Late Harvest

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Ralph was an interesting talker. He told me about his time in the north, where the people and the accent and what he called the atmosphere were so different from ours that the north of England sometimes seemed like a foreign land. He really had been well educated, even if he didn’t recall how Cleopatra had killed herself. Apparently, he hadn’t read that particular play but he could recite long quotes from other works of Shakespeare, as well as knowing the names of many stars and constellations, too. Conversation with Ralph was never dull.

  Sometimes I wondered how we would ever endure the waiting until our marriage in August or how I would bear being separated from him in July. But at least, for the moment, we were together. It was a time, I remember, of enhanced awareness of everything about me. Ralph’s nearness was like a magnifying glass, making every experience bigger, stronger, more full of meaning. The sun was brighter, the smell of the sea more invigorating; the seagulls whiter, their cries more wild and passionate. When a gale arose, the wind was like a living thing that wailed while it shook the house. Every one of my senses was wide awake, showing me the world in a detail and clarity I had never known before.

  At the end of my first two weeks, there came a night when Ralph and his father were out of the house from evening until daybreak. I saw them go out after supper. They had not said where they were going, and Bronwen behaved as though she hadn’t noticed their disappearance.

  In the night, I was wakened by sounds outside, and looked from my window to see shadowy figures moving about below. I opened my window a little and heard men speaking to each other in low tones, though I recognized a voice or two and picked out a few names.

  I recognized the name Barney; that must be a fisherman called Barney Oates whom I now knew by sight, a slow-moving, slow-spoken man with a grizzled beard. I also heard Josiah addressing someone as Luke, and briefly glimpsed a silhouette I thought I knew. I had seen Josiah talking to him on the quay; a lean, bleached man with a harsh face. Ralph, who was with me on that occasion, had said it was someone called Luke Hatherton, adding that he and Josiah were friends but that he personally didn’t care for Luke, or for his son Roger, who was just a younger version of him.

  ‘They’re a ruthless pair and not to be crossed,’ Ralph had said, and I remembered how once he had remarked to me that though the Duggans had never done serious harm to the Customs officers, there were some among the smugglers who might – or possibly, had.

  Leaning on my sill, intent on what was happening below, I heard another name spoken. Someone called Daniel was being told to fetch something or other over here. I caught a reply in a young man’s light voice, though I couldn’t make out any words. Whoever Daniel was, he sounded nervous.

  Then I withdrew, feeling somehow that I shouldn’t be listening, or watching, either. But as I closed the window, I heard a familiar sound. It was the noise the cellar hatch made when it was raised, and it was followed by a rumble which was not quite the same as the rumble of a coal supply being tumbled down the chute.

  Josiah and Ralph were at breakfast the next morning, dressed in the breeches and old shirts and salt-stained leather coats they wore for sailing, and looking tired. Again, Bronwen made no comment.

  Nor did I. It had dawned on me in the night why the Duggans didn’t want maidservants sleeping in the house. I was glad that Ralph had taken me to Taunton to buy my engagement ring. I knew that my beautiful South Sea pearl was not smuggled goods. I was glad of that.

  Life with the Duggans was not confined. They kept several horses in a small stable yard on the other side of the house from the boatyard – so that the noise wouldn’t disturb them too much, Josiah told me. Bronwen, who had grown up on a Welsh farm, rode well. Sometimes we rode out together. She showed me a track up North Hill that led out on to a path along the crest of the coastal hills.

  This led to a steep dip into Porlock, and over to our right, poised upon the cliff, was a high point known as Selworthy Beacon. ‘There’ll be one there ready to light if the Frenchies look like invading,’ Bronwen said.

  We never went on to Porlock but would turn then and ride back. Up there, the sky seemed very big and the surrounding valleys very deep, and all around was the same moorland heath that encircled Foxwell, with its stretches of heather and pale gold moor grass, patches of bracken and clumps of gorse. I did miss the open moors round Foxwell. To find moorland within reach was welcome news to me.

