Lizard, I’d know you would be there. No cities, no oceans, there’d be nothin’ like the sight of you, here, by the Castle ruins. You’d come alone, without father, without Sam or the others - you alone, for me.’
‘You wouldn’t be sorry to be back?’ she asked, knowing his answer.
‘What d’you think?’
He was silent a while, then spoke again, chewing his straw. ‘I’ve in my mind’s eye the model of my ship. I can picture the shear of her, an’ the long graceful lines. Her sails spread to the wind. She’d run like a devil if I let her, laughin’ with the joy of escape, but a touch of my hand an’ she’d understand, obeyin’ my will, recognizin’ I was her master an’ lovin’ me for it.’
He leant over and watched Janet with narrow eyes, sweeping the whole of her.
‘What is it, Joseph?’ she asked, conscious of his gaze.
He laughed, and spitting out his straw upon the ground, he reached for her hand.
‘Women are like ships,’ he said.
11
A s the children grew older, so did the little town of Plyn thrive and flourish.
Already it was changed from the Plyn that Janet had known as a girl, and as she had seen it as a whole from the top of the hill on her wedding morning. The old quiet air of peace and calm seemed to have departed, it was no longer a small village nestling at the foot of the hill, with the water from the harbour coming nearly as far as the cottage doors at high tide. In the old days the harbour had often been empty save for the old fishing luggers belonging to the folk of Plyn, and when the men came back from their fishing or down from their work in the fields, they would lean over the wall by the slip of Coombe’s yard, and gossip over their pipes, the nets spread out to dry on the cobbled stones, and naught to watch save the gulls diving for fish in the water, and the smoke curling from their cottage chimneys, with the women-folk at their doors.
Then the rooks would rise like a cloud from the trees above Squire Trelawney’s house, and circle in the air, calling to one another.
When Janet was first wed she and Thomas would stroll in the fields above Plyn on summer evenings, and watch the orange patterns that the sun made in the water. No sound came from the harbour then; maybe from time to time the soft splash of an oar, as someone pulled his boat away from the seaweed, and made his way along the narrow pill that led to Polmear.
They would watch the dark form of his boat slowly dissolve into the shadows and the gathering twilight. The sun would lighten the farthest hill with a touch of flame for one instant, leaving a glow upon Plyn that caught the glass of the cottage windows, and shone bravely upon the slate roofs - then the sun would sink beyond the tall beacon, that stood on the high sheer cliffs above Pennybinny Sands. The colour lingered yet on the water, and beside them in the fields the last rays touched with gold the sheaves of riotous corn. Silence fell upon Plyn, with now out of the dusk a voice from the cobbled square calling a name, or the bark of a dog from the farm in Polmear Valley. If it was Sunday the bells from Lanoc Church called the folk of Plyn to evensong, and the people would walk along the footpath that led over the fields to the Church above Polmear. Before supper the younger ones, lovers, or newly wed like Janet and Thomas, would climb the steep hill to the Castle ruins, and wait for the moon to rise, white and ghostly, making a magic channel of the water, that crept away to the horizon like a narrow pointing finger.
Such was the peace and the silence of Plyn, lost by itself, far from the clamour and cries of a city. Then little by little the changes came. The importance of the china clay was discovered and the mines were started. Rough jetties were built where the river and harbour meet, and the clay was brought there.
Ships came to Plyn in numbers to load with the clay, and often now the harbour was a forest of masts, awaiting
‘You wouldn’t be sorry to be back?’ she asked, knowing his answer.
‘What d’you think?’
He was silent a while, then spoke again, chewing his straw. ‘I’ve in my mind’s eye the model of my ship. I can picture the shear of her, an’ the long graceful lines. Her sails spread to the wind. She’d run like a devil if I let her, laughin’ with the joy of escape, but a touch of my hand an’ she’d understand, obeyin’ my will, recognizin’ I was her master an’ lovin’ me for it.’
He leant over and watched Janet with narrow eyes, sweeping the whole of her.
‘What is it, Joseph?’ she asked, conscious of his gaze.
He laughed, and spitting out his straw upon the ground, he reached for her hand.
‘Women are like ships,’ he said.
11
A s the children grew older, so did the little town of Plyn thrive and flourish.
Already it was changed from the Plyn that Janet had known as a girl, and as she had seen it as a whole from the top of the hill on her wedding morning. The old quiet air of peace and calm seemed to have departed, it was no longer a small village nestling at the foot of the hill, with the water from the harbour coming nearly as far as the cottage doors at high tide. In the old days the harbour had often been empty save for the old fishing luggers belonging to the folk of Plyn, and when the men came back from their fishing or down from their work in the fields, they would lean over the wall by the slip of Coombe’s yard, and gossip over their pipes, the nets spread out to dry on the cobbled stones, and naught to watch save the gulls diving for fish in the water, and the smoke curling from their cottage chimneys, with the women-folk at their doors.
Then the rooks would rise like a cloud from the trees above Squire Trelawney’s house, and circle in the air, calling to one another.
When Janet was first wed she and Thomas would stroll in the fields above Plyn on summer evenings, and watch the orange patterns that the sun made in the water. No sound came from the harbour then; maybe from time to time the soft splash of an oar, as someone pulled his boat away from the seaweed, and made his way along the narrow pill that led to Polmear.
They would watch the dark form of his boat slowly dissolve into the shadows and the gathering twilight. The sun would lighten the farthest hill with a touch of flame for one instant, leaving a glow upon Plyn that caught the glass of the cottage windows, and shone bravely upon the slate roofs - then the sun would sink beyond the tall beacon, that stood on the high sheer cliffs above Pennybinny Sands. The colour lingered yet on the water, and beside them in the fields the last rays touched with gold the sheaves of riotous corn. Silence fell upon Plyn, with now out of the dusk a voice from the cobbled square calling a name, or the bark of a dog from the farm in Polmear Valley. If it was Sunday the bells from Lanoc Church called the folk of Plyn to evensong, and the people would walk along the footpath that led over the fields to the Church above Polmear. Before supper the younger ones, lovers, or newly wed like Janet and Thomas, would climb the steep hill to the Castle ruins, and wait for the moon to rise, white and ghostly, making a magic channel of the water, that crept away to the horizon like a narrow pointing finger.
Such was the peace and the silence of Plyn, lost by itself, far from the clamour and cries of a city. Then little by little the changes came. The importance of the china clay was discovered and the mines were started. Rough jetties were built where the river and harbour meet, and the clay was brought there.
Ships came to Plyn in numbers to load with the clay, and often now the harbour was a forest of masts, awaiting
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