You've had no breakfast; I'll make some fresh porridge.'
And she put the tips of her fingers on his arm and turned him about. They went forward and into the cottage.
Bruce flopped down into a chair near the table and, looking at his mother, he said, 'He stopped at the end of the lane. He must have stood on the seat, because I could see all of him. He stood looking back here.'
' Stood looking back here? On the seat? How long?'
'Oh, just for a minute, perhaps.'
'Could he have forgotten something?'
'What was there to forget? He's got the piglets, he's got the sheep; perhaps he was sorry he didn't take the eggs. But he said, didn't he? that they'd be mulch by the time he got there, even if he'd had them on the seat with him.'
She was now lying on her side, half raised from her pillows by supporting herself with the hand flat on the tick, and she continued to look at her son where he sat, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and her voice was quiet as she said, 'You feeling bad again?'
It was a moment before he raised his head to answer her: 'No,' he said; 'not any worse than usual; but I'm worried, Ma. I've got a feeling on me about him. I know I shouldn't have let him go in by himself.'
'Lad, as he's told you many a time, he used always to go in by himself at one time, for his own father was pretty much like he is now, doing anything to get out of work of any kind; in fact, he was worse because he didn't spend any of his time whittling a stool or a bowl or a platter, the only thing he was good at was snoring. Oh, don't worry your head, lad. When it gets a bit warmer get yourself out in the sun and sit there and thank the Lord you're still alive. And I must admit that's only because of Mister Richard, and I've thought a lot about that, y'know. Life's funny: it gives tit for tat: you saved him and he saved you. Tit for tat, that's life.'
The weather had changed again back to drizzle, and by the afternoon the sky had darkened so much Rose Shaleman said, 'Light the lamp, girl.'
As Jinnie did so, she thought to herself that it was the first time it had been lit in the afternoon; the mistress was very mean where oil was concerned; sometimes she even had to grope around the kitchen by the firelight, especially if the men weren't in. But there was very rarely any glow from the fire to give light to the room: if the kale-pot was not hanging above the flame, the kettle on the hob would be obscuring it.
Jinnie gave a pleasurable sigh as she placed the lamp on the table, moving aside the jar of dog-daisies she had picked that afternoon. It was one of the rare pleasures of her life now to slip along to the copse above the pool where, during the seasons, different wild flowers would appear - she remembered her joy at seeing her first cowslips - but she had, until lately, never thought about picking them, in case her mistress should call them falderals. This word had first come to her notice when she had suggested that she cut a bit off the bottom of the window curtains to make a little frill to cover the ugly hooks that pinned them to the window frame: 'We haven't time for your falderals here,' Rose Shaleman had almost barked at her. 'Cut the bottom off to stick on the top ? Did you ever hear of it!' Nevertheless, she had made no such remark when Jinnie had first dared to place the wild flowers on the table, saying tentatively, 'I thought you might like to look at them, missis.'
There had been no response to this, but no censure either.
She now glanced to where Bruce was sitting in a somewhat lopsided cane chair. This had been retrieved from the rubbish piled in one end of the barn after Bruce, having lain on the biscuit tick on the floor for three days and nights, found that he still needed support for his back, support which could not be given by one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. And so, Mrs Shaleman had badgered her husband into raking out the chair and lacing its broken seat with whatever pliable pieces of cane he could find.
Because of the chair's shape, Bruce had to lean back and stretch out his legs; but he was not leaning back now, .
and his mother must have noticed it, for she called to him, 'It's no use worrying your guts out: drunk or sober he'll be back. Oh yes, he knows how far he can
go. Girl, make some griddle cakes and we'll have a sup of tea with it.'
'Oh yes, missis. Yes.'
Jinnie liked making griddle cakes: there was nothing tastier than hot griddle cakes with butter on, and to have a sup of tea with it and the lamp burning brightly and, as today, the fire glowing because the kale-pot was shelved, was grand.
