All the dear faces Read online

  “This is my daughter, Catriona, Sally. She is almost three years old.”

  You could see it in Sally's eyes, the slow working out of the dates and the years between. Sally, good-natured and uncritical, generous and warm-hearted could barely add two and two together despite her three years' schooling but she knew what had happened to Annie Abbott for here was the three-year-old proof of it. Perhaps she had been wrong about the ring . . . perhaps .. .

  “Your . . . husband?" she gasped painfully, hopefully, since she liked Annie Abbott, always had done and would have been glad to renew their friendship.

  “I have none, Sally." Annie Abbott, though she could have done so, would not lie, even for Cat's sake.

  “Glory . . . oh, good glory . . ." and without another word Sally, her face as scarlet as the geraniums in her mother's window bottom, turned tail and ran like a monstrous, overburdened cow, dragging her whining toddler so fast down the track behind her, he or she, it was hard to tell its sex, almost lost its balance.

  Annie sighed deeply, sadly, then taking Cat's hand in hers led her back into the glowing warmth of her kitchen. At least she had that. A warm kitchen, and Cat. It would have been nice to have a friend though. She'd known this would happen, of course. When they heard. When they heard about Annie Abbott's disgrace, her shame, her dreadful fall from grace which had resulted in the one thing most girls would rather die than suffer, and sometimes did. A bastard child. It would be all over the valley, like the news of the hamper, by morning.

  The knock on the door five minutes later took her by surprise, as did Sally Garnett's face when she opened it.

  “Bugger 'em," was all she said, thrusting her child in before her as she moved heavily over the threshwood. "I'll 'ave that cup o' tea after all, Annie.”

  Chapter7

  The snow came just after Christmas, the first hesitant flake or two taking Annie by surprise; she could not have said why, since it was the season for it.

  She and Cat were up in the coppice wood at the back of Browhead. The term 'coppice' meant literally, 'grown for cutting and the trees there, oak, ash, birch and sycamore, beech, hazel and alder, evergreen holly, pine and yew, were the only crop which had never failed Joshua Abbott. A bad harvest of the oats and barley — known as `bigg' — which he grew, one which withered in the fields, caused great hardship since it meant that the food which would have seen them through the year had to be found elsewhere. That the fodder for the cattle who were hand fed in the cow house where they had been brought to winter was not available. The beasts, of which Joshua never had more than one, could be fed in an emergency on bracken cut from the fells, but humans needed more than bracken. It brought disaster to many a small farmer, men who had nothing to fall back on as Joshua had in his coppice wood. One acre of well-grown coppice was capable of producing 10,000 poles at every cutting. This was raw material for bark tanneries, swill baskets, grommets, hoops, charcoal and bobbins although naturally, Joshua was. not concerned with all these industries. But he could sell his poles to those who were and the crop which was not sold he and Lizzie and Annie had made into swill baskets and birch-twig besoms — somewhat like a broom — to be sold at Keswick market.

  Bark for the tanneries was cut in early summer when rising sap in the coppiced oak trees allowed the bark to be stripped off more easily. Of course this year no bark had been peeled and it was too late now to do anything about it but next year Annie meant to contact Natty Varty who did casual work for any man who needed an extra hand and would pay him, to fell and peel the bark from the oak. As her father had taught her when she was a girl she meant to turn her hand to making swill baskets and peddle them either from door to door at the outlying and remote farmhouses on the fells, or take them to market.

  The actual felling and splitting of the coppice poles was hard and laborious but she was strong and who better than herself knew about hard labour? There were many processes through which the wood must go before she had the materials for the swill baskets which were used in many industries, farming, coal mining, charcoal burning and which went to many parts of the country, even as far as Liverpool where they were in common use on coaling steamers. A good workman could make seven baskets a day but Annie meant to work during the evenings since she would be busy on the actual farm the rest of the time. The farm she intended to build from the ashes of the one her father had worked so desperately to keep going.

  And then there were the birch-twig besoms with which Lakeland housewives swept their floors and yards. She and her mother had made hundreds of the things and if they brought in only a few pence, it all helped and she would need every resource she had to begin to build the dream she dreamed of. She had already made two dozen or so, helped by Cat, and the neat bundles were piled in the barn even now, ready for selling at Keswick market.

