The Last Geomancer

Scene 3: Jack Tells His Friends

A chunk of soda bread washed down with acidic tea sitting uneasy in his stomach, Jack made his way down through Forcette toward the ocean. There’d been neither sugar nor milk for the tea, nor butter for the bread, but at least it had blackcurrents in.

Two-story buildings lined both sides of the street, no front garden, just barely room for a stoop between house and cobbles. Most needed a whitewash, lime flaking away from the underlying brick and occasional honest stone in decades-old layers, what was left stained with soot and cracked from the harsh weather. Doors, single or in pairs, punctuated the walls in rapid staccato, close enough together to know the flats beyond were scarcely one room wide. Here and there, a pane of glass in the tiny windows had been papered over rather than replaced, glazing being just too dear any more.

Willy was most like down by the docks, like Jack had been two days ago, waiting for a ship to make port in the hopes of there being a need for more men to unload her. Down the hill, then, and across the high street, the only macadam road in the town, its once smooth surface pitted, here and there an actual pothole starting, not bad enough to threaten a wagon axle but getting closer with every rain that washed out a little more. Here the buildings rose a full three stories, dressed fieldstone in interlocking rectangles that needed no whitewashing. Shops on the ground floor stood mostly empty on this block, sad faded TO LET signs hung on their doors. Bay windows, most in need of paint but at least still with all their glass, overlooked the empty street from the first floor, rows of garret windows above them either dark, curtainless, or both. Tregoning the greengrocer waved at Jack from his lone outpost on the next corner down, but Jack hurried on. He knew the man wouldn’t stop at hello. No, there’d be the tab to discuss and Jack with nary a shilling in his pocket. What had he been thinking two nights gone to drink up so much of his pay? Well, what he’d been thinking was both a question and the crux of the matter.

He turned left and passed uphill of the RNLI lifeboat house, the most well kept structure in Forcette these days. The RNLI still had money, and sent down a stipend every month for maintenance, buying supplies, paying the crew for keeping in training. Getting a spot on the lifeboat took knowing the right people these days, it being steady coin for two days a month sweating to haul out the boat, set her afloat, do what little needed to be done to keep her in trim, and sweating again to put her back in the boathouse. Nigh onto a year was gone since the last time the maroon sounded and the boat was launched for a rescue.

Jack turned right down Orchard Cottage Street toward Quay Road, passing between the lifeboat house and the old cracking station, a massive three story fieldstone pile that took up the entire block. Orchard Cottage Street going off the other way met up with The Fradgan further along, which wrapped back around to meet Quay Road further down toward the quays that lent their name. The smokestacks had gulls nesting atop them, as they had the last ten years since the Goliath pit outside of town closed. Oh, there was still tin down there, but too deep. It’d cost more to pull it out than its worth on the market. Even the great tin mines on the western coast were all shutting down, more and more Cornish miners going off to the Cape, or America, or Australia…

And there were Willy and two of his friends down by Short Quay. Not such a welcome sight, given what Jack had come to do, but better than where his mind had been going.

Willy, Goran, and Docco were all seated on the crumbling stone retaining wall that kept the hillside from sliding down into the sea. Nobody seemed to have much of an interest in upkeep these days. One of these times, a big storm was going to come through, and the rain would be too much, and off the hill would go, down into the harbor and take the smelting plant with it, and hardly anyone would even care. Past them, Short Quay itself, a stone jetty built a few hundred years back, curled out into the water and then back toward land as if it had decided, no, the ocean was just too much. There wasn’t enough traffic on the water these days to keep Short Quay in use. The town hadn’t paid to have the harbor around it dredged since four years ago, couldn’t afford it, and only the little coasters could tie up at it now.

A little further along Quay Road, Long Quay stretched well out into the harbor, straight as an arrow, more modern construction, no more than a hundred years old, with a fishmarket down at the far end that closed six years ago. There just wasn’t enough fish coming in folks wanted to walk all the way out to the end of the quay to see the catch as it came in. They waited now till it arrived at the fish shop where The Fradgan met up with Quay Road, in the two-story wooden frame building across The Fradgan’s narrow alleyway from the cracking station.

The longshoremen still made the walk. Any ship with real draft had to pull up well out Long Quay, the end nearer to shore silted up as bad as around Short Quay. Those didn’t come through but once every couple of weeks nowadays, with no tin to load.

“Oi!” Willy called, and gave Jack a wave as he approached. Well, there was a load off to start with. Thank You Lord for a friendly greeting. “You up and about now?”

“Aye,” Jack called back, then held till he’d got within proper speaking distance. “Been a rough day twixt here and there though.”

