J. H. Mann Presents The Echoing Shore - Wild Cornwall - Visiting St Branoff - Historical Mystery

 

But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose.

What happened to the Talan Bray was tragic and terrible, but it shouldn’t stop the work of the lifeboat being recognised.’

He ruled this place. His name was everywhere. The Mr Big of St Branok. His rise had been rapid and astonishing. He had to be hiding something. Had to be. 

As I pulled up the hood of my ski jacket, I wondered about the wisdom of my flash decision to bring Danny into the fold while knowing almost nothing about him. A charmer, certainly. And experience warned me that that kind of personality often came with deceit. I should have insisted on seeing a CV. But perhaps I was being too hard on him. Perhaps he would bring a new drive and, God only knew, the Gazette needed something new if it was going to survive. I glanced over at his flaccid features. His collar-length hair, tinged with grey, was plastered flat on his head and rainwater dripped from his fleshy nose. But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose. We turned a corner to see welcoming lights streaming from mullioned windows. Above them, swinging in the gale, was the jaunty sign of a smiling mermaid sitting on a rock. Shelter and alcohol beckoned.

Think trendy. Think gastropub. And then think the complete opposite. It was a traditional locals’ pub – for drink and banter, playing skittles or darts and, on Saturday nights, listening to one of the thrashing local bands. We trooped in, brushing the rain off our coats, to find the lounge bar empty apart from a few fishermen who had given up hope of venturing out even in coastal waters in this weather. It was a day of lost income for them, and they huddled gloomily together in a corner near one of the flashing one-armed bandits. ‘I’ve caught sweet bugger all this week,’ a barrel-chested fisherman was saying. ‘If the luck doesn’t change, I’ll be down the food bank. That’s no way for my family to live.’ A warm, homely light suffused the bar, concealing its tacky interior. The golden glow contrasted sharply with the drab daylight of a grey afternoon in a grimy fishing town. The comforting tang of beer inhabited every corner – apart from the ladies’ toilet, where it was eclipsed by the kick of a powerful disinfectant. Angie, a slip of a girl who worked in the pub when she wasn’t partying at music festivals or visiting her boyfriend in Plymouth, was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Danny rubbed his hands together. ‘This one’s on me. What can I get you fine people?’ Roy and I opted for pints of Doom Bar and we made small talk about the weather while waiting for our drinks. Danny fixed Angie with the Flanagan smile. ‘What’s the local gargle around here?’ Angie beamed right back while pulling Roy’s pint. ‘If you mean beer, we have our own microbrewery. Try a pint of Wreckers Rebellion. You won’t get anything more local.’ ‘Sounds good. You’re a girl after my own heart,’ he said, before turning to give Roy and myself a wink. I edged closer to the bar to get my drink. ‘Angie, is Joe around? We were hoping to have a quick chat with him.’ ‘He’s out back. I’ll give him a call.’ ‘We’ll be in the snug.’ I led Roy and Danny to a cosy, out of the way spot with soft seating and cushions. We settled at a seat by the window with a view of gritty St Branok Harbour, full of idle fishing boats. A symbol shaped like a three-cornered knot, pinned to a nearby wall, caught Danny’s eye. He pointed to it. ‘I’ve seen similar shapes in Ireland. Didn’t think I’d come across them down here.’ ‘It’s a sign used by Pagans and Celtic Christians known as a Triquetra or Trinity Knot,’ said Roy, who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of most things. ‘The interwoven knot with no beginning and no end stands for a protection that cannot be broken. Cornwall still has strong Pagan and Celtic connections.’ I gazed at it, noticing it for the first time, despite having lingered many an hour in this comfy corner of The Mermaid. Joe Keast appeared a few minutes later with an oily rag in hand, his forehead smeared with sweat and grime. ‘Kate, Roy – you’re drinking early these days. Not that I’m complaining. I could do with the business on a day like this.’ He plonked himself down wearily on a stool. ‘Problems?’ I said. ‘The usual. Pump playing up again. Wreckers Rebellion will be in short supply unless I can get it up and running tonight. We’re down to our last few barrels of the good stuff.’ He rubbed his hands with the oily cloth, which did little to make them cleaner. ‘We wanted to introduce you to Danny Flanagan,’ I said. ‘He’s down here from the London press and will be helping at the Gazette for a while.’ ‘I hear you’re the man in the know in these parts,’ said Danny. The ready grin was back, as was the handshake. Joe took Danny’s proffered hand with a smile of the more cautious, reserved type. The Flanagan smile didn’t work half so well with men. ‘Any friend of Kate’s is a friend of mine. We go back a long way,’ he said, nodding affably at me before squinting at Danny. ‘What brings a city slicker down to our quiet part of the world?’ My thoughts exactly. Danny took a long pull from his pint, which drained half the glass and confirmed my early guess that he liked a pint or three. ‘Oh, writing a few features about the Cornish way of life, land of mystery and magic on the edge of the great ocean and all that. I’ll be looking for somewhere to stay for a few weeks. Any recommendations?’ Joe swept his damp forehead with the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. ‘We have a spare room above the pub here, which you’re welcome to stay in for a while. It doesn’t get much use at this time of year, but don’t go expecting en-suite bathrooms and all that. It’s got a good, comfortable bed and a wardrobe. And if you stand on a chair, you can see Tregloss Point in the distance.’ ‘I’ll take it. When can I move in?’ Danny slapped his thighs, which looked thick and muscular. ‘Anytime. Tonight, if you like.’

