All the dear faces (36 page)

“
Ah couldn't say."

“
But surely you must know when you . . ."

“
Nay, ah'm up to me eyes in it for weeks now. You'd best find someone else to tekk it."

“
But you had no such problems last year when I brought my oats to you. Last November when . . ."

“
Ah didn't know who tha' was then."

“
And what has that to do with it? You are a miller who, presumably, is desirous of earning a living. I am a man with grain to grind. Why should who I am prevent us from striking a bargain?"

“
Ah've had me say. Ah can't do tha' grain so tha'd best tekk it elsewhere."

“
You are the only miller in these parts."

“
Aye, ah know."

“
Look here, this is bloody ridiculous. I have grain to be ground here and . . ."

“
Bugger off. Ah'll ground no grain for thi' or for that hussy up Browhead. She'm not fit to be called owt else, trampin' about in her faither's clothes like she does. Ah knew Joshua Abbott an' poor sod'd be turnin' in his grave if he knew, an' if tha' wants a thumpin' then tha' shall 'ave it if tha' raises tha' fists ter me. Ah've nowt against you since I reckon any chap'd be glad ter get inter Annie Abbott's drawers, meself included, given a chance, so tha' can't be blamed if . . .
”

Despite his size it took him all of five minutes to fling the tall, much lighter figure of Charlie out into the road. His own fists were grazed where his knuckles had connected with Charlie's nose, his eye and chin, and surprisingly he had a shiner of his own where the lad, give him his due, had landed him one
.

Though he did his best to clean himself up in the beck which tumbled beside the mill, Charlie's face was a mass of contusions as he dragged his burden and his aching self back up the hill to Browhead. From higher up the fell, Annie had seen him return, waving her arm in greeting then, realising that he could not possibly have got the grain milled in the hour he had been gone, she dropped her scythe and began to run, her long legs still clad as they had been for the past year in her father's trousers, eatingup the shorn stretch of bracken, the long dip of the 'inland' pasture and leaping the drystone wall as easily as any steeple chaser.

“
Dear God . . . Charlie . . . dear God . . ." Her face turned white and inside her chest her heart crashed against her rib-cage in terror. Surely someone must have tried to kill him, but through the blood which refused to stop flowing from a burst lip and the agony of his eye which was already closed, he tried to smile.

“
It's all right Annie. I'm not hurt."

“
Not hurt, my God, who did this to you?" She moved towards him bringing with her the fragrance of the lavender she scattered in the chest where her clothes were kept, the smell of the bracken and the fresh, wild aroma of the Lakeland fell in which she laboured. It was her own particular fragrance, sweet and pure, and his love for her gushed through him, drowning his senses. She put her hands about his face, cupping it to hold him still and he froze in a paralysis of need which her nearness awoke in him. Her face was close to his, her eyes warm, concerned, probing and her breath was sweet.

“
I got in a bit of a . . . fight," he managed to say endearingly, trying once more to smile
.

bit of a fight! My God, what hit you? You won't be able to see in the morning . . ."

“
I can't see now . . ." he mumbled, wishing she would go on holding him. Wishing she would put her arms about him, hold his weary, aching head to her breast and comfort him as she did Cat . . . No, not as she did Cat, but as she would a man. Phoebe had joined them by now and Cat had come out of the kitchen where she was at her lessons, those Annie insisted on, and they clustered about him in concern, none of them noticing at that moment the untouched sacks of grain on the old sledge
.

She bathed his face and Phoebe made him tea, though quite honestly he could have done with a stiff brandy to put out the still smouldering fire of rage which had been lit in him by the miller's words. He would not tell her, of course, what the man had said. Let her think they had
fought because the miller had refused to grind her oats and bigg. That he himself had been so incensed he had taken a swing at the man. He would not dirty her by repeating the man's words. But she knew, of course
.

Phoebe had gone to her bed, not much behind Cat who now had her own small room between Annie's and Phoebe's. She and Cat were both tired for besides her school work, Cat collected the eggs and fed the hens which moved freely about the yard, saw to both the dogs' evening meal, brought in peat and kindling and any other light task which was within her grasp. She was nearly five years old now, growing tall and strong, her young character forming already into an image of her mother's. She was a beauty, with a sweetness in her which Charlie loved for it was so like Annie's. Not a sugary sweetness, but one which was mixed with spice and fire making it all the more palatable.

“
He said something about me, didn't he? About you and me?" Annie leaned back in her mother's small rocking chair, her long legs crossed at the ankle, her feet bare and slender to the crackling fire. She had been carding the wool from her own fleece, a task which he knew gave her immense satisfaction, and the hand carder, used by her mother and her mother's mother still lay on the table. Carding involves tufts of the washed wool from the fleece being set between the wire points on the carder and 'combed' which action disentangles the fibres, loosening them ready for spinning. Next to the carder were the long combed fibres which Annie was still in the process of smoothing.

“
I beg your pardon," he mumbled.

“
You heard me, Charlie. Don't deny it. Nothing else would have made you set about a chap as big as Jack Bibby. He said something you didn't like and it involved you and me living here, unchaperoned . . ." She gave a snort of unamused laughter, ". . . since we can't count Phoebe. Oh, don't worry Charlie, I'm not daft. Do you think I don't know what they are all saying? I've seen the looks they give me when I happen to come across a shepherd on the fell, or Mrs Mounsey or Mim go past theback of the farm. Even Sally has stopped coming since . . ."

“
Since I arrived. That's only because . . ."

