‘That there chicken don’t be going to get up and run from your plate, wench, so you tek the time you needs. There be no hurry.’ Turning her attention to Luke she placed another slice of meat on his plate, meeting his approving grin with a nod.
Beyond the window the sky darkened suddenly and a distant roar of thunder rolled from the distance.
‘Seems there be the mekin’s of a storm.’ The woman glanced at the ceiling then back to Saran. ‘If it be you have no liking for being soaked through then you be welcome to bide ’til it be passed and should it be it carries ’til the morning, well I ’ave no bed to offer but the fire will burn all night and there be a blanket apiece.’
A few hours beneath a roof, sheltered from the chill of night, a fireside in place of a hedge! It all seemed too good to be true, but the delighted look on Luke’s face said the offer was genuine and he, if not herself, would accept it. Perhaps she could stay for just a little while, a few hours’ rest, then she would go back the way she had come, go to a magistrate and tell what had happened, and somehow she would see Enoch Jacobs’s body buried in church grounds.
She had slept. Warm in the sweet-smelling blanket, Saran listened to the drum of rain against the tiny window. The storm the woman had foretold had broken but its sounds had not disturbed her. Nor had it wakened Luke. Sitting upright she glanced at the figure curled in a corner of the room. She would have liked to stay with this cheerful lad, been glad of his company for a few days more, but he would go on to a town while she must return to Willenhall. There was no need to rouse him, no need to explain her leaving: he would know the reason. Rising quietly, she folded the blanket then paused, holding it draped over one arm. What was said of Luke could not be said of Harriet Dowen. Luke would place no concern on being given no word of goodbye but that woman’s kindness did not deserve to be repaid in such a way; if nothing else, she deserved an explanation.
A movement of the curtain closing off the scullery had Saran turn quickly. The woman’s bright eyes were watching her.
‘I . . . I want to thank you, Mrs Dowen . . .’
Moving to the fire the woman poked the embers, freeing them of grey ash before feeding it fresh coals. ‘It don’t be Mrs.’ She straightened, holding the empty coal bucket in one hand. ‘I were never wed and never expected to be, for what man would tek a wench with a mark such as I carries? There was none in the hamlet of Bentley nor in the towns that stand beyond. Seems no man were willing to take on a woman scarred as I be.’
‘Then there was no man with sense!’ Saran answered quickly.
The smile touching the blemished mouth hinted at long-passed sadness. ‘Maybe . . . maybe.’ Gentle as the smile, the words came softly. ‘Whichever the reason, I were never offered for . . . but I be happy enough with life, I have my herbs which people often come here for, and helping them gives me content; it might be you could find a bit of the same before you returns the way you came. Oh there be no need of telling me your intent! It be obvious in your face. You carries a guilt, could be Harriet Dowen could ease it a little.’
How could this woman help her? Saran laid the blanket aside. Could she tell her where money enough could be earned to pay for Enoch Jacobs’s funeral . . . or where she might find her mother and sister?
‘You have your doubts as to what I says . . . that be your privilege.’ The woman turned towards the scullery. ‘Harriet Dowen don’t give where her don’t be asked.’
She had hurt the woman’s feelings. Harriet Dowen had read the guilt she carried and had offered help but she had also seen the refusal Saran knew showed in her eyes.
‘Mrs— Harriet,’ she said as the figure returned from setting the empty bucket in the scullery, ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I know, wench, I know.’ Her smile emerging once more, Harriet Dowen nodded. ‘You’ve given no offence but I’d tek it kindly if you’d share a pot of tea with me afore you goes on your way for it’s been a day or two since I had the pleasure of company.’
She could not refuse. Murmuring her thanks Saran set the cups while the older woman lifted the kettle from the bracket swung over the fire.
Minutes later, handing a cup to the seated woman, Saran felt their fingers brush and Harriet Dowen gasped as she drew her hand back.
‘Harriet!’ Saran swung the cup back on the table, ignoring the stain as it spilled tea on the white cloth. ‘Harriet, what’s wrong . . . are you ill?’
