‘Tis a disgrace! After the years our Henry have gived to this church and what happens? He’m thrown aside like an old rag and for what? For a young flibbertigibbet as haven’t been here two minutes.’ Mrs Cutmore, who was Henry’s sister, was not slow to air her grievances as soon as she was through the church door. ‘Forty years come Michaelmas! That’s how long he’m played the hymns.’
‘That be long enough in all conscience,’ called a wag. ‘Our ears have suffered long enough.’
But many people sided with Mrs Cutmore and argued that Henry had been shabbily treated. The blame fell squarely on Patrick. Not content with taking over every wedding and celebration, the incomer had now taken Henry’s church band from him.
Maddy listened without comment. She was sorry for Henry, though she could not see how Patrick could have been at fault. Eagerly she awaited a chance to hear his version of the story. She did not have to wait long. She had barely started to walk up School Hill before she heard familiar footsteps following, and then Patrick fell into step beside her.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news,’ he said. ‘Tongues were still wagging nineteen to the dozen as I came along.’
‘It’s true then? Henry has left the church band?’
‘Only Henry himself can answer that one.’
‘What happened? No one in church seemed to know for sure.’
‘It was trivial beyond words. I’m aware that many people blame me, but I assure you that displacing Henry was the last thing I intended. He was late for practice on Friday so we started on our own, and as is customary, because I play the violin, I led. We were doing splendidly – we played the anthem particularly well, I recall – when Henry arrived. He was most displeased to find us practising without him, and even less pleased to see me in his place. He was determined to start again from the very beginning, right from the anthem. We pointed out we had already done it. He said, somewhat sourly, that we would do it again properly, and I am afraid things deteriorated from then on.’
‘And was Henry thrown out?’
‘No, he left of his own accord. Stormed out, in fact, swearing never to play a note in the church again.’
‘And you were blamed for that? When it was Henry’s bad temper?’ Maddy was highly indignant.
‘We mustn’t be too hard on the poor fellow. I can understand how it might have seemed to him. I feel quite guilty at my part in it.’
‘You have nothing to feel guilty about!’
‘I have. If I hadn’t been there the practice would probably not have gone ahead. The church band is Henry’s life, I’d not deprive him of it. In fact, I went to the vicar to see what I should do.’
‘If you aren’t the kindest, gentlest man, being concerned for a pig-headed old lump like Henry who can’t even play in tune. And what did the vicar say?’
‘He was in favour of letting things take their own course. If Henry decides to come back, then all well and good – not that he was very hopeful, for Henry can be obstinate apparently. In the meantime he said he would be grateful if I would continue leading the other musicians.’
‘I bet he would.’ Maddy gave a chuckle. ‘He’s very fond of music, is the vicar. Every service since he came here he’s had to battle with Henry, trying to make the hymns sound right. No wonder he’s happy for you to take over.’
Patrick smiled with relief. ‘Then you don’t think I’m to blame? You’ve made me feel much more comfortable. Not for the world would I cause trouble, yet I must confess that it does seem to follow me about.’
‘That’s because you aren’t in the usual run of folk. People are always suspicious of them as is – those who are a bit different. I don’t know why it should be so, but it is.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. You’re a wise creature, Maddy Shillabeer.’
‘If I am then it has rubbed off from you.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I know facts. You have wisdom. There’s a difference. Of the two I’d rather have wisdom. It can only be gathered through understanding and experience. Fools like me can’t get it simply from books like we can get knowledge.’ They had reached the top of the steep slope down to Duncannon, the place where they always parted, because it was secluded enough for a farewell kiss – or maybe two. On this occasion Patrick raised Maddy’s hand to his lips.
‘Goodbye for the present, my sweet, wise Maddy,’ he said. ‘How I wish I could learn from you.’
The serious note in his voice surprised her. For the first time she detected a lack of confidence in him, and she wondered at it as she made her way home. From what he had told her, he had been a wanderer all his life; perhaps this was less through inclination than because of the trouble which undeniably followed in his wake. And now, because of the fuss over Henry and the church band, did he fear he might be forced to move on once more?