  My first two weeks with the Duggans were very happy. Until that warm and sunny June morning, when things began to change.

  Kingfisher

  That was the day when, over breakfast, Josiah remarked that he had business in Dunster with one of the Luttrells’ foresters. I was interested, since the Luttrells owned the castle at Dunster and were among the most important folk in the county, though the village itself was a poorer place since the sea receded and Dunster was no longer a port.

  ‘The Luttrells have been felling some pine trees,’ Josiah said. ‘Nothing like a good straight pine to make a good straight mast. Best trees of all grow in deep valleys. They reach upwards to the light, a hundred and fifty feet tall, sometimes. Well, these are pines like that. I fancy doing a deal. The Chief Forester’s got authority to fix sales. Jim Sadler, that’s his name. Lives in Dunster, two doors from the Luttrell Arms. Fancy riding out there today to see him, Ralph? I’ve too much on hand and it’s a dead nuisance, losing Philip.’ Philip had left three days ago to begin his new life with his Great-Uncle Stephen at Standing Stone.

  ‘I’ve told Sadler,’ said Josiah, ‘that one of us would call on him today and he said that he would wait at his house, it being a matter of business. Take Peggy along. Let her see our business in action.’

  It looked like a pleasant expedition. Ralph took the horse his father usually used, a big flea-bitten grey called Flecks, while I rode the gentle chestnut mare, Tansy, Bronwen’s favourite. ‘I don’t need her today,’ she said. ‘You take her and welcome.’

  The ride was only a little more than a couple of miles and we took it easily, trotting mostly through a lane shadowed by trees. The weather was sunlit and breezy, and at first there weren’t too many flies. It was growing hot, however, by the time we reached the village, and Ralph got ciders for us at the inn, the Luttrell Arms. There was a tethering rail for our horses and we could drink our ciders inside, in the cool.

  After that, we left Tansy and Flecks where they were and strolled along the street. I noticed with regret that the cobbles were in need of attention, and that there was weather damage to the roof of the yarn market that was built over a hundred years ago and where my mother and I had sometimes bought yarn for our knitting. It’s circular, with a counter running all the way round it, and the roof is there to protect the yarn, the sellers and the customers alike from rain. Mr Silcox had told his pupils about it. He said that there was probably no other just like it in the country. I thought this interesting, and wished the market was being better cared for. It was as though bygone times still existed, all around us, preserved in the things our ancestors had built. I wonder, sometimes, whether the people who put up the standing stone on Stephen Duggan’s land were our ancestors too, even though they lived so very long ago.

  But the whole village had a neglected air. The cottages were well-built, mostly dating back centuries, but many of them were now in need of repair. Dunster has become more prosperous nowadays and all those repairs have been done. I am glad of it. However, even then, the Sadler cottage was decently maintained and we found Mr Sadler at home and waiting for us with his wife. We all sat in the little parlour and listened while Ralph and Mr Sadler, a brown, burly man who actually smelt of timber, haggled over quantities and prices, Ralph insisting that if the Duggans placed a big enough order, a discount was customary, and Mr Sadler disagreeing with Ralph’s interpretation of the words big enough.

  The haggling, I thought as I listened, was as much a pastime as serious business. The two of them were enjoying themselves. They reached agreement at last, and we accepted c
ups of tea and then returned to the cobbled street.

  Ralph said: ‘If we walk through the village to the other end and turn left down a little lane towards the old mill, we’ll come to the Avill River. There’s a medieval packhorse bridge there, built for the times when merchants came here to buy wool and took it away on packhorse trains. The wool industry isn’t what it was. But the bridge is a pretty spot. Shall we take a look?’

  We strolled companionably through the village and turned into the lane. It ran alongside a swift, narrow stream that Ralph said was the leat that powered the local watermill and then turned again, to come to the main river and step on to the bridge.

