Kate Sedley: The Prodigal Son

‘I suppose not,’ the stranger conceded. ‘It was foolish of me to expect any news just yet. But my mother’s worried. Colin’s her baby. He’s only just twenty. She didn’t want him to join the ship in the first place. Did everything she could to dissuade him. But he was always mad for adventure, even as a tiny boy. I’m his elder by three years, but he was always the one who got me into trouble when we were young, not, as you might expect, the other way around.’

‘Did your father have nothing to say in the matter?’

My companion shook his head. ‘Matthew O’Neill is our stepfather. He’ll offer advice, but he won’t interfere in our lives. He says that’s up to our mother.’

‘You’re not an Irishman by birth, then,’ I hazarded. It was a guess, but that faint, underlying west country intonation and the increasing certainty that he and I had met before, made it a possibility.

He smiled. ‘No. My name’s John Wedmore, and that’s where I was born, like my — my father, Ralph, before me.’ He gave me a quick, sideways glance, as though afraid I might have noticed that slight hesitation, but I played the innocent and smiled blandly. ‘I grew up on my grandparents’ sheep farm. But I’m boring you.’

‘Not at all,’ I protested politely, far more interested than I was prepared to let on. ‘Your own father died?’ I made it a question.

‘Ten years ago this month. I was thirteen, Colin nearly eleven. The following year, my mother met and married Matthew O’Neill while he was on pilgrimage to Glastonbury, and we went to live with him in Ireland. He’s a farmer, like my mother’s first husband, except he doesn’t raise sheep. Cattle, horses, pigs … Southern Ireland’s pasture is as rich as that of Somerset and Devon. Richer, probably.’ He spoke with simple pride, a man happy in his adopted land.

Hercules jogged my right knee with his cold, wet nose, leaving a dirty damp patch on my breeches and reminding me that we had been stationary long enough. Outside, the sun was shining and it was time to be on our way again. But I was reluctant to leave. Two things intrigued me. First, why had this stranger, this John Wedmore, thought it worthwhile to give me his life’s history? With no one else in the Lattis had he exchanged more than a few words. He had asked his question, received an answer and moved on, ignoring any attempt to detain him in idle chatter. But with me, he had sat himself down and plunged into conversation. All right, I know I’m nosy. Enough people have told me so for me to accept that it must be true (even if I prefer to call it being interested in my fellow men. And women, of course. That goes without saying).

Second, I had noted — without, however, showing any sign of doing so — his curious reference to ‘my mother’s first husband’. An odd way, to say the least, of referring to his father.

Hercules gave me another prod, then tried to scramble into my lap, thus ensuring that he could no longer be ignored. If I wasn’t careful, he would perform his favourite trick and cock his leg against one of mine; and I had no desire to stink of dog pee for the rest of the day. I rose and offered the stranger my hand.

‘I must go,’ I said, adding truthfully, ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope you soon get news of your brother.’

He clasped my hand, holding it for perhaps a little too long, and I had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of telling me something important. But if he had been, he suddenly changed his mind.

‘Of the ship and all its crew,’ he amended, adding with a slight smile, ‘You’re not from Bristol, are you? At a guess, I’d say you were born in or around Wells.’ My surprise must have been obvious and he laughed. ‘Not all west country people speak alike, whatever foreigners might think. My mother comes from there, and I recognize the accent. Her name before her marriage was Ann Acton. Perhaps you might have heard of her? Or of the family?’

Regretfully, I shook my head. Cudgel my brains as I might, I could recall no one of the name of Acton.

‘No, I’m sorry.’

He grimaced wryly. ‘There’s no need to be. I doubt that there’s anyone of the name left nowadays. To be honest, Mother never talks of her family, and I’ve never met a single member of it … You’d better go. That hound of yours is giving you the evil eye. I don’t think his intentions towards you are honourable.’

I grinned. ‘You’re right. He has a very obnoxious habit when annoyed.’ I held out my hand for the second time. ‘I’ll wish you good-day, then, Master Wedmore.’

If I didn’t exactly forget the stranger, there was enough going on during the next few days for me to push him to the back of my mind.

I was at last managing to get more sleep at nights as Saint James’s fair drew to a close; but by day, all roads leading from the city were choked with the carts and pack horses of the departing merchants and stallholders. I pleaded the impossibility of selling anything in the countryside at present given such competition; for none of the travellers was averse to making detours into the villages and communities they passed, in order to make a little extra money. (Although, heaven knew, they must have made sufficient money to tide themselves and their families through the harshest of winters and the bleakest of springs in the greatest comfort imaginable, in spite of the depredations of cut-purses and pickpockets, who must also now be looking forward to a life of unparalleled luxury.)

Adela, however, woman-like, refused to accept this eminently sound piece of reasoning and accused me, point-blank, of laziness. Me! A hard-working husband and father ever striving to do his best for his nearest and dearest. I was hurt, and said so. She told me not to be such a hypocrite; and what started as a half-friendly spat might easily have turned into a full-scale domestic war had Adam not chosen that particular moment to tumble downstairs. He wasn’t really hurt, but throughout his life, Adam has always been able to turn a very small molehill into a very large mountain by making the greatest possible noise about everything. And this occasion was no exception. His shrieks, cries and groans brought everyone, including Hercules, to his assistance, and it was some time before he could be mollified. And of course it was just my luck that he was still sobbing pathetically on Adela’s lap when Margaret Walker, my quondam mother-in-law and Adela’s cousin, decided to pay us a visit from her home in Redcliffe.

‘That child is allowed too much freedom,’ she opined, at the same time eyeing up and down a rather bedraggled Nicholas and Elizabeth. ‘They all are, if you want my opinion. Those two look as if they’ve been playing on the Avon mud-banks.’

They probably had, but both Adela and I denied the accusation hotly, once more close and united in defence of our offspring. I even went so far as to pat Adam’s curly head, and was promptly thumped for my pains by the ungrateful little sweetheart.

Margaret turned on me. ‘Why aren’t you working on such a fine day?’

I repeated my excuses, which were dismissed with even more scorn than that shown by my wife, but Adela was always loyal — one of her many virtues — and would allow no one to criticize me except herself.

‘Why have you come, cousin?’ she asked quietly.

Margaret bridled with indignation at the suggestion that her visit might have any other motive than to see her granddaughter, Elizabeth, and how we all went on. But she obviously had various titbits of news she was anxious to impart, amongst others that there was growing anxiety and unease in the city concerning the disappearance of John Jay’s ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

‘There’s been no positive sighting of it for some time now. And to make matters worse, Maria Watkins informs me that John Jay has died during this past week.’