All the dear faces Page 8

  But there was no time. Not even now. She would weep later when the fire was going and the kitchen was warm enough to fetch Cat down, when there was something cooking in the pot hanging from the randle tree across the fire, even if it was only some 'poddish' for surely there would still be some oats in her mother's oak kist?

  Picking up her clogs and taking one last look at Cat she moved down the tight winding staircase to what was known as the 'fire-house' – since this was where the only fire was, a kitchen and living room simply called the 'house'.

  The most important feature of any farmhouse is the fireplace for it is around this that the social functions of the farm take place. The hearth of the fireplace occupies most of the stone wall in which it is set, an enormous inglenook above which the chimney hood rises and beneath which, it being the warmest place in the house, the family gather. All cooking and baking is done on the fire or on the `bakstone' which was built above it, the area to the side illuminated by a small oak-mullioned 'fire-window'. Two more windows were set across the front of the kitchen and in between was the door to what Lizzie had hopefully called the garden.

  Annie stood on the bottom step of the staircase and gazed about her. Opposite the fire-window at right angles to the inglenook was a stone partition called the 'heck' and this shielded the inglenook and anyone sitting in it from the draughts which can come, and usually did, through the door which led out into the yard at the side of the farmhouse. Along the heck side of the fireplace was the `sconce', a fixed wooden bench under which the kindling for the morning's fire was stored and on the opposite side of the fire was a long, elaborately carved settle. To the side of the fire at eye level and set in the wall so that the warmth of the fire kept it dry was a cupboard in which spices and salt were stored. The door of this cupboard was carved with the initials of some long-dead Abbott. FA, it said and was dated 1701.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing.

  The floor of the kitchen was flagged with slate slabs. Opposite the hearth was placed Lizzie's oak bread cupboard where she had stored the Haver bread she baked. It was carved with the initials of Lizzie's grandmother who had bequeathed it to her, AB for Annabelle Bowman and the date, 1736. There were two carved oak chairs, similarly decorated and an oak table so big it had obviously been built within the house.

  On the hearth was a poker, a copper kettle, a box smoothing iron and iron fire dogs to prevent the fire from falling out and to support the poker and tongs. There was a cooking spit and a dripping pan, toast dogs on an iron tripod with spikes to hold the bread which was to be toasted, an iron frying-pan, a cast-iron kail pot with a lid for boiling meat and all looking exactly as though Lizzie Abbott had put them there before she went to bed in readiness for the next day's work.

  Which she probably had, her daughter thought as she stepped slowly down from the stair into the kitchen. She had gone to her bed, probably coughing and feverish with the inflammation of the chest which was, though she had not known it, to kill her. Had anyone nursed her? Or her father? Who had died first? Questions which would be answered soon when she could get out to Upfell, the Mounsey farm, but first she must make the place warm, get some food from somewhere to put inside herself and her child. The room was filthy and draped about it, from the heavy beams, from chair to table, from hearth to heck, were cobwebs, for it was over a year since the farm had been occupied. Every object, every surface, the floor, the table, the low window-sills were thick with dust and the valley's 'bottom wind' had blown a drift of soot down the chimney which had settled wherever the draught, always present, had placed it. It was barely light though her country senses told her that it must be almost midday and when she moved to the window to peer through the veil of dirt which curtained it, a mantle of fine rain moved across her vision screening the fields and even the lake which lay in the front of the farmhouse. She could see nothing beyond the blurred outline of the gigantic hawthorn tree which stood at the right-hand corner of the farmhouse.

  She remained at the window for a while and the presence of her mother crept about her again, touching her with that almost shy affection which was all she had ever shown her daughter. Defensive somehow, as though she had expected a rebuff or perhaps her husband's irritation which could not do with any show of what he would have thought of as weakness. What a sad, drab life she had led, her daughter reflected, doing her husband's bidding, working every hour of daylight and then beyond into the dark night with no thought of her own needs, or even if she had the right to any, or her own satisfaction. With no hope of reward, not even that of affection nor gratitude from the man she had married. Her home had been her life. Keeping it neat and clean and the best she could make it and she would turn over in her grave if she could see it now, Annie thought sadly.

