Larkrigg Fell

by Freda Lightfoot

  He considered for a long time before answering. ‘In the old days a wife would spin or knit. Sally Ann still knits umpteen stockings.’

  Beth shook her head in apology. ‘I’ve tried knitting and I’m not very good at it.’

  ‘What do you fancy doing, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve had various ideas and discounted most of them.’ She hugged her knees, wondering if she dare broach the subject direct. She’d certainly welcome his advice. Once she’d tried mentioning the idea to Andrew, but he’d no time to listen to her chatter.

  ‘But we need to talk, Andrew,’ she’d protested.

  ‘I’ve nowt to say that you would want to hear.’ And he’d walked away from her, as always.

  That’s how they were. Stilted little comments. Sniping words. Each day they seemed to grow further and further apart.

  She blinked, pushing the memory aside. ‘I remember Mom talking about how she loved the feel of sheepskin and fancied working with it one day, but never got around to it. I feel exactly the same. I love sheepskins too.’

  ‘Thee doesn’t want to take up sheep farming, does thee? Like your gran.’

  Beth laughed. ‘No. I admire Meg enormously but that’s not for me, I’m afraid. What happens to the skins? Do we sell them all to the wool marketing board?’

  ‘Aye. We get the best price we can for them, such as it is.’

  ‘Are there no bits left over? No oddments?’

  The old man shook his head, frowning. ‘Not usually. The animal has to be sheared in one piece.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why? What are you thinking of?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I thought about making moccasins, tiny slippers for babies and children. I could practise doing them by hand at the kitchen table during the winter. Then I could sell the slippers, to add a bit to the housekeeping. What do you think?’ She waited, breath held tight, for his response.

  He was silent for a long moment, then he put back his old head and gave a shout of laughter, showing all the gaps in his yellow teeth. ‘Nay, lass. Didn’t I say you were a chip off the old block? Just like your mam and gran. Always an eye for the main chance.’

  Beth laughed with him. ‘I suppose so, but what do you think? Your honest opinion mind. If it’s daft, say so. I want to be a good wife to Andrew.’

  Poor little lass, he thought. She must want to please him very badly. ‘I would’ve thought you had enough on your plate with three chaps to look after.’

  ‘I don’t mind hard work. Besides, it would be something of my own, to do in the evenings. I don’t want to be a burden.’ She became eager, now that she’d finally revealed these private thoughts and dreams. ‘I’ve saved up some money from my marketing and if it proves successful, I could buy a sewing machine later. Shall I risk it?’

  ‘Why ask me? I reckon you should talk about it to Andrew. He’s your husband, after all.’

  The smile faded and Seth watched it go with regret. ‘He always seems too busy to talk these days.’

  ‘Nay, he can spare thee a minute for a bit of crack, surely?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, that’s a poor do. Anyroad…’ He pondered for a moment, then with a lift of his shoulders returned his attention to the fox head coming to life in his hands. ‘You weren’t so shy and uncertain of theeself when you told us to take our clogs off that first day.’

  Beth smiled. ‘I wonder how I had the nerve.’

  ‘Nor did you wait for Billy’s, nor my permission when you took it into your head to do up t’parlour. So why wait for permission now? If Andrew hasn’t time to talk, that’s his loss. You get on with it. Make him proud of you, if that’s what you’re after. We’ve one or two poor sheepskins left over from the clipping. You can practise on them. If you get to be any good, you could buy them in quite cheap, I dare say.’

  ‘Oh, could I?’ she gasped, clapping her hands together with delight. ‘Why not? I’ll do it.’

  She would make Andrew proud of her. She’d make him really sit up and take notice. Beth felt she must convince him that she hadn’t simply married him for a job ticket, that she could pull her weight on the farm.

  She almost bounced back to her gardening, plans and designs already forming in her head. ‘Look at these. I’ve found two blackcurrant and one gooseberry bush under all this tangle, would you believe?’

  Seth chortled with rich laughter. ‘Then don’t go looking under it unless you’re ready to find summat that’d really scupper your little plan.’ And he laughed all the more as she blushed a fiery red.

  ‘Nay, lass. I didn’t mean to embarrass thee. Tis only life after all. There’s naught new about what you and Andrew do. Thee didn’t invent it, tha knows. And a bairn is usually the result. Nature being what it is. Then you’d happen have to change your plans a bit.’

  Beth remained silent and he wondered if he truly had offended her. What a shy mouse she was. ‘Mind you, I dare say we could all chip in and help a bit more around the house. No need for a bairn to make all that much difference, I reckon. My mother allus worked hard.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘There’s no problem then, is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ There was something in her tone of voice that narrowed Seth’s eyes and sharpened his attention. She was concentrating hard on hoeing the vegetables, head bent, hair swinging forward.

  ‘Here, you’re not already…’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Fiery and furious.

  It came to him then, quite out of the blue and in a rush of understanding, what the problem was.

  By heck, so far as he knew his grandson could still be occupying his own single room, and Beth the other. Him and Billy went to bed early, so how would they know? And neither of them would dream of intruding.

