Luke glanced sideways at the girl who had sat huddled with her face hidden on her knees near enough the whole of the day and who even now did not lift her head.
‘I be in no hurry,’ he answered, chewing on a blade of grass; ‘as for shelter, this won’t be the first night I’ve spent on the ’eath nor do I sees it as being the last and I reckons that so long as it sits well wi’ you then we will travel together, a bit o’ company be good for a soul.’
His soul or hers? Pressed into tear-dampened skirts, Saran’s eyes remained closed. The lad had heard the words spoken across that table; his future locked with hers should they choose the same path from the crossroads, a future filled with toil and topped with sorrow. But he did not have to walk beside her, his could be a different future, one where heartbreak was not the milestones which marked the way. But they had not yet reached that branch in the road, when they did . . . as they must . . . she would speak again of his leaving her and following his own way. She had been selfish. A short distance from the home of Harriet Dowen she had given way to the fears in her heart; sinking to the ground she had wept, and when the tears were spent had continued to sit locked in her own despair, wallowing in self-misery, and all the time Luke had stayed with her. But her self-pity was over, she would not give way again. Lifting her head she watched the darkening skies of late afternoon become strewn with banners of purple, gold and scarlet as the setting sun flaunted its dying beauty.
‘Ask the grace of heaven, child.’
The words Harriet Dowen had spoken that morning . . . had she meant them only to be said before their hands were joined? No; Saran knew that was not so, the woman was giving her words to use when she herself was no longer present to help.
She had placed her own hands between the outstretched ones.
Overhead the glorious streamers merged and blended, stretching a brilliant canopy of luminous colour, irradiating the earth with a lambent burning glow. Lifting her face to it Saran felt the rest of what that woman had said flare with equal luminosity in the darkness of her mind. The moment their hands had met the woman’s body had stiffened, her head held taut on her neck, and her glazed eyes had seemed to stare into a different world.
‘The way be not easy,’ she had muttered, ‘the path which fate unrolls before you be pitted with grief and anguish, pocked with bitterness and misery . . . but out of sorrow comes forth greatness, you will rise from the ashes of despair and as you walks you casts a great shadow, a shadow that covers many. Some be grateful while others seek to throw it off. But there be one walks beside you, his future locked with yours. Give him your trust, for through him you find what it is you seek.’
‘We should go on.’ She looked at the lad who had sat patiently those long hours while the emotions she had held in check so many days poured from her. ‘Maybe we will reach the town before night.’
The smile that flashed in his blue eyes was not relief for himself but for her, that she had found the strength to face the grim future Harriet Dowen had predicted. Stretching a hand Luke helped her to her feet while his heart told him wherever fate led Saran Chandler he would be there at her side.
‘We best keep to the track from now on for this heath most like be honeycombed wi’ worked-out gin pits, same as be around Walsall; the miners took the coal an’ left the holes gaping in the ground and they don’t be easy seen, ’specially so when it be dark.’
‘I often wondered why they did not fill them in before sinking another shaft.’
‘Don’t tek no wonderin’; like my father said, filling the pit afore movin’ on brought no pay for the labour and if the men of Walsall couldn’t earn then their families couldn’t eat.’
That was the first time he had made mention of any family.
Reaching the track worn in the rough grass, Saran matched her step to his. Was his father dead, as hers was? Why would his mother let him go into the world on his own at such a young age?
‘My family be all gone.’
His answer preceding her question, Saran walked on in silence.
‘They died from the cholera; mother, father, brothers, sisters, all dead barring one. Her name were Emmeline but we all called her Emmie. Five year old her were when the cholera struck, three year below me. Why we didn’t die only the Lord above can tell but it would have been better if we had . . .’
The young voice throbbed with a bitterness that caught at Saran. This lad had suffered far more than herself but she had been so tied up with her own sorrows she had not even thought he too could be hurting inside.
