Late Harvest

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘You are very forbearing,’ said Ralph. He became serious. ‘Listen, we’ve only just met but somehow … I want to get to know you better and you’ve a lot to find out about me. My father’s a free trader, for one thing. I’d better tell you that straight away.’

  ‘You mean a smuggler.’

  ‘We call ourselves free traders. I’ll be in it too, I expect, now I’m back home. Will you mind?’

  ‘Will I mind?’ I didn’t add Why me? because I knew already why he had asked. But it was far too soon to say so. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ I said. ‘Everyone does it – or buys the goods, anyway. My father did.’

  I faltered as I spoke of my father, remembering once more that I would never see him again. I gave Ralph a slightly watery smile. ‘My mother’s already arranging with your father for deliveries of tea and occasional brandy, for medical purposes.’

  ‘Good. That will keep our families in touch. You and I must meet and talk a time or two between now and May Day. Peggy – may I call you Peggy? Miss Shawe sounds so prim.’

  ‘Yes, you may. If I can call you Ralph.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Ralph said.

  I tried to oblige, and he listened with attention, though an account of life at Foxwell wasn’t exciting. It was interrupted, anyway, because James now broke away from the discussion about Red Devons, and came over to us. He was frowning. I gave Ralph a quick smile and went to meet him before the two of them could come face to face. ‘Good day, James. I just sat down for a while and Mr Duggan kindly came to talk to me. I feel as though I’ve walked a hundred miles today. What was all that about a bull calf?’

  ‘My father’s heard of a good one, over the other side of the moor – South Molton way. He didn’t like seein’ you chattin’ with they Duggans. Free traders, they are, and us Brights don’t hold with ’un. It’s breakin’ the law, whatever pretty names they call it. Oh, I know your dad used to buy from them and I expect your ma will too – she’ll want the tea, like as not. We shan’t interfere. But we wouldn’t like to see either of you makin’ friends with that family, just the same.’

  And who are you or your father or brother to tell us what to do? I’m not wearing your ring yet.

  ‘Your glass is empty,’ I said. ‘What are you drinking? Mulled wine?’

  ‘Yes, if you please. You talk like Mr Silcox,’ said James restlessly as we moved towards the table. ‘Learnt more from him than I did, I reckon. We Brights are plain farm folk.’

  ‘So are us Shawes,’ I said calmly, and dipped a glass of wine for him.

  Other people came up to talk to me; in a few moments, I was once more separated from him and I let myself drift back to Ralph, who was still on the window seat.

  ‘You’d best not hang round me too much just now,’ he said, though with another of his beautiful smiles. ‘I know the Brights don’t hold with the Duggans. But Peggy, use your mourning as an excuse if you need to, but I beg you, settle nothing with James Bright that you went to school with until I have danced with you on May Day. I’ll make excuses to ride out here a time or two before then. You see …’ He was totally serious, almost pleading. ‘When we first met today, I felt as though I’d always known you. I want, I need, to know you better. I felt – I feel – as though something extraordinary has happened.’

  Perhaps it was not too soon after all. I opened my mouth to tell him that I felt the same, but once more we were interrupted, this time by Josiah Duggan. He was a big, heavy man, his dark hair and beard turning grey, and small broken veins in his nose signalling that he enjoyed his own illicit wares. Ralph had inherited his colouring, I thought, while Philip was a diluted Duggan, with mousy hair and light brown eyes.

  Josiah looked down at me and said: ‘This is a sad, sad day, Peggy Shawe, but I’ve got something for ’ee that’ll maybe help. Step out into the front porch for a moment. Follow me out. Don’t look as if you’re with me.’

  I stared at him in astonishment but Ralph gave me a nod, as much as to say, Yes, go on, I know about it, so I let Mr Duggan senior saunter away ahead of me and after a few moments, I followed as instructed.

  A woman I hardly knew, the wife of a farmer from some distance, accosted me with condolences but I shook her off, murmuring that I badly need a breath of fresh air; the parlour had become so hot, what with so many people in it and such a roaring fire. Seconds later, I was in the porch, beside Josiah. He pushed the massive front door to behind us and drew a package from within his black jacket.

