What did happen was a slight shift of wind. It blew as fiercely as ever, but having backed round more to the west it lost its bitter edge. The rims of the icy snowdrifts began to crumble, and the lanes ran with melt-water, making them as impassable as before. Some shipping began to move, but not enough for Mollie’s father to call Lew back to work. As for the quarry, the conditions there were still too dangerous for it to reopen. In an attempt to earn some money, Jack and Lew did risk going out on the swiftly flowing river to do some handlining, but the catches were poor. Then the whisper went round the village that the iron ore man was buying again.
Iron mining had been a thriving business in Devon, until the recent development of the Welsh industry. That had caused most of the mines scattered throughout the region to close. However, occasionally a local demand for ore would send the traders out to see what could be bought from the abandoned mines. The gleaning was usually done by women, so the instant she heard the rumour Maddy kitted herself out with a basket and barrow and an old mattock head whose angled blade was exactly right for digging up bits of surface ore.
‘You’m idn’t really going to do un?’ protested Joan, watching her wrap herself up protectively in sacking. ‘It sounds terrible hard, dirty work.’
‘The dirt will wash off, and compared to working for Elsie Watkins, this will be a picnic,’ Maddy said, and she trundled her barrow to the old mine.
Gathering the ore did not involve digging in the old workings themselves. Although they had been abandoned for no more than two or three years, they had become extremely dangerous. Instead, the women picked up the nuggets of iron ore that were scattered about the surrounding field. That was the theory. In reality, the surface ore had embedded itself in the earth, or got overgrown with grass and weeds, or was resting at the bottom of mud-filled ruts. Anything, in fact, but lying conveniently on top of the ground waiting to be picked up.
A difficult and messy task it was, hacking lumps of the red-brown stone from earth that had not quite thawed. Before long, Maddy’s hands were raw from gripping the short stub of mattock handle and she was caked in mud. As for her back, she tried not to think of it. Remembering her light-hearted words earlier that morning, she began to wonder if she had been too optimistic. The one thing which kept her going was the thought that each load of muddy stones in the basket meant a few more coins in the Delft jug at home.
The work did not end at the Mine Field. When she had gathered as much as she could shift, Maddy pushed her barrow back through the village to the Mill Pool. She was not alone. Other women were taking the same road. Not all had barrows, some carried their ore in baskets or sacks. There was no cheerful banter as there would have been after harvest or apple gathering. Everyone was too exhausted. Once by the waterside, Maddy and the other women washed the mud from each lump of ore. The salt water got into the cuts, grazes, and chilblains which every woman bore, and more than one was obliged to straighten up for a moment and tuck her smarting hands under her armpits, her lips pressed together with the pain.
A cottager living near the quay acted as agent, weighing the ore and handing over the money. It was a pitiful amount for such strenuous effort, but as Maddy walked wearily homewards she found the jingle of coins in her pocket comforting.
There was no knowing how long the demand for ore would last, so Maddy was back at the Mine Field betimes next morning to make the most of it. The second day was no easier than the first, harder in some respects for hands that were already raw. And it was certainly muddier, since the field was considerably churned up from the previous day’s activities. By the time Maddy was pushing her full barrow in the direction of the Mill Pool again, she could barely shuffle along from fatigue.
In this state she encountered Cal Whitcomb. She was so well caked with mud she hoped she might be unrecognisable. It was a vain hope.
‘What the hell have you been doing?’ he demanded angrily, causing his gelding to prance uneasily.
The vehemence of his greeting brought her up short. Tired as she was she rapped out, ‘I will thank you not to use such language to me, sir!’
At her sharp response he had the grace to look disconcerted.
‘You are right. I apologise most humbly. But I ask you again. What have you been doing?’
The wording might have been more courteous but his tone remained indignant.
‘I haven’t been on your land, if that is what is troubling you,’ retorted Maddy.
‘Been on it? You’re taking half of it away with you, by the look of things.’ He was gazing not at the contents of her barrow as he spoke, but at the mud which clung to her makeshift sacking overalls.
