John the chimney sweep is one of the last of a dying breed. Using
no mechanized equipment, he ascends to the rooftops up his sturdy
ladder and proceeds to embark on a multiphase cleaning of each chimney
he is hired to clean. This remains critical work in his area because so
many homes and buildings rely heavily on their fireplaces and stoves for
winter heat and to dry out the wetness.
John The Sweep, as he is known, speaks with the heaviest Cornwall accent I had ever heard. "Ogh hih Jaakk,"
he'd say upon seeing me around the village as he did his rounds. We had
become a kind of familiar sight to each other — the chimney sweep and
the American wandering the lanes of Portloe with a notebook and too many
questions.
One day John The Sweep came to the cottage door at Corfingle
where I was staying whilst Carol the owner was away down the coast and I
was looking after the place. He came knocking at the double Dutch door
and I opened it up. There stood The Sweep, filthy from head to toe. He
was looking for the Cornish pasties Carol had made him.
Just then I noticed a nasty gash on The Sweep's right forearm. It
was deep and bloody and coagulated with the grit and grime of the
chimneys in the wound.
• • •
I told The Sweep to let me see that cut. He said:
"Arguh allrihte Jaakk."
In that Cornish drawl, meaning he was telling me not to worry
about it. I opened the door and dragged him into the kitchen. He was a
wee man, about five foot five at most, but built like a bull. I put his
age in the 50s when first I met him. But no. He was 66 and still
sweeping.
I sat him down, put a towel on the kitchen table and laid his arm
on it. I always travelled with a good first aid kit — I was always
cutting or banging myself up — and I broke it out. As I began to clean
the cut, and it was filthy, we got to talking. He asked me why I was
there in the village.
I thought about it for a moment and then I said: "I am looking for my origins. There was someone here I thought could help. But she has died, I found out."
"Ogghh."
A low grunt. Then: "Argh was hert nam?"
"Rose Byrne," I told him, as I kept cleaning his wound.
"Iged knowd herm."
The Sweep knew everyone in the entire area. I'd already sorted that out.
I finished up the first aid. I put butterfly closures across the
cut because it should have been stitched, but The Sweep had left it too
long. I put cotton wool and strapping over it, gave him his two Cornish
pasties, and he tried to give me five quid when Carol only charged him
three. I pushed the fiver back across the double door shelf and said: "I got it."
He refused and shoved the fiver back. So I dug into my pocket and gave him two quid. He took it and off he went.
I extended my stay in Portloe because I didn't want to leave.
Quiz night was coming up at The Ship Inn and I was on the winning team
the week before.
• • •
A couple of days later I was coming back off a very long hike on
the shoreline cliff trail and decided to return inland because there was
a store and tea shop I wanted to visit. I went in, sat down and had a
tea and scone.
Who walked in but The Sweep. His bandage still on his arm, but it was as black as night with all the grime.
I got up to leave and as I began to walk down the lane, he burst
out of the shop holding up a bag in front of him, waving at me. I
stopped. He handed me the sack and said:
"Owe eer — I got tzhese or yoo!"
I took the sack and looked inside. It was filled with Valencia oranges. I looked at The Sweep quizzically.
He smiled and said:
"Yhouz sayed yhouz ere lookin fawr theesee!"
It hit me all at once. When I was fixing his arm, I had told him I was looking for my origins.
His Cornwall-trained ear had heard oranges.
He told me Kate in the shop had just got the oranges in that very
morning. I smiled so widely my cheeks hurt. I thanked him kindly and we
parted ways — him back to his chimneys, me standing in a Cornish lane
holding a bag of Valencia oranges, looking for my origins.
Sometimes the world answers you in its own language. You just have to decide what to do with the oranges.
