IV
Cornwall in Childhood

Come, Hygiene, goddess of the growing boy,

I here salute thee in Sanatogen!

Anaemic girls need Virol, but for me

Be Scott’s Emulsion, rusks, and Mellin’s Food,

Cod-liver oil and malt, and for my neck

Wright’s Coal Tar Soap, Euthymol for my teeth.

Come, friends of Hygiene, Electricity

And those young twins, Free Thought and clean Fresh Air:

Attend the long express from Waterloo

That takes us down to Cornwall. Tea-time shows

The small fields waiting, every blackthorn hedge

Straining inland before the south-west gale.

The emptying train, wind in the ventilators,

Puffs out of Egloskerry to Tresméer

Through minty meadows, under bearded trees

And hills upon whose sides the clinging farms

Hold Bible Christians. Can it really be

That this same carriage came from Waterloo?

On Wadebridge station what a breath of sea

Scented the Camel valley! Cornish air,

Soft Cornish rains, and silence after steam …

As out of Derry’s stable came the brake

To drag us up those long, familiar hills,

Past haunted woods and oil-lit farms and on

To far Trebetherick by the sounding sea.

    Oh what a host of questions in me rose:

Were spring tides here or neap? And who was down?

Had Mr. Rosevear built himself a house?

Was there another wreck upon Doom Bar?

The carriage lamps lit up the pennywort

And fennel in the hedges of the lane;

Huge slugs were crawling over slabs of slate;

Then, safe in bed, I watched the long-legg’d fly

With red transparent body tap the walls

And fizzle in the candle flame and drag

Its poisonous-looking abdomen away

To somewhere out of sight and out of mind,

While through the open window came the roar

Of full Atlantic rollers on the beach.

    Then before breakfast down toward the sea

I ran alone, monarch of miles of sand,

Its shining stretches satin-smooth and vein’d.

I felt beneath bare feet the lugworm casts

And walked where only gulls and oyster-catchers

Had stepped before me to the water’s edge.

The morning tide flowed in to welcome me,

The fan-shaped scallop shells, the backs of crabs,

The bits of driftwood worn to reptile shapes,

The heaps of bladder-wrack the tide had left

(Which, lifted up, sent sandhoppers to leap

In hundreds round me) answered “Welcome back!”

Along the links and under cold Bray Hill

Fresh water pattered from an iris marsh

And drowned the golf-balls on its stealthy way

Over the slates in which the elvers hid,

And spread across the beach. I used to stand,

A speculative water engineer—

Here I would plan a dam and there a sluice

And thus divert the stream, creating lakes,

A chain of locks descending to the sea.

Inland I saw, above the tamarisks,

From various villas morning breakfast smoke

Which warned me then of mine; so up the lane

I wandered home contented, full of plans,

Pulling a length of pink convolvulus

Whose blossoms, almost as I picked them, died.

    Bright as the morning sea those early days!

Though there were tears, and sand thrown in my eyes,

And punishments and smells of mackintosh,

Long barefoot climbs to fetch the morning milk,

Terrors from hissing geese and angry shouts,

Slammed doors and waitings and a sense of dread,

Still warm as shallow sea-pools in the sun

And welcoming to me the girls and boys.

    Wet rocks on which our bathing dresses dried;

Small coves, deserted in our later years

For more adventurous inlets down the coast:

Paralysis when climbing up the cliff—

Too steep to reach the top, too far to fall,

Tumbling to death in seething surf below,

A ledge just wide enough to lodge one’s foot,

A sea-pink clump the only thing to clutch,

Cold wave-worn slate so mercilessly smooth

And no one near and evening coming on—

Till Ralph arrived: “Now put your left foot here.

Give us your hand” … and back across the years

I swing to safety with old friends again.

Small seem they now, those once tremendous cliffs,

Diminished now those joy-enclosing bays.

    Sweet were the afternoons of treasure-hunts.

We searched in pairs and lifted after showers

The diamond-sparkling sprays of tamarisk:

Their pendent raindrops would release themselves

And soak our shirt-sleeves. Then upon the links

Under a tee-box lay a baffling clue:

A foursome puffing past the sunlit hedge

With rattling golf bags; all the singing grass

Busy with crickets and blue butterflies;

The burnet moths, the unresponsive sheep

Seemed maddeningly indifferent to our plight …

“Oh, hurry up, man: why, we’re third from last.”

And in the Oakleys’ garden after tea

Of splits and cream under old apple boughs,

With high tide offering prospects of a bathe,

The winners had their prizes. Once I won—

But that was an unfortunate affair:

My mother set the clues and I, the host,

Knew well the likely workings of her mind.

