Friendship's Bond

by Meg Hutchinson

  Of course Alec not being home by his usual time would account for some stress; Ann was fond of the lad and it was natural she fret when he was extra late, but that should have ended completely when Edward Langley had brought him to the house not five minutes after saying his goodnight.

  Even as she had thanked Edward for walking the lad to the house after finding him the worry had by no means left the girl’s eyes.

  Placing the broken curds in muslin Leah tied the corners of the cloth together.

  There was something biting at Ann Spencer, something more than a lad coming late home.

  Could the reason for the wench being so drawn into herself be one and the same as that which had seen herself go looking for Thomas Thorpe? Had the wench heard the tittle-tattle Leah Marshall had overheard while in the market place?

  ‘. . . why other would a foreigner be ’ere?’

  ‘But he be naught but a lad.’

  ‘A lad ar!’

  Jinny Jinks’ sharp note of reproof had caught Leah’s attention.

  ‘But one as don’t be blind nor deaf neither, nor be ’e puddle in the ’ ead.’

  ‘That be as you says Jinny, but in all charity I can’t say I sees the lad’s bein’ ’ ere for the purpose it be put to.’

  ‘Charity!’ Jinny had snorted again. ‘What good be that to the men bein’ killed in this war? Men and lads we knows and them we don’t; what we needs to look at be the ’ arm we be a doin’ by the harbourin’ of a foreigner.’

  Lottie Hopcroft had frowned and shaken her head at that.

  ‘It be all well an’ good what you be sayin’ but Ezekial reckons—’

  ‘Ezekial Turley be a man who’s seen more ’n most in this town but he ain’t seen everythin’ and he ain’t been every place!’

  Jinny’s sharp retort cut Lottie’s protest.

  ‘So common sense has it Ezekial Turley don’t ’ave the knowin’ of everythin’: though I believe what he said as to that there Kaiser Bill bein’ a sly ’un, that there be naught he wouldn’t try to see Germany a winnin’ of the war . . . and to my mind that includes the sendin’ of a young lad for to spy.’

  ‘But the wench who be along of ’im I hears her grandmother lived along of Darlaston.’

  ‘So what difference do that mek?’

  Lottie’s reply was hesitant.

  ‘Well . . . stands to reason, the grandmother be English so the wench’ll be an’ all, an’ wouldn’t no English go ’elpin’ of no Germans.’

  ‘Stands to reason do it!’

  Jinny Jinks had snapped like a terrier.

  ‘Then so do this stand to reason: a wench who be turned out of a house on account of ’er bein’ no better than ’er should be wouldn’t be shy of tekin’ money along of ’elpin’ a spy!’

  ‘Eeh Jinny, you ’eard what Mr Thorpe said, her give up tenancy of Chapel House to go look for work cos none were to be got along of Wednesbury.’

  ‘Oh ar we all ’eard Mr Thorpe but then we all knows his ’eart be too soft for ’im to go tellin’ of the true reason . . . and another thing, if’n that wench needed to leave in search o’ work why be her still ’ere livin’ along of Leah Marshall?’

  ‘Be no business o’ your’n why her be livin’ at Leah Marshall’s place.’

  As the women burned to face the sharp admonition, their cheeks had flushed pink.

  ‘We . . . we was just a sayin’ . . .’

  ‘I ’eard what you was just a sayin’ Jinny Jinks. Now you ’ear what I be a sayin’: should it be you goes spreadin’ any more of your muck then it’ll be Leah Marshall will be a fillin’ of your mouth with the same, ’ceptin’ her won’t be a usin’ of words when good honest cow dung can serve the same purpose!’

  She had walked away leaving both women open-mouthed.

  ‘. . . we all knows his ’eart . . .’

  She smiled a grim smile. Thorpe! It could only be his hand at the back of all this, that congregation knew only what he chose to tell them. She had determined to find out if she would be told the same, but a visit to his home and then the chapel had failed to locate him.

  A soft exclamation recalled her to the present. Leah looked to where Ann was staring down at a pat of butter on the ground, her hands pressed to her mouth.

