All the dear faces Page 20

  “They're not what I'm looking for," she answered, "but thank you for your time.”

  It was the same wherever she went. The presence of the quiet child and the equally quiet but perfectly decent young girl who accompanied her, lent her astonishing passage through the market some propriety, for no woman with mischief on her mind would saddle herself with youngsters whilst she was about it. But still they stared and still the stubborn streak which had brought Annie Abbott from a terrified fifteen-year-old abandoned mother-to-be, to a woman with her own farm and a pretty and bright young daughter; to a woman with her life coming together around her; to one with money in her pocket and a dream in her heart which was slowly moving towards fruition, the stubborn streak which would not allow her to falter. She knew the supreme ewes and rams would be spoken for in advance but that did not matter unduly since she could probably not afford the prices asked anyway, but she would have the next best her money could buy. The hire of a ram for the winter was expensive, probably about ten or fifteen shillings since it would have to serve no more than a dozen ewes, which was all she could afford to buy this year, but it would have to suffice. Getting them back to Browhead would also be tricky since they would need to be walked, probably along the lake road which, being walled, would be easier to manage, with only herself, Phoebe and Cat to control them. The dogs would have to be trained actually with the sheep before they could be trusted to herd them anywhere but in an enclosed field, but first things first, she told herself, her heart pumping with excitement, her eyes burning in her cream flushed face, her head high with justifiable pride.

  She found exactly what she wanted about two hours later. The farmer was from Threlkeld way where women knew their place and whose truculent expression boded ill for Annie but she had good money in her pocket and she could see no reason why he should not do business with her. He would, no doubt, assume that any advantage to be had would be his. She had been right round the pens, scrutinising every ewe with an experienced eye, that of her father she supposed, since it was he who had taught her all she knew about sheep and what constituted a good specimen.

  “Too slack behind the shoulder," she had remarked cheerfully to one surly fellow, causing his mouth to drop open in consternation.

  “Too light in the face for my needs," she smiled at another.

  “I'm looking for a better fleece I'm afraid," to a third, and word had got round that the 'hussy' from Browhead knew a thing or two about Herdwicks. The farmer from Threlkeld did not believe it.

  “I'm not sure I'm ready to sell yet," he said grimly despite the fact that it was well past noon and his twinters were still mewling and pawing the ground inside his pen.

  “Then may I ask what these ewes are doing here?"

  “That there's nowt to do wi' thi'." He was aware that those in the vicinity were listening avidly since their ability to see and hear everything that was going on about them was not diminished by their own need to sell their stock. This was a social occasion as well as one in which business was conducted and a man spent almost as much time having a `gleg' with another whom he had not seen since tup time last year, as he did attending to the sale, or hire, of his stock. Many of the flocks had been driven from as far away as the Langdales, the shepherds walking them over the fells with their dogs at their heels, using the old pack routes and sheep trods. Some were brought in carts pulled by enormous plough horses and the drovers were already beginning to head off towards Bassenthwaite, Penrith, Rosthwaite, with sheep which had been bought earlier, their dogs nipping and pushing at their heels, or flying round to the sides of the restless flock at their owner's whistle or shouted command.

  But the area about Annie Abbott was curiously still. Several pens away an ancient weatherbeaten shepherd was counting in the old traditional fashion, the flock he was to take away. Celtic numerals that had been handed down from father to son, and thought to be part old Welsh, part Cornish and part Breton, from all those lands which were once included in the Celtic fringe, when Cumberland had been under the rule of the great Celtic Kingdom of Strathclyde just across the border.

  “Yan, tyan, tethera. . . methara, pimp . . ." he droned until he reached eleven when he began again, "yan-a-dick, tyan-a-dick . .”

  Apart from the bleating of the sheep it was the only sound as the crowd held its breath, waiting on the outcome of the trading between Annie and the farmer.

  “So you are saying these ewes are not for sale then?" "No, I'm not . . ."

  “Then they are for sale."

  “They might be."

