A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  The egg had been collected that morning and it oozed thick and orange on to her spoon. The tea was strong and served in thick ceramic mugs that Mrs Arness had thrown on her potter’s wheel, Joe said, and Hannah thought that she would like to try that one day as he explained how the clay was worked when it was soft and malleable, then fired and painted. Hannah looked at Mrs Arness’s hands, they were wide and capable; safe hands. She liked to think of a woman creating something useful, something solid. It was strange but good. This whole world was good, it was full of words and useful work, not stitches and antimacassars.

  Mrs Arness put the milk in first. Esther would have called her a miffer, and sniffed as she said that milk-in-firsts don’t know what’s what; but it was nice and tasted no different to Mother’s so why should it matter? She felt the question waiting to burst out of her but she pushed it down. No, she was going to behave, to do as Mother wanted, wasn’t she. She mustn’t make her worse than she had done already. Father had said that to her as she left and Hannah had felt pain that she had never known before twist inside her at the thought that she was at least part of the cause of her mother’s decline.

  ‘I think it would be nice to go across the moor today.’ Mrs Arness spoke as she folded up some dry washing. ‘Take Hannah in the jingle as far as Old Bernie’s and then have a walk, Joe. I have the books to sort out from last term. I’ve packed up the lunch.’

  She put the folded washing on to a side table, passed Joe a half-full string bag which had been sitting on the pantry shelf and filled a flask with tea from the pot. The picnic bulged through the gaps in the bag and Joe slung it over his shoulder. Mrs Arness looked at Hannah and raised her eyes. ‘Careful, that’s Hannah’s pasty. It will be crumbs in a moment.’ Hannah laughed. The pain subsided. ‘Out you go now but take these round to the compost first, please.’ Mrs Arness swept the egg into a bucket which held potato peelings and lettuce.

  The light and heat hit Hannah as though it had taken its hand to her. There was so much sky here above the garden and the fields and the distant moor. There were no other houses between them and the horizon. No wonder Mr Arness lived here. Wouldn’t Miss Fletcher love it, though the roofs of the village would have been better. She loved to insist that the girls drew roofs. The angles, the colour, the shadows, she would say. Her face would light up and her eyebrows rise as they did when she was absorbed and enthusiastic, which she was for most of the lessons, especially with Hannah. You, my dear, she would say, have so much to offer the world. Inside your head there is a brain and it should be exercised; a scholarship for you should be quite possible, I think. And she had passed some of the younger children over to Hannah for some coaching, to improve her confidence, she had said, but in addition it had unlocked a passion to teach which neither had known was there until then. Miss Fletcher had been pleased.

  Hannah felt Joe’s hand on her arm. ‘Round here then.’ She followed him round the corner of the house, past a conservatory with a half-open door. There was a vine curling up the windows and out through two broken panes on the roof. Beyond was a narrow-shaped pile covered by an old carpet. At the bottom, dark earth, egg shells and cabbage stalks spilled on to the ground. Joe lifted a corner of the carpet and a heavy smell wafted out into the air. Hannah stepped back.

  ‘Why do you put them here?’ she asked, breathing at first through her mouth but then again through her nose because disease could rush in past the teeth, Mrs Brennan had told her, and surely smell was better than illness.

  Joe finished with the bucket and clanged it down on the hard earth. It was rusted round the rim. ‘Well, we haven’t a pig at the moment so the peelings can go on the compost with the rest. It feeds the ground when we come to spring planting. Senseless to waste anything, isn’t it?’ He looked up at her, squinting in the sun. ‘Don’t you do the same in London then?’

  She shook her head. ‘Men come and take it, I suppose. The maids see to it.’

  He put his head to one side and there was a faint smile on his face.

  Hannah felt a rush of anger. ‘Well, don’t you have a maid?’

  ‘Only one and she’s on holiday. Her sister helps if necessary in term time, when Mother runs the school.’

  Hannah’s interest was immediate. ‘Oh, a school. I didn’t know your mother was a teacher. How wonderful. How many boys do you have? Does she teach them Classics? What about German? I’d like to learn German.’

