The Black Swan

She called, “Good day to ‘ee, Mrs. Cartwright. I see you’ve got Miss Lucie with ‘ee.

Good day to you, Miss Lucie.”

“We must go and speak to her,” whispered Rebecca and we walked over.

“Miss Lucie is here for a little holiday,” Rebecca explained.

“Oh, my dear, I did hear ...”

Rebecca said quickly, “Yes, it was all very sad. You seem to have settled into your cottage very well now.”

“It will be a year or more since we came here, Mrs. Cartwright. Now you must come and take a glass of my cider. My Tom do say that it be better than anything they do serve up at the Fisherman’s Rest.” She assumed a touch of modesty. “Well, maybe that’s for other folks to say.”

Rebecca was always tactful with the local people. She had learned that from my grandmother.

“Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it, Lucie?” she said.

Mrs. Blakey was all smiles. She was clearly proud of her home, and it certainly was a picture of shining neatness. The warming pan hanging by the fireplace gleamed and shone like gold; the fire irons were the same; the linoleum gleamed and the furniture was highly polished.

“You have certainly made it comfortable,” said Rebecca. Flashes of memory came back to me. In the first years of my life this had been my home. It was familiar and yet strange. It must have been very different when Jenny Stubbs lived here.

The cider was brought and placed on the table.

“Now, if you’d care for a little pasty ... I be right down proud of my pasties. My Tom do take one with him every day... when he be working. He says it do keep him going until he do come home.”

“I’m afraid we can’t manage the pasty,” said Rebecca, “much as we should like to. They’ll have a meal waiting for us when we get back and we shall be expected to eat that. This cider is delicious.”

“Delicious,” I echoed.

Mrs. Blakey was a garrulous woman and I sensed at once that she was grateful to Pedrek, and wanted Rebecca to know that she had not forgotten what he had done for them. “It was a terrible blow to Tom,” she confided to me more than to Rebecca, who must have heard the story many times before, “when this here rheumatics struck. Sudden-like it came... just a little pain here and ache there... and there came the time when he could hardly get up again if he knelt down. The doctor, he said, ‘It’s this ‘ere rheumatics, Tom. It seems your mining days are over.’ We were in a rare old trouble, I can tell ‘ee. Tom had been in the mines all his life and his father before him... and his grandfather before that. Doctor said a little light work is all he’d be able to do. It broke Tom’s heart. He’s always been a good workman, always brought his pay packet home regular ... a proud man, my Tom. ‘What be I going to do, Janet?’ he said. ‘Where’ll we be to?’ ‘Well, I be a good hand with the needle,’ I said. ‘We’ll pull through.’ Well, there was our home. The cottage near the mine... that goes with the job. That would be wanted for him as took Tom’s place. Then Mr. Cartwright says, ‘I’m sure I can arrange that you have that place at Branok. It belongs to Mrs. Cartwright’s family. It’s empty now and I’ll have a word with them.’ And so he did and we come here... thanks to Mr. Cartwright and them up at Cador.”

“Our grandparents,” said Rebecca with a little smile at me. “Well, they did say, ‘You just have the cottage, Tom, and never mind about rent and such. It’s there for them as needs a roof over their head. You take it ... while you do want it.’ And there’s little jobs Tom can do ... on the farms and at Cador. They’ve kept him busy ever since, and my bit of sewing brings in a tidy bit. So there, you see... we’re better off than we was when Tom was in the mines.”

“And how is the rheumatism?” I asked.

“On and off, Miss Lucie. You can tell the weather by it. ‘Going to have a bit of rain tomorrow,’ Tom will say. ‘My leg’s giving me gippo.’ It’s a sure sign. And do you know, he’ll be right. He’s a real weathercock, our Tom, since he got his rheumatics. And now let me top you up, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Blakey,” cried Rebecca in alarm. “It’s strong, your cider.” Mrs. Blakey laughed happily. Then she looked at me solemnly and said, “Oh, we be happy here. There’s some as say it be a gloomy old place and there’s ghosts and such like on the prowl. Tom and me ... we don’t mind the ghosts.”

“Do you ever hear the bells?” I asked. “You know ... the ones which are supposed to ring from the monastery at the bottom of the pool.”

“That old tale! How could monks live down there for hundreds of years? It’s just a lot of nonsense, I say. So does Tom. No, we don’t hear no bells. We’re settled here and I don’t mind telling ‘ee that, if it wasn’t for them old rheumatics giving Tom gip now and then, I’d be glad. Mines are dangerous things. Terrible things can happen to miners. I used to worry about Tom down the mine. But we were lucky. Tom happened to work for a good owner. I’ll never forget Mr. Cartwright and your grandfather, Mrs. Cartwright. Mr. Cartwright, he be a good master.”