All the dear faces (37 page)

Chapter
21

The blizzard struck at the dales and fells of Lakeland early that winter, coming with very little warning at the end of November. January was the usual month in which the big snow was expected, only a light dusting on the peaks appearing before Christmas. In December, the frost would sting hard, every blade of grass and frond of bracken decorated with a hoary fringe. The sun would shine, turning the white peaks to a delicate rose, and the sheep would move down to where the herbage survived, with slivers of ice jangling on their thick grey fleece. Snow buntings, harbinger of bad weather to come, picked seeds from the bents, and grey geese flew in formation, heading south
.

But in November the wind began to blow, thin and bitter. The hedges were black and the winter trees cowered beneath the growing force of tumultuous air. The peaks turned grey under the long snow-clouds and darkness fell before three o'clock in the afternoon. A steady flurry of powdery snow danced wildly in the turmoil of the elements, violent eddies sweeping across the fells, then it became calmer and the snow began to fall thickly, steadily, a white and impenetrable curtain through which nothing could be seen. The sheep, instinct telling them what to do, found places against rocks and walls where there was shelter, settling down to wait, and farmers did the same, knowing there was nothing else they could do. To go out in it, even to check on their precious flock, was madness. Men had been known to simply vanish in the white and eerily silent world, their bodies not found until weeks later when the thaw came. In the night, the wind returned, driving the snow directly into the face of Browhead Farm
.

Morning light revealed a world in which nothing could be heard except the call of the ravens high on the peaks, nor seen but great drifts of snow across the farmyard, field, dales and fell, undulating deserts in which not even a gatepost was revealed. The grey crags stood up sharply in the white world, emerging from the snow high up the fells, beginning to turn pink as the rising sun fell on them. Trees were recognisable only by the shape of them, snow laden and top heavy. It had not yet crusted and when Charlie ventured forth on to it from the back door, which, being sheltered from the full force of the storm, could be safely opened, he fell right through it up to his waist.

“
I'll have to make a path up to the barn or those hens will set up a racket to wake the dead if they're not fed," he shouted, and at once Cat and Phoebe were eager to help him, though Annie's first thought was to get up to the 'intakes' to check on her flock. Thirty-two ewes now and the ram who had been put out to service them only two weeks ago. Had they survived or were they buried in drifts which, until the snow crusted, could not be checked? The dogs would find them wherever they were and even if they were not found at once, a sheep can live in a drift for up to two weeks. The warmth and the fat of its own body would keep it alive but she could not help but worry. She was surviving by a hair's-breadth, treading delicately and it needed only one small setback, just one strand of the fine network of her life to snap and the whole structure would unravel.

“
Don't even think of it," Charlie's quiet voice told her, reading her mind. She had not been aware that he was there as she stood, her eyes shaded by her raised hand, staring up into the blinding whiteness beneath which her hopes and dreams were buried. For good, or only until the snows allowed her up there, her mind agonised? She turned and smiled, though, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.

“
I wouldn't be allowed, even if I was daft enough to try, would I? The three of you would set up such a caterwauling I would be completely overruled." She castanother anxious look at Middle Fell where she had last seen her tiny flock, then hugging his arm to her, pulled him towards the sloping drift in which Cat and Phoebe were floundering.

“
Come on, then, let's have some fun. We can do nothing outside once the hens are fed and the eggs collected, so let's make a snowman." She bent and scooped a handful of snow, making it into a ball, then threw it at Phoebe who turned, surprised. For a moment she looked bewildered, not knowing even yet how to play, then her own face split into a young grin of joy and she did the same, aiming at Annie who began to shriek, the sound echoing across the valley. At once they were all at it, throwing snowballs, shouting with laughter, the dogs barking and chasing the snowballs which, when they landed, they could not find. Scarlet cheeks and brilliantly vivid eyes, smiling mouths and fast beating hearts, hands and feet tingling as the blood flowed and when the game was over, the paths dug, the hens fed, the companionable comfort and warmth of the kitchen, hands cupped round pewter beakers filled with thick vegetable `crowdy'
.

The dogs found every ewe the following week when the thaw set in. Not one lost and Annie was exultant as they were brought down to the safer inlands, the grassy pastures set directly about the farmhouse where, when the blizzards came again, as they were bound to do, they could be hand fed on the hay cut in the autumn, or even on ash leaves or holly, should it be necessary
.

There was a second blizzard in January, worse even than the first, and then another so that the drifts were as high as the eaves of the farmhouse, every window and the door at the front completely blocked. There was the sound of wild geese honking, a great skein moving across the brilliantly blue sky in a huge formation, the leader a little way ahead. Crows picked at the frozen streams for signs of food and ravens searched vainly for twigs since it was coming up to nesting time. Hungry foxes barked across the frozen wastes in desperate need of sustenance. The bitter cold continued, a great frost by day and night, and
the snow was crisp and beautiful and could be walked on with ease and safety. Becks and tarns were still frozen over and the lovely tinkling sound which was a constant song in the ears of those who lived beside them, was stilled, a strange silence which was quite unnerving. The crags were covered by shimmering icicles, field gates, if they could have been reached, were frozen and sealed. Bassenthwaite Lake was solid to a depth so great and so thick, people could walk their horses across it and when the wind shifted the fine powdery snow from its surface, it was like mist about those who skated there, twirling across its surface like birds on the wing. Ponies pulling sledges could be seen crossing the vast expanse of snow about it and in Annie's `i lands' her ewes were heavy with their unborn lambs. From the farmyard where Annie paused to stare in silent wonder the fells stood up proudly, great sleeping monsters of white and blue. In the late afternoon, angry sunsets touched the snow about the farm and glowed across the dark frozen waters of the lake below
.