  Surely not? They’d been married twelve month. He watched the tide of colour flow up her cheekbones and then recede, leaving her death pale. Was this the root of the problem then? By heck, it was worse than he thought. Now how could he fettle that? He pondered the problem for a long moment, then approached it sideways on like, as was his way.

  ‘So long as he’s a gentleman and don’t rush you,’ he said, a canny light of enquiry in his eyes.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, the faintest hint of asperity in her tone. ‘Andrew would never do that. Rushing into anything is not in his nature.’

  The old man quietly waited, in case there was anything else she might wish to say.

  But Beth couldn’t bear to talk about something so personal. Swallowing a lump that had come into her throat, she abandoned the raspberries. ‘I’ll make us a cuppa,’ she announced, lifting her chin as she made for the kitchen.

  But as she passed his chair, Seth caught hold of her hand with his gnarled old fingers. His smile softened as he looked up at her. ‘You’re a good lass. Any man’d be proud to have you as his wife. But some chaps need a bit of a push to remind them just how lucky they are. A woman with a bit of go in her. One who can take the initiative like. D’you see?’ His pale eyes were piercing as they gazed steadily into hers and Beth felt suddenly very calm and still inside.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, rather quietly. ‘I do.’

  In return for Seth’s kindness, and his advice, Beth took extra care of the old man. She took him a cup of tea to his bed every morning, which he accepted with wonder and delight. Decadent, he called it, making her laugh.

  Ever since she had joined them here at Cathra Crag she had seen that he had clean clothes to wear every day and good food to eat, and had always found time in her busy schedule to talk with him and keep him company. She loved to sit and listen to him endlessly recounting the old days in the dale, a lifestyle that was swiftly vanishing.

  Now she realised that his great age had also given him great perspicacity.

  Why could not Andrew appreciate her in the same way? Why would he never find time for her? Perhaps she had been a disappointment to him but she refused to accept that what she had d
one with Pietro was entirely wicked. She was human, after all, and they had been in love, or thought they were. Pietro wasn’t ever likely to pay more than a fleeting visit to the dale, with Sarah, his wife. Beth saw no reason why she and Andrew couldn’t have a good life together.

  If only he would forgive her.

  Seth helped her to get started on the moccasins. He showed her how to draw out a pattern, the best way to cut the skins. Then she would thread a needle with strips of fine leather and stitch the pieces together with the warm wool inside, bringing up the heel and fitting in the apron front, threading the thong through and tying a neat bow.

  At first her efforts were slow and clumsy, and her fingers got sore. She relaxed her grip, easing her tension, which amazingly helped to increase the speed of her work. All the while she was painfully aware of her husband half watching, half maintaining a show of disinterest, and never speaking beyond essential communication.

  She practised by making a pair for each of them and Billy and Seth were touched and pleased with her efforts. Andrew made no comment whatsoever. He thanked her, put them in his wardrobe and never took them out again, so far as she was aware.

  But the best part of making the moccasins was that it gave her time to think, and to plan. If she had disappointed Andrew by her early rebuff of him, and by her recent revelations, then it was up to her to put things right. If their marriage was to be saved, she must be the one to save it. As Seth had so cannily advised, she must be the one to take the initiative. She thought long and hard about this.

  All she had to do was be brave enough to carry it out.

  It was one day in late September when the mist was thick as clotted cream in the dale, while all above the world sparkled, clear and bright.

  Andrew had spent the day out on the fells with Billy, rounding up the tups they wished to send to the sales at Kirkby Stephen. Seth’s routine was unchanging. He would walk over the fells in the morning, and spend the afternoon in his woodshed. In the evening he’d be back in his seat by the fire, contentedly carving his latest crook handle. If he noticed any unusual activity upstairs during this day, he paid it no heed, and certainly made no mention of the fact.

  Beth gazed about her husband’s room rather as a stranger might. The narrow bed which she dutifully remade and tidied each morning, his shaving brush, comb and other personal toiletries on the pine chest of drawers. The scent of him was strong in the small room. She opened the wardrobe door and fingered the few suits and jackets which hung within. Then she smiled, for she felt a wonderful warm feeling of anticipation, no more than a nervous flutter in her stomach. Yet it told her that everything could be all right between them, if she made it so.

  One by one, scurrying and bustling, afraid he might suddenly come home early and catch her, she removed all Andrew’s clothes and few belongings from his room and took them to her own. She made space in the wall cupboard, removed her own bits and bobs from the chest of drawers and laid out his brushes and combs just as he liked them.

  When everything was to her satisfaction, Beth resolutely stripped the single bed and bore the sheets and blankets away to be washed, remaking her own double bedstead with fresh linen.

  Lastly, she picked honeysuckle and honesty from the back garden and set a vase of them on her dressing table. Surveying her work she found the nervousness had swelled to a breathless ache. But this was the only way she could think of. If this didn’t work, she might never find the courage again.

  For a brief moment she closed her eyes, clenching her hands together in silent prayer. It would be all right. It must be.

  The day dragged endlessly, as no other had ever done. Andrew and his father came in at their usual time for supper. The meal was eaten and cleared away and afterwards Beth sat and sewed on her moccasins while Andrew read the paper.

