Blackkerchief Dick

by Margery Allingham

  A stream of unprintable language broke from her ragged lips.

  Nan, leaning heavily on her long stick, gazed upwards and when Pet paused for breath she began to talk in her big, booming voice.

  “What have ye been doing with my god-daughter, you stealer of loves?” she shouted.

  Pet began to laugh.

  “Your god-daughter!” she shrieked, “and who is she, you mother of witches? You’re not talking of my grand-daughter, are you—you tike?”

  Nan shook her stick at her fiercely.

  “Your grand-daughter! You mange-struck man-stealer,” she ejaculated.

  “Man-stealer!” Pet shrieked in her fury. “You jade, you miserable, jealous jade—still whining about your lover as you call him, you old she-goat. My Ben never loved you—your lover! You’re as old as the Island. What do you want with lovers?”

  Nan stood there, a tall, imposing figure, her black rags gently stirring in the wind.

  “You lie, Pet Salt! In your rotting throat you lie,” she said calmly. “I am not so old as you say, not so old as Ben—and he loved me well—and would have wed me had not you stolen him——”

  “I stole? Marry, hell-kite, I stole in truth! I stole, when he came begging to my door and beseeching me to save him from you? I stole, you vile devil?”

  “He did not!” Nan spoke hotly.

  “Indeed, did he not, ronyon?” Pet was foaming at the mouth in her anger. “Ay, he did, he crawled to my boat and said on his knees: ‘Oh, save me, my own Pet o’ the saltings, save me from yon scabby wanton who waits for me!’”

  “May the green grass turn to ashes in your way for that lie, Pet Salt,” said Nan slowly.

  Pet put up her hands.

  “Ye’re not to curse me, Nan Swayle,” she shrieked, “ye witch of darkness, ye’re not to curse me, or by Heaven I’ll call Ben up to ye.”

  Nan laughed a hard crackling laugh in her throat.

  “You daren’t, you slut,” she said. “Ben may not have forgotten his old love!”

  Pet grew purple with rage.

  “I dare not let him see you!” she screamed.

  “What! you ronyon—I dare not let him——Oh,

  you’re mad!”

  Nan laughed again.

  “Still I say you dare not,” she said.

  Pet choked with anger; then a crafty look came into her eyes.

  “Oh, I see your mind, Mistress Nancy Swayle,” she said with a scornful laugh. “I did not think you would be so cunning. Do you then long so much for a sight of your old love that you walk five miles in the early dawning to beg for a look?”

  Nan’s rugged features twitched convulsively, but in a moment she was laughing again.

  “Still I say you dare not, slut,” she said.

  Without another word Pet turned away from the side and called down the hatchway.

  Nan waited on the beach below quite still and leaning on her stick, a proud smile playing round her wide, humorous mouth.

  Two or three minutes later Pet reappeared supporting Ben, who in spite of the early hour was very unsteady on his feet.

  He lurched forward and sprawled over the side of the hull looking down at Nan. She was evidently much surprised at the change in him, for she started back a little.

  Pet laughed derisively.

  “Ain’t he a pretty one?” she said.

  Nan gulped and came forward.

  “Hail to ye, Benny,” she said softly.

  Ben looked at her vaguely.

  “Hail!” he said, and then after a moment added abruptly, “Whosh you?”

  Pet shrieked with laughter, and settled herself down beside him.

  “Who are you, old one?” she screamed.

  Nan went nearer.

  “Do you not remember Nan Swayle, Ben?” she said pleadingly.

  “Ah, yesh! I remembers Nan Shwayle,” said Ben cheerfully.

  “That’s her, ducky,” said Pet, her face red with laughter.

  Ben leant further over the side to look at Nan, then he drew himself up and turned to Pet.

  “Slut, you lie,” he said, as clearly as he could. “That’s “—he pointed to Nan—“an old hag—but Nan Shwayle—no, Nan Shwayle was a shweet lash—a shweet milk lash—an’,” he went on very seriously, “a very pretty lash.”

  He leaned over the side and had one more look at Nan, who stood beneath him, her arms outstretched and her bright eyes brighter than usual.

  “No,” he said, “no, no, nosh—that ish not a bit like Nan Swayle. Nan Swayle is a pretty lash, a shweet, pretty lash.”

  Pet rocked herself to and fro in a paroxysm of laughter.

  Ben stood looking at Nan.

