Haweswater (15 page)

An hour after he had taken the room upstairs in the Dun Bull Inn at Mardale head, and hung up his suits in the dusty wardrobe, Jack Liggett stood in front of the bar, sipping ale from a cracked tankard. It could have been concern for his car that led him to quit his quarters at the George Hotel in Penrith, though the motor was in no genuine danger of wreckage, making the forty-mile round trip each day. Now it was parked rather prominently on the tennis court at the back of the building, in the rain, instead of under a roofed garage as it had been at the George.

Jack stood opposite a group of farmers who did not look at him, uncertain about his more permanent presence in their pub. Neither did they speak amongst themselves at first, or remove their wet caps from their heads. They moved lengthily, arms and bodies shifting quickly, rearing up and moving back, like a herd of upset cows. Outside, the rain hushed, a constant finger held to the lips, bidding quiet. An artificial humidity stifled the air inside the pub, grown from a combination of damp clothing and warmth from the fire, which only seemed to add to the heavy atmosphere.

The barman of the Dun Bull was less hostile towards him and so they conversed sporadically about the Scottish Highlands, favourite whisky. He kept his voice low, leaving the conversation now and again to attend to a new pint for a man, resuming it only when he was certain he could not be overheard by his regulars, hopelessly strung between local loyalty and the level of courtesy required for his new customer and guest of the establishment. It had been difficult to accept money from the man, more difficult still to allow room and board, considering his notoriety and what he represented, but Jake McGill was loath to refuse a customer. He considered himself to be reasonable and lacking discrimination. Furthermore, as the man himself had neatly stated, at this point in time it would be futile either to deny himself financial benefit or to make a political statement by putting out the lodger.

Jake watched the man’s easy movements. There seemed to be a substantial degree of impersonality towards the whole affair as far as Mr Liggett was concerned, though it did not manifest itself as brassiness, nor the cocky manner of a victor entering a defeated port. Jack Liggett was an emissary, by all means, yet he was not here to drive out a lingering foe. He did not consider it improper or insensitive to submerge himself in the village biography. But could this not have been done for a reason? There were now no clear borders drawn from which the two sides could hurl insults and offence at each other, having neither the protection of distance nor rigid standpoints. Jake considered it a most ingenious tactic, if indeed it was strategy. Almost gentlemanly.

After a while, unable to cope with the hung atmosphere, he switched on the wireless radio, housed in a robust leather box which sat behind the bar. It took a short while to warm up at the mains, finally tracking some crackling symphony music. The concert ended and a recorded programme of popular, contemporary songs began.

– As you can see, sir, we are not without contact to the outside world.

The man smiled at him. Jake refilled his own glass, relaxing somewhat. It was difficult to find a sharper tone or take a harder line. He was a likeable enough chap and, if it weren’t for the situation, Jake would be pleased for the new company. Liggett’s manner was exceptionally pleasant and genial. And he was well turned-out. His hair was a blue-black that was almost Eastern, with a slight greying at its sides. Not enough to suggest senescence. He kept it combed to the slight right, never touching it with his hands, as men are prone to ruffle and ruin themselves within a drinking establishment. There were several sagging lines around his eyes, indicating their track to middle age, but none towards his mouth, which was upturned, sensuous and full, seeming not unlike the Herculean mouths of the latest batch of Californian actors in favour presently, with faces six feet high on the billboards of the New Picture House in Penrith. Jake supposed that ladies might find him handsome, the lower half of his face warranted such a judgement. But his forehead was perhaps too low, and his eyebrows were too fine, too shaped, a little feminine. His eyes, a tepid brown, were too large, too assuming, backed-up and overlaid with what Jake could only suppose were issues. It might, of course, simply have been intellect. But certainly the eyes complicated matters. Overall, the upper part of his head was more pretty than it was handsome.

The man had removed his suit and was dressed more casually, in a thick Aran jumper and corduroy breeches. His walking boots were not the new, unbroken leather which locals found so worrisome. That was something of a relief, thought Jake. Rather, they appeared well used and well oiled. Even without his city garb, the refined vestiges, Mr Liggett still cut a distinguished figure. Jake observed him lengthily. He was shaking his head.

– Indeed not, Mr McGill. Do you get enough reception for the Light programme here, with the hills?

– Aye. Comes and goes.

