Abbeyford Remembered (2 page)

“Here, Grandmother, let me help you.” She led the old lady back into the cottage and helped her to sit beside a blazing log fire. “There. We've given you a shock, coming unexpectedly like this.”

She turned her brilliant eyes upon her father. “How can you be so unfeeling,” she hissed at him, but Evan Smithson merely shrugged his shoulders and glanced about the cottage. “ Been some changes here, I see.”

Carrie, too, glanced around and then she jumped as she realised there was someone else in the tiny room. In a corner by the fire, sitting huddled in a chair, a rug over his knees was an old man. His eyes glowered towards Evan and his thin hands, lined with purple veins, plucked restlessly at the rug on his knee.

“Well, well, well,” Evan, too, had seen him and moved towards the old man. “You're still here then?”

“No thanks to you if I am. Crippled, I am, because of what you did …”

“Hush, Henry,” the old woman murmured worriedly.

“… Crippled ever since that night you led the whole village against the Trents, just because …”

“No, Henry,” her voice rose, shrill with fear, and his faded away to incoherent mutterings, and though Carrie strained to hear his words she could learn no more.

Evan's glance was still roving about the small room – the singing kettle on the hob, a rug covering the floor, two comfortable chairs and a blazing fire.

“Very cosy! Very comfortable!” Sarcasm lined his tone. “Put his hand in his pocket at last, did he?”

The old woman glanced at her son, her eyes pleading, her shrivelled mouth working but she uttered no sound. Evan's eyes, full of resentment, were upon his mother.

Intuitively, Carrie knew her father was not referring to Henry Smithson, huddled in the corner, a broken, pitiful figure. There was some mystery surrounding this household, events from the past which overshadowed the present and perhaps all their lives. She shuddered, and then to try to relieve the tense atmosphere, she said brightly, “I'm so happy to meet you, Grandma – and Grandpa, of course,” she added hastily.

The old man's frown deepened and beneath his breath he still muttered darkly. Sarah Smithson tried, valiantly, to smile, but all the while her eyes, anxious and watchful, were upon her son.

“He's still alive, then?” Evan said.

Before his mother could answer, Henry Smithson's voice rose, more strongly, from the corner. “Aye, God rot his soul! Still up to his wicked ways – gambling and drunk most o' the time. Keeps selling land off to pay his debts.”

Evan's interest sharpened visibly. He moved closer to the old man. “What d'you say? Selling land? How can he – he dunna own it?”

Henry Smithson sniggered. “A lot's happened since you left. That night – when you led the village men against the Trents – caused a lot of trouble and we've had to live with it ever since.”

Evan brought his fist down upon the table with a thump. “We had every reason to rebel – the whole country was up in arms against the Corn Law. Remember Peterloo? How the magistrates called out the yeomanry to charge upon a peaceful meeting, killing and maiming innocent men, women and children?”

“Aye an' Wallis Trent did the same, didn't he? Called out the yeomanry against his own employees. Killed three and injured several – including me,” Henry Smithson said bitterly. “I nearly died – wish to God I had. But I didn't, I've had to sit here the last twenty years – useless – and curse your name!”

Carrie gasped, shocked by the venom in the old man's tone. There was positive hatred in his attitude towards Evan, who, she believed, was his own son.

“Evan,” Sarah's voice was hesitant, “did you know – Wallis Trent was killed that night?”

Evan turned sharply to look at his mother, surprise on his face. “No – no, I didn't. How? In the fire?”

“No – well, not exactly. He tried to rescue his horse from the burning stable,” Sarah's eyes were downcast. “ But the animal was wild with fear, reared and came down upon him, breaking his neck.”

There was silence in the room whilst Carrie's eyes darted from one to another, trying to piece together the snippets of information she was hearing. She longed to ask for explanations but bit her lip to keep the ready questions in check.

Now was not the time.

“Adelina – what happened to his wife, Adelina?”

“She married Lord Lynwood.”

Evan grinned suddenly. “Adelina – Lady Lynwood! Aye, an' it'll suit her, too.”

