Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  At midmorning they stopped for crib which Dan’l took out of his satchel and shared. Sitting with their backs to the wall, they ate bread with chunks of fat bacon and onion and drank cold tea and Joseph felt himself glowing with the sense of work and satisfaction. He looked sideways at his companion and saw the strong face showing a hint of a smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘will I do?’

  ‘You’ll do,’ said Dan’l and handed over another onion on the end of his knife.

  Breakfast in the kitchen and a knock at the door. Nellie nodded to Ruth, who got up and went to open it. Becky, glancing around, saw Will standing in the doorway, his face dark with anger and his fists tight by his side.

  She got to her feet, alarmed, thinking at once of Ma. ‘What is it, Will? What’s the matter?’

  He stepped inside, removed his hat and scowled. ‘I got to see the maister. Now. Go and tell him.’

  ‘But he’s still in his bedroom—’

  ‘I don’t care, I gotta see him. Go on, tell him, now. Now.’

  Her mind in a whirl she led him up the stairs. ‘Stay there, while I knock and see—’

  Roughly he handled her aside and threw open the door, pushing his way in. She saw his narrowed eyes, blue as steel, staring into the room. He stopped just inside. ‘I gotta talk to you, Mr Fielding. You gotta tell me what you’ve done, and why, and what you’re gonna do ’bout it now we knows the truth.’

  A taut silence shot through the maister’s room, seemingly catching her in it, cold and sinister, spreading throughout the house. They were all listening, she thought wildly, down there in the kitchen, Tom and Eddie coming out of the stables, probably Nat Briggs too, just arriving in the yard. She felt a shiver run though her whole body and without knowing what she did took a step forward into the room, standing just behind Will, and looking over his shoulder.

  She saw Mr Fielding standing at the wash basin, soap on his face, holding his razor as he turned at the interruption. He wore riding breeches and a white shirt, open at the neck. His expression, meeting Will’s glare, was tight and aggressive, his voice quiet, but cold.

  ‘What the hell do you want, coming here like this, Yeo? What are you talking about?’

  Suddenly Will turned, found Becky just behind him, took her arm and yanked her forward. ‘This,’ he shouted, breaking the silence and raising an echo down the stairs. ‘My sister, that’s what. That’s who. Only she’s not – this maid you’ve taken in and made a fuss of – well, now we knows why you done it. My poor old mother told me just now ’bout you and Grace. Said she couldn’t keep it to herself any longer, poor soul. Cryin’, she is, ses you must do some’at to help.’ Suddenly he stopped and looked into Becky’s wide, unbelieving eyes.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, thrust his falling hair back over his head, and Becky realized that he had abruptly found himself in an unmanageable situation. He had said his bit, and now – what? Even as her mind swayed and circled, she knew she must help him. If he was any ruder to the maister the tenancy would be ended; they would have to get out of High Cross Cottage, find another job, another cottage…. She must put aside the business of Grace and the maister until Will could be made to go home.

  Quickly she looked at Rupert Fielding, standing there brandishing his open razor, eyes like a hawk about to pounce on its prey, and said, somehow making herself smile, ‘What a fuss! I’m sure he doesn’t know what he’s saying, Mr Fielding. I’ll take him downstairs.’

  The silence again, only different this time. She felt it was full of strange thoughts and ideas. Facts that must be told. She watched Rupert put down his razor on the washstand, use the towel to wipe his face, and then walk slowly, still limping, across the room to where his jacket hung on a chair. He put it on carefully, brushed a speck from a sleeve, and then looked back at her.

  ‘No,’ he said at last, the word clipped. ‘Take him into my study. We have to talk.’

  ‘But Mr Fielding—’ She didn’t want them to talk. She needed Will to go home, to where Ma was crying, to where the work waited.

  He stepped closer to her, looked into her anxious eyes. ‘Do as you’re told, Becky.’

  She heard something in his voice, something unexpected, raw, almost uncertain, and then felt an answering emotion. Of course she would do what he wanted. Nodding her head, she turned and walked out of the room, looking at Will and silently ordering him to follow.

  The study was waiting for them, empty and quiet, with the morning sun filtering through drawn back, faded curtains. They filed in, automatically waiting until Rupert sat down in his big swivel chair at the head of the table, gesturing them to also sit.

