All the dear faces Page 31

  “Don't even think of it," Charlie's quiet voice told her, reading her mind. She had not been aware that he was there as she stood, her eyes shaded by her raised hand, staring up into the blinding whiteness beneath which her hopes and dreams were buried. For good, or only until the snows allowed her up there, her mind agonised? She turned and smiled, though, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.

  “I wouldn't be allowed, even if I was daft enough to try, would I? The three of you would set up such a caterwauling I would be completely overruled." She castanother anxious look at Middle Fell where she had last seen her tiny flock, then hugging his arm to her, pulled him towards the sloping drift in which Cat and Phoebe were floundering.

  “Come on, then, let's have some fun. We can do nothing outside once the hens are fed and the eggs collected, so let's make a snowman." She bent and scooped a handful of snow, making it into a ball, then threw it at Phoebe who turned, surprised. For a moment she looked bewildered, not knowing even yet how to play, then her own face split into a young grin of joy and she did the same, aiming at Annie who began to shriek, the sound echoing across the valley. At once they were all at it, throwing snowballs, shouting with laughter, the dogs barking and chasing the snowballs which, when they landed, they could not find. Scarlet cheeks and brilliantly vivid eyes, smiling mouths and fast beating hearts, hands and feet tingling as the blood flowed and when the game was over, the paths dug, the hens fed, the companionable comfort and warmth of the kitchen, hands cupped round pewter beakers filled with thick vegetable `crowdy'.

  The dogs found every ewe the following week when the thaw set in. Not one lost and Annie was exultant as they were brought down to the safer inlands, the grassy pastures set directly about the farmhouse where, when the blizzards came again, as they were bound to do, they could be hand fed on the hay cut in the autumn, or even on ash leaves or holly, should it be necessary.

  There was a second blizzard in January, worse even than the first, and then another so that the drifts were as high as the eaves of the farmhouse, every window and the door at the front completely blocked. There was the sound of wild geese honking, a great skein moving across the brilliantly blue sky in a huge formation, the leader a little way ahead. Crows picked at the frozen streams for signs of food and ravens searched vainly for twigs since it was coming up to nesting time. Hungry foxes barked across the frozen wastes in desperate need of sustenance. The bitter cold continued, a great frost by day and night, and the snow was crisp and beautiful and could be walked on with ease and safety. Becks and tarns were still frozen over and the lovely tinkling sound which was a constant song in the ears of those who lived beside them, was stilled, a strange silence which was quite unnerving. The crags were covered by shimmering icicles, field gates, if they could have been reached, were frozen and sealed. Bassenthwaite Lake was solid to a depth so great and so thick, people could walk their horses across it and when the wind shifted the fine powdery snow from its surface, it was like mist about those who skated there, twirling across its surface like birds on the wing. Ponies pulling sledges could be seen crossing the vast expanse of snow about it and in Annie's `i lands' her ewes were heavy with their unborn lambs. From the farmyard where Annie paused to stare in silent wonder the fells stood up proudly, great sleeping monsters of white and blue. In the late afternoon, angry sunsets touched the snow about the farm and glowed across the dark frozen waters of the lake below.

  The first intimation of the thaw in March came from the ewes themselves as they lifted their heads and sniffed the air. There was the sound of water tumbling down the beck's rocky course, sky clouds to the west, and lower down the fells, a thin yellow vegetation showed itself. Annie saw storm-cocks perched on a tree, singing of the coming of spring and heard the sweet sharp music of a dipper, perched on a boulder near the waterfall at Dash Falls. The snow melted from around the plants in the farmhouse garden and suddenly there were snowdrops, 'the fair maids of February', revealed a month late.

  Easter came and went but those at Browhead were unaware of it, cut off as they were from all contact with those about them. Annie would not have cared had she known since her lambs would be here soon.

  “I'm walking up to have a look, Charlie," she said. "D'you want to come? It's a grand day for it." She sniffed the air as her sheep had done, the pungent smell of the new fern and heather already beginning to sprout, a delight to her.