Not if I have the say in the matter, decided Maddy. No one idn’t going to make him leave if he don’t want to, she vowed, all thoughts of correct grammar forgotten.
She turned her mind to her own future. Two dreams had begun to haunt her. The first was a wonderful impossibility; in it she was not tied to her father and brothers. It was a vision of the years ahead spent with Patrick, an idyll where she loved and cherished him with nothing to mar the perfection of their existence. The second was a nightmare, in which she saw a future completely devoid of him, and a black, bitter prospect it was. One image she dared not foster, the other she dreaded, so to force them both away from her thoughts she began to hum to herself. The tune, of course, was ‘Miss Madeleine’s Air’.
Nothing was resolved about the church band during the next week. Henry showed no sign of relenting, but sat in his pew with his family, grim faced, never once looking towards the small group of musicians. Maddy was proud to see Patrick continuing to lead the group, and even Henry’s most stalwart supporters were forced to admit that the music had improved. Whatever discord there was in the church, thanks to Patrick none of it was musical.
When Annie approached the cottage one mid-week afternoon, Maddy saw at once that she had news to tell.
‘What’s afoot?’ she demanded as her friend reached the door. ‘Something is, I can see from your face.’
‘I had it from the squire himself,’ Annie said importantly. ‘He’m just back from Totnes, from Biddy’s inquest. William rowed him from off the Newcomin.’
‘What was the verdict?’
‘Accidental death, thank goodness. Squire said that since there wadn’t no evidence that the poor soul meant to end her life, it were the only verdict possible.’
‘Thank goodness indeed. I always feel sorry for those sad creatures who aren’t allowed to lie in the churchyard. As if they haven’t suffered enough without being buried outside the churchyard wall. At least Biddy can lie decent – decently,’ she corrected herself.
‘Yes, she can lie decently,’ repeated Annie with teasing emphasis. ‘You haven’t never said a truer word. My, at this rate you’m going to have me talking as grand as you.’
‘It’s the book-reading rubbing off on me,’ said Maddy.
‘If I believed that I’d believe aught,’ replied Annie. ‘Mind, I misses the book-reading. I regrets us’ve got to the end of un.’
‘I do too,’ admitted Maddy. ‘Us – we could leave it a spell then start reading it again, if you like. I’d hoped to have bought another one by now, but thanks to Mr Cal Whitcomb, that idea went out the window. Still, if I get a good price for my strawberries, who knows?’
‘A new book’d be grand, but I’d be content to hear about Jane again. I can’t listen to un too often. That Patrick have given you some fancy ideas, but getting you reading books is the best by far. ‘Tis a pity…’ Her voice faded.
‘What’s a pity? Maddy looked up from the shirt she was mending.
‘I didn’t say naught.’
‘Yes you did.’ Maddy gazed at her enquiringly and was surprised to see her friend looking uncomfortable.
‘I’d best be getting back,’
Annie said. ‘I’ve a pot on the fire as’ll be boiling dry.’
‘It can last another minute or two while you tell me what you were going to say before you thought better of it,’ Maddy insisted.
Annie gave a sigh. ‘I always let my tongue run away with me,’ she said regretfully. ‘I suppose you may as well hear it from me as anyone else. That sweetheart of youm, Patrick, he’m lost his job.’
‘From the Church House? Whatever for?’
Annie looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘How should I know?’ she replied.
‘Annie Fleet, you should give up lying, you’re no good at it.’
‘I never were,’ her friend agreed. ‘May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I suppose, though I’d pay no heed to un, if I were you. There’s likely no truth in un and, anyway, you knows what I be like, always getting the wrong end—’
‘Annie!’ said Maddy threateningly. ‘Tell me why Patrick was dismissed from the Church House.’