– Tomorrow there will be a broadcast of Victor Sylvester
and his ballroom orchestra, if you’re interested. Nine o’clock, I believe.

– Oh. Yes, that would be good. Another pint, sir?

The room filled with crackling songs. The man at the bar looked towards the open fire, humming slightly. ‘I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you …’ He tapped a finger against his tankard. The heat of the flames reached him from the other side of the room, glowing along the low ceiling and filling the hung copper pans with burnished orange light. There was now a strong smell of pipe smoke in the air, most of the regulars had curved vessels clenched between their teeth, one or two preferring rolled cigarettes. A farmer was staring at him from the corner. His face was blown red and he had familiar pale eyes, dry coarse hair. His tweed jacket was substantially worn at the arms. The gaze lacked confrontation, but not intensity, that too was familiar somehow. Jack Liggett lifted his glass to the man, recognizing him then as the spokesman of the initial meeting, and head of one of the families he had not yet called upon. The farmer nodded, one or two of the other men turning now to acknowledge him by raising a forefinger off a beer glass, then turning away to resume their game of darts.

– I suppose this is rather a man’s club? Ladies not allowed in the bar?

– You could say that, sir. Nothing formal, mind, they choose it that way in the week, except one or two. Saturdays are a little livelier. But only local lassies. We don’t run any parades here.

– And do most of them come? Even from the higher cottages?

– Occasionally. Not as often as the rest, it’s more trouble getting back up the scar. It will be hard for them to move, when the time comes. Houses don’t come down fells all that easily. Neither do old shepherds, for that matter.

Jack Liggett studied the man behind the bar counter. He did not mind his indirect comments, the light chastisements. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was a little distracted when next he spoke, looking around the group of farmers.

– Yes, it’s unfortunate. They might have stayed, but raising the lake’s level will in all likelihood displace the water table upwards and undermine the foundations of even those dwellings not being submerged, those on the higher levels. Plus, with the heavy rains here, the reservoir could flood right through the houses. So you see, they must move. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Is that Mr Lightburn?

– That’s Sam Lightburn, yes. Yes, it’s all very unfortunate. All very regrettable. Sam’s house will be submerged, of course. And that gentleman there, sir, is Nathaniel Holme, whose family has been in Mardale for nigh on three hundred years. He’s something of royalty around these parts.

Suddenly Jack Liggett frowned and returned his gaze to Jake.

– But you own this hotel?

– Aye. I do, sir, in part.

– And the Corporation has outlined your compensation?

– It has. Generously. I won’t say I’ll not miss my home, though.

– Good. Good. What’ll you do?

Jake cleared his throat and stroked his beard. He glanced around the man to the group of farmers.

– I was thinking Canada. I’ve not mentioned it yet. I’ll ask you not to.

– Of course. No, no.

Jenny Wade popped her ginger, curled head round the corner of the kitchen door, asking that Jake come and assist her with some lifting in the cellar. Jake excused himself and broke away, went through to the kitchen behind the bar.

Jack Liggett swallowed the last amber inch of his ale. He set the tankard on the counter and approached the group of farmers. They had halted their game and were in conversation with Jamie Brent, a poacher from the Naddle forest, who had entered the Bull and was showing off the loose body of a tawny owl. A wing was splayed out between his stunted, gloved hands, the serrated feathers white and yellow and
reddish-brown. They looked up as he arrived, eyes empty of welcome and concern.

– She’s a beauty. For sale?

– Mebbi. Mebbi not.

– How much?

The poacher smiled drily. He had a sarcastic mouth, small bright eyes and a virile, mannish stance, even for a character of his moderate height, or perhaps all the more so because of it.

– Don’t reckon thee’s got much call forra dead birdie. Norra live one, come to it. Cept mebbi a report to Lordie about all t’fuckin’ poachin’ as goes on round dale where thee happens to be stoppin.

– Oh, I’m sure Lord Langdale has far more pressing matters to attend to than a few lost woodland inhabitants. Besides, I’m positive I saw that very bird dead on the roadside not an hour ago as I drove in. It must have been a fox that got it. You probably just found it, am I right?

One of the farmers let out a loud bellow of laughter and a few of the others chuckled. The poacher grinned, revealing perfect rows of pink gums.

– Aye, one of them flyin’ fuckin’ foxes from ova yonder in Kendal. Twa pund fu’ t’woll.

