Julian Stockwin - Artemis

There was a scream of delight as his mother appeared. She clung to him as though he would vanish again before her eyes. His father stood at the door but held back. 'Welcome home, son,' his mother said tearfully, her eyes running over his lean figure. 'Get your sailor costume off, dear, and I'll have such a dish ready for you as will warm the cockles.' Her hands went to his jacket, working at the buttons. Something in Cecilia's manner communicated itself to her, and the fussing turned to flustered prattle. His father remained still, staring at him.

Kydd took a deep breath and strode over to him. 'I hope I find ye well, Father,' he said.

A smile broke the deep lines of his father's face, and his hand came out, hesitantly. Kydd's generous nature surged to the fore — it was not the man's fault that mortal weakness was laying its hands on him. The room burst into excited babble; Kydd was back in the bosom of his family, and they all wanted to hear of his awful adventures.

Once again the rightful inhabitant of the tiny room above the shop, he peeled off his seaman's rig — for the last time. He laid it down tenderly, smoothing the folds, then pulled on his knee breeches and snuff-coloured ruffled waistcoat. It felt flimsy, constricting, after his stout sailor's wear. He felt contempt, hatred for it building.

There was a tiny knock at the door. Cecilia stood there, small and vulnerable. Struggling, she spoke in an unnatural voice. 'Tom — thank you.' Wrestling his thoughts he crossed to her and hugged her tight. 'Need t' get used to it again, is all,' he mumbled.

The days passed with leaden steps. One by one reminders of his sea life faded into the past. The softness of his bed had been suffocating, and he slept on the floor for the first few nights; his mother had quietly got rid of his seaman's knife, which had been at his side every waking moment before, and his wooden ditty box containing his personal treasures was replaced by a sensible porcelain dish.

His pigtail did not last either. Cecilia chopped and scissored at its gleaming length and it fell forlornly to the floor. As a perruquier, it just would not do not to wear a wig himself. What was left of the prize money was gratefully accepted, but by unspoken consent after that first night, his time at sea was never again mentioned.

Kydd took to walking alone. It was possible to make the journey from Pewley Downs to Shere along the crest of the North Downs, and in the summer warmth it was a bright and pretty sight. His thoughts were free to roam wherever he wanted. The North Downs had a dual view with a certain meaning for Kydd. On one hand, to the north-east there was the flat plain that led to London, its presence betrayed by a distant pall of dun-coloured smoke. The fleet anchorage of the Nore, where as a pressed man he had spent his first days in the Navy, was not so very far beyond. Over in the other direction was the road south, to the many seaports of the coast, where as many as two hundred sail at a time could be seen from the white cliffs. Unlike any of the others he met on his walks, he knew full well what lay beyond the grey waves breaking ashore.

In the shop, business was not good. Cecilia had been right: the fashion sweeping in from revolutionary Europe for unrestrained hair had a strong hold now and the future for wig-making looked bleak. There was still a small but reliable demand from physicians, the richer merchants and the like, but the Kydds had to compete against a larger establishment in Godalming that could deliver faster.

Kydd's days were now circumscribed by long hours in the workshop punctuated by periods of soul-destroying inactivity behind the counter, waiting for custom. The days turned to weeks and he felt his soul shrivel.

After listlessly serving ribbons to the voluble Mrs Coombs he looked up from the counter at the person who had just entered — dusty and travel-worn, carrying a ragged bag and in a worn blue sailor's jacket. It was Renzi. He held out his hand.

Kydd couldn't respond at first; it was like seeing a ghost. He was caught utterly off-balance. 'W-well met, sir,' he stuttered, not knowing how to deal with a man he knew to be well-born, but in quite different circumstances his particular friend.

Renzi reached out, took Kydd's hand and shook it warmly. He was shocked at the changes he saw, the slow responses, the downcast look. It was also a grievously sad travesty, seeing Kydd's broad shoulders and lithe foretopman's body draped in wig and breeches and the tight, faded brocade waistcoat. 'Were I to beg shelter for the night, I fear I would sadly inconvenience,' he said, and watched anguish chase delight on his friend's features. 'Nicholas - but o' course! But—'

'I have a story to tell, but it must wait. If you would be so good as to conduct me to a tailor's I will do my best not to shame you to your family — and then we will dine.'

Renzi became another being in long clothes. In anonymous black, a severe and unadorned black, his natural patrician authority readily asserted itself. Other clients in the saloon respectfully made way for them both and they sat down to a dish of salmagundi.

'You'll be stayin' long in town?' Kydd asked, fearful of the reply.

'No plans at the moment, my friend.'

'Then you shall stay at home — my room is yours.' A bed could be made on the floor of the shop for himself.

The cured fish went down rapidly, as did the jug of porter.

'You wonder at my visitation,' Renzi said finally. Kydd smiled, so he went on. 'Artemis is still in dock, we are sent away on leave,' he said, playing with a fork. 'I thought it proper to visit my family. I posted to the village and walked to the estate.' Renzi seemed to have some difficulty with the tale. Kydd recalled that after a particularly harsh Act of Enclosure by Renzi's father a tenant farmer's son had committed suicide. Out of the highest sensibility and purest logic, Renzi had taken this personally as a moral crime by his family, and in expiation, had sentenced himself to five years' exile at sea, an extraordinary act of self-denial.

Renzi leaned back with a twisted smile. 'At the boundary of the last field I — remembered, saw again the body hanging in the barn.' He looked intensely at his fork. 'I could not go on. I tried, but could not.' His voice was thick, the first time Kydd had heard it so overborne by emotion. 'The nights I slept under a hedge — it was nonsensical, and so here I am.' His eyes glimmered.

He signalled to the pot-boy. 'Well met — indeed it is!' He smiled, and saw Kydd's fumbling. 'In the article of prize money,' he said gently, 'except for a slight indulgence in poetry I have not had the opportunity to get rid of it before now. Allow me to -. . .'

The claret was passable and under its influence Renzi heard Kydd's story. His heart went out to his friend, for there was little that he could do himself, cut off from his own family and wealth. It needed a long-term solution, but in the time before he must repair back aboard his ship there was little chance that one would be found.

Kydd's mother was surprised at her son's general rally, and therefore looked at his visitor with some interest. Cecilia's hand flew to her mouth when she recognised him. Renzi's impeccable manners and kind attentions quickly charmed the house and he was warmly welcomed.

On occasion Renzi caught some thoughtful looks from Kydd's father but on the whole it was accounted that Kydd's guest was a fine friend to the family. Cecilia was beside herself with curiosity, but was always courteously deflected, to her considerable chagrin.

Renzi, however, sensed Kydd's desperation; the strong likelihood was that when they parted, the next cruise could span years, and by then — he forced down the thought and bent to the task of making the days as agreeable as he could for his friend.