  ‘Take this.’ He thrust it into my hands. ‘Let no one see, not even your mother. Open it in private and show it to no one. No one. It’s heavy but I see you’ve a good big pocket in your skirt. Put it in there, take it straight upstairs and hide it till you’re free to attend to it. Now I’ll go back indoors. You wait a bit before you come back inside.’

  Then he pushed the door open again and vanished through it. I was left clutching the package, which was in the form of a heavy leather drawstring bag. It was very heavy, astonishingly so. When I put it into my pocket, the pocket sagged and bulged, weighing my skirt down.

  Puzzled, I once more waited for a little, then went quietly indoors, letting my right hand hang, casually, I hoped, over the burdened pocket. I went upstairs and straight to my room, where I pushed the package into my bed, well down under the covers. After that I went back to the parlour to re-join the throng.

  Wondering.

  I opened the package after I had gone to bed, and studied the contents by the light of a candle.

  They consisted, at first sight, of two letters, one folded into the other, and of a second drawstring bag. This was what had given the package so much weight. I spread out the letters first. One, which had the words Read this first on the outside, bore the signature of Josiah Duggan. It bore a date nearly two years in the past, and it said:

  My dear Peggy Shawe, your father asked me to write this for him as he’s no hand with a pen. He dictated, I wrote. I tidied up his wording somewhat but left enough of how he really spoke and sounded, so it will seem to you as though it’s him talking to you. I have kept all this secret as he wished, except that Ralph knows your father left something with me for you. I had to make sure someone could take the job on if I weren’t there to. You never know what may chance to happen. I can trust Ralph and so can you. Please understand – here I repeat your father’s request – KEEP WHAT’S IN THIS PACKAGE A SECRET. No one but you must know it exists. NO ONE. EVER. Or not until the need to use it should arrive. I herewith pass on your father’s love and care for you. Josiah Duggan.

  Bewildered, I opened the second letter. It was in the same handwriting but it bore the signature of Samuel Shawe.

  My dear little Peggy, I’ve allus wished I had a son but that don’t mean I haven’t loved you and worried for you, more than you’ve ever guessed, I fancy, for I’ve never been one for putting my heart where everyone can see it. But it seems to me that women can have a hard time in this world if things go amiss for them. You and your ma’ll be safe enough while I’m here but things happen. You never know.

  I hope you’ll be happy, my dear, and safe, married maybe to James Bright, as is a good young man if a bit over-virtuous, the which he gets from his father who won’t buy as much as a keg of brandy for Christmas if it comes from free trading. But he’ll make an honest husband, if you like him, only don’t marry him if you find you can’t like him enough. That’s up to you. There’ll be others! I’ve left your mother the farm and most of all I own, except there’s a bit of money for you – official like. But I’ve been thinking, when you get wed, no matter who to, all you own becomes his and then if things ever go badly wrong, where might you be? That’s a bad law, that is.

  Like I said, you never know. I’m getting on in years now and who can tell how long he’ll live? I don’t want to get caught out. When I go, I want to know you’re protected. Since, under the law, if you are married, what’s yours wouldn’t be yours but his, I beg you to make sure he don’t know of this and
best make sure no one else knows of it either and to hell with the law.

  I’m trusting Josiah Duggan with writing this and getting it to you if anything happens to me, because he don’t worry too much about the law either and he’ll see there’s someone to take over from him. You hide this where you can always put your hand on it but no one else’ll ever find it. It ain’t for frittering; now you mind on that. I want you happy and safe, my wench. Your loving father, Samuel Shawe.

  Blinking away tears, I at last tackled the heavy little bag. Inside it was yet another bag, linen this time, and tied together with string, very tightly. I realized why when with the help of my scissors I finally got it open. It had been fastened so securely in order to stop it from clinking.

  It was full of coins, a mix of values. There were shillings, crowns and half-crowns, all squeezed together in yet another little linen bag. They were silver. But the rest was in gold: half-sovereigns, sovereigns, double sovereigns. I counted it and was astounded. The gold alone added up to two hundred pounds. No wonder it weighed so much.