  I hadn’t seen it before. It was a peaceful place. Upstream of the bridge, the river ran smoothly under the shadow of overhanging trees but downstream, the current was strong at first on the left, but to the right there was a pool where trout lurked, making rings on the water now and then as they surfaced. A yard or two further on, the river widened into a ford and the current slackened. The brown-tinged, peaty water glinted in the sunshine. After the ford, the stream narrowed again and flowed away round the foot of the castle hill and out of sight.

  The bridge itself was of solid grey stone and it was narrow and high-sided. Wheeled traffic and people on horseback mostly used the ford. We stood, resting our hands on the coping of the downstream side, and looked at the pools and the current, and then turned to look upstream, where the water was inky in the shadows.

  ‘My love,’ said Ralph suddenly. And kissed me.

  It was the first time. Hitherto, we had held hands, and embraced, but never as yet had he pressed his mouth on mine and …

  It was extraordinary. The sense of companionship and friendliness was still there, but now it became like an underground stream, while above it …

  For the first time I was fully aware of Ralph’s body, of his physical being, of his warmth and strength and his need, and aware too of my own need, which came on me from nowhere, astonishing me by its force. I had never known such a feeling before though I knew at once what it was. I wanted him as much as he wanted me. I wanted union with him, completion, the blending of our two bodies into one. My arms slid round him and just as his kiss seemed to be ending, I responded to it in a way that made it start again.

  When at last we broke apart, I felt strange, almost shy, as if he, or I, or both of us, had just turned into other people. I wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Ralph’s eyes were smiling. If he had suggested, then and there, that we lay down on the bridge and made love forthwith, I would have done so willingly.

  He didn’t, of course, suggest any such thing. He just stood smiling at me and then, something like a brilliant blue arrow plunged from the trees to the water, reappearing a moment later and revealing itself for an instant of time as a kingfisher, with a little fish in its beak. There was another blue flash, hurtling upwards this time, and the beautiful thing was gone, and a tiny fish which, a moment ago, had been happily flicking its tail as it swam through the waters of the Avill had been snatched to its death without warning.

  I remembered that, later.

  ‘We’d better go back,’ Ralph said, and took my hand. As we strolled back off the bridge and started for the village, he added: ‘I wish we could bring our wedding day forward. Shall we try and talk your mother round – or get my dad to talk to her?’

  ‘I don’t think it would be much use,’ I said doubtfully. ‘She … she does feel strongly. It isn’t so very long now. Just till August.’

  August. Only a couple of months away. A couple of centuries. Two thousand years.

  ‘We’ll have to live with my parents at first,’ Ralph was saying, ‘but I think we should have a home of our own as soon as we can. Somewhere near the boatyard, of course. If one of those cottages by the quay should come vacant, that might make a start for us, though we’ll probably want something still bigger and better before long – at least, I hope we will.’

  Of course we would! Children! I felt myself blushing and Ralph saw it, and laughed.

  A few minutes later, we were back in the main street and nearing the yarn market. Then we saw that something unusual was afoot.

  The first thing I actually noticed was the horse that was tethered to one of the uprights of the market. I recognized it because it was distinctive. It was a dapple grey and it had an extraordinary shape. To create it, an Arab stallion had assuredly got together with a carthorse mare. This horse had a solid body and a thick, heavy neck and on the end of the thick neck was unmistakeably the delicate dish face of the Arabian breed, lustrous eyed and with a skin so fine that at close quarters one could see the network of veins below. I knew it because it belonged to Mr Silcox. Then I saw Mr Silcox himself. He was standing foremost of a crowd of people, his silvered head visible above the people in between us. The crowd had gathered in front of a cottage, a few doors away from the inn, and Mr Silcox was talking to a couple on the cottage doorstep.

  ‘Something’s happening,’ said Ralph, and we quickened our pace. ‘We’d better find out what. I’m not mistaken, that’s the cottage where Maisie Cutler’s parents live.’