  “Well, let me know when you make up your mind and in the meanwhile I'll go and have a look at some others that caught my eye earlier.”

  She nodded pleasantly and prepared to move away. She had her hand on Phoebe's arm and the trembling in it, though not evident to anyone else, moved down to Phoebe's hand and up across her shoulder so that it looked as though she herself was shivering.

  “Please thissen. I'm not sayin' these twinters are for sale, neither am I sayin' they're not. They might be and then again they might not. Depends on who's askin' and on t' price I'm offered."

  “What are you asking? And for that tup you have in the next pen? I presume he's for sale or hire?"

  “Aye, that's right. But it's all good stock and I can't let any of 'em go unless I get right price."

  “Sir, unless I know what that price is I cannot do business with you. We are just wasting time here. Time I cannot afford. You are not the only farmer with sheep to sell and so I will just move on.”

  Annie felt the blood race in her veins, hot and eager and jubilant for this was the moment she had worked towards for the past year. She was about to strike a bargain with this man and it would be in her favour. Shrewd he would be and careful, since most of these independent fell farmers could afford to be no other way. They had their living to make as did any man, but he would be not at all pleased to take his flock back to Threlkeld with him, nor would it suit him to hang on until later in the day when he would be forced to sell at an even lower price to be rid of them.

  “Them's fine Herdwicks . . ." he began. "None better in the Keswick plain, nor anywhere else for that matter. Bred from a strong ram what belonged to old Jed Moffatt, him from Rush Farm up near Mungrisdale. Ask anyone . . ."

  “I don't need to. I can see what they are, sir, knowing sheep as I do . . ."

  “Oh aye, an' how's that then?"

  “My father . . ."

  “Where did he farm?"

  “Browhead, near Gillthrop."

  “Josh Abbott."

  “Yes."

  “I knoo 'im. Lost all un 'is, I 'eard." His unsmiling, unsympathetic mien told her he cared nothing for her father's experience, nor hers, as shepherds, since any man of worth should know how to hold on to what he had and Joshua Abbott had let his slip through his fingers.

  Feckless, the farmer from Threlkeld, would have called that, deserving of what he got, which from what he had heard had been as close to a pauper's death as made no difference. And his lass about to do the same no doubt.

  Stung by his contempt Annie pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders and lifted her head in proud defiance. For a moment, the farmer's grudging attention was diverted by the lovely lift of her breast beneath the worn wool and the slipping tendril of bright copper hair which curled about her ear. Her flesh just below that ear was as white as the fleece of his sheep when it had been newly shorn, soft and vulnerable and he was horrified, since he was a man well past such things, to feel a stirring in the pit of his belly, just where the sagging crutch of his breeches divided. It infuriated him further.

  “I'm not my father," Annie snapped and so did her eyes, with the bright golden lights of her temper.

  “I'm not sayin' tha' are, lass, an' what thi' do wi' tha' cash is none o' my business."

  “Quite so, in that case will you please tell me what you want for your twinters and if the price is right perhaps we can agree on a sale.”

  The f
armer smiled, his craggy face splitting open into a hundred seams. The smile revealed his worn and blackened teeth and the pink gaps where a few were missing. He shook his head as though humouring the foolishness of a child who has asked for a completely unsuitable and unobtainable toy and Annie felt the hot joy begin to trickle away. The awful feeling which replaced it, slowly but surely, was a mixture of bewilderment and alarm for she was beginning to get the distinct feeling that this man was playing with her. That he had been playing with her for the past half-hour. Like an angler with a trout on his line, the bait in the trout's mouth, allowing the fish to reel out the line, believing it is going to be free, then drawing it in again before repeating the whole procedure. All about her she could feel the eyes of the other men, the farmers who still had sheep to sell and when she turned for a moment it seemed that everyone in the immediate vicinity was smirking and whispering behind their hands at the joke which was being played on Annie Abbott.

  She whirled back to the farmer from Threlkeld.

  “What's going on here?" she demanded accusingly.

