by Val Wood
‘I don’t believe it. It’s just an old tale.’ She picked up her skirts and ran along the deep shingle, stumbling in her fright over the scrubby bushes and wild shrubs which reached out to trip her. But the shadows seemed to dance menacingly about her, and as the smudgy darkness fell, fiendish spooks and demons whispered in her ear, and with them, she thought she could hear the intimidating laughter of Francis Morton.
With relief she watched the moon emerge, sailing high above the water, lighting up the Lincolnshire coast and pointing the way with Neptune’s Path across the river, and it lit also the path on the shore, shining white on the pebbles beneath her feet. As she neared the Hessle creek, she could make out by its light the silhouette of boatsheds and the masts of boats which lay anchored in the water.
She crept silently towards the inlet and looked over. There was the ferry, held at anchor, its mast and rigging traced black in the moonlight, gently swaying on the water. It was a busy harbour, packed tight with boats, and on the bankside masts and canvas rigging were laid and crates stacked high one on top of another. She froze as she heard the sound of a man cough and then spit, and then saw the swinging beam of a lantern.
‘’Watchman,’ she breathed, and sank low behind a crate. It would be off to the magistrate if she was found and then all would be finished, she’d be sent back to Hull to a fate she didn’t dare contemplate.
As she watched, another figure emerged only yards from where she was crouched. She followed his progress as he dodged behind crates and boxes as if he was stalking the figure of the nightwatchman. He dashed across towards a boat which was lying beached on the quay, and hid behind it. She saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight. He was young, younger than her, she thought, his face unshaven, and merry as if he was having great sport. His dark hair was long and curly, and she saw a glint of an earring in his right ear.
She shifted her position, standing on tiptoe and peering above the crate, to be able to see him more clearly and he looked up, alerted by the slight sound, and saw her. For a moment alarm showed on his face, and then a grin appeared and he put a finger warningly to his lips.
Something told her that she should go, that things were happening here that could embroil her. Tha’s in enough trouble of thine own, she told herself. Tha doesn’t need any more.
Silently she edged backwards until she reached the riverside path again. She retraced her steps until she came to the stone bridge which crossed the haven and took another path climbing higher and leading away from the river, and up across a grassy sward to a small wood. Here she rested again. Her legs ached from walking on the deep shingle and she leant back against a tree and contemplated what she should do next.
Sleep must have overtaken her for she opened her eyes to the beginning of day. The sun was not yet fully up but a pale flush filtered through the trees and touched her cold cheeks with warmth. She looked around at her surroundings and found that she was on the edge of a copse, smaller and thinner than she had thought the night before, when the trees seemed blacker and denser than they were.
The copse edged a paddock where a stringy horse and an old goat were tethered and beyond the paddock was a cottage with a hedge of hawthorn around it. Annie dropped to her stomach and slithered along the ground until she came to the hedge, and lay in the damp grass peering through a gap.
A glimmer of light burned in the cottage window, and above the thatch the chimney-pot discharged a thick gush of spiralling wood smoke, whilst through the half open door drifted the tantalizing smell of something cooking.
She wasn’t so much hungry now, for she was well beyond the stomach rolling pangs of emptiness, but had the pinched and stabbing muscular cramps of an unfed belly which cried out for sustenance.
She wrinkled her nose. Could it be mussel and onion stew like we used to make down by ’river when I was a bairn? ’Mussels that were big and tender and salty, and if anybody had managed to pinch bread, we used to dip it into ’stew and it would be soft and pappy, and even them without teeth could chew it.
Or a drop of fish broth would be tasty. I used to make that for me bairns when Alan left me without money, and I’d bring home some fish heads from ’dock side and boil them with ’taties. Or eel pie like Maria’s ma used to make. She had ’knack with paste had Maria’s ma, all golden and crusty it was, not heavy and lumpen like mine.
She licked her dry lips as she hallucinated over the sweet white fleshy strands of eel, and its dark succulent skin which she used to draw through her teeth, and she lifted her head and sniffed, drawing in a deep breath to catch the aroma which floated towards her.