‘If you can find a cleaner way of picking ore I would be glad to hear of it.’ Her indignation at his comments made her speech more precise.’
‘Picking ore? Is that what you’ve been doing?’ he asked, although he could plainly see her full barrow. Then he demanded with greater indignation, ‘Is that the best you can do, woman?’
‘Who are you calling “woman” in that way?’ cried Maddy angrily. ‘And since you ask, yes, it is the best I can do. It has been a very hard winter, in case you haven’t noticed, and some of us like to eat.’
Cal’s mouth tightened, whether with remorse at his rudeness or greater fuiy she could not tell.
‘Tip that rubbish away,’ he rapped out, pointing to her barrow with his riding crop. ‘And come up to Oakwood first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll find you something to do.’
Maddy’s anger boiled over at such condescension. ‘You will find me something to do?’ she repeated mockingly. ‘And what makes you think I want anything that you might find for me?’
‘It would be better than picking ore,’ snapped Cal.
‘That is your opinion. It is not mine.’ With great dignity she grasped the handles of her barrow and left him, her head erect.
‘The offer stands,’ he called after her.
But she did not turn her head.
Anger gave momentum to her feet, and she was past the Baptist Chapel and well on her way into the village before she began to cool down. She accepted that her reaction owed much to humiliation that Cal should have seen her in such a state. Relations between them had eased considerably over the last year, but she was still reluctant for a Whitcomb to see a Shillabeer at a disadvantage.
She was further on her journey, at the top of Mill Hill, before the full enormity of the encounter struck her. Cal Whitcomb had offered her a job. He had said he would find her something to do. Once before she had fancied he had been on the point of offering her work, but that could have been her imagination. There was no imagining it now, though. His offer had been definite. A Whitcomb proposing to employ a Shillabeer; a Shillabeer working for a Whitcomb. She did not know which was the more incredible. At home she made no mention of Cal’s extraordinary behaviour. There was no point since, naturally, she had no intention of taking up his offer.
There was hardly any sleep for her that night. Every bone and muscle in her body ached too much for that; worst of all were her hands. In spite of Joan anointing them with soothing ointment and binding them with clean rags, they were an agony to Maddy that did not diminish with the hours. She had plenty of time to think, and as the hours went by, another day picking over the Mine Field began to seem less attractive, while working for Cal began to appear more feasible. But, no, a Shillabeer working at Oakwood was out of the question.
While searching for stray hairpins next morning, Maddy chanced to take the glass dish down from the mantelshelf. There, looking in two directions at the same time, was the Janus ring. As she fingered it, a vision of deep blue eyes and a laughing mouth came to her, along with the ghost of a sweet song played on the fiddle: ‘Miss Madeleine’s Air’. Did Patrick ever play it these days? Or was it destined to be banished from the world because it no longer interested him, just as he had banished her from his life once she had forfeited his interest?
Maddy felt the pain inside her as sharply as ever as bi
ttersweet memories assailed her. Patrick had taken so much from her, yet he had also given her much: confidence, the ambition to better herself, a sense of her own worth; though looking at her reflection in the mirror she had to admit there were precious few signs of any of those qualities these days. She was dressed for picking ore, her shabby dress impregnated with red mud, dirty sacks tied about her, her hair scraped back in its old style because… because what was the point of making an effort?
Continuing to stare at her shabby image in the looking- glass, Maddy felt the stirrings of anger. Was she the sort of woman who existed only if she had a man to lean on? A weak shadow of a creature with no character of her own? Disgust at herself made her clench her fist tightly, inadvertently crushing the Janus ring out of shape. But perfect or distorted, surely his powers were the same? He was still the god of beginnings… She decided she had to make yet another new start; there was no alternative, and this one she must not let slip away.
It was as well that Joan was over at Annie’s when Maddy left the house, for she would have commented that the well-brushed dress and cloak, the clean apron, and the softly- dressed hair were scarcely suitable for a day picking ore.
