'You've had it a long time? What is it, Max?'
'I've . . . I've had it a ... long time. N-not mine . . .
yours,' he explained and thrust the case at her.
'What is it?' she said, feeling the leather pouch.
Now, his hand over hers, he slowly withdrew from the pouch a knife and fork and spoon. They were bone handled, but they were discoloured and the knife was somewhat rusty.
'Y-your father.'
'My father's?'
His head bobbed slowly.
'But how? Why?'
'Clothes b-burnt, belt an' all. That--' his forefinger was wagging again towards the pouch, and he demonstrated as he said, 'Deep ... in ... lining.'
Slowly she turned her head away from him and the pouch and looked across the water, and just as if he were sitting in the middle of it, she envisaged her father, his face smiling as he wiped the knife and fork that he had been using and the spoon which she had used. She could see him rubbing them and rubbing them until they shone, then slipping them back into the pouch.
In a quick movement she swung herself round on her knees and, putting her hand out to Max, she said, in a broken voice, 'I ... I remember, Max, eating
with these. Dada using a knife and fork and me the spoon . . . Oh yes, yes. But I had completely forgotten about them.' She paused before asking him: 'Does anyone know you kept them?'
He shook his head quickly, and then, pouting his lips, he blew out his cheeks and said, 'No . . . no. Hide. Got
. hole in the . . . boiler-house.'
'Oh, you hid them in the boiler-house, in the bricks?'
He was grinning at her now as he repeated, 'In the . ..
bricks. Loose.' And he demonstrated the pulling out of a brick.
She answered his grin with a wide smile. 'Not supposed to have knives. They would have taken it.' And she now tenderly replaced the knife and fork and spoon in the pouch, then pressed it against her breast for a moment before she said, 'Thank you, Max. Oh, thank you. Now I have something of Dada it makes me feel better, not so ... lost. You know what I mean?'
'I ... know. Yes. I ... know.'
'You are very like my father, Max.'
At this the big man put his head back and laughed out loud, then said, 'Like . . . nobody . . . me. Nobody.'
'No? Perhaps you're right.' Her face was solemn as she nodded at him. 'There are very few people as kind as you. I couldn't remember even having a barley sugar until you gave me one. I don't know how I would have fared back there if it hadn't been for you and Miss Caplin.'
'Miss Cap . . . lin good lady . . . very.'
'Yes, she is a very good lady. She told me we'll pass the cottage where she comes to on her leave days. Her aunts live there.'
'Yes; I ... know. Dyke . . . Cottage. Duckworth ladies.'
'Yes, her aunts. Have you been up to this farm where I'm going, Max?'
He shook his head. 'No ... not that . . . f-far. Well up ... hills. Windy.'
'I like the wind. I like it to blow through my hair.'
She patted the top of her hat and he said, 'Bonny hair.'
Her face straight again, she said. 'They were going to cut it off; but Miss Caplin came to the rescue. You know what she said?'
He shook his head.
'She told the labour mistress that if she let it grow for another year or two my plaits could be sold, and you could get money for hair like mine. I was very sick about it, because it was only . . . well . . . well . . .'
She was stumped for words when he said, 'Re ...prieve?'
'Oh yes.' Her face brightened. 'You are clever, you know, Max. Reprieve, yes. Like they get when they're going to be hung.'
They were both laughing now. Then, jumping to his feet, he said, ' Me get . . . hung . . . get . . . back if I
. . . don't hurry,' and he pulled the horse reluctantly from its feeding, before helping her up and back on to the high seat of the cart.
And when he was again seated beside her, they smiled at each other broadly . . .
Presently the road sloped and twisted downwards until it crossed the river and then divided. Max did not turn the horse towards Whitfield but took the road that would climb towards Alston. After a few minutes
they passed a narrow lane, and Max, pointing back to it, said, 'D-Dyke Cottage.'
'It's as Miss Caplin said, you can't see it from the road.'
'No. No. Hidden . . . not much . . . further now, JJinnie.'
'You say I'll be met?'
