Larkrigg Fell

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Let’s say I can live with it.’

  The relief she’d felt was enormous, thankful that she’d made the decision, glad they could be friends again, and lovers at last. Some people, even those supposedly in love, were not always so fortunate.

  This morning, he’d surprised her by waking her early and taking her again, with an increasing passion that had been a revelation. Oh, yes. Life at Cathra Crag was going to be altogether different this winter.

  Now Beth walked by the tarn, sorry to see it empty but happy that Pegleg and his new mate had obviously found a happy home some place. The swan had found contentment and so had she, once she’d learned to use her own wiles. She laughed, the sound echoing through the silken mist that skimmed the water, hazing it from soft cream to dove grey.

  Still, calm, as only a day in autumn could be, as finally her heart was.

  Her entire outlook had changed. Optimism fizzed in her blood as she drew the tang of clear mountain air into her lungs, savouring the taste of it on her tongue, the bite of it against her cheeks. Why did she feel so different? Could one night’s love-making have such an effect upon her?

  Sighing with happiness Beth descended the steep track, slipping on the wet rough stones.

  She couldn’t resist making a detour close by Larkrigg, though she chose not to go up the drive. The house would be locked and she no longer had a key. The mighty boulders that littered the fell looked like miniature castles of rock, standing proud, encircled by a moat of heather. She smoothed her hands over the Gemini Stones, laying her cheek against the cold granite and again recalled the legend which had proved to be so true.

  Where was Sarah? she worried. Was she married now? Were they both well? There had been no more than a handful of postcards since that cataclysmic announcement last spring. Bright pictures showing the usual tourist spots that hastily sketched their journey through Europe. They apparently stopped wherever took their fancy, for a few weeks or months, then moved on again. Beth supposed they must find work of some sort on these occasions.

  The most recent card, some months ago, had announced their arrival in Florence, saying they were staying with Pietro’s family. Beth assumed the wedding had gone off as planned, but they made no mention of when, or if, they would visit Lakeland. An endless honeymoon apparently. Trust Sarah. Not that she particularly wanted to see her just yet. She preferred them to stay away, for the moment at least.

  One day her sister would come, of course, bringing Pietro with her as her husband. Beth wondered how she would feel about seeing Sarah married to the man she had once loved and wanted for herself. But then she too was married now, in truth as well as name, so what did it signify? Whatever memories still lingered must be resolutely set aside.

  Ellen was busy with a new patient, a young peregrine falcon, eyes bright and alert, breast gleaming white in the low afternoon sun, holding remarkably still while Ellen examined it, seeming to sense she was doing her best to help.

  ‘Mobbed out of the sky by a couple of ravens,’ she explained, ‘then got itself caught up in barbed wire. Lethal stuff, I hate it.’ She returned her attention to the bird, spreading out each wing in turn. ‘Not too much damage. A scratch or two, a few lost feathers but he could have lost a limb or worse. Have him flying free in no time. Soon as he’s over the shock and got his flight feathers ready and able again.’

  Beth struggled to take an interest but for once she was itching to complete her errand and rush back home. ‘I’ve brought you some ginger snaps,’ she said, handing over a tin of homemade biscuits.

  ‘Bless you, child, how you spoil me.’ Ellen grinned. ‘You know all my little weaknesses.’ And then her gaze sharpened. ‘You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself today. Feeling well, are you? You’re not...?’

  Beth’s cheeks pinked. ‘No. Why does everyone jump to that conclusion whenever I’m in a good mood?’

  Ellen curbed a smile, saying nothing.

  ‘I can’t stop long,’ Beth bubbled on. ‘I have to get back and start on supper.’

  ‘You’ve time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Not been round so much lately. Fed up with me, are you?’ Ellen brewed the tea and they tested one of the biscuits each, declaring them to be a good vintage.

  Beth was not insulted by Ellen’s bluntness, knowing it was only her way. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve been busy, that’s all.’ She told her about the moccasins.