  Leaving the board to lie where she had placed it she moved to the girl’s side saying briskly, ‘Don’t give no mind to that, won’t go wastin’, old Betsy likes a dab o’ butter.’

  She scooped up the soft mound and dropped it into a bucket of whey drained from an earlier pressing of curd and put aside for feeding to the pig housed in a sty set alongside the privy at the furthest end of the yard.

  ‘I thinks we could both be doin’ wi’ a cup o’ tea.’

  After she had cleaned her fingers on a scrap of cheesecloth Leah touched Ann’s arm. ‘Go you put the kettle to the pot while I teks old Betsy her treat.’

  The wench had gone on the round as usual but her smile had made no appearance.

  When she returned to the dairy Leah placed a series of weights on top of the wooden board covering the muslin-wrapped curds then, leaving them to drain, turned her attention to milk left overnight in a shallow stone vat to settle. She scooped the cream from its surface to transfer it to a wooden barrel-shaped churn banded about with brass and attached to a trestle. A few drops from a bottle of carrot water added a richer colour to the resulting butter. She locked the lid of the churn before turning the handle to rotate it, all the while her mind dwelling on Ann.

  Leah watched the steadily rocking churn without seeing it. That it was a different matter to the one spoke of – a murder in that Russian square – left it plain to see there were fears other than that plaguing Ann Spencer, for her were sensible enough to know them happenings were in the past, and naught of them could follow her here to Wednesbury.

  But was it here in this town had come cause for fresh worries? Was it the wench had heard for herself the backbiting being mouthed by Lottie Hopcroft and that snipe-nosed Jinny Jinks?

  Leah’s hand tightened its grasp, setting the churn to rock unevenly.

  That woman had a tongue sharp enough to clip branches from a tree.

  Straightening, Leah pressed a hand to her aching back.

  ‘Ar,’ she murmured aloud, ‘Jinny Jinks, you be a ranter when it comes to preaching the faults of others regardless whether or not them faults exists but one thing you don’t be, you be no mullock when it comes to your own well-bein’, you knows that to clip one more branch from Ann Spencer’s tree will ’ave you answerin’ to Leah Marshall an’ that meeting be liable to put an end to your well-bein’ for many a bright day.’

  Once the churning was finished Leah removed the golden yellow curds, washing them to remove any trace of buttermilk, then using the broad ‘Scotch Hands’ patted it for several minutes to clear it of any excess moisture. Finally she set it aside for later shaping into blocks.

  Leah stood for a moment, feeling weary. She could take a few minutes, make a cup of tea, sit beside the fire while drinking it; but sitting never got jobs finished.

  The advice, though sound, would not ease the tired ache of her bones. She turned back to the cheese curds draining beneath their weighted board. She unwrapped the chunks, sliced them thinly then worked them between her fingers until they resembled fine breadcrumbs. Then she sprinkled on a little more salt and tied them in fresh muslin this time banding them with a metal hoop which would allow the cheese to take on its rounded shape on being returned to the sieve. But the process was not finished; like the butter she had just patted the cheese crumbs needed to have the last drops of whey pressed out.

  With a long drawn sigh she placed the large sieve on a rigid perforated board beneath a ‘queedle’ – a strong plank Joshua had planed himself before bolting one end firmly to the dairy wall. This had been the part of cheese-making she had enjoyed most; so had her sons, and when his work at home allowed Edward would come and together they would sit on the loose end of the queedle bouncing it up and
down like a see-saw, all the while pressing the cheese against the perforated board, each of them boasting it was he pressing out most of the whey.

  Drawn back in time Leah watched three young boys each jostling for position on the plank.

  ‘You don’t be no heavier than a fly, it be best you stands lookin’ out for the whey bucket, see it don’t get turned over.’

  ‘You stand watchin’ over the bucket! I be as strong as you, Joshua, I can bounce good as you!’

  ‘Your tongue be all you can bounce, don’t the teacher at school be forever tellin’ you so.’

  ‘That don’t be true, now you admits that don’t be true Joshua Marshall!’