Harriet Dowen’s face had become chalk white, its red birthmark glowing a deeper crimson while her eyes seemed to stare into a space beyond her own room.
‘Oh, sweet Mother of Jesus!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, dear Lord, have mercy!’
4
‘Saran, Saran, what be wrong . . . be you all right?’
Awake in an instant, Luke was on his feet and across the room.
Still staring at Harriet, Saran did not see the lad’s face, anxious as her own, as he looked keenly at her.
‘It isn’t me,’ she answered, ‘it’s Harriet, she . . . she’s taken some sort of turn.’
A little colour returning to the white side of her face, Harriet Dowen pulled herself together, but she could not still the trembling of her hands as she asked for her cup. ‘No need for worrying,’ she said shakily, ‘and I be sorry to have wakened you, lad.’
‘But what happened . . . will I go for a doctor?’
‘No, lad, ’tis kind of you to offer but there be no doctor can cure Harriet Dowen of the mark her carries on the outside nor that which be inside.’
Was the woman who had been so generous to a couple of strangers ill . . . could it be she suffered from that same falling sickness a girl in the street next to theirs had suffered from, often taking a fit that left her trembling and drained of colour? Saran bent forward.
‘Can I get you anything . . . perhaps some potion?’ Concern uppermost in her mind she laid a hand on the woman’s arm, withdrawing it at the sharp gasp. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Perplexed, she took a step backward her hazel eyes troubled. ‘I should not have touched you.’
‘Saran child, sit down.’ Harriet laid her cup aside. ‘There be something I would have you know . . . no need for you to go out of the room, lad . . .’ She glanced at Luke who had started towards the door. ‘I wants you to hear what it is I have to say for I feel it circles yourself.’ Returning her bright look to Saran, she went on. ‘What you just seen, the shock that took me when your fingers touched against mine, be a thing which has happened to me since I was naught but a little wench stood at my mother’s knee. Sometimes when people touched me I would see things in my head, things that had to do with them, oft time it were their past that were shown me and other times it would be what was yet to come. That is how it be with you. Your fingers brushed mine and it was there, pictures vivid and clear, pictures of a woman lying atop two wenches, one no more’n seven or eight years; her were trying to protect ’em from the lash of a belt . . . a belt wielded by a thickset man, heavy-jowled, hair flaming like dull fire.’
Enoch Jacobs! Saran felt her insides tumble. The woman was describing Enoch Jacobs!
‘The man be known to you . . .’ Harriet was still speaking though the trembling of her hands was gone, ‘but he be no more, he was called – called to join the moon dancers.’
‘Who be the moon dancers? I ain’t never seen ’em. Be they an act at the Palace of Varieties?’
‘They be no act on no stage, lad, you’ll not see them in any music hall.’
‘But you said the man you seen in your ’ead had bin called to join the moon dancers!’ Luke was clearly dissatisfied with the answer he had received.
Harriet nodded but her eyes did not leave Saran’s face. This wench knew well the man spoken of, her body bore the marks of his brutality and her soul the scars of his malevolence. ‘What I said were what I saw.’ She spoke slowly, the words directed at the girl. ‘The man I speak of were called by the moon dancers; you think to return to the place where he stepped into the water, to find his body and see it s
et in holy ground, but them as frolics wi’ the moon dancers be many days in the finding, sometimes it be far from the spot they was called, sometimes they don’t be found at all.’
‘Be these moon dancers real?’
‘Real enough to the poor unfortunates as sees them at their revels.’ Harriet reached for the teapot. ‘Now, lad, you fetch a bucket of coal from the backyard and I’ll see about mekin’ you both a bite of breakfast, the day be sharp as yet and an empty stomach will have it feeling no kinder.’
Her mind in a turmoil, Saran followed the woman’s instructions, setting a pan of water to boil, adding oatmeal and salt, then stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon.
‘many days in the finding.’
The words turned in her mind.
‘sometimes they don’t be found at all.’