Carrie's eyes widened. All these people her father seemed to know so well, she'd never heard of them, never heard him even speak of them. But then, she thought she had not even known before today that his own mother and father were still alive. She sat down on a low stool, resting her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees and listened to their conversation, her sharp ears missing nothing, her violet eyes darting from one to another, but, for once, her tongue was still.

“What's this about
him
selling land?” her father was asking again.

“Lord Royston died and split his estate between Francesca, Adelina's daughter, and Jamie Trent. He left Abbeyford Grange and land to the north to her and the Manor and about five hundred acres to Jamie Trent,” Henry explained.

“That was Wallis Trent's boy,” Evan murmured.

“Squire Trent,” Sarah spoke softly, “has control until Jamie reaches the age of twenty-five.”

“And in the meantime,” Henry added with malicious delight, “the old man has sold more than half of it off already!”

“Has he, b'God?” There was satisfaction in Evan's tone.

Within minutes Evan had taken his leave of his parents and hustled Carrie out of the door, scarcely giving her time to make her polite farewells. It was as if the sole purpose of his visit had been to find out about the Trents and having done so, he left.

He was striding up the village street towards the hill with Carrie taking little running steps to keep pace with him.

He seemed, now, a man with a purpose, as if the information he had learned had injected new life into his blood.

“Pa – Pa – what was all that about? What happened here? What was that about you and the villagers and the Trents? Pa …?”

“Hold your tongue, girl. 'Tis none of your business.”

Carrie fell silent, pouting her lips and wrinkling her nose moodily, but she knew better than to push her father or she would feel the weight of his hand.

Halfway up the hill, a horseman came galloping towards them. Drawing level, he reined in beside them. Carrie gazed up at the man on horseback towering above them. He was a young man of twenty or so, very tall and already broad-shouldered. His hair was dark brown with reddish highlights glinting in the sun. His face tanned and his eyes a deep brown, his chin was firm and resolute and his mouth set in a hard line. “Good-day.”

Evan folded his arms across his chest and stood looking up at the young man. “Good-day –
sir
!” There was an unnecessary accent upon the salutation.

Carrie felt her pulses quicken as the young man's eyes strayed towards her. A slow smile touched his lips, softening their hardness, and his sombre expression lightened. “How do you do, Miss-er …?”

“Smithson. Carrie Smithson,” she replied and smiled in return.

“I'm happy to meet you. My name is Jamie Trent.”

Carrie's eyes widened and her lips parted in a gasp. She glanced swiftly at her father and saw that his eyes had narrowed calculatingly.

“I don't think I have seen you hereabouts before,” Jamie Trent was saying, his eyes still upon Carrie's face. “Are you visiting?”

“My father is the …” Carrie had been about to say that her father was the ganger on the new railway, but Evan interrupted her. “ We are visiting relatives, Mr Trent. Come, Carrie, it's time we were on our way.”

His manner was curt, almost rude, and Carrie saw Jamie Trent's eyebrows rise fractionally and he glanced briefly towards her father, but it was Carrie to whom he spoke again. “I'll bid you good-day then, Miss Smithson. I hope we'll meet again.”

Before she could utter a word, Jamie Trent had urged his horse forward and was soon cantering down the hill away from them. Carrie's violet eyes followed him.

“Come along, girl,” Evan said roughly. Reluctantly Carrie turned and followed her father, but all the way up the hill she kept glancing back towards the now tiny figure of the young man on horseback.

Some three miles to the north of Abbeyford, at the top of a rise, they stopped to look down at the workings of the railway below. Like an open wound, the railway gouged its way through farmland, woodland, rock, over water, even through hillsides. The gang of navvies over whom Evan Smithson was the ganger, scurried about like a colony of working ants. As they neared the site, Carrie could see the men, some stripped to the waist under the hot summer sun, shovelling the earth and rocks into the carts which, when loaded, were pulled away by horses, five hundred or so men and over one hundred and fifty horses, working over a three-mile stretch. Like their ganger, they found shelter wherever they could – in empty village cottages, in barns, sleeping two or three to a makeshift bed, some even with their wives and families sharing the harsh life. They worked hard and yet throughout the country the navvies had a bad reputation for causing havoc wherever they appeared. Not only did the railway itself meet with opposition from the country dwellers as it tore its way through their lands and their livelihood, but the arrival of five hundred hard-drinking, swearing navvies in a peaceful village was something to be feared.