It was getting much lighter, the sun was rising with its pale light suffusing the sky with pastel streaks of rose and yellow and lighting up the house in front of her. She saw now that it was a low dwelling, a mere hovel, and she felt relief because of it. Perhaps the residents of this abode had also known hunger and would therefore be glad to share their morning meal with her. Or, she sank down again in despair, more likely they would turn her away as a beggar because there wasn’t enough for another mouth.
A shadow moved across the grass in front of the window and a donkey lifted its head and ambled forward. She envied it for its ability to eat grass, she had tried that too, but there was no nourishment in it.
Painfully she got to her feet and stumbled round the hedge. She wiped her face with the end of her shawl and smoothed her matted hair, and with weak and listless knuckles knocked timidly on the door.
2
‘What does tha want?’
A scrawny old woman in a bonnet and apron over her black dress stood in the doorway, one hand held up against the door frame, the other on her hip.
‘Can tha spare me a bit o’ bread, or a drop o’ soup? I’ve had nowt to eat for—.’
‘No. Clear off. We’ve nowt to spare for beggars.’ The woman made to shut the door.
‘Oh, please. I’m no beggar. Just down on me luck.’
‘Tha’s beggin’, so that makes thee a beggar. Be off with thee.’
There was no mistaking her meaning and Annie turned away, then looked back; behind the woman she could see a man about to put on his coat.
‘A drink o’ water then?’
The woman pointed down the garden. ‘’Well’s over yonder. Get a sup and then go.’
‘Who is it, Mrs Trott?’ The man came to the door and peered over the woman’s shoulder. He was tall and stopped and as gaunt as the woman, but he looked kinder, Annie thought.
‘Just a beggar woman. We’ve nowt to spare for likes o’ them.’
‘Oh, come now. She’s onny a lass. Give her summat. We’ve enough.’
Annie hesitated. She didn’t want to cross the woman by appearing too eager, but she was so hungry. She closed her eyes as a dizzy spell came over her and she felt herself sway.
‘She’s badly, poor lass. Fetch her inside, Mrs Trott.’
‘Tha’s daft. Tha allus was. Taking in beggars and ne’er-do-wells. We’ll never sleep safe in our beds.’
The woman grumbled and muttered, but roughly took Annie’s arm and pushed her through the door into the cottage.
‘Tha’ll sit there and not move while I dish thee some soup. I’m not having me home ransacked while me back’s turned.’
Annie sank down onto a wooden stool by the fire where the woman indicated. The old woman could say what she wanted, call her every name she could think of, she wouldn’t care. Just so long as she gave her some of the soup that was bubbling in the pan over the fire.
Mrs Trott ladled some into a bowl and then cut a hunk of bread and handed them to Annie.
‘Think thy self lucky that he was at home.’ She cast a thumb towards the old man who was hovering at the door. ‘Tha’d have got nowt if it had been left to me.’
‘I’m very grateful.’ Annie’s eyes and nose watered as she dipped the bread into the hot soup. ‘Fish stew. It’s ’best food in ’kingdom.’
Mollified the woman shrugged, then turning to the ta
ble cut another piece of bread and handed it to Annie.
The man smiled and turned away. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘Tha’s leavin’ me alone wi’ beggar then?’ Mrs Trott folded her arms about her and called him back. ‘And tha’ll be surprised if tha finds me dead wi’ a knife in me back when tha comes home.’
With a cry Annie rose to her feet, slopping the soup down her skirt and onto the floor. ‘No, please. Please, don’t say that, I’ll not harm thee. I’ve got no knife. I’ve got no knife.’
She collapsed back onto the stool, racked with sobs. ‘I’ve got no knife. Honest to God.’
‘Now look what tha’s done, woman. Tha’s frightened poor lass to death. Have some pity. Enough’s enough.’ His voice, which had been slow with the wide-vowelled words of the district, grew sharp. ‘There’s some wi’ short memories.’
‘Take no notice.’ He bent over Annie and patted her arm. ‘She’s nervous of strangers, that’s all. Eat up tha soup. We can’t afford waste.’
Annie obediently ate whilst the man stood over her, her tears salting her lips as they flowed unchecked. The woman’s words had unleashed terror into her heart and she could see with infinite clarity the flash of a thin blade as it penetrated flesh.