– A ridiculous price, of course. You’ll get me a golden eagle for two pounds, I think.

The group quietened down, realizing after a second or two that the man in their midst was not bluffing. Jack Liggett held the gaze of the poacher, looking down a little at the smaller man dressed in moleskin breeches and a suede coat. He was smiling casually, as always. The poacher carefully folded the owl into a tatty leather satchel strung over his shoulder. He wiped his nose with the back of a gloved hand.

– Golden eagles wud be mor’less gone, gone or illegal these days, like, notta funni bizniz t’be gittin’ mixed up in, eh? What kinda daft bugger d’yer take mi for?

– Bluff! Deer and owls and merlins would probably be illegal
also, on an estate, would they not? If I’m not mistaken, that’s a merlin’s feather in your cap and an antler sticking out of your bag. Legal? Depends on where you lifted them from. Now. As I’m sure you know, there is one nest up on the Rigg and possibly another over on the crags of the Pike, and it’s not common knowledge, but don’t try to deny it. Get an adult. No juveniles. And no eggs, I don’t want my time wasted. A female, if you can. And I don’t want her as ragged and tatty as you made that owl, you understand?

He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a pound. He held it up, showed it to the man. The group of men watched with interest. Astoundingly, the gesture had not been tawdry or flamboyant, Jack Liggett had learned the various ways of handling money, depending on circumstance and who was involved. Rather, it had appeared subdued, almost sage.

– The rest when it’s done. Yes?

The poacher considered the money being offered. His face was twisted a fraction at the edges. He would have liked nothing better than to make a refusal. There was an expression of obvious dislike about his mouth, but his eyes did not leave the pound, and finally he took it.

Jack Liggett turned as if to leave the group of men. But the poacher called out to him again, his tone bitter and his words quick.

– ‘T’ll be a shame when all t’bonny birdies git drown by watter.

And Jack Liggett did not turn back to defend himself or his industry, but continued walking out of the room. As he left the bar, he said a small, curious thing, if anyone had been close enough to overhear.

– This is the wettest valley in the country. It’s designed to hold water. That is what it was meant for.

It was customary for the members of the Mardale Women’s Institute to meet in each other’s homes every other week, with both host and guests providing refreshments for the duration of the meeting in the fashion of a co-operative supper or tea. Janet Lightburn was sometimes present, though her mother disapproved of many of her comments during these afternoon and evening sessions. She often made mention of the Freedom League and other such organizations, and Ella would scowl at her across the table, or cut her off if the younger girls present began to ask too many questions, their curiosity piqued. Being in the chair, she did not consider the WI a suitable occasion for political discussion and canvassing, or an opportunity to blether on about the wage structure, the allocation of benefits, but thought that rather more pressing matters should be considered: poultry management, preserving, vegetable growing and other rural endeavours. Things relevant to day-today living.

The WI had been operating since shortly after the war ended. In the past, speakers had come from as far afield as Newcastle to instruct on dancing and dressmaking, and Hazel Bowman was regularly invited to speak on literature, though it was dangerous to have the teacher and Jan in the room together for too long as they became wound up in weighty conversation. The ladies often sewed to collect money for charitable events or organized village fairs, Christmas pageants. Lately, handicrafts had dwindled and the discussion had been directed at the presence of the Waterworks man in their village, the impact of the dam and what was to be done, gossip and speculation about both.

– But if we just stay put, thez notta lot they can do, eh?

– Except flood us out, Agnes. What are y’talking about, woman! I don’t want my smalls floating down to Bampton for all an’ sundry t’look at!

In the corner of the room, Janet Lightburn lit a cigarette and blew smoke out into the chimney. The group made a few high-pitched remarks in agreement with the last comment. Ella coughed. Although she was at the opposite end of the room to her daughter, it was as if the smoke bothered her. She did not approve of the habit and wished Janet would not indulge, especially in public. The meeting was descending into the clucks and squawks of indignant women without the focus of a definite goal. She quickly regained order, speaking clearly.

– Did y’all receive a letter from the estate?

There were murmured ayes. A few rustles as several women reached into their coats and bags to produce the documents.

– Never thought it’d cum, Ella, and that’s the truth. But it did. It did.

– No, me an’ all.

– Well. That’s it then, in’t it?

– Buck up now, Nancy lass.

