Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  Drifting Shadows

  Christina Green

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  The darkness of the great grey rock pile loomed over them as they made their way home. Thirza held two baskets of small dark fruit against her hips, her sunbonnet slipping down over her wrinkled neck, and her breath coming in hard worked puffs. But Becky was in another world. Her baskets, too, were heavily filled with whortleberries, her hands purple stained from picking the small ripe fruit, and her whole body sweating with the heat and the labour, but her mind was free and light. Even the shadow of Bowerman’s Nose, sliding down over the moor as the sun began to sink, didn’t bother her. She thought of other things – exciting, hopeful things.

  Until Thirza’s slow voice brought her back to the burden of the day. ‘We’m late, Becky. – Will’ll be waiting fer his tea. Get on, maid.’ And then the heaviness of the baskets, the knowledge that brother William would shout at her and that she must try yet again to ignore his quick temper, all returned, twice as heavy as before, igniting the familiar rebellious thoughts. Nothing but work and shouting. Want something better. Different. Don’t know what or how but – yes, one day I’ll find it.

  Now they were out of the shadow, passing the rough grassy mound lying in the middle of the lane where the track down to High Cross Farm met the road. Becky saw Thirza pause, put down her baskets, bow her head and touch the small headstone, then continue on her way. It was a familiar ritual, all the villagers touching the grave as they passed. ‘Pore soul,’ they muttered. ‘Should never have happened.’ Becky, too, stopped now, put down her baskets and then leaned sideways to pick a stem of mauve sheep’s bit scabious from the wayside. She laid it on the top of the grave, thought for a long, hard moment about the girl who had hanged herself, so said the old story, a good eighty years ago now, and then, retrieving the baskets, followed her mother down the narrow, rocky track.

  High Cross Farm was half a mile away and they were both even hotter when they reached it. Thirza sighed with relief as she traipsed into the cool, shadowy kitchen and told Becky to put the baskets in the dairy. ‘We’ll do ’em tomorrer,’ she said. ‘Wash your hands, maid, an’ get the ’taties. Will’ll be in any minute.’

  As if summoned by her words, he came through the doorway, stocky but thin, ragged carroty hair uncombed, dun coloured trousers and shirt stained and creased. Becky looked at him and saw not the arrogant young tenant farmer who thought he knew everything and treated her and Thirza like mere labourers, but her brother, trying hard to prove his worth and turning himself upside down in doing so. She hid her smile, knowing resignedly that there would probably be shouting and arguments before the night was out, but hoping that one day Will’s maturity would shine through and life would improve.

  He scowled at her as he sank into the cane chair by the range and kicked off his boots. ‘You look a mess, Becks. An’ we got Nat Briggs comin’ after tea. So do something to clean yourself up.’ Boots flung into the drying warmth of the ashy hearth, he got up, went over to the stone sink below the window and dangled earthy fingers in the bowl of water waiting for the ’taties.

  Behind his back, Thirza made a face at Becky. ‘Go on, maid. Do as he ses. You’re all stained and hot.’

  Reluctantly, but knowing better than to argue and so start an evening of cross words, Becky stood in the middle of the stone floored room, staring first at Will and then at her mother. But, despite the good intentions, her mind was instantly full of refusal. Why not say she had nothing to wear, and what was wrong with a bit of hurts stain, a good natural colour? And why all this fuss because that Briggs man was coming? But Thirza was coughing, turning away and pulling out pans and bowls in preparation for the meal, and Becky knew she must banish the wayward thoughts.

  ‘All right,’ she said and nodded at Thirza, deliberately ignoring the sharp blue eyes watching from the fireplace. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Leave the dumplings to me, Ma, I’ll do them.’

  As she went towards the door, Thirza asked, ‘So why’s Mr Briggs comin’? Same old thing, is it? I hope—’ But Becky was on her way, so didn’t see her brother shake his head, nor hear him answer, ‘He’s been talking ’bout it, Ma, but we’ll have to wait an’ see.’

