Wrecker - Noel O’Reilly

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      A wreck is a queer purging, when compass reckonings go awry and Nature shakes the world out of order and time out of joint. My first harvest had been in my fifth or sixth year and since then perhaps a hundred ships had broken their backs upon the western rocks. Every time I was left with an unease for days to come. That morning after Aunt Madgie had come upon me on the beach, I could find no peace. My nerves were frayed as it was, having seen the drowned woman’s soul bubble up out of her throat. And then to find myself called to account by the old lady and made to suffer her dark looks! I couldn’t rid my mind of the fear she might accuse me of stealing the noblewoman’s earrings. To put my mind at rest, I went down to the harbour to find out how things stood.

      On the slipway a fine chestnut horse with mud-spattered saddle bags was tethered to a post outside a warehouse. Its flanks foamed with sweat and its head hung low as if it had been ridden hard. The beast snorted and scraped a hoof on the stone slabs as I passed. All that was left of the wreckage was a broken old cabinet propped against a barn wall, and a couple of hogsheads with staved-in sides and spoilt cargo. No doubt, the rest was hidden away, safe from the eyes of the Preventive Man, on farms on the moor or down in tunnels, or sunk out at sea waiting to be recovered.

      A huddle of men was gathered by the wall of the quayside. I was about to pass when they moved aside to let two fellows through. They were carrying something heavy in a sack, one at each end, and I knew by the way the load sagged between them that it was a body. The sight of it fixed me to the spot. Not one of the men in the group gave me more than a glance, which calmed my nerves a little. The two men bearing the carcass took it to a low black shed on the slipway, where the bodies were kept before they were taken up to the graveyard.

      A tall fellow stood in the midst of the men, a foreigner in a long brown cloth coat. It must have been his horse I’d seen. I knew his face from other wrecks. He was an outlier in Penzance for the wrecked ship’s insurer, a loss adjuster. His trousers were streaked with mud, and his shoes covered in sand. A group of men from the village answered his questions while he looked down his nose at them and noted things in a black pocket book. The men shuffled further along the harbour wall and I moved along with them, keeping out of the way. For the briefest moment before the men hid them from view, I saw two bodies laid out on the cold, rough stone, a woman in a tattered and grubby shift and a child of perhaps four or five years old. I crossed my arms and held myself tight to stop myself from shaking.

      The loss adjuster looked around at the men in his lofty way, an eyebrow raised, and spoke. ‘So, you’d have me believe that not a single one of you was anywhere near the wreck last night?’ he said. ‘That a five-hundred-ton vessel like The Constant Service could be plundered of every last scrap of its cargo and its timbers broken up while all of you slept, unknowing, in your beds.’ The men shook their heads and tugged at their beards. None would meet his eye. ‘My client Lord S— owned the greater portion of the cargo, but this loss will be as nothing compared to this outrage,’ he said, looking down at where the bodies lay, and scratching out some more notes in his black book. ‘Mark my words, this is not the end of the matter.’ I wanted to slope away, but feared it would seem like I had something to hide.

      ‘It is the very woman I’m looking for, without a doubt,’ the loss adjuster said. ‘Her face is well known in Society, that is to say the civilised world far beyond this shore. This is a foul crime, and His Lordship will not sleep easy until justice is seen to be done.’ His head jerked to let the men know they should remove the body. Two big fellows stooped to lift the woman up and lay her on a sheet of sacking. It was then I saw her face, and the frills of dried, blackened blood where her earlobes had been chewed off, her jewels pilfered. The child lying alongside her was surely her own. It was lucky I stood by a barn and could lean against the wall, for my legs were going from under me. But the men took no notice, just moved along the wall to look at another victim of the wreck.

      My mind raced, thinking of the loss adjuster’s words about a great lord wanting justice, and seeing in my mind’s eye the pretty boots I’d left drying on the hearth in our cottage. I looked away as the two men passed me with their burden slung between them. All that was left of the woman was a wet patch on the stone where she’d lain.

      I fled that place and turned up the lane towards home, but after a few paces I felt a feeling like a shadow passing over me, so I stopped and looked about. I found myself at the end of Back Street, the very place Aunt Madgie lived. And there she was, the old devil, as I knew in my bones she would be, standing between the two posts that stood before her ancient house, clad in her black dress as always, one gnarled hand clutching her crook and the other holding an ancient china chamber pot. When our eyes met, she shook her head slowly, before emptying the pot in the lane, making sure to throw it towards where I was standing. As she turned back to the house, she gave me an evil look before doddering inside.

      The following evening a feast was held to give thanks to Providence. I’d been stricken with sudden qualms all through the day and was sure Aunt Madgie was ill-wishing me, but still I meant to go to the feast. I wanted to see if there was any hint that the old dame had been about among my neighbours spreading lies concerning what she’d seen. If so, it was better to know and be able to fend off the slander.

      I got ready for the feast in Mamm’s old room that she hadn’t used since she went wrong in her lungs, preferring to sleep in her armchair by the fire. My younger sister, Tegen, was sat in the straight-backed chair in a royal sulk, watching me. I brushed my red hair, turning this way and that to see myself in the oval looking glass that hung over the rickety linen chest. The glass was cracked and covered in blotches that no amount of rubbing could remove. The mirror was engraved and had once been fine. In my mind’s eye I pictured it standing in a rich woman’s chamber, but when I’d found it on the strand there was a crack running from one side to the other. Now I looked at myself in the glass, cut in two where the surface was split.

      A frock and petticoat were hung on rusty nails against the damp wall to let the creases fall out. The garments looked gaudy against the faded lime wash. I dropped a white shift over my head, before putting on a petticoat and a scarlet dress. Of a sudden I remembered the scarlet chemisette I kept in the closet to stop it fading. It was of the same vividness as the dress, and only a little frayed and moth-eaten. The cloth was chill against my skin, and I shuddered, remembering how I’d come by it.

      ‘Well now, don’t you look a picture in all your finery,’ said Tegen, with a sour pout.

      ‘I’ll send one of the children up with meat and drink for you and Mamm later,’ I said, pinning a white winter lily in my hair, which I was wearing loose. The bloom gave off such a perfume it made a body near swoon. ‘You’re better off at home, Teg. You’ll only get teased.’

      ‘I don’t mind a bit of teasing,’ she said, which I knew wasn’t true. ‘But I’d as soon stay at home. The revels is all wrong in my eyes, celebrating when so many poor souls perished. A young child among them.’

      ‘Well now, someone’s pissed upon a nettle!’ I said, as I went downstairs. Tegen followed me and watched, arms folded, as I went to the hearth to fetch my new boots. They were almost dry and the leather only slightly stained with salt water. I sat down to lace them, then stood up to see how they looked on my feet.

      ‘It’ll be like dancing on that poor woman’s grave,’ said Tegen.

      I pretended to take no notice, and rushed out the door. It was almost dark. My boot heels clacked on the wooden doors of the fish cellars in our little courtyard, which stank on account of Aunty Merryn’s leaky old cat. I slipped through the narrow alleyway, and headed down the steep lane to the harbour. The further I went, the more those boots pinched my toes.

      The quay was lit by a row of lanterns that smoked from the fish oil that burnt inside them. Even the savoury pig on the spit had a fishy smell, having been fattened on fish offal. Every bit of the pig would get eaten, all but the squeal. Planks had been laid out across barrels to make a long table. My neighbours had become dear old friends for once, and it was one of those rare times when men and women come together as though it were the most

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