Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  Nellie Mudge put spoons and bowls on the long scrubbed table. ‘Mr Briggs’s gone over Hameldon to see farmer Worth about his pigsties. Falling down, need repair, Briggs’ll have to see what the maister ses. Quite a journey.’ She looked at Becky and smiled broadly. ‘Have your dinner in peace, he won’t be here.’

  He returned late in the afternoon, cursing the roads and the summer dust that covered them, complaining about having to ride up over the great shoulder of Hameldon: ‘Time we got a proper track without that hill making the horse blow. Where’s me meal, Mrs Mudge? I’m starvin’ hungry.’

  Becky watched him gulp down the dried up plate of stew that Nellie produced, wash it down with ale, and then get up, heading for the door and the maister’s study. ‘I gotta tell him about the sties – need brickin’ up. That farmer Worth, he don’t know nothin’ about repairs. Get him to pay, I ses.’

  Becky stood well away from him as he left the room, but, as he passed her, she said, ‘Mr Fielding’s not in his study. He’s resting in his bedroom. Wait, can’t you, till he’s up again?’

  He glowered at her. ‘Don’t tell me what to do – I’m the bailiff and I’m runnin’ the estate for him while he takes it easy.’ She watched him climb the stairs and then disappear down the long passage. She hoped that Mr Fielding would soon be up again – Nat Briggs alone in his study somehow seemed to be a danger. But then Ruth came out of the morning room with a pile of old newspapers and magazines. ‘Burn ’em, shall I, then?’

  Becky nodded. Nothing important there, she thought, and then her mind turned to the pleasure of slipping away to visit Ma. The afternoon work finished, she had a word with Nellie who nodded, and she was out in the warm fresh air, almost running along the rough track leading to the farm. Enjoyment grew. She spent too much time in the house, overseeing, working, counting up figures. This short hour or two of freedom saved her from any of the sad thoughts that still came. Thoughts of, Where is Joseph? And when shall I see him again?

  She looked around her on the brief journey, suddenly newly aware of billowing white clouds travelling the brilliant blue sky, of the beauty of grey sunlit stone and drifting colours of moor grass, heather and gorse. Old Bowerman’s Nose stood tall, looking down at the surrounding moorland with what Becky liked to think was a sort of blessing. No shadows today. Passing the wayside grave she dropped a heather bell on it and wondered, had there been mourners for the poor woman who had taken her own life? And what had happened to make her do it? Was it true, or just an old story? Folklore, thought Becky, shaking her head and then allowing Joseph to ease her mind into serenity as she came into sight of the farm and quickened her pace.

  Thirza was recovering slowly from the cough and was up, sitting by the hearth, watching Dinah cutting up a rabbit and preparing the evening meal. Their voices came to a stop as Becky entered the kitchen, and she at once looked anxiously at her mother. ‘You look better, Ma – a bit of colour in your cheeks. I hope you’re not working too hard.’ She turned to Dinah. ‘What a good thing you’re here to help out. Will treating you all right?’

  Dinah chopped at the carcass in front of her. All she said was a quiet, ‘Yes’, but Becky saw the small mouth lift into the semblance of a smile and began to wonder what thoughts it was concealing. And then Will himself appeared, muddy boots at once kicked off into the hearth. Dinah smiled a greeting, her knife still in her hand. He stared at Becky. ‘You here again? Village knows ’bout you bein’ the maister’s housekeeper. Grand title – but what do you do all day?’

  Becky heaved a deep sigh. Nothing new here, then – Will, as always, going on at her. And yet – she saw him glance at Dinah and grin, the sort of grin she remembered from his youth, and had not seen since. Was it possible that Dinah was working some sort of miracle on bad tempered Will? And that idea made it possible to merely smile at his provocative words, and say quietly, as she pulled a stool from under the table and sat down, ‘I work, Will. I work hard. Simple as that. And you wouldn’t be interested to know exactly what I do. So give me your news. What’s happening on the farm?’

  Will sank down into his chair and looked at her. She saw thoughts slide over his tanned face and waited; never any good to try and hurry him. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘Farm’s all right. But village is full o’ that Freeman chap pinching the Poor Box from the church and then being put off by the vicar.’