Docco snickered, and punched Goran on the shoulder. “Look at that, Willy hung a pair of mice on ’un!”

Goran spluttered, Docco’s punch having made him slosh his tea and a bit gone up his nose. “Here!” he protested. “You make me drop this mug, me mam’ll have you for a hiding right after she’s done with me!” Then he glanced round to see what Docco was punching him about, and hooted. “Done it to ’un proper, he has!” he laughed, elbowing Willy, then swearing when the movement made him slosh his tea again and it spilled on his leg.

Jack grimaced. He’d got an earful from Jennifer and an eyeful himself in the mirror yesterday, over the two black eyes that had arisen from his broken nose. This morning had seen more purple toward the proboscis, starting to yellow at the edges of the orbits, giving him the look of one of those raccoon creatures the Americans made hats of.

“Wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, “if I could remember what I did to earn’un.”

Willy eased himself up off the wall, dusted the seat of his trousers. “Nar, it was a stupid argument. We were both too far along. Elowen shoudn’t have given you that third pint, but you’ve always been able to sweet talk her.”

“No idea what she sees in’un,” Goran muttered, sipping at his mug.

Docco started to punch him again, caught a side-eyed glare and thought better of it. “More’n she sees in you and that’s what’s eating at you innit?” he asked. His puckish grin died when Goran looked up from his mug and said without a word that Docco’d crossed a line.

Willy ignored them. “It was the London paper what did it, really.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “How so?” He’d stopped a pace or two back from Willy, close enough for polite talk but not so close he’d be leaning over him, Willy being of average height for a Cornishman just turned nineteen. Funny how a couple of inches of height advantage didn’t amount to anything when you were three sheets to the wind.

“Sport,” Goran grumbled, burying his attention in his mug. “Cricket news.”

Something stirred in the back of Jack’s mind, but before it could throw the covers off and sit up properly, Willy picked back up.

“Aye, the Grace brothers are all the news right now. E.M. Grace turned in one of the all time great performances last week, scored a hundred ninety two not out of a total of three forty-four, and followed up by taking all ten wickets from Kent in their first innings for sixty-nine runs.”

Docco nodded enthusiastically. “W.G. turned in just as strong a performance for West Gloucestershire against Devonshire, in his debut match, and you got to arguing about whether W.G. had more potential than his older brother.”

Willy nodded agreement, and took the story back. “I didn’t think so, and I still don’t. W.G. only started two years earlier than E.M. because of who his older brother is. Grace the younger will forever languish in the shadow of his obviously more talented elder sibling.” The last in an elaborately poncy accent.

“Now I know I didn’t take that well,” Jack said with a shake of his head. “I had a feeling, a really strong one, when I heard last month that W.G. was going to debut. My palms itched.”

“There’s a couple reasons why that –” Docco started. His snigger turned into a yelp when Goran dug an elbow into his ribs.

“Let the grownups talk, Docco,” Goran warned him archly.

Willy just shook his head at the two. Jack went on.

“I laid on eight shillings on the boy’s performance down the local punter’s. Those winnings made the difference in the rent. The proof is in the pudding.”

“And that’s when he said the proof was up your mother’s arse!” Docco’s laugh was cut short as Goran reached down, grabbed Docco’s trouser leg, and yanked. Tail over teakettle Docco went, over backward off the wall, thump onto the shingle two feet below flat on his back. Docco gave a great wheeze, the wind knocked out of him, too dazed to rise up angry.

In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Willy, staring both at Goran and the space where Docco had been sitting, said thoughtfully, “Yeah, that’s when you took a wild swing at me. Can’t say as I blame you really, but your form was terrible.”

“In all fairness,” Goran said, leaning back to check on Docco, “he was ahead of you by half a pint.”

“Which explains why the swing I took back hit far better than I intended or thought I could,” Willy continued, turning his attention back to Jack. “And that was that, you went down in a heap. The constables had to carry you out of the pub.”

Jack glanced down at his shoes, back up. “So you were being a prat,” he confirmed.

Goran glanced back at Willy. “Oh, aye, he was being a bad’un, he was. You just don’t insult someone’s mam like that. After the constables left with you, we tore into Willy proper, bent his ear a good’un over that. As far as the Grace brothers, well, we haven’t seen W.G. in a Test match now, have we. Jury’s out on him until he plays a proper hard match.” He reached down behind the wall. “Give us your hand, Docco, you can come back up now.”

“Well.” Jack gave it a moment’s thought. “Thankfully, the only breakage was my pint glass, and now I know why I threw it down.”

“Still two inches of beer in it,” Willy mused. “That’s going in your barrel and no mistake.”

Docco clambered back over the wall, thought about continuing with Goran, thought better of it, sat back down. “So are you going to take your uncle’s offer then?”

