Bourne puffed once more, then said quietly, ‘Who wants t’ know?’
‘Why, he had an elder brother who’s my papa. They parted years afore I was born, some sort o’ misunderstanding. M’ father’s gettin’ frail an’ hoped t’ be reconciled. Now I have to write t’ him, you understand.’
Bourne got to his feat, crossed to the fire and knocked out his pipe on a log. He turned, but did not resume his chair, looking at Kydd with an unsettling intensity.
Then his gaze shifted; his wife was standing rigid behind Kydd, staring at her husband. His eyes returned to Kydd. ‘You’re a smart lad. What d’ they call ye?’
‘I’m Thomas – Tom Kydd.’ He looked steadily at the older man. ‘An’ do I call ye Uncle?’ he added softly.
In the stillness the hardwood fire snapped and spat, sending up fountains of red sparks. For a long time Bourne held his silence, until Kydd thought he had not heard. Then he spoke. ‘I guess you do that,’ he said.
‘Come, lass, sit by we,’ Kydd’s uncle said, after composure had been regained and whisky had been downed. She moved over and sat on the floor, close.
‘I’m goin’ t’ tell ye the whole nine yards, Thomas – Tom. It’s a long ways fr’m here to Guildford, so don’t go makin’ judgements before you’ve heard me out. I told ye no lie. About seven, eight year ago I weren’t happy. Ye might say I was miserable. I got t’ thinkin’ about life ’n’ all, and knew I was a-wastin’ the years God gave me. So I did somethin’ about it. Simple, really. I did a deal with m’ partner – Ned Gilman, right true sort he were. I spelled out t’ him that if he said I was took by a bear, an’ let me start a new life, I’d let him have the business. We shook on it, an’ I guess that’s it – here I am.’
‘Just – gave him th’ business?’
‘I did. But he suffered for it!’ His face wrinkled in amusement. ‘Folk said th’ bear tale was all a story – that really he’d murthered me an’ left me t’ rot, while he came back alone ’n’ claimed th’ business.’
Kydd remembered the hostility his enquiries had met and now understood. ‘Will ye leave y’r bones here, d’ye think?’ It was a far, far place, England, where ancient churches and the old ways comforted, with graveyards, ceremony and mourning at life’s end. What was there of that in this raw land?
‘Tom, you don’t know this land, y’ never lived here. It’s hard, break-y’r-heart bad at times, but it’s beautiful – because it’s so hard.’
He stood up suddenly. ‘Come wi’ me.’ He strode to the door and out into the gathering dusk. The sun was going down in a display of soft lilac and grey; a mist hung over the still waters and the peace was only broken by the secret sounds of nature.
‘See there? It’s a land so big we don’t know how far it is t’ the other side. It’s new an’ raw, open to all – the west an’ the north is all waiting, mile on mile o’ country without it’s seen a man. But that’s what I want, t’ be at peace. M’ heart is here, Tom, where I c’n live like God means me to.’
Kydd saw his face light up as he spoke. ‘How d’ ye live? Y’r carving?’
Turning to him the older man spoke quietly but firmly. ‘T’ you, I’m a poor man. I ask ye to think of what I have here – all m’ time is my own, all of it. This place is mine, I built it m’self as I want it. And yes, I carve – in winter y’ has a lot o’ time, an’ what better than t’ create with y’r own hands?’
He chuckled. ‘Y’ saw the choughs. I didn’t think t’ see anyone fr’m old Guildford here. But it keeps me in coin enough t’ meet m’ needs.’ He threw open a door to a side cabin. In the gloom Kydd could see huge figures: griffons, mermaids, solemn aldermen and long, decorative side panels. The odour of fresh-carved timber chips was resinous and powerful. ‘The yards ’re startin’ for th’ year. They’ll be wantin’ the winter’s work now.’
They trudged back to the main cabin. A train-oil lamp was burning inside, intensifying the shadows, while the smell of beef pie and potatoes eddied about.
‘Now, m’ lad, how’s about you tell me about Guildford an’ y’r folks?’
Kydd talked of the old country, of the stirring changes that had resulted from this final great war with the French, the school they had bravely started, the appearance of various little ones in the family. At one point Kydd stopped, letting the stillness hang, then asked carefully, ‘We were told there was a misunderstanding with my papa, Uncle. Was it s’ bad you remember it t’ this day?’