Читать книгу The Main Cages - Philip Marsden - Страница 9

When Jack Sweeney arrived in Polmayne in May 1934, he brought with him several bundles of letters, his mother’s diamond ring and a small, oak-framed painting of a bird of paradise. He was twenty-eight.

Behind him was a farm in Dorset which had been owned by Sweeneys for three hundred years and probably a lot more. He himself would never have needed to farm if his elder brother had survived the shrapnel shard which sent him face-first into the Flanders mud. Nor would he have been left in charge so young if his father had not succumbed to pleurisy in the winter of 1925. And he may have come to keep the farm, to make it prosper, even perhaps to love it, had he made some provision for the upheavals that took place in the early 1930s.

But in truth farming had never appealed to him. As a child he resisted a practice which made narrow enclosures from the land and planted each one with a single species of plant. Nor could he feel a part of anything that made such a mockery of the beasts – the lumbering cattle, the confused sheep, the swollen pigs. He had already built his own pantheon from the world and its virtues were diversity, rarity, independence; the farm seemed opposed to all three. He bred rare hawk-moths, collected birds’ eggs. He had a habit of making remarkable finds. He was a dreamy child, they said, a natural.

He had been to Polmayne once before, in May 1913. The winter before had been a fug of bronchitis and come spring his mother took him to the Antalya Hotel. He loved the town. He loved its hugger-mugger houses, the strange sea creatures that came up in baskets from the boats, the constant harbourside shouting. Within two days he had seen a peregrine falcon, a pair of seals and a group of basking sharks. On Pendhu Point, a smudge of orange wings sped past him and he cried: ‘Mother, look! A milkweed!’

That autumn his mother became ill. By Christmas she was dead. Jack could not understand what it was that changed her so quickly, that sucked away all the flesh and reduced her voice to a whisper. But when the farm collapsed, twenty-one years later, and his father’s cousin offered him a job in a forestry project, and everyone else was surrounding him with their platitudes and promises, all he could think about was how to get away. He remembered Polmayne. He put the sale of the farm in the hands of solicitors, bundled up a few possessions and took the train to Cornwall.

In Polmayne he rented a room from a Mrs Cuffe. It was a loft room. It had its own staircase, its own entrance and two dormer windows which looked down over the sea wall, over the bay and out to Pendhu Point. At one end was a slate mantelpiece and there he propped his bird of paradise.

He never intended to stay. Polmayne was a stopgap, a stepping stone, a place in which to sit back and look around before starting afresh. But the weeks passed and the mantelpiece filled with assorted top-shells and pebbles, with rounded shards of pottery and ceramics and a piece of surf-polished driftwood that resembled the torso of an erotic dancer. Soon the bird of paradise was hidden by a foot-long blade of a ship’s propeller prised from the mud of Pritchard’s Beach.

That summer the threads that bound him to the earth thinned and frayed. He took his meals alone in Mrs Cuffe’s dining room. He listened to the alien murmur of the other guests. The only person he spoke to was Whaler, the almost blind husband of Mrs Cuffe.

Whaler Cuffe had spent his working life as bosun and mate on a succession of ships. He had never served on whalers but had once told a story about a whale and after that everyone called him Whaler. In the summer months he lived across the yard in a lean-to shed while Mrs Cuffe rented out their bedroom to visitors. Most of the day he sat outside the shed with his hands propped on his cane while the sun glowed against his sightless eyes. He told stories to anyone who listened and mainly it was strangers as no one in Polmayne believed him. On Parliament Bench, his stories were a byword for fantasy: ‘Tall’n a bloody tree, Whaler’s yarns.’

It was from Whaler that Jack first heard about the Main Cages. He reeled off the names of the ships that had been lost there as if they were the dead from some age-old campaign – the Carlisle, the Athens, the Prince Henry, the Adelaide. He told Jack about the Phoenix whose cargo of sugar turned to syrup as she sank, drowning the crew; and the Constance, loaded with rice which swelled as she filled and burst the hull open like a pea-pod. On the seabed below the rocks, he explained, there are thousands and thousands of barrels, locked there by the cement that spilled from them and hardened; the cement was on its way to San Francisco to assist in rebuilding the city after the 1906 earthquake. In gales, Whaler continued, you can hear in the pine trees the moans of ‘all the poor beggars who perished on the Cages’. He told Jack that they used to leave pirates on the rocks sealed inside an iron cage.

‘And that’s why,’ said Whaler with a vague waving of his cane in the direction of the sea, ‘we call the rocks as we do.’