Jack sighed.

Goran rolled his eyes. “You ever even think for so much as a heartbeat before you open your mouth and just let all that nonsense fly out?” he asked Docco.

“Are you?” Willy asked, more serious.

Jack kicked at the ground, stared at his boot. “Not like I’ve got all that much choice in it. There’s been no work here for years now, and I’m of the age where I’ve got to have a trade. I’ve got me mam and sister to support. Jennifer’s take as a shopgirl at a bakery barely covers tea money.”

Willy nodded agreement. “At least you’ve got all the stale bread you can stomach. Both my little sisters spend all day folding matchboxes. They don’t bring in but a few pence and you can’t eat’un.”

“Only three fishers went out this morning,” Goran put in. “Faye under Breward Tonkin, Grommyans with Richard Colenso at the helm, and Yn Termyn Eus Passyes. Cariadoc Geach has been laid up these last two years with rheumatism in his knees and his son Stephen has been skipper, thank God he was ready for it. They’ll not need a man for the unloading. All three can pull up at the Tolcarne Cannery dock and offload directly onto the company scales. At least there’s still enough tin coming in from the north coast to keep the cannery going. The day Tolcarne has to buy tin from outside of Cornwall will be the day Feoc Tolcarne sets fire to the factory and walks into the sea.” He slugged down the last of his tea, grimaced, and stood up. “I’ve made my choice. I’m done here.”

Docco’s face fell into a mournful frown. “You’re done for, you mean. The Queen’s shilling gets paid for in blood, you know that.”

Goran shrugged. “Enough come back in one piece I’ve got a chance. Better than I have here. Look, lads, we’re all men now, so they keep telling us. We’ve got duty to our families. Now I’ve got to get off down the Long Quay, the ferry to Penzance’ll be along shortly and I can’t miss it. My uncle wants me to come see him before the recruiting sergeant comes back round to collect them what has signed up since last month.” He threw an arm around Jack’s shoulders, gave him a quick brotherly hug. “You’ll be seeing your uncle again then also, look at the bright side of it.” And then he was off up the hill and down the Quay Road, striding quickly to get away before any of the others could say goodbye.

“You do want to see your uncle again, don’t you?” Willy asked over his shoulder, watching Goran walk away.

“I just wish I didn’t have to sail all the way to Australia for it,” Jack groused. “I mean, he’s practically my second father, about half raised me and Jennifer as his own after Da went overboard. Started teaching us Kernewek for serious. Da hadn’t seen the use of us learning it, said all we’d ever need was English and kept Kernewek for private between himself and Mum. Peran, he thought it was our duty as Cornish folk to learn our own language.”

“I think it was political,” Willy opined. “Peran’s a good man but he leans a bit far to the left sometimes. Always trying to organize more men into the union, reading those books about the Levellers and the Chartists. I think he liked the idea of Cornwall being its own nation.”

“Given what little good England’s done for us,” Docco put in, “and how they’re buying up our land on the cheap now the tin’s run out, can you blame ’im?”

Willy and Jack both turned to stare at Docco. He fidgeted, nervous under their sudden attention.

“What?” he asked, his eyes flicking nervously from one to the other.

Willy chuckled. “Even a blind hog can find an acorn,” he said, and dodged the mock punch Docco swung at him.

“What it comes down to, though,” Jack went on, “is that I’m boxed in, and the only way out is through. If I don’t take the offer, I’ll have no way to pay my fines, and my bail will be forfeit to cover them. Worse, though, I’ll have spurned the luck Mum had piled up in the cookie jar. All those years and I’ll have wasted it. But it means leaving Cornwall and never to return.”

Willy shook his head sadly. “You haven’t really got a choice here.” He shrugged.

“No.” Jack sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I’m bound by the luck I’ve been given. I have to pay my debts, and do whatever’s necessary to repay the investment that’s been made in me.”

“Come on,” said Docco brightly, bouncing up to his feet. “Let us at least stand you one down the pub.”

Willy and jack stared at him until he realized he’d said something wrong again, and sat back down to work out what.

“Some other time,” Jack said. “Besides, I’m not so sure I’m welcome down there right now.”

Willy snickered and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him playfully. “That’s not what Elowen said last night.”

Jack made a big show of rolling his eyes, swinging his head to follow. “I’m shipping out to bloody Australia and now the innkeeper’s daughter finally wants to notice me?”

“Well,” Willy looked him over, “it’s not like she didn’t have the pick of the litter, small wonder it took a while to get round to you.”

Jack picked Willy’s hand off his shoulder like he was removing something noisome. “Yeah, and she still hasn’t got round to you, has she?”