  Ellen took it all in, nodding with interest and putting in encouraging questions and comments. ‘Sound’s good. Life seems to agree with you at the moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ Beth said, dropping her eyelashes and shyly smiling. ‘You know I always enjoy my visits, and I’ll come as often as I can, but I’ll be busy these next few weeks too. And Andrew says we may go away for a few days in October.’ Her cheeks flushed to a deeper pink while Ellen struggled to hold back her wicked sense of humour, brown eyes wide and teasing as she innocently asked, ‘Not another honeymoon?’

  ‘Of course not. The autumn tup sales at Kirkby Stephen. Andrew goes every backend to sell his spare young rams and buy in new blood. He says I can go with him this time, for a bit of a break. Billy and Seth will look after the farm. We’ll only be gone three or four days.’

  The girl was as excited as a kitten, Ellen thought for a while. ‘Good as a holiday, the annual tup sales,’ she said, very seriously.

  ‘It’ll be grand to get away for a bit, on our own,’ Beth agreed, then laughed. ‘Though I expect he’ll put me a very poor second to the sheep.’

  ‘Only right and proper,’ Ellen gravely agreed. ‘So long as he has your permission to do so, as any good farmer’s wife will tell you,’ and they both burst out laughing. Then the old woman’s face took on a more serious expression.

  ‘Are you up to some less comfortable news?’ The brown eyes were filled with compassion and Beth’s heart missed a beat. What now? She really didn’t want any more bad news, not now things were improving between herself and Andrew at last.

  ‘Not more trouble with vandals? Or another snake?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid this concerns you. And Larkrigg.’

  Just as Beth had feared. ‘Larkrigg?’ She could hear the tremor in her own voice.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour that it’s been sold, buyer unknown.’

  Beth flinched, unwilling to take it in. She’d been trying to prepare herself for this news for months. Now that it had come, she realised she wasn’t prepared at all.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Oh, Ellen.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lass.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘There’s naught you can do. What am I to do, more like? Apparently, when the current tenant goes next quarter day, no other will be allowed in. Word is that the owner is to take up residence himself. I’m more than curious to meet him, only he’s given me notice an’ all.’ She sniffed her disdain but behind the bluff and bluster, Beth could detect her dismay. The old woman had lived in Rowan cottage for as long as anyone could remember.

  ‘Oh, Ellen, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘So am I.’

  ‘I wish we had a spare bedroom. Perhaps another of the cottages on Quarry Row will come vacant.’

  ‘Fat chance. And where would I put my zoo? No, there’s no help for it,’ Ellen said, determinedly brisk. ‘I’ll pack me bags, take up my birds and beasts, and become a gypsy.’ She laughed, although there was little humour in the sound.

  ‘And there’s me thinking only of myself. How very selfish of me.’

  Ellen’s face softened. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’ll find some place to lay my head. Anyroad, you’ve never been selfish in your entire life. Wouldn’t know how. But seeing someone else living in your old house is bound to hurt.’

  Beth stared bleakly at her friend. ‘I can’t bear to think of it.’

  ‘Then don’t. Let the house go. Look to the future. You’ve got Andrew
and Cathra Crag. And the tup sales to look forward to. Go and enjoy yourself. Live a bit. You can always pretend it’s a second honeymoon, can’t you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They stayed in a small, but comfortable hotel on Kirkby Stephen’s main street so that when Andrew was busy at the sales, Beth could wander about the shops and market, or take long walks out into the countryside. The weather was not kind to them, being rather damp and squally. Typical ‘Tup Sale Weather’ the farmers called it. But to the new lovers, the bad weather meant they were confined even more to their room each evening, which was no hardship at all. This was indeed the honeymoon they’d never had.

  Andrew seemed different somehow, away from the farm and dressed in his best suit, shirt and tie. Not to mention new smart shoes instead of those dreadful clogs. His hair seemed fairer, his eyes a deeper grey and a smile never far away. He was a fine man now, broader in the chest, not so young and awkward looking as he had once been, caring and attentive, and good fun to be with. It came to Beth with a jolt that she was happy. She’d hardly worried over Larkrigg at all.

