Mud For Looe

A melancholic Cornish tale set in the nineteenth century.

“A foot?”

The well-dressed young gentleman distractedly glanced at the interloping bone-picker. “Well, it most certainly looks like a foot.” He gestured. “A child’s foot!”

The well-dressed young gentleman stood near the great mud-pile that had come down the hill a day prior. It had demolished the back corner of the kindly baker’s disused stable in which the bone-picker temporarily sheltered.

The bone-picker shook his head. “‘Tis wood, sir.”

“Eh?”

The bone-picker stepped forward, carefully assessing the young gentleman’s well-stitched, double-breasted frock coat, silver pocket watch chain, and smartly folded, canary yellow handkerchief. “Wood, sir.” He gestured. “That there, jutting out, ‘tis wood.”

The well-dressed young gentleman pushed his dark blue hat back, as if perturbed, and then took a finer look at the bark-stripped, slightly crooked protuberance.

“Hmpf, so it is,” he said, straightening his back and readjusting the hat. “Edern While,” he said, and extended a hand.

“Jonah,” the bone-picker said, and engaged a strong, firm grip.

“Good thing no greater damage was caused by such a force.”

“Mister Millar claims an interested party will be carting the bulk of this richly soiled bounty to Looe Isle. Day after the next, ‘tis the word.”

Edern looked at the rear of the baker’s house. “And, pray tell, good sir, Jonah, where will you be venturing, the … day after the next?”

The bone-picker’s tongue flicked between gaps in his upper teeth. Tailored cotton trousers and wide, durable shoes. Heels moderately worn. Nothing overdone. Right natty. “Weather cooperating, sir, this time tomorrow, I’ll be bound fer Truro.”

Edern nodded. “Good pickings there, I imagine.”

“I be a most-fare discriminator.”

Edern’s face darkened. He raised an accusatory finger. “Your eyes … like cold black pits. Dead, dark things.”

Jonah grinned. “Blame me father, sir. Me mum’s was clearest blues. Lovely, lovely gemstones, they was.”

“Be you more man than beast?”

Jonah shrugged. “I make it a point to wash. Aye, and I skirt a stranger’s business. Truly, I mean no harm, sir.”

“More beast than man?”

Jonah took a step back.

“Beast!”

The bone-picker crossed himself.

Edern yanked on the stick. It made a hollow sucking sound as it came free of the muck. To Jonah’s eye it had the look of a crude dowsing rod.

“No…” Edern said. “‘Tis decidedly not a foot.”

A train rumbled past. Pebbles and larger rocks bounced down the hill, littering the periphery of the great pile.

“Blast!” said Edern, turning and casting the stick into the sodden earth.

“May peace shadow your way, sir,” Jonah said, and retreated into the damaged stable.

Up in the light of a sunny day, I saw thee in thy April-bloom…

Early morning. Few souls about.

Not that the infernal trains respect otherwise comfortably quiet hours during their obliviously violent transits. Ten hours from Penzance to London? Unfathomable but a few years earlier. Now a cruel fact. A loud, congested, maddeningly irrefutable fact. Must find proper method to—

“Edern!”

Engage a round, familiar face. “Mr. Martin.”

Out in the open street, while not ideal, is leagues better, encounter-wise, than the man’s cramped office. Thankful to have outlasted the seemingly endless stream of notary-stamped paper!

“Good to see you out and about,” Mr. Martin says, a hardy handshake-too-many. “Today the final day, hm?”

Lower quaking hand and flex fingers. “Indeed, it is.”

“And your journey abroad, settled on a final itinerary?”

“Oh, well, um, Caen, as a—a jumping off point. Wonderful abbeys…”

“Caen?” A wrinkling of the man’s profuse eyebrows. “Oh, yes, a well-worn destination. Hopefully, the remainder of your journey will be a tad more adventurous, exceeding those temperance tours organised by Mister Cook and his ilk.”

“Well, I’ve compiled a list…”

“What time’s your departure?”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

“Ah, so soon, so soon.” Great jowls quake. “Seems only yesterday…” Red, callused fingers plough a swath of snowy white. “You and Kerra, skipping past my window. The dog, that beagle you had, what was…” Abnormally long blink. “What was…?”

All fled. “A lost world.”

He squints at the friendless sun. “Well, yes…” Two rapid blinks. “Mr. Willson mentioned the changing of the locks. Yes. Later today. S’pose you’ll be spending your last night at the inn?”

“Oh, most likely.”

“A guest in your place of birth.” Bloodless gums grotesquely exposed. “We must get together. Later. Bissell’s. I insist.”

