All the dear faces Page 26

  “Hardly in the open, Annie." Charlie shuffled about in the hay next to her, leaving a gap of at least six inches between them.

  “Don't argue, Charlie, and for heaven's sake, come a bit closer. Even if you don't feel the cold, I do, and I'd be glad if you would put your back against mine. There .. . that's it, now isn't that better?"

  “Indeed . . ." Charlie's voice was strange and muffled but Annie, with his warm back against hers and already half asleep, did not hear it.

  The darkness was as thick and as black as pitch when she awoke, and as she opened her eyes to stare into it, she was aware, in that confused moment between sleeping and waking, that something was wrong. The warmth which had enveloped her and soothed her to sleep was no longer there. In its place was a feeling of tension, of great strain, of a presence taut and strung up, with an emotion she did not recognise. An unknown presence which alarmed her. She was aware that Charlie was still there, the warmth of him just out of reach, but from him came a sensation of . . . of . . . of what? What was it? Anger, was that it, or was it pain?

  “Charlie, what is it? Is something wrong?" she said softly, not wanting to wake the others. Charlie did not answer. She turned towards him, putting out her hand to touch his shoulder and was shocked to find it rigid, unmoving, almost ready to flinch away she would have thought had the idea not been so ridiculous.

  “Charlie? Are you ill?" She sat up and leaned over him, but with an oath he sprang up and without speaking a word, stumbled towards the flimsy barn door. In the corner Buttercup shifted, then lowed softly.

  “Charlie? What's the matter?" She was about to stand up and follow him, for surely there was something wrong. Charlie was so good-humoured, smiling and sweet-tempered with never a cross word for anyone. Too lighthearted by far, she sometimes thought. So careless about life and the serious consideration one must take of it, that she was often irritated. So what was troubling him now that he could not even respond to her anxious concern?

  “Really, Annie, cannot a gentleman answer a call of nature without explaining what he is about?" His voice from the dark was flippant as he opened the barn door. "Now go back to sleep, there's a good girl, I won't be long.”

  He was not there when she awoke to the dawn chorus of the birds which nested in the trees about the farmhouse, but when she stumbled to the barn door there he was walking back from the farmhouse with a pail of water.

  “Good morning, lazy bones," he said smilingly, none of the tension she had sensed in him during the night apparent now. "I've been up for half an hour. You were sleeping like babes, all of you, even Blackie and Bonnie declining to come with me so I went and begged some water from our benefactor. She even gave me this," and with an endearing grin, he produced an enormous jug brimming with tea.

  “Charlie, you angel."

  “I know," Charlie's impish smile changed to one of smugness. "That's why she gave it to me, I suppose, because she knew I was not your ordinary sort of a fellow. She could not resist my charm."

  “I don't blame her. Now if Buttercup could spare us a drop of milk . . ."

  “Just what I was thinking, but as I got the tea, don't you think it's only fair that you should get the milk?" They were both laughing when Cat and Phoebe peeped from their nest of hay and blankets. The kitten blinked its wide eyes and the dogs wagged their tails, and it was as though the strange moment in the night, if indeed anything strange had happened in the night, might never have been.

  They reached Rosley Hill by mid-afternoon, the great multitude of those who were on the same road as themselves, and indeed on every road leading to the fairground, cheerful and excited, most of them, for this was the greatest event in their humdrum year. The actual grounds of the fair covered forty acres. It would be another fifteen years before dealers bought their cattle straight from the byre, but in the meanwhile this was where the drovers displayed them for sale and not only cattle but sheep and horses as well.

  They could hear the sound of the brass bands as they approached the fairground, a spirited 'oom-pa-pa' which lifted the head and squared the shoulders and infected those who heard it to step out in a grand style, just as though a procession were under way. The Drover's Rest was surrounded by a hurrying mass of men, some seeking a bed for the night, which was, of course, impossible, others doing a bit of business, shaking hands on a deal, or shaking their heads in refusal. There were horses tethered in the inn yard, the stables being as full as the beds. Carts and carriages vied for position with donkeys, ponies and any four-legged beast that could carry or pull a load to this great fair and market. Stalls were set up on the roadside, those belonging to pedlars and housewives for whom there was no longer any room in the actual fairground, the housewives selling eggs and gingerbread, the pedlars shouting of gauze from Italy, ribbons and lace from France, hats and caps, cloaks, brooms, beehives and baskets. Whips cut the air as horses were driven along the track with no concern for those in their path, the quality, who on this occasion rubbed shoulders with ruffians, jumping out of their way with the same alacrity.

