All the dear faces Page 5

  “Then why doesn't he leave me alone?" Annie's head lifted defiantly and her eyes flashed in golden brilliance. Damnation, but this lass has got troubles ahead of her, Polly had time to think. Wherever she goes it will be the same. Men after her like dogs chasing a bitch on heat and though she doesn't ask for it, not in so many words, the very way she walks, swinging her hips and twitching that little bum of hers, lifting them fine breasts, turning her head to smile, it drives them on until all they can think of is getting their hands on it all. Since the child her figure had ripened. Motherhood – and the good food she ate –had put flesh on her, a rich, creamy flesh and all in the right places, curving her breast and hip but the hard work she did kept her waist small and neat. Her hair grew and flourished, burnished with good health to the deepest copper, unconfined in its glory even when she plaited it where it fell in a swinging rope to her buttocks. She was happy, poor little bugger, and it showed in the vivid and startling loveliness of her eager smile and they were all mesmerised by it. Like my Seth, the old sod.

  For a moment her female pride and jealousy for someone younger and prettier than herself took a hold of her and she wanted to smack the silly little cow in the face and tell her to 'hop it' and ply her wares elsewhere but her own sense of fairness returned.

  “'E's only a man, Annie, like them all. 'E's right fond o' me an' we rub along right well. So you see, duck, you'll 'ave ter go. An' I'd be obliged if yer'd pack yer things an' leave right now. I don't want yer sayin' owt ter Seth or Hesper. They're both busy so it'd be best. I'll tell 'em you just upped an' took off. Try over Gretton way. There's a lot of inns on that road. 'Tis a busy one an' 'appen you'll get summat. Eeh, Annie, I'm right sorry this 'appened, me duck. I've got proper attached to that babby . . . an' ter you.”

  She had gone within the hour, speaking to no one, stunned and speechless, her few belongings – Lizzie Abbott's wedding-dress which she kept scrupulously mended and cleaned, and the baby's change of clothing –in a wicker basket Polly gave her. There was food, enough for a couple of days and the few shillings she had earned. It would keep her going until she reached Gretton. Catriona was carried on her hip, held with a length of clean grey cloth tied over Annie's shoulder. She clung there like a small animal, her thumb in her mouth, her enormous golden brown eyes gazing solemnly at Polly who was as close to tears as she had been in years.

  It was the same wherever she went and she was never, in all her travels, to find a place so good nor a woman so kind as Polly Pearsall.

  “That babby just won't do, me duck. It'll be a nuisance what with the stink of it ... “

  The stink of it, her sweet smelling, dewy fresh little daughter who was bathed every day and changed the very moment she soiled her napkin.

  “. . . an' then there's the noise. I can't 'ave it near my guests .. The noise! That soft gurgling of laughter she and Catriona shared, the nuzzling contented sounds as she settled at Annie's breast.

  .. an' there's no doubt you'd be neglecting yer work runnin' up an' downstairs to it every five minutes, wouldn't yer?"

  “No, ma'am, I wouldn't. She's a very good baby, really she is. A quieter baby never breathed. She sleeps a lot and I could feed her when I'm eating my meals. I would never neglect my duties ... "

  “Where did yer learn ter speak like that, me duck? Yer not from these parts, are yer?"

  “No, Cumberland."

  “Well I never. I'd no idea they spoke so posh up there." "Would you have a job for me then? Anything .. . scrubbing, bar work . . . ?"

  “Well .. ."

  “I would work for very little."

  “Well . . .”

  For the next two years it was the same, working wherever and whenever she could, mostly in the bar-parlours of country inns where folk were kinder than those in the bigger towns. She brought trade with her lovely face and lively tongue but she also brought trouble since there was not a man who drank the pint of ale she put in his hand who did not want her as well, and not a few were willing to fight over it, with each other or with her when she would not allow what they often considered to be part of her duties. Time and again she was asked to move on, she and her child who had learned to be good and quiet in the attic rooms which were allotted them and where Annie was forced to leave her for hours on end. Catriona was to learn that she must wait patiently for her mother's return. That she must not stamp about or shout as other children were allowed to do but must play with the rag dolly Annie had made for her out of scraps of material, sitting quite still in the middle of the straw pallet. She dozed and crawled, then crept on her little faltering legs into a walk and when Annie came up, there she would be, the light from Annie's candle falling on her lovely, blinking eyes, her eager, expectant face, the riot of her soft, bright curls, so like her mother's.

