Jaen

by Betty Burton

  The children had been given piled-up platters and were happily savouring the food and the partyfied atmosphere. Of the four, only Betrisse listened to the talk from the adults' part of the room — although she concentrated her gaze upon her food, she missed not a word.

  The Up Teg women watched the men. They sensed unease. The dominant male of the pack was weakening. The young blood, whilst still appearing to support his role as leader, was each nudging for position.

  Up Teg had been lived upon and farmed by Hazelhursts for generations. They built barns, sties, milking-sheds upon it; they kept cottages in good repair, improved and extended them; they hedged and ditched, re-seeded the clover leys and tended the watermeadows regularly. They worked the soil and kept it in good heart with dung and ashes. They invested their labour and re-invested any gain from sale or barter of what they took from the land.

  But in legal terms, this meant nothing. Like most other farming families in the 'Clare valley, the only claim they had to their farm was what their rent and tithes purchased from the Church Land Commissioners. It was a strictly commercial agreement. The Hazelhursts paid for the use of so many acres and so many cottages for certain specified periods for certain agreed payments.

  Up Teg did not exist except as a name of the farmhouse in which the family were gathered — and as an idea that had been fostered by several generations of Hazelhursts. Because of that, there was no tangible inheritance, nothing for an eldest son to claim apart from the animals and the equipment. Without land, both were useless as a means of providing a living. The Church held them in the palm of its hand, or as it sometimes felt when particularly heavy tithes were taken, in the grip of its fist.

  They all realized it. Baxter had become head of his tribe because his father had given him the seal, not because he inherited a birthright. But Annie was right — it was not the seal that had made Baxter accepted head, it was the recognition that he would make best job of it. He had been a good choice for under his patronage the size, and the idea, of Up Teg had grown.

  It had grown to the limit of its boundaries. There was no more land that could be taken into the arms of Up Teg. On the north side of Th'ammet, the carcase of the valley that had been swallowed almost whole by the Church had been regurgitated in small parcels to tenant farmers in the same way as Up Teg. They all held on tenaciously to their leases. Up Teg had reached its limit. It had reached equilibrium — the right amount of land, supporting the right number of people, with little fat to spare.

  In Newton Clare, there was not much other than the Norris Land that was independent of the Church.

  For the moment the Norris Land had become almost indistinguishable from Up Teg. Its boundaries were north, the southern bank of Th'ammet; west, Teg Path; south an ancient hedgerow, and on the easterly side Norris's petered out irregularly at the Ham Lane ford.

  Of all the farms in the 'Clare valley, only Norris's was its own, but at present it was merely a few clover-leys and water-meadows.

  'Right!' Baxter said, 'you had your say, now I'm going to finish what I set out to do. By reason of the way it was found — bright and shining as the day it was minted, showing this face . . .' He turned the coin like a priest showing a relic so that they could all see the profile with its wreathed head '. . . ('tis a Roman king so I been told, centuries old, yet clear as a new portrait) — and where it was found . . .'

  Young Dan'l heaved a great sigh and squirmed. Baxter handed him back to his newly-approved mother.

  'Found on the face of Up Teg land under a flint as though somebody had just hid it there a moment before . . . and found on the day he was wed, by my great-grandfather, Daniel Francis the eldest of seven sons. By reason of these things, it was long ago taken as an omen and a thing of special properties. And so I believe too. For since that day, no man have gone hungry on this land, and every son have had sons to hand it on to.'

  None of The Boys knew what to make of it. He'd had trouble with his lungs for years, especially at threshing time, and it had got worst lately since they had been going in more for sheep; he could not go near the shearing pens without dragging his breath into his lungs.

  Peter was the one to speak out. Lighthearted.

  'You an't thinking of dying nor nothing, are you?'

  'No I an't!'

  'Only a jest. Why make all this to-do then like you was on your death-bed?'