  The fairground was a heaving, seething confusion of men, women and children, many of the men there to do business, naturally, but the rest bent on having the best time of their lives. In one corner, a fiddler and a man with a tin whistle played a lilting merry tune and Cat and Phoebe stared spellbound as those who were able danced the 'Cumberland Square Eight', the 'Long Eight', the 'Ninepins Reel' and the 'Circassian Circle'. Country dances which brought forth loud whoops of excited merriment, much twirling and whirling with many a lad glimpsing more than he should of his lass's ankles and sometimes, as she was swept from her feet, her drawers. The tent beside the dancing and which held the circus was so well attended the barker was begging people to be patient since they would all get in eventually and in the meanwhile, why did they not view the 'slack-wire balancing act', 'the pig-faced lady' or 'the hairy man' from Morocco who were absolutely free.

  Charlie stopped to watch the Pugilists who were displaying their skills in a ring set up for them, accepting bets from any amateur who fancied his chances against them.

  “I could take that chap on," he said to Annie, his eyes bright with that look of anticipation a man assumes at the thought of pitting himself against another. Annie was doing her best to keep her eye on Cat and Phoebe, who were like a couple of sleepwalkers who have wandered into some fairy-tale dream and are mesmerised by it. They moved, hand in hand, their mouths gaping, their eyes wide and marvelling, as they studied the spectacles on every hand, marionettes and musicians, singers, rope dancers, coconut shies and a great sad shambling bear, its muzzled face anguished, as it did its best to dance to the pipe of a gypsy's whistle.

  “No, you couldn't Charlie. They're fighting with bare fists, " Annie answered tartly.

  “But they're betting a guinea, Annie. I've done a bit of bare knuckle fighting in my time. I'm sure I could beat him."

  “You, Charlie?" Annie eyed Charlie's lean frame disbelievingly.

  “Yes, I fought at my own weight of course."

  “Well he's not your weight, Charlie Lucas. Look at him. He weighs twice as much as you, besides you haven't a guinea to bet with, and if you had, I wouldn't let you."

  “That fellow's going to try."

  “More fool him, then," and fool he was for the fight was short, crude and bloody, the stalwart young country lad who had climbed into the ring being carried out by his fellows with a face like a piece of raw meat.

  The dogs were bewildered and alarmed by the press of people, anxiously doing their best to divide themselves between Cat and Phoebe, who, in their eagerness not to miss a single exhibit, forged ahead of Annie and Charlie who were studying stalls on which there were for sale such marvels as shepherds' bells and leather gaiters, bridles, saddles, whips and padlocks and saws. A travelling salesman, standing on the tailboard of the cart in which his weary horse was still harnessed, begged them to try his 'Balm of Gilead' which would cure them of all that ailed them from warts to the coughi
ng sickness.

  A musical farce was being performed by a company of players in another tent. The Spoiled Child was its title and Annie was carried back quite ferociously to those precarious months she had spent with . . . with . . . My God, she could not even remember his name, the name of the man who had fathered her lovely child. The thought horrified her for surely she should carry not only his name but the picture of him inside her for ever? But no matter how hard she tried, she could not bring him to mind. Charlie's hand held hers for they were in great danger of being separated as they moved across the track which led from the gate to the camphouse where many of the drovers and dealers had a bed. Behind it was the gigantic grazing ground in which were enclosed the plunging, bellowing cattle and through which ran a stream. Even the valley bottom below the hill was crowded with beasts, the air filled with the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the bleating of sheep, the cries of hawkers, with shouts and oaths and whistles.

