'Several years. It was on a Tuesday. I can't remember the exact date, but it was on a Tuesday in October the year before the war. Mummy was going to send me away to school. Miss Nearne objected. There was a terrible scene. Mummy called her frightful names. And then my stepfather came in and stopped them. That was after lunch. Miss Nearne went up to her room and stayed there. My stepfather took her tea up to her himself. That evening Mummy went out for a long walk with her dog, Peter. He was an old Labrador. She was very fond of him. Shortly afterwards Miss Nearne went out, too. I remember her going out. I was in the kitchen and she went past me without a word, her face very white and strained. I watched her going down towards the cliffs. I watched her because I was trying to make up my mind whether to run after her and talk to her. You see, I was to go away to school — it had all been decided that afternoon. And I felt sorry at leaving her.' Her voice dropped. 'Oh, how I wish I had gone after her!' She paused and then went on. 'An old shepherd we had then found her about an hour later out on the cliffs. He brought her back in a state of collapse. They took her up to her room. She was very ill and could remember nothing.
Mummy never came back. They were out searching for her all night. They found her next morning. She was at the bottom of an old shaft that was half-hidden in brambles. That one down there.' She pointed to a circular stone wall beyond the main shaft of Wheal Garth. 'The wall wasn't there then. Nobody knew about the shaft. I don't believe my stepfather knew about it — and he knew every gallery of the mine even in those days.'
'Who found your mother?' I asked.
'A miner. She'd never have been found if it hadn't been for the dog howling. Peter died when they tried to bring him up. His back was broken. The man who found her said the dog must have fallen down the shaft and she'd tried to get to him. The coroner took the same view at the inquest.'
'Then it was an accident?' I said.
She shook her head slowly. 'No. It wasn't an accident. That morning, after they found Mummy's body, Miss Nearne was sitting with me in the kitchen. She was terribly upset. She always felt everything very deeply, if it was only a sheep falling over the cliff. Mr Manack came into the kitchen. He didn't seem to notice me. He looked straight at Miss Nearne and said, "Does this belong to you?" It was a handkerchief. She took it, saw her initials and said, "Yes, where did you find it?" He said, "Just by the shaft where Harriet was killed." Then he ordered her to her room. Shortly afterwards I heard him going up. I was terribly puzzled — morbidly curious, if you like. I followed him. The door was ajar. I could hear what he said from the bottom of the stairs.'
'And what did he say?' I asked as she hesitated.
'He said, "I knew you'd done it, even before I found the handkerchief. There was no other explanation. The dog would never have fallen down that shaft. He knew them all. And Harriet always kept to the paths. She'd never have pushed her way through that gorse, unless someone had called her down that rabbit track." He told her then that she was not responsible for her actions.'
'But what about the dog?' I asked.
'Mr Manack found Mummy long before the miner did. He found her when he first went to look for her. He found her because Peter was standing over the shaft, whining.'
'Good God!' I said. Then — "
'Yes. He threw the dog down the shaft. There had to be a reason for Mummy going along that track. Peter was the only reason he could think of.'
'How horrible!' I murmured.
'Yes,' she said. 'He was a lovely dog. He used to bring me baby rabbits — he'd bring them back in his mouth alive and quite unhurt. But it saved your mother. And after that — " She hesitated and then added quickly, 'After that the bars were put in the attic window. You see, she couldn't remember where she'd been or what she'd been doing whilst she was out there on the cliffs. She was very ill for a long time.'
I was staring out across the cliffs. But I didn't see the sea. I didn't see anything — only that bare little room with the bars across the window and the hatch cut in the door. I was cold, despite the warmth of the sun. And when I did notice the sea, shimmering like gold, it seemed a mockery in this wretched place. 'But was she really mad?' I asked. I couldn't believe it.
'I'm afraid so,' she replied sadly. 'Loneliness does queer things to people. I know what loneliness is. Loneliness unbalanced her. She had fits of rages when she broke things. Sometimes she didn't remember what she'd done for perhaps a day or even more.' She suddenly put her hand on my arm. 'I'm sorry to have told you all this. I didn't want to. That's why I tried to avoid you, but I couldn't. You see, she told me so much about you. And I was very fond of her when I was little. Please — just remember that. She was a good, kind person. But things went wrong with her life and — well, it was too much for her.'
We sat quite silent then. I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn't. The whole story was so fantastic — so horrible. I wanted to be by myself. I wanted to think it all out. 'The milk will spoil out there in the sun,' I muttered, getting to my feet.
'Yes,' she said. 'The milk will spoil.'
I left her then and went slowly down across the rustling heather. I stopped by the basket and looked back. Kitty's figure was outlined against the blue of the sky as she climbed towards Cripples' Ease. I was sorry I had let her go then. I would like to have gone on talking to her about other things. I needed someone to talk to. The sound of voices made me turn. The girl in the red shirt and white shorts was coming back along the cliff top. She was holding her boy friend's hand and the sound of her laughter came to me on the light breeze. I went into the hoist shed and so back to the hideout. The light thrown by the inch-long jet of my lamp was very dim after the sunlight. But the gloomy rock walls and the dim light were better suited to my thoughts than the brilliant glare of a beautiful September day. I sat down on the bare springs of one of the beds and cursed Cripples' Ease as I had heard my father curse the place so many years ago.
I was awakened from my reverie by the sound of knocking against the slabs of the entrance. A voice called, muffled and faint. I got up and shot back the bolt. I couldn't remember having bolted it. But apparently I had. The stone slabs swung back and Friar poked his head in. 'Blimey, like chokey, ain't it?' He grinned. 'Still, it ain't got iron bars. It's seein' the daylight through iron bars wot used ter get me da'n. You ready? We got to load the compressor. Slim's gorn on da'n.'
'Yes, I'm ready.' I said.
We went up into the blue sunlight and down to the mine sheds. As we waited for the gig to come up I said, 'Where's Captain Manack?'
"E's still up at the ha'se. Be da'n later. 'E's 'avin' a ra' wiv the ol' man. Proper set to, they're 'avin'.'
We got into the gig and began to descend. 'What's the row about?' I asked.
'Same ol' thing — the ol' man don't want the Mermaid flooded.' Friar laughed. 'But the Capting'll get 'is way. 'E always does in the end. Reck'n 'e's got somefink on the ol' man. Must 'ave, otherwise 'is father, wouldn't stand for 'is monkeyin' ara'nd wiv the mine the way 'e does. There ain't no luv lost between them two. I went in after lunch ter find a't wot the Capting wanted doin'. Blimey, I could 'ear 'em at each other's froats before I opened the door. An' when I went in, there was the ol' man, white wiv rage an' quiverin' — actoolly quiverin'.'
We had passed the main adit level and the gig stopped of its own accord at the next gallery. The shaft went on down, but I could see that this was as far as the gig went. The place was full of the noise of rushing water. In a cleft behind the shaft I could see a big water wheel revolving slowly.
A lamp shone towards us, lighting up the arched rock walls of the gallery. 'That you, Friar?' It was Slim's voice.