by Leah Fleming
‘You sound just like Beth . . . adding legs to yer snake. She used to say that.’ Ralph tried to soften the parting. Annie ignored his comment and Zillah led him to the door.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Zillah.
‘For not jumping down my throat at every turn.’ They both smiled awkwardly.
‘Am I really so sharp?’ asked Zillah.
‘Like a diamond on glass, Miss Herbert, like a diamond on glass.’
Zillah stood puzzled as he walked towards the milking shed. Could that have been a compliment or a complaint? She did not know which.
Nobody was in the mood to celebrate the annual pig-killing. Ellie noticed the arrival of helpers and bakers was a muted affair. Usually they gathered for a good supper and company, sitting down at the old spinet in the parlour to twang a jig on the strings. Last year after Dad passed away Mother scarce had the energy to bother and it was Aunt Blaize who had chivvied them up. Now it was their turn to return the unwelcome favour.
Mercy had hidden up in her attic away from the squealings of the trapped pigs, stuck through the throat to bleed into the bucket, their thick dark blood poured out for black puddings. Now Ellie could see only the colour of blood in Sunter’s dark hair. She would never fry a slice of black pudding again.
The Lunds had no heart for the annual task of laying down hams and bacon for the winter months, for all the sawing and slicing, soaking, scalding and scrubbing. It was left to her to scald one carcass and scrub off the bristles. They wasted nothing from toenails to snout. Soon there would be a line of carcasses hanging from the flitch hooks in the back larder.
In the past she would stand in there with satisfaction knowing Christmas was on the way and they could withstand the worst of winter. Now she thought only of Fancy dangling at the end of a rope but blocked the thought out quickly.
Mother was in the kitchen with the other women stirring herbs into the innards for brawn and sausages and preparing the fat to be rendered down into lard.
Miss Herbert fled to the camp to take a reading class for the older boys, escorted by Cleggy on his cart to Mr Hardy’s rehearsal for the Christmas show. The teacher had no desire to sample the slaughtering and since the anger of the village had turned on the navvy families, she avoided the Birketts’ farming friends.
Ellie could understand all this but she felt nothing on the matter any more, only a chill numbing indifference, an uncaring matter-of-fact busyness. That was what got her out of bed of a morning in the dark cold air of this November frost. There was ice on the jug on the washstand and smoke on the breath. There were so many tasks to do on this farm and she cursed the days she had complained about her poor cousin. How she missed his bulk, his strength with machinery and harnessing up the carthorses. He had shielded her from the brunt of the heavy work and now she was dependent on hired hands and her uncle who was having his own problems.
There was no possibility of hiring extra men. The dreadful prospect of selling stock and tackle to keep a roof over their heads clawed at her stomach. They must manage to pull in their horns. Thank heaven, Miss Herbert’s lodging money was regular. If she chose to find a room at the camp then they would be in trouble.
The parson’s questioning still troubled her. He had come into the cowshed as she was milking, her cheeks pressed against the warm flank of the beast. He had pried about her dealings with Fancy. She did not want to think about him ever again.
‘Fancy is as Fancy does!’ she quipped lightly and said that they were walking out at the time of the murder but that was all over now.
‘He says he was on his way to meet you that night when one of his boys jumped out and told him of the murder, begging him to leave the camp. Had you planned to meet him?’
‘I dunno, do I? I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him, have I? How do I know what his plans were?’ she snapped.
‘So you had no plans to elope together?’ came his next heart-stopping question in her ear.
‘Whoever told you that was a liar. How dare he besmirch my name? What if my mother should catch wind of such a rumour?’
‘You know your confidences would be safe with me, Ellen. But if, say, he was on his way to meet you then him being down at the green at the same time would be well nigh impossible, would it not?’
‘I dunno, do I? I never seen no one that night,’ Ellie replied cautiously.
‘So you say, so you say. But it troubles him greatly in his cell to think that he let you down by running away. Only the knowledge that he sent you a message consoles him. He wanted to warn you.’ Ralph waited for this to sink in.