Was Harriet Dowen telling her that Enoch Jacobs would not be found . . . to search for the body would be fruitless? But that could mean he had not drowned, for if he had then his body would float. It would rise to the surface . . . be seen by the first person to pass on the towpath. With a breath suddenly held in her throat, fingers gripping the long-handled spoon, she stood motionless, one thought dominating every other. Maybe she was wrong in assuming Enoch Jacobs had drowned, perhaps he had managed to crawl out of the water, drag himself on to the opposite bank! The moon had been brilliant but its light had seemed to play only over one patch of the canal, centred in one small area, leaving the towpath and surrounding land in thick dark shadow. He could have hauled himself out, she would not have seen him in the blackness; and if he had woken some time later and stumbled away that would explain why neither she nor Luke had seen him that morning. He was alive! Enoch Jacobs was alive and she must find him, for only he could tell her who it was had purchased her mother and sister, only he could tell where they would be found.
Turning quickly, the hand that held the spoon caught against that of the woman setting bowls on the table. Catching her breath Harriet pulled back, her face paling as she clutched the angry red mark already visible on her skin.
It had been no scald had that mark appear on the back of Harriet Dowen’s hand. The porridge bowls washed and returned to their place on the dresser, Saran turned her attention to the table. Gathering the cloth she took it outside, shaking its white folds free of crumbs. The woman had been more than kind to them. Standing a moment, Saran stared over the barren stretch of ground empty of any other dwelling. She had come here to live, to escape the cruel jibes of children, so Harriet had told her as they had talked the night before. But had that truly been the reason she chose to live in isolation with only the brief visit of women wanting potions, or was it the heartache of having no man ask her to be his wife? It was a cruel trick of fate that had half of her face covered with a terrible birthmark.
‘Darlaston, you say that be the nearest town?’
Luke’s voice floated out followed by the quieter tone of Harriet.
‘One way be Darlaston, the other leads to Wednesbury. You’ll come to the spot where the track divides – it be marked with a signpost – but it’s nothing either promises ’cept toil and sweat. Life be hard for the folk there and ’tis not much they have to feed their own and less to give to strangers . . . so you tek the bread and cheese I’ve wrapped in that cloth . . .’
The woman had done enough for them already, they should not be taking more of her bounty. Turning quickly indoors, Saran put her feelings into words.
Taking the folded cloth the older woman smiled. ‘What I give, heaven returns—’ The rest never came for as her fingers touched briefly against Saran’s she drew her breath sharply.
Having witnessed the reaction several times, Luke was impatient with the two; why not say what was seen, what it was given the older one to know? Maybe it would be for the good of each of them. In a few minutes it would be too late for they would have taken their leave. Resolute at the thought he asked, ‘What is it you sees whenever you touches against Saran?’
Pushing the cloth into a drawer Harriet Dowen’s mouth set in a firm line. ‘That don’t be for you to ask.’
‘But last night you said it circled me, so it be only fair I should know what it is!’ The sense of injustice lacing his reply carried over to his blue eyes, showing clearly in the look he now turned to Saran.
Was she being unfair to him? Uncomfortable with his stare she turned her back, pretending to busy herself with a last-minute smoothing of her skirts. It was true what he said, Harriet had told Luke that that which was shown her in those ‘flashes’ somehow included him, so maybe it was only right he should know. Facing the older woman as she came from the scullery, Saran forced away her apprehension, saying evenly, ‘Harriet, would you tell me, please . . . who or what are the moon dancers . . . is Enoch Jacobs still living, and . . . and will I find my mother and sister soon?’
‘I can tell you of the dancers well enough, but to the rest I would needs tek your hand atwixt my own. If you wants to hear then sit you at the table.’
The first to take a seat, Luke held his breath. Could be he would be told to wait outside.
‘This be your asking, will it be for your listening and for no other?’
The meaning was clear to Saran. With her word the lad would be banished from the room . . . but he had not abandoned her when finding her trussed on the heath, he had released her and stayed with her when he could easily have sprinted away; he did not deserve to be closed out, what she heard he too would hear. Giving him the fleeting ghost of a smile she nodded at the woman settled at the table.