  “Nay lass, what do tha' mean?" and he deliberately winked at someone behind her back. Phoebe's hand had reached out to grasp her arm and beside her even Cat, sensing the strange tension in the air, crept close to her skirt. She didn't really know what she meant, as he smiled into her face, so she could not answer his question. She only knew she had a frozen feeling of dread.

  “Will you name your price for these ewes?" she repeated, her voice firm and steady since she wanted no man to see her fear. "I've no time to bandy words with you so I'd be glad to get on. If you're not willing to sell, say so and I can go elsewhere."

  “Then I'd do that my lass, if I were you, 'cos I've nothing here to sell to thi', not for any price." His words were soft and quite menacing.

  “You have not heard my offer . . ."

  “Tha's not enough money in world to buy this lot, girl, not from you at any rate, so you'd best get back to where tha' came from an' tek tha' . . . tha' family with thi'." His eyes fell coldly on Cat, then moved to Phoebe, before returning to Annie. "Tha's no call to come prancin' round here with tha' la-di-da manners and daft ideas of buyin' a flock for the farm tha' father left thi', if it can be called a farm." His mouth which had been smiling, twisted contemptuously, then meaning quite deliberately to offend, he spat on the cobbles at her feet.

  “This part of the market is fer men, not women, an' the sooner tha' realise that the sooner tha'll come to tha' senses. These lads hereabout don't like bargaining wi' a woman. There's no need of it since there's plenty o' men to do business with. 'Tis no place for thee, lass, an' my ewes is not for thee so get thi' back home where tha' belong."

  “My money's as good as anybody's and if I can pay the price you are asking . . ."

  “How about ten guineas each beast then?" He turned to look about him, his face in a grim and mirthless grin of mockery and there were a few guffaws.

  “Don't be ridiculous. The whole lot's not worth ten guineas."

  “Is that so, then if tha' don't like my price, try elsewhere."

  “I will." She turned on her heel, dragging Cat and Phoebe with her, her face as pale as ashes, her eyes like hot coals embedded in them. She allowed no one to see her panic as she moved on to the next pen but even before she had reached the grinning man, who leaned over the fence, he called out to her.

  “This lots spoken for, lass," turning to wink at the farmer from Threlkeld, but there was a coldness, a cruelty even behind that wink. She went to them all, even one whose ewes were a sorry looking lot, but everywhere she met the same grim, narrow-eyed resolution which said that women had no place in their men's world and had no business to attempt entry. This part of the market was a strictly male preserve, as indeed was farming, and even wives with husbands who had come to buy from the stalls, never set foot inside it. Messages were carried by small boys from women waiting at the end of the day, to husbands who were dilatory, but it was unthinkable for one, one of decency at least, to move amongst the men who were bargaining here.

  They walked the long way home in silence, she and Cat and Phoebe, going up and over the top of Skiddaw by the same route they had so joyfully set out upon that morning. She carried her child when it became evident that Cat, who had been on her feet for over twelve hours, could go no further. And she carried the bitter burden of knowing that the enmity which she had treated so lightly since how could it harm her, was a strong and ugly repression in the hearts of these people. They did not like Annie Abbott. They did not approve of Annie Abbott. She had done what no decent woman would, could do, but she had not been punished for it as harlots should be punished. Far from it, they had seen her survive, thrive even. They took no account, nor did they admire, that it was her own hard labour that had achieved it. So they had turned even more against her. Today had been their way of letting her know, if she didn't already, that she'd get no helping hand from them. They'd have no truck with her, even if they lost money as a consequence.

  She glared ahead of her into the falling darkness, her expression as grim as the farmer's from Threlkeld had been.

  Chapter 14

  It was the evening of the day Annie Abbott had gone to the tup fair at Keswick. The farmhouse at Long Beck was illuminated in every window, even the bedrooms, with the branches of candelabra Reed Macauley had ordered to be placed there so that not only would his guests be impressed by his own careless disregard for the cost of such things, but also his house and gardens might be clearly visible and easily found as those guests arrived in their carriages. The track up from Gillthrop was, strictly speaking, not suitable for such vehicles, farm carts being the usual transport finding its way up there, but with care and a good coachman, it was possible to manoeuvre up the steep track.