  Inside Becky a knot formed and she sat up straighter. ‘He didn’t take it, he’s not that sort. Not a thief.’

  Will’s blue eyes glinted at her. ‘How do you know? You been seein’ him again?’

  With infinite control she said quietly, ‘No, I haven’t. But he didn’t take that Box. I could never believe that he did.’

  ‘Well,’ a yawn, then the hint of a grin, ‘mebbe you’re right. Village ses it were Briggs took it – just his sort of nasty trick. Wanted to get back at Freeman, see, so showed it to vicar and vicar fell fer the story. Only now….’ Will rose, found his pipe on the mantel, sat down again, intent on filling it, but his eyes slid round to watch Becky’s reactions.

  ‘Now what?’ She tensed.

  Will puffed hard and smoke drifted around him. ‘Now vicar wants to make it good for Freeman, so he’s workin’ over to Hound Tor fer another vicar who wants to find out about the ole stones all over the hillside behind the tor.’

  Silence while the smoke circled and then wafted away. Becky felt her knot untying slowly while her thoughts rushed and circled around one fact: Joseph had been cleared of the theft and was now working again. Her heart leaped. After a pause she asked casually, ‘So what’s this vicar doing with the old stones?’

  Will stared at her. ‘I dunno. He’s just one of the reverend maisters on the moor these days, lookin’ at all the ole stones, diggin’ them up and writin’ things about them. That’s all I know.’

  A word arrived in Becky’s mind from – was it school days, or had she heard it somewhere? Antiquarians. These men who were trying to set up fallen stones and discover what they could about them. Stones that they believed were so old they couldn’t be dated. And Joseph was working with them. She knew somehow that he would be interested in doing this. Joseph was a craftsman so he would care for old things like stones with forgotten stories attached to them.

  She felt lighter, excited, relieved and so wasn’t ready for Will’s next words. ‘You decided ’bout marryin’ Nat Briggs, then, have you? He’s waitin’ fer an answer. What’ll it be, Becks?’

  A rush of disappointment and fast growing rage filled her. Her voice was loud, words erupting without thought. ‘I’ll never marry him! I hate the sight of him – his filthy clothes, that ragged hair, the way he looks at me, always trying to touch me – of course I won’t marry him! You must be mad to even think I would.’

  Silence. Will sucked at his pipe. Behind her Becky sensed Ma fidgeting in her seat, heard Dinah dropping rabbit pieces into a cauldron then turning to swing it onto the fire. Becky’s thoughts ran around in circles. Here were familiar sounds, scents, memories, and people she loved. She must make amends for that outburst. Ma would be upset, Will angry, Dinah resenting the trouble she was bringing into the cottage.

  She moved to Ma’s chair, taking her hands, smiling into her anxious face. Her voice quietened as she said, ‘Sorry, Ma. I know you want me to think well of him, but I can’t.’

  Thirza nodded very slowly and sighed. ‘Would have been a good thing, but no, you ses. So what’ll happen to you, maid?’

  Becky thought hard before answering. Mustn’t mention Joseph. Must keep Ma happy and without further worries. She said brightly, ‘I shall stay on at the Manor, helping Mr Fielding. And when he marries and doesn’t need me any more I’ll find another situation. He’ll give me a good reference, I know.’

  Dinah stirred the pot vigorously. Will shifted in his chair, reaching out for the newspaper and Becky felt everything change. Her words had brought a kind of hopefulness and although she knew they were only fantasy words, she breathed deeply with relief. I
t was important to keep her loved ones happy and unaware of all her secret thoughts and longings. A great realization came then, listening to Ma telling another choice bit of village gossip, and Dinah laughing, a strong, almost hurtful knowledge that living at High Cross Manor had changed her completely.

  The Manor provided comfort, warmth, work that she enjoyed; and above all, her hopes and longings for Joseph had made her a new person, unable any longer to feel at home in this small, shabby cottage. No matter how she loved them all, Ma, Will and even Dinah, she knew she was no longer part of them. Her words, just now, fantasy though they seemed, were merely emphasizing her new life.