Jack found a copy of Tom Bowling’s Book of Knots and spent the mornings working his way through it, sitting on his steps with a ball of whipping line and various lengths of lanyard. Beside him was a pump with a cow’s-tail handle and it was this pump that gave the cobbled yard the name of Bethesda. Each morning Mrs Cuffe come into the yard to draw water.

‘Still tying they knots, Mr Swee?’

‘Still tying, Mrs Cuffe.’

‘Well, one day you’ll knot your own fingers together and starve yourself to death …’

In early July, he woke on a cloudless morning and found he could not move his head. He lay staring at the ceiling. Veins of sunlight reflected off the sea and flickered on the rafters. An hour later he had managed to reach his stool in the yard. When Mrs Cuffe came to the pump she told him he looked ‘stiff as a scarecrow’.

Bending to pick up her pails, she told him: ‘I seen others like you, Mr Swee. You get out on the water, have a bit of a row-round.’

He did just that. He went down to the harbour and hired a boat, twelve feet of clinker-built dinghy with long, heavy paddles. On that first day he could barely move them. The following day he managed to push out through the Gaps and across the bay. The next morning he reached the entrance to the Glaze River and by the fourth, when he hauled the boat over the sand and into the water the last of the stiffness had gone.

It was a day of no wind. The sea stretched flat and featureless into a pale haze. The dinghy surged forward with each stroke, splitting the water. The only sound was the rowlocks working back and forth in their sockets: cler-clunk … cler-clunk …

He pointed the bows of the boat out of the bay. Pendhu Point slipped astern. A slight swell rose from the east. In the bright midday, the heat fell on his back and bounced off the sea and he shipped the paddles and uncorked his water bottle.

He looked back towards Polmayne. In the haze was the white blot of buildings around the quays. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, then he pressed in the cork and rowed on. He rowed south-east. Some time later he stopped again and pulled in the paddles and drank some more, and as he drank and wiped the last trickle of it from his chin, he heard from the direction of the open sea the very faint sound of a bell.

There was nothing at all for several seconds but then it came again. Three loud clangs and a softer one – then a silence and two soft clangs and some louder ones, and he realised that it was not a mechanical bell but one rung by the irregular motion of the sea.

Jack raised one hand to his brow, shielding the sun. He squinted towards the sound. In the flood of light he made out three or four shapes of rocks. He took up the paddles and headed out towards them. As he rowed closer so there came from them the noise of surf. Even with no sea to speak of and the tide almost slack, he saw how uneven the rocks made the water. It ran smoothly among their low summits, made eddies over those that remained just below the surface. The long swells rose and fell against them.

He drifted in among the rocks and came to the place where a channel ran between the two parts of the largest one, Maenmor. With each swell, the water sluiced through the gap and Jack held the boat off for a moment. The gap at its narrowest was about six feet wide, perhaps thirty feet long. He looked at it a long time, holding the boat still against the tide. It was dark between the rocks and he squinted to see in. He then spun the boat round, took two swift strokes and shipped the paddles. The bows shot into the gap. They did not swing but with the weight of the boat kept true. The sun was blotted out by the high rock above and the air was suddenly cool. The boat slowed and he felt the brush of weed against the hull. Then the bows started to swing and the stern nudged the rocks. He leaned over and his hand came up against the wall and he pushed off and all at once was out again, into the sun and the warmth and the still water.

He started to row again. He spotted a smooth patch in the water and shipped his paddles again and leaned over the side. The sun’s rays haloed his head and he could see down into the water, through the dust-motes of plankton, to the shadowy form of a rock. Oarweed flopped about beside it, swaying as the swells passed over it – back and forth, back and forth. And that is the image that remained with him from his early days in Polmayne – of his own lone figure suspended over the side of a boat, staring down into the water, while from below rose the half-hidden shape of a rock.

That August Jack Sweeney bought his own boat. He sold his mother’s diamond ring, gave Mrs Cuffe four months’ rent and walked up the Glaze River to Penpraze’s yard. He had already discovered the place on his wanderings. Just beyond the church was a pair of black tarred sheds and on the larger one a sign: ‘P. PENPRAZE, SHIP, YACHT & BOAT BUILDER, BLOCK & SPAR-MAKER & SHIPSMITH’.

Inside, years of sawdust and paint-chippings had been trodden down to form an uneven, hard-packed floor. The roof was hung with wrights’ moulds and assorted spars rested on the beams. Peter Penpraze blew the dust from a varnished half-model and told him: ‘Fourteen foot six, grown oak frames, timbers of pitch pine, oak garboards, elm keel. Whatever thwarts you like, Mister, and a good locker astern. Lovely little boat, steady as a rock in a blow, pound a foot.’