  The dogs watched her intently, waiting for the command which meant she would take them with her.

  “No, I'll . . . I've things to do." Charlie did not look up from the sledge which, its runners discarded temporarily, he was attempting to patch together.

  “What things?"

  “Well, this for a start. You really could do with a small cart, you know, and a horse to pull it."

  “When I have the money Charlie, in the meanwhile the sledge will have to do."

  “And what about the ploughing? It will have to be done any day now . . ."

  “Charlie dear, we managed last year and we will again." "With me pulling the plough you mean."

  “Which you did last year with no problem. Look Charlie, don't be down in the dumps. Come with me and we'll look for that fell pony you've been talking about.”

  She squatted down beside him, trying to win a smile from him. He had been out of sorts lately, she was inclined to think, not exactly short with her and Cat and Phoebe, but sparse with words, ready to spend time in his own room above the cow byre instead of in the warm kitchen with them. The winter had been long and trying. Four people forced by the weather to spend day after day in one another's company and though they had made enough swill baskets, besoms, woollen stockings and lengths of hodden grey wool to open a shop, or so Charlie said, busy from morning to night, it had not been easy for him, she supposed, stuck in the company of three females and two dogs. He did all that was needed out of doors, feeding the hens, collecting the eggs, bringing in peat and wood for the fire which was never allowed to go out, fetching water, checking the ewes who were still on the 'inlands', but he was restless, seeking his own company rather than theirs. When he did sit down in the kitchen, he took on the job of schoolteacher, continuing with the lessons he taught Cat, the Latin and French, showing her how to write in the beautiful copperplate he himself used. She was bright, quick, and was far beyond anything Phoebe had learned, or even what Annie could teach her. She read the Bible fluently, could add up and subtract as quickly as Annie, and the question of where she should go to school must soon be addressed. But for now Annie must get her lambing over, her fields ploughed, her vegetables and crops planted and all the other dozens of jobs which she and Charlie shared. And the idea Charlie had discussed with her was a splendid one and that was to catch and break a wild fell pony, not only to pull a cart when she could afford one, but to draw the plough. She meant to buy a cow and a pig if the ewes did well . . . Oh, God, let the ewes do well . . . please .. .

  “You go on, Annie, I'm busy." Charlie's voice was short and he stood up, moving away from her. She straightened slowly, brushing her hands down the legs of her father's trousers. She had an idea about these too, if things went right. . . if . . . if . . .

  “What's the matter, Charlie? You seem . . ." "Nothing, really. There's nothing," but it appeared to her that he was angry about something.

  “Of course there is. Won't you tell me? Is it your ribs?" "No, they're fine now. Mended weeks ago."

  “Then what .. . ?"

  “Oh, for God's sake, Annie, can you not see I'm busy?" and he strode away in the direction of the barn, the long muffler Cat had knitted for him streaming out at his back.

  “Very well then. If you feel like that, I'll go alone.”

  She went directly up the track behind the house in the direction of Middle Fell and Great Cockup, her crook in her hand and the dogs at her heels. Her sheep were on the higher intake land below the snowline and when Blackie and Bonnie brought them to her it took her no more than two hours to examine each one. They wer
e all fat and healthy and she smiled in satisfaction. A lamb from each would double her flock, please God. Nearly seventy sheep she would have, if her luck held, and with the money she saved and would get from the lambs she sold, she could have that cow and the pig. Her own milk. Her own butter and, when the time was right, bacon.

  Her elation carried her on and up moving through the bracken and sprouting heather towards the white-streaked Brockle Crag which was really no more than an untidy fall of rocks. There was a sheep trod leading up beyond it. A wreath of wet mist as white as the insides of a sheep's fleece rolled off the summit of Skiddaw. but she went on. The dogs, knowing they were no longer working, frolicked in and out of the growing vegetation, scenting rabbits, chasing one another, acting the fool since they were still young.

