All the dear faces Page 21

  They stood, the newly engaged couple, her beautifully manicured white hand through his arm, just inside the doorway of what the man who opened the door to them – could he be a butler? – called, grandiosely, the drawing room. Parlour, they would have said, since, though they themselves were not short of a bob or two, that was what the living rooms in their homes were called. In fact, it was not long since the living room had been known simply as the `house' or the 'down house'.

  Reed Macauley greeted them, the `statesmen' society of Bassenthwaite parish, with a somewhat ironic smile about his well-cut mouth. He knew what they were think- ing, and of course, they were right. Though the girl beside him was devastatingly pretty, with the full-breasted, broad-shouldered figure of an Amazon princess, tall with hair the colour and texture of spun gold, and wide eyes the deep blue of a speedwell, it was not these which had drawn him to her. He would find it no hardship to take her to his bed of course, and was already looking forward to the moment when, after their marriage naturally, he would strip her of her silks and satins and have at his disposal the magnificent whiteness of her young body, but it was her money, her position, or rather that of her father, her absolute qualification to be a perfect hostess at his table and a devoted mother to his children, as she had been trained to be, which had attracted her to him. Esmé Hamilton-Brown, seventeen years old, with a dazzling smile matching the magnificent diamond on her finger, which he had given her on their betrothal. They would be married in the spring, an enormous affair in Bradford, to which the élite of the industrial class would be invited and from where he would bring her back to run his home and bring up the children they would have.

  The thought afforded him absolutely no joy and for that fraction of a second when the sterile picture was in his mind, he felt ice-cold waves of despair flood his body and reach his brain. When Ezra Hodgson and his wife Lucy stood before him, Ezra's hand outstretched in congratulations and Lucy's eyes all over Esmè's superb, extremely décolleté evening gown of rose-coloured satin, he was momentarily paralysed. He just could not, in that fraction of time, bring himself back to reality, to the reality of who he was and of what was taking place this evening. Instead he felt the impact of two deep, laughing, brown eyes, not a true brown, more golden with luminous lights of mystery in them and a message which, though he did his best, he could not make out. They were fringed with thick brown lashes which meshed as the laughter deepened and in his heart, over which again he had no control, a spasm of real pain shivered and he was desolate. Desolate and lost for how could he do this . . . with Esmé . . . when she . . she . . . ?

  “. . . and this is the beautiful young lady who is coming to live among us, is it?" Ezra was saying somewhat stiltedly since what else was he to do when his host, on whose arm the beautiful young lady hung, was staring at him, saying nowt mind, with his mouth open and his eyes glazed.

  “It is, " Reed said, recovering at once, indeed so completely the strange moment might not have happened. "Esmé, my dear, may I present Mr and Mrs Ezra Hodgson from Penrith. Mr Hodgson and I are business associates, but I hope, friends as well. Ezra, Lucy, this is my future wife, Miss Esmé Hamilton-Brown. I'm sure Mrs Hodgson will welcome you most generously, Esmé, into her home and into society when we are married.”

  She would, Mrs Hodgson gushed, despite the newly affianced young lady's rather vacant expression, her haughty manner and extreme youth. Mrs Hodgson had girls of her own who were the same age as Esmé Hamilton-Brown. Indeed she had nurtured hopes of Reed Macauley for one of them, but the girl smiled, a dazzling display of pearl-white teeth, so she was evidently good-natured. Superb they were those teeth, as was she and there was no doubt she would produce superb children. She would make a splendid adornment to Reed Macauley's table as, when they sat down to dine, her creamy breasts proved when they were half revealed in the candle-light. She was rich, conventional and none too bright, Lucy decided, saying as much to Beatrice Mossop when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port and cigars, and what more could a man like Reed Macauley, who was not one to settle easily to domesticity, need from a wife? She and Beatrice, on the pretext of a hem which needed a stitch, had been directed up Reed's wide staircase to the tranquil, candle-lit landing off which the doors to half a dozen bedrooms lay. The door to one was open, revealing what was the retiring room for the ladies, and in it was Sarah Macauley's old sewing woman, Dolly, dressed in black but with her snow- white hair covered in an old-fashioned butterfly cap and wearing a muslin apron. She was rocking peacefully before a good fire, a bit of sewing in her hand, her face seamed and placid. She had been put there by Mrs Stone the housekeeper, to hand out pins or smelling salts or clean handkerchiefs to any of the ladies who might need them; to look after Reed Macauley's guests' wraps and cloaks, many of which were made from rich velvet, lined with fur. The other younger maids, of whom Lucy Hodgson knew, from her own maids, there to be at least five, were too busy on this important night with their duties of caring for Mr Macauley's important guests and so Dolly had been brought out of partial retirement to perform this simple task.

