Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Mallory hastened to put her more at ease. “No, it’s all right Mrs. Pogue. “I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I had been expecting something else you see. Really everything’s OK now.” She forced a smile at the woman, touched by her sympathy, but inside feeling unprotected, over-exposed in this strange world. “I do know where I am and I’m looking forward to working at the stables. I love horses and I’m a good team player.” The words were to support her susceptible ego as much as to convince the woman.

  “Oh, you’re into this soccer craze, are you? Our Arnie loves it too. Every Saturday ’e goes with ’is mates to a match. I don’t know which team ’e follows at the moment.

  “No, I don’t play football. I meant … I mean … err… I’ll do my best to fit in.”

  “No? Well I’m sure you’ll get on up there,” she said reassuringly. “Sir Eustace an’ the Lady Glencora are fair. They try to give us a fair wage for our work.” Her pale eyes roamed the room as she reminisced. “I started up at the big ’ouse when I was a girl, only twelve I was … in the laundry. Of course, it was much ’arder in them days. No runnin’ water, we ’ad to carry it all in buckets; the ’ot and the cold.” She sighed over more than she had revealed and shook her head. “They was very ’eavy days, I would finish up that tired.” She looked back at Mallory un-knitting her brows. “You’ll do very well. Old Jake, ’e knows ’is stuff. Just you mind Mr. Crosby. ’e’s a right stickler for the book. I reckon as ’e feels ’is position a might too much … being so close to ’is Lordship you see. I guess some of that rubs orf.” She gave an abrupt wave of her hand: “Now, now, I shouldn’t stand here gossipin’, it’s gettin’ late. I’ll leave you to your ablutions.”

  “Do you still work, Mrs. Pogue?” Mallory was keen to learn all she could.

  “Yes, now the children ’ave gorn, I go over to the circulatin’ library three days a week. I’m one of the caretakers at the readin’ room. I really like it. Although I don’t read the books, I do look at the magazines an’ the catalogues.” She let out a wistful sigh: “So many lovely things!”

  She observed Mallory more closely, paying attention to the wounds. “There’s some nasty cuts and abrasions you’ve got there lad,” and reached out for his hand, noting the packed earth under the nails and around a very deep gash. There was another one on his forehead. “If you don’t clean them up, you could get some nasty pus in that,” she admonished, as if to a child.

  “I’ll be all right, Mrs. Pogue. I’ll give them a good scrub with the soap,” she responded confidently.

  “Better than that, I’ve got a small pot of raw honey … the best salve to combat any infection,” she assured her.

  “Honey!”

  “Oh aye, there’s stuff those bees collect together and so long as you don’t ’eat it, just scrape it orf an’ keep it fresh, it’ll clean up the worst looking lacerations or punctures an’ ’ardly leave a scar! My dad used to swear by it an’ it always worked on us kids.” There was vigorous nodding in the affirmative to accompany this testimonial. “I’ll put it, an’ some dressin’s in your room.”

  She left her with the injunction: “You only need a smear mind.”

  * * *

  Mallory opted for a bath and thoroughly enjoyed it. She had spotted a cake of Pears soap in the small wire tray, brown and translucent, quite the novelty. At the end of her session, when she had begun to feel less defenceless and insecure, she cleaned the bath with a sprinkle of Vim. She would have to buy some shampoo with her first pay and already she missed her electric tooth brush.

  Finding a round tin of pale pink Euthymol toothpaste someone had set on the broad rim of the wash basin, she removed some with her index and rubbed it over her teeth, outside and in. With a watery finger she rubbed again to make a froth, not much of one, but her mouth did feel better after the rinse. Wrapped in a towel, she padded back to the room. Mrs. Pogue had remembered to leave her a box of matches on the night table for the lamp, with the honey pot and there were clothes on the bed as promised. She put the soiled things in the wicker hamper as directed, but had washed her underwear which now hung over the chair back, on a towel. However, her new landlady had thought of everything including heavy nailed boots, socks and a pair of severely scuffed leather gaiters. Well, Mr. Higgins can’t complain now. They buttoned up the outside and had a strap to go under her foot. There was a blue and white striped ‘grandpa’ shirt which rather took her fancy and with the serge vest, she felt she would truly look the part.