  The name farmhouse could really no longer be used to describe Reed Macauley's home. Two hundred years ago there had been four small farmhouses and farmlands belonging to four Macauley brothers but in the generations that followed those four holdings had become one and had gone to Reed Macauley's canny grandfather, Hamish, who had passed it on to Reed's father, Alistair, and so to Reed. There had been, by all accounts, battling Macauleys among Reed's forebears who had not stayed peaceably at home on their farms but had sent their sons to fight against Holland in 1665, against France in 1690 and in Malborough's wars of 1702-1710, two members of the family falling in the Battle of Malplaquet. There was Culloden in 1746, where one had fought for Prince Charlie since their sympathy then had been with their Scottish cousins and another had been in India at the time of the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta, where after being incarcerated in a cell, of the 146 souls put there the night before only 23 came.

  out alive. War and disease had thinned out the Macauley heirs like young seedlings in a frost until land and farmhouses now all belonged to the one remaining branch of the family.

  Beside the farm and its buildings there was ploughland, a peat moss, woodlands, pasture and dozens of small fields surrounding the house. These were the 'banks', steep but low-altitude grazing land close about the farm where Reed's milking cows were kept. The banks were rich and lush and green, studded with animals, knee-deep in clover and buttercups. Enclosed at the time of the 'Enclosure Acts' by sturdy, drystone walls which were kept in fine condition by the 'wailers' Reed employed. There was the moor beyond the banks where his horses, his bullocks, his heifers and `dry' cows grazed, not enclosed but his just the same. And then there were the fells, high and rolling, where his sheep wandered, watched over by his shepherds and their dogs. Hundreds of acres of rich farmland and all belonging to one man. Since the eighteenth century, farming had slowed down as other industries were born and expanded, and there were fewer farms, but those that remained had become bigger and, of those, Reed Macauley's was the biggest.

  The house itself had become, through extensive renovations over the recent years, more of a manor house than a farmhouse. Built in a sheltered fold of the fells, it formed three sides round a square
cobbled area which had once been a yard but which was now a standing and turning place for carriages. There were flower beds against the house walls, thick with antirrhinums, dahlia, delphiniums and rock rose. There was, in season, wisteria, fragrant and blue, climbing up the whitewashed walls, and massed rhododendron. Lavender at the right time and lilac, and edging the path was boxed privet, all cared for by a gardener and two boys. The lawns were smooth and green and the trees, centuries-old oak and yew, stood in protective tranquillity about the house.

  The house itself looked as though it had not been built by men, but had grown slowly and gracefully, from the very hills which formed its backdrop. Its mullioned windows were set deep in its thick walls, not one the same size as its fellow. The front door was situated not in its centre, but in one of the angles of its corners, wide and solid with a fluted porch above. The roof tiles were a greeny blue, almost grey, and its three enormous sets of chimneys were cylindrical. Gracious, serene, lovely and yet strong and protective of those who lived within its walls, it had been built to withstand any of the malevolent weather conditions with which the fells and dales of the lakes were challenged. It was a house which the dour and taciturn men of the fells eyed suspiciously since they liked plain, solid, foursquare, no nonsense and in their opinion Reed Macauley's high-flown ideas of comfort, luxury even, were pretentious and unnecessary.

  It did not prevent them from attending the party at his home that evening in honour of the young lady to whom he had recently become betrothed, and her wealthy industrial family. A good match of course, for would a hard-headed business man like Reed Macauley have any other, despite the fact that he had no need, financially speaking, to wed where money was? From Bradford it was said the family came, woollen cloth manufacturers, which would do Reed no harm since it would provide him with a ready-made outlet for his wool. A shrewd man, was Reed Macauley, who had always recognised and taken advantage of an opportunity when he saw it.