  The big room was bright with firelight and candle-light in soft shades of cream and rose repeated in the carpet, the curtains and the bed hangings. There were several pieces of Reed Macauley's mother's furniture about the room, in elaborately carved, lovingly polished mahogany, but the walls were lined with rose-pink silk and everywhere bowls of flowers stood next to silver candlesticks supporting sweet-smelling candles. It was lovely, so warm and welcoming that both women gaped, for though their husbands had wealth, they had not spent it as Reed Macauley evidently did on luxury such as this. And this was merely a spare room, so what did those which were occupied by Miss Hamilton-Brown and Mr and Mrs Hamilton-Brown have in them? The dining room from which they had just come was low ceilinged since nothing could be done to alter that, but its dark oak-panelled walls were relieved with the light from its two windows, which were shrouded in the costliest pale green velvet. The carpet was plain, rich and creamy and surely not meant for gentlemen's riding boots, and on the two sideboards were dozens of bright silver dishes, candelabra and all the appurtenances of a rich man of taste and elegance. It was the same in the drawing room, wide velvet sofas and cabriole-legged velvet chairs, ormolu-mounted inlaid cabinets stuffed with fine porcelain and on the walls, heavy gilt-framed pictures of scantily clad nymphs which those who dined there were not at all sure they cared for. Especially with ladies present.

  So this was what Reed Macauley had done to his home during the last months in preparation for his bride, the ladies whispered to one another, neither woman aware that he had not had Esmé Hamilton-Brown in his mind's eye as he did so.

  *

  The tall young man moved lightly across the yard at Brow-head followed by the two dogs. He was dressed in an ill-fitting pair of breeches and stout gaiters, and on his feet were thick, hand-knitted woollen stockings, pushed into a pair of well-worn wooden-soled clogs. A loose jacket, a woollen waistcoat and a long, also hand-knitted, muffler wrapped warmly about his neck. On his head was a soft felt hat with a bowl-shaped crown and brim, very battered and evidently very old.

  The dogs pranced about his long striding legs, young dogs but when he spoke and his hand made some small movement, both instantly went down on their bellies, watching, ears pricked, eyes gleaming with bright interest as he entered the barn. It was several minutes before he emerged and when he did he was pulling the sledge.

  “Stay, Blackie, stay, Bonnie," and the dogs obeyed, their eyes never leaving the young man as he eased the sledge back across the yard to the side door of the farmhouse. They did not move until his hand told them they may, then they bounded after him.

  “Down." The quiet command was instantly obeyed. "Good boys, now stay.”

  The man entered the house and the dogs remained where they were, guarding the empty sledge, sniffing the air with keen noses, alert, bright eyed, quivering with eagerness, but remembering their duty. When the door opened again they turne
d their heads as one, looking towards it, their plumed tails moving slowly on the ground.

  A child came out, a little girl of three or four, carrying an enormous bundle carefully tied about with twine. She placed it on the sledge. She bent to put a small hand on the head of one of the dogs and he strained beneath it, longing to leap up and play but he resisted, contenting himself with licking the child's hand with his long pink tongue.

  “Good boy, Blackie," the child said, then turned to the second animal who was doing his best to remain on the ground where he had been put. He inched forward a fraction and when the girl's hand was within reach licked it ecstatically.

  “Good boy, Bonnie, now stay there, NO, stay, good boy.”