  She attended to her various lesions and was pleased to note that honey did not sting, then donned a roomy night shirt and climbed up into an unusually high bed, reflecting on the contrast this made with the accommodation she had shared in the university residence. A cluttered room, two work stations, each with a centred monitor and keyboard and books everywhere. The desk chair however, had been a comfortable swivel, with a high back. So many hours she had committed to that set-up. Well, her E-mail and SKYPE days were over now. No more Texts and SMS’s, nor would she be down-loading to her MP3 audio file. Her body gave an involuntary shudder of fear. Such a short space of time and so much had happened. Could she live through this? She shook her head. Give it time Mal. See what’s out there first.

  Looking around her it was Spartan. Another embroidered sampler on the wall: God Bless This House. Less skilfully executed, perhaps by a more youthful hand? She had to get off the bed to turn down the lamp, but it went out. She could not climb back fast enough, feeling cold and vulnerable. With its glow and hiss eliminated, she was aware of how complete the blackness and total the silence. Being unused to this velvet gloom, the night felt eerie and she, strangely afraid. She yanked the sheet close to her chin and the flower-sprigged counterpane too, trying to hide and thinking: I used to drop off to sleep listening to a sound collage by Christoff Charles or the music of Shane Faye. Now I’m like a scared child, afraid of the dark. But this is a roof over my head and they seem like nice people. At least I did not die in that accident, even if this does seem to be an incomprehensible nether world I’ve landed in.

  So totally worn out, these were the last thoughts to drift through her head as she dropped off into the supportive protection of sleep.

  * * *

  A loud knock on the door and instantly Mallory was alert. She called out her thanks and said she would be down. It had been a restless night. So much tossing and turning as she had tried to weave together the varied images that had filled her confused mind. They had burdened it with their lack of cohesion and she had wished she could turn them off, but she could not stay asleep long enough. She would wake up with a start; tears of bitter misery soaking the pillow, her heart pounding in her ears and be compelled to throw off the hot covers.

  Although for her, this was a hideously early hour, the pastel glimmer of dawn vibrating through the fine weave of the net curtains was a rescue. It provided an excuse to thrust away the tormenting fears of the night and welcome the new day. The relief from the uncertainties that had dogged her like the proverbial hounds was more than welcome.

  “We’ll walk together Mallory. ’ere, take this Billy Pot.” Mr. Pogue handed her a cap which would sit flat on her head. “You’ll need this scarf an’ all, ’til the sun burns through.” He stepped out the back door and Mallory followed him into the laneway. The now familiar odour of wood smoke wafted up to her on a wayward breeze that hinted of autumn’s chilly blasts. However, the capricious morning air had a surprisingly soothing effect on her fevered agitation. It was a nebulous morning, with low-lying cloud wrapping the trees in white veils. Above their tops, the sky was still a pale grey.

  Mr. Pogue noticed the lad was equally as tall as he, with a long stride and well developed muscles. He expected him to do well, working for Mr. Higgins. They walked in silence, each one coming to terms with what lay ahead. Other figures were on the move through the damp haze, shadowy in their dark suits and caps, a scarf round their neck in the same way, all converging in the direction of the big hous
e. Quickly, radiant sunlight began to gild the upper branches of the tallest trees, evaporating the turbid mists and raising wisps of steam from wet rooves. Then magically, all trace of the morning’s impenetrability was gone.

  “I keep straight, but you veer orf to the left. Stay to the right o’ the house an’ you’ll come to a big, barred gate. Be sure to close it behind you. You’ll see the path windin’ up the hill. Stay on it an’ it’ll take you to the stable yard down below. I’m sure you’ll smell the ’orses afore you see ’em,” he affirmed with a nod of his head. “My workshop’s beyond where you go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pogue. I’ll see you tonight, then.” She waved and walked on, her boots scraping through the long grass which speckled them with dark spots of dew.

