All the dear faces Read online

  It was all over within minutes. She was laid on the bed with scant interest in her half-hearted protests since she wanted to tell him how much she loved him; to hear how much he loved her and desired nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her. That was why she had left Browhead, because of their love but he didn't seem to want to know. He pulled painfully at her breasts and bit her belly, leaving teeth marks which would turn black by morning. He forced her legs open and thrust himself inside her with such force and rapidity she scarcely knew what was happening until the pain knifed her between her thighs and the blood flowed.

  He fell asleep on top of her. Her breasts hurt and her belly was on fire, as was that part of her body that had no name. The softness and gentleness he had shown her .. . where had it gone? . . . and where was the man she had loved so devotedly for the past twelve hours? Was this it? Was this love? Is this what happened when two people loved one another? Was it? Mother . . . oh, Mother .. . where are you? and Lizzie's frightened face slipped behind her closed eyelids. Is this what she suffers every night of her life . . . Oh, Mother .. .

  Anthony snored beside her where she had heaved him and outside the door men shouted to be let in but gradually the noise died away and, being a tired and healthy child, she slept.

  Chapter 3

  The girl on the bed gave one last heave and the child slid out from her as easily as a dab of butter, the woman in attendance was to tell Hesper later that afternoon. It lay peaceably between its mother's thighs with none of the new-born infant's lusty rage at being propelled head first into a world it was not sure it would care for. It was as though it was born with the knowledge of the precarious state of its mother's position in life and the uncertainty of their future together.

  “A girl, me duck," Polly Pearsall said cheerfully, "thank the Good Lord, fer there's enough o' the other damned sort in the world already." She expertly cut the cord, tucking everything away neatly, then lifting the baby on to a length of clean linen, bound it up tightly and placed it in the hesitant arms of its mother. "A little beauty an' all. Look at them red curls, just like her Ma's an' wi' nowt of . . ." She stopped speaking, cutting off the words with a sharp, irritated click of her tongue for the less said about him, the child's father, the better. Scoundrel that he was. 'Handsome is as handsome does' was one of the maxims which fell regularly from Polly Pearsall's lips and though he'd been full of charm and a fine-looking chap, what he'd done to this poor child was far from fine. If Polly had had her way he'd have been brought back and put before the magistrate. Made to pay something towards the upkeep of the child just born but he'd be in the next county by now, no doubt of it, and that troupe of strolling players he travelled about with.

  She watched as Annie looked into the face of her daughter, waiting for that glow of maternal pride, that bond which is formed between mother and child in the first moment of their meeting. For that soft-eyed look of wonder and the awed need to touch the baby's cheek, to put a tentative finger in the curled shell of the child's hand which would instinctively grasp it. But it did not happen. Annie Abbott held her new-born baby in the awkward crook of her arm, her eyes wary, her expression somewhat alarmed. "What am I supposed to do next?" it seemed to say. She glanced up apprehensively at Polly looking exactly like a caller who has had some other woman's child put unexpectedly into her arms and, politely, is holding it for the shortest possible time before returning it thankfully to its rightful owner. Of course the babe had not been cleaned up yet. Perhaps that was it though usually, in Polly's experience, a mother will give even the muckiest of new-borns a cuddle.

  “'Ere, give 'er ter me an' I'll bath 'er then you can put 'er to t' breast.”

  That ought to do it, she told herself. She could remember when her first had folded its pursed lips about her nipple and even now, twenty years later, the unique joy she had experienced then was something she would always remember.

  “See, give yerself a wipe round," slapping a bowl of soapy water and a cloth on to the table by the bed, "an' I'll send Hesper up ter change bed an' fetch you a cup of tea. An' there's some soup I made fer the noon trade. That'll put the heart back in yer, then I'll 'ave ter be gettin' back downstairs. Seth's bin shoutin' for me, the great lummox, so I'd best get off. Yer'll be right as rain now, me duck. Yer've done well an' as far as I can see everything's fine down there," pointing in the general direction of Annie's belly. "Yer'll be up an' about in a day or two. Yer young an' strong. An' when yer up to it, later, I'll fetch them little duds our Maggie wore. Well, they all did, all my childer and Maggie was last.”