A curt nod. “Yes, of course.”

“Take care, dear boy.”

“Good day, Mr. Martin.”

Opposing directions. Like duelists measuring requisite paces.

Foxtail. Gone, near a score. That long? Yes. Long dead and gone. Mining interests wholly divested. Ancestral homestead sold off. The majority of material worth reduced to a precisely fixed number. Sloughed weight. Observe the immaculate reduction of Edern Herbert While, erstwhile gentleman of leisure and ruined gadabout. Lately: semi-refined miserabilist. Speak well of him…

Beside the sheltering moss-crown’d wall, I’ve placed, to shadow thee, my sweet…

Michael the Blacksmith roots in the garden. The voracious creature respects no civil boundaries. Certainly, Mrs. Velland no longer cares. When Kerra still tended the beds, the old woman diligently minded Michael. Now the black-headed ram roams free. Munch! Munch! Munch! Tiny eyes impossibly serene. His master’s garden untouched. Radishes. Michael the Blacksmith can’t stand them. His preference tilts toward large leafy things. Bear witness to Kerra’s ravaged garden. The buyers will undoubtedly repair the trampled fence. Michael will bleat in protest. None will care. He has no idea regarding the future that awaits. Enjoy your last pilfering, rude beast. Now, where—?

The comforting familiarity of the click. The lock was of top quality a half-decade back. Newer models, compression bronze, and similar, have supplanted. It’s certainly beyond Michael the Blacksmith’s capabilities. Odd sight, just past the threshold and no tables. History of While-occupied tables now finished. How many generations wiled away their time at a succession of sturdy, black-lacquered and gilt-accented Davey Elms? Disruptive children below. All the whispered gossip and rancorous debates, the clatter of porcelain cups and floral-patterned plates. Someone at the piano forte. Life at a full roar. The room appears so much larger, comically vast in its transient emptiness. Shortly, a new table, followed by topical discussions. Playful toddlers underfoot. Continuum of the daily art.

For what reason the space exists.

Carpenter—Ove Parker—has done fine work. Floorboards level. Stair steps silent. Firmly stamp each one, especially the previously unsettled fourth.

Always laud exemplary craftwork!

Upon the crest of Camborne hill … Nature decreed it in her will…

Wall hangings no longer decorate the upper landing. Bright-box reminders of previous occupants. How many Whiles perished here? How many were born? Last breaths and nascent cries. Stacked over time. Like the tables and other auctioned fixtures. Ghostly echoes of a once-restless inhabitance.

Short rap and a faint creak. “Mr. While?”

Stand petrified before the door that refuses easy trespass. Such awesome tension. Too powerful to—

“Mr. While, excuse me, but are you up there?”

Contrive an embracing visage. “Ah, Mr. Willson, so glad we didn’t miss each other.”

“Yes, and I as well.” Firm grip and warm bearing. As genuine a chap as necessity demands. “Sadly, I could not find a key to the upstairs room, the one just down the hall from—”

“Yes, well, it shouldn’t be a problem. Nothing of substance remains.”

He pauses. “Oh, yes. Very well, then. So, we’re all in order. There are a few documents left to sign but I’ll forward those to—”

“Mr. Martin.”

“Mr. Martin, yes. A most comprehensive gentleman.”

“That he is.”

“Wonderful. Well, off to other business. I’ll let you finish your farewell inspection.” Checks watch. “Be well, Mr. While.”

“Of course. And you as well, Mr. Willson.”

A less firm handshake and he’s gone, practically skipping toward the next profitable prospect.

As if propelled by Mr. Willson’s words, the kitchen’s inspected. The window above the sink is ajar. Latch it tight. Leave nothing to chance.

A red-billed chough lands on the sill. Expectation quickly evaporates. Wee little bird-brain. Quick twists of a never-still head, and off to a superior perch.

Like minds.

Secure the lock, pocket key, and depart. Michael the Blacksmith has wandered back to his yard. Garden’s a total loss. Kerra’s spirit, if ever liberated, will be sorely disappointed. She can harry the defiler, haunt the dreams of a sheep who likely counts prancing children to better summon sleep.

Transplanted thence into the town … To deck the poet’s garden there…

Mr. Millar stands before his shop, fixing a weathered sign exhibiting the carved image of a sweet roll.

“Morning, Edern.”

“Mr. Millar.”

The hanging announcement has gone askew, excessive slack surrendered on its right side. The baker patiently corrects the misalignment. “Last day amongst us?”

“It is.”