“
It's because that husband of hers has threatened her with the biggest hiding of her life if she does. They think the worst, Charlie, I'm afraid. Our reputation is ruined, yours and mine." She laughed lightly but there was deep in her voice a strange note which seemed to say it was hard being an outcast. No matter what she did, nor how innocently, they wouldn't have it. They thought the worst of her so really, what was the point of dwelling on it? She and Charlie were friends, dear friends, who supported one another as friends did. He had come into her life just when she needed one, and she had done the same for him. She gave him a home and one day, when she could afford it, she hoped to give him a wage, a decent wage, which was what he deserved.

“
My reputation doesn't matter since . . ." He had been about to say since I will be going soon anyway, but the expression of vulnerability on her face, a young look of being lost for the moment, stopped him. He could not strike her with the blow which he knew would hurt her badly, just when she was suffering another. Somehow she must get her grain milled and the question was where, for there was not another miller in the parish of Bassenthwaite. But when that was done, he must go. He would tell her when all her labour was done. When she was settled for the winter, her crops in, her animals safe, her oats and bigg ground, and stored in the kist in the corner of the kitchen
.

He watched her, her face pale and drawn, her weary body slumped. She was chewing her bottom lip, staring into the glowing peat fire as she worried on the question of how she was to get her grain ground and his battered face, though no emotion showed through the dried blood and bruising, was soft with his love for her
.

It was noon the next day when Jack Bibby thumped on the door of the kitchen. Annie was up on the fell, scything the last of the bracken, Phoebe with her, only Charlie,
Cat and the two dogs at home. He had sworn he was able to go, and had twitched the scythe from Phoebe's hand saying she should stay at home and make him a bilberry pie from the last of the fruit they had picked from the great swathe which grew at the summit of Bakestall.

“
All right then, Mr Lucas, " Phoebe had said tartly. "Let's see tha' swing that scythe," and when he did the pain which had nagged him all night, flared hideously through his chest, making him gasp.

“
Off with your shirt, Charlie," Annie had ordered, gasping herself as did Phoebe, at the great purple and black bruise which coloured his white skin just below his left breast.

“
Oh, Charlie," was all she said, sadly, her fingers touching lightly the skin of his chest and shoulders and despite the agony he was in, he felt a stirring in the pit of his belly and the thrusting of his penis as his desire awoke.

“
It's nothing really," stepping hurriedly away from her, but of course they must bind it up, they said, and did, and he must rest for a while since a rib might be cracked. So he and Cat were alone when the miller called
.

Charlie stared in astonishment, his one good eye looking into Jack Bibby's one good eye. Behind the miller was a strong cart pulled by a sturdy fell pony and perhaps it was then that Charlie got the idea though it was not a conscious thought at the time.

“
Ah've come for t' grain," the man said shortly
.

Charlie gaped and behind him Cat held
Blackie
and Bonnie by their scruffs to let them know that neither they, she, nor Charlie were threatened.

“
Is it handy?" the man went on, his manner truculent, his gaze shifty. Still Charlie could not speak. They both bore the scars of yesterday's fight and yet here was the miller, just as though it had not happened, enquiring for the grain which yesterday he had refused to grind.

“
I don't believe this," Charlie said, his battered face a picture of bewilderment.

“
'Appen tha' don't but I've no time to be standing here
whilst tha' think about it. Do tha' want tha' grain milling or not?
”

The man was evidently under some strain and in his one good eye was a gleam which said he would dearly love to close Charlie's other eye but nevertheless he stood his ground.

“
What the bloody hell's going on?" Charlie begged to know, wanting to laugh really, for the whole thing was so ridiculous, but not daring to, not only because of the pain in his chest which hurt each time he drew breath, but because he didn't want to turn the miller against him yet again. The man was looking over Charlie's shoulder at Cat who smiled and dropped a curtsey. For a moment his face softened and he almost smiled back then he turned to Charlie.

“
Does tha want it doin' or not? Ah found that . . . well, ah've got an hour or two ter spare so ah thought . . ." he shifted uncomfortably from one big foot to the other, "well . . . mek tha' mind up."

“
For God's sake man, of course we want it doing. Look, I can't lift it, not after our little contretemps yesterday." He grinned painfully and the miller wondered what the hell he was talking about but he nodded and, after Charlie showed him where the heavy sacks were, lifted them easily on to his cart and drove off.

“
Ah'll have 'em back first thing tomorrow. Will that do thi?" he called over his shoulder.

“
Of course, splendid and thanks.
”

Charlie was still grinning as he closed the door. He looked at Cat and she looked at him and though it sliced through him like a hot knife, he began to laugh.

“
Now what in God's name was all that about?" he asked her, scratching his head.

“
I don't know, Charlie. He must have changed his mind."

“
I suppose he must, but I wish he had done it before he set into me.
”

*

The miller drove the cart along the two miles of road between the gate of Browhead Farm and Hause. He had
gone no more than a mile when a man on a tall, high bred, black mare which was cropping the grass verge beside the road, held up his hand for him to stop. A Merle collie eyed him suspiciously. The miller scowled, but drew on the reins.

“
Everything all right, Bibby?" the man asked quietly. "Aye, 'tis in the back."

“
And you'll have it ground by tomorrow?
”

The miller sighed. "If you say so, sir."

“
I do say so, Bibby, and I'm much obliged to you." The miller sighed again.

“
Aye, well . . . I'd best get on."

“
Of course, and, Bibby, I won't forget this."

“
No sir, neither will I."