While making the pastry for the griddle cakes she smiled across the table at Bruce, who was now lying watching her, and as she was about to put the griddle on the hot iron plate she said to him, 'Now, don't move your feet, they're not in the way;' but when he drew up his knees, she shook her head at him, and he, smiling for the first time that day, shook his head back at her.
She was feeling happy. The house was quiet without the mister here, and nice and homely. Of course, he spent most of his time outside or in the barn, but then she was always aware that he was about. Now there were just the missis and Mister Bruce, and it was different, lovely.
She made the griddle cakes, and she buttered them; she made the tea; then putting one piece on a tray with a mug of tea, she took it to the bed. Then she gave another to Bruce who, chewing on a piece of griddle said, 'They melt in your mouth. You're a fine cook, Jinnie,' and in reply to the compliment, she smiled widely at him, only for a voice from the bed to say, 'Don't swell her head.
That's enough of that,' which took away some of her joy.
A few minutes later, sitting at a corner of the table with her mug and a piece of her pastry, an idea came to her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before, but supposed it was because every evening the mister was always in the kitchen. Now that there were only the three of them, and as the mistress couldn't read, and neither could Mister Bruce, which surprised her, how would it be to bring her Bible down and read them a story? She herself was a very slow reader, she had to admit, even having to break up some words; but then she knew all the Bible stories off by heart; well, the Gospel ones, anyway, and she would be able to tell them the story; that's if the missis would like it.
She looked towards the bed and said, 'Missis?'
'Yes, girl?'
'After . . . after I've made the meal the night, and seen to the hens and pig swill and things, would . . .?'
'Yes, would I what?'
'Would you like me to get me Bible down and ... and read you a story? I can read a bit. Well, I'm slow; but you see I could tell you the story. What I mean is . . .'
Only very rarely had she heard her mistress chuckle or laugh, but now her laughter started on a chuckle and it brought Jinnie to her feet to look apprehensively towards Bruce, who also was smiling broadly, as he nodded at her, saying, 'That would be nice, Jinnie. Yes, it would.
It would indeed be nice to hear a story. Wouldn't it, Ma?'
The laughter from the woman in the bed died away.
Jinnie looked towards her mistress, who was wiping her eyes on the end of the sheet; then, after sniffing several times, she said, 'I wouldn't have said it's any use bringing down your Bible the night, because himself will be back and there'll be lots of things to talk about.
But there must be another hour afore the meal and the animals need seeing to, so away up to your loft and get your Bible and let's hear you read. Wonders will never cease.'
After Jinnie had scampered from the room Rose Shaleman said, 'I didn't know she could read, not really. She's spoken of the Bible stories the parson used to tell them and which they had to listen to every Sunday whether they liked it or not, poor beggars . . . but read.'
'She's a bright girl altogether.'
I 'Oh, I give you that. She's bright all right, too bright in some ways, could be cheeky if she was given half an inch.'
'You don't know when you're on a good thing, Ma.'
'What d'you mean?' His mother's tone was tart now.
'Just what I say. There's such a thing as appreciation.
She c
ame here, not so long ago, little more than a child; then she became a girl; and I can tell you she won't remain one much longer. And another thing; she's got a thinking mind and, putting her growing and the thinking mind together, she must ask herself why she's stuck here.'
'What's up with you, man? We took her from the workhouse; she was a tinker's girl.'
'Yes, she was a tinker's girl; but you didn't know the tinker and why he was a tinker. By what she has told me, he wasn't a very successful tinker but he was an intelligent ofie, and he passed a lot on to her. As I see it, it was very unfortunate for her he had to die when he did; but it's been pretty fortunate for us. Just think of the three you had before her. The house has never been so clean for years; nor, while I'm on, I must say it, have we ever eaten so well, either. Her cooking gets better as the weeks go by.'
'My, my! She has found a champion in you, hasn't she?'
'Well, she had to find a champion in somebody, Ma,
'cos she didn't find it in your elder son or your husband, and if I remember, right from the beginning you haven't done much yourself to encourage her to stay.'
'Well, well! Do I smell a rat?'