“Probably a good thing. Kerra wouldn’t have wanted you to become a grey-haired bachelor like me, rutted to one spot. Good to get out, experience other lands.”

“Agreed.”

He finishes the chore, steps back, and is pleased. “Care for a hot roll?”

“Oh, most certainly.”

Like the majority of the town’s proprietors, Mr. Millar lives above his business, his public and private spaces neatly subdivided. Kerra might have drawn her final breath in one of the rooms above, had she agreed to the convivial baker’s proposal. ‘Tis doubtful the man’s age put her off. Most likely it was the notion of stupendous predictability that doomed the affair.

“Mind your fingers…”

Warm bread is a deathless delight.

He wipes his hands. “Saw you up and about, earlier.”

It’s not a question but a compulsion to explain overwhelms. “A last stroll.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Quite understandable.”

“I enjoyed a close inspection of the mud.”

He glances over his shoulder, even though the mound’s obscured from view. “Yes, most fortunate the damage wasn’t too extensive. There’s a buyer from Looe. Islander who grew up near here. He made an offer shortly after the unexpected tumult.”

“Yes, the squatter mentioned it.”

“Something about wanting better clod for his land.”

“Offer him a fair deal?”

Mr. Millar smiles. “Charity brings us closer to God.”

Will definitely miss the baker’s fresh rolls. “He moving on?”

The man pauses, and then nods. “The squatter? Oh, yes. Way of that lot. Discards and castoffs. Ever unsettled.”

“Odd way to live.”

“We all walk a singular path.”

The kindly baker will die alone, somewhere upstairs. No one to hear, or to grasp a faltering hand. “Hope he doesn’t abscond with a pocketful of mud destined for Looe.”

The baker chuckles. “Another roll?”

Politely decline and wish the generous bachelor well.

Clouds driven by eastwardly winds, no doubt seeded with Greater London smog. Acrid rains are increasingly common. Miners advance on surrounding hills. Is it really so different, this last day? Perhaps a slight variation of the same day; six generations’ worth of earthly toil. Save for the noticeable uptick in pace, of course. The propulsive Great Western Railway embodies Brunel’s bold engineering feats. Truro and Falmouth, linked. Now Penzance has acquiesced. How long before a bridge to Looe, so that flat-bottom rail warrants no virgin swath of earth remain unspoiled?

Progress eclipses formerly reliable sightlines.

A memento, dear to me, thou smiling angel of the dells!

Tippett’s shrewdly caters to the increasing swell of tourists. Very Latest Fashions! Special Discount on Last Season’s Formal Wear! He’s a few years younger, dark-haired and slim. Impeccable chap, head to toe. He studied in Paris, has Great Notions regarding Haute Couture. Gaunt reflection in Tippett’s polished glass reveals an outfit that is clearly out of date but hardly shabby. Father shunned old suits, came from a time when even the tiniest details mattered. But these threads are comfortable, familiar. While it might not be an ensemble worth spending eternity within, it nonetheless retains more than enough style to merit a leisurely trek across town.

And I shall see within his bower, and think upon them every hour…

Sally Donning appears in the display window, carefully adjusting the variety of outfits adorning headless, armless mannequins constructed from papier-mâché. She realises she’s closely watched. A slight crinkle mars an otherwise pristine brow. She’s a year older, still unwed. Something might have happened, in the flower of youth. The boat ride along the Fal and subsequent picnic on the shore, beneath the shadow of Pendennis Castle. It’s one of those idyllic afternoons that gets fixed in the mind, as if preserved in a treasured scrapbook, home to dainty keepsakes and dried primroses; comforting artefacts that never wholly diminish.

Sour-faced Sally. Never quite measured up to her nobler designs. Difficult to surpass something contrived in the imagination of another. No helping a person’s inborn limitations, and especially in comparison to imperishable ideals.

I’ve set thee in the border neat, and green leaves, where the sunbeams fall…

Cross muddy fields that smell of sunbaked manure and wild gorse. Corfield’s stables remain unchanged. As a boy, tramped through the muck and yearned to be older, intensely impatient for scrawny limbs to lengthen so that he might competently drive a pliant colt or willing filly. Attending auctions at the equestrian market in Falmouth. Ah, to slip behind the memorial curtain and enter a place bereft of pressing cares; safely eluding dark harbingers relentless in their thorny torments.