  There was the knitting of hosiery, the weaving of the wool and the spinning of the yarn on the loom and spinning-wheel which her mother kept in the parlour and which Annie had carefully cleaned ready for use. When she had her flock, of course! There were many crafts she could turn her hand to when the spring came but first she must earn some money to get her and Cat through the winter. If she could, she would also put something aside towards replacing the small flock of sheep her father had once owned. She had no idea what had happened to them though Sally had spoken of debts and a bad summer harvest in the year Joshua and Lizzie had died.

  “Me an' Ma came every day ter nurse them, Annie, but by the time we got 'ere tha' faither and mother were off tha' heads an' made no sense. There was no money fer doctor but we did our best. Ma made up one of 'er infusions from the root of Wood avens. 'Tis good fer fever an' colic but it were too late, she reckoned.”

  Sally had sighed sadly, settling her swollen body as comfortably as she could in Lizzie's chair, sipping reflectively and with great enjoyment the mug of tea Annie had brewed, her feet up to the good hot fire on the hearth.

  “Yer Ma went first. Asked fer thi' times, she did. Wanted ter tell thi' summat, she kept sayin', an' Ma said she'd pass a message on, not knowin' when she'd see thi', like, but doin' 'er best ter calm 'er, but she said nowt more. She went quietly, lyin' next to tha' faither. We'd only just lifted 'er out . . . well, with yer faither still alive it didn't seem right ter leave 'er aside 'im . . . when 'e went an' all. No more than an hour atween 'em, poor souls. We did it right, Annie. A proper 'bidden' funeral they 'ad an' everyone came, even from Cockermouth where tha' Ma was born. We took it in turns ter' 'laat' with 'em, me Ma an' others from hereabouts, Mrs Gunson and Mrs Strickland an' old Ma Bibby from down Scarness way, 'er bein' a friend of tha' Ma's. They was carried on the 'corpse way', so there'll be no ill omens laid on this 'ouse, Annie. Church bell tolled, nine times fer tha' faither an' six fer tha' Ma an' we 'ad a funeral feast. Ma baked the arvel bread and gave it round. Oh, it were done right, lass, 'ave no fear o' that."

  “I must go and thank your mother, and all of them, Sally, and you, of course, for what you did. I didn't know . . .”

  Sally sat up cumbersomely and her good-natured face which had became even rosier with the fierce heat of the fire, twisted into a horrified grimace.

  “Eeh no, lass, tha' cannot go up ter me Ma's, nor to any of 'em."

  “Why not? I am most grateful . . ."

  “They'd not 'ave thi' over t' threshwood, none of 'em would, an' neither would Bert. He reckons 'e's head of the 'ouse now since me faither died an' he'd 'ave no truck wi' . . . well not wi' . . ." She indicated with a nod of her head and a swift glance in her direction, Annie's grave-faced little daughter who was watching with the greatest fascination Sally's boy Sammy devour a piece of Reed Macauley's cook's chocolate meringue, something he had never before come across and which he plainly found much to his liking. As he ate his eyes never shifted from what remained of it and the speed with which he ate it implied that the sooner he got it down, the sooner he could have another piece.

  “You mean that because I have a child, one born out of. . ."
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br />   “Don't be daft, Annie. Yer know what they're like round 'ere. None of 'em'll 'ave 'owt ter do wi' thi. Did tha' expect it ter be any different? As soon as it's known tha's back wi' a . . ."

  “A bastard?" Annie's chin rose challengingly.

  “Aye . . ." sadly, ". . . an' after tha' ran away like tha' did, wi' that chap from the travelling show."

  “He was ready to punish me, Sally. My father. I don't know how or what my life would have been like had I stayed . . ."

  “Threw you out, the story went an' served yer right, they said. Yer'd bin seen in Keswick wi' that actor but I felt right badly about it. Like it was my fault . . ." "Your fault?"

  “Well, if I 'adn't coaxed thi' ter come ter t' play it wouldn't 'ave 'append. None of it."

  “No, Sally, you musn't blame yourself. I chose to go, to take the chance, knowing what my father was like, and so I must bear the consequences."

