Luckpenny Land

by Freda Lightfoot

  Stomach churning with excitement, she wished she’d thought to bring some lipstick with her, or a dab of Boots 711 Cologne to put behind her ears. In her old raincoat and wellington boots she looked a bit too plain and well scrubbed. But the anticipation of seeing Jack grew stronger with every step, making her hurry so that by the time she finally reached Broombank she was sticky and flushed with the effort.

  The farmhouse, with its projecting wings and dilapidated barn, saddened her. Its once white walls, roughcast to better withstand the weather, looked grey and pockmarked. To think this had once been one of the biggest and best sheep farms in the district with its two hundred and fifty acres of intake land and six or seven hundred more on the fells above. But with his son away so long in Preston, old Lanky had lost heart.

  Meg greeted him with a cheerful smile when he opened the door, trying to prevent her eyes from sliding past him to see if Jack was home.

  ‘Eeh, now then,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘Thee’s a grand sight on a cold day.’

  She hugged the old man, kissing his too-thin cheek. The scent of St Bruno flake tobacco, wood smoke, and something indefinable that might have been animal feed clung to his parchment skin, like old leather against the softness of her lips.

  Horny hands gripped hers with a strength that always surprised her, coming from such a small man.

  ‘Come in and warm theeself,’ he said, pushing the door closed behind her. ‘There’s a bit of a fire going.’

  Moments later she had her hands cupped about a hot mug of cocoa, toasting her toes in the great fireplace which was wide enough, Lanky said, to take a horse and cart should you have one handy. No doubt the ladies of Tudor England spun their wool within its embrace, and wove the hodden grey clothing Lakeland was famous for. They would bake their oatcakes, known as clapbread since it was clapped flat by the palm of a hand, on the huge griddle that hung from the ratten hook in the centre of the huge chimney. Another hook held the great black kettle that now steamed and spat hot water into the flames as Lanky moved it to one side so she could feel the heat. The andirons still stood in the hearth but they did not hold in place a huge log on this cold day as they might once have done. Instead, an insignificant wood fire burned in an old iron basket, giving off very little heat and a good deal of smoke. It was no wonder that Lanky still kept a scarf looped about his neck, tucked into the vee of his waistcoat.

  Lanky Lawson, for all his name, was a small, slight man with trousers that hung on braces from armpit to glossy boots, making his legs look like a pair of brown liquorice sticks, a bit frayed at the bottom as if someone had chewed them. And over it all he wore an old saggy tweed jacket that he declared ‘had an easy fit to give him room to grow’.

  ‘I’m right glad you came,’ he said. ‘Always did like a pretty woman to gossip with.’

  Meg was at once sorry that she hadn’t called more often recently. Her mother had been a frequent visitor with home-made titbits, Meg often accompanying her. Annie had loved Broombank with its spacious old grandeur crouching low in the rolling hillside.

  Through the low oak door that led into the back dairy Meg could see the stone sink filled with dirty pots and plates. What was Jack thinking of to let them pile up so? She’d see if she couldn’t tactfully deal with a few of those before she left.

  There was no sign of Jack himself anywhere, which was a blow. Perhaps he was out looking for lambs, she reasoned, an endless job in this weather. Stifling the disappointment of missing him, she set the pie to warm on the trivet.

  ‘How’s Connie keeping?’ she asked. Much in evidence from the many photographs that stood on the wide oak dresser, Connie rarely visited Broombank these days. There she was as a schoolgirl in pigtails, looking plump and serious. And on her wedding day, stoutly pleased with herself as well she might be. A sour-faced spinster for years, she had surprised everyone by marrying in her mid-thirties only a year or two ago.

  ‘Oh, as busy as ever with her new house in Grange-Over-Sands,’ Lanky replied, equably enough. ‘She’s a grand lass, if a bit pernickety. Coming home to see me soon, she says.’