  'I wants to see the charm working on the next in line (God grant I be spared). You'm a great fool if you can't see that having such a token do signify. It shows whoever keeps it he got the responsibility of his generation on his shoulders. Knowing that, he makes more effort to live up to it. This place is going to need somebody strong to go on holding it together . . .' He wagged his head at his sons who looked as though they would protest.

  'Wait till I finished . . . I an't talking about the next twenty year — I'm talking about a time when you'm my age. I reckon I done a good job bringing you lot up so I an't got no fears about things going on the same as now. Why, there an't no man in a hundred miles got a fambly of sons of the like of theece.'

  He walked back to his place at the head of the table, still holding the head of the Caesar like a talisman.

  'When I sees you gathered round my table,' he placed his blessing hand upon Nance's head again, 'I sees what a marvel it is that this little bit of thing that was called Nancy Douglas ever birthed such a great herd a giants. You done all right, Gel.'

  The Mistress of Up Teg, mother of remarkable men, had been patted before now when the Master of Up Teg felt the need to demonstrate family sentiment. Tomorrow the pat might have more force and no sentiment behind it, but for now with warm fumes of party spirit having put her in a mood of serenity, she nodded acceptance of the public tribute and waited to hear what else he had to say.

  'I been thinking about it lately, and it seems to be fitting the first-born of the generation to follow on after you, and him being Daniel and son of Daniel, that he should have the . . .'

  Betrisse could contain herself no longer.

  'He an't the first-born! I am. I'm the oldest! I should ought to have the . . . thing!'

  Her father pointed, threatening with his finger. 'You bide quiet when your grandfather's talking.'

  'No! I shan't! It an't fair. He an't hardly been born yet, and I shall be ten next year. Granfer said it was for the first-born to look after the rest. I shall be grown up before he even knows how to scare crows proper. I can do milking as good as Annie already. I could plough as good as Ed, if they'd let me.'

  Martha, with a baby in each arm, tried to flick a warning hand at her eldest daughter. 'You heard your father — bide quiet else you a get a clout.'

  The other children were seated close to Betrisse, on the inglenook bench. Her sisters, seven-year-old Kit and four-year-old Rachael, knew when Betrisse was heading for a leathering; there hadn't been any since she had been stopping with Annie and France. They edged further into the recess and concentrated on looking into the fire, with watchful ears.

  Their cousin Lucy also began to feel apprehensive even though she did not know what was going on, except that suddenly the children's corner became the focus of adult attention. She slid unobtrusively down on to the hearth with a wad of meat that had become unswallowable in her cheek.

  Half the trouble with Betrisse was that when she was little and engaging, Luke would laugh at her forwardness and call her Miss Saucebox. Nance had warned him. That one got the makings of a real handful. He'd be sorry.

  Betrisse's unbroken spirit and simple sense of fairness urged her. She stood up.

  'It's only because he a boy, an't it?'

  Luke began to rise but was hampered by being on a bench close to the wall, and hemmed in on both sides. His move only served to make her have her say louder and faster. She knew that she was in for it so she had no more to lose.

  'You wouldn't a cared if it'd been me died instead of Laurie and Nick. Would you? Would you? You'm only letting him have it because all the re
st of us is girls. I would look after the farm. If you gid me the gold thing, I'd be a better farmer than anybody.'

  Her father had extricated himself. She watched him pick and squeeze his way towards her. Began to lose her concentration. She hurried on. Her eyes started to brim with tears of hurt.

  They thought a little baby was best.

  'I'd do it better than a silly baby. He don't know anything. He might even die. I won't die, I'm strong. I an't never had no fevers ever. It an't fair giving it to a baby!'

  In watching Luke, she did not see her grandfather as he drew from the leg of his boot the whippy cane he always carried to speed up slow animals.

  It came hard and stinging across the back of her legs.

  A reflex action. She saw herself doing it. Slowly it seemed, so that it was like watching another person. She watched a hand, her own hand that held the wooden platter, come up. It took slow aim at the hand with the cane. The cane that was about to sting her a second time. She heard the thud of her platter upon her grandfather's knuckles. She saw the flash as the gold flew from his other hand.