    Do you remember, Joan, the awkward time

When we were non-co-operative at sports,

Refusing to be organized in heats?

And when at last we were, and had to race

Out to low-tide line and then back again,

A chocolate biscuit was the only prize?

I laughed. Miss Tunstall sent me home to bed.

You laughed, but not so loudly, and escaped.

    That was the summer Audrey, Joc and I

And all the rest of us were full of hope:

“Miss Usher’s coming.” Who Miss Usher was,

And why she should be coming, no one asked.

She came, a woman of the open air,

Swarthy and in Girl Guide-y sort of clothes:

How nice she was to Audrey and to Joc,

How very nice to Biddy and to Joan …

But somehow, somehow, not so nice to me.

“I love Miss Usher,” Audrey said. “Don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” I answered. “So do I,” said Joc

“We vote Miss Usher topping. Itchicoo!”

What was it I had done? Made too much noise?

Increased Miss Tunstall’s headache? Disobeyed?

After Miss Usher had gone home to Frant,

Miss Tunstall took me quietly to the hedge:

“Now shall I tell you what Miss Usher said

About you, John?” “Oh please, Miss Tunstall, do!”

“She said you were a common little boy.”

    Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells

And sights, before the dark of reason grows.

Ears! Hear again the wild sou’westers whine!

Three days on end would the September gale

Slam at our bungalows; three days on end

Rattling cheap doors and making tempers short.

It mattered not, for then enormous waves

House-high rolled thunderous on Greenaway,

Flinging up spume and shingle to the cliffs.

Unmoved amid the foam, the cormorant

Watched from its peak. In all the roar and swirl

The still and small things gained significance.

Somehow the freckled cowrie would survive

And prawns hang waiting in their watery woods;

Deep in the noise there was a core of peace;

Deep in my heart a warm security.

    Nose! Smell again the early morning smells:

Congealing bacon and my father’s pipe;

The after-breakfast freshness out of doors

Where sun had dried the heavy dew and freed

Acres of thyme to scent the links and lawns;

The rotten apples on our shady path

Where blowflies settled upon squashy heaps,

Intent and gorging; at the garden gate

Reek of Solignum on the wooden fence;

Mint round the spring, and fennel in the lane,

And honeysuckle wafted from the hedge;

The Lynams’ cess-pool like a body-blow;

Then, clean, medicinal and cold—the sea.

“Breathe in the ozone, John. It’s iodine.”

But which is iodine and which is drains?

Salt and hot sun on rubber water-wings …

Home to the luncheon smell of Irish stew

And washing-up stench from the kitchen sink

Because the sump is blocked. The afternoons

Brought coconut smell of gorse; at Mably’s farm

Sweet scent of drying cowdung; then the moist

Exhaling of the earth in Shilla woods—

First earth encountered after days of sand.

Evening brought back the gummy smell of toys

And fishy stink of glue and Stickphast paste,

And sleep inside the laundriness of sheets.

    Eyes! See again the rock-face in the lane,

Years before tarmac and the motor-car.

Across the estuary Stepper Point

Stands, still unquarried, black against the sun;

On its Atlantic face the cliffs fall sheer.

Look down into the weed world of the lawn—

The devil’s-coach-horse beetle hurries through,

Lifting its tail up as I bar the way

To further flowery jungles.

                                              See once more

The Padstow ferry, worked by oar and sail,

Her outboard engine always going wrong,

Ascend the slippery quay’s up-ended slate,

The sea-weed hanging from the harbour wall.

Hot was the pavement under, as I gazed

At lanterns, brass, rope and ships’ compasses

In the marine-store window on the quay.

The shoe-shop in the square was cool and dark.

The Misses Quintrell, fancy stationers,

Had most to show me—dialect tales in verse

Published in Truro (Netherton and Worth)

And model lighthouses of serpentine.

Climb the steep hill to where that belt of elm

Circles the town and church tower, reached by lanes

Whose ferny ramparts shelter toadflax flowers

And periwinkles. See hydrangeas bloom

In warm back-gardens full of fuchsia bells.

To the returning ferry soon draws near

Our own low bank of sand-dunes; then the walk

Over a mile of quicksand evening-cold.

    It all is there, excitement for the eyes,

Imagined ghosts on unfrequented roads

Gated and winding up through broom and gorse

Out of the parish, on to who knows where?

What pleasure, as the oil-lamp sparkled gold

On cut-glass tumblers and the flip of cards,

To feel protected from the night outside:

Safe Cornish holidays before the storm!