All the dear faces Page 17

  “Stop that . . ." a man's voice had said, and "yer daft little bugger . . ." which were not the words a customer says to the one who is supplying him with what he is paying for.

  “What's going on here?" she said loudly, commandingly, speaking before she had time to think. It was as though someone else had spoken and not her at all, the words and the way they sounded, giving the impression that she had the whole of Keswick's police force at her back. "Stand up at once," she added, "and let me see the. . ."

  “Bugger off," the man snarled over his shoulder and for just that moment as he turned his head, a child's face lifted in terror beneath him, white with deep black hollows where her eyes and mouth were, her hair flung this way and that in snarled tatters across it. She was trying to scream, doing her best to convey to Annie, who stood paralysed with shock, that this was none of her doing, but the man loomed over her again, his bestial greed so great and all consuming he was deaf and blind to anything else. His great back obliterated her again so that all Annie could see were two white legs, thin and splayed, emerging from beneath his great white buttocks, the feet twitching, writhing. One was bare, pathetic in its smallness.

  Annie began to scream. At the top of her voice she began to scream and so did Cat for she had been woken from her deep child's sleep to her mother's tenor. Annie took no notice. There was another child whose need for protection was greater than Cat's and the only way she could think of to stop what was going on in this brutish corner, was to make a great deal of noise about it. That, and to kick.

  The first one aimed with all the force of her sturdy, clogged foot behind it caught him high in the middle of his thick white buttocks but the second, now that she had her aim set square landed low between his buttocks, so low her toe fell firmly on his dangling genitals and with a scream to match her own, he fell flat across the child beneath him.

  “Get off her, get off her, you bastard, you low crawling bastard. Get off her or I'll do you so much damage you'll never want a woman again . . . get off her . . . you loathsome .. .”

  It was several minutes before Bert could drag her away from the screaming man and several more before she could calm herself to face the weeping, bedraggled young creature who had been his victim and who cowered like some cornered animal, on her knees in the centre of the curious but sympathetic circle of men who had gathered to see what the commotion was about. Several had put out comforting hands to her for though they were men they were not all beasts, but she would not have it, or them, curling up into herself in crazed pain and tenor.

  Annie shoved Cat into Bert's reluctant arms and slowly, soothingly, letting her soft female voice be heard, she sank to her knees beside the girl.

  “It's all right, my lovely . . ." as she would say to Cat when she was hurt. "It's all right now. You're safe now. It's all right. He's gone now. See, stand up with me. I've got you. Put your hand in mine and let me help you up. There. It's all right now, sweetheart. Safe . . . Safe .. .

  You're safe with Annie . . ." and gradually, like some small, terrified, trapped young thing which, though it is freed, cannot get up the courage to run away, the girl stood up huddling against Annie, her arms creeping about Annie's waist, her face hidden, shamed and distraught against Annie's shoulder. She allowed her disarranged clothing to be smoothed down. To have her hair brushed back from her shocked white face, all the while clinging to the only safe, female, being in her tumbling universe.

  “Where are you from, sweeting? Tell Annie. See, there's no one to hurt you now," for the would-be seducer had stumbled off whilst he had the chance.

  “Let me take you to your home. Where do you live? What's your name? Come sweetheart, let me help you . . ." but the girl, deep in shock now, could not or would not answer.

  “Well, tha'll have to leave her here, Annie," Bert said rashly since he was eager to be off to indulge in a bit of seduction of his own, and besides, it was gone eleven o'clock and he'd hung about long enough waiting on Annie Abbott. "She'll find her way home soon enough."

  “Don't talk daft, Bert." Annie's voice was quite matter of fact. "I can't just leave her here."

  “What else can thi' do wi' her, tell me that."

  “Take her home with me."

  “Nay . . ."

  “Don't nay me, Bert Garnett. We don't know where she lives or even her name and until I can get her to talk to me we'll never find out. We can't hang about here waiting, so I'll take-her with me, and if she wants to, she can come back with me tomorrow night."