Gravemounds overrun the cemetery’s boundary fence. Grey and white headstones encroach upon the heart of the old village. Only blackened rubble remains of the church that burned in ‘29. Tall edifices represent the founding families. There is a While stone from the early 1400s. Earlier markers have eroded. Thomas, who made a living on the water, and participated in the rebellion of 1497, lies here. Namesake Edern rescued the future Duke of Cumberland, Prince Henry, a hundred years past, after the royal vessel foundered off the coast. Mining rights that subsequent Whiles enjoyed—and grew increasingly indolent as a result therefrom—granted not long after. What great achievements stunted by so magnanimous a gift? Was it the beginning of the end for a lineage now singly embodied and so embarrassingly adrift?

Such visits unavoidably terminate at the same, tidily kept marker: Kerra Bryluen While, Beloved Sister. An angel immanent among us.

“I’ve nearly memorised that poem in the Journal you liked so much. Married it to the prettiest melody, similar to one you used to play. I only wish my thoughts didn’t wander so … Lately, I can’t seem to focus. Not as well as I used to, anyway.

“I…”

No more cares, dear Kerra.

All still.

Thou should’st unfold thy virgin flower, and there the miner mused beside thee, across the balmy evening hours…

Sun arcs past noon. Equal parts parched and famished. Approach from east end. Bissell’s is patronised by the usual crowd. Hasty greetings followed by welcome refuge in a quiet corner, out of reach from the main host.

Roast gammon, black pudding, and Extra Stout. Stray weeklies litter tabletops. The chatter veers from mundane to braggadocios. A reliable custom, going on two centuries, and that’s merely accounting for the first generation of Bissells to wait on millers, miners, coopers, cobblers, and inclined men of leisure.

“Backalong, I recall them engineers, standing up there, surveying the estimated lay of track. Trying to figure out how they’d bend the land to their will. Bend and bow, that’s the great challenge. No flat terrain like inna Fens. No, sir. That was the quandary. Pushed matters back apace. Yessir.”

Royal Cornwall notes completion of broad gauge from Truro to Penzance. Two pages later: Explosion at St. Allen Powder Works, outside Truro. Fourth time in the past three years. Why is that? Is no one accountable? Fatal Accident on Truro River. Boy crushed to death by boat while attempting to make launch. A wink of time, perhaps considering his next meal, or a dusk-lit swim…

“Be a cattle plague up in Ash.”

“Sad state of affairs, truly.”

“North Devon’s got an outbreak of the cholera.”

“Giss on!”

“‘Tis true. I heard a man, he says…”

Plates cleared; beer flowing freely.

Tin, silver, copper, tungsten. Deep and deeper, ‘til there’s nothing left but a gouged world. Simple-minded creatures digging their own graves, returning to the bosom of our perpetual unmaking…

“I spurned thee in the summer’s hour,

All heedlessly, I trow…”

Clapping, some in unison, most lagging behind the rhythm.

“Ah, but grim winter proves his pow’r,

And how I miss thee now!

Dream not these rhapsodies are bosh,

Macintosh! My Macintosh!”

What memory will brighten the dotaged reveries of these men more fondly than a night of shared drink and verse amongst old friends?

“I sought thee when the showers came,

O’er that dear form I bent—

I saw, with mingled dread and shame,

Within they skirts a-rent,

How useless now! You will not wash,

Macintosh! My Macintosh!”

Leaden thoughts, a shadowy vale … eternal flight of a most clever corvid—

“Edern.”

“Nuh—?”

Stained rag over a slumped shoulder. Ruddy cheeks and sleepy eyes. “Edern. Near dark out. Best be on yer way.”

He’ll die on his feet, perhaps cleaning a glass, or rousting a boozy laggard.

Dab chin with father’s favourite handkerchief. “Yes, Mr. Bissell. Much thanks.”

“You got a room, the Gull?”

“I … yes, all is in order.”

“Well, then, a good night to you. And if I don’t see you tomorrow…” He yawns. “Have a grand time abroad.”

“Oh, yes. That is the wish.”

“Any place, in particular, you mean to see?”

“Oh, too many to list, actually. It’s all very exciting.”

“Been meanin’ to travel myself, years-along now…”

“Tell me, did Mr. Martin make an appearance?”

The man shakes his head. “Can’t say as I seen him.”

Terse but warm shake. “Well, take care, Mr. Bissell, and thank you, again, for everything.”

Gloomy out. Lanterns unlit. Lax Mickey Watters. Off fishing and lost track of time, most likely.

That Sally, retreating in the distance? Like a dark charcoal outline fluttering against a hazy blue background. Raise a hand and eclipse the shape. Fist clenched in mock triumph.