  All the while she talked Polly was sloshing the quiet baby about in another bowl of warm water which she had poured from the big earthenware jug on the dresser. She doused it vigorously, careful of the top of its head and the neatly tied up cord on its belly. Again she wrapped it firmly in the length of cloth, then put it once more in its mother's arms.

  “Give it suck now, child," she said kindly to the equally quiet girl on the bed. "She'll need feedin', yer know, an' there's only you can do it.”

  Annie held the tiny, fiercely wrapped bundle in her arms. Hesper had been changing the soiled sheets on the bed, holding the baby, clucking and fond, exclaiming on her lovely red curls whilst Annie wriggled into an immaculate nightgown, one which belonged to Polly and which Annie herself had washed and ironed only yesterday. She had drunk the tea and obediently spooned the thick vegetable soup into her surprisingly ravenous mouth before being handed the child again. Hesper, a bundle of soiled linen under one arm and the bucket of water in the other, had gone and Annie was left in the hushed company of the baby who was hers, hers and Anthony Graham's.

  It was a week since he had left, he and the company. She had been with him for just fourteen months and in those months she had learned many things, acquiring an education in a life she had not known existed. She had gained a knowledge of the world which was to stand her in good stead in the years to come. The life of the strolling company had been one of casual drifting from one town to the next, of bookings which had been cancelled, days of excitement and others of boredom and uncertainty, thrilling at first to the young girl to whom, in her old life, the arrival at the door of a pedlar had been one of dazzling intoxication. She had taken small parts in the production, those that did not involve speaking and when Anthony, on a whim, had taught her to speak as the rest did, she had become understudy to the leading lady. She had passed out handbills in every town they played. She had, because she could sew a little, taken care of the company's wardrobe. She had learned how to slip out of town without paying bills, how to make love to her lover's satisfaction; how to avoid being made love to by amorous actors and playgoers alike. How to live well when the takings were good and how to starve when they were not. She had been a part of them, doing what they did until her increasing girth made it impossible, and last week, as she was doing her best to earn a few pennies, hanging out Polly Pearsall's washing at the far end of the long back garden of the inn, they had all slipped away without her, one by quiet one, leaving their bills unpaid and the landlord, Seth Pearsall, in such a state of menacing rage, Annie had feared for her own safety.

  Polly, his cheerful, uncomplaining and phlegmatic wife, had stepped deftly between Annie and her husband's rage, her own hefty proportions complementing his.

  “'Tis no good threatening the lass, Seth. She's no money else why should she be workin' fer me, tell me that? This last week while them lot were jabbering their piece on't stage in that there barn, aye, despite size of 'er, she's worked like a good'un from mornin' 'til night so she owes us nowt. Yes, I know she were with them but that don't make 'er responsible fer their debts, do it, me duck? So 'tis no good you threatening ter fetch constable. Now, she can go on earnin' 'er keep alongside Hesper in t' kitchen until babby comes an' then . . . well, we'll see. We could do wi' another body ter give a hand, me an' Hesper, so just you calm down an' get back inter t' bar fer there's men wi' their tongues hangin' out fer a pint.”
/>   For a week, until she was brought to bed, Annie had filled a pail each morning, scrubbing the floor of the kitchen and the flagged passage which led to the dining room and bar-parlour of the inn. There was mud and grease mixed with straw and even manure stamped into it and though her head swam and the baby inside her kicked and squirmed she did not falter. She washed and ironed and heaved this and that and though Hesper and even Polly Pearsall, who were both good souls, did their best to save her from these heavy tasks, Annie would not hear of it.

  “Yer'll 'arm that child, Annie," Polly protested but Annie did not care. The child was not real to her who was merely a child of fifteen herself. What would she do with it when it came? Perhaps it would be born dead which would be a blessing but, of course, it hadn't, and here it was.