The man left, casting a severe look at Mrs Trott who sat stony-faced at the table, not looking at Annie but staring at the door.
‘Can I do summat for thee, to repay thee for tha kindness? Fetch water, or bring in wood?’
Annie didn’t want to leave the warmth of the fireside, she’d do anything to stay longer. Her belly was full with bread and soup and she just wished that she could curl up on the bed at the other side of the fireplace and sleep.
The woman watched her closely as Annie’s gaze fell on the feather bed. ‘Aye, tha can shake ’bed for me. Feathers get up me nose and I sneeze all day, and when tha’s done that tha can fetch me in a bucket o’ water.’
Annie heaved the bedding outside and shook it so hard that feathers flew and dust filled the air. The old woman obviously hadn’t shaken it in a long time.
Next she took a pail to the draw well, and as directed, wound the handle of the windlass, lowering it down and drawing up a bucket of sparkling spring water. She cupped her hand and took a drink.
‘By. That’s best water I’ve ever drunk. Better than river water by far.’ Annie spoke freely.
‘Tha’ll be from Hull, then?’ Mrs Trott gazed suspiciously at her.
‘Wha—, what makes thee think that, mistress?’
‘They drink river water in Hull. I know, I, – I had a relation once from there. She’s dead now.’
‘Aye. I worked there for a bit. Now I’m on me way back to me own country.’
‘And where would that be?’
Annie swallowed hard. ‘York. I come from York.’
‘I know of it,’ Mrs Trott nodded. ‘It’s a goodly way from here, and a long way to walk, if that’s what tha intends? And wi’ no food either?’ she added.
‘I was robbed,’ Annie responded swiftly. ‘There’s a lot of ruffians in Hull. They took me money. All I had. That’s why I had no food or owt. They took it all.’
She followed the woman inside, carrying the brimming bucket of water and splashing it over her boots. She noticed as she entered that there were clumps of mud on the floor, mud from the river bank that must have dropped from her boots when she came in.
She bent to scoop it up. ‘I’m sorry, – on tha clean floor an’ all. I’ll clean it up if tha’ll give me a floor clout.’
Mrs Trott fetched a cloth and handed it to her. Annie rubbed enthusiastically at the wide wooden boards, spreading the mud and leaving a brown stain.
‘Give it here.’ Mrs Trott snatched back the cloth. ‘I can see tha never kept a tidy house. Brought up to be a lady, was tha? Why, it’s worse now than it was afore tha started.’
Annie stood shamefaced. She never had been housewifely, and as she glanced from under her lowered lashes, she saw that Mrs Trott was, that the room, though poor, was clean. The floorboards, wide enough for a ship’s deck, and the table top, were scrubbed to paleness and the hearth swept free of ash.
‘Aye,’ she answered with a sorrowing sigh. ‘Me ma would never learn me. She said as she wanted better things for me, ’wanted me to be a lady’s maid, or summat like it.’ She hid her red, roughened hands beneath her shawl as she spoke and hoped that Mrs Trott hadn’t noticed them. ‘She’d turn in her grave if she thought I’d come to this.’
Mrs Trott humphed and gazed with narrowed lids. ‘And did tha ma give thee ’fancy petty, or did tha get it by some other means?’
Annie looked down to the hem of her skirt. It was muddy and torn and where the torn flap dangled, a glimpse of yellow satin showed. It was her only piece of luxury. When she had gathered her belongings before her swift departure, she had dressed in all the clothing she possessed; her cotton shift and flannel petticoat, her black woollen skirt, a grey woollen shirt that had been Alan’s, two shawls and her old, worn boots.
She had almost left behind the shiny petticoat with its edging of lace, not wanting to be reminded of him who had given it to her. But the habit of acquisition, acquired at an early age, when something unwanted could be sold for food, had never left her, and she had reluctantly drawn it on beneath her skirt.
‘It was me ma’s,’ she began, and then saw the hankering gleam in the old woman’s eyes. ‘Onny thing I’ve left to remind me. I’ll never part with it, never.’
