The Dragon in the Cliff (4 page)

Dr. Carpenter told us that Papa's consumption was far gone. When the doctor left, Mama went back upstairs to where Papa was lying in bed. We could hear her weeping through the closed door. Hearing Mama cry, the little ones started to cry, too. John shrieked. I picked him up and tried to quiet him, jiggling him up and down in my arms. Ann stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at the closed door, bleating like a little lamb, “Mama, Mama.” Tears were streaming down her red face. I slipped my arm around her shoulders, but she would not be comforted.

Papa recovered somewhat in a few weeks and returned to his work in the cabinet shop. He also insisted on going to the beach to collect curiosities. Mama pleaded with him not to go, but he would not listen. “I'm still well enough to feed my family,” he replied, taking the sack of tools from the shelf. He went out the door without looking back.

Mama was beside herself with worry about Papa's health. Thinking that Papa might listen to his older brother, Uncle Philip, she sent a message to Bridport. Uncle Philip walked the ten miles to Lyme, arriving on Sunday when Papa was out visiting friends.

“He's a stubborn man,” Uncle Philip said to Mama. “Never could tell him anything. If he's determined to go down to the beach, he'll go no matter what you say. Someone should go along with him.”

Mama, who was sitting opposite him at the table, threw out her hands helplessly. “Joseph cannot go. He's bound to Mr. Hale, and John's still a baby. Mary is old enough, and she's a strong lass, but she's in school most of the time.”

Uncle Philip took several deep puffs on his pipe, sending clouds of blue-white smoke into the air. We watched the smoke thin in the air for what seemed like minutes. Then he said, “Molly, you know I don't agree with your sending Mary to school. Girls don't need book learning. Gives them ideas. A whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither good to God nor men. Let her go along to watch after her father.”

“Oh, Mama, may I? May I?” I burst in.

Mama did not even turn to look at me. “He'll not complain about that,” she said to Uncle Philip with a bitter laugh. “He's been taking her along since she was just a little one. Didn't care what I or anyone else said against it.”

“Well then, all the better. She seems eager enough,” he said, turning to me, “aren't you, Mary?” I nodded and he continued. “She can keep an eye on him while she helps with the collecting and brings some money in. I've none to spare, Molly. And Richard tells me there hasn't been much work in the shop.”

Mama sighed. “I don't like it, Philip,” she said. “It's not work for a lass. The neighbors talk. They blame me for her going down there where she doesn't belong. You know they are carrying on the free trade on the beach now with Napoleon and the blockade. It's not the smugglers themselves I worry about. They are our own folk. Some of our neighbors are in that line. It's the fights with the Customs men that scare me. She could be caught between the two.”

“Like it or not, Molly, it is better than being so poor you cannot feed yourself. And Richard will never apply to the parish for relief. He's too proud to accept handouts,” Uncle Philip replied.

Mama looked up from her work with tears in her eyes. She bit her lip and looked away without saying anything. And so it was decided that my schooling was to end.

It was as if I had been set free, free from Mrs. Harris and her beatings, free from the boredom of sitting with the other girls at school practicing fine needlework, free from their sharp tongues, their backbiting, and their snobbery. I would miss sitting near Lizzie Adams and whispering with her when Mrs. Harris's back was turned. But there was little else about school I would miss. I was going to the beach with Papa.

The next morning I rushed through the breakfast dishes and bounded into the shop to begin my
real
education. Seeing me, Papa shook his head. “Mary, you are sadly mistaken if you think that collecting curiosities is always exciting. Now that you are here with me every day you shall see that I have my share of slow, hard work, and today is one of those days. I have curiosities to prepare for the travelers, and that is just as slow and careful work as lace making or needlework.”

“Oh, but Papa, I love working down here with you,” I protested.

“We'll see what you think after you have been at it a bit,” Papa said dryly. “I'm going to teach you how to cut an ammonite so that its insides can be seen. The ladies who come to bathe in the sea find their swirling chambers beautiful, and I can sell all I can cut.”