  Wild mustard seed flowers provided brilliant patches of yellow to relieve the green and just odd clumps of purple clover popped up intermittently. Doubts were beginning to cloud her thoughts and undermine her resolution. Apprehension lay heavy on her heart, sapping the fragile confidence and setting it adrift. Mr. Higgins – how daunting was he for a start? Perhaps, with luck she would be more with Mr. Beeson.

  He was right about the aroma. That mixture of dung and saddle soap made her feel good. This would be an environment where she could be self-reliant again. Horses did not change. Tension began to ease from her shoulders and she felt herself breaking free. The head came up and as her lungs filled with the fresh, crisp air she was aware of this clean country environment, not yet filled with the noxes and oxes of the twenty-first century. That was not right. Her eyes scanned the pastoral scene. If she had fetched up north, in Manchester or Sheffield, she would be breathing in the smut of heavy industry and from all those home fires. Not so bad out here after all. She swallowed her concern and her step firmed, the stride growing bolder.

  It’s up to you to make of this what you can my girl!

  Jake Beeson spotted the lad and beckoned him over. “Mornin’, I ’eard as ya’ got took on. Mr. ’iggins won’t be ’ere fer another ’our yet, so I’ll get ya’ started with the feeds and the turnouts. Follow me.”

  Time flew. He introduced her to some more of the lads as she worked her way through and once the horses were in the lower paddock, it was time for mucking out. There were twenty stalls, not all for hunters or, for that matter, in use. They had a few hacks and cobs for the farm as well as for draft work.

  “In these two stalls is the carriage pair. They’re the last t’ go out.”

  Mallory was impressed. They were beautifully matched, even down to their white socks, front and back.

  “These days, it’s mostly fer collectin’ guests from the station. “These stalls is fer visitin’ ’orseflesh. No need t’ bother yersel’ with them just yet.”

  It was Mr. Crosby who summoned her first. She was shown to an impressive suite of offices whose small square panes of glass seemed to shimmer in their casements as she approached. Most of the estate business was carried on here.

  Mr. Crosby was no more pleasant at this meeting. A supercilious bearing seemed to be his favourite mode of interaction. No matter, she could handle it, although her knees were on the wobbly side. His sceptical gaze travelled over the aspirant. To his lights the young lad did not show a sufficient amount of respectful deference, but it was early days. There were plenty more where he came from. Although, perhaps not. A new thought edged up on him – this drift of lads up north; those big factories and their great ports. They could leave the farm with only the old codgers to do the heavy work. His sigh was long and wistful. How the times were changing and not for the better he would warrant. Only this morning he had read an article in his paper; Sunderland docks had built as much as one million tons of new shipping between 1905 and 1907 and now British shipyards were supplying half the world’s tonnage.

  His mind could hardly grasp the enormity of it.

  He pulled himself back to the job at hand. “All right Mason. We’ve got you official. You’ll have to work the week before you get your packet, but pay day is Thursday for the estate staff and the stables is so classified. It’s Friday for farm labourers. Mr. Higgins will explain more to you about your duties.

  She could not get anything to eat from Cook this time, Jake informed her. Yesterday had been ‘special circumstances’, so he good naturedly shared his thick dripping sandwiches. All this animal fat, my body won’t know what’s hit it, she groaned. There was cold water from an outside pump, located over a stone trough where the horses could drink. “Mrs. Pogue will set ya’ up t’morra, I’ve no doubt,” he asserted.

  In fact Mr. Higgins did not appear until after all the horses had been groomed and the stable was closing down ’til feed time. It had felt good working on Burrow. He had tossed his head, shaking out his mane in a sweeping crescent, as if he remembered her. When she came to pick his back hooves he was a tad restive, but some soothing murmurs settled him. Jake gave her another young gelding, a thoroughbred bay called Talbot, with a dramatic blaze between his eyes. He was a sweetheart and she had him eating out of her hand in no time. He took the carrot with the daintiness of a fine lady, his soft lips licking her palm. Charmed, she stroked his nose and received a friendly nuzzle in the ribs.

