‘I’ll send you money when I can!’ Hardly granted time to lower his head so as not to bang it on the lintel, the lanky youth stumbled over the threshold, a round-eyed audience gathering in the doorway behind their mother.
‘Not once she gets her hands on it you won’t!’ yelled Beata, eyes like chips of jet. ‘Turning yur head with her wicked ways – I know her sort! Well, go on! Back to your doxy!’
‘Don’t call her that, Mam!’ begged Monty, on the street now, his face pleading earnestly through the dusk whilst the whites of his siblings’ eyes shone in awe. ‘Sarah’s a lovely girl. It’s not my money she’s after, her father’s deputy at the pit, she could wed anyone she fancies – so you see I’m marrying well.’ He omitted the fact that his prospective in-laws shared Beata’s antipathy for the match. ‘I know you’ll like her. Come to my wedding, ’tis two weeks from to—’
‘And when’s the child expected?’ yelled his mother.
‘Beata!’ Richard deplored such scenes. ‘There bain’t no call for crudity.’
At his masterful tone Beata reined in her temper somewhat, wrapping her shawl tightly around her, but her chin remained jutted in obduracy. ‘Ain’t there? He’s known her but four weeks; you’re telling me she han’t tricked him into marrying her? And ain’t you forgetting something, my boy? You’re not of age yet. What happens if your father and me don’t give our consent?’
Peeking between a skirt and a gaitered leg, Kit’s blue eyes were wide, studying first one opponent then the other, whose voices drowned out the frogs’ lovesong.
Monty abandoned his pathetic air, adopting the look of determination that had got him into trouble with countless employers. ‘She han’t tricked me and she bain’t having no child! I love her and we’re goin’ be wed, consent or no.’ Mouth set, he planted his cap firmly on his head. ‘I come here in good heart to invite you and Father—’ He broke off and said hurriedly by way of explanation to his disappointed siblings, especially Kit who looked most fearful and hurt by the verbal aggression, ‘We can’t afford to have you all – we need every penny we got – but you’ll all meet Sarah in time. The honour’s still open to you, Mother, Father, if you care to come. You know where to find us.’ He made as if to go. Bats, newly emerged from hibernation, swooped and veered around the cottage.
Beata made one last swoop herself, but this time used a different tactic. ‘Please, please, don’t do it, son! You haven’t known her five minutes.’
‘Long enough to know she’s the girl I want to marry.’ Monty altered his approach too, attempting to caress with his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, I can’t go back on my word, I really can’t. A man has a duty.’
His father’s floury lungs wheezed in mirth, he threw up his hands and brought them smacking down upon his knees, his anger tempered by a sense of the ridiculous.
‘Your duty is to this family!’ Tears of frustration blurred the hardness in his mother’s dark eyes but it was there in her voice. ‘Call yourself a man? Well, in my book a man wouldn’t come ’ere and slap his money on the table then take it away with his other hand! There’s only one thing’d make you a man in my eyes and that’d be for you to repay all that’s been invested in you!’
Guilt-ridden, for he knew what she said to be true, Monty retreated down the unlit, unpaved country road between the naked silhouettes of oak and elm, eager to be away as his mother shrilled after him, ‘Well, don’t you go ’specting to see us at this mockery you call a wedding! We ain’t got money for luxuries, nor time to waste neither. If you’ve abandoned your duty others’ll just have to do it for ’ee!’ And she would have shouted more had her husband not commanded her to show some decency, at which she ordered her family to bed, slamming the door on her errant son as a mark of finality.
Whilst Mother and the older girls rushed back and forth from table to scullery in a furious rattling of crockery, a tearful Kit sobbed to her father, ‘Ain’t our Monty coming back?’
Though seething with contempt at his son’s desertion, Richard administered words of balm whilst urging her to hurry into her nightgown. ‘Don’t ’ee worry about all this fuss, my beauty. You’ll see your brother again. More’s the pity,’ came the muttered addition. ‘Your mam don’t mean half o’ what she says. Give her a fortnight to get over it an’ she’ll be pestering to go to Monty’s wedding – if only to have a look at the woman who stole her boy.’ And God help that poor girl, came his bitter thought, having to rely on that idle ne’er-do-well as a husband. ‘No, your mam won’t give up her lad without a struggle. Mark my words.’