  “You'd best call off your dogs, for mine is too old to fight.”

  His voice came at her from nowhere as she daydreamed. She had been watching the steep track on which she was climbing, her mind dwelling pleasurably on the spring and summer to come. Blackie and Bonnie had gone on ahead, bounding away towards a group of tall grey-pitted crags and as she approached them, both dogs were standing, muzzles raised, ears flat, eyes fixed on a dog which was doing the same.

  Beyond them was Reed Macauley.

  It was a year since she had seen him and the shock of it struck her a blow which made her gasp and almost bent her double. Her peaceful heart exploded within her, galloping wildly to a beat which threatened to choke her and she felt the blood drain away from her brain, making her feel faint. She stood rigid and paralysed, her hands which she had brought in reflex up to her midriff, clasped tight together to prevent them shaking. Her mouth dried and she could not have spoken if her life depended on it.

  They looked at one another across the hours, the days, the weeks and months which separated them, to the few precious times they had met. The day on the road from Penrith. The first day as she strode out towards Browhead and her inheritance. The time he had brought her the hamper and again on Boxing Day as she had gone to find work in Gillthrop. He had dug her out when it snowed and brought her Blackie and Bonnie, denying it as though she had insulted him. The day she had been training them and he had come . . . It was as though it was yesterday when they had sat together on the drystone wall whilst he drank her ale. Their love had shone clear and unsullied between them then as it did now, and slowly her hands unclenched and fell to her side.

  He was dressed in black, nothing about him of contrast except the snowy waterfall of his cravat. A great riding cloak covered him from shoulder to ankle thrown back to reveal the fine broadcloth of his jacket, his waistcoat and breeches and the glowing black polish to his boots. His hair was shaggy, not recently cut, falling over his scowling forehead and the fierce, angry dip of his eyebrows. But in his eyes was the soft blue of his love for her. His frown might speak of disapproval but his eyes did not. There were deep, forbidding lines from his nose to his mouth and across his forehead but his lips parted, not knowing whether to smile as he wanted to, or fold into grimness as he felt they should.

  “What are you doing here?" were the first words she threw at him.

  “The same as you, I suppose." His face had closed somewhat but there was a look of vulnerability about it which sat strangely on its strength.

  “I am checking my sheep."

  “As I am."

  “I see none."

  “And where are yours?"

  “Back there ... " indicating with her hand though her eyes never left his.

  “I see, well, you'd best call off your dogs," beginning to smile at last, stepping forward, an action to which Blackie took exception, bristling and baring his teeth.

  “Make them behave, Annie," he said patiently and she called them to her, patting their heads. They dropped on to their bellies, as Bess did.

  “I see I have no need to worry over your safety then," roughly.

  “I did not know you felt . . . worry."

  “Don't, Annie. You know exactly how I feel. Do you want me to say the words . . ."

  “No . . . it would be better if we both went back to . ."

  “Better? Yes of course, and back to . . . the people who concern us. My wife and your . . . whatever he is to you. Why do you not marry him? Annie?" His voice had become harsh. "Surely it would make things more .. . comfortable for you. Must you always fly in the face of . . "

  “Marry him?" She let out a short laugh. "Marry who? You don't mean Charlie, do you . . . ?"

  “Charlie? Is that his name, and who else would I mean? The man who . . . shares your . . . lives with you at . . .”

  He swallowed painfully and the sinews in his neck stood out. The colour beneath his skin flared, then receded, and he clamped his jaw together, his eyes flat now and lifeless.

  “Marry Charlie? Why on earth would I want to do that? He and I are friends. Good friends, as Phoebe is." She was clearly so astonished Reed could feel the loosening of the painful constriction around his heart, allowing it to expand, to draw in deep breaths of joy, though of course it made no difference to their situation. None. And yet his gladness could not be contained. He lifted his head, arching his throat, his eyes on the pale blue bowl of the sky above them and the ferocious scowling threat in his face melted away as he lowered his head again to look at her.