Only the contractor's men who held a position of some importance – the engineer, the engine drivers, the foreman and skilled men – could find comfortable accommodation in the village. For the rest, the labouring navvies, it meant finding a bed wherever they could.

Yet there was a strange camaraderie amongst these ruffians, built like an army of Goliaths. They ate meat in huge amounts and consumed vast quantities of ale. They fought and gambled and yet they worked hard – exceedingly hard – with great courage, seeming to have a contemptuous disregard for even the most dangerous work. Whilst they appeared to have little respect for the various communities upon which they descended, there was loyalty amongst themselves and when any of their number suffered fatal injury, his brother-navvies would suddenly become a group of silent mourners at the nearest church.

“I'll be off home, now,” Carrie said. She did not want to go too near the workmen. Not that she was afraid of them, for Caroline Smithson feared no one, not even her swift-tempered father, but the men's whistles and calls caused her an embarrassment she would sooner avoid. More than once she had had to skip smartly aside to avoid their reaching hands and once, when a hulking brute had managed to lay hold of her she had had to fight, claw and scratch her way free of his loathsome embrace. She admired the tenacity and pluck of the navvies as workmen, but she had no desire to lead this life for ever. There must be a better life than this, Carrie told herself, somewhere, somehow, and so she kept a safe distance from the lusty navvies.

“Make yourself presentable, girl,” her father said. “Lloyd Foster will be calling. Brush your hair – you look like a gypsy!”

“Ain't surprising,” Carrie retorted boldly, “since we live like gypsies.” She began to run down the hill out of reach of her father's hand as he raised it to cuff her. His eyes glittered with momentary anger and then he laughed aloud, the breeze carrying the sound to the ears of the running girl so that she turned, grinned cheekily at him, waved briefly and then ran on. Of all his family, only Carrie dared to oppose her father or speak her mind and only she could do so and escape his vicious temper.

Nearing the shack which was the Smithsons' present dwelling-place, Carrie slowed her pace.

Lloyd Foster! She wrinkled her nose and her generous mouth pouted. She could see his horse tethered outside the shack and knew he was waiting for her.

Lloyd Foster was an important man – he was the Boss. He was the man who held the contract for the building of the railway and yet he was still a young man. He was a flamboyant character, loud, brash, even vulgar and yet likeable. At least, most people liked him, responding readily to his never-failing good humour, his happy-go-lucky manner. All except Carrie. Even though she knew Lloyd Foster wanted her, she refused to let herself like him.

Carrie peeped through the small, grimy window. She could see her mother sitting at the bare, scrubbed table, her elbows on the table, her hands cupped to hold her weary head. Her knuckles were misshapen, swollen and painful with the rheumatism which afflicted the whole of her body. She was looking towards the man who stood in front of the makeshift fireplace – Lloyd Foster. He was tall with dark, tanned skin, fair, curling hair, bright blue eyes and a wide and ever-laughing mouth. He was standing, tall and straight, his chest thrown out, rocking backwards and forwards slightly on his heels, his thumbs stuck into the armholes of his gaudy waistcoat. A thick cigar was clamped between his white, even teeth. His clothes were always of the finest material. His shirt was sparkling white and his riding-coat and breeches well cut. His black leather boots shone and always there was a gold watch chain looped across his broad chest.

Carrie sighed and pushed open the door. Lloyd Foster turned at once and made an exaggerated bow towards her, then spoilt the courtly gesture by smacking her on the backside as she passed close to him.

“I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Mr Foster.”

Lloyd Foster's loud laugh threatened to bring the dilapidated shack tumbling down about them. But Carrie merely glanced at him and moved out of reach again as he made to put his arm about her waist.

“Ah, Miss Carrie, an' don't I be lovin' you the more when you're angry.” His rich Irish brogue mocked her good-humouredly. It was impossible to offend the man, Carrie thought, and in spite of herself she found the corners of her mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smile. It was very difficult to maintain a mood of anger with him when all he did was laugh and tease and pay extravagant compliments.