  The cross passage outside the kitchen was cool and Becky sucked in a huge breath as she went through towards the narrow stone staircase. No good losing her temper. Will did enough of that. And don’t argue, either, because he always won an argument. She didn’t know how long she could continue giving way to him, but with Ma so pale and now that old cough bothering her, it was important to keep a quiet life. Sometimes she thought he didn’t seem like a brother. More like somebody else – someone more in control of things – and then again came the old thought: one day, one day.

  Up in the hot little bedroom under the thatch, she rinsed hands and face, threw down the stained work dress and slipped into the other one, the printed cotton that was kept for church and market, and then went back into the kitchen. The silence in the room was oppressive and she avoided looking Will’s way although she heard him muttering as he picked up last week’s newspaper. And then she was making dumplings, mixing lard with herbs and flour and dropping them into the stew that had been slowly cooking all the long day while they were out there picking hurts. Tea then in silence, Will slurping his hungrily, Thirza picking at her plate and only Becky herself eating properly.

  While the meal went on, her thoughts were redeeming ones. Thankfulness to Thirza for sending her to the dame school in the village, in spite of Will’s arguments about wasted pennies. Gratitude for being taught to read and write and to have better manners than the other wild children. Hope for the future which she knew waited for her. And a plea for patience until she found it.

  When the knock came on the outer door, she went to answer it, not seeing the look that passed between Thirza and Will. ‘Mr Briggs. Good evening. Come in.’ She didn’t like anything about him, not his slight, nimble body encased in clothes as dark and dirty as his raggle-taggle hair. Not the leery smile which he produced directly he saw her. Nathaniel Briggs was the maister’s bailiff who ran the estate for him. He usually brought trouble when he called. So what was he doing here now?

  He followed her into the kitchen, accepted the cane chair which Will, smiling amiably now, had vacated, took a tankard of ale from Thirza and produced from one of his vast pockets a clay pipe which he lit. Smoke furled around their heads as they all sat and waited for the pronouncement that surely Mr Briggs had brought.

  ‘Harvest comin’ up,’ he said after a stretching silence, small, closely set eyes moving from Will to Becky and then back again. ‘And then supper. The maister wants to make a do of it this year. Got a new lady, so it’s said….’ His smile was lustful and Becky felt prickles run down her back.

  ‘So got to make a show, see?’ The pipe stabbed into the smoky air. ‘Big meal, us all dressed in our best, everyone perlite and thankful. Must impress the lady.’

  Will said impatiently, ‘But we got to get the harvest in, first … not ready yet. An�
�� where do I get the help from? You gonna help, Mr Briggs?’ He grinned briefly, like the mischievous boy he’d been only a couple of years ago, before the running of the farm turned him into a grim man concerned only with weather, crops and stock.

  Nat Briggs regarded him with hooded eyes. ‘You got George Meldon. Mebbe I’ll give a hand, too.’ Quickly he looked at Becky. ‘An’ you got a good healthy maid here – she can toss a few stooks onto the wagon, can’t she?’ He eyed her up and down, mouth lifting, showing gappy teeth.

  Becky felt anger rage through her. How dare he look at her like that? Like a heifer at market – was that all she was? Something to be assessed, valued and then used. Her cheeks flamed and she jumped up from her stool at the table. ‘I’ll help if I want to, but there’s enough to do without pretending to be a man,’ she snapped and saw the gleam in his eye grow brighter.

  ‘Who’s pretendin’? No one’ll make any mistake ’bout you, Becky Yeo. Woman all through, I’d say.’ He laughed and Will nodded and she knew she was being made fun of. Angrily, she marched to the door. ‘Time to shut up the hens.’ The door banged as she slammed it and again she heard laughter following her.

  The cross passage was dark and comforting. She wouldn’t stay in the kitchen any longer with that man making personal, rude remarks about her. She didn’t care what he thought of her, or whether Thirza would tell her off for not being polite to the all important bailiff. He couldn’t do any harm anyway; they worked hard, paid their rent, and the farm belonged to Mr Fielding at the Manor, not to slimy, sly Nat Briggs.