‘Well then, there you have it, he must be lying. I never got no message. I was in the field minding my tups, checking the stock as I told my mam. I know nothing of no message. It just shows how a man will holler lies when caught in a gin trap.’ Her mind was racing with this new information but she was not going to admit to standing like a frozen statue half the night praying he would turn up and not show her up. There had been no message. ‘What time was all this then?’ Ellie asked casually, but her cheeks were aflame.
‘He told me he arranged to meet you at the standing cross at nine o’clock and that he met the nipper at half past eight, the lad who had witnessed the finding of the body. The boy warned him and pressed him back in the opposite direction. He says he gave the lad a silver shilling for his trouble, to give you the message.’
‘I saw no child or any shilling message. I know nowt of what you say.’ Ellie kept her eyes averted. She could not lie to the vicar’s face but the young man did not push his argument further. He withdrew from the cow byre, mounting his horse. She heard the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones.
She sat on the milking stool pulling the teats like an automaton, yank, yank, until the cow protested and the warm milk squirted out of the bucket onto the floor. She sniffed the warm hide and the fresh smell of dung and fodder. Enclosed by the slate boskins with only a cow for company, only then did the tears flow like milk down her cheeks. He’s made his bed, he must lie on it. I don’t care. None of it was my doing. Fancy made a fool of me. He should have come for me and together we could have faced danger but not a word, the lying sod! He’s lying to save his neck. It’s nowt to do with me what happens to him now. Her words were hollow, rattling in her head, jumping like balls in a fairground bagatelle; one by one each thought dropped into her stomach to dance and churn her guts into a flutter. Who are you fooling, you daft cow? She did care but terror consumed her as she thought of her recent denial and like St Peter she waited for the cock to crow thrice.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Why should that bloody railway company ride over us like a steam engine? There’s been nowt but trouble since they camped in this dale. I’m sick of them thieving sheep and my churns of milk. I lay them down on the slate slab at the farm gate and before I’ve reached the end of the track, damn things have disappeared. They poach our best spots, shoot at anything that moves . . .’ Dicky Braithwaite sat on his usual bench smoking a clay pipe and spitting out his views while his companions nudged and winked; knowing full well that his wife, Liddy, was poaching one of the resident engineers who lodged in their farm cottage for herself.
Each nodded in sympathy with his words while Wally the landlord kept their jugs topped up from his bucket under the bar counter. He was missing the navvy custom since they were barred from the Fleece on account of the murder. This gaggle of farmers was not the prettiest sight in the dale, sitting all night and blethering till closing time on one pot of ale if he were not vigilant.
The voluntary ban on supplying Paradise was proving a painful sacrifice to most of the Scarsbeck traders. The cobbler and bootmaker had piles of handmade workboots with metal tips lying uncollected on shelves, the baker’s bags of extra flour would soon be full of mealy bugs, the butcher’s horse stood idle in the yard and even the haberdasher’s doorbell fell silent now that the constant stream of navvy customers no longer called in for extra bu
ttons and darning thread.
The principle was sound enough but livings must be made. There were rumours that the railway company was fixing up a temporary track all the way to Batty Green, organising a special transport wagon for the Saturday market to stalls with cheaper prices. It made Wally weep to think he was refusing good brass and custom in supporting this protest.
He counted the heads in his bar, just the usual disgruntled farmers and their sons who drank in their own corner, all nodding like sheep and troughing into their pots. His football team, defeated and disheartened by the sheer strength and numbers of the invading army, had lost heart in any further contest. ‘We should be taking every last penny off them, not skulking in a sulk, I reckon. Make ’em pay for being here . . . skim the coffers of the Midland Railway Company a bit more.’ Wally tried to chivvy them up.
‘How come, Wally? Farmers can’t stand against their landlords, against the likes of Dacre, Earl Bective and such,’ argued Dicky, seeking home truths in the bottom of his tankard.
‘Come on, me laddo, there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit. We have to get back at them in their pockets where it hurts, be awkward and cussed as only we Dalesfolk know how.’
