27th November 1781
Today I scrubbed my hands clean until they were red and swollen with anguish and small dots of red blood prickled across my knuckles. It gave me no pleasure to do so, but for a few moments, those few short moments before my nerve endings prickled in alarm, I felt like the ringing, ice-packed pain that lives in my head and chest had dislodged itself and was rushing down to my fingertips. I breathed in an unsullied breath and my diaphragm fell beneath the line of my ribcage and my lungs were mine again. Just for a second. Then the bristles of the brush made contact with my rational mind and I cursed myself as I scraped them up and down, up and down, unable to stop although I realised the harm of it, and when the first red droplets came I was able to drop the brush into the sink and fall slowly to the floor.
Thank goodness I’m able to write. Once detailed like this, the events are logged and can be forgotten like dispatches, or reports from the sea. I cannot confide in anyone: the other wives think they know how I’m feeling, which is nonsense considering that their husbands were pulled from the water an hour after the wreckage and my husband’s now been missing for two whole weeks. Two weeks. Thinking that makes my stomach lurch and numbs my mind right through. If they comprehended just a little bit, they’d help me bring him home. Today I tried to do it, but today was not good enough.
28th November 1781
Today I went to the market to buy food and to speak out loud. The sea had whipped itself up on the wind, so I wrapped myself in woollen layers and covered my head with a hood. I slipped at the top of the high street and fell hard onto the briny stones, covering myself in horse excrement and the watery fish slime that sits in the crevices between the cobbles. I considered returning home to recover myself, but without a market visit there’d be no food, and without food there could be no meal tonight. I managed to gather at least a quantity of the things I needed and stacked it all perfectly in my basket, with the exception of the rennet that I needed to make the junket. I must have looked a fright as when I lifted my head to tell to the farmer why I must have it, he flinched and reached over to touch my hand.
‘Begging your pardon, love, what did you say?’
‘I said I need the rennet to make junket. It’s my husband’s favourite; I’m making it for him tonight.’
At this, he suggested that I pay a call on Reverend Doidge, or stop in and see his wife. I thanked him, of course, but explained that I really didn’t have time for social calls today. I ascertained then that there wouldn’t be any more rennet, from anyone, for several days. Some kind of problem with the herd. I could barely conceal my anger — why must I be expected to cope if other people cannot manage what little business they have? I don’t think I’m asking much. When I’ve not completed my chores this last week I’ve been up at three, my hands busy and a storm raging in my head. In any case, I found myself at an angry loss after that and I ended up crying part of the way home. I considered stealing a calves’ stomach and making my own but my vinegar stores are low and I couldn’t bear any more confusion. I passed several of the wives on the cliff path, but managed to avoid getting into conversation with any of them. Too many questions. No rennet today though, so I don’t blame him for not choosing today. I couldn’t bear to prepare any part of the meal, knowing it was incomplete, and I must admit I’m deriving a little pleasure from the empty, woozy feeling in my core. It’s wrong that he should be the one to suffer. Tomorrow must be better; today was not good enough.
29th November 1781
Today I felt driven to check that all had been in order on the day of the wreckage, so I went up to the Huer’s Hut early with the express intention of speaking to John, the Huer, who calls out to the men on the sea. I think he was a little taken aback to see me standing there on the sea-scrubbed doorstep of his hut, right on the cliff edge, but he was most courteous and bid me come in whilst he lit a fire to keep out the chill. I’ll admit the temperature has dropped these last few days and the wind fairly whistled through John’s windows, portentous and shrill.
First off, I asked him how the sea had been that day and how confident he’d been before shouting the hevva! call.
‘Most certain, Mrs. Silver,’ he replied slowly. ‘The sky was coming in heavy, but the shoal was big enough for me not to hesitate.’ His thick grey beard barely moved as he spoke. ‘I made the hevva cakes too, Mrs. Silver, if you were wondering about that.’
I thanked him and thought of the other things I must ask. He wouldn’t know if the men had been whistling or playing cards aboard ship, but with such a big catch, it was most unlikely.
‘Did you see a woman on the ship or anyone throwing stones into the sea?’
He looked at me with soft pity and then said no, not as far as he knew. He gave the same answer when I asked about calling voices and I began to feel desperate. He promised me that had anything been amiss he wouldn’t have let them go out. I grasped the last reason I could bring to mind.
‘Did any of the fishermen look back after the boats had cast off?’ I asked. ‘Did Reuben look back to find me?’
He shook his bearded face slowly from side to side and exhaled deeply.
‘I don’t know, love. I don’t know.’
