The Last Geomancer

Scene 2: The Mail Arrives

The next morning came too early, and sounded like Jack’s sister banging on his bedroom door with an empty saucepan.

“Irrup!” she shouted, through the door that might as well be pasteboard. At least it was enough for propriety, even if the room itself was scarce more than a closet, neither wide nor long enough for a bed Jack could stretch out in. The clothes press had to go under the bed, which required Jack to either kneel down in the kitchen or bend over from on the bed to drag it out, and a washstand meant for a child. He woke not only still feeling rough from the day before, but with his trousers hanging on a peg at the foot of the bed where they could both air out and frown at him judgmentally at the same time.

The new hole in the back of the right leg made close enough to an eye, narrowed in disgust, as made no never mind. That had just been the capper on one corker of a day. And not even doing honest labor, no, he had to catch his trews on a loose nail in the doorframe as he was taking them off to put on his other pair. Such a stupid thing but now he had patching to do. If he patched them himself, his sister would give him what-for about the damage and his poor workmanship on the repair, but if he asked her to do it, it’d be so much worse.

Downstairs, the cobbler’s apprentice started banging around, opening the shop for the day. Forcette wasn’t that big a town, as coastal towns in Cornwall go, although it’d been bigger just a generation ago, before the fish and tin had run out. It had a decent number of shops on the high street still, and some lesser tradesfolk on the side streets, like the cobbler that made boots for miners and fishermen, who hadn’t had so much trade of the last few years and sublet the upstairs flat to help make his own rent.

“Irrup!” his sister repeated, more emphatically, giving the door a couple more whacks with the flat of what had to be the saucepan, her hand couldn’t possibly be making that much racket. A wonder the door hadn’t jumped from the hinges, or the cheap tin latch give way.

“I’m up!” he shouted back, and regretted it, his voice echoing in the tiny room and doing him more harm than her. If he’d been able to find work, maybe they could have afforded to move someplace that had two actual bedrooms, instead of a kitchen, one bedroom, and a closet he was pretty sure at one time had been the pantry. No, Jack told himself, that way lies a spiral you don’t want to go down, lad. Up and moving, get your trous on, boots on, suspenders up and snugged, there you go. Out to face the world.

“What’ve I done now?” he asked, in Kernewek, the family using the old language in the house to keep in practice, taking one step and finding himself abruptly nose to nose with his sister. His mother stood behind her, in the space between the stove, the door to the bedroom she and Jennifer shared, and the door to the stairwell down to the street. His mother, who wasn’t looking at him when he walked in, but at something in her hand. She held it out. A letter.

“It’s from your Uncle Peran,” she said, her voice shaking. “And it’s got just your name on it.”

Jack took the letter, reaching past Jennifer, who moved out of the way without needing to be asked. This was serious. Two years gone Peran boarded ship, took his own son Kenver with him, went off to Australia, left his dead brother’s family behind, Jack and Jennifer and their mother left widowed after Da went overboard seven years ago. They’d had a letter at Christmas last, but that one had been expected, and addressed to all of them. This one was specifically to him. The envelope, an expensive one bought from the Royal Post, had a lot of international postage, a flurry of stamps in the corner. Australia might be part of the Empire, but it was still half a world away, a long distance even with the new steamers.

“Well?” Jennifer demanded. “Open it, Jack!”

He glanced round, picked up the paring knife laying on the old and battered secondhand sideboard they used for counter space. Slit the envelope open, careful to go up from the flap on the side so as not to cut the letter at the fold. He slid out and unfolded a single sheet of onionskin, more pricy store-bought paper, closely written on both sides nearly to the edge. Jack shook his head, his eyes still weren’t clear and his nose, well, don’t think about that. He moved over to the window for better light. He couldn’t blame Uncle Peran for cramming as much as he could onto the single sheet, postage was by the weight that you sent halfway round the world, but there were limits.

Jennifer tapped a foot impatiently, twice, before her mother put her own foot on top of the girl’s, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get her attention. When Jennifer glanced round with a sharp word on her lips, her mother cocked her head and gave her a non-nonsense glare that clearly said she wasn’t too big to be spanked. Whatever the word might have been, it died caught behind Jennifer’s lips.

Jack scarcely noticed. He read through the section again, put a hand to the windowframe to steady himself. That drew his mother’s attention. Her hand flew to her mouth in dismay.

“Jack, what is it? You’ve gone white as a sheet!”

In answer, Jack offered her the letter, then stared out the window at the brick wall of the building next door, within reach if he stretched out a bit. She read up to where he’d stopped. Her hand fell away from her chin to the little silver cross about her neck.

