Chapter 10: Making Progress
Friday Afternoon
It was lunchtime at the Crab and Lobster. A dozen people, all wearing "No!" badges, gathered over sandwiches at three tables pushed together.
"We need to get as many signatures as we can," said Mel. "I've gotten quite a few from my Portwenn Tots parents. And we had some placards made up. We've got: 'Treasure Island = Plundering Portwenn.' 'Don't let Greed Change Our Portwenn.' And just 'No Treasure Island!' Simple and to the point. We've got that one in Cornish too: 'Na Tresor Enys!'"
Amy, the local sailing instructor, nodded. "Should get people talking. Create some noise at least. Unfortunately, my brother says he looks forward to the day the B Road heading into the village is bumper to bumper with tourists here to spend their money."
"That's just wrong," said Caitlin, the corner shopkeeper. "That's not the Portwenn I grew up in and love."
"My wife hates of the idea of Treasure Island but she plans to vote for it anyway," said Chippy Miller. "Says it's a big picture thing, it'll bring in revenue that'll keep the council from raising our rates.
"I'd pay a bit more just to keep this place the way it is," Amy said. "I mean not much, but a little bit. Why is everything always about money anyway?"
"Well, these plans should have been turned down, but the council has given the go ahead for the referendum regardless, so getting the votes on our side is our only chance," said Roger Fenn.
"But why would they agree to a referendum?" Amy persisted.
"Affordable housing," Roger replied. "Those are the magic words. Bellingham promised to throw up a couple of jerry-built houses on the site and everyone rolls over for him."
"Maybe we could go to the European Court of Human Rights? I suppose it's too late for that, what with Brexit," said Graham, Mel's husband.
"If there's a population of rare white rabbits living there, why has no consideration has been given to the environmental impact this development will have on them?" Caitlin asked.
"It's not white rabbits, it's white hares," Al Large explained. "They're bigger and wilder. And it's probably just one white hare, and really it's probably just a figment of Old Pratt's imagination."
"So you could say he's gone down the rabbit hole with that old legend," Graham mused.
"Mad as a March hare, more like it," Caitlin replied. Everyone laughed.
"Right then." Al began to gather up the empty dishes and glasses. "So unless anyone has anything else to contribute, let's all take a placard and keep gettin' signatures. And don't forget to settle up your tabs!"
After the group cleared out, Bert came over to wipe down the tables and helped push them back to their regular spots. "So everyone here hates progress then," he said.
"No Dad, I think people just like the way Portwenn is," Al replied. "Don't you?"
"Of course I do. It's my home, I was born and raised here," Bert was quick to come back. "But at the same time, you can't stand in the way of progress son."
"Not all progress is actual er… progress." Al pointed to the "No!" badge Bert was wearing. "Just as long as you keep that thing on. And now I need you to hold the fort while I go with Ruth out to her farm. She needs a bit of work done on the plumbing to get the place in shape for sale."
After the lunch rush, it was a slow afternoon. Bert was arranging a display of Large Whisky Special Blend behind the bar when a tall, handsome, middle aged man walked in. Bert thought he looked vaguely familiar. The man scowled slightly at Bert's "No!" badge but sat at the bar anyway.
"I'm in a whisky mood, so give me a shot of your best." he said.
Bert brightened up. "I've got just the thing." He poured out a shot glass of the Special Blend. The man sniffed it, then sipped as Bert eyed him expectantly. The man considered the flavour for a second and smiled. He had a brilliant smile. "Not bad, not bad at all. It packs a nice kick. What is it?"
"Large Whisky." Bert grinned and held up the bottle, which had a little drawing of fishing boats in the harbour, drawn by Morwenna. "It's a small batch, lightly aged, artisanal spirit, produced at a local micro-distillery right here in glorious Portwenn, by yours truly." Bert extended his hand. "Bert Large is the name and whisky is my game. I can tell you have a discerning palate sir. Perhaps you'd be interested in taking home a bottle or two."
"I might," the man said. "You're awfully friendly considering you're in the other camp." He pointed to the "No!" badge.
"Oh that. My son makes me wear it," Bert said. "So you're the Bellingham chap from the Village Hall meeting, that's where I've seen you."
