All the dear faces (13 page)

Sally sat up cumbersomely and her good-natured face which had became even rosier with the fierce heat of the fire, twisted into a horrified grimace.

“
Eeh no, lass, tha' cannot go up ter me Ma's, nor to any of 'em."

“
Why not? I am most grateful . . ."

“
They'd not 'ave thi' over t' threshwood, none of 'em would, an' neither would Bert. He reckons 'e's head of the 'ouse now since me faither died an' he'd 'ave no truck wi' . . . well not wi' . . ." She indicated with a nod of her head and a swift glance in her direction, Annie's grave-faced little daughter who was watching with the greatest fascination Sally's boy Sammy devour a piece of Reed Macauley's cook's chocolate meringue, something he had never before come across and which he plainly found much to his liking. As he ate his eyes never shifted from what remained of it and the speed with which he ate it implied that the sooner he got it down, the sooner he could have another piece.

“
You mean that because I have a child, one born out of. . ."

“
Don't be daft, Annie. Yer know what they're like round 'ere. None of 'em'll 'ave 'owt ter do wi' thi. Did tha' expect it ter be any different? As soon as it's known tha's back
wi' a . . ."

“
A bastard?" Annie's chin rose challengingly.

“
Aye . . ." sadly, ". . . an' after tha' ran away like tha' did, wi' that chap from the travelling show."

“
He was ready to punish me, Sally. My father. I don't know how or what my life would have been like had I stayed . . ."

“
Threw you out, the story went an' served yer right, they said. Yer'd bin seen in Keswick wi' that actor but I felt right badly about it. Like it was my fault . . ." "Your fault?"

“
Well, if I 'adn't coaxed thi' ter come ter t' play it wouldn't 'ave 'append. None of it."

“
No, Sally, you musn't blame yourself. I chose to go, to take the chance, knowing what my father was like, and so I must bear the consequences."

“
What'll tha' do now, Annie?"

“
Stay here."

“
Nay, will tha' not sell?" Clearly Sally was of the opinion her friend was off her head for whoever heard of a woman living alone on a farm? How would she manage without a
man? How would she feed and clothe herself and her child? And more to the point, how could she stay here in this upright and God-fearing community amongst those who would turn their faces from her? Who would have no social communication with her whatsoever. Who would shun her and her child, for what decent man or woman could, without tainting themselves, be concerned with a woman such as Annie Abbott? To accept her would be to condone her behaviour, loose and immoral as it had been, and for all any of them knew, still was. If she could act as she had in the past with one man, or even more, who was to say she could not do it again with another, theirs, in fact, the women would tell themselves, and the men, having daughters of their own to protect, could only look upon her with contempt since to do otherwise might put the idea in their daughters' heads that there was no sin to it.

“
No." Annie shook her head resolutely in answer to Sally's question and Sally watched in wondering admiration the play of firelight in Annie's copper curls. They were tight and shining, long tendrils hanging in coils about her slender white neck and falling over her ears. She had bundled it up on top of her head, skewering it with several pins but it was far too heavy and vibrant to remain there, slipping in bright disarray from its fastenings
.

With a generosity which held no envy Sally admitted to herself that Annie Abbott had grown into a right comely woman.

“
What will tha' do, then?"

“
Run the farm, Sally. Work. Buy sheep when I have the money. A cow, pigs. A horse. Plough . . . I was hoping the men would oblige with some 'boon-ploughing' when the time came . . ." a custom in which all the men in the community would help one another at ploughing time, ". . . plant oats and bigg on a couple of acres. Get Natty Varty to do some coppicing and in the evening make swills and besoms. Given a chance I can make this farm successful. That's all I need, a chance, or even half a one. Mr Macauley . . . I met him on the road yesterday .. . his mother knew mine . . ." which was half a truth .. ."brought over this food . . ." indicating the basket, ". . . otherwise we would have gone hungry.
”

She frowned at Sammy who was reaching with grubby hands for the chocolate meringue. "That boy of yours, should he be eating so much rich food?" since he certainly would not be used to it, her manner said. Besides which, what was in the basket might have to last her and Cat through the next few weeks which it wouldn't if he was allowed to make free with it. She could see that Sally was one of those good-natured, careless mothers who, as long as they were not bothering them, gave no concern to the activities of their offspring
.