  At nine Seth and Billy retired, as usual, and the two of them sat on, in silent disharmony. No words were exchanged, a sad and accustomed state of affairs. Except that on this night when the clock struck nine-thirty Beth was in such a dither of emotion, her hand was trembling too much to sew any longer. Abandoning her efforts, she set aside her work. ‘I think I’ll go on up.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, without glancing at her.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m reading the paper.’

  ‘Good night then.’

  ‘Good night.’

  She quietly left the room. Upstairs Beth flew about in a frenzy of activity, pulling off her clothes, searching out her prettiest nightgown. She’d washed herself earlier so that now she would waste no time getting into bed. She prayed he wouldn’t decide to go to the pub tonight. He’d given up going quite so often as he had little money and had to be up early in the morning. Any moment she might hear his foot upon the stair.

  It took no more than moments for her to pull the pink nightgown over her head, drench herself in a quick spurt of Tweed, vigorously brush out her hair and fling herself into the big feather bed, sinking breathlessly into the soft mattress. Her heart was beating like a drum and cold terror began to creep up from her toes. What if he did not come? What if, when he saw that she had emptied his room, he chose instead to sleep downstairs? Dear Lord, what would she do then?

  The waiting seemed interminable. Would he never be done with that dratted paper? What could be so fascinating that it kept him reading so late? In the depth of the house she heard ten o’clock strike. Was that all it was? She’d imagined it must be midnight at least.

  Then at last she heard the familiar sounds, the grate being riddled, the back door opening and closing as he went off on his round. Then the long awaited sound of footsteps on the stair. She sank beneath the covers as she counted every one, listened as he walked along the landing, heard the sneck of his bedroom door and the aching silence which followed. Now there was only her own heartbeat, pounding in her head, blotting out all other sounds.

  Her own door was being pushed open, and she hadn’t even heard him come along the landing. She became acutely aware of his presence, heard him clear his throat.

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No,’ she said, not daring to lift her head and look at him. All she could see from this angle was his shadow flickering on the bedroom wall, cast there by the night light on her bedside table.

  Another long silence which stretched out like a void between them.

  ‘Did you clear my room?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it was time.’

  He didn’t ask time for what, for which she was supremely grateful. After an achingly long moment which seemed to Beth like an hour, he closed the door and the room darkened again. In spite of herself a small sob escaped her throat. Had he gone and left her? If he rejected her now, it would be over between them. She could never find the courage to go through with this again.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ his voice came quietly out of the darkness, soft and persuasive. And Beth’s heart seemed to melt with a longing she’d thought she would never again experience. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Andrew. I’m quite sure.’

  The flickering candlelight made her face glow with an ethereal beauty of which she was unaware. Andrew caught at the breath he’d been holding in his chest and quietly expelled it. Dear God, how could he go on being angry with her when he loved her so much? But he must make no mistakes. Not when he was this close.

  To Beth, he was no more than an outline, his face in shadow, backlit by a trace of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Then she pushed back the bedclothes by way of invitation, and waited with softly beating heart for him to come to her.

  Beth sang as she walked over the fells to see Ellen the next afternoon. A golden light slanted through Brockbarrow Wood, illuminating leaves still clinging to the branches of rowan and ash like sparkling jewels. There was a bounce to her step which hadn’t been there for some time. Today, at lunch, Andrew had seemed six inches taller and could hardly stop grinning. She’d almost laughed out loud to see Seth’s quiet s
mile, as if he knew everything and had arranged it all single-handed. The old rogue.

  Not that she didn’t deny she owed a great deal to his sly hints of advice. But in the end, having got things started, she hadn’t needed to use any further initiative. Andrew had very decidedly taken control. She could never have imagined a night so fulfilling, so entirely satisfying in all her life.

  If Beth had felt any reluctance over her decision, it vanished the moment Andrew’s lips touched hers. She’d been quite startled in fact, by the effect of that first kiss. It seemed to unleash all the damped down emotions she’d bottled up for so long.

  His hard farmer’s hands had caressed and excited her more than she could have believed possible.

  He’d hesitated only once, at quite the wrong moment of course, just when her entire body was crying out with need for him he’d stopped, to ask again if she was sure this was what she wanted.

  ‘Oh, yes, please. Get on with it,’ she’d cried, surprised by her own urgency. She’d clamped her hands about his neck and wrapped her legs about him, desperate to quench the yearning deep within.

  They’d come together as if they’d been meant for each other, Andrew cautious and gentle at first, afraid of hurting her. She could feel his trembling. But his need had overcome his sensitivity and he’d thrust into her with a passion that made her cry out with joy. It gave her soaring new hope for the future and she saw, at last, how lucky she was. Andrew was a good man, kind and considerate, and more loving than she could ever have dreamed of.

  ‘You’re quite canny really, aren’t you?’ he’d said as they’d lain together afterwards, both somewhat stunned by events.

  ‘Are you objecting?’

  A soft chuckle. ‘Not in the least. I thought for a minute I was about to be evicted from my own home.’ She laughed with him, a softly loving sound, deep in her throat.

  ‘Have you forgiven me?’ They both knew that she meant more than the evacuation of his room.