by Janet Few
‘You come from Bucks?’ she whispered, blanching.
At this point, the queue shuffled forward and the Wakely girls were being ushered to their seats. Albert wondered if he should try to avoid prolonging the discussion with these young women but a matronly sort, who was obviously part of the organising committee, guided him towards the next available chair and he found himself sitting next to Lydia. Lydia meanwhile had turned on her sister and was shushing her.
‘Don’t be silly Jane, those tales of Spanish pirates are rather romantic,’ she was saying.
Albert knew that folk sometimes said that the residents of Bucks Mills were the descendants of Spaniards who had been wrecked off the North Devon coast hundreds of years ago during the Armada. Certainly, his own dark hair, swarthy skin and flashing eyes, gave veracity to the legend. He didn’t know no sense to it himself but he was aware that his granfer and the other old men of Bucks Mills, liked to keep the legend going because it encouraged folk to leave the little village in the valley alone. In any case, Lydia seemed unperturbed by his family’s reputation.
Despite Lydia’s outspoken manner and tendency to monopolise the conversation, Albert did manage to exchange a few words with Polly, the youngest of the three sisters. It was from Polly that he learned that there were two more sisters at home, Ada and Ethel and a brother, Arthur, who was making his own way in the world. He heard about their home in the cottage at the top of Peppercombe Valley and how their father worked in an Appledore boatyard. She explained that she and her sisters usually attended Goldsworthy Chapel in the evening but that her parents preferred the early service. To his surprise, Albert found that he was enjoying himself, in a way that he had certainly not expected when he had set out from the village that morning. The tea was over all too soon and after a few more exhortations about the dangers of the demon drink, it was time for Albert to find his seat on the charabanc home. A few of his fellow passengers were known to Albert but he sought to avoid them, wanting to relive the events of the afternoon. He recalled Lydia’s rather obvious attempts to attract his attention. It was difficult to form an impression of Jane, who had kept her eyes on her plate and hardly said a word throughout the meal. By the time the horses had dragged their load past Hoops Inn, on Albert’s homeward journey, he had realised that it was Polly who troubled his thoughts.
Over the weeks that followed, Albert had struggled to make opportunities to speak to Polly, without the presence of her overbearing sister. Tonight though, he promised himself, tonight would be different. He could tell her how young Eadie was settling in and how the mackerel had been running well. Albert’s day-dreaming was curtailed as he reached East Goldsworthy Farm and the rutted track swung to the right towards the chapel. A few other stragglers were hurrying towards the door, where the steward was gesticulating to encourage them to make haste. Albert eased himself into one of the back pews, pleased to catch sight of all five Wakely girls a few rows in front of him. His journey had not been wasted.
Although the Wesleyans and the Bible Christians maintained a healthy rivalry, there was much that Albert found familiar about the service. Tonight’s voluble preacher was keen to see that the congregation were not short-changed but Albert was impatient for the service to be over. At last, the final blessing was pronounced and the worshippers congregated outside in the thickening twilight. Bats fluttered beneath the emerging stars and in the distance, a cow lowed mournfully. The chapel steward was offering to light the oil lamps that many of the chapel-goers had brought with them, a weapon against the encroaching darkness. Albert stood awkwardly to one side of the chattering groups, wondering how to approach Polly. At that moment, Lydia noticed him and stepped purposefully in his direction.
‘Lydia you can’t,’ Jane was saying, putting a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. ‘He’s one of them from Bucks, you know what they say about the lads from Bucks. They be wild and fierce and don’t let no outsiders down the street.’
‘Oh, rot,’ replied Lydia, tossing her head imperiously. ‘Think what folk say about us, always calling us gypsies and all. If I want to talk to a young man, I shall talk to him. He’s got something about him that you won’t find in the dull Peppercombe boys.’
Jane, always the most conservative of the sisters, hung back with the two youngest girls but Lydia approached Albert, with Polly at her side. As they drew near, Lydia pushed in front of Polly, almost knocking her from her feet.
‘Hello Miss Wakely,’ said Albert politely, removing his hat and looking desperately over her shoulder, trying to catch Polly’s eye.