  Dancing in the Spring

  There were no safe hidey-holes anywhere under our roof. Mrs Page in particular, took a real delight in turning out cupboards and no loose floorboard would ever escape her, either. If I were to hide the money as instructed, it would have to be somewhere outside.

  But I knew of a place. We had an old barn, quite near the house. It was immensely sturdy, with stone walls a couple of feet thick, and stout oak doors, grey and dry with age but hard as iron. It was a useful place for storing things like farm equipment and fodder. My father had always seen that its thatch was regularly renewed.

  I did not know just how old it was and nor did anyone else, but it was believed to date from the twelfth century. If so, one could assume that since it had withstood centuries of wind and rain (we have plenty of both on Exmoor), it was unlikely to fall down in the near future.

  And it had a hidey-hole.

  I had found it when I was a child of eight. I noticed one day that a stone at the outside of one corner seemed to be poking out. I pushed at it with inquisitive fingers and found that it was slightly loose. I wiggled it and it came away in my small hand, revealing quite a large cavity behind it.

  I have often wondered how the cavity came to be there. Carelessness by some medieval builder long ago when the barn was first constructed? Or made deliberately at some time when someone – like myself just now – wanted somewhere to hide something? Anyway, I pushed the stone back, firmly, so that it no longer showed, but I made a little scratch on it with the edge of a trowel, to help me remember which it was. Later, I sometimes made use of the hidden space.

  My father had had me educated but he was never too pleased to see me reading books at home; there was always what he called too much proper work to be done – hens to feed, shirts to be patched, pastry to make, a million things. Well, the Silcoxes used to lend their pupils books at times, and when I borrowed one, I sometimes put it in that cavity, wrapped in a piece of old towel or something like that, to keep it clean, and took it out to read whenever I could. I hadn’t done that now for years, but I hadn’t forgotten it. I thought the hole would be big enough, just.

  I always rose early, anyway. This time, I made a special point of being the first downstairs, again carrying my heavy secret in my pocket. In the kitchen, I shifted it into an egg basket which had a lid to it. Then I went out, gave the poultry their breakfast, strolled round the barn to the corner I had in mind, which luckily couldn’t be seen from the house, and crouched to fiddle with the well-remembered stone.

  It resisted me at first; I hadn’t touched it for a long time, and on the last occasion I must have thrust it home very firmly. It had settled and stuck. Making sure that I was unobserved, but keeping my basket jealously on my arm, I slipped round into the barn to find some kind of lever. I took down an old scythe that was hanging on the wall, went back, and applied the blade round the edges of the stone. It came away at last and yes, there was comfortable room for the leather drawstring bag with the letters and coins inside. I rammed it in and put back the stone, taking care that it shouldn’t be noticeable, but could be pulled out if necessary. I understood what my father had meant about not frittering the money. This was for emergencies, and an emergency could demand speed.

  From the very moment when there began to be talk of James and me, it had always irked me that if we married, then one day, in the nature of things, I would inherit Foxwell, only I wouldn’t, because it would pass at once to James. Every single thing I owned would become his and he would be entitled to do what he would with it without even asking me. Resentment of that had lain, niggling, at the back of my mind. It must have niggled at my father’s mind, as well. I was glad of this hidden hoard; a windbreak against the possible storms of life.

  Oddly enough, I did not feel the same way about Ralph. His father had said that Ralph could be trusted. I believed him. If I married Ralph, I somehow I did not think that he would high-handedly claim his rights, snatch things away from me and never ask my opinion. And somewhere in my mind, a small, cautionary voice said: But James might.

  I met Betty as I came out of the barn after returning the scythe to its hook. Her bright brown eyebrows went up. ‘What be doin’ in that old barn, Miss Shawe?’

  She meant no harm, but she was just naturally inquisitive and also just naturally impertinent.

  ‘Looking for the black hen,’ I said. ‘She’s forever wandering off and laying eggs where she hopes we won’t find them. I’ve found her in the barn before.’