* * *
And sure enough within the week Beata was sewing ribbon on her bonnet and braid on the dress she normally wore only to chapel, and grumbling over the pay her husband would lose in order to travel the hundred miles or more to and from the wedding. Thus, Kit learned to rely on her father’s word. If Father said such and such was going to happen, then so it surely would.
Caught up in the air of excitement on the morning of her parents’ departure, she begged to be allowed to go to Monty’s wedding with them, not simply in order to see her brother again, but because she hated being left in Gwen’s charge, for her fifteen-year-old sister would be even bossier in their mother’s absence and inflict more petty rules than usual.
‘Couldn’t I come?’ Her large open face directed its plea to her father.
Richard, freshly shorn for the occasion, was barely listening as he cleaned a last speck of flour from the wagon that his employer had lent him for this special trip. When he had casually mentioned his elder son’s wedding to the miller, he had not expected so magnanimous a gesture as the loan of the vehicle and three days’ release from his labours. Any argument that he had put up about his employer being discommoded by his absence fell flat when the miller said it would be easy enough to hire a temporary labourer in Richard’s place. Even the objection that he was unable to manage without the pay was rendered invalid, for he was offered a loan, without interest, and the chance to repay it when harvest time brought extra work; no one should be deprived of attending their son’s nuptials. Beata might have grumbled at the financial disablement, but had become doggedly intent on witnessing her son’s marriage. Thus, Richard found himself pushed into a trip he would rather not make.
Now he stood back to inspect the bay horse in its harness of polished leather and ornamental brass. ‘What was that you said, my dear?’
‘Can’t I come?’ repeated Kit. ‘I’m only little, there be plenty of room in the cart for me.’
Whilst her siblings howled with laughter and made quips about her size, Richard smiled down at her and swept off his wide-awake hat, his red hair arguing violently with the bright yellow wagon. ‘’Tain’t that there’s no room, my dear, but your brother can’t rightly be expected to feed all of us. He’s only a young chap and he need all the money he got for his new life.’ It was said not in defence of Monty but to cushion the little girl’s feelings.
‘But I want to see him,’ Kit sulked.
‘What makes you think you’re more ’portant than us?’ challenged eight-year-old Owen, his dark features set in the mould of adult disapproval. ‘We all want to go but we can’t. So stop behaving like a baby.’
Kit started to cry.
‘Oh, now, now!’ The impatience Richard felt at his wretch of a son for dragging him off to a wedding on the far side of nowhere was for a moment deflected on to Kit. ‘You’ll see Monty again ’ere too long. Don’t make such a fuss, you know I can’t abide it. Here, dry your eyes, your mother’s a-coming.’ He pulled his best, his one and only, handkerchief from the green second-hand tail coat he normally reserved for chapel and handed it to the child. Then, planting his hat on his auburn head he went to divest his wife of the basket of food she had prepared for the journey, lodging it in the wagon. The other children lined up to take their last orders from their mother.
Whilst they were thus engaged, Richard bent and murmured to the still-tearful Kit, ‘Hush now, let there be an end to
it. We’ll not be gone too long if I have anything to say about the matter. Here, gimme that ’kerchief a minute.’ Snatching it, he proceeded to tie a loose knot in each corner, then waggled the handkerchief under her nose. ‘Now each morn when ’ee get out o’ bed I want you to unfasten one o’ those knots – just one a day mind – and when you’ve untied the last one you must count to five, turn around, then run outside and you’ll see me and Mother coming down that road there, I promise.’
‘Richard Kilmaster, what heathen nonsense are you spouting to that child?’ demanded his wife, but in pleasant mood at the thought of the big adventure ahead.
‘Nuthin!’
‘I heard it all! And what’re you gonna do if you need to wipe your nose, pray tell?’
‘I got two sleeves, ain’t I?’