‘How do you do?’ Lydia responded archly, her tongue running across her top lip in what she hoped was an alluring fashion.
‘I am very well, thank you,’ responded Albert, conventionally, as he tried to edge his way sideways and include Lydia’s younger sisters in the group.
‘It’s err, been a beautiful day,’ Albert was struggling to think what to say but Lydia was undeterred.
‘This will be my last time at chapel,’ she said. She paused, disappointed that Albert had not expressed his regret but then she carried on regardless, ‘I am off to work in Bideford next week. I feel so sorry for these girls,’ she waved her hand expansively to encompass her four younger sisters, ‘having to stay in Peppercombe. Fearfully tedious. I shall live with my aunt and meet such a nice class of people in Mrs Newman’s shop. She is the best dressmaker in Bideford you know.’
Albert didn’t know, nor indeed much care but inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. At least in future he would not have to run the gauntlet of Lydia in order to speak to Polly. Lydia’s inconsequential chatter rattled on but Albert had ceased to absorb what she was saying. He looked intently at Polly. They were surrounded by people, yet they were somehow alone.
2
Summer 1891
Polly walked up the road to the main highway, inhaling the scents of the fine summer’s evening. Her new button boots were unsuitable for the pitted, muddy track, with its surface hardened by the recent dry weather. The local farmers, ever pessimistic, had been muttering about the likelihood of thunderstorms ruining the harvest but so far, the ripening crops stood bravely in the fields that lined Polly’s route. The lane was edged with pungent cow parsley; red campion and rose-bay willowherb set the hedgerows aflame. The cloudless sky had a shimmering intensity that comes only when a hot day tips inexorably into eveningtide. The gentle insect hum, the birdsong and the surrounding beauty, raised her spirits and gave renewed purpose to her stride as she struggled to catch up with her father.
As he had done every Sunday evening for the past thirty years or more, Richard Wakely was walking to Appledore, to spend the week lodging there. This enabled him to ply his trade as a carpenter in Waters’ boatyard, before returning home the following Friday. Although this was part of an uninspiring routine for the old man, for Polly it was a novelty, an excitement, a holiday. She shifted her battered canvas bag from one hand to the other; the thick leather handles had formed ridges in her palms. Her father’s tar-stained holdall was slung across his shoulder and thudded on his back with each successive step. It receded into the distance, as he gained more ground. Richard seemed unaware of his daughter’s presence, let alone her exertions. Lost in thought, he spat a plug of tobacco into the bank and kept his gaze firmly forward, glad that the heat of the day was abating for the journey. Richard contemplated the long walk ahead of him. Next week it would be July and soon the year would begin its descent towards autumn but for now, even at this time of the day, the air’s warmth was stifling, making the journey uncomfortable.
Polly’s feet were sweating and swelling; it really was too warm for a five-mile walk to be a pleasure. Wistfully, she thought of the times she’d seen Colwill’s brake, clattering on its daily route from Hartland to Bideford. The five-shilling return fare was an exorbitant sum. Her father wasn’t going to spend perfectly good coin on being bounced around as the horses descended past Hoops Inn. Polly knew that it wasn’t only the money, even if a
farm cart were to stop and offer them a lift, Richard would decline. Godfearing folk shouldn’t be driving carts on the Sabbath. Aside from that, someone might see him and think he was getting soft, that he was too old to stand the rigours of his job, even suggest that he made way for a younger chap.
Once in Bideford, Richard was to leave Polly at the top of the town and she would walk down to Uncle Prance’s shop in Mill Street. Aunt Susan had done well for herself to marry Joe Prance, a well set up man, with his own business. Somehow Susan, whilst in service in Bideford, had managed to snare a husband who was unaware of the rumour of the family’s gypsy taint. Susan was spoken of with awe, as the member of the family who had gone up in the world. True, Uncle Prance walked with a pronounced limp, one leg being considerably shorter than the other, following a childhood accident but he was still considered a catch. Polly’s sister, Lydia, always thinking herself somehow superior, had been intent on following the same path as her aunt. It was nearly a year since Lydia had left to lodge with the Prances, making her own way, working for Mrs Newman in the nearby dressmaker’s shop. Despite her sister’s condescending attitude, Polly was looking forward to seeing Lydia again and to spending time with her cousins. Like her own family, the Prances had a surfeit of girls, so, with Polly, there would be seven young women in the house. The prospect of a few days’ stay in the bustling port, with its shops and other diversions, helped to take Polly’s mind off her aching feet.
