All the dear faces Page 11

  “Good morning, Mrs Armstrong," she called out, her stride bold and graceful, not faltering. Her full skirt swung, brushing the tops of her wooden-soled clogs and revealing an inch of the thick woollen stockings her mother, or perhaps it was her father, had knitted. She wore no bonnet and the brilliant sunlight lit her hair to flame. Her back was straight, long and supple and she walked with the ease and elegance of a cat. From the inn yard of The Bull where he had tethered his mare, Reed Macauley drew in his breath admiringly.

  Jesus God, but she was a rare one. It took a special kind of courage to do what she was doing. It was easy to carry a sword or a musket into battle, into the heat and fury which was generated when men came up against other men. It was easy to be brave when all about you were being brave with you, but to be one woman, one solitary soldier against so much hostility, called for the sort of valour which had nothing to do with the race of blood which carries a man through an armed conflict.

  He had passed at the back of her farmhouse on more than one occasion in the past four weeks as he came down from Long Beck and on to the pack route which led through the fells to Carlisle where he had business interests. He had not called though he had been tempted to do so if only to see how she was managing. Sheer curiosity, he told himself, though why he felt the need to justify himself, even to himself, irritated him. They were neighbours of sorts, weren't they, and any decent neighbour would take the trouble to enquire after the health and condition of another, especially a woman alone who had just come back from what Gillthrop would consider wild adventuring and who would, given the circumstances, be bound to encounter hostility. The hamper had been an impulse. She was nothing to do with him, and, if she was to be given the chance she needed he would serve her best by staying away from her. She was in enough trouble as it was and needed no further gossip about what those in the neighbourhood would see as the questionable visits of a young, unmarried man on a woman of already dubious character. No, best leave her alone to swim, or sink if that was the way of it, in the turbulent waters she herself had stirred up.

  But she intrigued him. He thought about her more often than he liked. She was a vastly attractive woman, of course, and promised to be . . . interesting, stimulating, with an air about her of something hidden which could prove diverting to reveal and he was not a man who would take much persuading to reveal it! If he helped her without those of Gillthrop knowing he was helping her, giving her that covert support — of a material sort — to get her through the winter and on to her first step towards independence, which he had a fancy to do, what might she be capable of achieving? She'd not do it on her own, of course. She had nothing, nothing but the farmhouse and the land. No resources, no capital with which to purchase her flock, the livestock she would need, the farming implements, the seed to plant her first crop, nothing but her own strong back and indomitable spirit.

  And courage, he told himself. Would you look at her now, striding through the gathering of village women, nodding, smiling, calling her greetings as though she was as welcome as the first daffodils and getting no response whatsoever beyond sour looks and the coldly turned shoulder of every woman in the village. Not showing that she gave a damn either, head held high and a smile on her to melt the coldest heart which meant nothing to these women. Now if they were men! Ah, that would be different for what man could resist that springing step, that neat waist and lilting breast, that glowing, hatless tumble of hair which gave her the appearance of having come directly from some man's bed after an hour or two of delightful love-making.

  “Good morning, Miss Abbott," he called out, stepping from behind his mare, hoping perhaps to startle her though why he should want to do so was again an enigma to him but she merely glanced coolly in his direction, nodding politely as she turned into the inn yard. The women in the street watched avidly.

  “A fine morning, is it not?" he went on, moving towards her, drawn by some strange and annoying need to have her do more than nod. What? A smile perhaps, one of those he had seen illuminate her great, golden-brown eyes on the day they had met? A curl of her poppy-red lips, lifting at the corners to show her white teeth? Some words to let him know she had not forgotten the hamper since she must know she and the child would not have survived without it.

  She did none of these things. The smiles she had showered on the village women were gone and her manner told him, and them, that she was a woman with whom men were not encouraged to dally. She was on some business of her own here and it was nothing to do with anyone but herself and whoever she had come to see.