Sally glanced indifferently at Sammy. "Oh, 'e'll be all right. Nothin' makes 'im sick."

“
Perhaps not, but I'd rather he was sick on someone else's food, if you don't mind. That's all me and Cat have until I earn some money."

“
Well then, we'd best be off." Sally struggled to get out of her chair, ready to be offended, but the effort to do either was too much for her and she sank back, panting with the effort.

“
Give us a 'and, Annie, an' see, Sammy, give over touchin' that cake. He's never seen 'owt like it," she explained to Annie apologetically, pushing aside the smaller child, a little girl she called Janie, and when Annie had got her to her feet and through the doorway on to the threshwood, she turned impulsively, putting her hand on Annie's arm.

“
I'll try an' get over ter see thi', Annie, but with me Ma an' Bert it'll be difficult. Yer know . . ." nodding again in Cat's direction. The Mounsey farm, Upfell, ran next to Browhead, the distance between the farmhouses no more than a mile or so but it seemed to Annie that though the track was not long it might as well have been a hundred.

“
You must do as you see fit, Sally." She lifted her head proudly, as she had done with Reed Macauley, for she would have no one, him or Sally, handing out favours to her, then she relented, for Sally had been good to Lizzie and Joshua. "Come if you can, Sal. I'd be glad to see
you, and your mother, but don't cause trouble at home," meaning with her husband, Bert
.

Sally laughed without humour. "If yer thinkin' of Bert, he don't care what I do as long as 'is dinner's on t' table when 'e gets in from t' fell an' I'm in 'is bed when 'e goes up to it.
”

Annie had not seen Sally since that day. She had seen nobody. December had come in with a biting furious wind, unfriendly and finding its way into the house despite the thickness of the walls, bringing fresh soot down the chimney and though there was plenty of peat and wood in the barn she had tried to use it sparingly in order to make it last thoughout the winter. The house had been cleaned and polished and scrubbed and aired, even the tiny windows buffed until they sparkled. Bedding had been washed and mended and the contents of her mother's chest searched for suitable garments from which to remake and replace the clothing she and Cat wore. She had sewn a new little dress for her daughter from a skirt of Lizzie's, a dull and washed out grey, vowing as she did so that one day she would make her one in a bright and pretty material, but at least she was warm and her appearance was neat and clean
.

She had baked clapbread and made a pan of crowdy, finding the vegetables in what had been her mother's vegetable garden. She had managed to do some digging before the ground had become too hard but their supplies were getting low again, the basket of food brought over by Reed Macauley nearly empty. She needed some money, hard cash, since it was obvious that those with whom she might have done a trade, had she had anything to exchange, would not be willing to oblige her. Some of my oats for a leg of your lamb. A quart of milk for a lump of cheese, or butter, eggs for a hunk of bacon and though she had been careful with the food it had been hard at Christmas time when she had tried to make a little celebration for Cat. No presents, of course, except for the surprising loop of bright emerald-green ribbon she had found at the bottom of her mother's chest wrapped about a shining strand ofcopper hair which had matched Cat's and her own. Who had it belonged to? she had wondered before tying the ribbons in her daughter's curls. Someone from her mother's past, or perhaps one of her small brothers and sisters who slept in the churchyard by the lake. It had not occurred to her that the curl had been cut from her mother's own head when she had been pretty, fifteen-year-old Lizzie Bowman
.

She had cut a tiny fir seedling from the coppice and decorated it with pine cones and bright red berries and ribbons of paper from about the food in the hamper, fashioned into bows and hearts. Not much, but with a Christmas carol sung as the child drowsed on her knee she felt she had done her best with the first Christmas they had shared in their own home. Next year would be different. This time next year it would be different
.