  She studied the small, round face of her daughter, the fluff on her head which was not red but a pure, golden copper, the shape and colour of her eyes which were open and seemed to be studying her. Her skin was like satin, clear, pale, flawless, her mouth pink and pouting and her hands, one of which had escaped Polly's binding and flexed helplessly in the air, were like daisies, perfect in every detail. Carefully Annie unwrapped the binding and the tiny body lay trustingly beneath her gaze. The child's legs jerked and bent and the small, hidden fold of her female gender was revealed. A girl. A female child who would, one day, be subjected to the hurt and fear and humiliation she herself, and her own mother, had suffered. Poor little girl. Poor baby. So quiet, so patient, it seemed to Annie, and she wondered if her own submission to Anthony Graham's mastery of her – since what else had there been for her? – had transmitted itself to the child who was inside her.

  Slowly, not at all sure what the correct procedure was but hoping the baby would know, as newly born lambs did, she opened Polly's nightgown and turned the child in the general direction of her breast. At once, but with the utmost delicacy, the small rosebud mouth fastened on Annie's nipple and began to suck. It did not hurt, Annie discovered. In fact it was quite pleasant. Quite companionable really, as though she and the baby were friends and, like friends, one was doing the other a favour. The child's hand rested on her breast and Annie smiled, putting her finger inside the tiny fist. Immediately the child gripped it and it was then that it happened. A great wave of loving tenderness, a great drowning in which she and the child went down together, deep, deep, then floated in perfect harmony to the surface where they lay, fastened together by an invisible, indivisible thread which, she knew, would never be broken.

  They were both asleep, she and the child, when, the rush over, Polly put her head round the door several hours later. She smiled. The child was held protectively in the curve of the mother's arm, trusting, well fed, loved, Polly could see that and her smile deepened in satisfaction. That was it then. What had not happened at once had happened now.

  “She's all right now," she said to Seth as they tumbled into the great feather bed they shared.

  “Why shouldn't she be?" he grumbled, reaching for her comfortable, still enticing breast and giving it a hopeful squeeze.

  “She didn't take ter t' little 'un right away, not like I did wi' mine."

  “Oh, aye." His hand explored his wife's ample body with greater urgency and Polly let him since, though he was a great daft lummox, she was fond of him and knew exactly how to get what she wanted from him.

  “Aye, a grand lass an' a good worker, like I said. We'll keep 'er on, I reckon. Babby'll be no trouble," hitching herself into a position more accommodating for her husband's questing masculinity.

  “Righto, Poll. Now then, here's a little mouse lookin' fer a hole."

  “'An here's a little 'ole fer 'im to 'ide in," neither of them seeing anything ridiculous in the obviously well-used words.

  She was there for six months, sleeping with the child in the furthermost attic of the inn where, Polly hoped, she would not disturb Hesper, the guests, nor herself and Seth who both needed their sleep but the baby, thriving and as pretty as a picture, even Seth agreed, was not the slightest trouble to anyone, least of all her doting mother whose hitherto untapped source of love sprang into full bloom and was lavished unstintingly on her child.

  “What you callin' it?" Hesper asked interestedly when Annie was back at the kitchen sink. They worked steadily side by side in the hot kitchen, a good team, Hesper was inclined to think and she said so to Mrs Pearsall, adding that she didn't know how she'd managed before Annie came, her being such a devil for work.

  Annie's hands which were busy peeling potatoes with their customary vigour, became still and her eyes turned to the basket where her child's fingers could be seen clutching the air above the rim of the wickerwork. Her feet kicked and her voice murmured some bubbling sound to the smoked hams and dried herbs which hung above her head.

  “I hadn't thought," Annie answered slowly.

  “She'll 'ave to 'ave a name, duck."

  “Yes, I suppose so."

  “There's no suppose about it, Annie. Everyone 'as to 'ave a name. What were yer Ma called?"

  “Lizzie," and for a brief moment, hurriedly put away, her mother's haggard face flowed sorrowfully across Annie's vision. No, not Lizzie, nor Elizabeth which, Annie presumed, was her mother's true name, though she was not sure of it. She did not want her beautiful daughter to bear the name of the woman who would always, in Annie's mind, be connected with degradation and shame, with grief and pain and hopelessness. She could hear her father's voice, when he did not call her 'woman', shouting for 'Lizzie', and that made it even worse.