  Annie was dressed as she had been for the past six or seven months, in the jacket, trousers and gaiters her father had once worn. She had carefully plaited her hair and Charlie had helped her to stuff it beneath her hat which was then jammed down on her head almost to her ears. She could barely see from beneath its brim, but it at least hid much of her female features. If anyone thought it strange, or even noticed in the vast crowd, that two men, herself and Charlie, held hands, there was too much commotion to dwell on it. The ram had been returned to the farmer who had hired it to them. Charlie pulled the sledge at his heels and in its nest of blankets the kitten cowered, its mews of astonishment unheard in the hubbub. Annie was creased and crumpled from sleeping in her clothes, as was Charlie, but he looked decidedly worse for wear than she did, since he had almost two days' stubble on his chin. He never wore a hat as he did not own one and his hair hung over his collar and ears in a wild, uncombed tangle. They looked slightly disreputable, she was well aware, but what did that matter since there was no one she cared about here to see it.

  “Phoebe, Cat, don't get too far ahead," Annie called out, her voice lost in the strident tumult. They did not hear it but the man coming towards her did and when he stopped dead where he stood, the beautifully dressed young lady on his arm almost fell over. Charlie had not noticed them, walking on ahead of Annie, their hands still clasped and for a moment the two couples, Charlie Lucas and Annie Abbott, Reed Macauley and his beautiful young wife, became entangled in wild, appalling confusion.

  No one spoke. Charlie's eyes ran swiftly over the couple, particularly the man, and his hand tightened on Annie's, drawing her protectively to him. Reed Macauley instinctively steadied his wife, who was looking quite astonished that two such ruffians should have been allowed to impede the way of a lady like herself and her husband, who, or so she thought, should have had them instantly arrested. Such strange young men too. One attractive in a rough sort of way, the other . . . well . . . how could you describe him? She certainly could not, averting her eyes, for they seemed to he holding hands.

  “Reed," she squeaked, as her husband of three months turned violently and began to run with her across the uneven ground towards their carriage, and when she was able to see the look on his face, it so frightened her she was glad to cower back in her seat and head off towards Carlisle and the luxurious hotel in which they were staying.

  Chapter 18

  The weather broke as Annie had foretold it would as they made their way back across Broad Moor and down the track which would lead them to Caldbeck. Across the fells a procession of dark clouds whipped, angry and boiling, moving on at first, one after the other from the North towards Skiddaw. But just as though there was no more space to accommodate them beyond the heights of Caldbeck Fells they piled up on one another, low and glowering. A torrent of rain fell suddenly, shaking loose from the greyness and moving in a heavy curtain through which it was barely possible to see. It fell relentlessly, drifting in a cold, steady stream before them, and the noise it made was a constant, rhythmic thrumming against the grey rocks and sodden ground. Great blinding sheets, lifting and shifting, parting now and then to reveal the rough tussocky grass, the water-logged track which was dangerous with stretches of slippery stones.

  Annie had removed her hat as they left Rosley since its weight on her head was more than she could bear, she muttered, tossing it into the sledge beside the startled kitten. Charlie watched her anxiously as they slithered down the track and though it took all of his strength and attention to keep the sledge upright, he could not help but be fascinated by the way the rain fell on her bare head. As it touched the darkened russet of her hair, a mass of tiny curls sprang upon her forehead. Droplets of moisture slipped to the end of each wet tendril, falling on to her brow. They touched the arch of her eyebrow, running smoothly to hang upon the ends of her lashes. She blinked to clear them and they dropped to her cheeks and ran to her parted lips where she licked them away, her pink tongue moving in an unknowingly sensual gesture which lit a small but growing flame in the pit of Charlie's belly.

  She was not aware of it, of course, nor of the rain, the cold and searching wind which accompanied it; the violent lightning flashes splitting the dark clouds on the high peaks, nor the thunder which roared and cracked amongst the crags. She was not aware of her child who had been huddled by Charlie and Phoebe beneath the rapidly soaking blankets beside the kitten, nor of Charlie and Phoebe themselves. Her pace lengthened and quickened as she endeavoured to get away from the pain which the sight of Reed Macauley and his new young wife had gouged into her, and Charlie Lucas's heart despaired for her, and for himself.

  She had been quite devastated by the encounter, her face ashen, her eyes wide and senseless as though she had seen some ghastly apparition which had taken her mind. He had felt the tremble in her hand at first, a quivering of her fingers as they clung to his, then, as the spasm took her, moving to her arm, her shoulder, her neck, her whole body, until even her teeth chattered and she shook as though she had been attacked by the ague.