Disappointment showed in Mrs Trott’s face. ‘Tha can stay ’till after supper. I can’t be fairer than that.’
Annie stayed silent, then sighing turned as if to leave.
‘Tha can sleep one night. Then tha must be off.’
‘Can I sleep in ’feather bed?’
‘Nay.’ Mrs Trott looked shocked. ‘That’s Mr Trott’s bed.’
Annie considered. ‘Can I have a sleep now, while he’s out? Then tonight I’ll sleep anywhere tha says.’
A frown creased the woman’s forehead, but Annie lifted the hem of her skirt. ‘It’s best satin tha can buy. Feel it. Go on, feel how shiny and slippery it is.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can part with it. What would me poor ma think?’
‘All right.’ Mrs Trott gave in. ‘Tha can sleep in ’bed ’till he comes home. But tonight tha’ll sleep on ’floor. I’ll not share my bed wi’ strangers.’
Annie slipped off her top skirt and then slowly as if unwilling, whilst Mrs Trott waited anxiously, she stepped out of the petticoat and handed it over to her eager hands. She unfastened her boots and the cloth which bound her feet to avoid blisters, and sank into the softness of the feather bed.
‘Them’s us own ducks.’ Mrs Trott nodded, at the mattress, stroking the petticoat lovingly. ‘Tha’ll not sleep on better, even if tha got to be a lady, which tha won’t.’
Annie didn’t answer. Sleep was stealing over her as the warmth of the bed claimed her, and within seconds she drifted away. Then some innate alarm woke her and she felt urgently about her waist for her bag of money. It was there, beneath her flannel petticoat. Reassured, she clasped it in her hand and fell fast asleep.
It was whispering which woke her, and begrudgingly she lifted heavy eyelids. The room was gloomy as the light outside had faded, but by the glow of the fire, she saw Mrs Trott sitting on the stool by the fireside, and opposite her, with his back to the bed where Annie lay, was a man. His hair lay in curls on his shoulders, so it wasn’t Mr Trott, whose hair on his head was sparse and grey, though he had an abundance of beard; the man turned his head as he was speaking and she saw the glint of gold in his ear.
She closed her eyes quickly and listened, but they were speaking with such low voices that she couldn’t catch their words. She was certain that it was the man she had seen last night skulking about the haven. Should she pretend that she had never seen him? He may wish that she hadn’t, for he could only have been up to mischief. From her life by the river, she knew enough about shipping and its
cargo to know that there could be valuable goods lying in the crates by the waterside. Then too, he may wish to know why she had been there, alone, in the darkness.
There was the scraping of a chair as someone stood up, and the fall of footsteps near the bed, she opened her eyes and gazed into a round, dimpled face and a smiling mouth with a gap between the front teeth.
Brown eyes looked down at her. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m a friend of the Trotts’. Are you well rested?’
‘Aye,’ she said, and reached for her skirt which was lying at the end of the bed.
He moved away and turned his back. A gentleman? She slipped on the skirt and stood up. Nay. Why would there be a gentleman here, chatting so intimately with Mrs Trott?
‘Mrs Trott tells me that you are travelling to York.’ He smiled amiably and lit the lamp which Mrs Trott had brought to the table.
Annie nodded. She felt uneasy. This man wouldn’t be so easy to mislead. Behind his charm was an intelligence superior to hers.
‘Aye, that was my intent.’
‘It’s a very fair town. One that I know quite well.’
She was dismayed. Now she was caught. If he should question her of the whereabouts of the place she had claimed as her home, she couldn’t tell him. She knew not a street or alley by name.
‘You’ll know the Shambles of course? Petergate? Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate? Jubbergate? Yes of course, you will,’ he added, as dumbly she nodded in agreement. ‘And no doubt you’ll be familiar with the snickets and ginnels which are buried in the heart of the town? Yes indeed, who wouldn’t know those familiar streets who had lived their lives there?’
She stared as he drew a chair to the table. What was he talking about? What language was he using? He indicated that she should be seated and then pulled a stool towards her and sat down.
Mrs Trott removed the steaming kettle from the fire and made a dish of tea, bringing it to the table and putting a cup in front of him.