  Will sprawled, Becky sat upright, her body tense, eyes fixed on Rupert, waiting for him to start. She felt in a dream, a bad one, where nasty things were slyly creeping all around her, making her flesh creep. She wanted this talk, whatever it was about, to be over, for life to return to normal: the accounts; the ordering of the household; the thoughts about Joseph; she and Ma going into Moreton to buy dress material….

  ‘Go on, then, Yeo, tell me what you know about Grace. What your mother told you.’ Rupert’s voice was short and sharp. He stared at Will who coloured and fidgeted, looking at Becky as if asking for help. But no help came. She was watching Rupert, seeing his eyes slowly shadowing, becoming even darker than normal. Wretchedly, she wondered why the colour in his thin face had died. What on earth was all this about?

  Will waited for what seemed a minute or so, and then said, haltingly, ‘Ma ses that Grace worked here in the kitchen, and you took her out one night and she got with child.’

  Rupert made a rough noise and then cleared his throat. ‘And what if I did? That sort of thing happens with girls and young men. You know as well as I do—’

  ‘But this one’s different. She went off to Newton ’cos your dad said she must, an’ she had the baby. Only then she died.’

  That terrible silence again. Becky heard it making her heart beat too quickly. It beat like a pump in her ears. Go on, Will … what happened then?

  They were staring at each other like dogs in a brawl. Will’s colour returned and he leaned across the table. ‘That baby was Becky,’ he said gruffly. ‘My Ma took her in and brought her up. What I’m saying, Mr Fielding, is that this maid is yours. You an’ Grace’s daughter.’

  Breath sucked in, emotions numbed, Becky half rose and then sank back into her chair. She met her father’s dark eyes across the table and saw him sadly smiling at her. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Becky,’ he said, half whispering, holding out a hand towards her. ‘You’ll be my daughter from now on. I promise you….’

  CHAPTER 16

  Becky didn’t want to hear any of this. Mr Fielding, her father? Grace – the invisible woman he’d once taken her for, her mother? No! Ma was her mother, had brought her up, was still her mother. And what else had Will said? Not his sister? Then who was she? Yes, she was Becky Yeo all right. Then a new thought sliced in painfully, was she now Rebecca Fielding? But who were they, Ma and Will? The lump in her throat stopped any words coming out, but anyway she had no idea what to say.

  She stared at Rupert’s offered hand and very slowly shook her head. In her mind she began to rage. You’re not my father. You’re the squire here. You own everything, even our little farm. You can’t possibly be my father.

  His voice firm and steady, he said the incredible words again, each one an assault that set her trembling. ‘I’m your father, Becky. I’ll see that you live a good life from now on. You’ll be my heir. The estate will come to you when I go. Your mother – Mrs Yeo – can take on her true relationship to you; she’s your grandmother, you see. Grace was your real mother.’

  Grace. Her mother. Becky stopped breathing for a long moment and watched how her new father smiled at her. He looked as if something wonderful had happened. Perhaps it had, for him. But for her? Her thoughts flew. For Ma? For Will?

  Very carefully, she rose from her chair, hand still on the ta
ble to quell her trembling, and said, ‘Thank you, but I don’t want to be your daughter, Mr Fielding. Ma has always been my mother, and she still is. I must go and find her. Tell her what you say, tell her that it makes no difference because she’s still my ma and always will be.’ She looked at him, saw impatience narrow his eyes and felt a welcome rush of quick anger. Anger was better than misery. Anger could get you living again.

  ‘Don’t try to stop me,’ she said, her voice quicker and firmer now, her hand leaving the table. ‘I’m going. You must just do without me. I’m going back to the farm.’ She turned, looked down at Will’s wide-eyed face. ‘And you’re coming with me. Don’t stay here any longer, work’s waiting back there. So come on.’ She grabbed his arm, pulled at him so that, clumsily, he got to his feet and followed her through the door.

  They went down the stairs in silence, not looking back when Rupert Fielding came to the door of his study and called after them. ‘Becky. Don’t go. I need you here. We’ll talk it all out. I’ll explain … we’ll make arrangements—’

  Outside the kitchen door Becky turned and looked at Will. ‘We’re going home,’ she said brokenly and felt the first tears fill her eyes. ‘Ma’s waiting for us. Come on.’