  “See what mother's brought for her good girl tonight," Annie would say, popping broken custard tart into her child's mouth, morsels of the daintiest food scraps she could find left over from the dining room and all the while praying that the landlady of the inn at Brigstock or Desborough, at Clipston, Naseby, Rothwell, wherever it was she had tramped to in the hope of finding work, would not blame her for the black eye Jim Sorrell had given to Harry Appleton in the yard as they fought one another ferociously over who had more right to Annie Abbott's favours.

  She was in Market Harborough when she saw the newspaper. She had worked for the past week in the kitchen of The Plough in the Market Square, scrubbing, peeling potatoes by the bushel, cleaning vegetables, washing and drying the mountain of dirty crockery and glasses which came from the dining room and bar-parlour by the hour. She wore a bodice and skirt she had bought from a market stall, grey, much mended, too big in order to hide her shapely figure, and round her head she had bound a length of colourless cotton. An enormous apron made of sacking enveloped her from neck to ankle and up in the roof in a space too tiny even to be called an attic, her daughter lay apathetically on a grubby palliasse. She was almost three years old and the life she and Annie had been forced into was slowly reducing her from a placid but bright and contented infant who could, because she slept for a good deal of the day, accept her restricted life, into a dull, spiritless little ghost who scarcely turned her head when Annie crept into the room, the cupboard in which they slept. Annie despaired over her, rocking her in passionately tender arms, whispering into the dazed little face until the child responded, telling her tales about her own childhood which now, in contrast to her daughter's, seemed rosy indeed.

  But it could not go on for ever. The little girl was growing, a baby no longer. She needed companionship, the outside world, people, animals, beauty, stimulation. When she had an hour Annie would take her into the market place, telling her what the objects were on the stalls, ordinary, everyday things which were a wonder to the child who stared for hours on end at four blank walls. Annie carried her out of the town and into the countryside which surrounded it, letting her wander in the woodland, watching her absorption with a simple cowslip, a scurrying beetle, the cows in the fields and for a brief moment her child would come alive. They would run, hand in hand, and Annie would shout out loud but Catriona would put her hand to her mouth, her eyes enormous in her pinched face as she looked about her as though, even here, she must make no noise.

  The newspaper was the Lancaster Herald and was dated several weeks ago, evidently left there by some traveller from the North. It lay discarded beneath a table in the snug bar, the floor of which Annie was about to scrub. It was thick and would make a good pad on which to kneel, she decided and then later, if she could pinch a good candle stub, she would read it in the privacy of her room. Who knew what great events might be taking place in the world of which she was completely ignorant.

  Catriona was asleep, her face pale in the flickering light from the candle, her hair in a lifeless tangle on the stained pillow. She had eaten half a pork pie, some cold potato and a spoonful of cabbage, obedient as always, but vague and ready, worryingly so, to go back to the heavy sleep
Annie had wakened her from.

  Annie watched over her for half an hour, anguished by the little girl's docility, then, sighing, she picked up the newspaper.

  She turned the pages lethargically. What did she care if there was to be a revolution in Paris as seemed likely? Or even if it was happening in the county of Leicestershire from where, no matter how she tried, there was no escaping the drudgery and hopelessness of her life? She was about to throw the newspaper down and climb into the bed with Catriona when her own name sprang out at her from the words which were printed there. The shock of it sluiced over her like a deluge of icy water and she gasped, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Her brain became numb and her hands shook and for several moments she could not focus her eyes nor even keep the newspaper still.

  `Annabelle Abbott,' it said, 'late of Browhead Farm, near Hause in the county of Cumberland . .