When Maddy reached Oakwood Farm she stopped. As she opened the side gate into the yard, she acknowledged that she felt nervous in spite of herself. Supposing Cal had not meant his offer? Supposing he had changed his mind? The one way to find out was to risk humiliation and go and look for him.
Boldly she entered the farmyard. The first person she met was Ellen, who was making for the kitchen door, a basket of eggs on her arm.
‘Back again?’ said the maid. ‘You’m a glutton for punishment, I give you that.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Whitcomb,’ Maddy said.
‘Didn’t think you was visiting her!’ Ellen jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. ‘As for Mr Cal, he’m to the poundhouse – that’n there, across the yard. And if anyone asks, as far as I be concerned you’m idn’t yer.’
‘Very wise,’ said Maddy, and was rewarded with a toothless grin.
The sound of voices echoed from the stone-built poundhouse. The time for pressing apples was long gone. Nevertheless, when Maddy stepped inside the cool, dark building, the sweet scent of fermenting fruit still filled the air. As testament to the vast amount of apples they pulped, Oakwood Farm boasted a huge granite crushing wheel that needed a horse to shift it, a far cry from the manually-driven roller which had caused Davie’s muscles to ache so. Beneath the wheel was an equally large stone basin which held the fruit to be crushed. They were both clean and idle now, while alongside stood the great wooden press which was used to squeeze the juice from the pulped apples. Noting its size, Maddy wondered at Cal’s plans to set up a second one some day. It showed the extent of his ambition, for his existing press must have been easily the largest for miles around.
There was no one about in that part of the building; the nimble of men’s voices was coming from the next room. Moving to the doorway, she saw Cal with two other men. They were siphoning cider into a fresh barrel from one of the sixty-gallon hogsheads which stood against the wall. Not wishing to interrupt, she stood in silence.
One of the workers saw her first. Such was his astonishment at the sight of her that his jaw fell open and he lost his concentration, letting the precious cider spill.
Cal gave a curse. Then he, too, saw her. He showed no surprise. ‘I will be with you directly,’ he said, turning his attention back to filling the hogshead, as if her presence were the most natural thing in the world. He completely ignored the open astonishment on the faces of his workmen. Not until the job was done did he dismiss the men and come over to Maddy.
‘They’ll enjoy being the first to spread the word that there’s a Shillabeer about the place,’ he said, indicating his departing workers with a jerk of his head.
‘The second,’ corrected Maddy. ‘I met Ellen on the way here.’
‘Ah, then she’ll fend off the worst of the attack. I might even get my dinner in peace.’
At his words, Maddy felt awkward. She was certain he was regretting offering her a job, understandably so when she considered how much trouble it would cause with his mother. Not certain what to say next she remarked, ‘You’re late racking your cider.’
‘This has already been racked three times,’ he said, referring to the careful drawing-off of the cider from the sediment which collected at the bottom of the barrels. ‘But this is destined to be Oakwood Farm Superior, that’s why it is getting an extra racking. After that it will be matured for a good three years.’
‘That should be superior indeed. I’ve never heard of a cider being kept that long.’
‘You see now why I’m considering expanding the poundhouse. I need the extra storage room. I’ve other ideas, too. I want a second press, as you know. And the mill doesn’t crush enough fruit; it’s time it was replaced. As far as I can tell it’s been here since my great-grandfather’s time. Our great-grandfather,’ he corrected with a grin. ‘And I want to do away with the horses too and have everything driven by steam.’
‘Steam?’ exclaimed Maddy, astonished at such forward thinking.
‘I intend to drive only the machinery by steam. The workers will still have to move by themselves,’ he said, straightfaced.
‘That’s a relief. I thought you were trying to put me off working here.’ Maddy paused. ‘There’s no need for you to think up daft stories, you know. If you’ve changed your mind about employing me, you’ve only to say so.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just relieved to see you, particularly after I was rude to you.’ He suddenly threw out his arms in a bewildered gesture. ‘How is it that when I want to help you I begin by insulting you?’