‘We . . . we was took into the poor ’ouse.’ He was speaking quietly, his words spaced, swallowing on each sentence before he could get the next past his throat. ‘Emmie was frightened, ’er were no more’n a babby but when ’er cried to be put wi’ me the wardress slapped ’er face. Weren’t allowed ’er said, males one side of the building females on the other. I seen Emmie just once a week after that, in the chapel on Sunday, but even then we was not allowed to speak. Then one Sunday I seen her little face so red and puffy I thought her’d been crying. I called her name but before I could reach ’er I was caught by the beadle and hauled away. The penalty for speaking when not asked was ten strokes of the cane and six days in the glory hole; that were a pit dug underneath the storeroom with no light of any sort but plenty o’ company . . . if you calls rats company. That were bad enough but worse waited my bein’ brought out.’ He swallowed hard, brushing the back of one hand across his cheeks.
‘Emmie were dead and buried . . . my sister had died and I hadn’t been allowed out of that hole to see her laid to rest. I thought then my heart could take no more sorrow, but then some six months later I was called to the beadle’s office. I was of an age to be indentured, sold into service until my twenty-first year, but I told him I would be no man’s servant. At that he flew into one of his rages, spluttering and shouting as he reached for the cane kept hanging on the wall behind his desk. “You’ll do as you be told, boy,” he was shouting, “you’ll do as I says or you’ll die same way as that snivelling brat died, I’ll kick you down the stairs same as Liza Jebbins kicked your sister!”’
It was some moments before Luke spoke again, moments in which Saran seemed to feel some of the agony emanating from him. But when at last he did speak the choking sobs were gone and in their place was a hard metallic anger.
‘It seemed at that moment, there in that room, the world went dark; a darkness such as couldn’t be related to the sun sinking below the horizon, a darkness no shadows of night could bring. It was a suffocating, drowning blackness such as had not come even with the deaths of the others of my family . . . an eclipse, a darkening of the soul that shut out every feeling but hate. Emmie had not died of the sickness of the lungs as I had been told, but murdered, kicked down a flight of stairs by a wardress! The beadle saw my face, saw the torture his words produced and he laughed . . .’
Pausing in his stride Luke turned away, keeping his face from the light of the newly rising moon, hiding his pain from her. But it could not be hidden. Saran waited, wanting to hold him, to soothe his hurt as she had so often soothed Miriam’s; but, afraid he would resent it, she stood unmoving beside him.
Speaking almost to himself, his words no more than a whisper, Luke went on.
‘I saw that swine laughing . . . laughing at the death of a little wench who couldn’t defend herself; I snatched the stick from him, then slashed it hard across his head and he fell against the fireplace. I raised the stick but he didn’t move, then I seen the blood trickling into the hearth. The beadle was dead, his skull cracked and I were glad. It took a second or two for me to realise nobody had heard and, my senses returning, I put the stick back in its place and took the glass he’d refilled wi’ brandy while laughing and I tipped it over him afore setting the glass atwixt his fingers . . .’
He had caused the death of a man! Breath trapped in her throat Saran tried to comprehend the enormity of what she had heard. The penalty for manslaughter was death! L
uke would know that. He would know that should he be caught he would go to the gallows, yet he had stayed beside her the entire day. The lad had risked his own life . . . was risking it still . . . and all to comfort her!
‘I could ’ave gone then, over the wall and away while the rest of them warders was busy herding them inmates to the refectory for the evenin’ meal, but instead I put myself into the glory hole. I guessed the death would be seen as an accident for it were well known the beadle were overfond o’ the brandy, and if anybody wondered as to me I ’oped it would be thought as I’d already been sent to my employment. Be my thinkin’ right or wrong I kept me to that hole until it were my supposin’ the inmates to be in their beds, leavin’ the staff to their own pleasures.