  And she hadn’t thought of Pietro for weeks.

  The only difficulty came in having to be up bright and early each morning when they’d much rather linger in bed. But the sheep had to be penned by seven, ready for judging to commence by seven-thirty, though the sales themselves did not start until two hours after that. The small town seemed to be bursting with people the moment they stepped outside their hotel. Farmers in strong tweed jackets, flat caps and deerstalkers, carved stick in hand, their faces inscrutable, weather beaten and lined, until they met up with an old friend when smiles would banish creases, hands would be clasped and they’d settle down for a bit of crack over a pint of beer, mug of tea, or leaning over the rail of a holding pen.

  Beth was entranced by the whole business, eager to watch how things were done and be a part of Andrew’s life. The air seemed filled with noise, the sing-song voices of the auctioneers, an ever-changing rota throughout the long days of selling, the deep throated complaints of rams, young and old, almost two thousand of them over the whole period, the clash of horns when they disagreed with their fellow pen-mates and the buzz of excitement and wonder as prices were reached, lost or excelled.

  Andrew explained how he hoped for a prize for his own pair of Swaledale tups. Bashful and Dopey, he called them, though they were anything but, being fine handsome creatures whose worth would be proved once the snows had receded from the fell tops and their progeny proved.

  ‘A good result in the show ring affects the price we’ll get. We need the money, Beth. Things are tight.’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed, and was as anxious as him as they waited for the judge’s verdict. She kept her eyes fastened on their black faces with their white noses and fierce, arrogant expressions. Then a red rosette was placed on one, a blue on the other and she saw Andrew almost burst with pride. A good result, followed later by an excellent price at the sale.

  No one was anxious to leave on the last day, many farmers lingering till quite late over the last few sales. Beth and Andrew too were reluctant to break the spell and return to the reality of life on the farm. ‘Some won’t see another living soul for weeks,’ Andrew explained.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘That’s how it was with me once. Though I suppose I was lucky having Dad and Grandad, I’d much rather have a wife.’ And he grinned at her, pulling her close in his arms, bringing a pretty flush to her cheeks.

  ‘You’ll be too tired when we get home tonight,’ she chided, accurately reading the challenge in his eyes as they danced over her face in that merry way she so liked.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  But he wasn’t tired. Not at all.

  The following year proved to be the best ever. Beth loved it at Cathra Crag and found a contentment with Andrew she would never have dreamed possible. Nine months following the Kirkby Stephen holiday, she gave birth to a son, William, which brought Andrew much teasing from the neighbouring farmers, since he’d proved his own worth as well as his two tups.

  She’d transformed their home, making it cosy and welcoming with no further protests from Billy, who was so delighted with his new grandson he would have given Beth anything she asked for.

  Seth’s fears were soothed and a generator installed. At Christmas, Andrew gave Beth a washing machine, all tied up with blue ribbon. Later, as family’s fortunes slowly improved, they even bought a television set which Seth pretended he never watched, yet somehow knew every character in Coronation Street.

  The old man rarely left the fireside now. His eyesight was poor and Beth insisted that Billy cut the sticks for him.

  ‘You’d cut your own hand off one day,’ she warned him.

  Seth was permitted to work in the woodshed for short periods when the weather was warm, and he could go for walks, but not too far. He would often give Beth his truculent stare, yet gracefully give in.

  ‘I know when I’m licked,’ he’d say. ‘It’s that fierce look in her eye. By heck, she’s a woman and half.’

  Generally he obeyed her new rules, except in one respect. Once a day, no matter what the weather, he insisted on taking his usual walk, and made it last as long as possible, going much farther than Beth liked him to. ‘The fells haven’t finished me yet. Nor will they.’

  ‘You’ll never change him,’ Andrew warned, laughing at the tussle between his wife and grandfather. ‘It’s the walking that keeps him alive.’