The thought that tomorrow she would not be sweeping out fireplaces or dusting furniture delighted Polly. Mrs Pine-Coffin, Polly’s employer, was mindful that she had three unmarried daughters needing husbands and that the eldest of these had already reached the dangerous age of twenty-one without yet the hint of a spouse. Etiquette dictated that Winifred, as the first born, should really marry before her sisters and Mrs Pine-Coffin was displaying signs of desperation. Much as she hated visiting London since the death of her husband, she had decided to make the most of the end of the season and put her girls on parade in the hope that someone might focus on Winfred’s portion and not on her slightly protuberant teeth and unfortunate tendency to be scholarly. So Portledge was shut for the month and the staff who lived-out, like Polly, were told that they were not required.
For Polly, at nineteen, the enormity of being out of a place, of being uncertain how she could bring money back to the family, was subsumed by the thrill of the unknown. As far as her parents were concerned, Polly was to visit Lydia until the end of the week. She was then expected to return home to find some work, helping with the harvest perhaps, to fill in the time until the Pine-Coffins returned and she could resume her post as under housemaid. Unbeknown to her family, Polly had escape on her mind. Her intention was to do as Lydia had done and find employment in Bideford. Surely, she thought, five days would be enough to secure a position in the town.
Polly pushed recollections of Albert to the back of her mind. She knew her parents did not approve of the attentions of the young fisherman. It wasn’t that she and Albert were walking out exactly, her mother, in particular, would not condone that. Over the past months though, Albert had seemed to single her out in a special way; he’d offered to accompany her back from chapel and to hold her prayer book. Mr and Mrs Wakely were rarely seen at the evening service, so, beyond the scrutiny of parental eyes, Albert and Polly’s relationship had progressed a little. Albert was certainly good looking, with his dark hair and disquieting smile. It was too soon though, for settling down as a fisherman’s wife in a cob cottage in Bucks Mills, with a power of babies at her feet. Polly craved adventure, novelty; most of all, she wanted to be free of the boredom of restrictive routine.
***
Aunt Susan greeted Polly warmly. ‘You’ll have to shout,’ she said, as Polly thanked her for letting her visit, ‘I’m a bit deaf now’.
Certainly her aunt had aged in the few years since Polly had last seen her. Apart from her own brood of girls, Aunt Susan was now custodian of two young grandchildren, following the recent death of Polly’s cousin, May, in Wales. Running round after young children, even with the help of her daughters, was clearly taking its toll on Polly’s aunt. Polly was soon swept away upstairs by her cousins, keen to show off new bonnets and whisper about potential suitors. As Polly unpacked the few spare clothes that she had brought with her, her cousins kindly refrained from commenting on her yellowing undergarments and unfashionable attire. Instead, they offered to loan shawls, refurbish petticoats with lace and trim her dress with new ribbon. Lydia remained tight-lipped in the background, seemingly worried that her younger sister might show her up in some way. Lydia saw herself as the epitome of the sophisticated town-dweller now and was intent on severing ties with her rural background.
After the initial excitement, the cousins drifted away, tactfully leaving the sisters alone in case any private family news needed to be exchanged. Polly broke the awkward silence.
‘Aunt Susan looks tired,’ she remarked, ‘is she unwell?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Lydia after a pause. She had evidently not considered her aunt’s state of health worthy of notice.
‘I suppose it is looking after May’s children,’ said Lydia. ‘They arrived just after I did. Little Hilda did nothing but cry for her mother for weeks and Willie ran off, trying to get back to his father.’
‘Oh but they are such sweet children,’ said Polly. She had been quite taken with three year old Hilda, who had shyly held up her doll for this new adult’s approval.
Lydia snorted. ‘They are such a nuisance,’ she said, ‘forever careering about and getting sticky fingers on one’s gown.’