Three weeks later, on a cloudless afternoon, Jack rowed between the Gaps and moored his boat in the inner harbour for the first time. That evening Whaler tap-tapped his way along the Town Quay and Mrs Cuffe drained a bottle of stout over the boat’s stem, saying: ‘Blessed be this craft, and blessed be all her crafty tasks.’

Over the coming days Jack brought out the lines he had been preparing – the eye-spliced painter, the stern-line, the rope fender, and a few he had made up for good measure. He bought a small galvanised grapnel and spliced that on too.

He began potting. Whaler put him onto Benny Stone, a cousin of sorts, and a man half-crippled from twenty years of crabbing. From Benny Stone, Jack acquired a set of inkwell pots – ‘Woven from best Penpraze withies, Mr Swee, three seasons’ use’ – and a great deal of advice: ‘Haul at low water … use shore crabs to catch the wrasse, use the wrasse for the lobster … put out your old pots March-time, save the new for better weather … find a pitch round the Cages and ee’ll not go wrong.’

Rights to the potting grounds were divided up along complicated lines of allegiance, decided either by ties of blood or by any one of a dozen tacit fraternities. Jack rowed around the grounds and on an old Admiralty chart shaded in where he saw other pots. He ringed the other places marked ‘R’ (rocks) and ‘ST’ (stones) and on fine days took out a greased lead and plumbed the water, recording where sand was stuck to the grease, and where it came up clean.

But his early potting was not a success. He experimented with different sites – west of Kidda Head, down towards Porth, east of Hemlock Cove. In three weeks his efforts yielded little more than spider crabs, velvets, devils, a few small lobsters and a number of conger. He lost a third of his pots in a gale, and another string from leaving too short a head-rope at springs. When he rowed back through the Gaps the men on Parliament Bench watched him with their cold, omniscient stares.

In late October the weather came in and he stored his pots and kicked his heels around the town. On Armistice Day he saw the luggers leave Polmayne for Plymouth and one afternoon on the East Quay he met a young woman from Devon called Alice. She had red-brown hair the colour of fallen leaves and was working in the kitchens of the Antalya. He took her out rowing and she showed him the slate grotto of St Pinnock’s holy well. Alice said the waters were known in the town to cure barren women. In bed she would sing softly as he held her, and her eyes fill with tears.

In the middle of December, Polmayne’s luggers returned from Plymouth; they loaded the herring nets and went back east for several more weeks. Jack found a note under his door: ‘Dear Jack, it’s lonely here even though you’re kind. I gone back home to my people. Goodbye, Alice.’

That Christmas Jack accepted an invitation from his great-aunt Bess to spend the week in Bridport. He passed a few days in her hot and over-decorated rooms. On the third night he went into town and got drunk and fell asleep fully clothed. In the morning mud stains covered the foot of the counterpane and he told his aunt Bess he was leaving. She said Cornwall was not the place for him. ‘You’re a Sweeney, Jack, this is where you belong.’

January swept in over Polmayne with its two-day gales and its grey, restless seas. Squalls dashed around Pendhu Point, driving the water in the coves into chest-deep scuds of foam. Along the front, shop signs swung and squeaked in the wind. Jack brought his boat into Bethesda, upturned it on two sawn-off barrels and rubbed it and primed it and re-glossed its clinker hull. He went to see Benny Stone with an armful of withies. His first pots looked less like inkwells than doughnuts but in time he produced something serviceable. He counted off the days until March. He was running short of money.

One morning in late January he was walking on Pritchard’s Beach. It was a bright morning and the beach was scattered with the detritus of another storm. Squinting into the sun he spotted a figure pushing a wheelbarrow up the strand. The man was struggling to keep it going through the shingle. Jack recognised his black smock and the sand-coloured beret – it was Mrs Cuffe’s nephew, Croyden Treneer.

Setting the barrow down, Croyden caught his breath. ‘That’s some bloody heavy beast!’ He bent to light a cigarette and tossed away the match.

‘What is it?’

Croyden pulled aside the weed on top of the barrow and Jack glimpsed beneath it a stretch of leathery skin. And he smelt it. He put a sleeve to his nose.

‘Dolphin. Put him in under my potatoes and they’ll come up lovely.’

Croyden leaned on the front of the barrow and shuffled the pebbles with his boot. ‘Started potting yet?’ he asked.

‘Not yet.’

Croyden said nothing but stood for some time smoking in silence. Then he flicked away his cigarette, picked up the barrow and said, ‘You won’t get nowhere with it! I was you, I’d go back to England.’