‘According to what I heard, and ’tis probably a pack of lies, Harry Ford accused him of carrying on with his wife.’
‘With Lucy Ford? It seems a bit harsh, to turn him off because of that.’
‘Is that all you’m got to say? You’m a cool one and no mistake,’ said Annie in astonishment. ‘Don’t you mind your sweetheart being accused of flirting with a married woman?’
‘I mind, but I don’t take it seriously,’ said Maddy after careful consideration. ‘I dare say he did flirt with Mrs Ford. She’s still a fine-looking woman, and he can’t help flirting with any female. It’s his nature. I doubt if there was any serious carryings-on. It was probably wishful thinking on Lucy Ford’s part.’
‘Bain’t you the least bit put out? I would be if it were my William involved. Crippled as I be I’d get up there and be giving that Lucy Ford a bit of my mind, aye, and I’d tear out a bit of her hair as like as not, for good measure.’
‘It’ll turn out to be nothing, you’ll see. Poor Patrick, petty troubles like this seem to dog his steps. I suppose it’s because he’s so often the centre of attention. I expect Harry Ford got jealous of Patrick. After all, he’s brought far more trade to the Church House than Harry ever managed on his own. That’s probably why he took his spite out on him. I doubt if carrying on with Lucy Ford had much to do with it really.’
‘If you say so.’ Annie looked far from convinced. ‘Now I must go. I really have got a pot on the fire. Its bottom’ll be burned out by this time.’
After Annie had gone, Maddy considered the new events in Patrick’s career. Confident of his love and in the certainty that she understood him, she honestly did not take this latest tale seriously. No doubt she and Patrick would laugh about it when next they met. Nor was she too worried about him getting another job. Sam Watkins would take him on like a shot at the Victoria and Albert – unless Patrick had gained too much of a reputation as a troublemaker; then no one would take him on. Coming on top of the trouble with Henry Beer, might it not force Patrick to leave Stoke Gabriel altogether? Her black dream, of a world without Patrick, came sweeping over her.
Don’t let it happen, she prayed. Don’t let it happen. She could not imagine what would become of her if it did.
Chapter Six
‘I suppose you know I have a new employer?’ Patrick greeted Maddy when next they met.
‘I’d heard you’d parted company with your old one,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t fair, you losing your job like that.’
‘You believe I wasn’t at fault, even though I haven’t told you my side of events?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘Knowing you, I expect you flirted a bit. It comes as second nature, half the time you don’t realise you’re doing it. As for any serious carryings-on with Lucy Ford, I’m certain you aren’t guilty of that.’
‘What can I say?’ He spread his hands in a gesture of wonder. ‘To have such faith in me… it is more than I deserve.’ He suddenly looked quite sheepish. ‘If you want the truth, I wasn’t sure how to face you today after what happened. I didn’t know which would be worse, for you to be in ignorance of the story, which would mean me explaining, or for you to know the details and be angry with me.’
‘When have I ever been angry with you?’
‘Never, so far, but this is different. Also, I fear you may be right and that I did flirt with Mrs Ford a bit.’
‘If I know you, you flirted with her a lot, but that’s no reason for me to be angry. That’s how you are and I accept it. I don’t expect you to be perfect. I love you for your weaknesses as much as for the wonderful things about you, you know I do.’
Patrick did not reply but took her hand and pressed it to his lips, keeping it there as if its presence gave him comfort. The breeze ruffled the soft darkness of his hair, lifting the waving strands away from the tan of his face. The sight of his bent head moved Maddy with a great tenderness. Usually it was his eyes, with their irises of that vivid blue, which stirred her, or else the soft sensitive line of his mouth that was so quick to curve into an engaging smile. But now, with his face averted, as he clutched at her hand, she was conscious of his vulnerability. He seemed to have so much – charm, talent, a handsome face – yet she suspected that until now he had lacked the stability of understanding and real love. Maddy was certain she could give him both unstintingly.