  She was quicker than they were.

  She was out of the door and did not stop running until her chest began to hurt.

  PART TWO

  Changes

  1

  EMWORTHY BAY

  At the head of a creek, close to Chichester, lies a small, busy inland harbour.

  At low tide the extent of the large area of mudflats is revealed. When the sea is at its lowest point waveless pools and small lakes are left, their surfaces riffled by wind and disturbed by stranded or foraging creatures.

  The bars of land are smooth and in places vegetation, that seems not to know whether it belongs to the sea or to the land, colours the mud brilliant green.

  Whilst the sea has gone, here and there, events that in their day were dramatic and tragic come up for air and show rotting ribs; at the very lowest tides the skeletons of larger vessels, still with their masts ahoy, surface. Then people stand watching and looking inwardly they see how fearful it must have been when she keeled over and went down like a lead weight, so close to land — but it was dark, and the waves were like mountains and bodies came with the flotsam for days.

  When it is low tide, it is easy to see the usefulness of the many small flat-bottomed boats and barges about, as they negotiate the shallow, narrow channels. Then too there are work-worn rowing boats, the wheelbarrows of the shallows, beached at drunken angles, looking fagged-out. A few masted and rigged ships, the wagons and coaches of the sea, lie stranded in more dignified positions awaiting the return tide and deep water.

  This is Emworthy Bay.

  And that is how it is at low tide.

  But now it is high tide.

  It is April; the air is calm and the sun looks as though it can be relied upon.

  The woman holds the girl by the hand.

  They have travelled forty miles to the glitterish sea and are not disappointed.

  'It's just like you said.'

  'I know. And I must a been years younger than you when I was here,' Annie says. 'Everything . . . everything just like I remembers it, just as though it were yesterday.'

  She stands easy, as though some tight thread in her that has kept her puckered and strained has been drawn out and left her soft and smooth. Her back is still straight, but not rigid. She still looks down her nose, but lately she unconsciously inclines her head as she speaks, exchanging her previous haughty demeanour for gracefulness.

  The journey of forty miles and several weeks, has changed Annie. France would have recognized her as the attractive woman he once held and made pregnant.

  'It's blue though,' says Betrisse thoughtfully. 'I had in my head that it would a been more silver — being glitterish.'

  'It was silver, the last time I was here.' She laughs easily. 'First and last time, till now.'

  'But this is just as good,' says Betrisse enthusiastically.

  'Oh, just as good. It's lovely.'

  'Better.'

  'Yes better — I likes the blue. It's still glitterish . . . but it's blue. Look!' Annie points.

  On a twin-masted ship, figures can be seen busying about; a sail is being unfurled, the breeze catches, it flaps, then billows.

  'What they doing?'

  'Putting out the linen to dry.'

  Betrisse looks up at Annie, and knows that it is a joke. Annie laughs. In the weeks it has taken them to get here, Annie has altered — she has been laughing a lot. Betrisse would like to jump up and kiss Annie for being so happy. Instead she rubs her warm, flushed cheek against Annie's dry hand, and surprisingly Annie squeezes her tightly and gives her a quick peck on her bare head.

  'We are going to stay, an't we.' It was not a question. Betrisse was sure of Annie, but she just wanted to hear it said.

  'I said we should.'

  'I know, but they might find us.'

  'We a face that one if it ever comes. I doubt anybody would think we should go so far.'

  'And you told your sister you was going to Salisbury.'

  'Yes.'

  'And that packman who knew you.'

  'Yes.' Annie squeezed the small hand that was becoming moist they had been holding on to one another so long. 'I an't daft you know.'

  'I know you an't, Annie. There wasn't nobody thought it was a tale you was telling, was there? They a all think you took me off to Salisbury.'

  'Most a them places we worked at along the road . . . they wouldn't likely even remember seeing us if they was asked. Must be hundreds a widows and girls working a few days. A lot of it is tramping labour — picking watercree.'