  “No, she ain't a Lizzie," Hesper said equably. "What were yer Granny called?”

  Granny? She didn't remember ever having one of those but she did recall her mother telling her that her mother, who had come from Scotland, had been named Catriona.

  “Catriona."

  “Eeh, that's lovely. Catriona. Catriona Abbott. That's nice, that be."

  “We need a 'and in bar, Poll," Seth roared one night when, two coaches having come in at the same time, every passenger on board wanting a hot meal or a hot toddy, or both and at once, the place was in uproar. It was February by then, cold and damp and with no hint of spring about it which surely should be just round the corner in this Midland county.

  “Well, Hesper can't manage it. She's busy with them pies an' I'm up to me eyes with the goose. It'll 'ave ter be Annie.”

  She was an instant success. Her lovely face became flushed and lively and she found her brief training as an actress, and as a `hander out' of handbills, and the repartee which was part of the job, had bestowed on her a saucy tongue to which the customers responded, demanding more drinks than they would normally have, just to be served by the pretty barmaid. She was quick and light on her feet, watching for Seth's signals on where she was needed and the tips she received which she was ready to hand over to him, were hers to keep, he told her, his huge grin telling her how well she had done.

  She brought in custom. She learned to be bold without being vulgar. How to smile and tease without being coarse. How to give the impression that each man was her especial favourite while at the same time allowing no liberties to be taken with her person. Which was fine and perfectly acceptable to Polly until she discovered it was her Seth who was the worst culprit, doing his best to urge the red-faced and vehemently protesting Annie into the larder, his hand already up her skirt.

  Polly said nothing then, being a wise woman, merely making an unnecessary clatter to warn them of her approach. She and Seth had a thriving business and she wanted no bad blood between them. He was an old fool, but that was all. A man, like the rest of them, who could not resist a pretty face but she was not about to jeopardise her marriage, her livelihood, her future, over a temporary flush of youthful lust which had come over her Seth.

  Catriona Abbott was six months old when Polly Pearsall told Annie, regretfully, that she would have to go. It was June, the day fine and bright, the honeysuckle which climbed up the wall at the side of the inn melting into pink and cream, its sweet frag
rance as heady as wine. Yellow irises bloomed in the little stream which warbled through the inn's back garden, threaded with the yellow and orange flowers of mimulus. Linnets were nesting under the eaves and above the sound of the stream their twittering could clearly be heard. The washing Annie was pegging out snapped in the breeze and Annie sniffed at its good clean smell, then sighed in content.

  She turned in amazement when Polly spoke at her back. "Leave? But why? What have I done?"

  “Nothin', me duck. You've bin a good, 'ard-workin' lass an' it's not your fault you've been blessed wi' that bonny face of yours, nor the shape of yer. I say 'blessed', but perhaps 'cursed' would be a better word. There's Hesper who's as plain as a plank an 'as no trouble gettin' or keepin' a job when she's not 'alf the worker you are. Willin', aye, but she's not got your . . . your way o' doin' things. All of a muddle she be wi'out me ter tell 'er what ter do, but you . .

  “Then why, Mrs Pearsall, why?" Annie's voice was rich with passion at the injustice of it but deep down where her female instincts matched those of Polly Pearsall, there was a growing understanding.

  “I think yer know why, duck." Polly's voice was sad and beneath her steady gaze Annie's face became flooded with colour. She hung her head and tears brimmed to her eyes.

  “It wasn't me, Mrs Pearsall. It wasn't my fault. D'you think I want an old man like . . ." like that fat pig who is your husband, the unfinished sentence said, but Polly finished it for her.

  “Like my Seth, is that what you were goin' ter say? Well, 'e's not much ter look at, I'll give yer that, but 'e's a good man really an' . . . 'e's mine, Annie. I'm fond of 'im, see, an' 'e is of me .. ."