There was a break to a few of the voices, the suggestion of tears about to be shed, one woman setting off another. Janet stood, threw the cigarette into the fire grate and reached for her shawl. Her mother turned to her. Dry-eyed, they exchanged a brief glance across the room.

– You’ve bin very quiet all along, miss. Nowt t’say this evenin’?

The others turned also, a few muttering Aye, go on, Jan, expecting some kind of wisdom, or at least proud resolution. But her daughter shook her head slowly, as if fatigued.

– Where y’off to?

– The Bull.

– Oh, Janet!

She closed the door on her mother’s disapproval, her tutting.

She had been swimming between the groups for days, weeks, it seemed. Sitting in the domestic arena of the women of the valley as they bickered about the situation, complaining that it was unfair, unreasonable, and visiting the bar later at night to push in past the sullen, awkward men, and attempt to budge their stagnant dispositions with some rousing discourse. Avoiding Jack Liggett was high on her agenda, when he was there also, because she was still not yet prepared to acknowledge him. There had been evenings spent at Measand Hall with Paul Levell, which had not amounted to much. He was keen to help, but assured her he had no influence over Lord Langdale, even if a good number of his paintings did adorn Askham Hall’s dining room. His ideas were confused, if well intentioned, and he seemed to have an outdated notion of the law, believing that much could be accomplished by a blind charge or rhetoric. Even Hazel Bowman could come up with little in the way of a practical remedy, though she did pass on the name of a reputed solicitors’ office in the city. But again, a dead end. Janet had been advised that the position of the tenants was grim.

The valley had no united front. And overall opinion was splintered, at best. Some wanted a fight, some wanted a quiet exit. There seemed to be precious few threads to be tied together. She felt that any space to move inside the boxed future that they had all been handed was tightening, becoming more restricted. And her energy was fast ebbing away.

As she walked down to the centre of the village, she resolved to try harder when she got to the jerry, not to be drawn into an argument about any of the usual upsets, the petty remarks, but rather to remain clear-headed, in the hope that some kind of solution could be unearthed.

The swell of voices outside the Dun Bull Inn assured her that the Waterworks man was not present that night. She could hear the aggrieved tones of Teddy Hindmarsh, laying it on thick.

– … bloody girt truck parked in t’roadway. I had to cum six mile back and tek t’uther path. Wi’ not even left yit and they’ve got buggers in ready. Well, it’s a fuckin’ cheek if y’ask me, like.

Following news of the dam, more evidence that the project was in fact going ahead had appeared in the valley: trucks, engineers, timber. This rant from Teddy was merely a response to the latest. The meetings in the Dun Bull of the village men had become strange and fraught occasions, and, because there were seldom evenings when Jack Liggett wasn’t present, where they could speak freely, if he was absent all hell seemed to break loose. The old bantering atmosphere of the Bull had long departed. Where once there had been foolery and merriment, simple contentment, now a dull sense of vapidity overtook the men, or they were quick to anger. The singing and the ken John Peels dried up, there were no tales told about past hunts or bets won at the races, and even Jake’s wireless could do little to lift their spirits.

She pushed open the door. Immediately quiet fell on the room.

– Give ower, lads. If y’can’t say it t’ t’fella’s face, what’s use in iver sayin’ it?

A collective sigh went through the bar and sporadic conversation resumed. She made her way up to her father, who was standing at the bar with Nathaniel Holme.

– Evenin’, Jan. Buggers are fleart of him, lass, that’s all.

– Aye, well, at least it gives them more t’ fret about than grizzlin’ coz a lass is in t’bar, eh?

Samuel and Nathaniel chuckled.

– Where’s Liggett? His car’s not gone. If he’s upstairs he’s probably heard every word of this racket, anyway.

– Up fell, sez Jake.

– At this hour! We’ll be stretchering him down.

Her brow was furrowed with concern. The two men spoke quietly for a time, discussing the outbreak of scrapie in the sheep population at Heltondale, and that they would not be
walked to market in Penrith that August if it had not cleared by then. Around them conversation was stilted, ragged. There was a general inertia in the bar. Even Paul Levell, usually verbose, sat in the corner staring quietly into his ale. Voices rose and quickly subsided.