  “He is not your . . . lover?" His mouth could scarcely form the last word.

  “Charlie? Of course he is not."

  “Then . . . why does he stay?"

  “I told you, we are friends. He needs a home. I need someone to help with the farm. That is all.”

  He took another step towards her, then caught her waist and pulled her into his arms.

  “Annie, my dearest love." His voice shook. "Oh, my darling, I love you, I love you, I thought . . . I thought he . . "

  “Don't . . . don't ... " She was sharp and awkward, bitter because this man who could have spoken to her months ago, when they were both free, was saying the words she had whispered to herself on so many sleepless nights. Into the silence of her pillow she had whispered them, to him who could not hear them and now, when it was too late, they were in the air about them, soft and true, she knew that, but no longer allowed.

  “Annie .. ."

  “Please . . . please, Reed, don't make me . . .”

  At once his arms fell away from her and she almost fell.

  “You're free to do as you like, my darling, but by Christ, I cannot bear to lose you again. I've been in hell these last months, thinking of you with that . . . that man. When I saw you at Rosley Hill . . . he held your hand .. . I wanted to knock him to the ground . . . in front of my wife. I I. . . I thought you were lovers . . ."

  “Which if we were had nothing to do with you."

  “I know." He bent his head in anguish. "I have no right to feel as I did, as I do, but a man does not choose .. . where he loves. I married when . . . I shouldn't. You were . . . with him, I thought so what did it matter? The arrangements had been made. I wanted a son . . . children and even in that . . ." He trembled visibly since it was well known in the parish that despite almost a year of marriage Reed Macauley could not seem to get his wife with child.

  “Please, Reed, don't . . . don't tell me of . . . I don't want to know. I cannot bear to think of it. To see you . . . with her .. .”

  Somehow they had moved toward the rocks, seeking shelter perhaps from the keen wind which blew up on the heights, or was it a place to hide, to remain unseen by those shepherds who roamed the fells in the care of their flocks. They leaned face to face against the mossy grey stone and when he took her hand and kissed it, then, turning it over, put his lips to her wrist, her pulse leaped to meet them. He wrapped his arms about her again, holding her gently, lightly, as her body knew it had always needed, wanted to be held, and she turned her face into his shoulder.

  “I love you, Annie Abbott. Whether you love me or not, and you do not deny it. I love you. It is my curse to love you, my cross to want you and I shall car
ry it always. I am married and should certainly not be here with you, nor should I love you but I do. Everything brings me back to you. Everywhere I go I see you . . . oh yes, you have not known . . . striding about in that ridiculous outfit . . ."

  “I have no other." Her voice was muffled. Her hands were clasped tightly at his back and she could feel the wonder of it, of this day, reach inside her, soothing the wounds, already healing them, those which her life had inflicted on her.

  “You will of course, not allow me to buy you one." "No."

  “I thought not.”

  They were silent then, their bodies for the moment perfectly content to simply lean against one another, two strong people, who despite their separate strength, gained and grew together. But they were man and woman, their bodies long denied this which they had hungered for, and presently they both lifted their heads and looked for a moment into one another's eyes. Moving slowly, they drifted into their first kiss. Delicately, both of them, laying their lips against one another, closed at first, then parting gently until they were breathing into one another's mouths. Moving their heads, their lips clung and trembled and as urgency overtook them, began to suck and bite. Their tongues met and his arms pulled her closer to him. With one hand he threw back his cloak, then undid the buttons, first on his jacket and waistcoat and then hers, pulling her closer to him so that between them was only his shirt and hers. Drawing the cloak about them both, he held her in its shelter as their kisses deepened and warmed.

  “Dear Christ," he gasped at last, "don't do this if you don't mean it. This is no dalliance, Annie. I want you, I want your body, but I want you, Annie Abbott. Jesus, I don't know how . . ."