“Australia?” she cried, more of an accusation than a question, and flung herself on Jack, arms about his chest, sobbing. Jennifer caught the letter, left in mid air but subject to gravity, and read through it herself.

Her mouth set in a hard line.

“There it is, Jack,” she said, tapping the letter with the back of her fingers. “There’s the cookie jar’s luck. You got it and this is what it’s been used on. Best do something with it to make it worth not having a turn of good fortune in the jar when mum’s widow’s pension runs out next year.”

Lowenna pushed back from Jack, snapping her gaze around to lock onto her daughter. “Jennifer Hollow! Don’t you go and try to put all of that on Jack! He was but a wee lad when his Da was lost!”

“Aye,” Jennifer shot back, standing up a bit straighter, maybe not picking the best time to stiffen her backbone. “And Jack’s nineteen now, practically a man, and time he got to work so he can take care of his mum in her old age the way he ought to!”

Jack slid into the space between his mother and sister, feeling like he was distracting two dogs that were about to fight by waving a piece of meat between them.

“Mum, it’s Uncle Peran,” he told her, keeping his voice low and reassuring with effort. “Kenver and ’un have been fine there. And there’s more, Jennifer.” This last over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off his mother who needed the stability of his attention more right now. “Read on, tell us what it says.”

Jennifer dropped her gaze, and with it the challenge she’d offered. She puckered her lips, gave a low whistle. “Jack, there’s an advance. A big one. They want to cover your ticket on the ship, put you in steerage berths on a steamer so you get there in shape to work, and there’s more over that.”

“I could put something back in the cookie jar, maybe,” he said hopefully. “If there’s owt left after ticket and fines.” He pushed his mother out to arm’s length, gave her a gentle, caring shake with both hands on her shoulders. “Sure, I’d be leaving you and Jennifer here on your own, and that’s no good, but I’d be off to family at least. I’d be in the same mine with Peran and Kenver. And if the work pays well, and I live decently –”

“Meaning no trips to the pub?” Jennifer scoffed. “That’s never going to happen.”

“You’re not helping,” Jack snarled at her, giving her just a moment’s glance to bare his teeth at her and remind her that he only let her get away with so much, quit pushing or you deal with Mum, all wrapped up in a half-second’s ferociousness, erased by the time he turned back to his mum, naught but concern on his face once more.

“The point is, I could send for the two of you. It’s getting where there’s more Cornish in Australia than there are here in Cornwall.”

“Aye, the bloody English –” his sister began, then stopped herself as Jack’s shoulders tensed. He let out the breath he’d suddenly held.

“And I’ll be able to send back a bit like Peran’s done, at Christmas and birthdays, and maybe a bit more if I do well there. Jennifer’s right about one thing.”

“Ha!”

Jack ignored her. “This is the luck. I can feel it. All the hair on the back of my neck went up when you handed that letter to me. I don’t dare waste it. I don’t see as if we have a choice here. I have to go.”

“Not today, you don’t,” his mother responded. “Not today, and not tomorrow. We can think about this, Jack.” She seemed to be trying to convince herself more than him. “Tomorrow, you’re due in court, and we’ll find out what the damage is there. Today, you’ve got to make yourself presentable, and go make an apology.”

Jack grimaced. They’d spoken about that last night, after he’d had a proper wash, a passable meal of the day before’s bread, a bit of cheese, and some pickled turnip, and a nap. Jennifer hadn’t raised a fuss about him being allowed to sleep in the daytime, that had been a wonder. His mum, though, wasn’t letting him off the hook. He’d taken a swing at Willy Clark, gotten himself knocked silly for his trouble, and couldn’t even remember why. Bad enough he’d spent half what he’d earned for day work at the docks on beer, not two but three pints. the local brewery made their ale strong. That had been enough to both put his blood up and leave him with no memory at all of why.

“Aye, you’re right.” Jack hung his head, let go of his mother’s shoulders. His own slumped. “I’ve got to go see Willy, with me hat in my hand, and beg forgiveness without having a single idea for what.”

“Knowing Willy and his lot,” Jennifer put in, getting her nerve back, “they’ll chaff you roundly about it, and accept it was the beer talking. Lord knows it’s been that way for them enough times. Just don’t take them up if they want to go for some hair of the dog.”

Jack winced, again. “Not likely.” His head had finally stopped throbbing, although his nose hadn’t quite yet, and his stomach was finally on speaking terms with him this morning. Speaking of which.

“What is there for breakfast? Can’t expect me to go beg forgiveness on an empty stomach.” But his mind was far from thoughts of nourishment. To leave Cornwall and never see it again?