Never by Vanhee Jason

Author:Vanhee, Jason [Vanhee, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Jason Vanhee
Published: 2011-04-20T04:30:00+00:00

Learning to Sail

It was ten days before Christmas and the wreath was hung on the door at Belmartin, the Cornish estate of the Watt family. There was a bit of snow on the ground, but it had fallen days before, and was in the main gone save only where it lingered in the northern shadows of the house and trees. The sky had been clear for a couple of days, and the sun was bright, if not really warm at all. In the back of the house, where the lawn was stunted but still furiously green, the old groundskeeper was burning brambles, and the smoke from it rose to join that from half a dozen chimneys, giving the big, low house in general a very merry look.

The young man who walked under the bare branches of the trees that lined the lane toward the house was in a shabby state. His hair was matted where it showed under the battered bowler hat which he wore, and his face was unshaven and dirty as a chimneysweep. His clothes were worn and torn in several places, and over his shoulder he carried a sturdy bag that was not so very full. He carried in his hand a wooden walking stick the base of which was dark with mud, but which provided a sturdy counterbalance to his uneven stride. His right leg was rather halt, and his right boot in a bit worse shape than his left.

He was smiling, the young man, as he walked to the door and ran the fingers of his free hand through the sweet scented pine boughs that hung there before he formed a fist and knocked.

"We give alms on Boxing Day," the woman who answered the door said. She was dressed in servant grays, but with no bonnet as she might have worn in the old days. "If you go around the back, Cook can get you a cup of tea though, and maybe some bread." She took him to be one of the masses of veterans who could not find jobs, and she felt they deserved better. She was only a maid herself, and it wasn't her place to give them succor, but she could speak to Cook and make the woman see the need, which in any case the other woman did not mind. Her son had died at Verdun, and she gave more than she should, and would be in some hot water if the Watts knew.

"No, miss, I'm not here for that," the young man said, his voice soft and sweet. "I'm just here to see Watt. Christopher Watt, I mean to say. We were at school together at Watkyn's."

She stared at him with an intent glance, for she thought this ragamuffin unlikely to have known the young Master. "What's your name then?"

"Darling. Michael Darling."

"I shall see. Do you wait here and I'll come back as soon as I may."

He nodded, and she closed the door and moved away. He stood on the broad front porch, looking out over the winter land, and admired it.

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