  ‘Steady,’ he interrupted her, leaning over to pick up the bucket. ‘Yes, she does teach Classics, no, she doesn’t teach German. And we have six boys and five girls.’ He was walking ahead of her now back to the kitchen, the bucket swinging from his hand, the string basket still over his shoulder.

  ‘Girls and boys,’ she called, shocked.

  ‘Of course,’ he called back. ‘It’s crazy otherwise, isn’t it? What’s different about girls and boys. They’ve got arms, legs and a brain, haven’t they? And they’ve got to learn to live together, haven’t they? That’s what Mother and Father say anyway.’ His voice faded as he entered the kitchen.

  Hannah stood. A school with boys and girls, and Joe had said that his mother and father thought girls had a brain. His mother taught them together, in the same room, which was sinful in London, in her world. A world that seemed increasingly dark, set against the one which surrounded her here. Her confusion, her thoughts were returning. Her questions about life were stirring again. She explored her shock as though she were a tongue probing a sore tooth but found no answer.

  She walked down the red-brick path leading to the dried stone wall which surrounded the garden. On either side of the path were marigolds mingling with lettuce. Lavender and rosemary were set further back and were already busy with bees. Geraniums were in pots, some tilted as they had settled half on the path, half on the earth. Lemon verbena grew amongst some red full-blown roses. Sin was difficult, she thought, as she knelt by the strawberry beds beyond the flowers. They came right up to the path which was warm beneath her knees. Who decided what sin was? God, she supposed, but men were the ones who passed it on. Surely, though, it was a sin to waste goodness as they did in London when here it was put back into the ground and new things grown? Why didn’t the Vicar concern himself with that instead of shouting about damnation each Sunday? And why was it a sin to teach boys and girls together? Joe was right. That could not be wrong, surely? She sighed, grateful for the hardness of the brick through her skirt. That at least was something definite and so were the plants before her.

  She parted the leaves and saw large late strawberries clustered in their shade. She slipped her hand beneath the largest and felt the straw which lay on the soil digging into her skin. She let the fruit lie heavy in her palm. It was round and red and shiny, with each seed embedded in it like the buttons on the back of the chair in her mother’s bedroom. Sin seemed so dark and frightening, not laughing and strong and full of sun like this family.

  The heat was striking up from the path into her face now and she rose at the sound of Joe’s boots on the bricks. He held a straw hat and Mrs Arness called from the doorway, ‘Take the hat, Hannah. It will save you getting too much sun. Your mother might prefer it.’ She smiled and waved and Hannah was grateful.

  ‘The jingle’s over here.’ Joe led the way along the wall past a shiny, dark-leaved bush. Hannah stopped and touched the shrub. ‘That’s myrtle,’ he said. ‘Father painted that, it’s above the bed in your room.’

  Hannah hadn’t noticed but she said how nice it was.

  Joe laughed. ‘I don’t know what Father would think of the word nice. He’d want to know what effect it had on you, the design, the colour.’

  ‘I see.’ Hannah thought for a moment wondering if this family would do nothing but surprise her. Could they really want to know the effect of a painting on a girl; a girl who was not supposed to consider herself or her feelings, only those of others. She turned to look at Joe as they walked; he was smiling at her and she sought words to talk of her private responses and it made
her feel full of shyness but of excitement too. A clean excitement.

  ‘Well, the marigolds above the washstand made me feel warm, made me feel as though I wanted to stretch and grasp in all the heat of the sun.’

  ‘Now, that’s a good deal better, isn’t it?’ he replied. They were at the stables now and Joe harnessed up a moorland pony, backing him into the shafts of a cart.

  ‘Where’s the jingle?’ Hannah asked.

  Joe swung the string bag over the side of the cart and Hannah thought of all the crumbs.

  ‘This is it. Carrying your cornish pasty, or crumbs,’ he grinned. ‘It’s a Cornish cart. Up you get then.’