  Without knowing why, not meaning to since it was his intention to go with the pack on the fox hunt over the fells, he followed her inside The Bull, leaning casually, his arms crossed on his chest, against the door frame of the low-ceilinged, oak-panelled bar-parlour of the inn. Though there was a huge log fire burning on the hearth it was gloomy for the windows were small, and an aroma of ale and spirits and tobacco filled his nostrils and caught the back of his throat. It was empty but for an amiable-looking man with wide shoulders and short bandy legs standing in front of the bar. He turned from his lethargic wiping of a glass as Annie entered. At once into his eyes came that foolish, longing-to-handle expression with which Annie was all too familiar but with Reed Macauley at her back and the dreadful apparition of starvation staring into her face she had no choice but to carry on.

  “Good day, landlord," she said brightly and smiled.

  He smiled back, not yet sure who she was but liking what he saw.

  “Good day to you." His glance fell to the child and understanding began to dawn.

  “I'm Annie Abbott. I'm looking for work.”

  Behind her Reed straightened slowly and for a second the man by the bar allowed his eyes to drift in his direction, catching the slight nod which, in these parts, meant a great deal. Among his other business concerns Reed Macauley had substantial sums of money out at interest. And it was not only substantial sums he lent, but small loans to the small man. Perhaps a matter of no more than two guineas but for the period of time that man owed money to Reed Macauley, he was Reed Macauley's man. And the landlord of The Bull, going through a bad spell when the farmers, or the smallholders did, was in debt to the man who now stood in his bar-parlour.

  Catching the landlord's shift of inattention Annie turned to look where he did though she was too late to see Reed Macauley's nod. Her face hardened and her eyes became brilliant with anger.

  “Mr Macauley, I would be obliged if you would take yourself off in whatever direction you were heading when I came into the inn yard. Mr . . . er . . . the landlord and I have some business to discuss and I would prefer to do it in private. It is none of your concern."

  “Indeed, Miss Abbott, but is this not a public bar and if I want to drink in it then it is my concern. Mine and the landlord's.”

  She was confused for a moment and he grinned, but recovering at once she turned back to the landlord, her glorious head showering small ringleted curls about her forehead. Both men watched her in some fascination. Spying a door behind the bar she indicated to it with her nod of her head.

  “Perhaps we could go in there, sir. I have no wish to keep Mr Macauley from his . . . whatever it is he drinks."

  “Go ahead, Will. Give me a brandy and I'll just sit here by the fire whilst you and Miss Abbott attend to your business. I am the last person to stand in the way of private enterprise." His grin broadened as he threw his long, immaculately tailored leg in its superbly polished boot over the bench, leaning his elbow on the table.

  Annie found it surprisingly easy. She was a very experienced barmaid, she told Will Twentyman. Strong and willing and conscientious. Six hours each evening would be fine though threepence an hour was less than she had earned . . . oh, of course, there would be tips, but by the look of the women in the village their menfolk would not be encouraged to throw their cash in her direction.

  “And my supper?”

  He shrugged. "There's always food here."

&
nbsp; “And . . . my child.”

  He frowned. He had been given the nod by Mr Macauley to take on the girl, which was no hardship. Good-looking barmaids were always hard to come by since the respectable folk in the parish did not put their pretty daughters to this kind of trade. There was no doubt she would attract custom, not only with her looks but with her reputation. They'd all be here, the men from the village and the hill farms within walking distance to get a look at her, to try it on with her. He would himself if his old woman wasn't looking. Oh, aye, he'd have taken her on without Mr Macauley's say so, that's if his Eliza would let him but he'd not bargained for the nipper as well.

  “She would be kept out of the way, Mr Twentyman, I promise. She's used to being quiet and is no bother to anyone.”

  Aye, he'd not argue with her about that, poor little mite, all big eyes and a solemn expression on her that would have sat well on a judge. Kept out of the way while her mother entertained her 'friends', he'd be bound and what he wouldn't give to be among that number.

  “She'll just go to sleep in a corner, Mr Twentyman. You won't even know she's there. I . . . I can't leave her alone at home."

  “When can tha' start?"

  “Tonight?" She gave him her saucy barmaid's smile. "Aw reet, but keep tha' bairn out o't way."

