The Dynnargh Matriarch
Wenna led Tom through the pub, which, not the least to Wenna's surprise, Tom agreed. The bar was a medium sized room where sailors chatted and loved their wives and husbands. A few were flirting with the common-folk, however old or young. Quite a few were playing with their kids. The bar hadn't become a tavern but more of a gathering place, the one time sailors could meet with their families after an eternity at sea. Tom knew the feeling, and as he looked at one sailor playing with his son, he felt a familiar feeling. The hope someone would come home. Then he remembered that someone wasn't coming home again. There was no someone anymore, nor a home to go back to. It didn't feel like a home anymore. It may not even still be there.
Wenna pulled up a barstool for Tom and sat down herself in front of the bar. TOm obliged, but not before wiping the stool off with his handkerchief. Wenna called for two drinks from the bartender, but couldn't help but notice Tom was invested in the families around him.
Tom took his father's handkerchief and held it in one hand, ready to throw it away. If he left it here, it would go to someone else who probably found it in lost and found. He dropped it to the ground then spun around to the bar so he didn't have to look at it. It wasn't long before one of those sailors' daughters went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sir, you dropped this." She said, and offered the handkerchief back to him. Tom didn't want to be rude, and he spotted her father in the corner urging the child to be polite and offer it to him. He grimaced but put up a fake smile and hacked, "Thank you Miss."
The little girl smiled and returned to her father, who smiled to her and congratulated her, then waved happily to Tom. Tom nervously turned around and sunk his head downward towards the counter in despair. Wenna slapped Tom on the back and snapped him out of it.
"Hey! We came here for a pint and a sit down!" She amended his anxious behavior. Tom adjusted himself and replied, "Right! Sorry! Sorry!"
Tom turned to Wenna, who shoved a drink on a towards him. Meanwhile she stirred her own drink around, her eyes glazing into the pool. Wenna instilled some of her own rules into Tom, "If someone buys you a drink, the very least you could do is listen. Could be all about toothpicks and the history of towels, but you listen."
She took a sip, then landed the thick glass onto the bar once again. She sighed then watched as his gaze reverted back to the families. Wenna cleared her throat then explained, "If you're so interested. The fisherman go out, days, weeks at a time. Come home for about a day or so, then leave. They try to make whatever moments they get with their families and friends count. Never know if it's their last. Back home for Christmas though."
Wenna acted like it was nothing, like Tom wasn't the only one who was sick of the story. She looked Tom up and down as he struggled to realize, "It's December?"
"Don't you own a calendar?" Wenna was a little dumbfounded, but after a little consideration, she realized she was a little insensitive. Then again, so was Tom sometimes. Regardless, Tom admitted, "I haven't really kept track of the time."
"Then yeah, only a few weeks until Christmas. They'll be putting up candles soon." Wenna clarified. She took another sip then pointed back at where some townsfolk were lighting candles in the windows. She leered at him and asked, "What's your story? You look like you aren't all there."
Tom grimaced and slowly took a sip of his pint, then held it in his left hand. "My father was a miner. He died a few months ago."
"And yer mum?" Wenna was more intrigued than heartbroken. Tom tried to recall, then went with what he remembered, "Last, I saw her, she was working in a grocer back home. I left a month or so after dad died."
Wenna took another drink, then held back a burp and explained, "Well, Tom, my father is a lighthouse keeper. Used to fish, but he isn't in any condition to do that since the Great War. Me mum and I care for 'im best we can. She works up at the cannery."
"And you?" Tom made small talk. Wenna obliged, "Boat worker. Make sure none of these folks crash into a billion pieces coming back through the Mouse hole."
Tom frowned at that then looked back outside for a second out at the giant wall in the harbor, interrupted only by a mouse hole shaped exit and entryway for ships heading into the ocean. He cleared his throat then commented, "Yeah, I meant to ask about that."
"Getting out of the Mousehole is the easy part. Getting back in is the hard part, whole sea wants to wipe your boat against the wall. That's where I come in, making sure these guys are at the very least, a little less likely to end up at the bottom of the ocean." Wenna casually sipped her drink then realized how horrified Tom must have been. She cleared her throat then tried to lighten the mood with a different subject. "You ever fished, Tom? Using a net out on the ocean?"
Tom was still looking out at the Mousehole but he eventually turned back to her and answered the question, "My Dad taught me how to sail in the few chances we saw him, but I've never fished."
Wenna slugged Tom on the shoulder and found an easy solution, "No problem! My dad can teach you. I was never interested in fishing myself and he'd probably love to teach you."
"You never wanted to sail?" Tom asked. It seemed like everyone in town either fished or sailed. Wenna admitted, "Rather make the boats than break them. Allows me to innovate."
"You ever make your own boats or do you just repair?" Tom asked. Wenna shrugged, "Mostly repair, but I've got a side project you and Sim can check out if you'd like."
Tom looked confused then frantic, looking to his side for the cat. He thought she had come in, but now there was a serious lack of cat. He let out a light panic, "Sim! I completely forgot about her!"
He stepped off the stool and bent down on his knees to see if he could see the familiar face of a certain pussycat. Through the crowds and boots of sailors and workers he could see the white feet of a black cat sniffing through the crowd, following the eager scent of fish and pies.
"Sim! Come back here kitty!" Tom called out. He attempted to crawl through to the cat, but unfortunately bumped into Jacob, spilling Jacob's drink onto his coat. Jacob looked down at the spill, surprised and caught off guard. Tom stood up and freaked out, trying to wipe it off Jacob's coat. Jacob was a clean shaven man with long shoulders and a permanent toothy grin. He didn't even seem frustrated with Tom.
"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!" Tom tried to wipe it down. Jacob reassured him as he helped clean it up, "It's ok, it's ok. Accidents happen."
All the while Tom continued to keep apologizing.
"I'm sorry! I was looking for my cat. I wasn't looking where I was going! I'm so sorry!"
"Calm down mate. It's just a spill. Hey…" Jacob slowly pieced something together. He pointed at Tom and smiled, "You're new to town, aren't you?"
Tom fearfully nodded, not aware that Jacob had no intention of hurting him. Jacob waved to Wenna, who laughed at the pair, shaking her head. She noted, "I see you've met Jacob"
Jacob hugged Tom and patted him on the back before turning him to everyone else and called out, "Everyone, we have a newcomer in town. What's your name chum?"
Tom took in a lot at once, his eyes darting to either side of the room in a strange mixture of confusion and uncertainty. He stammered and answered, "Um…Tom? Tom Bawcock?"
"Hey Tom, I'm Jacob. Welcome to Mousehole, Tom Bawcock. Everyone!" Jacob introduced him and raised his pint in the air. All the sailors in the bar did the same.
"A toast! To Tom Bowcock!" Jacob decided. Everyone burst out at once happily, inviting Tom into a hope of a home he once had. His doubts seemed to vanish when he wasn't only greeted but met with praise for coming here. In a day, he had felt the worst feeling in his life, and the best feeling in his life. The whole wide world was opening for him, giving him the home he had so long ago. The family he needed from this little town was in his sights. A toast was raised and so was the town's voices, "To Tom Bowcock! Cheers!"