With her free hand, she smoothed his hair, then pulling him against her breast, she rocked him gently, almost as if he were a child. This was no time for wild emotions and hectic passion. This was a time for tranquil love. Below them the river flowed on its sinuous way to the sea. It was nearing high tide, the one time when larger vessels could reach as far as Totnes, and the Dart was busy with traffic and noise, from the puffing and chugging of the steamers to the crack and flap of the canvas sails of the wherries, all carrying goods and passengers up and down stream. From their vantage point in the sloping meadow above, with the tall grasses almost hiding them from view, Maddy and Patrick seemed isolated from such bustle. Above them skylarks rose into the blue sky in torrents of song, almost blotting out the noise rising from the water. They might have been the last people left in the world, and Maddy would not have minded if it had been so.
‘Maddy,’ Patrick said, his voice low and far from steady, ‘I don’t deserve you. I’m a feckless sort of fellow. I never have any money, I never stay in one place for long. I’ll hurt you, Maddy. I won’t mean to, but I’ll hurt you.’
She did not believe him. Nothing he did would ever hurt her, she was convinced of it. Knowing his character as she did, his mind, his heart, she was proof against the petty jealousies and misunderstandings that could tear a relationship apart. She was certain her own heart had nothing to fear.
Her earlier worries, that the additional troubles might drive Patrick away from the village, proved unfounded. Sam Watkins had taken him on at the Victoria and Albert.
‘But at the old rate,’ Patrick informed her wryly. ‘With no mention of the extra two shillings he once offered me, and definitely no sign of the additional half-crown I was getting at the Church House.’
‘Didn’t you protest?’ demanded Maddy.
‘Indeed I did. He just replied that there was no competition for my services these days, therefore why should he pay me more.’
‘But you have a situation, that is the important thing,’ said Maddy. You won’t be leaving the village, she added to herself with silent relief.
* * *
Gradually the scandal of Patrick and Lucy Ford died down, and as the spring merged into the lush green of summer, the days were golden for Maddy. The salmon were running well, and of such a good size the agent was paying one and sixpence or more each for them. At last the cracked Delft jug on the mantelshelf which held the family’s reserves for a rainy day began to receive contributions again. The odd surplus coppers at first, then occasionally threepenny bits and even a sixpence or two. Maddy found it satisfying to see it filling up after having been empty for weeks.
And there are yet my straw
berries to come, she reminded herself.
Maddy’s strawberries were her pride and joy. Their spot in the garden was particularly warm and sheltered, and throughout their growing period she watered and fed them, bedded them in thick straw, and fended off the ravages of slugs, birds, and mildew. Her aim was to have the crop ready early in order to get the best price. The fruit was developing well, but needed more rain. Then, at exactly the right moment, the drought was broken by a series of thunderstorms which swelled the succulent flesh to perfection.
‘I can’t remember a year when they’ve been better,’ she remarked to Annie. ‘I’ll pick them first thing tomorrow and take them into Paignton.’
‘I don’t knows as how you can bear to smell them and not eat a few yourself,’ her friend remarked. ‘There’d be more in my belly than there’d be in the basket.’
‘No there wouldn’t, not if you thought of them as shillings and pence,’ Maddy replied. ‘It’s easier to curb your hand and make do with the bruised or misshapen fruit if you think what the rest might buy.’
‘And what will it be? A silk gown? Or a parasol with an ivory handle and a long dangly fringe all round?’
‘That’s a bit hopeful for a strawberry patch,’ grinned Maddy. ‘It might stretch to another book.’
‘You’m idn’t serious?’ Annie stared at her in delight. ‘Oh my, that’d be fine. Provided I be invited to the readings, of course.’
‘I think I can put up with you, if you don’t get too rowdy,’ said Maddy with mock seriousness.
‘Dang, that means leaving my jug of scrumpy at home,’ Annie answered her in kind, then reverted to her normal tone. ‘What be going to get, maid?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll ask the bookseller what he recommends.
Daughter of the River Page 11