  Dear God . . . she couldn't read it . . . the candle-flame flickered so . . . and her hands would not stop their trembling . . . Annabelle Abbott . . . that was her .. . her name and there could be no more than one Annabelle Abbott surely? And if there were, this one lived at Browhead . . . it was her. It was her!

  At last she reached the end of the words, the words printed in the four-week-old copy of the Lancaster Herald, the words which appealed to Annabelle Abbott or anyone who knew of her whereabouts to contact the firm of solicitors, Hancock, Jones and Hancock, in King Street, Lancaster.

  Chapter 4

  King Street was a pleasant thoroughfare in the centre of Lancaster. It led away from the Town Hall which was large, pillared and handsome and, at this time of the day, its wide shallow steps were busy with the feet of the respectable and hard-working citizens who had business there.

  She and Cat had walked from Warrington where her money for railway fare had run out. They had moved in an almost straight line going northwards through Wigan and Preston and Garstang, but happily on more than one occasion they had been given a lift on the back of a cart, the farmer taking pity on the weary woman and child and inviting them to 'hop up' and sit among the crates of indignant hens and geese, the sacks of corn and potatoes he was taking to market. Annie had been grateful, smiling her glowing smile, lifting Cat up where the child would instantly fall asleep for as long as she was allowed, as she did herself at times. Weeks they had been on the road and if they did not get to Lancaster soon, what small reserve of pennies she had kept for food would be finished and she would either have to stop somewhere for a few days to earn a bob or two, or resort to begging.

  It was November when they reached the town, a harsh November day which struck through the increasingly threadbare fabric of their clothing and Cat shivered as she and her mother moved along that last mile, the ancient castle which dominated the town and which had been the landmark towards which they had been inching for days, looming high in the November mist. It was a shire house and county gaol, Annie was told by a tinker who had taken it upon himself to travel with them the last few miles from Scotforth, a sprightly Irishman who carried a pack on his back and had a merry twinkle in his eye and who offered to carry Cat as well. Annie could not refuse for Cat was nearing exhaustion and though she was afraid the man might expect some reward, and not of the monetary sort, she allowed it.

  On the top of the castle stood a large tower called 'John of Gaunt's Chair' from where, the tinker told them, having been this way before, there was a fine view over the whole of Cumberland and even, on a clear day, across the sea to the Isle of Man. Lancaster was a small but splendid port on the River Lune over which a brand new bridge spanned, with five elegant arches. Market days were Wednesday and Saturday, their informative friend told them cheerfully, handing the dazed child back to her mother, smiling indulgently since he had children of his own, he added, letting her know that though his eyes admired her he had no designs on her person.

  It was Wednesday and the streets were busy but, the tinker having given her directions she found her way to King Street easily enough. It was a tree-lined jumble of old houses, one of which had been made over into a doctor's consulting rooms, an architect's office and, on the second floor, the rather grand quarters of Hancock, Jones and Hancock.

  The clerk at his high desk in the small front office eyed her and her daughter with the appalled air of a man come face to face with persons of the lower order, those whom, had he been at his own home, he would have ordered to the back door. Annie smiled wryly. Having been on the road for eight weeks she could not blame him since she and Cat were not looking their best. Nevertheless she kept her head high and her expression lofty as she passed him the dog-eared, practically unreadable scrap of newsprint which she had torn from the old edition of the Lancaster Herald. He took it between his thumb and forefinger as he might a piece of mouldy and evil-smelling cheese.

  “I'm Annabelle Abbott," she said, "and this is my daughter Catriona. I am here to see either Mr Hancock or Mr Jones, whoever is available."

  “Indeed! and on what business?" ready to show her the door for her impertinence.

  “My own. The newspaper cutting asked for me and I am here."

  “But this is months out of date. I'm not sure . . ." "I was in Leicestershire."

  “Oh . . ." not at all sure why that was significant.

  “I walked a good deal of the way so if you will tell Mr Hancock I am here I would be obliged."

  “He is very busy."

  “We will wait," and tipping her head regally she guided Cat towards a chair which was placed against the wall.