  Meg had heard this promise many times so took little notice but it saddened her to see the old man alone so much in his neglected house. Untidy and unkempt, it offered little more warmth and comfort than an empty cow byre. The thought came to her how much she would love to see it reborn, a loving home and working farm once more. She could see herself at one side of this great hearth and Jack at the other. The thought made her heart race with excitement.

  ‘We used to have great hams hanging from the rannel balk when my wife was alive,’ Lanky told her, following her gaze and referring to the thick beam that ran the length of the kitchen ceiling. ‘We’ll not see the like again.’

  ‘You might. If your family produces lots of grandchildren for you to feed.’

  ‘Nay, I doubt it. Jack’s not about to rush into marriage, so far as I’m aware.’ And when she flushed, confused by the meaning of his words, he gave a little chuckle, but not to mock her. He was thinking how her sweet beauty lit up his dusty kitchen and recalling how his own pretty Mary had once done just the same. Mary might not have been his first choice but she’d been a good wife to him all the same and he was not sorry that it wouldn’t be long now before he saw her again. Till then he’d enjoy what time he had left, no complaining, and try to put things in proper order, as he should. If he could just work out what sort of order would be best, he’d feel better, he truly would.

  Lanky insisted Meg stay and enjoy a bite of supper with him and how could she refuse? For once she had nothing particular to hurry home for. Father was out on some business or other. Dan had been asleep in the fireside chair snoring his head off when she left, and Charlie, as usual, was fully occupied with his aeroplane models, books, and cigarette card collection. Besides, there was always the hope that Jack might return home at any moment.

  When they had a fair portion of the pie, she ventured to ask: ‘Is Jack out with the lambs?’

  ‘Nay. He’s gone off down town. Claims he gets claustrophobia if he doesn’t get away for a bit every now and then.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her disappointment was keen, and Jack still hadn’t appeared by the time Meg had to leave. But she managed a smile as she put on her coat.

  ‘I’ll come again, Lanky, and bring an apple pie next time.’

  ‘Just fetch theeself lass, that’ll do. I’ll walk part way with you. Give me chance to look over the sheep. There’s still one or two left to lamb.’

  The two walked companionably together along the boundaries of the top field, instinctively watching for any sign of a ewe going off on her own, or turning round and round as she sought a place to drop her lamb. The silent presence of the sheep, jaws grinding, incurious eyes staring, always filled Meg with a quiet calm. There were the Swaledales, pale and square, and the Herdwicks with their dark, barrel-shaped bodies, faces dusted with the same hoar frost as the coarse grass at their feet. Only these sheep could best survive the bleak conditions on the Lakeland fells.

  ‘Do you remember when I insisted on buying that pet lamb off you when I was about ten?’

  ‘Aye, I do that. You could have had it for nowt but you wanted to play at doing business, all proper like. You fed it with a bottle and it followed you about like a dog for a year or more.’

  ‘I remember you even gave me the lucky penny to go with it. Just as if I’d bought it at the auction.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s a custom that goes right back to the Norsemen. Brings bad fortune if you don’t give something back. Always remember that, Meg. And that li’le lamb thrived, a good friend to you.’

  She tucked her arm into his, feeling a flood of warmth for this old man who had made a small girl feel important and happy for a while.

  ‘Till Father sold it.’

  ‘Aye. He would.’

  ‘I loved it, and cried buckets when one morning I found it had gone. Didn’t speak to him for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘I dare say.
You were nobbut a lass.’

  ‘No room for sentiment in farming,’ he said. ‘Sheep aren’t pets and women shouldn’t meddle with matters they don’t understand.’

  ‘A pet lamb is different,’ Lanky said, with the kind of understanding that had always made her love him.

  They reached the stile and started to climb over. Amber eyes glowed in the swinging light from the storm lantern and Meg smiled at the sheep, as if to reassure them.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, ladies.’

  ‘They don’t mind visitors, so long as they only have two legs.’

  It was then that Meg noticed one of the Herdwicks in a far corner did not look right. She pointed it out to Lanky. It didn’t take an expert eye to guess the problem. Even as Meg watched the ewe went down and lay grunting on the grass. From the hind quarters peeped a nose, no feet, just one small black nose. Lanky knelt on the frozen earth beside the ewe to examine it, prodding and probing with expert fingers, then to her great surprise stood up again.