He pulled himself up from the basket chair and put his hand out and gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, saying, 'No; you don't smell any rats, Ma, but if you're not careful you might again smell the stink of that bed you're lying in; and this kitchen will become the pigsty it was before; she's got friends down below and she could up and go the morrow and get service in some decent place.'
There was a telling silence before his mother spoke again, when, quietly, she said, 'What's come over you?
You never used to go on like this.'
'No, perhaps not. What maybe it is, I've grown up too; grown up to the fact that I've been a damn fool to spend all me years up here. If I hadn't, I would have taken the offer of Arthur Wentworth, when I was twelve, to work on his farm. I know now that life would have been different. D'you know something, Ma?' He bent his body towards her. 'That girl, as you keep calling her, knows more about the outside world than I do; she knows more about people and their ways; aye, and what they think.'
'You're thinking of taking her on, aren't you? And I suppose ... oh yes, you could do worse. She'd keep you clean and snug and well fed.'
'For God's sake, Ma! Sometimes . . .' He broke off as the door opened and Jinnie entered, and she, seeing him standing by the table, said quickly, 'You want something, Mister Bruce?'
And at this he turned from the table and flopped into the chair again and lay back before he answered her, saying quietly, 'No, Jinnie; just to hear you read.'
She put her Bible on the table, then pulled the lamp towards her; and, opening the small book, she thumbed through it before saying, 'I'll read you about Jesus going into the desert and being tempted by the Devil. It's the first story in the New Testament by Saint Matthew.
Parson McKane went all through the Testament; Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' Then on a little giggle she said, 'There are some funny rhymes about Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' But she went no further, realising that this was no time to bring in funny rhymes.
And so she began to read: 'The Gospel according to Saint Matthew.' She now nicked her eyes upwards, wetted her lips, and began in earnest: 'Then . . . was
. . . Jesus . . . led ... up ... of the Spi . . . rit into the wil-der-ness to be temp-ted of the Devil.' She now looked up and smiled from the one to the other as if very satisfied with her progress; and when neither of them made a remark, she went on, 'And when he
. . . had fas . . . ted forty days and forty nights, he was after . . . wards hungered.' Again her eyes nicked upwards before she continued, saying, 'And when . . .
the . . . temp-ter . . .' But Bruce's voice broke in quietly, saying, 'You're a good reader Jinnie, but you could tell the story yourself just as well.'
'You think so?'
'Yes; like you told me about the one where the farmer lost one sheep and he was sorry about it, likely afraid that, as you said, it wouldn't find its way back, so he went out and searched for it.' And here she nodded at him, saying, 'Yes, I liked that one about the lost sheep. Well, then, about Jesus going up the mountain.
In one of the other Gospels they say it was a desert and there was nothing to eat there at all, but that he was praying all the time, and when he got very famished the Devil appeared and he said, "Look, if you're so hungry and you're so well in with God--" Yes; yes, that's what he did say, that's how Parson McKane told it; Parson Freeman said the Devil said something different; but anyway, what he did say was, "You see them stones? Well, you being so clever like, why don't you turn them into bread . . .?"'
'Well, why didn't he?'
Jinnie stared wide-eyed towards Rose Shaleman as she replied quickly, 'Well, 'cos it would've been a sin and Jesus was up there to get away from all sin, and he told the Devil where to go to. At least, that's how Parson McKane told it: "Get off with you about your business," he said. But the Devil wasn't finished with Jesus and the next thing he offered him was to be a kind of boss of all the towns roundabout, and the cities an' all, everything, and when Jesus would have none of it, what d'you think the Devil did then? He put it to Jesus that if he bowed down to him he would give him everything he wanted, everything.'
'Lucky fellow.'
'Aw! Ma.'
'All right, I was just saying he was a lucky fellow. Go on, girl.'
Jennie hesitated for some seconds before she started again: 'Well, God was very very pleased with Jesus' her voice was very low now - 'and He gave him food for his soul.'
'Food for his soul?' The words had come from the missis. 'Where did he keep his soul? You're just making this up, girl. I think we've heard enough.'