  Another figure appeared, this time that of a young girl of about twelve or thirteen, plain but wholesome, clean and tidy but shabbily dressed in an assortment of what seemed to be layers of old bits of clothing. Her dark and shining hair was strained back from her high forehead and braided about her head. She carried a pile of swill baskets, one inside the other, which she placed beside the bundle the child had already put in the sledge. They both went back inside the house then returned, carrying more bundles, more swills and another load of neatly tied besom twig brushes. The older girl spent several minutes arranging it all to her satisfaction, making sure that nothing would roll off the cart.

  “Yon'll not move now, " she said determinedly, evidently satisfied with her own handiwork. "Them swills is wedged in against them stockings an' nowt'll shift 'em. I've put the besoms at bottom so they'll not roll out."

  “I hope it doesn't rain," the child said dolefully, her small face turning up to look with worried concern at the grey clouds scudding from one high fell to the next, a long, threatening line of them following one another low across the sky, with alarming regularity.

  “Nay, it'll not do that, chuck. Tha' can hear t'waterfall up by Dash so it'll not rain, tha' knows that, " — which was true. The sound of falling water or the absence of it was often a sure indication of whether it would rain or not. Something to do with the direction of the wind, it was said, vaguely, by those who lived hereabouts. They only knew their fathers had said the same and their father's father before that. There were many such predictions. The direction in which a cloud moved, the colour of the sky as the sun set, the certain way in which an owl called, or at what time the cock crowed. A cold and windy May heralded a good harvest, a warm Christmas a full churchyard, and if Candlemas day in February was to dawn fine and clear, there would be two winters in one year. And it was found that these old sayings and forecasts and many others, had more than a grain of truth in them.

  The little girl brightened. She began to circle the sledge touching a bundle, giving the swills a brisk pat, her small pretty face as intent and serious as though the vehicle was off to the wastes of the Arctic and its safety depended on her vigilance. The older girl watched her, then spontaneously, she knelt and put her arms about her, drawing the child lovingly into a close embrace. Her own face was soft and pale and her blue eyes brimmed, though no tears fell.

  “It'll be all right, Cat, honest it will. Us've managed this long, so don't thi' worry."

  “But it's such a long way, Phoebe." The child's voice, in sharp contrast to the older girl's, was clear, the words well pronounced, concise with no trace of her northern heritage in them.

  “Ah know, lambkin, but tha's not to worry. We've both told thi' that. Dogs are goin' along for protection and they'll not let 'owt 'appen, tha' knows that. Good guard dogs, they be, aren't tha' lads?" turning to put out a hand to the animals. The dogs' ears swivelled and their heads cocked as they did their best to understand what she was saying.

  “Come on then, come to me an' Cat, " she said, and instantly they leaped up, moving to lean on her and the child, conveying their devoted sympathy in the only way they knew how at this sad time as though they were fully aware of the underlying anxiety.

  The child who had burrowed her head in the girl's bony but comforting shoulder, looked up, brightening once more as two cold noses nuzzled at her soft cheek.

  “That's right. Nothing can happen if Blackie and Bonnie are there, can it, Phoebe? How long will it be d'you think, Phoebe?"

  “Nay lass, tha knows we've talked about it and it could be a week or two. But it will be before October's out, tha' can rest easy on that. Before the snows come but that's a long walk over to Rosley and back, pulling that thing, an' all, but as soon as all that stuff's sold and the sheep bought, they'll be home, .tha' knows that. Aye, before the winter sets in, an' thee and me'll manage. There's things to be done about the place to keep us busy. An' yer know we promised we'd keep up wi' our reading an' writing like yer mam's bin' teaching us, an' then there's the sums. By heck, we'll be that busy time'll just fly by. Now wipe tha' face an' smile fer there's enough to be worried about wi'out tekkin' your tears with . . ."

  “Well, that's that," a cheerful voice from the doorway said. "I think I've got everything. Just put this rug over the cart, will you, Phoebe, and tie it firmly. You've made a splendid job of loading up, but it's almost eight o'clock and I want to be well on my way to Cockermouth by midday. I can get a good start with this lot and then spend the night there, that's if I can get someone to take me in dressed as I am though I think I'll have to find another way to confine all this.”