This made things clearer for me. If everything was in order, it is me who has failed. Thinking this, I struggle not to dig my fingernails deep into my hands. I made dinner for him most passionately and waited at the table for him until the lamps snuffed out.
1st December 1781
Today I feel more hopeful that all will be well. I slept deeply and without waking, and this morning the sea was a crisp, clear blue. The seagulls were circling and saluting the good weather, which made me feel that today might be the day — how could the grass and soil not look enticing on a day like this? It was coldly fragrant when I stepped outside — I, all warm in my wool — and the smell from the pilchard cellars was profitable and fresh. No-one could hide in the water on a day like this.
With this thought in mind, I walked down the cobbled hill to the seafront, unsure of the appropriateness of smiling at those I saw. I might smile, knowing what I know, but a smile on the face of a supposed-widow is not something anyone would understand. I know that’s how they see me: tilted heads and wide eyes have made that clear. I can’t blame them; they just don’t know him like I do. I feel sure that my faith in him will be rewarded and on Tom Bawcock’s Eve we will dance a troil in the cellar of his master’s house. The lights from Mousehole on that night will light the way for all the lost men, and the other women in black will wear colour once more.
Jenna Pascoe was down on the seafront when I arrived there. Her ashy locks danced a jig around her rough face in the wind. She had little Henry strapped to her bosom and a basket full of chill oil, eggs and cheese. There was no difficulty between us. She came over with the baby and asked me how I was.
‘I’m feeling brighter today, Jenna,’ I replied, not wanting to give away the depth of my hope. ‘I slept last night,’ I said, as an offering. She placed her basket down on the rough wall and shifted Henry on her chest.
‘Gwen, are you keeping house all right? I know a lot of women struggle, after. Why don’t you come around for your tea? I’ve got plenty in,’ she said, waving a chapped hand towards her basket. The baby sneezed and she looked down to wipe his face and bring the blanket up higher over his head. ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.’
She turned to me as she said this, and put her hand to my forearm, which was pulled, like the other, in a tight wrap over my chest. I struggled to hold myself inside, for joy, but there was something in her manner that made me forget my hopeful feeling, and for a moment I felt something deeper and darker, as if I were leaning over the cliff edge and knew I was going to fall.
‘Gwen, I’ve upset you, I’m sorry. That wasn’t my plan.’
‘No, no, I’m alright,’ I said, looking out over the water to regain my better feeling. ‘Thanks for your worry, Jenna,’ I said, and meant it, in spite of what I knew.
‘Of course, Gwen. We’re all so sorry for you and wish we could do more. The men especially — they find it hard when it’s one of their own. It reminds them that anyone might go over at any time. We all just must hope for the best, mustn’t we?’ she said, glancing down to the stone pathway. A deep breath steadied me. I smiled a little to myself and agreed.
I saw a boat wreck on my way home — oddly, the men lifting it apologised to me and tried to shift it from my view. I ate heartily at Jenna’s, and it became clear to me that no-one knows anything really, at all.
3rd December 1781
Today I cannot breathe, cannot think, I cannot move without my husband here; I’m not sure I’m even the same woman he left. In the night, I awoke to find the darkened room clutching at me with such oppression that I could not breathe, and I must admit, I fell into a darkness that surmounted even the shock of Aubrey’s boy appearing at my door that day after the storm. A beast raged in me that was only stilled by my screaming, as if it were its own voice it was using, rather than mine. After the squall had passed, I lay back upon the greasy pillow and rested my hands on my belly to calm myself down. I tried to focus on Reuben’s face, and was shocked to find him gone from the present, and that I could only imagine him in the past.
I cannot recall the time before the wreckage, except in the halcyon half-light of a passing dream. He’d come through the doorway, soaked to the skin, stinking of fish and with his clothes stiff with salt, and I wouldn’t mind, and we’d kiss and laugh and light the lanterns and then eat the meal that was the everyday representation of my love. My husband. His hands rough like tree-bark and his eyes a salty blue. They dance before me now, twinkling and empty, begging me to get my part in this right so he can return. I wanted to help him today, but I remained in bed, pinned to the sweaty sheets by the weight of my heart. This is all a dream, and it is up to me to wake us up. Today was not good enough though.
6th December 1781
Today my neighbour came and knocked on the door and I was forced to answer it in my nightgown as she would not leave me in peace.
‘Mrs. Silver, are you quite well? The service on the dockside will begin soon; surely you want to attend?’
My unstitched mind pulled straight then and I recalled talk of the service for the missing. How many days have passed?