Wherever had Lydia learned to talk like the gentry? wondered Polly. Perhaps it was mixing with Mrs Newman’s customers. She sounded more like the Pine-Coffins than one of Polly’s own family.
‘Don’t you want children of your own?’ Polly asked, genuinely curious. Surely everyone wanted children, maybe not yet but one day. Why did Albert suddenly intrude on her thoughts at this point? She shivered involuntarily.
‘Gracious no,’ exclaimed Lydia, ‘the whole, err, children thing is so distasteful.’
Polly raised her eyebrows. No one could possibly grow up in the country, as they had, without having grasped the basic principles of procreation. It was the natural way of things.
‘It was a problem, ummm, down there,’ said Lydia, gesturing vaguely in the region of her lower abdomen, ‘that killed cousin May. She was only thirty. Married at nineteen before she’d done anything, been anywhere. Well of course, it’s no secret that Willie was a six-month child.’
‘But surely you want to be wed?’ said Polly.
‘Well, married, yes, perhaps,’ replied Lydia, ‘but I am a senior assistant at Mrs Newman’s now. I don’t know what she would do without me. Don’t you think I can be having time off to traipse round Bideford with you while you’re here. Mrs Newman relies on me so much. We have such a superior class of patrons you know. If I were to marry,’ Lydia returned to the question in hand, ‘he would have to be respectable. Maybe an older gentleman, or a widower perhaps, with a private income. One who wouldn’t be interested in the beastly side of marriage.’
You were interested enough in that sort of thing last year when you were trying to catch Albert’s eye after chapel, thought Polly. They had always been the least compatible of the Wakely sisters but the gap that separated Lydia’s life and aspirations from Polly’s was now wider than ever.
Despite Lydia’s attitude, Polly’s time in Bideford was every bit as enthralling as she had hoped. Lydia and their cousin Minnie were working at Mrs Newman’s during the day but Athaliah, the cousin closest to Polly in age, had been allowed time off from helping her father in the shop to show Polly the town. The young women had gazed in the shop windows, admiring hats and haberdashery and strolled along the quay, watching the ships unloading. Athaliah insisted that their walks took them past Hopson’s ironmongery. She even took Polly inside, pretending to take an interest in the array of br
ooms and brushes on display. In truth it was Mr Hopson’s young assistant who had caught Athaliah’s eye. He had blushed scarlet as the girls had entered the shop but he was punctiliously polite to the other customers, one of whom was being particularly difficult about a loose handle on a pan lid that she had purchased the previous week. Polly was not averse to furthering this budding romance. She quite approved of Frank Holwill, who lived up at Coldharbour, as a suitable person to walk out with the painfully shy Athaliah. Polly was confident enough to stand up to a domineering older sister such as Lydia and find her own role in the middle of a family of girls but Athaliah was constantly eclipsed by both older and younger, more vibrant, excitable sisters.
Tuesday brought market day, with its feverish hubbub and bustle. From early morning, eager sellers arrived with their produce, by rail, by cart, or with panniers slung across the back of a horse or a donkey. Farmers’ wives walked to the town from the surrounding villages to sell eggs, cheese or succulent pies. The smell of the butchers’ stalls with their carcasses of meat and hanging game, caught the throats of the more fastidious. Squawking chickens in stacked crates and the shouts of the stallholders, vied with the chatter of gossiping women and the squeals of children clamouring for sweetmeats. Even though Polly wasn’t much interested in buying produce, she was captivated by the commotion and the intensity of the occasion. The fast-paced activity of so many people gathered together in one place was overawing. This was much better than the languid lifestyle of Peppercombe. She paused by a fish stall selling mackerel and wondered if somewhere on a stall, there lay fish that Albert had caught. Polly reprimanded herself. She really must not let thoughts of Albert intrude. This was the adventure and exhilaration she had craved. She wasn’t going to let it go now. All she needed was employment. Polly studied notices in the shop windows as they roamed the town but found nothing suitable. She could hardly be a delivery boy or serve ale in the Newfoundland Inn on the quay. She would have to hope that there would be something amongst the advertisements in Friday’s Gazette that would be her gateway to a new life.