He showed me how to choose which curiosities to open and how to saw the soft stone with a toothless metal band and wet sand. “The trick is to keep the sand in the path of the saw wet,” he said, loosening the peg in the barrel he had rigged so that water dribbled onto the sand from a hole in the bottom. “Actually it is the wet sand that does the cutting, not the saw.”

I was clumsy, and I found that while the stone was not hard as stone goes, it was hard enough to make my progress slow. Papa took over from me after a while so that the ammonite would be ready for the next day when the coach came bringing the travelers and visitors who were our most frequent customers. When the curiosity was finally cut through, Papa set me to polishing it with wet sand on a slab of limestone. For a final polishing he showed me how to use a wet leather cloth covered with chalk dust. “Now it will fetch a pretty penny,” he said approvingly, when I showed him the polished fossil.

“It's so beautiful, and it took so long. Can't we keep it ourselves?” I begged.

Papa shook his head. “No, Mary, my dear. We can't keep it, lovely as it is, no more than Mama can keep the lace she makes, or I the tables and cabinets.”

I was disappointed and asked, “Why is it only rich people who can have fine things?”

“You know as well as I, Mary, they have them because they can afford to pay for them,” Papa replied. “And I don't need to tell you that we need the money it will bring in. So we had better get on with the work and get some other things ready as well.”

The next morning, before going off to the smith's to have the chisels sharpened, I set the ammonite out on the table with the other curiosities we had for sale. It was gone when I returned. I meant to ask Papa who bought it, but my question was forgotten in the rush of customers.

The days that followed were, like the first, filled with lessons—where to find curiosities, how to get them out of the rock, and how to prepare them so that they show to advantage. Papa showed me the best places to look for certain curiosities. I knew that the cliffs were made up of layers of rock, one laid upon the other. But it was Papa who told me that Lias means layers. “You'll find different curiosities in different layers. Some places, like the Black Ven marl and the Church Cliffs' blue Lias, are rich in curiosities, and others, like the upper green sand over toward Golden Cap, have little of worth.”

The next few months were crammed with such lessons. Now I can see that Papa was in a hurry to teach me everything he knew. And I, not truly understanding why he was paying so much attention to me, was happy just to be with him and eager to learn everything he taught me.

October is often mild with blue skies and deceptively warm days that make one forget the cold, gray days that lie ahead. It was on one such fine October day, when he was feeling strong, that Papa set out for Captain Locke's in Charmouth, just two miles away. He did not return when we expected him. It was already dark when Joseph stopped by to say hello. Mama, becoming anxious, asked Joseph to stay until Papa returned. She lit the candles. The little ones were hungry. Mama put supper on the table. We ate, listening for Papa's footsteps. Even John, who was only five years old, understood that something was the matter and was quiet. We finished supper and still Papa had not returned. We cleared the table, washed the dishes, sat, and waited.

There was an abrupt knocking at the door to the shop. We all jumped up at once. Papa would not knock. Who could it be? All of us tumbled down the stairs, one on the heels of the other. Joseph reached the door first and opened it. It was Mr. Clements, who worked for the Customs. Standing behind him was a large, red-bearded man we did not recognize, holding Papa in his arms.

“We were on the trail of some smugglers when we found him lying halfway down the cliff. He must have fallen,” Mr. Clements told Mama, as Joseph and I took Papa from the arms of the red-bearded man.

I don't know how we got Papa up the steep, narrow stairs to bed, but we did. For several days he lay there, too weak to say anything. Then he seemed to be regaining his strength. The Reverend Gleed came and sat by Papa's bedside for some time. When he came down, he told us that Papa wanted to see us.

Joseph, who had not returned to Mr. Hale's since Papa was brought home, was the first one up the stairs, followed by Mama, John, Ann, and me. Mama sat down next to Papa and grasped his limp hand in hers. John stood next to her, finger in his mouth, almost hidden by her skirts, and right behind him was Ann, wide-eyed with fear.

“Now, Molly, don't cry,” Papa whispered, as Mama bent over him, smoothing his hair back. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Don't cry,” he whispered hoarsely, struggling to sit up.