  Her clear, brown eyes became clouded as she looked back sadly at the hard and empty life her mother had led. And yet had her mother ever done anything to attempt to better it? Had she, in the beginning, when she was young and strong and pretty, perhaps able to cajole a kiss and a smile from her young husband, determined on a place for herself, one of importance in her husband's life, not that of a drudge but as an equal in the equally divided labour they shared? Had she made an effort to achieve for Lizzie Abbott and the family which she presumably hoped to have, some grasp of independence, some comfort, an identity which was hers, a knowledge of who Lizzie Abbott was, not Joshua Abbott's wife, but herself, or had life and Joshua Abbott trodden her down to the browbeaten woman Annie herself had known? Had she done her best to force her will on the harsh reality a daleswoman was destined to know, to twist it until it gave her some measure of peace, content, hope, joy? Perhaps she herself was being unfair. Perhaps there was no way a woman such as her mother could ever gain what surely was due every human being, in some quantity and which Annie Abbott meant to have. Oh yes, make no mistake about it. She had been given this farm, this chance, and she would have all the things her mother had been deprived of. She would have these things. She was not awfully sure what these things were but if hard work, tenacity, a resolute will, a powerful determination and a knowledge of her own individuality, her own uniqueness was a gauge to reckon by, then she would succeed. She would not be another Lizzie Abbott. She would not depend on, nor answer to, any man, as her mother had, as she herself had been forced to do when she had run off with Anthony Graham. She would get there by herself. Again she was not awfully certain where there was, or how long it would take but she'd reach it somehow. On her own it would be difficult. It would be doubly so with Cat. A child born out of wedlock. A woman with no man's protection. She would be hard-pressed to find a friendly smile, particularly among these taciturn, independent, moral men and women of the dales and fells of Lakeland, not one of whom would give her the time of day when they saw what she had brought back with her from the outside world.

  But she had this farm, this land. She had no money, no livestock, nothing but the coppice wood standing beyond the field at the back of the house, but in which surely, with the knowledge her father had ground into her as soon as she could toddle, just as he would a son, she could make a living, something on which to feed her and Cat until she got on her feet? She would dig and plant and sow, weed and hoe and grasp sustenance from the earth as the Abbotts had always done. She would take one day at a time until the winter was over, find work, perhaps, in some other woman's kitchen as her mother had done in hard times. Anything to earn and save some money so that when spring came .. .

  Spring! Dear God, here she was, her blood thinning in her veins, her breath ready to freeze in the air about her, her bare feet shuddering on the icy slate floor, no fire, no food, day-dreaming about spring when the harsh Lakeland winter was still to be got through. She should be looking for kindling to light the fire, for the oats to make clapbread to put in her child's mouth. Oh, please, God . . . just this once . . . Dear God . . . look kindly on me . . . Let there be peat . . . and oats in the kist . .

  It was there, just where her mother had placed it before she
went up the stairs to her death. The kindling beneath the sconce, plenty of it, enough to start a fire and out in the barn would be the stacked, dried peat, the tree roots and ash tops her mother would have gathered to put on the slow burning fire. On the little shelf above the fireplace was the flint and striker and next to it in the 'candle-bark' in which they were kept were the rushlights her mother had made during the long winter evenings. When she had 'nothing else to do' since to drag her weary body to bed before she had the permission of her husband would have been unthinkable.

  The soot proved tricky. No matter how she brushed it, swept it, wiped it away, it lifted in a drifting cloud to settle on her hair and clothing, getting in her ears and every fold of her fine flesh. It was on her face and hands, she could taste it; she breathed it in with every breath and it made her cough and sneeze, but nevertheless within half an hour she had the beginnings of a fire and a pan of water, fetched hurriedly from the spring beside the house, bubbling gently over it, waiting for something to put in it. But what? The oats in her mother's kist had gone mouldy, she discovered, and were uneatable and besides the salt and the spices there was nothing in the house. No pickled meats in the brine vats, no salted pork. Cat was still sleeping, her face a grey smudge on her grandmother's white pillow, and Annie's only hope was that there might be a carrot or a potato, or a turnip to make turnip bread still left in her mother's vegetable garden. Obviously whoever had locked up the farm for the lawyers had removed all the edible food when they left, the smoked ham and mutton which usually hung under the chimney canopy. If there had been any!

