On the day of Granny's funeral Old John took care of Tommy.
Old John lived up towards the Barbican, in as neat a cottage as you
could find in Draeth. No woman ever did a hand's turn in his little,
two-roomed crib; the old sailor washed and mended, cleaned and
scrubbed, and kept his home so well that, as Mrs. Tregennis remarked,
'twould be possible to eat anything as 'e'd made, an' eat it off his
floor at that, an' she for one would gladly do it.
It was not until Old John was getting on in years that he had married
and set up a cabin of his own. He had given up sailorin' then and
turned fisherman, because he wouldn't leave his bonny little maid so
much alone.
Only to himself, never to any other, did Old John confess that the
bonny little maid had proved a misfit. God, how he had loved her! Nigh
on eighty was Old John now, and still he dreamed of her at night. Too
much given to newsin' she had been and that was all the trouble.
"'Ousin' and tea-drinkin' don't hold in our line o' life," Old John
had told her, but she had only laughed and followed her own bent.
Under her care, or lack of care, the trim cottage by the Barbican had
become a dirty hovel.
[Illustration: ON THE DAY OF GRANNY'S FUNERAL, OLD JOHN TOOK
CARE OF TOMMY.]
Before his love could wane she died. Thirty-five years had gone by
since the night that Old John held her for the last time in his arms.
In her place she left a son, and the son was more of a misfit than the
mother who bore him.
"One o' they creeperses!" was the judgement of Draeth, and Old John
knew that the judgement was just. But not only was his John sly, he
was idle and lazy as well.
"If I could only have had a son like Tommy, an' a wife like ...," then
Old John checked himself sharply; there was disloyalty in the thought
and he gave undivided attention to his guest.
"What be we a-goin' to have for dinner?" Tommy was asking.
"Fish," replied Old John.
"What did ee eat for breakfast?"
"Fish as I catched at sunrise."
"An' what'll ee have for supper?"
"Fish again."
"Seems a lot o' fish in one day," Tommy stated.
"Why, yes; of course. 'Twouldn't be so cheap to live else, Tommy.
Don't ee know thicky tiddley verse:
Fish for breakfast that we 'ad,
An' for dinner 'ad a chad,
An' for tea we 'ad some ray,
So we 'ad fish three times that day!"
The young voice and the old one said the lines over and over in a
monotonous sing-song until Tommy knew them off by heart.
Movements overhead showed that John was getting up. Although it was
nearly half-past nine he had not yet left the bedroom. When he came
downstairs he looked sulky and unwashed and ate his breakfast in
sullen silence.
"Fish to sell?" he muttered.
Old John pointed to his early morning catch.
As well as being sly and lazy John was also a bit soft, and never
acted on his own responsibility.
"How much be I to get for they?" he asked.
It was only a small catch and Old John lifted the fish from the basket
to estimate their value.
"Should fetch tenpence," he decided, "but make what ee can. If ee
can't get tenpence, take eightpence; an' if 'ee can't get eightpence,
take sixpence; but make what ee can. Should fetch tenpence, though,"
he said again as he replaced the fish and passed the basket to his
son.
John always followed the line of least resistance. Half-way to the
quay he met a man who handled his fish with a view to buying.
"What do you want for they?" he was asked.
"My fäather said get tenpence if ee can, or eightpence if ee can; or
sixpence if ee can; just make what ee can. So what'll ee give for
they?"
Long before his return was expected John slouched into the cottage
kitchen and threw four pennies on the table. "For they fish," he said,
and walked away to join a knot of idlers on the front.
Old John sighed as he gathered up the coins. He felt very old these
days: he wasn't by no means the man he used to be, and it was very
difficult to live.
"Goin' a-whiffin' again to-day?" Tommy asked him, and he brought his
mind to bear upon the needs of the moment.
"Not whiffin', but afore tea I must see to my lobster pots," he
replied. "Did ought to get a good catch, too. What be a-goin' to do,
Tommy, when art a grown man? Fishin'?"
Tommy shook his head. "No," he stated, emphatically. "My Mammy says it
do be starvation to put a lad to fishin' now. I'll be a p'liceman an'
scare they children bravely, that I will." Tommy drew himself up in
proud anticipation of his authority-to-be.