  Leah had watched as many times Daniel pushed the teasing Joshua backwards off the plank. Deborah stood beside her laughing at her brothers’ antics, then she had smiled as Edward hauled his grinning friend to his feet and nimble as a kitten slipped into the space Joshua had fallen from, saying as he settled:

  ‘The way these two go on they have no need of a queedle, they be like to do the job with the seat of their pants so mebbe it be better I sit between them wouldn’t you say Mrs Marshall?’

  ‘I would say, Edward, seein’ as how I would ’ ave that cheese set into a moulding press afore next Mickelmas.’

  Her smile belied the reproof and provided Joshua with a fresh chance to tease. Taking two wooden butter pats he turned to the seated two.

  ‘Right the both of you . . .’

  He clapped the butter pats loudly together.

  ‘I warned what would happen should there be any larkin’ about . . . now seeing neither of you paid any consequence to my words I be goin’ to have to put them a mite stronger.’

  Again it was Edward who had answered. With his lips pursed in typical contemplative manner he had asked quietly, ‘What say you to that, Daniel?’

  Leah smiling, watched again her youngest son. Ever agile as a cat he leapt from the queedle.

  ‘What do I say, Edward?’

  He had raised his hands to his hips.

  ‘I says him and whose army!’

  ‘Do them three rogues be a playin’ you up, Leah?’

  Joseph! Leah’s whole world lit up. Joseph was home.

  ‘Leah?’

  Leah listened to the voice of her husband but as her name came again it seemed her breath caught suddenly inside her.

  Joseph was not come home; like her sons and her daughter he would never come home again.

  ‘Leah.’

  Yet it was there again, his voice calling her name!

  ‘Leah . . . for God’s sake are you home?’

  Sharp as a dousing of iced water the call cleared all her bemusement. She crossed the dairy as quickly as her tired legs would allow then at the doorway stopped dead in her tracks.

  It had been Edward Langley who had called her name, Edward Langley who stood in the yard, a figure carried in his arms.

  With a cry of fear Leah saw for a single instant the body of a slender youth in soldier’s uniform, saw her son being carried from the raging hell of the battlefield.

  Edward’s voice broke the nightmare.

  ‘There has been an accident, it’s Alec. I’m afraid it’s bad.’

  Chapter 9

  She had dropped the butter because her hands had been shaking. Deliveries finished, Ann walked beside the small horse-drawn cart. Maybe she should have told Leah last evening what her customers had said with regard to purchasing any more butter or cheese but perversely she had decided to make one more delivery herself, to explain to those women how Leah could no longer manage to make the dairy products and deliver them too. Yet what if her explanation fell on deaf ears?

  Ann gave herself to her thoughts.

  It was a risk; if customers should still refuse to buy that would spell the end for the dairy, for Leah’s living, and the fault would be Ann Spencer’s. If she had refused to come to live with Leah then none of this awful business would have happened. But what was done was done.

  Earlier, when she had glimpsed Leah trudging across the yard to the pig pen, Ann had determined the woman must not be made to suffer for what had been a kindness.

  She had placed the last of the butter and cheese trays on to the cart. She would make the deliveries, she would apologise to each and every customer and promise that Ann Spencer would leave the house of Leah Marshall, and the town, the very next day. But Alec, what of him? In her concern for Leah’s welfare she had given no mind to his reaction. What would he think of her leaving him behind; would he consent?

  Ann felt herself pulled in opposite directions. They had shared so much, lived through times of fear supporting one another like brother and sister.

  But he is not your brother!

  No, Alec Romney was not her brother. He had no call on her and she none on him; he had kin here in England, relatives who should he be forever on the move would have that much more difficulty tracing him. He had settled so well with Leah and it was evident the woman had love for the lad she had given a home to. For him to leave would hurt them both; and then there was the friendship he had found with Edward Langley.

  It had been Leah who had first taken Alec to Hill Rise.

  ‘Walk’ll do you good an’ the company of a smart-lookin’ lad be pleasin’ to an old woman.’

  Leah’s words echoed.

  That was what Alec had brought to Leah; to deny her his company now would be almost like making her lose her own sons all over again.

  She would not be the cause of that!

  A note addressed to the both of them? Ann dismissed the idea. Leah and Alec deserved better than that, they deserved to be told face to face she needed to move on alone.