  “What if her . . ."

  “Stop it, Bert. See, there's a bundle here, probably hers. Pick it up will you and put it in the cart. Cat darling, stop crying and hold mother's hand. No, the girl is not hurt and neither are you so be a good girl . . . yes, sweetheart, I know I frightened you but this girl was even more frightened so I had to help her, didn't I? Good girl, there's my good Cat . . . Now then, let's see if we can get our new friend to tell us what her name is. What do you think? Katie, perhaps, or Molly . .

  Her name was Phoebe, she whispered to Annie when they were alone in the warm kitchen. Phoebe what? Annie asked but Phoebe didn't know that since no one in the place had told her, she said. She'd always been called Phoebe, just Phoebe. Mrs Pike had left her in the square because she didn't want her to work at the farm any more and the man had taken the three pounds Mrs Pike had given her for her wages and though she'd stood all day with the other women, no one had hired her and she'd been so hungry and didn't know where to go or how to get anything to eat, so when the man said he'd show her, she'd gone with him and then he'd . . . he'd not given her anything to eat but had made her give him her wages and told her she'd to pull her drawers down and when she'd said no, he'd hit her. See, she had the black eye to prove it.

  The words flowed from her falteringly. She was small and thin, not very clean and though she could have been older, Annie guessed she was about twelve or thirteen.

  With the intuition which came from her own experiences, not of attempted rape, but of the filth with which men could coat a woman whom they thought no better than she should be, fair game in fact, for their insolent tongues and roving hands, Annie had filled the tub in which she and Cat bathed, and after putting her small, half-asleep daughter into their bed, she had coaxed Phoebe to remove her clothing and step into the warm water. There was always some heating, or being kept hot, on the slow-burning peat fire and though Phoebe had hung her head and crossed her arms across her exposed body, she had done as she was bid. Annie had bought soap from a pedlar, parting with some of her precious savings. In the past Lizzie Abbott had made her own, but having no animals or animal fat with which to do so, Annie had no choice but to buy it. It had a smell of lavender about it and taking a cloth and the soap, she gently bathed the girl, watching as, in the soft glow from the fire and the rushlight she had lit, Phoebe relaxed into the warm, cleansing water, the fear and tension gradually slipping from her.

  “Would you like me to wash your hair?" Annie asked. Phoebe nodded, bending her head obediently to Annie's hands, and when it was dried, it turned out to be as dark and glossy as the coat on Reed Macauley's mare, hanging straight as a ruler to her waist.

  They did not speak a great deal. After the one sudden flow of words from Phoebe, she seemed to have nothing more to say and Annie did not press her. She put her in one of her mother's clean, modest nightgowns, pushed her in with Cat and when she herself fell into bed beside the two of them, they were both sound asleep.

  It was as though she had always been there, so easily did Cat, the two dogs and even Annie herself accept her. No more questions were asked and no more information of Phoebe's past life, which Annie could tell had been hard, was proffered. She was strong and, as her fright receded, cheerful and the hardest worker Annie had ever come across. She seemed to know instinctively what needed doing and without being asked, would do it, labouring from the moment her feet hit the floor first thing in the morning, until she tucked them up, last thing at night, in the little tru
ckle bed Annie herself had slept in as a child. The area under the roof had been divided years ago when Lizzie's children had started to come since Joshua had fully expected at least a dozen, and rooms – two, one for the girls, one for the boys, must be provided for them. From the tiny landing led three bare bedrooms, one of them never used except for storing whatever surplus oats or barley Joshua might have, his hopes of sturdy boys to follow him dashed in bitterness and recrimination against the woman who could not give them to him.

  So Phoebe was moved on her second night, without a word being spoken by either her or Annie, into Annie's old room and when Annie set off to tramp to Keswick and The Packhorse that night, there was no mention of Phoebe going with her. And there was no question in her mind that, thankfully, she was leaving her child in safe hands.