‘Yer talking riddles, Wally.’ Isaac Cleghorn shifted his stool, ears flapping like an elephant, to join in this conversation.
‘If I were you, Warwick Lund, I’d not be sitting on my arse letting my loss go uncompensated. I’d be up there demanding cash for the loss of my son and heir or I’ll be putting a stick or two of dynamite up their backsides so to speak.’ Warwick looked up in surprise at his words.
‘Go on, then . . .’ The room fell silent.
‘Listen, you lot, what’s the one thing of theirs that most gets up us noses, eh?’ Wally leant over Warwick’s shoulder.
‘I dunno,’ said Dicky, shouting across the room to his son. ‘Can you think of owt, our Tudge?’
‘Nah,’ answered his lumpen son.
‘Think about it, what did we have the meeting about in the chapel? What sticks out like a boil on a pretty lass’s nose?’ They all looked blankly at each other. Wally persisted. ‘The viaduct, of course, at the bottom of our main street. Ten bloody posts sunk in fifty foot of concrete, a scaffold full of timber, ten arches about to be faced with thick black limestone. Well, lads? Think about it then!’
‘You mean . . .’
‘I mean . . .’
‘Nah!’
‘Why not? If them nippers from Paradise can torch our bonfire, we must have our own little fireworks party. Give ’em summat to think about on a cold night. Show ’em when Dalesfolk is displeased we have our own ways to hit back.’
‘But, Wally, we can’t just burn it down, six months it’s taken just to set in them posts and six months more to link up the arches, or six years maybe?’ whispered Dicky, turning for support.
‘So set them back a few more months and we screw more pennies off them for lodgings, vittels, ale. Make hay while the sun shines or should I say . . . while the hay burns.’ Wally laughed and Cleggy choked on his ale at their plotting. As clerk to the vestry meeting and the parson’s assistant, as worthy of this parish, he should not be listening to all this but he drew in his chair just the same.
Cora Bulstrode huddled over her sewing machine, jerking the handle with fingers as tight as coiled springs. The tension in the stitches was dragging the fabric; she flung the blouse on the floor in disgust and paced the room. Why could she not even sit down for five minutes? Sewing once was her joy, now it was her pain. Cora could not concentrate on the simplest task, the easiest pattern. What was wrong with her? Their troubles were over now that nuisance, the Lund simpleton, had gone for good. Now all they had to focus on was the Fawcett, getting the child through the examination and out of Ezra’s study back to the camp. Perhaps then the two of them could settle back once more into a comfortable routine and find some peace.
But first she must tackle the Herbert woman, who much to her surprise had stayed the course and found favour in the village despite her unfortunate connections. There was a crop of Dales children who needed that extra classroom. The shrinking navvy Mission class could disappear up the track to Paradise as soon as the Widdup child finished the test, leaving them free from any more interference from the missionary’s enthusiasms getting in their hair like nits.
How she kept pleading with Ezra to insist that Mission classes were better conducted in the reading room on site. It made sense in bad weather not to have to dry their mufflers and smelly clothes over the stovepipes but Ezra was in one of his excitable moods again and would not listen to a word she said.
Cora was sick of the Fawcett, sick of the strain it put upon them. She might as well live like a spinster for all the time her brother allotted to her company. When he was not coaching the brat, he was playing the piano loudly until it drove her to distraction or he would be rehearsing his singers, playing the organ for hours in the cold church. Now he was involved in some glee club men’s choir at the camp with Father Hardy, of all people, preparing music for a Christmas concert; of all the stupid things to be doing with his time.
She had actually heard him say that Father Hardy was right to encourage some cultural activities up in the camp. If they were all now confined to barracks on account of Sunter’s death and the coming trial, then he too would be adding his support. Will he never rest still? Will he never take me away from this place?