No one came near her
.

On Boxing Day she and Cat walked down the track to the road which led to the hamlet of Gillthrop where the Highthwaite pack had just set off on the traditional Boxing Day fox hunt, one of the many which took place each winter between November and April. Not a sport as it was known in other parts of the country, but a necessity since the fox was an unrivalled predator in the fields of the local farmers, attacking and taking new-born lambs when they came. The drag for the scent had taken place earlier that day and the hounds were already away, eager to follow the fox over the hostile terrain which, particularly at this time of the year, could strike without warning at a man who did not respect its moods
.

A Lakeland village was not the cosy affair of inn, church and pretty cottages grouped about a village green and pond which was known elsewhere but was a line of small buildings in a thin straggle along the rutted road. Women stood in small knots as Annie walked towards them, Cat's hand in hers and as she drew nearer all conversation ceased. Almost as one they folded their arms defensively across their offended bosoms, their attitude proclaiming at once that she was not welcome and that she'd best not
try her doxy's tricks here. Shawled heads turned away, eyes sliding to watch her nevertheless
.

The hound pack could be heard in full cry, a rushing river of melody fading to a gentle swarming-bee sound as the dogs took flight through the bracken of Orthwaite Bank in the direction of Little Cockup as they trailed the fox. The men had gone, following the excited hounds. Farmers, the whipper-in, the hunstmen in their hodden grey. Sturdy boots and gaiters, snug breeches and woollen jackets and jaunty bowler hats. Some carried fox screws to winkle out the cunning animal should he go to ground in a borran, others had walking sticks and shepherd's crooks for they would cover a good many miles today. There were terriers trained to follow the fox into the borran and flush him out. The thrilling notes of the hunting horn rang out, carried on an echo and for a moment every head turned in the direction of the sound then all the women looked back at Annie Abbott, waiting, silent, accusing, hostile, curious for none had known a bad woman before
.

She knew them all. They were decent, hard-working, quick to help one another, loyal and true friends to those who deserved it. Gillthrop was no more than fifteen minutes' walk from Browhead. She had attended the church school with their children and her mother had passed the time of day with the older ones, but none spoke.

“
Good morning, Mrs Armstrong," she called out, her stride bold and graceful, not faltering. Her full skirt swung, brushing the tops of her wooden-soled clogs and revealing an inch of the thick woollen stockings her mother, or perhaps it was her father, had knitted. She wore no bonnet and the brilliant sunlight lit her hair to flame. Her back was straight, long and supple and she walked with the ease and elegance of a cat. From the inn yard of The Bull where he had tethered his mare, Reed Macauley drew in his breath admiringly
.

Jesus God, but she was a rare one. It took a special kind of courage to do what she was doing. It was easy to
carry a sword or a musket into battle, into the heat and fury which was generated when men came up against other men. It was easy to be brave when all about you were being brave with you, but to be one woman, one solitary soldier against so much hostility, called for the sort of valour which had nothing to do with the race of blood which carries a man through an armed conflict
.

He had passed at the back of her farmhouse on more than one occasion in the past four weeks as he came down from Long Beck and on to the pack route which led through the fells to Carlisle where he had business interests. He had not called though he had been tempted to do so if only to see how she was managing. Sheer curiosity, he told himself, though why he felt the need to justify himself, even to himself, irritated him. They were neighbours of sorts, weren't they, and any decent neighbour would take the trouble to enquire after the health and condition of another, especially a woman alone who had just come back from what Gillthrop would consider wild adventuring and who would, given the circumstances, be bound to encounter hostility. The hamper had been an impulse. She was nothing to do with him, and, if she was to be given the chance she needed he would serve her best by staying away from her. She was in enough trouble as it was and needed no further gossip about what those in the neighbourhood would see as the questionable visits of a young, unmarried man on a woman of already dubious character. No, best leave her alone to swim, or sink if that was the way of it, in the turbulent waters she herself had stirred up
.