  Now to the encounter she had been dreading. Their last meeting had been so ugly, but she had definitely not been herself nor, it seemed had he. He was as gruff as before, whiskers still all of a bristle in his heavy features, but there the similarity ended. This time he was agreeable, so keen to have ‘the new lad’ working. They parked themselves on some stacked bails of bedding and looked out over the cobbled yard to the leafy woods.

  “Their Lordships will soon be riding to hounds on a regular basis. It’s the best hunting in our Midland shires so Sir Eustace will be hosting many lawn meets. The weekend shooting parties have already started and they go ’til November: that’s the grouse. The partridge starts next month and we’ll finish up with the pheasant season from October.”

  Mallory watched the pink lips working away earnestly, from within their surrounding thicket of black hair. She could tell his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. Poor man, he needs more life/work balance she thought, but he probably won’t get it, if this is just the start.

  “See here Mason, I’m responsible as Head Gamekeeper to maintain a good supply of game at all times. Their Lordships’ day’s sport will always be rewarded with a sufficiently large bag. Me and the lads, we breed and stock pheasants for their coverts and raise most of the species that are popular these days. We help nurture the young game and that means we must destroy the vermin.”

  Mallory was not liking the sound of this. Working with the horses was good, even raising cute feathered creatures, but for blood sports…?

  “These animals the … err … vermin. What are these … Sir?”

  “Oh, you know just local stuff: weasels, badgers, other foxes, not ours of course: hawks, owls. They eat the eggs and young game, prey on the mature, even. To keep up the numbers we must be vigilant. Also, these blasted hiking clubs that are all the go just now, come stomping through the game reserves, making a racket, scaring the wild life, destroying the nests.”

  “What has to be done?” she enquired cautiously. Any form of killing was not her scene.

  “We need to put up signs, patrol the trails and keep them from straying.” He warmed to his theme. “Now poachers, there’s another threat. They’ll set traps that catch the foxes before their Lordships have had their sport and the tenant farmers do the same too, if their crops are being attacked.”

  “Which creatures go for their fields, Sir?”

  “The usual: hares, rabbits; woodcock, bustards. The farmers that have chickens, they want to reduce the numbers that might raid their hen houses a night. The farmers who have acres of grain don’t want partridge or pheasants raiding their fields.”

  Sounds reasonable enough to me, she thought.

  “I tell you Mason, it’s war out there between us and them. We have to watch the woods at night. We�
�ve given up setting spring guns with triggered wires since they was declared illegal, but without the help of man traps, we need all the hands we can get. These game laws are a bitter source of ugly friction.”

  “What happens if a poacher gets caught?” The stomach was beginning to churn, repelled by all this: “Sir.”

  “Oh…oh,” he shook his head, grim-faced: “It’s three months in Newgate, or a fine of five pounds if they don’t decide to report it. Anyway, it’s illegal to sell or possess dead game. I tell you, if it’s three of them, at night, with a gun … orf to Australia it is …” at this declaration he nodded his head emphatically: “… could be up to fourteen years! Well, you would know all about that.”

  “No, I don’t and I don’t like the sound of it. I don’t want to be involved in apprehending anybody either.”

  “No … no, Mason. Don’t go all squeamish. When their Lordships go on a ‘battue’ the lads act as ‘beaters’ going on ahead through the fields to drive the game up into the air. If need be, I have some of them raise a big net, high up to keep the game from flying away. Other than that it’s checking the woods at night and the nests or chicks by day.” He reckoned that just about covered it.

  “I’ll take you to meet Mr. Flegg. He’s our huntsman and kennel master and lives in the village. He’s responsible for the physical work of the hunt itself. He’s a good man. He bred all Sir Eustace’s hounds. Can identify every one by their bark and remembers each one’s pedigree. As huntsman, he’s in charge of putting them through their paces on the day of the hunt. In the early morning you will go out with him and the other lads to stop up the fox holes in the hunt area.”