  Later, when Phoebe had become such a part of their life, she was to wonder how she had ever managed without her. Annie had marvelled at her own lack of caution in leaving her precious child with a stranger, a young girl about whom she knew nothing. But it was as though the strong, faithful, loving bond which was to grow between them was forged and tempered on that night Annie took her from beneath the man who had degraded her. He had not – quite – raped her, she told Annie brusquely on the following morning when Cat had run off down the field with Blackie and Bonnie. She said no more than that, shuddering visibly, then, tying up her long hair and binding it with a length of wide cloth, even then as she was always to do for as long as Annie knew her, hiding its beauty from the prying lustful eyes of men, she reached for the wooden bucket, ready to begin a lifetime of devotion and servitude to the woman who had saved her and who was to become the shining light in the world of Phoebe Abbott, as she was to be known.

  Bert Garnett was not best pleased several nights later when he slipped round the back of the farm with a leg of pork from a pig his mother-in-law had slaughtered, and with which he had hoped to seduce Annie Abbott, to find the expressionless face of the girl he had imagined long gone, fixing him with a level and unblinking stare from across Annie's table.

  “What's she doin' here?" he asked truculently.

  “She's staying with Cat and me. As our guest," Annie answered tranquilly.

  “What the devil does that mean?" Bert was always nonplussed by the way Annie spoke, which was perhaps part of the fascination she had for him. She confused him with the way she put things, not at all like the women of her class in her manners or her appearance.

  “She has nowhere to go so she is staying with Cat and me."

  “What for?"

  “Really Bert, do I have to explain everything I do to you? Surely you must realise that Phoebe . . ."

  “Phoebe? What sort of a name's that?”

  In his angry displeasure at finding someone in Annie's company when he had expected to have her to himself, and therefore defenceless, Bert was ready to vent his spleen on anything that came to hand, even the girl's name.

  “Heavens, Bert Garnett. What on earth's got into you?" though of course she knew. "Phoebe . . . well, I can see no reason why she should not make her home with us, if she cares to . . ." smiling at the sudden radiance which lit Phoebe's plain features. "I am glad of her to see to Cat whilst I am working and though I can pay her no wages, and besides would not dream of considering her a servant, more a friend, she would find no better home than here with Cat and me. You have nowhere else to go, have you, Phoebe?" smiling again at the emphatic shaking of the young girl's head, "so the matter is settled. Don't you think it's a good idea, Bert? It works out well for us all. When I have to be away from the farm, Phoebe will be company for Cat, and she has already proved to be a splendid worker. Will you not try one of those biscuits? They are delicious, made by Phoebe only an hour ago .. . No . . . ?" For at the mention of the girl's name, though he had been about to take one, Bert snatched his hand back from the biscuits as though Annie had told him there was poison baked in them.

  He stumped off ten minutes later taking his leg of pork with him and though Annie was glad to see the back of him she had the feeling she had made an enemy.

  As though to let Annie know that she would never regret giving her a home, Phoebe stood up and busily cleared away the pewter plates and the tankard from which Bert had drunk his ale. She stored away the biscuits in the oak bread cupboard, already becoming familiar with, and revelling in, the layout of Annie's home and where everything was stored. She wiped the table, moving round the kitchen with her cloth, her eyes darting from surface to surface, as though begging for there to be something across which she could lay it. She fetched in another pail of water and arranged to her liking the kindling beneath the sconce. She rattled the fire dogs and re-arranged the shovel and the poker. The copper kettle was given a brisk polish and the kail pot in which, when better times came, Annie would boil her cuts of meat, a wipe round with her damp cloth.