  That was a lie, but I hoped Betty wouldn’t realize it. She, however, had noticed something else and pointed at it. ‘Why, there’s the black hen, there peckin’ away at the grain like the rest!’

  ‘So she is.’ I expressed surprise. ‘Well, she wasn’t there a minute ago. Or else I’m going weak in the head.’

  ‘And you with your dad just gone and the buryin’ only yesterday. Not to be wondered at.’ Impertinent and inquisitive she might be but she was also kind. ‘You come indoors now and I’ll make ’ee a nice cup of tea, and then you set down while I do breakfast. Have ’ee got eggs in that basket?’

  ‘No, I was just about to start collecting them.’

  ‘Let’s both do it, then thy ma’ll be down and I’ll see to breakfast for both of ’ee. Fresh eggs and hot bacon, nothing like it.’

  I remember the May Day dance on Exford Green vividly. The Brights came to join us first so that we could all go to Exford together, with James as my official escort. I recall that, encouraged by my mother, who insisted I leave off my black, I had bought some buttercup yellow material and green-gold trimming and made myself a new dress for the occasion, while she herself had progressed from black to lavender. It felt strange not to be in mourning any longer.

  I can see the five of us gathered in the big square kitchen of Foxwell. It was a friendly place. I see the whitewood table laid for the late supper we had planned. I see the rows of pans hanging on one wall, and the massive old dresser laden with plates and cups on the opposite one. I see the hams hanging from the ceiling beams and, poignantly, Father’s battered old basket chair by the hearth, padded with cushions for which Mother had knitted covers in red and blue, and Ned Bright sitting there instead of Father.

  I see the deep brick fireplace and the fire with the trivet in place over it, ready to cook the supper stew. I remember that the evening was warm so that the fire made the kitchen very hot. I remember the Pages and Betty coming in to join us, and how the sweat dripped off plump Mrs Page’s temples.

  It was such beautiful weather.

  Mother and I, along with Mrs Page and Betty, went in the trap, drawn by one of our sturdy Exmoor ponies. On this occasion it was our youngest gelding, Spots, called so because in some lights one could see shadowy dapples under his bay coat. We had the right to run some ponies on the moor and we always had three or four on the farm, bred from our own herd and trained by us from infancy. Bert Page was riding another
of them. The Brights all preferred full-sized horses, but we liked the Exmoors best, since for all their small stature, they were immensely strong and as surefooted as tightrope walkers.

  Exford’s village green was – and is – a fine big one, with plenty of room for dancing, and where there were trees beside it they cast shadows across the grass, as though someone had been busy with a paint pot of a darker shade. By the time we arrived, a crowd had already gathered and we could hear the band tuning up.

  It was many years ago and I don’t now remember all the musicians. Whoever they were, the band still exists and some of their grandsons are the music-makers now. I can’t recall who was playing the big drum, the flute or the cello but I do remember the mighty trombonist, Ezra Kent, the brawny Exford blacksmith, and I remember Peter Shearer, the lame lad whose widowed mother ran a haberdashery shop just beside the green. Peter couldn’t dance but he played the fiddle superbly and was ably seconded by aged Mr Eastley, who had guarded my father’s coffin while everyone else went a-hunting. There was a clarinet as well, skilfully handled by short, round, jolly Mr North, who, improbably, was the Exford undertaker. Mr North did gardening and house repairs as well, because, as he frequently said, with a merry chuckle, ours was a healthy community by and large and people didn’t die often enough to keep him alive, let alone his wife and large brood of offspring. All of them had been at my father’s funeral, and there were kindly smiles for me and my mother, welcoming us out of seclusion and back to the merry world.

  We settled our horses and the trap beneath some trees, and went to join the throng. The tuning up finished. Mr North, who was also the master of ceremonies at the Exford dances, had stepped out on to the green and was bidding everyone welcome and announcing the first dance. Only the people nearest to him could hear what he was saying but we all knew it word for word, anyway, and when the band struck up, everyone recognized the tune and therefore, the dance.