  With the hens shut into the roost and the door firmly latched, she returned to the yard, leaning against the warm house wall after patting Prince’s head as the old collie lay in his kennel. The sun was at its lowest, vibrant and beautiful, painting the wide evening sky with flaming drifts of cloud. Stretching fields darkened into heavy hills beyond the farm boundary and where the rolling clouds piled up in the west, colours slid into grey, bluey green, violet and orange. Suddenly there was a flash of kingfisher brightness, quickly concealed behind the oncoming grey mass, and, watching, Becky felt all the rage and problems ease out of her. This was what she loved and needed, the vast, uncaring Dartmoor landscape with its beauty – yes, even with its cruel indifference and sometime brutality.

  These moments of dimpsey brought ease and comfort, heightening her senses. Nat Briggs’s cob fidgeted on the cobbles. A sweet smell of hay drifted from the barn and a hunting cat slunk across her path, stopping, eyeing her with emerald pinpoints and then disappearing. And it came to her, as she stared, listened and wondered, that, despite Will and his temper and the hard work of the farm, she would never leave Dartmoor. Could never go anywhere else, not even if fate suggested otherwise. All the dreams of a new life that had been flying around her mind lately were suddenly unimportant. This is where she belonged and where she must always be.

  She could have stayed out there in the enclosing dusk for ever, dreaming and wondering, until she heard a distant footfall – someone going down the road to Manaton, she guessed. And then a voice filling the quietness, deep, rich, singing words she recognized. One of the songs George Meldon sang when he was grooming the horse, or hedging and ditching, or even just when he sat and drank his cider at crib time. Something about John Barleycorn….

  ‘O! Barleycorn is th’ choicest grain, that e’er was sown on land, And it will cause a man to drink….’ She smiled as the voice and the words penetrated her mind before passing on into the distance, and found her world was content.

  But then louder footsteps down the passage roused her, and she quickly hid behind the ash house to watch Nat Briggs unleash his cob, mount and then, coughing and spitting as he trotted across the courtyard, disappear into the lane. Only when the silence was complete again did she leave her hiding place and return to the kitchen.

  ‘Well,’ she said, pulling a stool up to the hearth, ‘so when’s the maister’s celebration going to happen, then? And what do we have to do about it?’

  Without looking up, Will grunted over the crumpled page of newspaper, and Thirza moved uneasily in her chair opposite him. Becky stared at them both. What was wrong? She needed an answer. Raising her voice she said, ‘Well, come on – we must make plans, surely? We need help for the harvest, and then Ma and me will have to think about new dresses for the supper. Will, don’t just sit there – tell me.’

  Again, that uncomfortable lack of reply. Until Thirza lowered her head to look at the darning in her lap, and said, very quietly, and with a hint of trouble in the slow words, ‘We aren’t going, Becky. It’s just – well, best that we don’t.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Ridiculous, everyone always went to the harvest supper, and this was going to be a special one. It would be such fun – good food and drink, gossip and chatter, jokes, dancing, someone telling tales, perhaps someone singing. And then there would be Mr Fielding’s new lady who would probably wear a wonderful gown.

  Becky’s quick temper flew to the surface. ‘I never heard of anything so stupid. Not going? But if you don’t want to go, Ma, well I do. And I shall. Will, you’ll have to give me something towards a new dress. Goodness knows, I work hard enough for a bit of a handout.’

  The paper fell to the floor and his eyes blazed. ‘You’ll do as Ma ses, Becks. She don’t want to go, nor you to go neither so that’s it. So stop going on about it. And another thing – no need for you to cheek Mr Briggs like you did. Come the day you’ll be sorry ’bout that. No—’ as she opened her mouth, words flying to question such a statement. ‘No, I’ll not talk ’bout it any more.’ He and Thirza looked at each. Will nodded and Thirza bowed her head. The blue eyes stared at Becky’s astounded face. ‘An’ now you can make us all a cup o’ tea before bedtime. Go on, maid, an’ stop your natterin’.’