Since Sunter Lund’s untimely demise he seemed to be taking on a new lease of life, relieved there would be no more broken windows and disturbances from that quarter. His passing was a blessing to the village and a blessing for Ezra. No more begging letters to cause them anguish. What was in them she was forbidden to see. Ezra had thrown them on the study fire in disgust. When she pleaded with him to tell her why he was so torn apart he just broke down and wept like a child in her arms. She had cradled him softly and told him not to worry. Cora would take care of everything as she always did when Father had chastised him for poor studies and low marks and he emerged from the study beaten and cowed.
Cora would always kneel on the hearth rug and hold him tight to take away his fears. Now he came to her again as she knew he must. Oh how strong she felt, omnipotent, full of grace and calm. No one could take that feeling from her, not now, not ever. In all things she alone was powerful.
There was only one more stile to mount, to get that Widdup brat up and away and tonight he would come for the final preparations for the December timed examination in the schoolroom. How quickly weeks had passed since their summer discovery to the final testing. How hard Ezra had worked to bring the child up to the mark. What sacrifices they had made to give one boy a chance of a lifetime. One more name etched in gold on the polished oak list of Fawcett scholars. The price of this passing was costly for all of them, so Widdup must pass.
‘The vicar wants to see you, Billy, after school, he is making more enquiries about Mischief Night. Mr MacLachlan says that he gave you a note on the footpath and asked you to take a message, is that true?’ Zillah Herbert caught the pupil before he darted off towards the schoolhouse for his coaching lesson.
‘I have to go next door for me test, miss. I’ll be late.’
‘A few minutes won’t make any difference now. I know you want to help your friend as much as you can. If you’re telling lies, young man, it can only harm his cause. I wish you could remember what you all saw that night. You must have seen the killer.’
‘We saw nowt, I told them, and I never saw Fancy, only on the footpath down by Middle Butts. That’s when I stopped him.’
‘Why was he going in that direction?’
‘I dunno.’
‘I think you do, boy. You know he’s been seeing Miss Birkett against her mother’s wishes. She told me you intervened once before to warn them at the summer Feast. You’ve always been their ally. Did he ask you to give her a message?’ the teacher insisted, touching the child’s arm, but Tizzy shrugged it off.
‘What if he did?’ s
aid Tizzy, turning away.
‘Did he write it down? Please, child, try to think what you did with the message. Miss Birkett says she received no message. I think you owe all of us an explanation.’
‘I meant no harm but it was just the book. It were spelt all wrong and you know how Mr Bulstrode and you go on about spellings. We gets the cane if we gets our spelling tests wrong. I didn’t want anyone to laugh at his spellings. Lines of funny verse, all them sloppy words. He can’t have written stuff like that to her. Look.’ Tizzy reluctantly pulled out the battered leather-bound notebook and shoved it into the teacher’s hand in disgust.
‘So he gave you this book to give to Miss Birkett, am I right? And you didn’t take it for fear of him being scorned for his letters?’ Tizzy nodded, her eyes watering like pebbles under the beck. The teacher thumbed through the pages. ‘Where’s the message?’
‘On the front inside, see.’ Tizzy pointed to the scribbled note. ‘I never spent the shilling, here, it’s still in my bag with my marbles. I could have spent it but I didn’t.’
‘You could have saved a lot of heartache, child. By your stubbornness we are all embarrassed. I’ll have to give this to the vicar and show it to Miss Birkett. It was her book to keep, not yours. I’m so disappointed in you, Billy. I really thought you had more about you. Your friend’s life hangs in the balance and you withhold vital evidence, evidence which might just point to his innocence.’
‘I never, miss, I never meant no harm. I never thought.’
‘You children seldom do think before you act. But all’s not lost. We must go and see the vicar after your lesson. Perhaps it’s not too late to save your friend.’ Miss Herbert scurried back inside her classroom leaving Tizzy shaking with shame. Now she had to go and do that stupid test and tell more lies. She was not in the mood for sums.
The fire blazed brightly in the grate, the room was hot and smelly as ever, the curtains drawn, a smell of stale baccy and the greasy smell of hair oil lingered, the stuff Granda used to plaster on his whiskers in the happier days when they were a family with Mother and Ironfist; the days before the tramping began.