  Mr Silcox caught sight of us as we approached, and called to us. We joined him and the crowd let us through. It seemed to consist of people drawn together by the signs of disaster. The forester and his wife were there, their faces full of concern, and so was the manager of the Luttrell Arms, and four or five anxious-looking housewives with shopping baskets. The couple on the doorstep were presumably Mr and Mrs Cutler. He was a square-built fellow in the garb of a labourer; she was a plump woman like an older version of Maisie. Both looked distressed; Mrs Cutler, indeed, was crying. When they saw Ralph, whom they evidently knew, they called to him and he called back. We came to a stop beside Mr Silcox.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ralph asked, outright.

  ‘It’s Maisie, their daughter,’ said Mr Silcox. ‘I’ve just heard. I rode in to Dunster about other business, but when I saw there was trouble at this house, I came to see what was wrong. I had Ernie Cutler in my class long ago, didn’t I, Ernie?’

  ‘Best man at my wedding, you were,’ said Mr Cutler. ‘As for what’s happened now, Ralph, it’s Maisie! Our girl! She’s disappeared.’

  ‘She were to come and see us yesterday,’ said Mrs Cutler tearfully. ‘But she never. She’s never done that afore and not let us know. She’d always find someone to bring word if she’d said she’d visit and then couldn’t.’

  ‘Yes, and once she pretended she’d promised to see us, as an excuse to put your brother off, Ralph, so as she could walk out with that Wheelwright man we don’t like!’ barked Mr Cutler. ‘But she didn’t make any false promises to us – only to Philip. Oh, she told us about it! Little minx! She laughed. I said to her, no good’ll come of all thy flirting … but this time she really was coming to us. She’d never play games with us …’

  His voice trailed away.

  ‘She’m only seventeen!’ wailed his wife. ‘What’s a girl to do, when all she wants is a bit of harmless fun, and the fellows will get so earnest and solemn? But Ernie’s right; she never let us down, never. She promised to come yesterday and we waited all day and no word and no Maisie, and this mornin’ … this mornin’ I got up and walked all the way to the Avill Smallholding to find her and ask what had gone wrong and … and …’

  She dissolved into tears again. Mr Silcox said sombrely: ‘She meant to come to Dunster to her parents. She told her fellow servants so. She set off. She never arrived. She’s vanished off the face of the earth.’

  Inquest

  The Cutlers had apparently just returned from their fruitless visit to Avill smallholding and had been asking their neighbours if anyone had seen Maisie, which accounted for the way the news had spread and the crowd had collected. Someone had meanwhile sent for the local constable, who at this point arrived to take charge. He declared that a search must be organized and Ralph said that he must stay and join in. I must ride straight back to Minehead to tell
his parents and ask them to send word to Philip.

  The constable was already sorting his volunteers into groups to search various areas. I made haste to untie Tansy, and get on to her back. As I left, I heard someone consoling Mrs Cutler, saying that it would be all right, she’d be found; maybe she’d been out somewhere and had an accident, but it was dry last night; she very likely hadn’t come to much harm. I hoped that this was the answer, but an uneasiness deep inside me said that it was not. Philip was going to be badly upset, I thought.

  When I got back to Minehead and told my tale, Josiah set off at once for Standing Stone. After that Bronwen and I endured a weary day without news, until the evening, when Josiah and Ralph returned. They had been with search parties in different areas and had finally met in the Luttrell Arms (‘Where else,’ said Bronwen, ‘and what of us, all awaiting news at home?’) where the searchers got together when at dusk the task was called off. Josiah told us that Philip had thrown a saddle on one of his uncle’s ponies and rushed away to join the hunt, and that Stephen Duggan, though grumbling at the loss of working time had nevertheless summoned his farmhands and arranged a search of his land and its immediate surroundings.

  ‘But nothing’s been found. Not a sign of her,’ Josiah said wearily, sinking into an armchair in the parlour. ‘And when Philip got to Dunster and was looking for someone to tell him where he could be most useful, the constable pounced on him and marched him into a back room at the inn and questioned him! It seems that that fellow Laurence Wheelwright was questioned too, since they were rivals and she was a silly girl, the sort that plays with fire.’