  “What'll tha' do now, Annie?"

  “Stay here."

  “Nay, will tha' not sell?" Clearly Sally was of the opinion her friend was off her head for whoever heard of a woman living alone on a farm? How would she manage without a man? How would she feed and clothe herself and her child? And more to the point, how could she stay here in this upright and God-fearing community amongst those who would turn their faces from her? Who would have no social communication with her whatsoever. Who would shun her and her child, for what decent man or woman could, without tainting themselves, be concerned with a woman such as Annie Abbott? To accept her would be to condone her behaviour, loose and immoral as it had been, and for all any of them knew, still was. If she could act as she had in the past with one man, or even more, who was to say she could not do it again with another, theirs, in fact, the women would tell themselves, and the men, having daughters of their own to protect, could only look upon her with contempt since to do otherwise might put the idea in their daughters' heads that there was no sin to it.

  “No." Annie shook her head resolutely in answer to Sally's question and Sally watched in wondering admiration the play of firelight in Annie's copper curls. They were tight and shining, long tendrils hanging in coils about her slender white neck and falling over her ears. She had bundled it up on top of her head, skewering it with several pins but it was far too heavy and vibrant to remain there, slipping in bright disarray from its fastenings.

  With a generosity which held no envy Sally admitted to herself that Annie Abbott had grown into a right comely woman.

  “What will tha' do, then?"

  “Run the farm, Sally. Work. Buy sheep when I have the money. A cow, pigs. A horse. Plough . . . I was hoping the men would oblige with some 'boon-ploughing' when the time came . . ." a custom in which all the men in the community would help one another at ploughing time, ". . . plant oats and bigg on a couple of acres. Get Natty Varty to do some coppicing and in the evening make swills and besoms. Given a chance I can make this farm successful. That's all I need, a chance, or even half a one. Mr Macauley . . . I met him on the road yesterday .. . his mother knew mine . . ." which was half a truth .. ."brought over this food . . ." indicating the basket, ". . . otherwise we would have gone hungry.”

  She frowned at Sammy who was reaching with grubby hands for the chocolate meringue. "That boy of yours, should he be eating so much rich food?" since he certainly would not be used to it, her manner said. Besides which, what was in the basket might have to last her and Cat through the next few weeks which it wouldn't if he was allowed to make free with it. She could see that Sally was one of those good-natured, careless mothers who, as long as they were not bothering them, gave no concern to the activities of their offspring.

  Sally glanced indifferently at Sammy. "Oh, 'e'll be all right. Nothin' makes 'im sick."

  “Perhaps not, but I'd rather he was sick on someone else's food, if you don't mind. That's all me and Cat have until I earn some money."

  “Well then, we'd best be off." Sally struggled to get out of her chair, ready to be offended, but the effort to do either was too much for her and she sank back, panting with the effort.

  “Give us a 'and, Annie, an' see, Sammy, give over touchin' that cake. He's never seen 'owt like it," she explained to Annie apologetically, pushing aside the smaller child, a little girl she called Janie, and when Annie had got her to her feet and through the doorway on to the threshwood, she turned impulsively, putting her hand on Annie's arm.

  “I'll try an' get over ter see thi', Annie, but with me Ma an' Bert it'll be difficult. Yer know . . ." nodding again in Cat's direction. The Mounsey farm, Upfell, ran next to Browhead, the distance between the farmhouses no more than a mile or so but it seemed to Annie that though the track was not long it might as well have been a hundred.

  “You must do as you see fit, Sally." She lifted her head proudly, as she had done with Reed Macauley, for she would have no one, him or Sally, handing out favours to her, then she relented, for Sally had been good to Lizzie and Joshua. "Come if you can, Sal. I'd be glad to see you, and your mother, but don't cause trouble at home," meaning with her husband, Bert.

  Sally laughed without humour. "If yer thinkin' of Bert, he don't care what I do as long as 'is dinner's on t' table when 'e gets in from t' fell an' I'm in 'is bed when 'e goes up to it.”