"Call me Malcolm. So you're not necessarily in the enemy camp. Interesting. Y'know, micro-distilleries are becoming very trendy now and there's a market for strong whisky. Have you got a proper distillery license?"
"Yeah course I do," Bert replied. "My backer made me get one before she would put the money up."
Malcolm took another sip and flashed that smile again. "Well Bert, I can tell you my plan for the Treasure Island Outlet Mall could accommodate a micro-distillery, maybe to go with a high end restaurant. Not promising anything, mind you. I have to see how the vote goes. In the meantime, I need local people in my camp, to help me sell my plan to the village."
"I know if I could just get the proper exposure this could take off. I've even been thinkin' of expandin' into makin' my own vodka. The sky's the limit." Bert took off his "No!" badge and shook Malcolm's hand. "I have a feeling this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."
Malcolm laughed. "Could well be. In the meantime, do you do food here?"
"We do. My boy Al, he's the landlord, I just convinced him to start doing a hot menu. We have a deal with a butcher in Delabole. He gives us a discount on beef and we keep him supplied with Large Whisky."
"In that case, I think I'd like a rare steak to go with my locally sourced whisky."
In a quiet corner of the pub, a tall woman in her late 60s pushed away a plate with the crumbs of a Cornish pasty and took a sip of beer. She studied some notes in a notebook, then consulted with a tattered paperback copy of "The Beginner's Guide to Cornish History and Genealogy." She wrote down some more notes, and studied a sprawling family tree she had sketched. There was one source she still hadn't checked for this particular branch. She was dreading going there but she prided herself on being an assertive woman so she refused to put it off any longer.
She finished her beer, and went up to the bar to settle the bill with the portly barman in the wool hat. Slinging her camera over her shoulder, she made her way along the narrow streets of the little seaside village to the chemist's shop with the bust of Admiral Nelson over the door and the dog statue in front where people could drop their spare change to benefit the Lifeboat Station. Wow, this place was just impossibly quaint, like a picture on the lid of an Olde English biscuit tin, she thought. She pushed the door, which jangled as it opened, and went in.
The proprietor of the shop was just pinning a "No!" badge to her dress. She glared at the visitor. "You again!" she snapped. "Don't you ever go home to Texas, or wherever you're from?"
Beth Traywick sighed. "California. San Francisco, actually. Yes Mrs. Tishell, I do go home, but this is my third trip here. I'm very interested in my family's roots, and I just feel… drawn to this place."
"I suppose you've come for a prescription?"
"Um no. After our difficulties last time I've been getting my prescriptions filled in Wadebridge. It just seems… safer that way." Beth remembered all too well how the Portwenn pharmacist had shoved her twice, in some sort of jealous rage over her attention to the village doctor.
"You know I did actually save your life." Mrs. Tishell was firmly unapologetic, but Beth thought she sounded just a bit embarrassed over her previous behaviour.
"Yes, you did. You pushed me but it did get the Doc to diagnose my polycythemia rubra vera condition, for which I'm grateful. So let's let bygones be bygones. I know you're really knowledgeable about Portwenn's history. Last time I was here I was asking about my father's family, and you were very helpful in pointing out where some of those distant relatives could be found. This time I'm digging into my mother's family. Her maiden name was Jones. Very common name obviously, but her father was Daffyd Edwin Jones, that's pretty specific. I thought it might ring a bell for you."
"Doesn't ring one at all. That sounds more like a Welsh name than a Cornish one, and a pretty common one at that."
"Oh." Beth was disappointed. "Well, I suppose you must know about this white hare legend I heard people discussing at the pub."
"Oh that. Just a silly old story, but Phil Pratt is making himself ill over it and now that terrible man from London is taking advantage of it for his outlet mall."
"I see you're taking a stand against it." Beth pointed to the "No!" badge.
"Yes I am," Mrs. Tishell replied firmly. "It would be a travesty to commercialize this village like that. I suppose you think it's a good idea, it's a very American thing to do."
"Actually, I happen to agree with you. Being American, I appreciate the value of protecting an authentic Old World place like Portwenn. It's so easy to let creeping development destroy it."
Mrs. Tishell's harsh expression softened a bit. "Well," she said at last. "At least we can agree on something."
To be continued…
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