  At the farm they fell into each other’s arms and wept. Dinah stared while Will grunted and harumphed around the kitchen until Becky turned to him, heaved in a huge breath, dried her eyes and said, ‘We’ll be all right here. Go and work, Will. You’ll feel better when you’re doing something. And take Dinah with you. Tell her what’s happened.’ She managed a stiff smile, nodding at him. ‘I’ll help Ma get some broth going.’

  When the kitchen was empty she sat beside Thirza on the settle. She saw her face full of anguish and offered a handkerchief to help wipe the tears away, realizing abruptly that Ma must be afraid she had lost her daughter. Something must be done, or said, thought Becky, trying to line up her flying thoughts. Ma must understand that nothing had changed and would never do so.

  But it was Thirza who spoke first. ‘I’m glad you know at last, maid,’ she said unsteadily. ‘It’s been haunting me for so long. Now we can go and see your mother’s grave in the Newton churchyard. You’ll know then that it’s all true an’ you’ll have to think of me as your ole gran. ’Cos that’s what I am. I was Grace’s ma, you see.’

  ‘Grace’s mother.’ Becky’s thoughts slowed down. ‘She must have had a sweet voice, for Mr Fielding to remember her singing.’ A long pause before she could correct herself. ‘My father said so. He heard me sing and that must have been what reminded him of Grace. Of Mother.’ She smiled at Thirza, watching so intently. ‘The Sprig of Thyme, it was. My favourite song.’

  Thirza nodded, eyes calmer, breathing slower. She laid a hand on Becky’s arm. And her voice was quiet. ‘Sing it now, maid.’

  Becky breathed in, raised her head and stared around the kitchen. She sang the old song lovingly, feeling that this was a moment of reunion between Grace and herself, who had been a young girl in this same cottage. The only connection they had. And then thoughts of Joseph slipped into the words as she sang,

  ‘O’er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had, and stole my thyme away.’

  As her voice died away, she felt Thirza’s hand press hers, saw the swimming eyes lovingly smiling at her, and knew that even if Joseph had stolen a part of her away, at least she had this part. She was a grandchild, a daughter, a sister. She was loved.

  Suddenly she said, ‘Ma, is Will still my brother? Was he Grace’s child, too?’

  Thirza shook her head. ‘No, maid. He is my Roger’s child, born two years before Grace had you. So he’s,’ they looked at each other and then smiles banished the sadness as Thirza laughed, ‘he’s your uncle, maid!’

  ‘My Uncle Will! That’s lovely! I shall call him Uncle from now on!’

  ‘Yes.’ Thirza still smiled. ‘So I’m your gran and he’s your uncle.’ The smile left her face. ‘An’ the maister? What’ll you call him, child?’

  Becky got to her feet, went to the basket on the floor under the kitchen cupboard, picked out onions and turnips, put them on the table, found the knife and began peeling and chopping. She was glad to have something to do. Lard in the pan on the fire, a trip into the dairy to find some stock left over from the last bit of bacon, and then everything put into the pan to cook for the midday meal. Will and Dinah would be hungry and it would help to return to ordinary, every day events. Perhaps the strange happening of the morning would gradually disappear into the past. Perhaps they would all get used to the new names and titles.

  But would she ever get used to calling Mr Fielding Father?

  As she helped Thirza cut bread and put plates on the table, she wondered, too, about Joseph. Would her status as daughter of the local squire make any difference to him?

  She stirred the bubbling broth slowly, and found herself hoping that they would meet again very soon. As Will returned with Dinah and the conversation slanted towards farm work, Becky knew that, somehow, she had to go and find Joseph and tell him. She had to find out if, as Mr Fielding’s daughter, he could still love her.

  ‘Know ’bout the devil, do you, then, Joe?’

  Dan’l Hunt and his wife Mollie sat around the glowing peat fire, the men smoking pipes and Mollie stitching away at a new shirt. Over a week now since Joseph had been taken on by farmer Narracott, and he and Dan’l had become friendly. Mollie had offered liniment for aching shoulders, and now evenings were often spent at their cottage, with Dan’l enjoying having a new audience for what he called, ‘Havin’ a good ole tell.’

  ‘Devil’s been around Dartmoor over the years, you see. Down to the Dewerstone, oh yes, they all know he be there, and then that ole business at Widecombe church, when the devil rode his horse up to the tower with a boy he found sleeping and then horse and all and pinnacle came crashing down.’