'I'm not making it up, missis; He did give him food for his soul and his soul is next to his heart. Parson McKane said the soul is so near the heart it's almost one, and he always said that people should look to their souls more than to their bodies. I wasn't making it up . . .'
Bruce had risen from his chair again and he said, 'No; you weren't, Jinnie;' then almost glaring now across the ms
lamplit room to his mother, he said, 'My mother is an ignorant woman. But it isn't her fault; she never had the chance to listen to a parson, as you did. And I enjoyed your telling. And you read fine, but go now and put your Bible away, then see that the hens are all in, for who knows when Mr Fox or any weasel will pass by.'
She made no retort to his light chatter, but went quietly from the kitchen; and he was about to resume his seat again when his mother's voice rasped at him,
'It's come to something, hasn't it, when you can insult me in front of a workhouse skivvy?'
Bruce reacted so quickly, she hitched herself away from him.
'Ma,' he said, his tone deep with anger, 'for two pins I'd send her packing down to her friends: and me, I would take to the road; even feeling as I do I'd take to the road; but before I left this quarter I would call in on Nellie Kingsley and tell her you'd be glad to have her back, gin bottle an' all. Now mind you, this is no idle threat. I can't do it at this moment because I'm in no fit state, but I'll soon be me own man again; and I'm warning you, it could happen just like that,' and the crack he made with his fingers caused her eyes to blink.
'I've stayed with you because you were a sick woman, but sometimes I have to wonder just how sick you really are.'
Her voice came as a whimper now, saying, 'What's come over you? You never used to be like this to me.'
'And you never used to be like the way you are now, Ma.'
She whimpered again, saying, 'It's just that since she came into this house, you've changed.'
He drew himself up, and it was a second or so before he said slowly, 'Yes, perhaps you're right there, for she brought something with her, not only cleanliness and a smattering of comfort that she scraped out of this hovel, but she brought another world with her. All right, it might have been a smattering of the workhouse world, but unconsciously she must have stud
ied all the people she met, even in there, and is able to describe them in the same way as she related that bit of the Gospel the night.' He now shook his head. 'Oh, Ma, you would never understand.'
As he turned away her voice, high now, cried at him,
'No! I'll not understand, because every time I look at the back of her head I can see my son swinging from that hook' - she pointed to the ceiling - 'brought low, made to look like an idiot by that ugly beast. I know what he was, no-one knows better, but I bred him and to see him treated less than a man - in fact like some animal in the slaughterhouse - did something to me. So there you have it. And another thing I'll tell you: I always made more of you than I did of him because I wanted you by me side; but now I know you're farther away from me than he is, and he's away across the sea. Even Mister Richard didn't make the difference in you that she has.'
'Perhaps it is as I've said before, Ma: I appreciate a clean room and a decent meal now and again, something I've never had, not even when you were about.' And on this he turned and went down the room, though not back to his seat: he opened the kitchen door, and when he closed it behind him it wasn't gently.
Outside, he stood looking up into the sky. The darkness was coming sooner than usual, bidden by the dullness of the day, so his deeper thoughts told him; then leaning for support against the wall of the cottage, he began vigorously rubbing at his legs, telling himself he must pull himself together, he must get outside and walk . . . walk, walk and get himself as far away as possible from that room.
He straightened up now, and walked past the pigsties, noting that the three large pigs, amid loud grunts, were now licking the remains of the swill.
When he came to the barn he stood with his hand on the stanchion and looked into the dim length of it. It was a good barn. The far end was warm and snug. Oh yes, his father had made another house for himself. But there would have to be changes. Tomorrow morning he would tell his father that if he wanted to spend his time in the barn, well and good, but that he must turn it into a workshop. He was very handy at making those little crackets, and there would be a ready sale for them in Hexham, as well as for other odds and ends. Well, instead of just putting his hand to work between dozing, he'd be earning his keep. And if he didn't like that, then he could attend the sheep, those on the lower hills. He had lived on his bad leg for far too long.
The Tinker's Girl Page 16