  So it was with a feeling of hidden guilt she refused the offer of a meal, kissed Ma and told her she was enjoying being at High Cross Manor, and that she would come again another evening; touched Will’s shoulder as she passed him and left the cottage, walking home slowly down the shadow-laden track, and wondering, with a new sense of expectancy, what sort of future awaited her.

  CHAPTER 11

  A cloud moved slowly overhead, masking the sun, and Joseph paused in his digging to stand upright, wipe his face of sweat and look around him. The stones littered the hillside below the weathered rocks of Hound Tor, the valley sheltered from winter winds and sloping down towards the Becka Brook. Gorse and heather rampaged down the hill, with a windswept mountain ash tree standing alone in its midst.

  He savoured the beauty and the solitude, allowing himself a moment of stillness before turning and going to his bag, looking for the bottle of water, filled this morning when the digging began. It was empty. He would have to go all the way down to the brook to refill it. And the Reverend Mr Gould might have something to say if he asked for a break. For a moment he thought about the brook, narrow but vigorous, bubbling over stones and coursing beneath its clapper bridge, journeying on towards a larger river and then merging with the sea. Becka or Becky – Joseph smiled. Becky was certainly a local name.

  Her image came to him then in a flash of memory. Tall, well formed, thick, rich hair tied in a knot; a smile that welcomed and bestowed pleasure. He needed to see her again, to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her that she was the one. But would she wait for him? A girl like Becky must have admirers other than Nat Briggs. That name forced Becky’s image to fade and he frowned. He and Nat had things to sort out – one day. But now, turning, he saw Reverend Gould approaching and so once more bent to the spade which, since early morning, had been moving turf and heather, bracken and gorse, to reveal the stones.

  ‘I think this was a village, a community.’ Reverend Gould’s well spoken voice made Joseph deposit his spadeful of peaty earth on one side and look up.

  ‘Yes, sir, there’s certainly a lot of stones – could well be a village, I dare say.’

  The tall man, clad in priestly black with a shallow hat on his sparse light brown hair nodded. ‘Possibly. If you and the other men keep removing the turf, I feel sure we shall find evidence of past life. Tell me if you dig up any shards of pottery.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph returned to his digging, ignoring his thirst and waiting for the day to finish, when he would drop into the Hound Tor Inn nearby before going with the other men to the farm where a hot meal would await them, and then retiring to the barn and their hayfilled beds, provided by the Reverend.

  They were a small gang, three of them and Joseph. When Reverend Gould’s back was turned the men talked – about the heat, the pay, their women at home, the need to get to the inn and have a tankard of frothing ale. Jim, Ed and Davy were tough men who worked hard, and Joseph found himself enjoying their company. He was surprised at this, for much of his life was lived alone and in lonely places. Perhaps he had something to learn from this job of digging out the old stones.

  ‘Reverend Gould said as how it might be a village, what we’re digging up. So folks lived here all those years ago. Wonder what they ate?’ Jim was working beside Joseph, keeping up an easy chatter as he bent and dug.

  Joseph said, ‘Same as us, I expect. Meat if they were lucky, vegetables, water from the brook.’

  ‘Hard life, carrying it up ’ere. And where did they grow their crops, then?’

  ‘You must ask Reverend Gould. He’ll know. Perhaps—’ Joseph stopped abruptly, bent down and picked something out of the soil he had just dug.

  ‘What’s that, then?’ Jim peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Looks like a bit of broken pottery. I’ll show it to Reverend Gould.’

  Joseph put down his spade, crossed the turf to where Davy was digging, with Reverend Gould beside him. He held out his find. ‘Is it a piece of a pot, sir?’

  The vicar looked at it for a long moment. ‘Yes, it is. A cooking pot, perhaps. Well, excellent, so now we know that they cooked food in their little stone houses.’

  He glanced at Joseph and smiled. ‘Now, Freeman, next thing we want to find is the hearth where they burned bits of timber, gorse roots and bracken to cook the food, where they sat around to get warm. Keep digging.’

  The small find encouraged the men to continue excavating, and by the end of the afternoon, when the sun was already starting to sink towards the horizon, Joseph had unearthed what Reverend Gould insisted was a hearth.