  Was that what Alec and Leah truly merited?

  Ann felt again the sting of divided loyalty.

  Did they deserve to be lied to? That was what such an explanation would be; but to say otherwise would serve only to prolong the situation and that in turn might mean more encounters with Thomas Thorpe.

  ‘I was certainly right in thinking to find you here.’

  He had grabbed her wrist. Breathtaking in its clarity the scene returned. A stretch of open ground, no building other than a small house in the distance. She had been returning from taking a basket of butter, cheese, eggs and milk, a gift from Leah to the elderly couple living there, the husband ill with a sickness of the chest.

  ‘. . . really you should vary your route . . .’

  Thomas Thorpe’s voice grated in her mind.

  It seemed he stepped from nowhere, the menace of him blocking her path, and his eyes had glittered with that same threat they had held when he had grabbed at her in that house, the threat of rape.

  He must have observed her over the days, noted the times of her deliveries, and waited for the perfect chance to waylay her.

  ‘. . . what Thomas Thorpe desires he makes very sure he gets . . .’

  It had seemed he would take what he wanted there and then, but with a sudden change of mind he had released her though he kept a grasp on her wrist, saying thickly he would savour the pleasure more so in the comfort of Chapel House.

  He had laughed at that, a low obscene sound dark as the pall of factory smoke enshrouding the sky above the approaching town. Please . . . she had prayed silently with every step, please don’t let this happen, please let someone be crossing the heath. But no other person had appeared. Then as the drab huddle of Hobbins Street came into view she had glanced away across to where the Holyhead Road bisected heathland and pasture, looking to where Leah’s house stood. Maybe she would be in the cow field, maybe she would hear a call.

  ‘Don’t think it!’

  Thomas Thorpe’s grasp had hardened, his fingers biting into the flesh of her wrist.

  ‘I’ve waited long enough for what be due so in case you be thinking to speak with anybody we pass then remember this, should I fail to get what is owed by one then I simply take it from the other; male or female, woman or boy, either is acceptable. You understand me?’r />
  It had been said quietly but the implication had screeched in her mind. Should he not have the satisfaction of raping her then he would violate Alec!

  The horror of it had so overriden even the screaming in her mind that she had not seen the man stepping from an entry running between the line of blackened houses, his stick waving in the air as he called, ‘I were ’opin’ forra word wi’ you Mr Thorpe, p’raps y’ would spare me a minute or so since y’ be passin’.’

  Thomas Thorpe’s intake of breath had been one of irritation. The pressure of his fingers reminded her of his threat before he released her.

  ‘I gave Miss Spencer my word I would see her safe home, the heath can be daunting for a woman walking alone and especially so given the times we be living in; I mean it is not always easy to distinguish who is a friend from one who is in the pay of the enemy.’

  Thomas Thorpe’s reply had carried an underlying note which seemed almost a vindication of some former assertion.

  ‘Be right in what y’ says Mr Thorpe.’

  Ezekial’s head had nodded, Thomas Thorpe’s thin-lipped smile had appeared.

  She could have protested then, could have thanked Thorpe telling him she had no need of further company. Ann’s memory of that moment triggered a fresh sickness in her throat. She could have refused and she would have except for the words which had held her tongue silent: ‘Woman or boy, either is acceptable.’ She would not risk Alec’s safety in exchange for her own and so she had said nothing.

  ‘Ar it be right good o’ you a mekin’ o’ the offer to walk the wench ’ome.’

  Ezekial’s stick had waved in the direction of Leah’s house but his eyes had fastened on her own.

  ‘. . . be a Christian act Mr Thorpe.’

  Had Ezekial read the fear in her glance? Could that have been the cause of his continuing?

  ‘But then a body can see clear to Leah Marshall’s place an’ naught atwixt ’ ceptin’ for the ’ oss road, an’ both y’self an’ me can watch the wench safe across . . .’

  He had smiled at her then, his tone apologetic.

  ‘If it be you wouldn’t ’ ave objection to the goin’ on alone, wench, then my old bones’d be spared the ’avin’ to tek the walk along of the chapel or else to Mr Thorpe’s ’ouse for to ’ave that word.’