  Annie had not seen Sally since that day. She had seen nobody. December had come in with a biting furious wind, unfriendly and finding its way into the house despite the thickness of the walls, bringing fresh soot down the chimney and though there was plenty of peat and wood in the barn she had tried to use it sparingly in order to make it last thoughout the winter. The house had been cleaned and polished and scrubbed and aired, even the tiny windows buffed until they sparkled. Bedding had been washed and mended and the contents of her mother's chest searched for suitable garments from which to remake and replace the clothing she and Cat wore. She had sewn a new little dress for her daughter from a skirt of Lizzie's, a dull and washed out grey, vowing as she did so that one day she would make her one in a bright and pretty material, but at least she was warm and her appearance was neat and clean.

  She had baked clapbread and made a pan of crowdy, finding the vegetables in what had been her mother's vegetable garden. She had managed to do some digging before the ground had become too hard but their supplies were getting low again, the basket of food brought over by Reed Macauley nearly empty. She needed some money, hard cash, since it was obvious that those with whom she might have done a trade, had she had anything to exchange, would not be willing to oblige her. Some of my oats for a leg of your lamb. A quart of milk for a lump of cheese, or butter, eggs for a hunk of bacon and though she had been careful with the food it had been hard at Christmas time when she had tried to make a little celebration for Cat. No presents, of course, except for the surprising loop of bright emerald-green ribbon she had found at the bottom of her mother's chest wrapped about a shining strand ofcopper hair which had matched Cat's and her own. Who had it belonged to? she had wondered before tying the ribbons in her daughter's curls. Someone from her mother's past, or perhaps one of her small brothers and sisters who slept in the churchyard by the lake. It had not occurred to her that the curl had been cut from her mother's own head when she had been pretty, fifteen-year-old Lizzie Bowman.

  She had cut a tiny fir seedling from the coppice and decorated it with pine cones and bright red berries and ribbons of paper from about the food in the hamper, fashioned into bows and hearts. Not much, but with a Christmas carol sung as the child drowsed on her knee she felt she had done her best with the first Christmas they had shared in their own home. Next year would be different. This time next year it would be different.

  No one came near her.

  On Boxing Day she and Cat walked down the track to the road which led to the hamlet of Gillthrop where the Highthwaite pack had just set off on the traditional Boxing Day fox hunt, one of the many which took place each winter between November and April. Not a sport as it was known in other parts of the country, but a
necessity since the fox was an unrivalled predator in the fields of the local farmers, attacking and taking new-born lambs when they came. The drag for the scent had taken place earlier that day and the hounds were already away, eager to follow the fox over the hostile terrain which, particularly at this time of the year, could strike without warning at a man who did not respect its moods.

  A Lakeland village was not the cosy affair of inn, church and pretty cottages grouped about a village green and pond which was known elsewhere but was a line of small buildings in a thin straggle along the rutted road. Women stood in small knots as Annie walked towards them, Cat's hand in hers and as she drew nearer all conversation ceased. Almost as one they folded their arms defensively across their offended bosoms, their attitude proclaiming at once that she was not welcome and that she'd best not try her doxy's tricks here. Shawled heads turned away, eyes sliding to watch her nevertheless.

  The hound pack could be heard in full cry, a rushing river of melody fading to a gentle swarming-bee sound as the dogs took flight through the bracken of Orthwaite Bank in the direction of Little Cockup as they trailed the fox. The men had gone, following the excited hounds. Farmers, the whipper-in, the hunstmen in their hodden grey. Sturdy boots and gaiters, snug breeches and woollen jackets and jaunty bowler hats. Some carried fox screws to winkle out the cunning animal should he go to ground in a borran, others had walking sticks and shepherd's crooks for they would cover a good many miles today. There were terriers trained to follow the fox into the borran and flush him out. The thrilling notes of the hunting horn rang out, carried on an echo and for a moment every head turned in the direction of the sound then all the women looked back at Annie Abbott, waiting, silent, accusing, hostile, curious for none had known a bad woman before.

  She knew them all. They were decent, hard-working, quick to help one another, loyal and true friends to those who deserved it. Gillthrop was no more than fifteen minutes' walk from Browhead. She had attended the church school with their children and her mother had passed the time of day with the older ones, but none spoke.