Legend of the Seventh Virgin (6 page)

Joe took a long time to recover. He used to lie on his blanket with Squab beside him for hours, doing nothing, saying nothing. He couldn’t walk for a long time, and when he began to, we realized that this had made a cripple of him.

He didn’t remember very much about the trap; only that terrifying moment when he had walked into it and he had heard it snap, as it crunched his bones. Fortunately, pain had sent him into speedy oblivion. It was no use scolding him, no use telling him it was his fault; he would have done it again if he could.

But he was listless for many weeks and it was only when I brought him a rabbit with an injured foot that he began to cheer up; in looking after the rabbit he regained some of his spirits and during that time it was like having the old Joe back. I could see that I would have to make sure he always had some maimed creature to care for.

The winter came and it was a hard one. Winters were harder inland than they had been on the coast, but, even so, the Cornish winters were usually mild; this year, however, the wind turned from the usual southwest and came from the north and east bringing blizzards with it. The Fedder mine where many of the villagers now worked, was not yielding the tin that it had up till now and there were rumors that it might in a few years become an old scat bal.

Christmas came and there were hampers of food from the Abbas — a custom which they had kept through the centuries — and we were allowed to gather kindling from some parts of the woods. It wasn’t like the last Christmas because Joe wasn’t able to run about and we had to face the fact that his leg would never be right. Still, the events of that night were too recent for us to complain; we all knew what Joe had narrowly escaped and we weren’t likely to forget.

Troubles don’t come singly. It must have been in February that Granny took a chill; she was hardly ever ill, so we didn’t take much notice during the first few days; and then one night her coughing awakened me and I scrambled down from the talfat to get her some of her own syrup. It soothed her temporarily but it didn’t cure the cough and a few nights later I heard her talking and, to my horror, I discovered that she didn’t know who I was when I went to her. She kept calling me Pedro.

I was terrified that she was going to die, for she was very ill. I sat beside her all that night and in the morning she stopped being delirious. When she was able to tell me what herbs to brew for her, I felt better. I nursed her for three weeks, on her instructions, and gradually she began to recover. She was able to walk about the cottage but when she went out her cough started again, so I made her stay in. I gathered some herbs for her and made a few of the brews; but there were many which needed her special skill. In any case, not so many people came to ask her advice now. They were getting poorer and so were we. Moreover I heard some of them questioning the power of Granny Bee. She couldn’t cure herself, could she? That boy of hers was a cripple, wasn’t he, and all he’d done was fall off a tree! It didn’t seem as though Granny Bee was so wonderful after all.

Those tasty joints of pork did not come our way. There were no grateful clients now to leave a sack of peas or potatoes on our doorstep. We had to eat sparingly if we wanted to eat twice a day.

We had flour, so I made a kind of manshun in the old cloam oven, and it tasted good. We kept a goat who gave us milk, but we couldn’t feed her properly and we got less milk.

One day at breakfast I spoke to Granny of an idea which had come to me during the night.

The three of us were sitting at the table, our bowls before us containing what we called sky blue and sinkers — a dish which was being eaten a great deal that winter. It was made of water with a dash of skim milk which we got cheaply from the farmer, who sold what he didn’t need for his pigs; we boiled this and dropped pieces of bread into it. There was a tinge of blue in the liquid and the bread always sank to the bottom of the bowl — hence its name.

“Granny,” I said, “I reckon I ought to be bringing something in.”

She shook her head, but I saw the look in her eyes. I was nearly thirteen. Whoever heard of a girl in my station, who wasn’t Granny Bee’s granddaughter, living at lady’s leisure? Granny knew that something would have to be done. Joe couldn’t help, but I was strong and healthy.

“We’ll think about it,” she said.

“I have thought.”

“What?” she asked.

“What is there?”

That was the question. I could go to Farmer Pengaster and ask if he wanted someone to help in the dairy, with the animals, or in the kitchens. There would be plenty yearning to give their services if he did! Where else? One of the houses of the gentry? I hated the thought. All my pride rose in revolt; but I knew it had to be.

“It might only be for a time,” said Granny. “In the summer I’ll get on my feet again.”

I couldn’t bear to look at Granny or I should have told her that I would rather starve than work as I was suggesting. But I wasn’t the only one to be considered. There was Joe who had had this terrible misfortune; and there was Granny herself. If I were away working, they could have my share of the sky blue and sinkers; my share of the potatoes and bacon.

“I’ll put myself up at Trelinket Fair next week,” I said firmly.

Trelinket Fair was held twice a year in the village of Trelinket — a good two miles from St. Larnston. We had always gone to it — Granny, Joe, and I — in the old days; and those were red-letter days for us. Granny Bee would dress her hair with special care and we would walk proudly through the crowds; she used to take some of her cures and sell them to a stallholder, who bought as many as she could provide. Then she would buy us gingerbread or a fairing. But this year we had nothing to sell; and as Joe couldn’t walk the two miles to the fair everything was changed.

I set out alone, with my heart like a piece of lead; my pride debased. How many times, walking through the fair with Granny and an uncrippled Joe, had I glanced at those men and women who stood on the hiring platform and been so happy because I was not like them. It seemed to me the depth of degradation that men and women should have to hire themselves out. It was like being in a slave market. But it was what had to be done if one needed work, for employers came to the fair for the purpose of hiring likely-looking servants. Now, today, I was to be one of them.