  The floor was covered in dried mud and there was straw and loose cabbage stalks as well. She lifted her skirt and sat on the seat and looked around. ‘Are we going on our own?’ She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  Joe stopped and stared at her. ‘Did you want someone else to come? Who, your brother?’ Then he paused, a frown beginning. ‘Do you mean a chaperon; with me?’ Surprise was in his voice.

  Hannah looked from him back at the house. There was a metal stork on the roof, to ward off evil spirits, Aunt Eliza had said when they had driven up last night. To stop the birds from messing more like, Joe had laughed. Eliza had too and Hannah had blushed. She was blushing now. Eliza seemed changed somehow. ‘Well, I always do have a chaperon. If I were to be alone with anyone like you I think my mother would expect it.’ By anyone like you she meant a man; and Joe was very nearly a man, wasn’t he? Her hands were gripped tightly together and the freedom of the last minutes was forgotten. She looked up at him as he sat next to her. His eyebrows had drawn together now and he had a deep line between them. He shifted in his brown jacket. His tie was also a tweed, but green with a light blue check. She would look at that, not into his face.

  ‘Oh, Hannah, I’m sorry. Mother has to sort out the term’s work and Father is painting. Shall we stay here instead?’ And then she did look at him. His eyes were a darker blue somehow. Was it because he was frowning, Hannah wondered, unable to think of an answer that would satisfy her mother but still enable her to go, for that was what she wanted. But if she did her mother would say she was spoilt for ever and her distress would be too hard to endure. She knew she would because they had said the same of the daughter of her father’s late partner, the one her father had insisted should resign.

  ‘I know. We’re dropping off the jingle at Old Bernie’s. He’ll sit on the step and watch us. He can see right the way across the moor so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  He did not start the trap yet but waited and she realised that it was her decision. It was a strange feeling. She set the hat more securely on her head and looked across the moor; you could see a long way, she realised and nodded to herself and then to Joe.

  The cart jolted down the track and she held the reins as Joe leapt out and opened the gate. ‘Go on then, drive him through.’

  She flapped the reins; the pony’s tail swished and he began to walk.

  ‘Keep him going,’ called Joe as he threw the rope which secured the gate over the post and ran alongside, leaping up beside her. His arm touched hers and it felt good. Like Uncle Simon again. The cottage she could see at the foot of the track was small and an old man sat on a wooden seat at the front door. He rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. His hands were gnarled and his face was scarred down one side. ‘Morning, Master Joe,’ he called and lifted his hat towards Hannah.

  She climbed down by herself, shaking her head at Joe’s proffered hand. ‘I can manage, thank you.’ And she could.

  They set off across the field, keeping near the walls. ‘It’s drier here,’ Joe said. ‘Out there in the middle it’s still wet from the last night’s rain and the morning mist.’

  Hannah nodded, looking ahead at the wall which cut across the bottom of the field. Between the stones she could see daylight. ‘Who is that old man? Does he work for you?’

  Joe moved the bag on to his other shoulder. ‘Not really. He’s from the Penhallon Mine. You know, the one your family run. He’s too old now and Father gave him the use of the cottage and pays him for a bit of gardening.

  ‘Hasn’t he done enough work?’ Hannah said indignantly, turning to Joe, holding her hat on her head. It dug into her bun and hurt.

  ‘That’s what we thought, so you can stop glaring,’ Joe said, his smile less broad now. ‘But he should be in the workhouse now because he’s too old for the mine, him in one and his wife in another. Just like your sort of schools. No sort of life for him, is it, and he wouldn’t come to the cottage when we offered it because it smacked of charity. So we asked him to do some work, just enough gardening to make him feel of use, that’s all.’ He shouldered past her, striding on up to the gate.

  ‘It’s hard working in the mines, you know,’ he called back. ‘You take a look round when you go tomorrow.’

  Hannah stood still and watched as he pushed through the small gap at the end of the wall.

  ‘Come on then,’ he called and was gone.

  She hurried on, frightened of losing him out here where there was no familiar landmark. The moor was spongy under her feet. They had been walking for what seemed like hours now and Joe had removed his jacket and tie, and undone his top button. He spoke of the land where he had been born, of its space, its growth, how there was a chance for everyone. He explained how there was no set pattern of class and privilege as there was in this nation, how a poor man could make good, and to Hannah it was a revelation, a story which could not be true, but he laughed and said it was.