~~~~~~

One of the wonders of reading is the ability to travel across and around the world! We learn of many peoples and their lives... But, one thing I can tell you is that, for the most part, all people are alike... There are good people trying to bring about change and advancement... While, at the same time, there are always a few who choose the easy way--the criminal way to ensure they both get what they need, but more importantly, what they most desire...  Of course, that is the lifeblood of most fictional stories, isn't it? There are so many different variations of this world-wide theme of good versus evil. In many ways, some of us like myself, seek out this type of story, perhaps, to ensure that, mostly, good always ultimately overcomes...

Yet, on a daily basis, the struggle continues in every land where people live... Wild Cornwall is the location of J. H. Mann's story... A mystery built within the livelihoods of a small community where what can be found in the waters surrounding the land. Where lives are sometimes lost in facing the waters as nature takes control... But, also, can be lost. On Purpose. This is such a story...

And it takes place within a business--a small newspaper that is struggling to remain alive to provide needed news and other info to the surrounding area. We find there just a few people. One is a retired newsman, Roy, who found he so enjoyed his work, that he continued into retirement as a jack-of-all-things for the paper where he'd worked for so many years... Then we find our main character, Kate, who was somewhat of a hotshot reporter for a much larger area, but had chosen to look at her own needs and, when the small newspaper became available, she took the plunge and bought it...Now she's constantly fighting to stay financially sound, while one of the villans in the story is a hard-nose banker, of course, who cares nothing about the town citizens and the value of a newspaper to those people... There are two others who work off and on as needed, one a young, hopeful reporter.

For some reason, another newsman comes to town and seeks out the local agency to see if he could find some space there as a home base, and, when needed, could make a little money with articles that might prove of interest to the town....

Image if you would, that this small group of journalists have something very much in common and that will be revealed along the way, as mutual interests pulled the group together. Kate, of course, has just met with the evil banker who threatens her constantly with what he believes the Board will do if she doesn't increase payments...  And, it happened to be at a time where the community was about to have a joint recognition of a lifeboat that had resulted in deaths in the community years ago.

Could the newspaper work to build up this recognition and memorial of those who gave their lives trying to save others? Kate started considering what exactly could be done... Gathering background info, research, and talking to those in town who were personally involved...

And that's when the trouble started.  

The first to begin was the mother who had lost two sons. During the investigation, their names had been spotlighted and she spoke out in their defense, blaming Kate who was now digging up old news to make new news...

And of course the older ongoing events were to be spotlighted. Like the Shout @ the Devil Festival...

 St Branok’s annual Shout at the Devil Festival was looming. It was a colourful, though somewhat macabre, event, in which several hundred locals noisily processed through the streets in gaudy costume, following the time-honoured tradition of chasing away the devil while actually being intent on having a booze up. The festival had pagan origins, its long history dating back many hundreds of years. Heavy drinking in the local pubs invariably culminated in minor late-night disturbances, often resolved without the involvement of the local police. ‘We should make the most of it this year, get some great pictures and use them for a centre-page splash,’ said Danny. His boyish enthusiasm was infectious and made sense. Locals were more likely to buy the Gazette if their friends and relatives appeared in the coverage. The whole editorial team, even young Emily, agreed to give up their Saturday night to report on the event and get pictures. The night of the festival was cold and clear with a glistening three-quarter moon. We gathered early evening at The Mermaid for a warming brandy, provided free by Joe, prior to heading out into the night-time chill. The pub was packed with noisy, animated revellers, but we found a space in a corner. Outside, expectant people lined the streets three or four deep, chewing candy floss or hot dogs. Excited toddlers were perched on the shoulders of mums and dads. With a toss of his head, Danny knocked back the remains of his brandy and then ordered a second for ‘medicinal purposes’. This time, Joe insisted on payment. Duly refreshed, we quit the pub’s warm conviviality. ‘Perfect night for pictures,’ Danny said. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the prospect of a freezing night under the stars in his thick jumper, corduroy trousers and shabby chic Burberry coat. The buzz and banter of the crowd was quietened by the sound of drums, guitars and pipes. The nipping air shivered from the rhythmic reverberation, amplified by the narrow streets. I slipped through a gap between the onlookers to catch my first glimpse of the St Branok raven leading a long line of swaggering, gyrating figures, their masks, horns, wigs and vivid flowing robes enhanced by the flickering light of burning torches. In contrast to its cavorting followers, the raven progressed steadily and regally, its great beak moving from side to side as it regarded the crowd. There was something menacing and ungodly about the display. It was a window on a world long gone when superstition and fear had ruled people’s lives. Danny was suddenly beside me, shouting into my ear above the noise. His hot breath, infused with the sweet and nutty scent of brandy, warmed the side of my face. ‘This is fantastic. Who’s the raven?’ Our mouths became close as I turned towards him. ‘It’s a secret. A different person is chosen each year, but their identity is never revealed...

Danny, the traveling journalist, is really the bright spot of the book. He's an outgoing fellow who enjoys visiting the pub often and talking with anybody who will share a pint or two... But he brings with him a secret that only he is aware of and he becomes pushy, trying to control the local paper to cover topics that may not be appropriate for the community... Kate begins to monitor his proposals more closely, but at the same time is drawn to this larger-than-life individual who brings a different mood of liveliness wherever he goes... This, then, is the heart of the plot as more and more information comes to them in relation to the lifeboat accident where loved ones were lost to the surrounding waters...

I had a queasy feeling that my decision might come back to haunt us all, that we were being led down a tunnel with the promise of light at the end by a person we hardly knew. Danny remained an enigma.

‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘I’m saying that  he knew the Talan Bray was doomed that night and he was determined not to be aboard.’

He’d settled in the snug with his pipe stuck between his lips, puffing gently, the vision of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. The smoke was warming and comforting. Pipe smoke always reminded me of solid, knowledgeable Roy. He looked at me over the rim of his upraised beer glass. ‘Any sign of Danny?’ ‘No, he’s been out and about a lot. How did you know I was asking about him?’ ‘I guessed you might be.’ He sipped his beer. ‘That tastes good. I’ve been dying for a pint all afternoon.’ He put down his glass neatly on the beer mat. ‘Is Danny planning to come back, do you know?’ I swirled my gin and tonic, the liquid dipping in the centre. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since the…’ I searched for the word to diplomatically describe the difficult scene in the office and settled on ‘argument’. There was no point in describing it as anything else. Not to Roy. Twinges of angst and regret shivered through the pit of my stomach every time I thought about it. ‘He hasn’t said he’s not coming back,’ I added, lamely. ‘We could do with the extra pair of hands,’ said Roy. ‘Danny’s made a real difference over the past few weeks. At first, I was sceptical. But you were right to bring him on board, Kate. He’s picked up some very nice stories.’ I nodded. Forced a smile. I didn’t need reminding. The conversation lapsed into silence. Somebody played Scott McKenzie’s ‘San Francisco’ on the jukebox, a record Danny had sometimes chosen. But it was a thin man standing there – certainly not Danny. My morale slipped back to zero. Roy and I usually had no difficulty chatting, and when there was silence between us it was easy and relaxed. But the abrupt departure of Danny – and Roy’s obvious understanding that Danny and I had become more than colleagues – added an edge to any discussion about him. We filled the void by sipping our drinks. Eventually, the conversation started flowing again about something innocuous like the weather. Anything but Danny. The tall, commanding figure of Mike Pedrick strode into the bar with a couple of his trawler skippers – stocky young men in their early thirties, wearing the thick woollen sweaters, yellow oilskins and boots typical of trawlermen fresh from the boats. They were guffawing at a wisecrack Pedrick had muttered out of the side of his mouth. Even in The Mermaid, he acted as if he owned the place. Everybody always laughed at his jokes. Everybody except Joe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and Pedrick was soon leaning against the bar, attracting Angie’s attention with an upheld, authoritative hand. She hastened over – Pedrick had that effect on people – and, as she was pulling the pints, he treated me to the royal wave. I smiled back faintly, wondering why I’d been honoured by the Pedrick spotlight. Roy and I talked for a little longer and then he said, ‘Marjorie’s expecting me home for dinner. I really must be off. Can I walk you to your car?’ Wonderful, thoughtful Roy, doubly caring and gallant after the alleyway attack. ‘Yes, please. Thanks.’ I swigged the remains of my drink. Before we could stand, Pedrick strolled over and sat on a stool across the table from us, confident he was welcome everywhere. ‘Kate. As it was Thursday, I was hoping I might find you here for a chat.’ He glanced at Roy. ‘Alone.’ My cheeks warmed. Was he really sufficiently interested in my whereabouts to know that I had a celebratory early evening drink at The Mermaid when the latest edition of the Gazette had been sorted? Then again, Pedrick kept tabs on everything in St Branok. And everybody. Roy hesitated meaningfully. ‘I can wait at the bar if you like.’ I beamed an assured expression. I was more than capable of handling the mighty Mike Pedrick by myself. ‘No need to wait, Roy. I’ll be fine. It’s only a short walk to the Landy.’ Roy rose to go. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Night then, Kate. See you in the morning. Night, Mike.’ He disappeared into the crowd, a small, slightly bowed figure. I focused on Pedrick. ‘How can I help, Mike?’ ‘Your advertising girlie has been pushing my businesses to take extra advertising. She’s been saying that the Gazette needs the extra revenue. Is everything okay?’ So, this was more fallout from Brenda shooting her mouth off. I could tell him to mind his own business, but that wouldn’t help me get more advertising. I was careful to exude a positive air. ‘It’s tough but we get by. In fact, things are looking up. More people are reading the Gazette and we’re getting more advertising. I’ve been thinking of increasing to thirty-six pages.’ There was a flash of scepticism in Pedrick’s eyes. ‘Look, Kate, I know how tough running a small local business can be. I’ve been through challenging times myself. Thank God, that was a long time ago. The Gazette is part of the local community. It’d be a disaster if it had to close down.’ Clearly, the rumour mill in St Branok was running at breakneck speed. I sucked the dregs of my gin and tonic, now little more than melted ice with a tang of lemon. Still, it gave me something to do. And time to think. ‘Who’s saying the Gazette is closing down?’ I’d talked to Brenda about times being hard, not possible closure. Perhaps it was merely a case of an astute individual like Pedrick putting two and two together. The miserable state of local newspapers everywhere was hardly a secret. He leaned forward. ‘All I’m saying is, if things are getting desperate, I can help.’ ‘Help? How?’ He locked gazes with me, suddenly intense. ‘Have you ever thought of a partnership? I’d consider making a sizeable investment in return for a majority share. It would wipe out any debts you might have in a stroke. And you’d still be the editor and run the business day to day.’ His dark eyes and the tempting offer on the table gripped me. The constant worry of mounting debt would be gone, leaving the bank to devote its time to torturing other cash-strapped customers. And Gwel Teg – my remote, ramshackle, beautiful cottage – would be safe. I would be able to enjoy my Cornish life, swim happily in the surf, take Rufus for long walks and do some serious veg-growing in my kitchen garden without the nagging fear that the bank was about to pull the rug out from under my feet. But – and this was a massive but – it wouldn’t be my newspaper anymore. I’d become little more than an employee with a minority stake in the business I’d given up London for. ‘Thanks, Mike,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the offer, really I do, but we’re fine. As I say, things are looking up for us right now.’ Pedrick leaned back, still scrutinising me. ‘If you ever need any help, you know where to come.’ ‘Sure, and thanks.’ One of the trawler skippers still hanging around the bar, now on his third pint judging by the empty glasses, called over, ‘Mike, we’ve got something for you to see.’ Pedrick held up a silencing hand. ‘I’m busy.’ He turned back to me. ‘How’s that new star reporter of yours, what’s his name, Lonnie Donegan, getting on? Everybody’s talking about him. He’s asking a lot of questions.’ ‘Yes, that’s what good reporters do,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s Danny Flanagan. And he’s fine, as far as I know.’ I was tired of Pedrick’s forced bon homie and overbearing presence and it was beginning to show. I wanted him to clear off and get back to his laughing, raucous trawler mates and whatever else he did in his spare time. Pedrick might own most of St Branok, but he didn’t own the Gazette. Yet. He persisted, oblivious, used to deference not resistance. ‘When I say questions, I mean deep, prying questions which are hurting local people and making them angry. He should be careful.’ I bristled. ‘Prying questions about what exactly?’ ‘About the Talan Bray, of course. The press coverage of ten years ago caused a lot of pain. All that speculation about what happened was irresponsible. Now your Danny is wanting to open it all up again.’ ‘He’s not my Danny. He’s his own boss. He’s a freelancer who is helping us out. Nothing more. I can’t tell him what to do...
~~~~~~

This is an intriguing historical mystery based upon the unfortunate sinking of a lifeboat as they were trying to help others. It is indeed a sad memory of, an accident? Or one of deception and murder? Those who search for truth, such as journalists, are prone to dig into the past, and, many times, discover hidden criminal acts have proven to be the cause for many deaths... I find it a curious comparison of today's world, but with a solid time of seeking truth... Not so, when these days we look to the past to pinpoint times when some people enjoyed more power and prestige that seems to have been lost. Now lies, combined with violence, are used to betray Truth for return of what was supposedly lost... Is there ever to be a period when these divergent actions are eliminated? In the meantime, may we continue to work to ensure that indeed good will always overcome evil... This is an excellent merge of history and mystery in a setting where the past is held to for many reasons. Yet it merges with the present when those who suffered loss in the past, are now fighting to seek out what really happened to find not only Truth, but hopefully justice... Do check this one out!

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