‘Fie!’ Beata gathered her knitted shawl around her, laughing. ‘He looks like a dandy till he opens his mouth. Don’t bend over that far, my boy, they kerseys won’t take the strain.’ The buff kerseymere pantaloons bought for a few pence had been expertly mended but their fragility bespoke the fact that there had been several wearers before Richard. ‘A good job you’re wearing a tail coat to cover your shortcomings.’
By way of answer Richard extended a hand round his rear to act as reinforcement, but remained crouched over his daughter. ‘Now, you understand what I tell ’ee, Kit?’
Kit gazed into his brown eyes, her tear-stained face creasing as she tried to memorize his instructions, fingers playing with the knots.
‘Don’t ’ee untie them yet!’ Richard warned. ‘Or ’twon’t work.’
Others watched the interplay, wondering resentfully why their father, usually such an undemonstrative man, chose to lavish so much attention on one who contributed nothing. Kit’s tears seemed to affect him where theirs could not.
The lofty figure straightened his back, tugged the edges of his bottle-green coat, assisted his wife into the yellow wagon, then grabbed the reins and clambered up next to her. Sensing departure, the horse snorted and shifted from leg to leg, jingling its harness.
Clutching the important handkerchief, Kit stood and waved with the others as the cart bearing their parents rumbled down the village street, over the bridge and out of sight, her father’s instructions already a blur in her three-year-old mind.
* * *
The next day Kit woke early, roused by a feeling that there was something crucial to be done. Screwing her knuckles into her eyes, she suddenly remembered her father’s handkerchief downstairs and kicked herself free of the blankets, making contact with her bedfellows in the process. Groans of censure emerged from the warm mounds in the patchwork quilt. The culprit bit her lip and looked innocent, waiting for the cross faces to retreat under the covers before padding across the floorboards. Carefully negotiating the decrepit staircase, she went downstairs to retrieve the handkerchief, then out into the half-light where fumbling fingers undid every knot, the child totally forgetting the rest of her father’s instructions.
Though the sun was attempting to emerge, appearing as a golden haze on the dark horizon, it was a cold and unpromising start to the day. Kit hugged the handkerchief against her nightgowned chest and peered down the road, then beyond to the north-west where the bluish rise of the Mendip Hills could be seen in the distance. She concentrated her eyes on the route into the village. There was no sign of her parents, just the stark, eerie outline of a leafless tree bent almost double by centuries of wind, clawing at the air like an arthritic hand. Perching on the damp step she waited, sang a hymn, then fell silent, chewing a corner of the handkerchief and shivering. Nearby, a blackbird began to trill, cheering her somewhat. In time others joined the chorus. Smoke began to curl from chimneys, faint grunting emerged from the pigsty, a dog yapped, and soon besmocked labourers emerged from neighbouring cottages to start the day’s toil.
There were sounds of life from within her own cottage too and shortly Gwen came out to draw water from the well, simultaneously ordering Kit inside for breakfast. To disobey would be inviting wrath, and so after a last lingering look down the road the subject responded. Inside, a cast-iron pot squatted over the fire, a row of empty bowls awaiting its bubbling grey contents – a mixture of flour, butter and water. The loaf that would serve as lunch sat as yet unbaked upon the hearth. Kit stood up to the table to say prayers between Flora and Charity. Amelia had needed a box in order to be able to reach her bowl at Kit’s age, but not this strapping infant.
In their parents’ absence the rule of silence at mealtimes was ignored. ‘What you been a-doing out there?’ demanded her eldest sister after grace was said – with Gwen it was always a demand, never a query – and when Kit told her she uttered a scold. ‘Ninny! They won’t be coming back this soon.’
‘They will,’ retorted Kit, through a mouthful of gruel. ‘Father said when there weren’t no more knots in the hanky he and Mother’d be coming back.’ And what Father said was always true.
‘You weren’t meant to untie ’em all at once!’ Jealousy had caused Owen to eavesdrop on the conversation between his father and Kit. ‘And I bet you ain’t done anything else right. He told you to count to five and turn round before you went outside.’
Kit’s blue eyes widened and the hand holding her spoon paused in mid-air.
‘Oh, you gone and done it now, Kit,’ teased Flora. ‘They won’t be a-coming back at all.’