  She was just swinging the cloak about her shoulders, ready to brave the elements and see what could be found in the vegetable garden when some fist hammered lustily on the front door.

  Chapter6

  “Dear God in Heaven, what have you been up to? You look like some climbing chimney boy," were his first words and her amazement turned at once to irritation and, surprisingly, momentarily to a deep mortification that he should find her in such a sorry state.

  “What do you want, Reed Macauley?"

  “Well, first of all I would be obliged if you would stop calling me by my full name. Reed will do, or Mr Macauley. Whichever you feel the most comfortable with. On second thoughts, though, perhaps the latter might be more appropriate since we are barely acquainted." There was a wry gleam in his blue eyes. "And I can't say I care much for your attitude, Annie Abbott . . . there you have me doing it now. I merely happened to be passing on my way to the blacksmith in Hause. Victoria has . . ."

  “Victoria?"

  “My mare."

  “Good God! What a name for a horse."

  “So people keep telling me. Or at least they do until I prove to them, usually with my fists, that the name is perfectly proper since I meant it as a respectful gesture to Her Majesty in the year of her coronation, which is when my father gave her to me. Though, to be honest . . ." He grinned and she could feel her own mouth tug, ". . my sense of humour does not appeal to everyone."

  “No, I can see that it wouldn't. Now, if you don't mind I have a lot to do . . ." treating him as though he was an unexpected and unwelcome caller who hoped to take tea with her, he thought irritably, though this time he kept his quick temper in check.

  “Yes, I can imagine," he managed to say mildly enough. "A bath would be the first task, I should . . ."

  “Mr Macauley, since you prefer to be called that, I have only just this minute got a fire going. My child is ... "

  “Ah, yes, the child. It did occur to me that, being a somewhat . . . er . . . unconventional mother you might not have considered the state in which you would find Browhead, your parents being . . . gone, and the house untenanted as it has been for over a year. I realise it will seriously insult you ... " again the wry gleam, ". . . being as independent as you are, but . . . yes, yes, it is none of my business you are going to say, I can see it in your expression, but I was presumptuous enough to enquire into your circumstances and as I was on my way down here anyway, I brought something over. It was my cook, you see, a good-hearted woman, so she put one or two things together and I promised her I would bring them over.”

  Nothing to do with him, of course, he would have her believe. Left to him she and her child could starve to death, or share a bed in the workhouse.

  “Not much . . ." he continued airily, ". . . but if you . . . well, the child is bound to be hungry, or so my cook tells me, so, I will be on my way if you have nothing more to say. I am getting confoundedly wet dithering about here on your doorstep."

  “Nothing more to say?" she repeated somewhat foolishly.

  “Miss Abbott, you strike me as being a woman who always has something to say, more than likely on subjects which don't concern you. I am merely being polite so do not put on that aggrieved air with me and if I were you I should take this basket . . ."

  “I want none of your charity, Mr Macauley." She lifted her defiant head and though the soot lay in a fine cloud about it, it in no way detracted from the beauty of her hair. Since her mother had cut it many years ago no scissors had been put near it and it tumbled in a great profusion of rich copper, the curls, so tight he wondered how she got a brush through it, falling down her straight back to her buttocks, wild, thick and springing. As defiant as she was, he thought, marvelling, needing no ribbons or ornaments to enhance its shining loveliness. She pulled her mother's old cloak about her as though it was made of velvet, ermine trimmed, and he felt her courage move him. Her clogs sounded a rebellious clatter on the wooden threshwood as she prepared to close the door but he stood his ground, no sign of the emotion she aroused in him showing in his face, his own proud head somewhat bowed beneath the low door frame. They confronted one another, neither ready to give way.