Maddy pondered for a moment. ‘It’s a sop to your Whitcomb blood, so that you can then help a Shillabeer with a clear conscience.’
His laughter rang up to the rafters and echoed round the large barrels lining the walls. ‘You could be right,’ he chuckled. ‘Come along and I’ll show you where you are going to work.’
Maddy had been vaguely aware of female voices sounding nearby. Cal led her to a neighbouring outbuilding. The moment they entered, the laughing and talking ceased, and the three women who had been working there looked at them with mute astonishment.
‘I don’t believe my eyes!’ exclaimed one of them at last.
‘I think you all know Maddy Shillabeer,’ said Cal calmly. ‘She’s come to work here.’ Three pairs of jaws dropped as far as the men’s had done. Cal ignored them. ‘I’ll just tell you briefly what your duties will be,’ he said to Maddy. ‘Susan and the others can be more specific. At the moment we’re busy bottling the new season’s cider.’ With a sweep of his arm he indicated a table laden with grey stone flagons. Picking up one which had been already filled, he said, ‘There, that’s a gallon of Oakwood Farm Regular ready for market, complete with the Oakwood Farm label.’ Briefly he ran his finger over the paper label, a gesture filled with pride. ‘And here we’re bottling the Superior,’ he went on, putting down the stone jar and moving to another table.
‘Glass bottles!’ exclaimed Maddy in surprise. ‘I’ve never heard of that for cider before.’
‘There’s never been a cider of the quality of Oakwood Superior before. It deserves something special. It’s a family recipe that was handed down from my great-grandfather.’
‘That would be our great-grandfather again, would it?’ asked Maddy. Old habits died hard, and she found herself thinking it was typical of a Whitcomb to build a business on something which should have belonged to her family, and employing her to help him into the bargain.
Cal grinned and shook his head. ‘This time the greatgrandfather is entirely mine, old Granfer Whitcomb, who was a notable cider-maker in his day, they say.’
‘Oh…’ Maddy felt somewhat abashed. To cover her discomfort she asked, ‘Do you sell all your cider in such small quantities?’
‘No, we’ve customers in Totnes
and Newton Abbot who take it by the hogshead. Not enough of them yet, but I plan on getting lots more.’
Maddy had been doing some calculations. ‘You say you’re bottling the Superior now,’ she said, ‘but you told me it has to stand for three years. Surely you haven’t been in business that long?’
‘And you think I might be cheating my customers with this batch, eh?’ His eyes were bright with humour. ‘No, I would not risk my reputation. Oakwood Farm Superior, when it reaches the market, must be absolutely prime.’
‘Then how…?’
‘I haven’t been selling cider for three years, but I’ve been making it for a lot longer. This lot was put down years back, never fear.’
She should have known better than to question him. Was not Cal Whitcomb’s ambition and business sense a byword? Trust him to have begun planning his cider company a long time ago.
‘If you have no more questions, I’ll leave you to Susan’s tender mercies.’ He turned to leave, then paused. ‘There are canvas aprons hanging up over there,’ he said, pointedly looking at her own clean apron and neat brown woollen skirt.
Knowing he was silently referring to her muddy state after picking ore, Maddy almost made a sharp retort, but bit it back in time. He was her employer now, therefore she must guard her tongue. She suspected she had already taken rather too many liberties as it was, but she had no intention of letting him get away with his inference entirely.
‘We haven’t discussed wages yet,’ she said. ‘Or is a canvas pinny all I’m getting?’
‘You’ll get the same as the others, seven shillings a week, working from eight o’clock until six o’clock on weekdays, and you finish at noon on Saturdays. You get an hour off for your dinner – it gives you time to get home. And breakages have to be paid for. Will that do?’
Maddy nodded, wanting to thank him, yet again not knowing how.
‘How come you’m working yer?’ demanded Susan, when he had gone.
‘There was a job going so I took it,’ replied Maddy.
Susan looked disappointed, she had been hoping for a more exciting explanation. But she refused to give up the drama of the situation.
Daughter of the River Page 32
