Chapter Eleven Cider
Chapter Eleven
Cider
May Day was thick with pollen and, in the noon-time sun, Portscatho shone gold with it.
Spring had turned her face towards the village and with the month’s earlier rain – and frenzied hail – the greenery had been sent into abundant growth.
Usually the annual fete, which took place upon this day, would have been a cause for celebration in Kensa’s mind.
Instead, her mood was saturnine. No sooner did she arrive, Isolde clopping beside her, than she saw her sister bedecked with flowers.
Of course, Elowen had been crowned the May Queen.
Who else? Claps and cheers surrounded her, as she opened the festivities with a ceremonial shower of petals.
Everyone, almost everyone, applauded. Kensa fixed her hands to her skirt.
Without her realising, Elowen had matured.
On her head was a garland of sea thrift, cow parsley and buttercups woven tightly together with bright ribbon.
It was a high honour to be given the title of May Queen.
Or so Kensa was told by Old Sal, who was already rosy with libation despite the midday hour.
‘See, it’s ’cause the May Queen’s about cream and loveliness, s’pure and kindly,’ slurred the matronly woman. ‘You know, I were the May Queen when I were a girl and the boys were struck mute by what a beautiful empress of virginal quality I was. Course, an hour in I wasn’t quite a vir—’
Kensa quickly extricated herself. She would have joined her mother, Derwa, who idled in the shade of an ash tree, were it not for Mr Skewes sat beside her.
‘Get yourself a little cider, that’ll see you right,’ said Isolde, dismissive and impatient with Kensa’s moods, which, in fairness, were frequent.
The wise woman had seemed distracted lately and would not say why.
Onions, thought Kensa. The bulbs had grown strange in colour, their skin peeling a small fortune of silver on the sill.
Despite her inward addled-ness, Isolde had done her best to tame her outward appearance, wearing a brown tunic and cream skirts, which gave her eyes a peaty tilt.
Kensa had put on her Sunday best, reserved for sermons she no longer attended.
It was a little tighter around the arms and shorter on the legs than she remembered, and it did not quite fit her bust, though it was serviceable.
Provided she did not move her limbs too much.
As new growth came to the landscape, so it came to Kensa.
‘I haven’t the coin for drinking,’ she said.
‘Ah?’ Isolde’s gaze was fixed on an older chap whose sly wink found her across the field. ‘Our kind don’t need to pay at events such as these.’
‘Then I can have whatever I want?’
‘Yes, I— Suit yourself.’
With that last instruction, the wise woman chased her own comforts, which she found in the form of a gnarled sailor with a tufted beard and hands as wide as plates.
As for Kensa, the first ladle of rough scrumpy tipped too easily down her throat.
It had been pressed by Farmer Hartie, who owned the cow-cropped field upon which the festival was held.
She wasted no time in seeking out further fermented sweetness, until her temper was mollified and her nose happily numbed.
Portscatho’s villagers took pride in their healer and her apprentice, and Kensa was given whatever she wanted: currant buns, sweetmeats and further cider, which flooded her head with silliness.
Using a gate as a perch, she could see almost every resident in Portscatho was in attendance, bar the Weaver, who had grown more reclusive than ever since his latest loss.
Even the landed gentry, the baronet and magistrate Sir George Trevanion, had shown himself.
He owned Porthbeor Mine and, as such, owned everyone.
His family had funded the May Day festival for generations and it was his purse from which Mr Aldridge, the curate, was paid.
The baronet was a mature man in his middling fifties with thin, greying hair and a stern expression.
His clothes were finely made and fitted him in a way Kensa had never seen before.
She wore hand-me-downs and over-mended attire, too patched to recall its purpose.
Nothing as trim and sleek as his waistcoat and jacket, with polished buttons that caught the sun.
It was evident from Sir Trevanion’s bearing that he was not enjoying the jubilations.
A thin mouth, puffed cheeks, eyes scanning the distance as though looking for the gate out.
The same one Kensa sat on. She stared at him with unabashed curiosity.
Then again, everyone else did the same. It was rare to see a man with such wealth up close and she wondered what he ate, if he felt pain the way she did, if he was built the way that other men were built.
At his side was a sleek lady with a placid expression, smooth as a rock pool.
She pressed close to Mr Aldridge, who had a blush deep enough to match his Sunday vestments.