  ‘What would you do then?’

  Meg stared at him in consternation. Wasn’t he going to help the ewe? Its distress now was most apparent. Was he waiting for Jack? She looked about her hopefully, but only the sheep stared back, a little restless now as if sensing trouble.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ The chill of the night made her shiver as it seeped into her bones.

  ‘You’re a farmer’s lass. You should know.’

  The ewe was starting to strain in her attempt to rid herself of the lamb which was locked fast in the passage, tied up in its own straggling legs. It might well strangle itself, and its mother, at any moment.

  Meg stared helplessly into Lanky’s eyes and saw the challenge in them. Was he testing her? Surely he didn’t want her to deliver the lamb? She became aware that he was speaking to her again.

  ‘You see to this one whilst I check on the rest. There’s another over there might well be in a similar state.’ And he walked away, leaving her alone with the poor trembling ewe.

  For a moment Meg was paralysed with fear.

  Her father’s words echoed in her head like a litany. ‘Farming isn’t woman’s work. Don’t interfere in matters that don’t concern you.’ But Joe wasn’t here now. No one was. Not even Lanky who was attending to one of the other ewes. He must trust her or he wouldn’t have left her alone. Perhaps it was this that gave her the much needed confidence, or else she could not help but respond to the anguished appeal in the animal’s eyes.

  It came to her then in a moment of startling clarity that she did know what to do. She’d heard enough talk, watched enough births, if only from a distance, to have a pretty good idea how to go about it.

  Setting down the lamp some safe distance away, knowing there was no time to waste, Meg took off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. As she made her preparations a calmness came and the fear left her.

  ‘There now, young lady, don’t you worry, I’m here to help.’ The ewe rolled its eyes, baring its teeth in a silent scream of despair. If she did something wrong, if she lost the lamb, or worse, the mother, how would she ever live with herself? And Joe would half kill her.

  ‘All right, all right, hush now, hush.’ Meg put all thoughts of her father from her head. She didn’t think of Lanky, nor even of Jack. There was a job to be done and she was the one to do it. Her one concern was to help the distressed ewe.

  It was almost as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life. The stillness of the night held and shielded her in its silent embrace. The rime of frost glistened but Meg no longer felt the cold.

  Talking quietly all the time, she moved with a natural instinct. Holding the sheep firmly, but gently, she pushed the lamb back inside the mother, calming her as she did so. Meg found she needed to use more effort than she’d expected and anxiety gripped her, making her sweat despite the minus eight temperature. Sorting out the tangle of front feet from the small pointed head took longer than she’d hoped but at last she had them both tucked neatly beneath the chin in the correct position ready for birth, and with a little more urging they came sweetly forward and the tiny body slithered out on to the ice-frosted grass on a sigh of relief from herself as much as the exhausted mother. The lamb shook its raggedy ears and almost at once tried to get up.

  Moments later a second lamb followed. Twins were rare with hill sheep so it would have been particularly tragic to lose these. The ewe turned her head to nuzzle them, making pleased little grunting sounds in her throat, and started at once on the task of cleaning each one in turn with her long black tongue. Meg sat uncaring of the cold on the freezing snow and watched the lambs as they circled their mother, and finally start to suckle. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘There now,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘I knew you had it in you.’

  ‘Oh, Lanky. I can hardly believe I did that. It was so wonderful.’

  ‘Tha did well. I’ll get ‘em inside now, for their first night on God’s good earth.’

  The lanes held that empty silence of a snow-filled landscape on the walk home, with only the squeak and crunch of ice beneath her wellington boots. Meg was glad of the lantern that Lanky had lent her. Its glow lit her way but made the vastness of the scene seem infinite and unreal. But she was not afraid. The empty mountains, the whispering trees, held no threat for her. This was her country and she loved it. The birth had been the most moving experience of her life, and it had told her exactly what she wanted to do with it. She wanted to be a sheep farmer. The very best in the district.