  Here there were fewer wild flowers. There was none of the clover which had darkened the fields they had tramped through or any smell of late violets, but there was still some bird’s foot and lady’s slipper though these were becoming more infrequent. There were lichen-covered, stunted oaks standing alone. Close to them were a few moorland mares, nuzzled from time to time by their foals.

  ‘The river’s not far off now,’ Joe said.

  At the thought of the cool wetness she lengthened her stride. But still she could not see the glint of sun on water which she remembered from the days she had come with Uncle Simon. ‘Where is it?’ she asked Joe. ‘I can usually see it further off.’

  ‘You’re coming from the other direction, remember. There’s a steep bank this side, almost a cliff so you won’t see it until you almost fall in. But we’ll go off down to the right.’ He pointed to where stunted trees were clustering. ‘It’s a more gentle slope there.’

  It took at least twenty minutes though Joe had promised only fifteen. They sat down facing the water which was quite gentle here, though as it sank down to the lower moor it gushed and tore over the boulders. Not far away a mare was cropping the grass, tearing it up so that roots hung from the side of her mouth. Hannah leant back against a moss-covered boulder. She was so hot, her bodice was too tight, and the stays so hard. She used her handkerchief to wipe her face which felt swollen with heat.

  The foal was stretching her neck, sucking at the mare. Hannah looked away, over to the water. Joe was searching through the picnic. He handed her a pasty.

  ‘I wonder if she wanted that baby,’ Hannah said quietly, picking at the crust which was folded over and ridged with fork marks. She should not be talking about babies to anyone, but under this high blue sky the words were there in her mouth and tumbling out before she could suck them back. Would he pretend not to have heard, to save her pride?

  ‘Animals do, helps to keep the species alive.’ Joe was talking with food in his mouth and his words were slurred. He was lying back, as unconcerned as though she had asked him about the weather. Joe was too easy to talk to and more words came. Words which had long wanted to break out but which had never found the right time or place, words which would have signalled her wickedness to the world; but here, things were different. Thoughts were brimming in her head and had been since the morning had stirred them. Thoughts could become words, she felt, out here under the hig
h sky under all this light, so now she let them flow.

  ‘They just come anyway, poor things, don’t they? Whether they want them or not.’

  ‘Animals maybe but not humans. Shouldn’t anyway.’

  She bit into the meat and potato. It was peppery. There was swede as well.

  ‘My mother does. She can’t seem to help it and they die.’

  Far, far away the old man would be watching from the house. But not listening.

  ‘Your father should prevent it then.’

  Hannah saw that he had reached the jam end of the pasty.

  ‘What have fathers got to do with it?’

  Joe caught a piece of pastry that was falling to his lap and scooped it back into his mouth. ‘They give them the babies of course.’

  Hannah did not understand. She had seen the swelling body of her mother of course but no one would ever discuss the matter. Esther did not know either. Her mother would not talk to her about such things, she had said, in case it made her unwell.

  So Joe took a stick and, while the birds flew low over the stream and then rustled in the tree that threatened to tip over into the water like a man with a great thirst, he drew pictures and talked in his quiet voice and then Hannah felt as though she would be sick; as though she wanted to run from here, pulling her hair from her bun until it covered her face and her mind, shutting out the thought of her mother and father. Yes, she could see why Esther’s mother might fear it would make her unwell. She felt hot and sick and angry. She did not want to imagine this sort of behaviour from her parents; those two bodies close together, her mother allowing that man into her.

  Joe was unscrewing the flask. He poured the tea which she had helped to make this morning into the metal cup and handed it to her. ‘Drink this,’ he said quietly and she watched him as he knelt and passed it across but could not take it. Her hands were heavy. Her pasty lay on the dry grass. An ant was crawling on the crust, quickly, darting in a zig-zag.

  Joe moved nearer. ‘Here take it.’ His voice was louder now, ‘But just by the rim. It’s hot, you see.’