  “Take me away, Charlie," she had managed to say between her clenched teeth, her hands, both of them now, clinging to him as though his lean, strong frame, his male strength, his caring, cheerful endurance was all she had to keep her upright.

  “Hang on to me, sweeting." She did not question his immediate understanding. Why should she? She knew nothing of his true feelings, only seeing the smile he smiled, the device that he used to hide what was inside him. A complex man who protected his heart and emotions beneath the layers of flippant geniality he had wrapped about himself ever since he had met Annie Abbott.

  They reached the farm where they had stayed the night before but it was still daylight and the farmwife, at first surprised but not displeased to see them for they had been no trouble, got a good look at Annie and the men's clothing she wore. Her eyes, flinty as the rock which rose behind the farm, moved from Annie's white demented face and her tangled hair which was plastered to her skull and down her back, to the jacket she wore and the long shape of her trousered legs. The jacket was open for what did Annie Abbott care about anything at that precise and agonising moment, and the rain had sculpted her shirt to her breasts, the nipples of which stood out like cherries.

  “May we shelter in your barn again, madam?" Charlie said in his scrupulously polite and engaging way, doing his best to signal to Annie to close her jacket. Indeed he had tried to persuade her to wait at the gate, knowing full well what the reaction of the farmwife would be. "My wife and . . . and child are so very wet and the weather shows no sign of abating, does it? We would not trouble you . . ."

  “Indeed, tha won't 'cos tha's not stoppin' an' if tha's husband to . . . to . . . that . . . woman tha' should be ashamed to let her be seen by decent folk dressed like that."

  “Madam, really, does it matter? The child is soaked to the skin . . ."

  “That's nowt ter do wi me."

  “But you allowed us to stay here last night and we are the same family . . ."

  “Nay, tha's not. Ah thou
ght tha' was a respectable family, tekkin' t'tup back to t' fair, but ah can see ah was wrong. Ah want no . . . vagabonds in my barn so tha'd best be on tha' way."

  “We are not vagabonds, madam. Annie ... my wife .. . and myself have a farm near Gillthrop . ."

  “Then tha'd best be on tha way to it for tha've a long walk."

  “Please, madam . . .”

  The farmwife did not like to be called 'madam', nor did she like to be hoodwinked, which she considered she had been. The woman on her doorstep who looked as though she'd seen an apparition, was a different one to the pleasantly smiling person of the night before. She had no right to be bothering honest, virtuous folk with her flagrant disregard of the proper way for a woman to dress, and she'd have no truck with her, nor any of them. She kept her eyes firmly from the bedraggled figure of the child, who was doing her best to shelter from the downpour beneath the blanket on the cart, lest she weaken.

  “Be off," she said, "or ah'll call my husband.”

  They went, moving slowly along the farm track until they got to the gate, turning left towards Caldbeck and the long, wet road to home. At every farm they tried up to and beyond Caldbeck, they got the same answer from the stiffly disapproving women who came to the door, eyeing the strange figure of Charlie's 'wife' and it was not until, nearly dark, they came to a derelict hut, used for what purpose Charlie could not imagine, in a dip beside the track, that they found some kind of shelter. The wind still howled in their faces and the rain pelted down in a heavy swaying veil and when they got inside they were so wet they might have all been hauled from a nearby tarn. No one spoke. Charlie handed out what was left of their food, even the ravenous and pathetically unkempt kitten condescending to a morsel of Phoebe's two-day-old beef pie. Annie refused everything, even the rain water the others drank, then lay down where she was told on a scrap of relatively dry ground, Phoebe and Charlie on the outside, the silent child and her equally silent mother in the middle. Phoebe knew, of course, what had happened without being told for she had seen the retreating back of Reed Macauley and the young lady he dragged on his arm. She had not questioned Charlie's abrupt statement that they were to return home at once though Cat had cried broken-heartedly. She could not understand why this miraculous outing should be curtailed when it had scarcely begun, she wept, though not in those exact words, and for the first time in her young life she turned on her mother and beat at Annie's trouser leg in angry disappointment. She might have been no more than a troublesome fly for all the notice Annie took of her.