up and down the garden path. ‘It means God is my strength. I had a quick look at him, he looks just like me.’
‘Aye, and I suppose that’s all that matters to you,’ said Meena tartly, but smiling all over her tiny face as she took the little boy from Nick. ‘Git yer ale down ’ee an back off to work while thee still has a job to go to.’
Nick’s arms felt light and empty with the children gone. He had never understood a man’s delight at becoming a father before, at receiving a huge responsibility, a millstone round his neck. But perhaps that was not the way to look at the birth of a child. He downed three bottles of ale with Jimmy, one after the other, and before he left for Tehidy he proudly agreed to be one of Joshua Rowe’s godfathers.
Chapter 19
Charlotte Thomas followed Pengelly’s route to Nellie’s home some sixty minutes later. She was feeling pleased with some arrangements she had made for Nellie and was on her way to tell her. Before her marriage, Charlotte had lived in a little village on the outskirts of Camborne. She had farming friends there, a large secluded concern, and they had agreed to give Nellie a secure Christian home in return for light labour about the farm and her gift at calming animals. Charlotte could now get Nellie away from the malignant Gyver Pengelly and the amorous threats from Edmund Kempthorne. Her friends would keep an eye on Nellie and make sure she was never abused again.
Perran, too was pleased with the arrangement and had business later this afternoon in the Camborne area. Charlotte would get Nellie packed up, take her back to the parsonage and put her into new clean clothes, and then Perran would take her to the farm. The sooner the better, to get her away from those who only wanted to take cruel advantage of her. And if Charlotte had to, she was prepared to lie to Nellie and say it was Gyver Pengelly’s wish that she go.
When she reached the little bridge that spanned the Red River, Charlotte stopped to pick a few early pale primroses from the wayside; they were Nellie’s favourite flowers. The simple gift was to help put Nellie at her ease, along with the sweetmeats in Charlotte’s purse. Nellie would be nervous and probably frightened of leaving her home, the rough shack where she’d been born and bred.
The sun was hot and the air still. Charlotte pulled a silk bow off her dress to tie round the flowers. Nellie would think it was her birthday, the first day of June, which the villagers marked with affection by bestowing little gifts on her. They had always been generous to Nellie. She had not starved since her grandmother’s sudden mysterious death and Charlotte knew that if only Gyver Pengelly and the like would leave her alone, she could have lived quite happily in Gwithian in her own way.
Charlotte walked for some minutes then turned off the road and made her way along a narrow path, trodden down in many curious twists and turns through rough grass. Nellie lived out of sight from the road but it wasn’t long before Charlotte saw the shack up ahead, a small square building with a low roof which was kept in a reasonable state of repair by local men. Weeds, brambles, ivy and long grass grew all around it and purple-headed periwinkles. There were usually some animals in the vicinity and Charlotte was surprised not to see any of Nellie’s stray cats lolling about in the sun. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, yet something did not feel quite right.
A shriek from inside the shack made Charlotte stop abruptly and drop the bunch of wild flowers.
‘No, no, Mister Pengelly, I don’t want it!’ Nellie screamed in fear.
Charlotte flew towards the door.
* * *
Nellie begged Gyver Pengelly, who was holding her cruelly by the scruff of her neck, to let her go. ‘It tastes ’orrible, Mister Pengelly, I can’t eat it.’ Pengelly slapped her face, not for the first time since he’d got there, and shook her by the fistful of dress he had clutched at her neck. ‘Eat it, you bitch! ’Tes the first time I’ve cooked a meal fur a woman in me life an’ you aren’t grateful to me! Eat it!’
He forced her jaw open and scooping up fingerfuls of a stew-like mush from a wooden platter tried to get her to swallow some. Nellie threw back her head and yelled in fright and pain.
‘Why won’t you eat?’
‘Me gran told me never to eat nothin’ bitter,’ Nellie wailed, struggling. ‘I promised ’er. She ate somethin’ bitter an’ ’orrible afore she died an’ made me promise afore she went never to do the same. She wus good to me an’ you ’ave t’keep a promise to the dyin’ or they’ll come back an’ git yer an’ take yer to ’ell.’
‘’Tes not bitter, it’s good fur you. Now eat it or I’ll break yer blasted neck!’
Pengelly bent Nellie back across his knee and pushing cruel fingers down her throat he made to pour the food into her mouth.
* * *
Edmund Kempthorne sauntered down the road not long after Charlotte had, whistling gaily and swinging his cane. He had spent twenty minutes talking quietly to Morenwyn before eating a satisfying breakfast. Then suddenly overcome with weariness after his three nights of worry, he had slept all morning, unaware that his sister’s intended had been engaged in a bitter wrestling match elsewhere in the village. Deborah didn’t know about that either yet. She’d been taken with a sudden blinding headache during the night and was still lying abed. After Edmund had risen, he had enjoyed a quiet luncheon by himself. He had then considered propositioning Dorcas as she’d nervously cleared away the dishes, but if he made a play for the servants in the house Mary Ellen would make him suffer by withholding her favours. His thoughts turned to Nellie. It was a lovely day for an afternoon stroll…
When he came to the bridge he saw that some of the primrose clumps on the road’s verge had been disturbed and prodded them with his cane. The likely thief was Nellie, he decided. So she had passed this way recently, hopefully in a homewards direction. He sauntered on. He had heard Nellie was partial to sweetmeats and had a box of them in his pocket. He also had a few shillings made up of several pennies in a pouch; she’d think herself very rich if she accepted them.