'Yes. They said n-next to the . . . turning . . . stile.'
'Oh, there's a stile?' She was now sitting on the edge of her seat straining her eyes forward and upwards to the rising land all about her. Even from this partly wooded road it looked bare and lonely, and of a sudden she swung round and gripped Max's arm with both hands, saying, 'You . . . you won't forget me, Max, will you?'
For a moment she thought he was about to pull the horse to a stop, but then, transferring the reins to one hand again, he took hold of hers as he said fervently,
'Never! N-never forget. Some time I ... I ask holi . . .
day.'
'And you would come and see me?'
His head bobbed again.
'Oh, thank you, Max.'
'I ... I write you.'
'A letter? You'd write me a letter?'
'Ah-ha . . . ah-ha.' He seemed both amused and pleased by her surprise.
'Oh, I'd love a letter. I can read a bit.'
He tugged on the reins again. Then the next minute they were round the corner and there was the stile, with a man seated upon it.
On their approach he slid to the ground. And when Max drew the horse to a stop in the narrow road, the man stood staring up at them. He did not speak, nor did Max, but he, jumping down, held out his arms to Jinnie. And when she was standing on the rough road she was able to look closely at this man who, she supposed, would be her master, or at least one of them. She vaguely remembered him, for she had only seen him and his father for the matter of a minute. And the minute had been mostly spent in their listening to the matron, who was detailing her character to a very small man and his tallish son.
The man spoke for the first time. 'Well, you've got here,' he said, 'and almost on time.' He looked from her to Max and gave a nod of approval. And Max, smiling at him said, 'Quicker . . . th-than train.'
At this the young man answered his smile with a laugh, saying, 'Well, if you say so.' Then turning to Jinnie, he said, 'Have you got a bundle?'
Even as he was speaking, Max's hand was reaching behind the seat and pulling the hessian bag forward, and when he handed it to her the man asked, 'Is that her lot?' and Jinnie answered, 'Yes, that's my lot.'
There followed a moment's silence; then the man said, 'Well, we'd better be making a move.' And at this; she turned to Max and, impulsively stretching up her arms, she drew his head downwards and placed a kiss
on his cheek. Then, grabbing up the bundle, she moved towards the grass verge, leaving the two men looking at each other.
Max's voice came deeper than ever when he said,
'She be ... all right . . . treated?'
The young man seemed to hesitate before he said,
'Oh yes. Yes, she'll be all right. Don't worry. You a relation?'
'Re-lation? No.'
'Well, she seems very fond of you ... So long. You picking something up in Whitfield?'
'Calf. . .bull calf.'
'Oh, a bull calf. Well, well! From Maddison's I suppose?'
Max thought a moment before he replied, 'Aye, Madd
. . . ison's.'.
The young man now pointed up the road: 'It widens out a few yards further on,' he said. 'You could turn'. comfortably there.'
Max looked towards where the man was pointing,'
then at Jinnie and said quietly, 'So long.'
'So long, Max.'
She stood for a moment on the grass verge before walking towards the stile. The man was now on the
other side
of it, and as she went to climb it, he said,
'Give your bundle here.'
This she did. Then, dropping down on to the narrow path, she walked behind the man who was now a step or so in front of her. That was until she heard the horse neigh. At this, she turned swiftly to where the cart was passing the stile. Max was looking in her direction and when she waved to him, he waved back. She stood watching until the cart moving away disappeared around the bend in the road, when the man's voice brought her attention round to him again: 'You fond of him?'
She blinked the moisture from her eyes two or three times before she answered briefly, 'Yes.'
'He an inmate in the workhouse?'
'Yes.'
'Big fella. Can't say I've seen bigger; giant size.' He smiled at her now as he added, 'Wouldn't like to come against him in an argument, like.'
'No.' She jerked her chin upwards and repeated, 'No, you wouldn't. But. . . but he doesn't fight.' She paused, thinking of the dog incident, then added, 'If he got angry at someone doing something bad, he might.'
