'Tom — it's not just for now,' she said firmly. 'You must face it, we need you to provide for us in the future. We need you, Tom.'
'Yes,' he muttered. 'Yes, I know -1 know, I know,
He looked up miserably. 'We'll go to Nicholas now.'
The darkness outside was split with bonfires, fireworks and excited people hurrying this way and that with blazing link torches, candles in coloured glass and all manner of festive flame. They trudged silently along the sea- front. The dark offshore shapes of the fleet had needlepoints of light on deck, which Kydd knew were lanthorns strung over the fo'c'sle and quarterdeck. A regular deep thump of minute guns from somewhere out there struck him viscerally.
Kydd didn't notice the gang of rowdies until they had surrounded them both. He stopped, Cecilia gripping his arm apprehensively.
'Dursn't show a light, then?' One swaggered up to him, demanding he show illuminations in patriotic celebration.
They closed in menacingly. 'Tip 'im a stoter, Jem, 'n' then capsize 'im in th' sea!'
'Don't you dare, you ruffians!' shouted Cecilia. 'He's from
They fell back under her anger, and changing tack began shouting,
* * *
Renzi waited outside the Queen, concerned at Kydd's lateness. When he saw the two come into sight he hailed briskly. Kydd did not respond at first, then he said quietly, 'Nicholas, come walk with me a spell, I have — some news.'
Kydd slumped back in the coach as it bucketed northward along the London Road. Next to him Cecilia held a small book as though reading, wise enough to leave him to his thoughts. The initial sharp pain had dulled. He knew that Renzi, with his fine logic and learning, would have a philosophy to suit, but in the last few minutes they had spent together, dividing the contents of the sea-chest they shared, it did not seem to be the thing to talk about. It had seemed so casual, the farewell, so matter-of-fact. They had stood in the 'tween decks; there had been a reluctant shaking of hands, a banal comment or two, and then he had turned his back on the only true, deep friend he had ever had.
There would be no problem about his departure — a famous frigate captain like Black Jack Powlett would find a score of volunteers eager to step into his place. He had left without delay, unable to face the leave-taking, letting Renzi tell the others. He hoped he would be missed as much as he missed them. The lump in his throat tightened.
* * *
They drew into Guildford in light drizzle. As he stared moodily from the coach window he saw that the country town had not changed in his absence beyond an imagined wartime unkemptness. They clattered into the old timbered passage of the Angel posting house and finally came to a halt. He handed Cecilia down, ignoring the gaping ostler who had never seen a proper sailor before.
He knew the way, of course, up the high street and under the great clock to the family shop. With his sea-bag comfortably over his shoulder and Cecilia's luggage under his arm, he swung into the accustomed gloom of the shop. The smell of musty horsehair and pomatum took him back but the room seemed smaller than he remembered.
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