  “I will, and thank you, Mr Twentyman.”

  She did not even glance in Reed Macauley's amused direction as she swept regally through the bar and out into the brilliant December sunshine. Her elation showed in the heightened colour of her smooth cheeks and the vivid, transparent depths of her golden eyes.

  A week later, with her first week's wage of nine shillings in the tin box beneath the pile of kindling under the sconce, with the few pennies in tips jingling in her pocket, the good, solid meal she and Cat shared every night and the few odds and ends of broken tarts or a mutton chop slipped to her by Will Twentyman, she had taken that first arduous step on the road to success. She was settled. She had a job, money coming in. She was, for the moment, safe. She could, for the moment, allow herself to feel exultant, for despite all her neighbours' cold hostility, their downright longing to see her fall flat on her face, she had shown them all that she did not need them. She had succeeded in hanging on and though she was far, very far, from what she intended, she had for the time being found honest work and had earned her first week's wage.

  And when that first snow fell, starting with a sudden flurry of flakes floating in the thin air, she immediately took Cat's hand, banishing all thoughts of gathering birch twigs for the making of the besoms she was accumulating in her barn. She and Cat began to make their frantic way down the track at the back of Browhead towards the farmhouse. She had lived for most of her life in this part of the world and knew well the pitiless cruelty of the blizzards which could attack so quickly. The light was fading rapidly as the slanting snowflakes began to thicken and almost before they had left the comparative shelter of the coppice it had settled thickly on the ground, on their bent heads and bowed shoulders, on their eyebrows and eyelashes so that they were forced to blink rapidly to clear their vision. The cold was devastating and within minutes, though they were no more than a few hundred yards from the farmhouse, they were enclosed in a solid, moving, violent curtain of snow. Had she not known every inch of the way or had they been several hundred yards further from the farm she could not have found it. She was only relieved it was Sunday and the inn closed for the day.

  They fell into the kitchen, a. great tide of snow accompanying them, laughing and gasping, Cat, who had been ready to be frightened, laughing just as merrily as her mother. The fire was burning brightly. They had rush-lights and warm clothing, a simmering `tatie-pot' on the fire and when, later, they dozed before their own hearth, warm, well fed, Annie sighed in sheer bliss, and, in perfect imitation of her mother, Cat did the same.

  Chapter 8

  She sighed in sheer exasperation the following morning when daylight, what there was of it, revealed the still solidly eddying veil of snow. It had drifted up to the window ledges and covered the drystone wall opposite the farmhouse door and when she opened it a waist-high barrier of frozen, crystallised whiteness rose before her, preventing her from going any further. Not that she needed or wanted to go any further just yet but she was expected at The Bull at six o'clock that evening and she intended to give none of those in the village a chance to mock her female weakness, as they would see it, nor her inability to look after herself and her child. She knew they would be betting with one another on how long it would take her to admit she was beaten; to sell up and move sway, take her bastard child and ruined reputation elsewhere and allow them to attend to their moral and, until she came among them, virtuous lives.

  It was noon before the snow stopped falling. The beauty of the landscape as she opened the door again took her breath away and for several minutes she and Cat stood in absolute silence, the door latch held in one hand whilst the lifted the other to shade her eyes, for the sheer white brilliance of the immaculate snow was a physical pain. She had forgotten during the four years she had wandered the flat plains of the Midlands, the magnificent and aweinspiring splendour of the Lakeland which had been, and would be again, her home, particularly after a snowstorm of the proportions of the night before. It sparkled and glittered as though a careless hand had scattered millions of diamonds across the rolling landscape. The sky was the jeep blue of a cornflower, cloudless and serene. The trees stood proud, unbowed beneath their burden of snow, a marvel of black and white etched against the silvered lake. It was a mystical land of gentle lowlands and high, sharp-featured peaks, a land unmarked by walls or fences or gates, for they had all vanished in the night storm. It was cold but not the raw biting cold of November. This was sharp, clean, stimulating, making the blood race and tingle. A white, silent cold in a white, silent world where nothing moved and nothing could be heard but the faint bugle call of the whooper swans who came down each year from the north to winter on the lake.