  ‘I’ve heard about it. A good story.’ Joseph was enjoying the warmth, the company, Mollie’s excellent cooking, and the passion in Dan’l’s heavy voice. He took another swallow of cider. ‘Go on,’ he said amiably, and waited for the next tale. He was interested in the old folktales but more so in the warmth of Mollie and Dan’l’s very clear love of each other. This was a home, he thought, to be envied. A small dwelling with enough warmth, food and understanding, a home to be lived in for the rest of one’s life, should one be lucky enough to make it. As Dan’l had.

  Would that he, too, could do the same. And this brought his thoughts back to Becky whom he had last seen at church, that brief glimpse of her, the shocked stare, her head instantly turned away and then nothing more. The work on the newtake walls had taken most of his mind since he’d been at Narracott’s, but now the daily labour had built a routine of its own, he had space to consider his love for Becky.

  Dan’l was going on. ‘Well, there’s the whisht hounds baying ’cross the moor on wild nights – an’ the black dog with fiery red eyes at Okehampton. Oh, I could tell you all sorts. But mebbe we should talk ’bout the fair coming up. Widecombe fair.’

  Joseph thought on about Becky and something leaped inside him. Surely she would be there? And if he was, too, then they could meet – just an unexpected meeting with a chance to tell her what he was doing. What he hoped to do. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding at Dan’l. ‘I’ll be there.’

  And then something nagged at the back of his brain. Something he’d heard the Reverend Mr Gosling talking about when he was working at his folk tales and songs and the fun at Widecombe Fair. ‘Pony racing and tug o’ war – and do they wrestle nowadays? I’ve heard about Devon wrestling – different from Cornish, they say. No kicking. Is that right?’

  ‘It’s frowned on these days,’ Dan’l said soberly. ‘Brutal stuff, that is. But it goes on – in places where no one can see and find out. When there’s a need for fighting someone and it gets outta hand – then they’ll wrestle. Why? You thinkin’ of having a go, boy?’ He guffawed, making Mollie frown. ‘I got a pair of my ole dad’s skillibegs somewhere – hays
tuffed pads for your legs. Want me to sort ’em out, do you?’

  Joseph laughed and thought of Nat Briggs who needed a good trouncing, if anyone did.

  ‘Maybe.’ He put down the cider mug and smiled at Mollie, sitting there stitching away just as he could imagine Becky doing when they had their own home. If they ever did. His smile died and Dan’l said heartily, ‘’Ere, have a fill up afore you go back to that cold old tallat.’

  The fire shifted and a flicker of red flame made them look down. Dan’l picked up the iron bar and poked the half burned turf of peat. Blazing warmth brought a new glow of companionship and he smiled at Joseph as he said, ‘There’s tales I could go on tellin’ you, but you’re probably ready for your bed. But before you go, here’s a last good ’un. Ever heard of ole man Satterley building his own cottage while the revellers were all drinkin’ theirselves silly at Holne?’

  ‘Building his own cottage?’ Joseph was caught. ‘What with?’

  ‘Moorstones, all the loose stuff turned off the field an’ lyin’ in the hedges.’

  Joseph settled down more firmly in his chair and grinned across at his host. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a proper bedtime story.’

  Becky spent the day at the farm, sitting with Thirza and hearing about her mother, Grace.

  ‘You look just like her, maid – that glossy thick hair and the way you walk. Yes, just like my Grace.’ Thirza seemed to find consolation in at last talking about her daughter and the shocking behaviour of the young maister. ‘He were han’some in those days – had lots o’ girls, so we heard. But Grace was his special one. But she didn’t want to go with him. Came runnin’ home often, sayin’ he was chasin’ her. But what could we do? Can’t tell your landlord to stop his boy from makin’ a nuisance of himself. And so she did as he wanted.’ Thirza sighed and Becky saw how suddenly her grandmother was looking her age. No longer the age of a mother, but now the lines on her thin face were deeper, the streak of grey in her hair reaching out over the whole of her head. Yes, Ma had become Grandma in every way. Becky wondered how she had ever thought of her as Ma when obviously she was older and more experienced in living than a mother might be. But there, she had been a naïve child, not questioning anything or anyone. And now life had taught her many things. Grandma, Mr Fielding, even Will and Dinah, had all brought lessons into her simple way of life. And especially Joseph.