  Chapter Four

  Following that spring day Meg expected, in some way, for life to change, but it continued very much as before, only now she had a goal to work for, an aim in view. It made her feel good and warm inside.

  And even more glorious, she was seeing Jack almost daily. Though she took great care not to let her feelings run away with her again. He occasionally objected to the boundaries she set even as he kept to them.

  Meg hugged to herself the memory of that night in April, one she’d come to think of as an almost mystical experience that had firmed her decision on what she wanted to do with her life. It seemed so obvious now. As if the knowledge had been there all along but she hadn’t recognised it. Just because her father wouldn’t let her help with the sheep at Ashlea didn’t mean she couldn’t work on another farm. And the best of it was that Jack was a farmer already. She began to fantasise about what it would be like if they married. They would be equal partners in the running of Broombank. Jack wasn’t old-fashioned like Joe, he was young and modern and would expect his wife to share everything, and if she were that wife, she’d be only too happy to do so.

  Meg visited Broombank regularly and took great care with her appearance, for didn’t she want Jack to love her?

  She would dive behind the barn to tidy her hair or rub the smuts from her cheeks the moment she saw him approach, making Lanky chuckle. But she didn’t care. It made it an extra special visit when they could work together, as if they were man and wife already. These were good times for Meg but sometimes Jack complained she spent too much time with Lanky and not enough with him.

  ‘I like you to myself,’ he would say, stroking her hair which she was growing to please him. ‘You are my special girl and I want you to stay that way.’

  Jack’s girl. Oh, it sounded so good.

  ‘Then will you kiss me?’ she would ask, and he was always ready to comply. Life was perfectly wonderful in Meg’s estimation. Nothing could possibly spoil it.

  When spring ripened into summer they might walk over to Patterdale by way of Angle Tarn. As wild and lonely as anywhere in the Lake District, there they would marvel at the sight of a golden eagle dipping in the wind, or hares quarrelling furiously for no apparent reason. Then they would plunge into the water together, ice cold after the warmth of the sun. But no amount of sweet talk would persuade Meg to swim without a costume.

  ‘Prudish little miss, aren’t you?’ Jack teased and Meg could only admit to her shyness and hold
fast to her ideals, however much she might wish otherwise.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I trust you.’

  ‘Then prove it.’

  Slapping water at him, she would laugh and swim away as fast as she could, thinking that perhaps it was herself she didn’t trust. Will he get bored with me, she worried, if I keep him to such firm boundaries?

  It was easier when they swam in their very own Brockbarrow Tarn and Kath came with them. Though Meg regretted the loss of intimacy on these occasions, she felt safer in an odd sort of way, knowing that Jack wouldn’t press her too much with company present. And the three of them always had plenty of fun together.

  Sometimes they would walk for hours up Bannisdale or along part of the old Roman road of High Street then follow the ribbon of water that gushed down into Longsleddale where they would take off their shoes and paddle their tired feet in the fast-flowing river by the low bridge, squealing like children. A perfect end to a perfect day.

  Meg, knowing herself lost to Jack’s charms, ached for the day when he would declare his love for her openly. He was a cautious man, as farmers often are. Oh, but she was lucky. Any number of girls would envy her having Jack. She could afford to wait.

  Joe Turner, not having been born yesterday, as he was fond of saying, was well aware that something had changed in his daughter. He had his suspicions what the reason might be, though nothing had been said between them. He tried to work out a way to winkle the truth out of her, but she kept things close to her chest did Meg. It annoyed him sometimes how like her mother she was, always singing and smiling to herself as if she knew something he didn’t.

  He’d never been entirely sure what went on in Annie’s head, for all she’d made herself out to be a good, obedient wife. There’d been many a time, particularly in the early days, when she’d managed to speak volumes without opening her mouth. Now this little madam was behaving in just the same way. Keeping secrets. And he wouldn’t have it, not in a house where he was master.