Mrs Penrose’s Memories of the Falmouth Fire of 1862 By Ray Whittall The old woman lolled in the threadbare chair, thick legs protruding from her heavy course skirts. The colours of her faded, grubby attire were hard to discern. Indeterminate stains formed the very texture of the sorry rags. Her coppery grey hair was by turns frizzy and lank. Frizzy on top and lank and matted at the ends - probably from dangling in the noxious brew bubbling away in a huge iron pot sitting on the hotplate over the blackened range. Her chair creaked as she half turned to inspect her stew. A white clay pipe with a long curved stem protruded from her thick lips, between sparse rotting teeth, the bowl turned downwards. I approached, half a step nearer and coughed self consciously. ‘Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to intrude. My name’s Nick Teague from The Falmouth Packet. I wonder if you can tell me anything of the terrible events of last Saturday?’ The old woman reached for a ladle hanging on a nail over the pot. ‘And what events would they be, young sir?’ she said, giving the greasy stew a brisk stir. ‘The fire, ma’am, the fire. Took near four hundred houses hereabouts. All down the hill yonder - Ludgate.’ ‘Ay, but it knew better than to singe Nancy Penrose’s skirts.’ The old woman half cackled, half hacked, and spat on the floor, still sucking on the old pipe. Her chair protested again as she turned to face me full on. ‘Our readers will be interested to hear of folk who witnessed the conflagation, Mrs Penrose.’ ‘Your readers aye - your readers wouldn’t spill a drop of tea into their fine china saucers if all of us hereabouts was burnt to ash.’ She spat again with feeling. ‘No truck with fine words and papers, me. Them folks’ll get nothing from me to entertain ‘em.’ ‘We are authorised to offer a modest financial incentive to anyone who helps us with our enquiries, ma’am.’ ‘Does that mean money, young ‘un - how much?’ Mrs Penrose looked me in the eye. ‘Up to sixpence if you give me something we can print, ma’am.’ ‘The fires of hell - to burn out the evil. Nothing but drink and girls spreading their favours for tuppence. I don’t flop around in church, young man, but any decent folk could see it was a bad lot.’ ‘They say a drunken sailor started it with a disguarded pipe. Is that true, Mrs Penrose?’ ‘The last drunken sailor anywhere near me was Mr. Penrose, and he’s been dead these past twelve years. Fell into the harbour. Never found him - saved on a burial.’ ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mrs Penrose. So you cannot confirm how the fire started?’ ‘Worked on the Packets for thirty years, Mr Penrose. Hardly ever saw ‘im or his wages. Had to get by best I could. Two babes in arms, and hardly a ha’penny ‘tween me and the Workhouse. The cholera took ‘em in ’33.’ ‘Terrible indeed, Mrs Penrose. The fire came very close, ma’am. Did you fear for your life?’ ‘Took a pipe next to this old range and waited for it to pass, young ‘un. Smoke rolled up the hill and the water was red.’ Mrs. Penrose’s chin dropped and her gaze wavered towards the floor. ‘I’m keeping you from your supper, ma’am. Thank you for your assistance.’ Mrs Penrose was already snoring. I placed the sixpenny piece on the hearth beside her and took my leave. ©Ray Whittall 2013
Posted on: Wed, 17 Jul 2013 10:48:12 +0000
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