  The young 'man' removed his hat and about his shoulders fell the most amazing and glorious cloak of glowing copper hair, thick and tight-curled, and both Phoebe and Cat smiled in delight as the 'young man' revealed himself to be Annie Abbott.

  Phoebe would never forget that day at the Keswick Tup Fair, nor that night when, with Cat sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, Annie railed about the kitchen at the fates which had landed her such a savage blow. Hour after hour the storm of outrage slammed against the whitewashed walls and hour after hour Phoebe listened to it until, at last, she had had enough and she said so.

  She would not allow it, she said, nor the self-pity in which, if not sternly spoken to, Annie was about to wallow. The destructive self-pity which can paralyse and render impotent even the strongest and most self-willed. Phoebe's sympathy had been immediate, and her concern warm hearted since she knew as well as Annie that their future had depended on the small flock of sheep Annie meant to have. They had food, grown by herself and Annie during the summer; they had peat from which to make a fire to warm them; a roof over their head. They were not destitute but she also knew how the thought of that flock of sheep, the beginning of a proper farm was the candle-flame of hope which had been lit in Annie's heart twelve months ago. Before Phoebe had come to live at the farm at Browhead.

  It was the first home Phoebe had ever known. A foundling from some poorhouse she had been, put to work from the moment she could wield a scrubbing brush in her small, chapped hands, knowing nothing but her bucket and the dozens -of pairs of legs, male and female, who had walked by it. Put out to various farming families, she had learned many basic crafts about a kitchen. But girls were hired for their size and strength and though she was willing and worked herself until she could barely stand, she was always let go' at the end of six months because she had not the sheer physical strength to perform many of the brutally heavy tasks expected of her about the farm. She worked from five in the morning until ten at night. She could shake mats, scrub flags, fetch water - in a small pail - do a week's wash, light fires, milk cows, blacklead a fireplace, scrub a table until it was white; she could bake and cook a plain meal, but that, apparently, had not been enough and her last employer had taken her into Keswick and, putting her few shillings in her hand, told her to stand in line with the other maid-servants.

  She had been shown nothing but indifference, unconcern, an impassive apathy to how she might feel and a total lack of interest in what she thought, or indeed, if she thought at all. She was no more than a pair of chilblained hands which took the bucket, the soap, the brush, a blank face which showed no curiosity since her brain, her mind had never been taugh
t that such an emotion might lead to understanding.

  Annie Abbott had revealed a magic, a splendour, a miraculous, exploding world of love, of laughter and beauty to the starved senses of a girl who had been blind and deaf and she had done it with nothing more than what, to Annie and Cat, was a part of their everyday world. The stunted emotion of the child, the young girl, had developed and bloomed, brought about by no more than an affectionate hug, a helping hand, acceptance into a home in which there was love. She had been shown the sweetness and loveliness of a flower, the colour of a sunset, the song of a skylark. The mists hanging low over the still lake, the call of the curlew across Skiddaw Forest, the mingled smells of the valley freshness after rain, the sound of the wind in the pines. All these things and the warmth of love, the power of friendship, the light-hearted merriment of the child and the dogs, the need of Annie and Cat for Phoebe, the security of knowing that this was where she belonged. It had caused a transformation in the young girl, creating in her a resilience and toughness of which she was made aware a dozen times a day. Phoebe would give her life for Annie Abbott and for Cat, and she was not about to let either of them go under, not if she could help it.

  Annie wept for the first time in many years.

  “Nay lass, cry if tha' must," Phoebe said that night, just as though their roles were reversed. "But don't tha' tell me it's not fair. I'll not 'ave it, so there, an' when tha' comes to thissen, tha'll see the sense of it. Ah knows tha've 'ad a knock an' ah knows it's put us back a bit, but we'll catch up, see if we don't. Thee an' me, between us. . ."

  “Phoebe, oh Phoebe . . . you don't understand. They hate me. They want to see me go under with nothing . . ."

  “Don't say nothing, tha's got me an' Cat. We . . . we love thee."

  “I know that but all the work I've done, the insults and . . . and contempt I've known . . . a whole year, and now, when I've got the cash, they won't sell me the sheep. It's not fair . . . it's not fair . . ."