‘Mrs. Silver, I – would you like to borrow my handkerchief?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I will follow you. I won’t be late.’
‘If you’re sure, Mrs. Silver? There isn’t long now.’
‘Yes, quite sure. Thank you,’ I said.
Salt burnt lines down my face like a lash; I had to close the door to conceal my weakness. I did dress, actually, after that, but somehow the hours went and I was unable to rouse myself to respond to the incessant banging on the door. No meal again tonight. Whatever am I doing with these passing days?
7th December 1781
Last night I did not sleep, and today I could not rise. I was rash about the service and now I worry that he was watching from the frozen water and will think I do not care. If he can read my soul I am safe, but if he can only watch me and wonder then he will think I have abandoned him or that I am dead. Why are all the other wives not helping me? They should be furious that I have failed to complete whatever key thing it was that they managed within that first hour. They must guess how I’ve been idling. Perhaps they fear my moment has passed? I fear it also. But how did they know? Most of us didn’t even realise that there had been a wreckage until the men floated in, clutching planks and each other, on the rip curl that curves around the cove. Aubrey’s boy came to get me as I’d been gutting pilchards in the kitchen and hadn’t heard the cries or taken much heed of the rain. I almost cut my thumb off with the knife as he’d said it and I barely saw a thing as I ran down the hill. He hadn’t been there though. The first snow fell on him today and I lay out in it to feel the chill.
… December 1781
I feel that today is my last chance to redeem myself and steer us both through this nightmare and out into the sun. I see now what I must do. I am going to write this all down and then I can make sure I complete every part; if I fail, this entry can be the word that damns me and I shall accept my punishment with grace. Everyone knows I’ve had enough of a chance.
Today I must go to the market in the suit I married him in and my husband will see this and be glad. I must buy the rennet and come home and make his meal for him and then when he bursts through the door, frozen to the bone after three weeks in the sea, I will fall to my knees and beg his forgiveness for not being able to bring him back sooner. I must lay my pen down now and begin.
God forgive me, if I do not have a sup of brandy I will not be able to steady my frigid hands to write. I started this morning, after detailing my plan in a reasonable humour, and felt optimistic that I could fulfil my promises and make today the day. I tidied and swept and even managed to smile at John when he walked past the door on the way back up to the Huer’s Hut. I then went to the cupboard, basket in hand, to check that rennet was still the only thing I needed and when I got there I was hit by an overwhelming wave of nausea when I saw that the food was covered in white and grey and had begun to putrefy and ooze all over the shelf. How much time has passed since my visit to the market? I’ve had no wash days either, although a Monday has passed, I’m sure. Well, I realised I must rush to market to buy the whole lot again, so hurried to dress and had to steady myself at the dark stain I found upon my lapel. Normally I would have dismissed it as a fancy, but I knew he’d see me so I daubed it quite hurriedly and lay it over the stove; time was of the essence and I added to my own worry by dropping a cup and neglecting my suit until I smelt it singe. I must have cried out as I had to ignore a door knock and then move from the window when Mrs. Morgan came nosing around at the side. As I pulled the suit off the heat, the side of my hand brushed the stove’s edge and for a second the warmth of it reminded me of his skin and his comforting touch, and before I knew it I’d pressed both hands against the burning edge and felt the shock in my nerves jolt through my body, but I held them there, almost enjoying the pain, feeling the connection to him and moving the epicentre of pain from my head. My palms are scarlet now, crinkled and blistered, and my chest feels so tight; I must remove this clothing – God, I cannot breathe. There is no air, no space. I feel as if the blood is gone from my veins. Now I think of it, why am I bothering to write all this down? This is not helping him, it’s just wasting time. Yes, what a fool I’ve been. How strange I feel. I can barely feel my limbs.
The rattle of the wind revived me a moment ago and I curse myself for my weakness. I can’t believe how I’ve neglected him: lying around, writing and thinking of him like he’s dead which is a sin when he’s as much alive as me. Maybe it’s all been an illusion and he can’t see me and I can’t bring him back with my futile efforts? Or perhaps he tries to come home at night but sees the closed door and thinks that I’ve overthrown him for another? Perhaps it’s him that knocks and growls. Yes, yes, that’s it. I must leave this stupid writing now; I have been too subtle in my entreaties. I must go to the water’s edge and then he’d see me and we’d be together and everything will be fixed. Yes, yes, I must ride on the wind until our hands touch one another and we are united for eternity. The halcyon days are soon to come. I will write news of it all tomorrow. O diary, I can feel my heart bursting with heat and blood and light—.