Mama tried to help him, while Joseph arranged the pillows behind his back to support him. I remember thinking as I watched them, how small he seemed. He had been a big man, and now he was small. Yet I could not remember him growing smaller. When he was sitting, Papa looked at us. He tried to say something and began to cough. Helplessly, we watched as each cough racked his body. When he stopped coughing, he fell back on the pillows weakly. Mama wiped the blood from his lips.

He looked out the window. Our eyes followed his gaze. “It's strange how you think that everything will stop when you stop,” he said after a minute. “But see, the sun is still shining and the tide is coming in. They'll be here long after I'm gone. So will you, my dears, so will you. But I'm afraid to think of what will become of you. I've tried my best to provide for you, but I have failed.”

“Now, Richard—” Mama started to protest.

But Papa cut her off, “These are hard times, Molly, no use denying.…” He turned to Joseph. “I planned for you to work here with me, son, but that shall not be. You'll be on your own when you finish at Mr. Hale's. You will be a fine upholsterer, that I know. And you will be a fine man, too. Be good to your mother, brother, and sisters. They need care and protection, and will only have you to look to.” Joseph nodded, wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

“Mary, my child, you are a good girl, and you will be a fine woman. I have tried my best to prepare you for what is coming in the only way I know how—the curiosities. They are not enough, but they are something. Listen to your mother, she knows what is best. And to Joseph, who will be the man of the family. Help them.” I was crying, and I could not manage to say anything. I threw my arms around Papa and clutched him tightly, as if holding him would keep him. Mama gently pulled me away.

I did not hear what Papa said to Ann. Mama held John up for Papa to kiss, then she motioned for us all to leave so she could be alone with him for a few minutes before he fell back asleep.

Papa died later that day. A day I shall always remember as the turning point in my life: November 5, 1810. I was eleven years old.

THE CURIOSITIES WILL SAVE US

There are things one thinks will never be forgotten, but one tries to remember them, only to find that all one can recall are bits and pieces. Take Papa, for example. I thought I would always remember what Papa looked like, but when I try to conjure up an image of him now all I can remember are fragments—his thin, dark hair, his high forehead, his pale blue eyes, but not his entire face; his fine hands with their long fingers as they worked on the feathery head of a sea lily, but not his entire self. That is the way I remember the time after he died, in patches. I do not remember going to the cemetery or burying Papa, except that it was cold and raining. Oddly enough, I do remember a lot about the gathering at our house when we came back.

Fearing that Mama would be in no state to provide for the mourners, the neighbors brought cakes and ale. Mama, who had been crying and pacing the house in a daze since Papa was brought home from the beach, managed to compose herself and to listen as Uncle Philip recalled how Papa had wandered on the beach when he was a little boy. “He read in a book that nature was God's handiwork and whenever we asked him what he was doing down there, he would say he was investigating God's wonders,” Uncle Philip said. He bit his lip, shook his head, and turned away so we would not see him wipe his eye.

Captain Locke, whom Papa had been visiting when he was brought back to the house that last time, consumed several glasses of ale and his red face became redder than usual, especially his nose. He stood somewhat shakily, grabbed hold of the table, and proceeded to make a speech about Papa. “He was quick, Anning was,” he said, “once he set his mind to finding curiosities, he learned everything there is to know. I showed him where they were and what I knew, but he knew more than I did in no time at all. Finding things I never seen before.” He shook his head sadly, paused for a second, and lifted his glass, saying, “To Richard Anning,” before gulping down its contents.

Mr. Littlejohn, the stonemason, made a long rambling speech, saying how Papa was a fine craftsman, but that English craftsmen and workingmen were being squeezed and starved because of the war with Napoleon, while people of the upper classes with their land and their speculations were making money on the war. He went on at great length about the war and the French. The bit I like best came at the end of the speech. He said that Papa was an honest man who was forced by the times to turn from his original trade to another. And to that other, the curiosities, he brought all the craftsmanship and honesty with which he had practiced furniture making.