  Becky got up very slowly, her mind awhirl. Not to go to the harvest supper. Why not? Not to cheek Mr Briggs, even when he was so rude and personal. Again, why not? And why was Will reluctant to say any more? Why, why, why?

  She made the tea, handed out mugs and then went to bed. But not to sleep. Instead she lay awake, listening to noises in the thatch overhead and the rising wind blowing down from the moorland heights and then, sleepily, remembered the voice she had heard down the road. John Barleycorn – yes, one of the songs the old men sang.

  But this singer had sounded young and full of life, full of cider, too, she guessed, if he had just come out of the Hound Tor Inn. Singing was part of Dartmoor life and she, too, often sang as she worked. The Sprig of Thyme was her favourite. Sleepily, she whispered the words. In my garden grew plenty of thyme, it would flourish by night and by day….’ She smiled.

  And that took her onto thoughts of the coming harvest supper. Before sleep claimed her she told herself that, never mind what Ma and Will said, she would definitely have a new dress and go to the Manor celebrations; go into market next Friday and see what Mrs Hannaford had at her old clothes stall.

  She slept, dreamlessly, until dawn lit the sky, slowly shafting into her small room, when the cow’s lowing and the cockerel’s boastings broke into her rest, and then there was routine awaiting her, as usual. Another day. And more work.

  CHAPTER 2

  The August sun blazed down as Will and George set off for the corn field, old Prince and George’s terrier, Tricksy, frisking and barking at their heels, and already nosing into the corn, on the scent for rabbits and hares.

  In the farmhouse Thirza and Becky set about the usual chores, milking, feeding the animals and cleaning the night’s litter, doing the dairy work and then preparing food and drink for the harvesters who would all too soon be thirsty and sweating. A basket was filled with bread and cheese and bacon for crib and a cider jar filled from the cask in the granary. Thirza poured cold tea into as many bottles as she could find, and then she and Becky set off for the field, preparing themselves for hard, hot work, tying on their sunbonnets as they went.

  The four men were steadily cutting, sickles rising then sweeping lo
w, bodies moving in rhythm, one behind the other. The sun flashed on each lifted blade, and every so often a hand paused from its acceptance of the cut sheath, coming up to wipe a sweating brow beneath a low pulled hat. Becky put down her basket in the shade of the big hedge oak where work bags and jackets had already been thrown, and squinted into the sun, looking at the harvesters. Will, George Meldon and Nat Briggs. She remembered that he’d said he might help, but somebody else made up the team, a tall, heavy figure she didn’t recognize.

  Very soon they were ready to stop and drink, George sprawling on the ground and Will talking to Nat as they poured the cider and cold tea. Becky offered a bottle to the newcomer. ‘Have this. It’s hot work.’ She looked at his weathered face, with its generous mouth and laughter lines reaching up to the handsome nose, and watched as one large hand swept off his hat, revealing thick, untidy corn-gold hair that fell over keen grey-green eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’ He had a low, resonant voice, this stranger, and she liked the sound of it. He drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with his forearm and smiled at her. ‘That was good.’ They looked at each other curiously, and Becky said, ‘I’m Becky Yeo, Will’s sister. Who are you?’

  The observant eyes gleamed. ‘Joseph Freeman. Mr Briggs said he had work here, so I came with him. I travel around, just come down from Tavistock way. Harvest’s a good time to scrape a living.’

  So he was a harvest man, a traveller. She knew such men went from farm to farm at hay and corn harvests, and then had to find other work during the winter months. She wondered what else Joseph Freeman did besides cut corn and smile at every girl he met in this confident way. He seemed sure of himself. Something made her say sharply, ‘And where are you off to when this job’s done?’

  His tanned face lifted into an expression of amusement. ‘Want to know my address, do you, then, Miss Yeo? Gonna send me a postcard?’

  ‘Course not,’ she snapped. ‘I was only being friendly. You can go where you like for all I care.’