  Annie watched her surreptitiously, saying nothing, her fingers busy with a pair of stockings she was knitting for Cat. She knew Phoebe needed to do what she was doing. The girl had obviously been treated in her short life —wherever that might have been spent, and which one day Phoebe would surely find the peace to tell her about — as no more than a skivvy with nothing to call her own, no one to call her own and the wonder of being allowed to handle these fine things, as she saw them, of being trusted, of being called 'friend', was almost too much for her to encompass. Scrub she would, scour and polish and mop, wash down and wring out, dig and rake and hoe, cut wood and peat and even her own throat if it would please this woman who had given it all to her. If only she would ask Phoebe to do something, some Herculean task which was well nigh insurmountable, Phoebe would do it, her expression said, but finally, with a long, complete sigh of pure rapture, she sat down opposite Annie and fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 12

  She heard the thunder of his horse's hooves on the stony path for several long minutes before she saw him and when he pulled his mare in and flung himself off her back, Annie could only stare at him in complete and dumbstruck amazement.

  She was instructing Phoebe in the correct way to make a swill basket, sitting in a sunny corner of the flower garden her mother had made when she came as a bride to Browhead. Though the garden was wild and overgrown, the stony path crowded with sprawling plants which had not been touched for two summers now, it was pleasant, pretty with the colourful wild flowers Lizzie had transplanted long ago from the fields and hedgerows in the valley bottom about the lake. Thrift was beginning to flourish, its fragrant pink mingling with the snow white of alyssum, and against the wall of the farmhouse where it was sheltered from the worst of the weather was clematis, not yet in bloom, and yellow winter-flowering jasmine. At their back were apple trees in flower, a magical floating cloud of dense blossom from which the trunks of the trees seemed to hang, and early plum trees standing between the rough flower beds and the vegetables which marched in splendid rows at the side of the house. Cabbage and carrots, turnips and potatoes, beetroot and rhubarb and onion. There were daisies pushing their cheerful way through the bit of grass on which she and Cat and Phoebe sprawled. The sun was warm and the dogs panted, their tongues lolling from their open mouths, their eyes bright and watchful guarding this 'flock' of theirs to which, recently, another had been added.

  “The timber must be cut between November and May, Phoebe," Annie was saying "and the poles should be straight-grained and free of moss. Now I've peeled and split these and they've been boiled in water for several hours to make them pliable. You understand?”

  Phoebe nodded to indicate that she did. She had not yet had a great deal to say for herself but her face was bright with interest.

  “Now I've split them again, shaved them and trimmed the wood into these very thin strips. Next year you could do the whole process yourself . . ." Phoebe thrilled to the words 'next year'. It had a lovely sound of permanence about it which was very much to her liking. ". . . but for now we'll just concentrate on the basket. All the strips must be of the same t
hickness and width and then they are woven into a shallow boat shape. The rim is oval and the strips are nailed to it. See, they're like ribbons . . ." Phoebe nodded, ". . . and look very fine, but when they're woven properly they're so strong the basket will hold water. We can sell them for a shilling each to the coal mines or to the ships in Whitehaven. When we have a horse and cart . . .”

  We! Phoebe felt the bursting happiness fill her, every corner of her skinny frame singing with the joy of it. We! Next year! It was worth what that stinking old devil had done to her to have landed up here which truly must be heaven, with this lovely lady who truly must be an angel. She would have it done to her all over again if it meant she could stay. He'd not got his `thingy' inside her, fumbling old bugger that he'd been, but his hands had crawled all over her body, like filthy slugs, invading her private parts and bruising her tender flesh. His mouth had clamped on hers, gagging her, and his tongue had . . . Oh, dear God .. . it made her sick to think of it, her stomach heaving and her skin sweating but she'd have it done to her every day of the week . . . well, perhaps once a week, if she could continue to live with Annie . . . Annie. . . she'd been told to call her Annie and the little poppet who was her daughter. Loved them both she did, even the dogs, with all the pent up, dammed up love which no one, in all of her life, had ever asked her for.

  She was as astonished as Annie when the chap pounded up on his great horse, astonished and alarmed for he seemed so mad about something, looking as though for two pins he was going to knock Annie for six, which of course, Phoebe wouldn't allow. He'd have to kill her first! The dogs evidently thought so too, barking furiously and standing stiff legged and menacing in the face of his threat to those they had in their care. The man's dog, who was close at his heels, bared her teeth, the warning silent and hazardous.