‘It took no time to slip into the females’ wing and to find a door wi’ the name of Jebbins painted on it. So I waited, watched from an alcove as the woman went into her room, waited again until I believed her to be sleeping afore I went in. I found her easy enough, her snores leading me to the bed. As I reached it the moon shone into the room and at that moment Liza Jebbins opened her eyes. P’raps her thought me to be the ghost of the child her had murdered for her didn’t move; then, realisation dawning, her opened her mouth but I was quicker; I had the pillow from beneath her head, pressing it over her face afore a sound had left her throat; I held it there while I spoke close to her head. “You be goin’ to die,” I told her, “die the same way Emmie Hipton died.” I held that pillow ’til her struggles stopped but not long enough to see the life gone from her. Making sure her were unconscious only I pulled her from the bed and to the top of stairs that led to the hall. There her regained her senses, and, helping her to stand, I wished her a safe journey to hell . . . then, with my foot against her stomach, sent her on her way.’
5
Stood in the darkness, the lad held in her arms, Saran could still hear the sobs that had shaken him. He had told his story, released the tears, but the pain would go on, it would live with him to the end of his days. He had scrambled out through a high window in the wash-house, dropping to the ground below the wall surrounding the workhouse. Winded, he had lain there listening for sounds that said he had been discovered, then when none came had run.
Two years! Saran felt her own heartache diminish in the light of what Luke had told her. Two years of being ill-used, bullied and beaten by warders, but worse than that was the knowing that women and girls fared no differently to him; two years of being so close to his sister, of seeing the misery in her eyes whenever they were fortunate enough to glimpse each other in the chapel yet being unable to touch or speak to her. Saran’s arms tightened protectively. She had known unhappiness but Luke had known a torture that had driven him to sending a woman to her death. That was his danger now; the search would be on to find him once the authorities learned he had not taken up his apprenticeship, that he had run away. They would put two and two together . . . and that would lead Luke to the scaffold!
They had to go on, to put as much distance between himself and Walsall as could possibly be managed.
‘Luke,’ she spoke softly, ‘Luke, we must not stand any longer . . . the constables could be looking for you.’
Stepping free of her arms the lad cleared his tears with a swift wipe of the hand. ‘We would ’ave heard had there been a hue and cry; them narrow boats as passed by on the cut, the bargees don’t miss nothin’ as happens in the places they passes through and they spreads it as they goes along; it travels mouth to mouth covering the country like fallin’ rain. No, if we ain’t got news then it means the happenin’ is bein’ seen as no more’n an accident, Liza Jebbins catched her foot in her nightgown when called to the privy and toppled headlong down the stairs, as for me goin’ missing, the Board of Governors will see it as one less body dependent on the parish, one less mouth it might have to feed, so there be no chance they’ll have a search party combing the streets of Walsall.’
‘Even so, we should still move on.’
‘No more tonight, a step or two from the track could see you in a pit shaft . . . best we wait for daylight. Besides, you needs rest.’
‘But I’ve rested too long already, we could have reached one or other of the towns Harriet spoke of if I hadn’t sat the whole day nursing my own worries.’
‘The day were given to easing the weight burdening your heart but there was no rest in that. We’ll stay the night here.’
Once before she had heard that change in him, a quiet firmness in his voice, now she heard it again. In all but years Luke Hipton was already a man. Feeling the tension that held her body like a bowstring, Saran knew the boy was right, the hours of giving way to grief had left her weary. Making no further demur she sank to the ground.
Settling beside her Luke said apologetically, ‘I wish I could mek a fire to warm you, p’raps I could find a few sticks . . .’
‘No!’ Saran’s hand caught his arm, holding to it. ‘You said yourself it isn’t safe to walk the heath in darkness, and the night is free of frost so we won’t freeze.’
‘Saran . . .’ Several minutes later Luke spoke again but this time his voice held none of that former note of authority. ‘Saran, if it be acceptable to you p’raps we could sit close, it helps keep a body warm.’