"Bit lonely, bain't ee sometimes, Tommy?" was Old John's next essay.
Tommy did not understand, so Old John tried to make his meaning clear.
"'Twould be nice for ee to have a baby sister to play with an' look
after," he said. Then he knew that he had blundered.
Tommy clenched his fingers, set his teeth together and breathed hard.
"Ef a baby sister do come to _my_ house," he declared, "I shall
upstairs with she, an' out through the toppest window 'er'll go."
"Well, well, well!" Old John was at a loss. When you are close on
eighty it is not easy to sustain a conversation with a boy of six.
"Where be my granny?" Tommy asked, unexpectedly.
Old John was confused. It did not come easy to him to talk o' things
as 'ad to do wi' religion.
"In heaven," he answered, hesitatingly.
Tommy went to the door and looked earnestly upwards at the clouds,
".....white as flocks new shorn
And fresh from the clear brook."
His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them bravely back. Mammy
had said not to cry, and he tried hard to be a man.
"I wonder if God wanted she as much as us," he said. Then a feeling of
unutterable loneliness came upon him. His bravery fell from him, and
he ran sobbing to Old John.
"I be frightened," he sobbed. "I want Mammy; will Mammy have gotten
home?"
Clumsily Old John held him in his arms, and, six years old though he
was, Tommy fell asleep just like a little boy. Since Saturday
everything had been so sad and so unusual; he had not been to school
and the days had dragged. He had gone to bed late and got up early,
and now he was quite tired out. Old John carried him upstairs and laid
him gently upon the unmade bed. There Tommy slept until he was
awakened for the dinner of fish.
Before tea Tommy left Old John's cottage, and Old John went to see to
his lobster pots.
In her unaccustomed black Mammy's pale face looked still paler. Daddy
was wearing his wedding-suit and a broad black tie. It was all so
unusual that Tommy felt almost a stranger in his own house. Auntie
Martha came in early in the evening and brought with her a coat of
Mabel's which she thought would do for Tommy to wear to school in the
coming winter months.
"It do be a bit small for Mabel, anyhow," she explained, "an' now as
her do be a-wearin' black it ain't but little good to she."
It was a fawn coat with brown velvet collar and cuffs--a beautiful
coat, Tommy thought. This present was a gleam of brightness in a
dreary day, and he wished the winter would come quickly that he might
wear it at once.
"Come along to bed, Tommy," said Mammy, "and bring the noo coat with
ee."
"All right, Mammy," he replied, "won't be but a minute," and he walked
to the door.
"Where be a-goin'?" Mammy spoke very gently.
"To say good-night to my Gran."
Then realization came. "She isn't there," he whispered, and, turning,
went silently upstairs.
In his prayers that night he stumbled. "Bless granfäather----" he
prayed, and stopped. Then, "an' please God kiss my Granny good-night
for me," he asked, "an' make me a brave, good boy."
As Mrs. Tregennis went downstairs Tregennis came in from the sea.
"Ellen," he said, in an awestruck voice, "Ellen, Old John 'e be
drownded."
"Can't be," said Mrs. Tregennis. "Why, he was here but an hour agone.
You see'd 'e yourself, Tom."
Tregennis nodded. "He was lobster-catchin', Crudely way. The men were
seine-fishin' an' up on the cliffs the 'ooers was a-'ooin of 'em on.
Old John he looked up at the 'ooers an' somehow missed atween the
rocks and his boat and slippen down. Seiners they came up quick, but
they haven't found 'e yet. I wanted just to come in an' tell ee,
Ellen, didn't want ee to hear accident-like. I must go back now and
help," and Tregennis returned to do what he could.
But not until late the next day did they find Old John's body. John,
his son, put on his father's best clothes, and idled on the front
while the fishermen of Draeth dragged the water near the Crudely
rocks. When he found anyone willing to listen to him he spoke. "Funny
thing," he muttered, "very funny thing. Fäather's been to sea all
these years, an' never got drownded afore. Very funny thing it do be
for sure, an' what be I a-goin' to do now?"