The first intimation of the thaw in March came from the ewes themselves as they lifted their heads and sniffed the air. There was the sound of water tumbling down the beck's rocky course, sky clouds to the west, and lower down the fells, a thin yellow vegetation showed itself. Annie saw storm-cocks perched on a tree, singing of the coming of spring and heard the sweet sharp music of a dipper, perched on a boulder near the waterfall at Dash Falls. The snow melted from around the plants in the farmhouse garden and suddenly there were snowdrops, 'the fair maids of February', revealed a month late
.

Easter came and went but those at Browhead were unaware of it, cut off as they were from all contact with those about them. Annie would not have cared had she known since her lambs would be here soon.

“
I'm walking up to have a look, Charlie," she said. "D'you want to come? It's a grand day for it." She sniffed the air as her sheep had done, the pungent smell of the new fern and heather already beginning to sprout, a delight to her
.

The dogs watched her intently, waiting for the command which meant she would take them with her.

“
No, I'll . . . I've things to do." Charlie did not look up from the sledge which, its runners discarded temporarily, he was attempting to patch together.

“
What things?"

“
Well, this for a start. You really could do with a small cart, you know, and a horse to pull it."

“
When I have the money Charlie, in the meanwhile the sledge will have to do."

“
And what about the ploughing? It will have to be done any day now . . ."

“
Charlie dear, we managed last year and we will again." "With me pulling the plough you mean."

“
Which you did last year with no problem. Look Charlie, don't be down in the dumps. Come with me and we'll look for that fell pony you've been talking about.
”

She squatted down beside him, trying to win a smile from him. He had been out of sorts lately, she was inclined to think, not exactly short with her and Cat and Phoebe, but sparse with words, ready to spend time in his own room above the cow byre instead of in the warm kitchen with them. The winter had been long and trying. Four people forced by the weather to spend day after day in one another's company and though they had made enough swill baskets, besoms, woollen stockings and lengths of hodden grey wool to open a shop, or so Charlie said, busy from morning to night, it had not been easy for him, she supposed, stuck in the company of three females and two dogs. He did all that was needed out of doors, feeding the hens, collecting the eggs, bringing in peat and wood for the fire which was never allowed to go out, fetching water, checking the ewes who were still on the 'inlands', but he was restless, seeking his own company rather than theirs. When he did sit down in the kitchen, he took on the job of schoolteacher, continuing with the lessons he taught Cat, the Latin and French, showing her how to write in the beautiful copperplate he himself used. She was bright, quick, and was far beyond anything Phoebe had learned,
or even what Annie could teach her. She read the Bible fluently, could add up and subtract as quickly as Annie, and the question of where she should go to school must soon be addressed. But for now Annie must get her lambing over, her fields ploughed, her vegetables and crops planted and all the other dozens of jobs which she and Charlie shared. And the idea Charlie had discussed with her was a splendid one and that was to catch and break a wild fell pony, not only to pull a cart when she could afford one, but to draw the plough. She meant to buy a cow and a pig if the ewes did well . . . Oh, God, let the ewes do well . . . please .. .

“
You go on, Annie, I'm busy." Charlie's voice was short and he stood up, moving away from her. She straightened slowly, brushing her hands down the legs of her father's trousers. She had an idea about these too, if things went right. . . if . . . if . . .

“
What's the matter, Charlie? You seem . . ." "Nothing, really. There's nothing," but it appeared to her that he was angry about something.

“
Of course there is. Won't you tell me? Is it your ribs?" "No, they're fine now. Mended weeks ago."

“
Then what .. . ?"

“
Oh, for God's sake, Annie, can you not see I'm busy?" and he strode away in the direction of the barn, the long muffler Cat had knitted for him streaming out at his back.

“
Very well then. If you feel like that, I'll go alone.
”

She went directly up the track behind the house in the direction of Middle Fell and Great Cockup, her crook in her hand and the dogs at her heels. Her sheep were on the higher intake land below the snowline and when Blackie and Bonnie brought them to her it took her no more than two hours to examine each one. They were all fat and healthy and she smiled in satisfaction. A lamb from each would double her flock, please God. Nearly seventy sheep she would have, if her luck held, and with the money she saved and would get from the lambs she sold, she could have that cow and the pig. Her own milk. Her own butter and, when the time was right, bacon
.

Her elation carried her on and up moving through the bracken and sprouting heather towards the white-streaked Brockle Crag which was really no more than an untidy fall of rocks. There was a sheep trod leading up beyond it. A wreath of wet mist as white as the insides of a sheep's fleece rolled off the summit of Skiddaw. but she went on. The dogs, knowing they were no longer working, frolicked in and out of the growing vegetation, scenting rabbits, chasing one another, acting the fool since they were still young.

“
You'd best call off your dogs, for mine is too old to fight.
”

His voice came at her from nowhere as she daydreamed. She had been watching the steep track on which she was climbing, her mind dwelling pleasurably on the spring and summer to come. Blackie and Bonnie had gone on ahead, bounding away towards a group of tall grey-pitted crags and as she approached them, both dogs were standing, muzzles raised, ears flat, eyes fixed on a dog which was doing the same
.

Beyond them was Reed Macauley
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It was a year since she had seen him and the shock of it struck her a blow which made her gasp and almost bent her double. Her peaceful heart exploded within her, galloping wildly to a beat which threatened to choke her and she felt the blood drain away from her brain, making her feel faint. She stood rigid and paralysed, her hands which she had brought in reflex up to her midriff, clasped tight together to prevent them shaking. Her mouth dried and she could not have spoken if her life depended on it
.