  Beth would sigh and shake her head and watch anxiously as he ambled down the lane, stick in hand. Then if he wasn’t back at the precise time he’d promised, she’d be putting on her coat and off searching, seeing if he’d recklessly gone too far, or climbed a stile he shouldn’t and fallen over. Yet he always returned safe and well, if in his own good time, grinning from ear to ear like a naughty schoolboy.

  Beth’s bleakest moment came in the summer of 1982. The Falklands war had started in April, and she received a letter from Sarah to say that it was all over between herself and Pietro. They’d had a ferocious quarrel and gone their separate ways, which didn’t trouble her in the least, she insisted, as they had never, in fact, got round to marrying in the end.

  The letter unsettled Beth for days. It came as a shock to hear that the wedding had never taken place. Sarah’s letters and cards had always been few and far between, saying little, and showing no inclination to come home on a visit, or to see her twin.

  If I’d waited, Beth thought, would Pietro now be returning to me? And would she want him to? He’d always insisted that he loved them both.

  It was too late for such troubling thoughts. She had her life here at Cathra Crag, a kind and loving husband, her precious son and, Beth suspected, a second child on the way. She was content.

  And deep down was the relief of knowing that she need never see Pietro again, ever. There would be no risk of spoiling this quiet contentment, which had been so hard won.

  By the end of July the Falkland’s war was declared over and celebration services were held all over Britain, including the tiny fellside church of Broomdale.

  ‘I’ve lived through five wars, and the invasion of Suez,’ said Seth proudly. ‘How about that?’

  But the Falklands proved to be his last. On a day in early August, the very one on which Beth’s pregnancy had been confirmed and she and Andrew hurried home with their exciting news, they found Billy waiting for them at the farmhouse door. He was all flustered and shaking, having just that minute found Seth in his chair by the fire, quite dead. The old man’s hands were still resting on the last deer-headed crook handle he’d been quietly carving. He was ninety-one.

  They gave him a good send-off, as Seth himself would have wished. All his family were at the funeral. His youngest sons, Billy’s two brothers, who had long since left farming and taken to town life. Any number of grandchildren, and, since Seth had been the last of four brothers and sisters, there was no shortage of nieces, nephews and cousins, together with
their own prodigious brood. Beth was surprised and proud of the number who came, including many of his old friends, those who were still alive, for he had outlived most of his peers. They filled the small house to overflowing, spilling out over the farmyard and small neat lawn.

  She couldn’t begin to remember who they all were but was simply glad they had taken the trouble to come, for one grand old man. ‘He’s had a fair crack of the whip,’ Billy said. ‘He wouldn’t want us to mourn.’

  The other farmers agreed. ‘We’ll miss him at the farmer’s meet.’

  ‘Aye, we will that.’

  ‘And none could make a better stick than Seth.’

  ‘What a character he was.’

  ‘They built them to last in that generation, eh?’

  As everyone tucked in to the ham, pork pies and apple tarts which Beth had made, she was alarmed by their appetites and laughter. It didn’t seem quite respectful somehow for people to laugh at a funeral. Yet she told herself sternly that this was a celebration of a good long life, not sorrow at an old man’s death. They wanted to remember him as he had once been, a vital part of this rural community in his day, remaining busy and useful right to the end of his long life. He would be sorely missed.

  ‘I shall always remember Seth’s kindness with great affection,’ Meg said, ‘as one of those dear friends who saved my life during the war. If it hadn’t been for him and his good wife, and Hetty and Will Davies of course, I might not have survived. I’d have starved before ever making a living from sheep. I’ve always been grateful for his quiet strength. Not to mention his advice.’

  ‘He gave me lots of wise advice too,’ Beth admitted, and knew she too would remember the old man with love and pride. He’d helped her more than she could ever repay, by making her take responsibility for her own happiness. ‘I did my best to make his last days comfortable and content.’

  Meg hugged her. ‘I’m sure you did. And you’ve done him proud today.’

  Beth was glad the funeral went off without rancour or a single sour note. The next day, however, was an entirely different matter.