Blow, Bonny Breeze by Stephen Silvester

The big man filled the doorway of The Smack Inn, blocking out the insistent daylight. ‘Samuel Root?’ he boomed into the gloom.

A wiry little figure leapt up from a table in the depths of the room and scurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ned Polley?’ The other grunted. ‘Welcome. How was the journey?’

‘Long. Hard on the arse.’

‘Ale will see to that.’ Root waved and slopping tankards appeared. ‘Parents well?’

‘Mother same as ever. Father won’t see fifty again but good for a few years yet.’

‘Sorry about your uncle.’

‘Took me an age to read your letter.’

‘Was going to ask the parson to write it for me, but thought I’d better do it myself. Joseph Playle was a decent man. Had his strange ways, as some bachelors do, but a good master – and friend – nonetheless.’

They drank in silence as Polley absorbed this. The only image he had of the uncle he had never met was the one he had put together from scraps of his mother’s reminiscences of the childhood and youth shared with her brother before she married John Polley and moved to Maldon. Ned banged down his tankard, stood up and stretched, touching the ceiling. ‘Got to keep moving or I’ll stiffen up. Let’s go and see that boat.’

They moved briskly to the quay, Root trotting to keep up with Polley’s easy stride. ‘There she is, the Merry Meg,’ he said, stopping and pointing, then peered up, beetle-browed, to catch a reaction, but there was none. Polley stood motionless in contemplation. He had the ruddy complexion of the outdoor vigorous man, red-tinged fair hair that stuck out uncontrollably and clearly hadn’t been cut for a while, and big blue eyes that betokened an easy good nature but no lack of resolution. ‘Named by your grandfather, Henry Playle, after his wife, Margaret.’

‘Looks in fine fettle.’

‘Joseph loved that boat better than a wife. Lived for her. Died on her.’

‘Apoplexy you wrote.’

‘Reached up sudden for something that wasn’t there, went stock-still, then down like a felled tree. Hit the deck with a bang and never moved again.’ He watched Polley nodding, taking it all in, then changed subject. ‘Shall we go aboard? She’s all ready.’

‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. Call for me at daybreak. I’ll be staying  at The Smack until I find lodgings. Right now I’m still thirsty. Join me. Ale, vittles and bed are what I need.’

The night’s cool still lingered when Polley emerged into the uncertain morning light, to find Root standing sentry on the threshold. ‘Morning, Captain.’

‘Ned will do, I think, Samuel. You sound cheerful.’

‘Going to be a fine day. Ned.’

Nearing the boat, Polley saw there was someone already on the quay beside her. ‘Who’s this, Samuel?’

‘This is Tom Gentry. By name, not by birth. Just look at him.’ Tom was a dirty, ragged boy with a big grin. He looked about fourteen, but was already taller than Root. ‘He’s our prentice, learning the ropes. Knows all his knots, don’t you, Tom?’ The boy grinned wider and nodded.

‘How old are you, boy?’ asked Polley.

‘I think I’m twelve, sir. I’ve got three brothers and the littlun’s this big.’ He flattened his hand somewhere around hip height.

Root had been as good as his word, Polley confirmed as he appraised his inheritance and future living, tugging, shoving, tapping and patting proprietarily. In an hour they were ready to set sail, but Polley had first to answer a call of nature. On his way back he passed a tiny woman sitting on a pile of old nets and wicker creels. She was watching the fishermen making their way to their boats.

‘What cheer, mother?’ one of them called out as he passed her. She removed a clay pipe from the convenient gap between two of her remaining teeth.

‘None for you, boy, unless you cross my palm. Better not be copper. Copper tarnishes.’

The man laughed and gave her something. She spotted Polley. ‘Buy a fair wind,’ she quavered, stretching a knotted length of cord. Tiny eyes, jet buttons, were sunk deep in their sockets. Grey or just very dirty yellow hair was pulled back in a bun from a mask of grime-filled wrinkles. Polley ignored her and walked on.

‘They call her Mother Moore,’ Root explained when asked about the woman. ‘Don’t know why. Never had children far as I know. They say she’s a sea witch. You saw that thing with the knots? If she unties one, you get a light breeze, two, a strong wind, three, more than any man will ever want. Did you give her anything?’ Polley shook his head. ‘Your uncle did, now and then.’

Polley thought ‘More fool him,’ but said, more respectfully, ‘Didn’t do him any good, did it?’

They were soon in the middle of the estuary, the swelling sails pushing them steadily towards Oaze Deep. Suddenly the sky clouded, the wind dropped, the sails sagged, and water lapping against the motionless hull was the only sound. All at once the furies were unleashed: a monstrous wind from nowhere heaved the water into yellow-green mountains, spitting at their peaks, waiting to crash down. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped in unison; the boat was in the eye of the storm.

‘It’s the witch!’ The tumult tore away Tom’s scream.

A concerted punch of wave and wind knocked her sideways. There was no time to lower the sails; the boat heeled, the waves played with the mast a little, then swallowed it. Ned grabbed an axe, but instead of attacking the tangled mass of rigging and sail that threatened to drag them under, struck the bows three shuddering blows, bellowing ‘Two can play at that.’ As he lifted the axe for the third time, a flash fixed his image as though for ever, a future woodcut.

At once wind and sea gave up and the boat slowly righted itself. The relieved clouds raced off, leaving the sun to beam benignly at placid water. The Merry Meg limped back with the help of oars.

Leigh hadn’t been touched by the storm. Ned noticed a small crowd on the quay. Leaving Samuel and the boy to tie up and start on the mess that was the boat, he ran to see what was going on. The crowd parted before the big stranger. Mother Moore had turned turtle, legs and arms reaching for the sky, the unravelled cord still in one claw, eyes sunken further to oblivion. Three neat furrows glistened crimson between the sparse grey strands.

* * *

In memory of Ray Burgoyne (1945 – 2026), sometime inhabitant of Leigh and Maldon.

Stephen Silvester

Image by Alan Frijns from Pixabay – a dark and stormy sea with white capped waves.