It was a bright spring day and somehow the sunshine made it worse; I envied the birds who seemed mad with joy after the unusually hard winter; in fact I was ready to envy everyone that morning. Once the fair had offered a feast of enjoyment. I had loved the bustle of it, the smell, the noise — everything that made up Trelinket Fair. On the refreshment stalls there was hot beef and boiled goose; you watched them cooking on fires beside the stalls. There were stalls of pies, golden pasty enclosing the delicious contents baked the day before in some farmhouse kitchen or cottage oven. The stallholders called out the tantalizing descriptions as the people strolled past. “Try a piece of this old muggety, m’dear. Reckon you ain’t never tasted the like.” And one of them cut open a pie to display the entrail of sheep or calves, which was muggety, or those of pig which were nattlins. A special treat was the taddage pies made with sucking pig; and the more common squab or pigeon pie was there, too.

People would stand by the stalls sampling and buying the pies to take away with them. There was that part of the fair where the cattle were on show; there were the cheap-Jacks selling almost everything you could think of — old boots and clothing, saddlery, pots, pans, and even cloam ovens. There were the fortunetellers and the healers — those who shouted the merits of their medicines and who had been customers of Granny Bee’s.

And close by the spot where a goose was being roasted over an open fire was the hiring platform. I viewed it with shame. Several people were already standing there; they looked a wretched and dejected lot; and no wonder. Who could enjoy displaying themselves for hire! And to think that I, Kerensa Carlee, must join them. I thought I should hate the smell of roasting goose forever after. Everyone around me seemed to be laughing; the sun had turned hot and I felt angry with the whole world.

But I had given my word to Granny that I would stand for hire. I could not go back and tell her that my heart had failed me right at the last moment. I couldn’t go back and be a burden to them; I, who was well and strong.

Resolutely I approached the platform and mounted the rickety wooden steps at the side; then I was standing there among them.

Prospective employers regarded us with interest, weighing up our possibilities. I saw Farmer Pengaster among them. If he took me, it wouldn’t be too bad. He was reckoned to be good to his workpeople and I should be able to take little titbits home to the cottage. It would ease my bitterness considerably if I could go home now and then and play the lady bountiful.

Then I saw two people who made me start back in dismay. I recognized them as the butler and housekeeper at the Abbas. Only one purpose could have brought them to the fair and they were making straight for the hiring platform. Now I was beginning to be frightened. It had been a dream of mine that one day I should live at St. Larnston Abbas; I had lived with that dream, because Granny Bee had told me that if you created a dream and did all you could to make it come true, it was almost certain that in time it would. Now I saw this dream of mine could easily come true — I could live at the Abbas — as a servant!

Hundreds of images flitted through my mind. I thought of young Justin St. Larnston haughtily giving me orders; of Johnny jeering at me, reminding me I was a servant; of Mellyora coming to drink tea with the family and myself standing by in cap and apron to serve them. I thought of Kim there. There was another thought too. Ever since Granny had confided in me that day in the woods, I had thought a good deal about that Sir Justin who was the father of the present one. They were very much alike and I was like Granny. There was a possibility that what had happened to Granny might happen to me. I burned with rage and shame at the thought.

They were coming nearer, talking earnestly, then scrutinizing one of the hiring girls who was about my age. What if they should pass along the line? What if they should choose me?

I was wrestling with myself. Should I leap from the platform and run home? I pictured myself explaining to Granny. She would understand. Hadn’t it been my suggestion — not hers — that I should come at all?

Then I saw Mellyora — dainty and fresh in mauve gingham, with a flounced skirt and a neat close-fitting bodice, neck and sleeves edged with lace; with white stockings and black walking shoes with straps; and her fair hair showing from under her straw bonnet.

The moment I saw her she saw me, and in that second I was unable to hide my apprehension. She came over swiftly, her eyes troubled, and she stood right before me.

“Kerensa?” She said my name softly.

I was angry because she had seen me in my humiliation, and how could I help hating her, standing there neat, clean, fresh, so dainty — and free.

“You’re hiring yourself?”

“’Twould seem so,” I answered truculently.

“But … you haven’t before.”

“Times are hard,” I muttered.

The pair from the Abbas were coming nearer. The butler already had his eyes on me and they were shining in a warm and speculative manner.

A look of excitement came into Mellyora’s face; she caught her breath and started to speak in a hurry as though the words wouldn’t come out quickly enough.

“Kerensa, we’re looking for someone. Would you come to the parsonage?”

It was like a reprieve. The dream was not turning sour on me. I was not going to St. Larnston Abbas by way of the back door. If I did that, I felt the real dream would never come true.

“To the parsonage!” I stammered. “So you are here for the hiring?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, we need … someone. When will you be ready to start?”

Haggety the butler was close to us now; he said: “Morning, Miss Martin.”

“Good morning.”

“Nice to see you, Miss, at the fair. Mrs. Rolt and myself’s here to find us a pair of girls for the kitchens.” He was looking at me now, his little eyes shining.

“This looks a likely ’un,” he said. “What’s your name?”

I lifted my head haughtily. “You’re too late,” I said. “I’m hired.”

There was a feeling of unreality in the air that day. I had the impression that this really wasn’t happening to me, that soon I would wake up and find myself on the talfat, dreaming as always or laughing with Granny Bee.

I was actually walking along beside Mellyora Martin; and she had engaged me to work at the parsonage — she, a girl of my own age.

Mr. Haggety and Mrs. Rolt had looked so astounded that they had only gaped when Mellyora said a gracious good-bye. They stared at us as we walked away and I heard Mrs. Rolt murmur: “Well, did ’ee ever see the like!” I glanced at Mellyora and I felt a vague alarm; I sensed that she was beginning to regret a rash action. I was certain then that she had not come to the fair to hire anyone, that she had acted on an impulse to save me from going to work at the Abbas, just as she had tried to save me from the mockery of the boys when she had found me in the wall.