  “And the child?" he asked harshly, angry at something in himself which he did not care to name. A weakness she had awakened in him twice now and which drew down his dark brows in a frown.

  She hesitated then for if she was prepared to starve rather than accept Reed Macauley's largesse could she condemn Cat to the same fate? Neither of them had eaten a really decent meal for weeks ever since she had left the bar-parlour of The Plough in Market Harborough. Bread and cheese mostly, which was cheap and filling, a hot potato from a stall, milk, warm and frothy straight from the cow on the farms they had passed.

  “I haven't all day to stand here, Miss Abbott, so if you would allow me to bring in this basket I'll be on my way to the blacksmith." She was startled by the asperity in his voice. As far as she knew she had done nothing to deserve it.

  He stood to one side revealing a hamper in the yard behind him, a hamper so large he could scarcely lift it. But lift it he did, humping it past her with little ceremony and placing it carelessly on the haphazardly swept oak table from which a cloud of soot rose once more into the air coming to rest on his snowy white, immaculately ironed white frilled shirt cuffs. He brushed at it fastidiously.

  Dear Lord, there must be enough in there to feed her and Cat for a month, she thought exultantly, though not a sign of it showed in her face. He might have emptied a cartload of horse manure on her table, by the expression on her face, though she bowed graciously enough.

  “It is most kind of your cook, Mr Macauley. Thank her for me, won't you? Cat will be most obliged."

  “And not you, Miss Abbott?" he asked ironically.

  “Oh, my mother has . . . had a well-stocked vegetable garden. I dare say we would have managed well enough."

  “I dare say you would." Again his voice was filled with irony but he managed to smile in her direction. A smile of genuine humour this time, one that said he knew that had she been hollowed out with hunger and ready to faint with it, but with only herself to consider, she would have twitched her skirt aside, tossed her head and told him to go to the devil.

  He tipped his tall hat sardonically in her direction. He looked pointedly at her from head to toe, studying her soot-coated hair and face with especial care then he grinned suddenly, surp
risingly and turning on his heel left the house, banging the solid door to behind him.

  She let out her breath on a long, wondering sigh, then sank slowly into the carved oak chair in which generations of Abbotts had sat, wearing the seat into a shallow depression. Her mother had rested in it, that is if you could call the constant work her busy fingers had occupied themselves with, resting. The sewing and darning, the knitting and rushlight making, always employed at some task, never simply sitting. Doing nothing. Day-dreaming in a square of the rare sunlight which eased its way through the small windows and into the house.

  The idea made her smile sadly, then, turning her mind from the preoccupation with her mother which she had seemed prone to since she returned home, she studied the bounty which had just come her way.

  Would you believe it, because she couldn't. Mr High and Mighty Macauley hauling the enormous hamper which loomed over her on the table, all the way down the grassy slope which lay beside Dash Beck from his house up at Long Beck and on that skittish animal she had seen him on yesterday. How on earth had he managed it? she marvelled, but then Reed Macauley, from the little she'd seen of him, would not let a small thing like a frisky mare interfere with what he had in his mind to do. And of course his tale about his cook insisting on 'putting one or two things together' just as though she had the running of his house was just pure nonsense. It was her guess that he was the master of his own domain and that on some pretext or other he had ordered his footman or his butler or his housekeeper, or whoever it was wealthy gentlemen of his sort employed to see to their needs, to inform Cook that he needed a good, nourishing hamper of food packed. A hamper fit for the needy and poor of which there were a good many, and to have it at the front door within the hour. That would be more his style. A man such as he would feel no need to explain himself to a servant. Why should he? He paid their wages and they were there merely to obey his orders. She could imagine the consternation in the kitchen when the order came, the conjectures on who it was who would receive the hamper of food and no doubt before the day was out it would be known in every village and hamlet between Hause and Keswick and, innocent as the whole thing was, they would, naturally, put two and two together and make it come out five. Her reputation which was already suspect since she had run away from home four years ago, leaving her poor mother and father broken and bereft, would be in tatters even before the folk in the neighbouring farms and villages had clapped eyes on Cat.