The man turned and looked at her closely, and she returned his look for a moment. Then she watched him look ahead as he asked, 'You worked on a farm before?'
'No. But Max has. He helps the house farmer a lot.
He's very good with animals.'
Ignoring this last remark, the man, still looking ahead, said, 'Then you have no idea of work on a farm? Any kind of a farm?'
Again she said, 'No,' but more definitely this time, then added, 'I understood I'm just for cooking and looking after a sick lady.'
He turned his head sharply towards her and his tone flat, he said, 'It's my mother you'll have to tend. And she's no lady, she's a working woman; or she was.
And the farm: well, the house is very small.' Then his voice rising, he said, 'You've got to understand that life is rough up here.' His hand jerked past the peak of his cap as if he were indicating the sky and not the hills ahead.
Her voice was low and almost a mutter as she said,
'I'm used to hard work.'
'There's hard work and hard work. It all depends where it's placed, and who you're working for.' But then his tone changed and, looking at her again, he said, 'I don't suppose things were easy in the workhouse.' I
'No, they were not. I did me share of scrubbing stone; corridors after the sewing day was over.'
'They said you could cook; can you? Were you in the kitchen?'
It was a moment or so before she replied, 'No, not: there.'
'Then where did you learn to cook?'
'Out . . . outside, in service.'
'Oh!' His step altered. 'You've been out afore?'
'Yes.'
There was another pause before he said, 'They didn't say. Why did you come back?'
When she didn't answer, he said, 'Like that, is it?'
Then he was actually surprised when she rounded on him and cried in no small voice, 'No! it wasn't like that, or whatever you're meaning, mister. I had a reason for coming back, and it was a good one.'
There was a half smile on his face now as he said, 'Oh aye? Well, whatever it was, if it can stir you like that, it must have been a good one, as you said.'
They were walking up a steep incline now and when she began to gasp for breath, he said, 'You'll get used to them. There's three like this, short; but after that it'll be easy going.'
As he said, there were three short steep hills before them. And when she reached the top of the third she stood gasping for breath, while at the same time being surprised at the scene before her, for it stretched away gently into the far distance, where she espied a huddle of small buildings. But to each side of her there rose hills, dotted here and there with sheep. The man, too, was standing still and, pointing, first to one side then to the other, he was saying, 'Our land stretches away on both sides, but this is where it begins.' He now lifted a foot and stamped his heel into the hard ground.
Looking up at him now, she said,' 'Tis bonny; round about, I mean. 'Tis bonny.' Then she asked, 'How far is your farmhouse,' indicating the huddle of buildings ahead, 'from the road?'
'A mile.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'A little more, perhaps.' And now he smiled at her, as he said,
'Distances are deceiving. You think you've come a long way now, but although it looks plain sailing to the house, that's a longer stretch than you've already travelled.'
She looked back down the hills, then into the distance again, and she exclaimed, 'Really!'
'Aye, really. Flattish plains are deceiving. Aye, well, come on. If we intend to cross it we'd better keep goin', hadn't we?' He was smiling at her in a kindly fashion, and she smiled back as she thought, I'll get to like him, that's if ... She didn't allow her thoughts to pinpoint the main reason why, on the other hand, she might get to dislike him.
They had walked some distance when she realised that his head was bent all the time as if he were picking out a path that wasn't there. She realised he was in I
deep thought, and so her voice was muted as she said,! 'Mister.'
'Yes?' His head was erect again.
'Are there many in your family?'
'No, not many. Just my parents and my brother and me. And you don't have to call me
"mister". Keep that for me da. My name is Bruce.'
'Just the four of you?'
'That's all.' Then he added, 'Mainly three. My; brother works in the lead mine.' He threw his head back as if indicating the mine.
'And he's not home
every night; mostly at weekends.'
She wanted to ask, 'Is your mother very sick?' but told herself she must be if she were unable to look after her man and her son. Anyway, she would soon know. But one thing seemed certain, there wasn't a squad of them '
and them not being gentry, like them in the place she had been in, using six pieces of cutlery each to eat a meal and expecting them to be polished before you put them away, especially the forks, in case a tiny speck of food had got stuck in them. Besides which, having to iron even the lady's shifts and polish the boots. But there wouldn't be much need for boot polishing up here,
she thought. The ground might seem firm, but she had already squelched in one or two soggy patches.