A squabble broke out at the back of the room. The mention of rustled livestock, the half-hearted accusation of a disappearance in the night. The deep voices of Jonathan Carruthers and William Noble and Lanty Farrow mounting, inflammatory remarks multiplying. Tom Metcalfe looked about ready to take a swing. Nathaniel Holme stepped forward, wiped the palms of his hands on his shirt front and held them aloft. He was not noticed. He turned and picked up his shepherd’s crook from an alcove in the bar and banged it on the stone floor. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

– There’s nowt to be dun, lads. M’nchister fella’s not one fer sharp’nin’ saw without cuttin’ wood. No point in grousin’ and talk of theft, well, it’s a false git-up, any road. Won’t do a scrap o’ gud fer t’dam. Y’all know better. Now give ower while I sup me pop in peace, eh?

He stared them down and then walked over to the fireplace to throw another log on the grate and sparks blew up into the hood. The room was simmering with discontent. Nobody would speak out against the old man, though.

Samuel rubbed his eyes with the balls of his big fists. They smelled faintly sweet from the sweat of his horse that he had been tending an hour before and the yellow straw of the barn. It was a good smell, rich and pleasant, reassuring. He looked at his daughter. She was leaning back on the bar counter with her eyes closed, as if asleep standing up. The dark marks under her eyes were fading, now that lambing was finished, but another sort of weariness had descended on her.

The room was restored to a temporary lull in aggression, but it was not to be long-lived.

In the quiet, the Reverend Wood addressed the Bull’s regulars from his vantage point of a corner table.

– Gentlemen. Might we not consider this a blessing in disguise? A change is often good for the soul. Besides, many more people will benefit from this endeavour than would benefit from the lack of it. Christian doctrine encourages us to make sacrifices for others. Even those outside our realm of acquaintance. Remember the Samaritan on the road, offering a helping hand to a complete stranger. Or John …

– With all due respect vicar, I’ll ask you not to sermonize in my establishment. The men don’t come here for moral supervision. And you might remember that you’ve been in the parish only five years, have you not? Your attachments here are, oh, how shall I put it, vicar, a wee bit inconsequential. And I don’t think we’ll be seeing you at Penrith hiring fair in the coming months.

There were a few gentle ayes in agreement from the men. Jake’s right eye twitched, his cheek spasmed, which was a bad sign, and the Reverend, highly irritated by the contradiction, coughed, and, after a moment taken to recover from the attack, gave a disgusted glance at his ale. He swilled it in the glass and set it back on the table untouched.

– Oh, aye. What was that look all about? Something amiss with your beverage, vicar?

– Nothing more amiss than usual, Mr McGill. No. I wouldn’t expect a man of your standing to comprehend the principles of such a matter as sacrifice. Not a man who tries to pass off such filth as this ale as worthy of sale to the public, while other Christians do not have clean water to drink.

– Filth. Oh, filth, is it?

– Yes, sir, it is exactly that.

And the vicar stood up as Jake McGill barred him permanently from the premises. The gentle tension which had existed quite comfortably between the two men for a number of years, and which had led to sparring and sporting debate, finally spoiled. Nathaniel muttered under his breath, something about the bizniz getting outa hand, and he put his cap on his head and left the Bull. Samuel and Janet followed
shortly after. She paused at the door of the Bull, as if about to return inside, then thought better of it. She had had enough.

Jack Liggett’s first visitors to the large room over the hotel’s bar were two or three small children from the village. They peered in through the grimy window pane, waited until Jake McGill was bending under the bar and then slipped through the side door and stole up the stairs, knocked loudly on the door and scampered away amid a chorus of uncontrollable giggles. The man was confused to find the doorway empty as he answered the knock, he had been sleeping late and deeply for once, and he wondered if the noise had simply slipped out from a dream during his slumber. Hearing the patter of small feet on the bottom of the stairway, Jake stuck his head out of the hotel door in time to see several children running between the lilac bushes in the garden and trampling down the rhubarb patch next to the greenhouse. He called after them to stay away, or he’d bake them into a pie, so he would, and he picked up an oversized shoe lost by one of the boys and tossed it after them.

The second caller was Janet Lightburn, and she was not about to turn tail and run anywhere. She strode through the bar without so much as a nod to the proprietor and took the guest stairs to Jack Liggett’s room. Jake began to wonder at his lack of authority in his own establishment that people abused the premises so casually. He could not help but detect something of her mother in the straight back of the girl’s gait, so he decided to let the matter drop and get on with the morning’s baking.