  ‘This is splendid,’ he said excitedly. ‘Now we can imagine a family sitting within these stone circles, these small houses, talking, eating, telling stories….’

  Joseph and the other men crowded around as he went on to give a history lesson, about the weather being warmer in earlier days, and how these men chose a sheltered site in which to drag the moor stones into circles, using timber posts to prop up the roof which was thatched with gorse and heather to keep out the Dartmoor storms.

  But Joseph wasn’t listening. Finding the remains of the old hearth had started new thoughts in his mind. Now his imagination took flight and he suddenly realized that what he had always missed in his life was a proper home. Of course he had lived in various houses – the institution, then Eli’s farm, and finally the Reverend Mr Gosling’s big country house with all its comforts, but he had never been able to say, ‘this is my home.’ And now, this untidy circle of stones was telling him that it had once been the hub of life for a family. Despite all the privations, all the lack of comfort, the hard work to survive, it had been their home.

  It was a revelation; he knew now that a home was the one thing he lacked in life, and from that moment on he felt himself become stronger and more imbued with a purpose. No more roaming, no more searching for freedom, for surely in one’s own home that sense of freedom would settle down and end the search on which he had been engaged for so long.

  He must find – create – his own home. And he must tell Becky what he was doing.

  Becky mounted the stairs, ready for her morning work with the accounts. Mr Fielding was still in his room but she heard something in the study. Opening the door she saw Nat Briggs sitting in the maister’s chair, papers piled on the table in front of him. Their eyes met and she sensed his excitement as he said roughly, ‘I been writing a report ’bout they ole pigsties over to Worth farm. Maister’ll be pleased to see this.’ He picked up a scrappy bit of paper covered in rough writing and grinned at her.

  Becky looked at it, frowned and then turned away. The key to the accounts cupboard was hidden in its usual place where Mr Fielding had left it after yesterday’s session of explaining how the ledgers worked. She said nothing, but went to the cupboard, unlocked it and took out the heavy ledger, returning to the table and putting it down, opening it at the correct page and then looking at Nat. ‘You can leave that with me, Mr Briggs. I’ll see that Mr Fielding gets it.’

  Nat got up, hovered beside the table, looking over her shoulder at the open pages. ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘Resting. I think he did too much yesterday. His back still pains him.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Nat’s voice was scornful and Becky turned to glare at him.

  ‘So you can get on with all your other work, Mr Briggs. I’m sure you’ve got enoug
h to keep you busy.’ She wouldn’t look at him, just wanted him to disappear. She picked up a pencil and tried to concentrate on the figures in front of her.

  ‘Housekeeper, now, eh? That’s a lift up for a maid like you.’ She heard his voice change from a sneer into something more threatening and waited, tensely for what she sensed was another demand. ‘That’s as maybe,’ he went on. ‘But don’t think you can give me orders. I know too much about you, see.’

  Becky felt the sudden silence crowding in on her. He was standing behind her chair and she knew he was grinning again. Slowly she turned and looked at him. She felt afraid, knowing that, since Mr Fielding’s accident, Nat had grabbed a certain measure of power and now, clearly, he was ready to use it. ‘I don’t understand you, Mr Briggs.’

  They stared at each other, and she added, ‘I have to get on with my work, even if you don’t. So please, just leave me alone.’

  He laid a heavy hand on the back of her chair and leaned over her. ‘Don’t talk like that, Becky Yeo. I’ll do what I like. And you must listen to me…. If you don’t think more about taking up my offer ….’ He paused, sharp eyes intent on her face.

  ‘Your … offer?’ Fear ran down her spine. Playing for time, she edged away from his bad breath and sweating face.

  ‘Don’t play with me, maid. Asked you to marry me, I did. And I’m still waiting for your answer.’ His voice was harsh, his expression full of hard excitement and a flush of temper.

  Becky swallowed a lump in her throat and felt her pulses race. She had known that this confrontation had to happen, but now it was here she still wasn’t ready to give in. Her voice shook but was still clear. ‘I need more time, Mr Briggs. I have to think about it … I mean, all this work keeps me so busy that I haven’t—’