  It was the same with Mr Hancock, whose expression of amazement matched that of his clerk. He seemed to remember something about a farm, he said, when he had recovered his composure, and the name of Abbott rang a bell though he could not quite recall .. .

  “Why have I been summoned here?" She cut through his ramblings, his vague fumbling with this paper and that, his shouted orders to his clerk to fetch the . . . what was the name again? . . . turning to Annie . . . the box marked Abbott . . . yes, yes . . . and when her bald question finally penetrated his tangled mind which, it seemed, had been thrown into some confusion by her appearance, his expression was startled.

  “Why?" he repeated.

  “Yes. What does this mean?" indicating the newspaper cutting which the clerk had returned to her as though afraid he might be contaminated by its continued presence between his fingers.

  Mr Hancock had the correct papers before him now which he studied through the thick-lensed spectacles on the end of his nose.

  “Aah, yes, of course, it's about the farm," eyeing her abundant hair which, though she had done her best with it, was cascading in a rippling mass over the weary, straining cloth of her elderly bodice.

  “The . . . the farm? Browhead?"

  “Indeed. What else?"

  “But . . ."

  “Now that your mother and father are dead . . .”

  The rest of his words faded away as she entered the dizzy, echoing tunnel which was long and black and shocking and when she came out of it at the other end Mr Hancock was talking of legal matters which, he said, were apparently in order and all that was needed was for her to. . .

  “My . . . my parents are both dead?"

  “Indeed, that is what I said."

  “When?"

  “Oh, it must be twelve months since . . .”

  She scarcely remembered leaving his office, nor the few shillings which Mr Hancock — kindly now — pressed into her hand for her railway fare to Penrith, nor much of the journey either, and it was not until the man spoke to her that she came out of her shocked state.

  She was arranging the child's clothing when he first noticed her, twitching its little bonnet more closely about its face, stuffing tendrils of bright copper hair beneath the brim, re-tying the scarf which already fitted snugly about its neck, but doing it so fiercely the child was pulled this way and that like a puppet on strings. She — he had decided the child was female — didn't seem to mind, accustomed to rough handling, h
e supposed, perhaps knowing no other. She stood patiently, submitting to being turned about for the woman's critical inspection; to a general smoothing down of the drab, ankle-length skirt; to a forceful tug at the equally drab shawl which was crossed over her narrow chest and tied at her back, the last ministration nearly taking her from her small feet. Then, bringing a glowing smile to the child's face, the woman knelt down and planted a hearty kiss on her upturned cheek. The gesture was so spontaneous, so full of irrepressible and loving warmth the man felt his own lips twitch in a smile.

  It was a scene with which he was very familiar though not one he had experienced for twenty years. His own mother had treated him thus before he set off on his short-legged fell pony across his father's land which lay up beyond the splendour of Dash Falls. From there he had dropped down the packhorse route which skirted Lonscale Fell to Latrigg and on to Keswick where he had attended the grammar school.

  “Now then, Reed Macauley," she would say in her broad-vowelled but rhythmic Cumberland dialect. She always called him by his full name when she wanted to impress upon him the importance of what she was about to utter. "Now then, Reed Macauley, mind tha' keeps tha' scarf tight round tha' neck. There's a fair bottom wind blowing' down t'valley an' I'll not have thi' tek cold for the want of a bit o' sense.”

  As if he would, her expression said. Her son! He'd never had a cold in his life, no, nor any of the childish ailments which afflicted other weaker boys, but she had to have her say nevertheless, for it was only in this way that she could demonstrate her deep and abiding love for him. He was the apple of her eye, the darling of her heart, the centre of her universe but if her life had depended on it she could not have told him so. Instead she would fuss about him, her work-worn hands at his neck fixing his scarf to her own satisfaction beneath his chin. His cap would be jammed down on his head until it met his scarf. His durable hodden-grey jacket, the wool from which it was made spun and woven by her from the fleece of his father's own sheep, smoothed down briskly, his buttons checked to make sure they were all done up as she liked them to be.