  “Well, Cat, my sweet, grand as it is, it's going to create a problem we could well do without.”

  The child nodded sagely, staring out as anxiously as Annie for even at her tender age she was well aware of the importance of work, of wages, of food to eat and a place to eat it in. She had been her mother's sole companion since she was born and had been suckled to the sound of Annie's voice musing on how to make a penny do the work of two. She had understood nothing at first as she listened to the soft murmur of the words her mother spoke, not to her for she had been an infant at her mother's breast, but to herself. Annie had found that to speak the words out loud, though there was no answer, had given her the feeling she was discussing her problems with someone; that perhaps the solution might be divulged to her, and often it had. With Cat's wide, long-lashed eyes gazing unwinkingly into hers, the child's mouth pursed on the nipple of her full breast, she had talked and talked and gradually, as Cat grew, moving on to a cup, a plate, a spoon, she had begun to understand, to listen as Annie talked to her and if she had no answer, her intense, unchildlike concern was felt by her mother, giving her comfort, and the bond between them was strong and unbreakable.

  “We could dig," she offered, her eyes bright, her trust complete in this mother who had never been anything but utterly trustworthy.

  “We could, darling," her mother answered doubtfully for it was a good fifteen minutes' walk to Gillthrop and that was in the best of weather.

  “Shall we put our clogs on, mother, and try?" The child's hand slipped confidingly into hers and for a second Annie felt her heart twist painfully inside her. Her daughter was so . . . so lovely, not in the visual sense, though she was that too, but in her sweet child's heart. Wanting to please and console, to help as though she was an adult, to attempt any gargantuan task with her child's strength if it would ease the worry in her mother's heart. To dig a path to The Bull if it should be necessary and would please Annie. She was far too serious for her age since she had never 'played' but her goodness and sweetnes
s shone from her. She was strong, too, and steadfast in her love, and yet these people of the parish of Bassenthwaite wished her nothing but ill. They would shun her and teach their children to shun her and it broke Annie's heart to think about it but there was nothing she could do but go on, work hard, make a place for her and Cat, and hope. That was all she could do. Hope.

  “Why not? You run upstairs and get mother's cloak and your shawl and scarf. Oh, and the thick stockings from the chest. I wish we had some boots," she added wistfully, "but our clogs will have to do.”

  The snow had already crusted. Fortunately the big, long-handled shovel Joshua Abbott had used to clear the yard to the side of the house of the manure his animals deposited there, the one with which Annie had been attempting to turn over the hard earth, was still standing just by the side door. First she must get herself out of the house and up on to the level to which the snow had fallen. To cut out steps would be the best, she thought, so that she and Cat could go up them one at a time until they stood, with any luck, at the same height as the window ledges where the snow lay, that's if the snow would hold them.

  This proved easy enough and soon she had moved about ten feet from the front door, throwing the snow first to one side and then to the other, forming a narrow, tramped-down path in which the wooden soles of her clogs actually helped. They were sturdy and warm and providing the snow did not seep over the sides, afforded good protection.

  At the end of an hour she was hot and panting with exertion and she had almost reached the gate which led out to the farm track and down to the road. To the road to Gillthrop and The Bull. Cat was behind her scooping out snow with the lid of the tin box in which Annie's first week's wages lay, resolutely stamping down the packed whiteness with her little clogged feet. Her cheeks were like poppies and her eyes great golden brown stars and for a moment Annie paused to watch her, comparing her with the inanimate doll she had been three months ago. She had pushed back the scarf Annie had tied about her head and her hair, exactly the same colour and texture as her mother's, fell about her forehead and down her back. Like a rippling sheet of copper it was, catching fire from the sun. The mother and child were singing. An old song Lizzie Abbott had sung to Annie and which she in turn sang to Cat. It was said to be a 'cocking' song before cockfighting was made illegal in 1835. The Charcoal Black and Bonnie Grey' it was called, a ballad popular throughout Cumberland and Westmorland, the place names mentioned in it changed to suit the location in which it was sung.