Kit’s lips trembled. Amelia looked concerned too. Eleven-year-old Charity gave a comforting laugh and as usual sprang to the little one’s aid. ‘She’s pulling your leg! Of course they’ll be back.’
The youngest child turned to Gwen, but was told sternly, ‘They won’t if you don’t do as yur bidden – an’ if you spill aught on that tablecloth you’ll get a good whipping! I’m sick o’ you making extra work for me.’ As eldest girl she had always felt close to her father and had until recent years rather enjoyed the role of little wife, looking after his other children, but now come to womanhood she resented being held back from her true adult role, especially when the one who kept her prisoner was a rival for her father’s attentions. He never so much as looked at her these days. ‘Wish I could escape like our Monty.’ A heavy sigh. ‘But I suppose one of us has to behave responsibly. Come on now, all of you, eat up, I ain’t got time to bide here all day, I got work to go to.’
Kit inserted the spoon between trembling lips, worrying throughout breakfast over her parents. Whilst the table was being cleared, she got dressed, stood in line to have the tangles brushed out of her hair by the impatient Gwen, then, trailing the handkerchief behind her like a pennant, she ran outside again to sit and wait. The elder girls left for work on the farm, placing her in the kinder hands of Charity who, in response to Kit’s anxious enquiry, explained that of course their parents would be home but not for three or four days. Having no inkling of time, Kit maintained her optimistic vigil until the sun went down and it was time for bed, clutching the handkerchief to her breast. But still her father and mother did not come.
* * *
Monty was overjoyed to have his parents attend his nuptials, though he did wish his mother wouldn’t harp on so to his in-laws throughout the wedding breakfast about how much she would miss his financial contributions: it would cause him eternal guilt.
Thankfully her nagging seemed not to affect his bride, Sarah, who remained as sweet as the day he had fallen for her, invited the groom’s parents to stay the night and replenished their basket with food for the long journey home, including slivers of wedding cake for the children. Despite which, Beata could not resist giving her daughter-in-law a last warning before making ready to leave – a warning that held a touch of reproach.
‘Well, you are indeed very fair, my dear, and very obliging too. Thank ’ee for the victuals. I can see why my son’s so smitten he’s run off and left us.’ Beata’s eyes retained that look of suspicion as they toured the figure in the white dress and bonnet. ‘But I do hope you know what you’re taking on. Monty has a rotten temper on hi
m. I dare say we’ll see him come a-storming home if he don’t like what you’re giving him for dinner.’
Sarah’s dark-eyed gaze remained level, though her sentence held as many undulations as the Welsh landscape of her birth. ‘Then I’ll just have to come over and drag him back, won’t I?’
Staring back into the friendly but unyielding face, Beata was given the first evidence of her daughter-in-law’s iron will, and knew finally that her son was lost to her. A nod of understanding passed between the two women. Monty felt a twinge of pity for his mother as she turned to climb up into the wagon, helped by her husband, who was obviously keen to be away. Out of conscience, he grabbed her hand and pressed a coin into it. ‘Sorry I can’t afford more, Mam, but it’ll pay for the ferry.’
Beata surprised him with her warmth that extended beyond her voice to her eyes. ‘Why, thank you, my dear! That’s most welcome. And hark’ – she gripped his fingers with uncommon tenderness – ‘forget that nonsense I talked about ’ee not doing your duty. You’re a good lad.’ Loath to agree, her husband hung his head and said naught, his fingers impatient upon the reins. ‘And she be a fine young woman you’ve chosen. You’ll both be welcome any time you want to visit. I hope that’ll be soon or we won’t hear the last of it from Kit! She been going on an’ on – ain’t that right, Father?’
Wearing the falsely patient smile he always employed with his elder son, Richard Kilmaster confirmed this, telling the young groom of his instructions about the knots to Kit. ‘Well, giddup, horse!’ He flicked the reins. ‘Let’s see if ’ee can get us to that ferry before nightfall.’
‘Oh, I’m dreading it!’ Still holding on to her son with her eyes, Beata groaned and clutched her breast as the wagon wheels jolted into movement. ‘All the way across I be thinking we’re going to sink at any minute – goodbye, my zonner! Goodbye!’
A Sense of Duty Page 2