As they came within viewing distance of the buildings her step slowed, and this brought his eyes down to her, although he made no comment.
Jinnie's open mouth could not fully convey her surprise, for the huddle of buildings she was seeing and
which she had imagined to be the outhouses, were mainly the farm cottage itself. Her impression of a large building must have been created by the hill that
seemingly loomed immediately behind.
Her steps seemed to be dragging now as she neared the cottage, which was brought about not only by her legs being tired from the long, uphill trek, but also from the feeling of trepidation that was now creeping
up through her whole body. The place was so small . . .
and poor-small. The workhouse had been big, every part of it, day rooms, dormitories, sewing room, laundry, all big . . . and clean. Oh yes, clean. A scrubbing brush, blue mottle soap and aching arms saw to that.
'Come in. Come along in.' He was beckoning her from the doorway, for she had stopped some feet away.
After taking in a short breath that sounded in her own ears like a gasp, she walked towards him, then past him and into the room. And there she stood, her expression one of amazement at what confronted her.
The room was larger than it had appeared from the outside. In the middle of it stood a table covered with oilcloth on which were piled pans and dirty dishes. A fire was smouldering on a low-barred hearth, above which dangled a black kale-pot suspended from a chain attached to a cross-bar just below the chimney opening.
To one side of the fire was what could be an oven and to the other a hob on which stood a kettle. Further along one wall was a rack of open shelves, although what they held she could not make out, for they were lost in the dimness of that end of the roo
m.
Flat against the wall at the other side of the fireplace stood a long wooden settle.
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a door leading from the wall to the left of her. But what reluctantly drew her gaze to the wall opposite was the sight of a woman, who appeared to be lying in the wall, although the light from the square window to the side of the door was not enough to allow her to be seen clearly.
'Come and say hello to my ma.' The man's hand was on her arm and he drew her around an armchair; then with his foot he thrust a single chair under the table. And then, there she was, standing almost face to face with the
woman, whose eyes were set in deep sockets, provided by the cheekbones. Her nose was thin and pinched and the lips of her large mouth were formless. The skin was tightly drawn over her whole face, giving the effect of its having been moulded in parchment. It was a frightening face, until the lips moved and the woman spoke.
'You've got here, then, hinny. But you're much younger than I thought maybe.'
Jinnie drew in a sigh of relief, for the woman's voice, although much rougher, common like, sounded kind, like her son's.
'The house is in a mess, lass. The men are no good with crocks. Anyhow, there's no time, with Bruce there' she nodded towards her son - 'and his da out with the sheep most times. And Hal only putting his neb in the door when it suits him. He's my other son,' she added by way of explanation ... 'Can you cook, hinny?'
'Yes, missis. Well, a little bit. I can make bread and do fries; and,' she added, 'I have made a stew with dumplings.'
Jinnie now watched the wide mouth open further to disclose a set of broken yellow teeth, and her new mistress said, 'Oh, that'll be fine. Oh, you'll do well enough. The last one couldn't boil water, could she, Bruce?'
Her son smiled and said, 'Well, she could boil water, Ma. But it all tasted the same to me, the stuff that was in it, whether tea, meat or taties.'
Jinnie watched the woman lie back on her pillow now and as her chest began to heave she pressed her hands on it as if to still some emotion, perhaps laughter in this instance. Then in a thick muttered tone, she said, 'Show her the ropes, Bruce, show her the ropes.'
Pointing to a chest of drawers in the dim corner of the wall in which the bed was inserted, he said, 'That holds linen and such. All rough but hard wearing. There's a lot of it ready to wash outside.' He thumbed towards the door on the opposite wall. Then again pointing, he added, 'That ladder leads up to our sleeping quarters, those of me brother and me.'
The Tinker's Girl Page 2