‘The moon dancers,’ Harriet began, ‘waits for the unwary. Like golden will o’ the wisps they flickers on the surface of the waters, their streams of light stretching and swaying, lifting and falling to a tune only the one that be called can hear, and once it be in the ears there can be no shutting it off . . . any man or woman, any child caught by its melody be forced to dance; unable to resist, wanting only to be part of that shining reel, they steps into river or canal – where they drown.’
‘Be they ghosts of dead folk . . . folk who drowned afore them?’ Luke’s awestruck question breached the small silence.
‘Who can tell,’ Harriet shook her head slowly, ‘be they spirits of folk dead or the spirits long believed to dwell in forest and water.’
‘But such don’t be real!’ the lad answered, superior in his knowledge.
‘Don’t they!’ Harriet swung him a quieting look. ‘Neither do the dancers of the moon, but they comes and when their dance be over so does the life of some poor soul; so tek care, lad, think wise and well afore you lets the words from your mouth.’
‘So it was a play of moonlight Enoch saw on the water, moonlight and cloud shadows. In his drunkenness he thought he was watching a troupe of dancers and when he tried to join them . . .’
‘That was when his life were teken.’ Spreading both of her hands on the well-scrubbed table, Harriet answered Saran’s unfinished question. ‘I doubts my words will prove untrue when I says the man you calls Enoch Jacobs be dead though his body will be long in the finding and then no man will know his face for it will have been eaten by life that swims in the waters.’
Life that swims in the waters? Luke shivered. He would take no more dips in the canal and the nearest he would come to covering his whole body with water would be a bowl filled from a kettle and a cloth to soak in it!
Harriet turned a blind eye to the lad’s sudden loss of superiority, hiding her smile at the rapid disappearance of youthful swagger. ‘Return you to that place if it be that is your purpose,’ she said to Saran, ‘but you’ll not have the finding of the man you called stepfather. Ask about him, talk of him to the magistrate if that be your wish, but that path be strewn with the rocks of heartache and it gives no lead to that you truly yearns to find.’
There was a sureness in the voice, a quiet certainty in that disfigured face. Saran sat silent with her thoughts. Harriet Dowen had no reason to deceive her, nothing to gain by turning her from h
er intent and what would be gained by mistrusting the woman? The blood in her veins telling her it would be no gain but misery, Saran answered with a question.
‘Leaving what is done to lie in the past, by not returning to Willenhall but going on, will I find my mother and sister?’
‘I’ll answer first by telling what it is has already been shown me, then you can judge whether it be you wants to place your hand in mind.’ Closing her eyes the woman breathed twice, long and slow, then, lifting her lids, she began.
‘I saw a man with flaming hair, a man with a smile upon his face but with deceit and treachery in his heart. He takes the hand of a slight gentle woman whose own heart be heavy with the loss of a husband. He promises to cherish and take care of her and her daughters but with the marriage made he shows his true self – an evil drunken self that sells everything for ale, beats the three of them with a leather strap taken from his waist when they tell him there is no more to sell, and finally sets a bond around their neck, leading them to a tavern where the older be sold for half a crown while the child—’
‘There is no need to go on.’ Saran’s words erupted on a sob. ‘You have been shown true, the people you describe are my family, it is them I must search for. Please, Harriet, help me!’
Looking deeply into hazel eyes glinting with tears she knew the girl was fighting to hold back, Harriet Dowen turned her hands so the palms were upward.
‘I gives no guarantee, I can ask for nothing to be shown, neither can I refuse what be sent. The powers be sometimes strong and at others they be scarce a flicker in the shadows of the mind, but whichever it should prove you have my word I will not tell it wrong.’ Bowing her head, her words barely audible in the quietness of that tiny kitchen, she prayed, asking her power be governed by the spirit of the Lord and no presence of evil attend it. Then, looking again at Saran, she said softly, ‘Ask the grace of heaven, child. Then place your hands in mine.’
‘Why do you stay with me, Luke? You could go on, find shelter in one of those towns; it would be better if you did, I can make my way alone.’
Sixpenny Girl Page 4