Circumvent the great pile and trot upward. A steep but surmountable grade. Astride the track-laden summit. Broad gauge steel. Terminating in Penzance. How many steps until the end? Single-purpose vision. All and everything. Least resistance. Ten hours to London! Nearly a week by horse? Yes, at the very least. Remarkable.

And while it bloom’d, sweet fancies came, and flitted thro’ his tender brain…

The bone-picker roots below. Is that a better way? Practical hardships, certainly, but there’s no denying the merits. When one lives so close to privation, survival must become like a second skin, an armour against adversity. His speed matters not. He tracks discards, and more abundant do such items become with each passing day.

The coming world belongs to him and his grubby, roving congress. The whole of creation: a great carcass mercilessly picked clean.

Descend at a sensible trot. Angle for the house, away from the main road. Approach cloaked in shadow. Be as a most dapper apparition.

‘Till all the scenes in life’s young dream, came dancing along his path again…

But, no, the lock. The damnable lock! Useless rattle. Bottle curses. No need to draw undue attention, disturb sweet Mrs. Velland. How she reddened the cheeks so long ago, a viciousness in her manner, pinching and smiling while tousling the hair with a free hand. That’s how it is with lives lived in close proximity over time. Resentment and presumption, roiling rages and ossified opinions become the norm…

Penzance to London, ten hours. Beyond comprehension.

Heavy rag plucked from the hand-pump ‘round back protects knuckles as the glass shatters. New owners can forward a bill for damages to Address Pending, Hold for Future Collections. Slip through kitchen window like a most proficient prowler. Thrill dampened by lack of occupation. Not a soul stirring. It’s—

Home?

Dash to the top of the landing and … Oh! Ajar. Lock gone. It’s gone. No. No, that’s all wrong. Blasted locksmith! The binding contractual agreement clearly stipulated—

Mr. Martin, he…

Exhale.

Just a peek. Assurance that everything remains as it was that final day.

What right did—?

She shouldn’t have been alone. Coward! Unable to…

All lost, all fled…

Incapable of holding her shrivelled hand and transferring the barest warmth. Such a simple, decent act…

No right. None whatsoever.

Retreat to empty room. Retrieve blankets from cracked wardrobe. Fusty, but will have to do. Just a short rest. Perhaps one final look before…

Settle, for a little while.

Clearly stipulated in the contract…

Copenhagen. Rome.

Bucharest.

Binding…

Split.

Blessed sister…

Samarkand.

Saipan.

Bound…

Spensonia…

And did’st thou know how much I prize thee, oh! thou precious Cornish gem!

Bounding sheep, crossing idyllic brook and dale. One, two … five … nineteen … thirty-six … changing at some unknown count to amorphous sulphuric puffs. In the distance, a remote whist—

The bone-picker crossed paths with Digger at the top of the hill, the town a fair distance behind.

“Jonah, that you?”

“Digger.” The bone-picker halted. “How be Truro?”

Digger spat. “Oh, not nearly picked clean, that cluttered hovel.”

“On yer way to Penzance?”

“Aye. Makin’ good time. Weather’s a cooperative mistress.”

“That she is.”

“And you?”

“Tracking east. Greater London, thereabouts.”

“London?” Digger considered the bone-picker’s well-shod feet. “No lazy stroll, that venture.” He reached out and examined the right lapel of the bone-picker’s coat, as if seeking a genuine mark of ownership. “My, my, such fancy threads, Jonah! Who’d so carelessly toss such expertly stitched cloth?”

The bone-picker pulled back. “From a man who no longer had a-need.”

Digger grinned. “Not takin’ to plundering graves, are ye now, Jonah?”

“Graves?” He crossed himself. “No, sir. Not I.”

The young man who’d introduced himself as Edern While appeared at dawn. Half-awake, the bone-picker watched him strip naked and neatly stack his clothes at the base of the mud-pile. In the early morning mist, he looked like some impossibly pale, newborn ghost.

“Just good fortune, is all.”

By the time the bone-picker reached the orphaned clothes, the man had entered the great mound, burrowing head-first where he’d liberated the dowser-stick the day before.

“Aye. Well, maybe I’ll find me own well-dressed gentleman down-aways.”

The bone-picker had reached in, but his attempt to pull the man out proved futile. He thought about going for help, but knew there’d be questions. Too many, and a wayfarer such as himself with no candid answers. Honestly, what point was there in saving someone who so willfully spat in the face of salvation?

“Always another to be found.”

Digger nodded. “Be hopin’ so.”

“Be well, Digger.”

“You, too, Jonah.”

The two men parted. Digger began his descent while the bone-picker moved even with the train tracks, confident of reaching Truro by the last of the day’s light.