At the field’s centre was a pole tied with ribbons, which the younger children had been taught to dance around by their teacher, Miss Latham.
Within the hour, a small fiddle struck up a country melody.
Suddenly, the field was rich with song. Kensa shifted from her seat: she had danced at the fete in her younger days and remembered tripping over her own feet, then someone else’s.
Besides, she did not wish to see Elowen skipping merrily around the pole, light and graceful and perfect.
Kensa drank more cider.
The festival’s hours were long and hot and tiring.
She had grown too used to her quiet routine with Isolde, with one or two house visits and Wednesday’s controlled and quick-to-pass activity.
Give her long coastal walks, a hip bundled with seaweed scraps and her hands deep in nettles.
Room for her thoughts to talk to one another, away from noise and people and Old Sal’s ever-present chatter.
It filled up the whole field, no matter what corner Kensa fled to.
Finally, she spied her mother alone, Mr Skewes having left to converse with the few village men who would speak with him, Sir George among them. Derwa had the May Queen crown atop her head, a gift from Elowen, which made their resemblance all the more striking.
Kensa slumped down, face half-hidden behind her abundant hair.
‘I was wondering when I’d find you,’ said Derwa. ‘I swear you’ve grown another foot since I’ve seen you.’ Her fingers were sticky with mead and clasped Kensa’s hands. ‘I ran into Pearce in the road earlier and he was keen to tell me how well you’re doing.’
‘Oh?’ The forge master hardly breathed a word to Kensa when she had rewrapped his chilblained feet.
Then again, talk was usually kept to the necessities: where it hurt, bowel movements and a promise, given with reluctance, to rest. It was strange to learn how readily the other villagers accepted her now that she resided with Isolde and had begun her apprenticeship.
No longer was she only a smuggler’s daughter.
Instead, she held a status she had not fully quantified or tested.
‘We heard about the Weaver,’ said Derwa. ‘He’s such a poor dear, that man.’
Kensa frowned. ‘Who told you that?’
Derwa inclined her head in Elowen’s direction. There she was, in animated conversation with the fine lady with the fan. Of course, the prettiest faces at the party would draw close to one another. A remedy against ugliness. Portscatho had plenty of that.
‘It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, lamb,’ said Derwa. ‘I have half a mind to speak to that old crone and tell her she’s working you too hard.’
‘S’not that,’ admitted Kensa, tipsy with drink and hot with fresh ire. ‘I didn’t want to see Mr Skewes.’
As though prompted, the Coast Guard’s laugh rang out across the fields, a high yowl, catlike and reedy.
‘Peter has been kind to me.’
‘Aye, and we know why.’ To her own ears, Kensa sounded like Old Sal, speaking meanness disguised as concern. Or like her father, perhaps, when her parents had argued. She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it.’
Derwa looked to where Mr Skewes stood in a group with Sir George, who still had not managed to extricate himself.
‘Do you know who that man is?’ It was to the magistrate she pointed. ‘He is the one who sent your father to hang.’
It took several long breaths for Kensa to understand. She saw her mother’s anger, heard a tone she’d never once used, then registered the words spoken.
Father.
‘It was his first act after he gained the appointment and he used my husband to secure a reputation for himself. None crossed him after that. There’s nights I dreamed on killing him,’ continued Derwa, reaching for her mead. ‘Yet there he stands.’
Slowly, Kensa’s stare returned to Sir George.
The shape he cut against the landscape, its sharpness which caught on her lashes.
Unwilling to blink, she stared and stared.
That man, their region’s law-maker, had killed Alexander Rowe.
Taken – from her – his warm hands, beard-scratch and oak-round laugh.
‘Do you miss him?’ Kensa’s gums were tight around her teeth, her questions queer and shrill. ‘Do you miss my father?’
‘I wish I didn’t.’
Kensa swore and flung an arm out towards Mr Skewes. ‘Then how can you—’
‘Because he dotes on Elowen fiercely and I love him for that.’ Derwa raised her voice loud enough to summon glances their way. ‘What’s more, he supported me when no one else would. I had nothing when I was widowed and he gave us all he could spare. More than that, he gave me Elowen.’
Kensa gritted her teeth hard enough to hurt. It was that or cry and she was too close to tears for her liking.