Hidden by night shades, Saran’s smile hovered about her mouth. He had the thought and speech of a man but in some measures Luke Hipton was still a boy. Placing an arm around his back, her smile faded as she felt him wince. The legacy of the beatings he had suffered . . . cuts in his flesh left by the slash of a cane? Drawing him gently to her side, the coldness of new fears touched her nerves. His age, the fact he was still only a boy had made no difference to his masters . . . Miriam was younger still. Miriam too was no more than a child! Was the man who had bought her treating her as such or did he whip her as Enoch Jacobs had done? Curling her fingers so tightly they throbbed against her palms, Saran knew she had to find her family.
‘I can ask for nothing to be shown, neither can I refuse what be sent.’
Harriet Dowen held a taper to the candle that would light her to bed. The wench had asked and had been told. But her had not bin told all! ‘I adds naught to what be given me and I teks naught from it.’ Those were the words she spoke to bodies who came asking for her help, asking her to use the gift heaven had given in place of an unblemished face, so why hadn’t it bin that way with that wench?
Making her way to the tiny bedroom at the top of the narrow wooden stairs she set the candle beside her iron-framed bed.
‘I teks naught from it.’
As she loosed the curls of her hair, braiding it into night plaits, her mind repeated the words; her eyes, staring beyond the candle flame, saw in the shadows of her room the same pictures she had seen when holding the hands of Saran Chandler, pictures she had not spoken of. It was the first time . . . never before had she withheld what the powers of second sight disclosed.
‘I took naught from it.’
Soft as the velvet darkness that played beyond the spill of candlelight, the whisper barely disturbed the silence yet it rang loud as the passing bell in Harriet’s brain. She had told herself that same thing throughout the day, sought comfort from the words; but there had been no comfort. She had taken naught, disguised nothing . . . but was withholding not tekin’ away?
Dropping to her knees, she clasped her hands together. ‘Lord,’ she murmured, ‘it be I’ve misused the powers trusted to me, that I knows, but the wench whose hands I took atwixt mine had a heart already overflowing with sorrow. I couldn’t add more by tellin’ her the rest of what I seen . . . the cruelty, the deceit . . . it’ll be hard enough to bear when time comes, I couldn’t give it to her to be borne the years between. I knows the pain of a broken heart for have I not carried the mark all these years? The blood-red flaw set across my face in my mother’s womb, the disfigurement that turned men from marrying with me! The cause wouldn’t have bin the same for Saran Chandler but the pain that lies afore her strikes as deep; that be a
pain my not revealing all I seen will shield her from ’til it be time. It were against all the ways I’ve gone afore, ways I believed You would want me to tread. I asks no forgiveness, Lord, for I wouldn’t be wanting to put You in the position of refusin’, all I asks is understanding.’
Sealing her prayer with the sign of the cross she climbed into bed. Lying there, the same pictures playing again and again in her mind, Harriet knew that what had been shown to her would come to pass. Saran Chandler would know that pain, more than once she would feel her world reel and shatter about her, feel an agony of mind that would mark her soul as vividly as that which marked the face of Harriet Dowen.
A sound echoing in her ears, Saran woke with a start. All was still. Overhead a lacework of stars glittered against a sable sky, soundless and tranquil as the surrounding heath. Had it been a dream that had her so abruptly awake, her nerves quivering? A nightmare that had disappeared with the opening of her eyes? But dreams and nightmares left behind some fragment of their presence, some fraction of themselves in the mind, but there was nothing. Yet something had wakened her, a sound that had come out of the darkness, come from something that was still there, hidden by the colour of night.
‘Did you hear that?’
Luke, too, was awake. Saran felt a childish relief that she was not alone in what she had heard, that it was no fantasy had her senses twanging.
‘What d’you reckon it were?’ Sitting up straight Luke stared into the moonlit expanse.
Had it been a fox or animals fighting over territory? That was what she wanted the sounds to have been, but as Luke got to his feet Saran recognised the improbability of such being the cause; the overall noise, the resounding echo! it was too loud . . . yet in the centre of it had been a kind of scream.
‘It were no creature . . . they don’t set up a commotion such as we just ’eard, not if they wants to survive, and it be no miners on their way to the shafts for it don’t be light enough for working gin pits.’
Sixpenny Girl Page 5