  'And stringing beans and hops.'

  They repeat to one another what they have said before.

  'They wants dirt-cheap labour, and they don't care who does it. Never you fear, nobody took no notice of us. Just tramping labour. So long as you don't ask for nothing and moves on, nobody don't want to know on them sort of jobs.'

  'The hops and beans was nice work. The water was cold though doing the watercree.' Adding in a rush, in case Annie should think she minded the clear, cold streams where watercress grew, 'But I never minded the cold water, and we had plenty of cree to eat.'

  'Oh Bet, Bet, my little duck. Cold water half-way up your legs, your back breaking, your skirts sopping wet and cress and bread for dinner . . . and you says you never minded.'

  'I didn't.'

  'No . . . I don't think you did. You never grumbled nor made no fuss, never once.'

  'No more I won't. Never. Now now we come here.'

  'Good! No more shall I.'

  Since they had come there, the tide had turned so that the waves now lapped a few inches further from the patch of sandy shingle where they stood, leaving stones, pebbles and shells gleaming with salty wetness. Annie noticed something, picked it up and dried it on the corner of her shawl.

  'Here,' she held it out to Betrisse. 'This is my token to you, saying, '"I, Annie Saint John, shan't never grumble nor make no fuss as long as we lives in Emworthy."'

  'Which is for ever. What is it?'

  'It's a shell of a oyster.'

  'It's beautiful! I never thought oyster was like tht. You never said it was shiny and all over colours.' She twisted it to catch the light. 'I thought it'd be like a snail or summit. How do the oyster stop in?'

  'There's another half to it. Let's see if we can find him.'

  They were wearing the rough clothes that they had worked in for weeks, the hems were frayed and stained from the watercress bunching, so neither of them felt restrained at grubbing about on the wet shore.

  When she got close Betrisse was fascinated to find that in with the sand and stones were small shells with many different shapes and patterns and colours. She picked them up and inspected them closely, showing Annie each different individual.

  'Can I keep it?' she asked.

  'It don't belong to nobody.'

  Before long her apron pocket was weighted with her prizes.

&n
bsp; Annie discovered a complete oyster shell, its hinge intact.

  'Here,' she held it out to Betrisse. 'Have this one instead.'

  Betrisse delved into her bodice where she had put the half that Annie had given her first.

  'No. I'll keep this one. It's the proper token you gave when you said your promise. I shall put it with my other one. Yourn's better than this though.'

  Annie, like a child, plopped large stones into the sea.

  'You got another token?'

  'Mmm.' Betrisse pulled a small knotted rag from deep down in her bodice, and undid it with her teeth.

  'There 'tis! See, it an't as pretty as yourn, is it?'

  In her moist, grimy palm, gleamed the golden coin with the wreathed head of a Caesar.

  'Betrisse! You got his blimmen seal.'

  'No it an't. I got my seal. And it don't matter even if we lives in Emworthy — when I'm grown up, he won't be chief of the family . . . I shall.'

  'How did you get it? You never went near the house again.'

  'It was in my apron pocket. I found it there next day. It must a flew there when . . .' she sucked in her lip, 'when I hit him with the platter.'

  'You shouldn't a done that, Bet.'

  'I know. If I'd a had the time to a thought about it I wouldn't have. It wasn't really no different than when a wasp stings you — you just jumps and slaps at it without thinking.'

  'And the seal just flew into your pocket?'

  'It must of. It couldn't a got there no other way, could it?'

  'I suppose it couldn't, not unless it was by a spell.'

  Annie pinched her bottom lip between finger and thumb and tried to look serious.

  'You can't hardly take it back now.'

  Betrisse looked sharply at Annie, then saw that the pinched lip was to restrain a smile.

  'You'm laughing, Annie.'

  'No I an't. It an't no laughing matter, but . . . I was . . . just thinking . . . I should a liked to a seen their faces when you took that there precious seal out of that dirty bit of rag.'