  “Go away, hag,” he said, “find Nan Shwayle and send her to me and I’ll go with her, but yoush not Nan Shwayle, or, anywaysh,” he went on, “not Nan Shwayle I knowsh, you ugly old hagsh.” And he began to laugh. “That’s not Nan Shwayle?” he giggled, poking Pet’s fat side with his fingers.

  Pet rolled over on the gunwale in a fit of laughter.

  “No, ducky,” she roared, “that’s not Nan Swayle. That’s a witch telling us she’s her.”

  “Ah! she couldn’t cheat me!” Ben chuckled. “I knowsh Nan Shwayle, a pretty lash.”

  “Pet Salt, the time will come when you shall pay!”

  Nan’s voice drowned their laughter for a moment. She stood there on the shingle, the waves lapping up to her feet and the newly risen sun lighting her wrinkled face, where two tears sparkled on her yellow cheeks, but her eyes were bright and hard.

  Then she turned away and strode off, holding her head high, and as she went the wind carried after her the sound of their derisive laughter.

  And it was not until she reached her cabin that she remembered she had said no word to Pet on the business on which she had set out, Anny’s marriage.

  Chapter XIX

  “Pet Salt, are you sure all this is so? I wouldn’t wed with him if I could help it.”

  Anny spoke anxiously, her little face white with apprehension.

  She and Pet Salt were alone together on the deck of Ben’s old boat. The tide was well up and the waves leaped against the stern with a gurgling sound.

  It was late in the evening, the wind was rising, and the sun was setting over the Island in a blaze of red and green light.

  On board the Pet there was the customary muddle; empty kegs, rotting sail-cloth, torn fishing-nets, and derelict baskets lay strewn about the decaying deck in endless confusion.

  Pet was leaning against the stump of the mainmast, her red arms akimbo, and her tousled grey head cocked on one side, while Anny stood looking on to the darkening water with her back to the old woman.

  “Sure? Why, girl, certain I’m sure. As sure as this boat’s a vile hell, Master Blackkerchief Dick will have you one way or another—wed or unwed, which way lies with you.”

  Pet’s harsh voice broke the warm quietness of the summer evening unpleasantly.

  Anny caught her breath, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned towards the old woman. Then she laughed.

  “Lord! you must be mad, Pet Salt. How could Master Dick carry me off from the Ship, the whole village there to stay him?” she said brightening.

  Pet laughed unpleasantly.

  “You think too much of yourself, lass,” she said. “To stay him? And why should anyone stay him?”

  Anny’s eyes grew big with surprise and fear.

  “What do you mean?” she said as slowly as she could. “Why, Gilbot——”

  Pet began to laugh.

  “You, lass, have less wit than most girls, if you think anyone would turn away a moneyed captain because of a little serving slut,” she said.

  Anny looked round her helplessly.

  “Did you see Mother Nan yesterday?” she asked suddenly.

  Pet began to swear.

  “I did,” she said viciously, “the old ronyon. Come prowling round here for a look at your grand-sire, like an old hen clucking for its chick.”


  “Did—did she not speak with you of me?” Anny’s voice trembled.

  Pet laughed again.

  “Lord, girl! the whole Island don’t spend its time thinking and talking o’ you,” she said. “I heard naught of you from her.”

  Anny looked round her hopelessly, the tears welling into her eyes. The sun had sunk out of sight behind the belt of oaks on the mainland, and everything around had grown grey and cool.

  Suddenly she turned and threw herself before the old woman.

  “Grandam—what will I do? What will I do?” she sobbed.

  Pet kicked her away hastily and spat on the deck.

  “Get up and behave yerself, Anny Farran,” she said sharply. “What should ye do but marry the handsome Spaniard and sail off with him? Such a chance don’t come to every dirty serving maid.”

  Anny sprang to her feet.

  “I’ll not wed him,” she said, her voice clear and loud. “I’ll not if he kills me.”

  Pet Salt’s smile vanished and a crafty, anxious light crept into her watery eyes. She crossed over to the girl with a peculiar smooth movement and stood very close to her, her villainous face very near to the young girl’s frightened one.

  “Anny Farran,” she said, her harsh, high voice growing more and more uncanny, “there be some as say Pet Salt is a witch.”

  Anny started involuntarily. The light was fading and faint shadows were creeping fast all round the boat.

  Away over the fields a corncrake called plaintively once or twice, and then quite near an owl screamed loudly.

  Pet’s face grew distorted in the shade.

  Anny shuddered; she shared in all the superstitions of the day, and witches and the evil eye were well known to her.

  “Ay, they do,” she faltered, “but what say you?”

  “I say—naught!”

  Pet came a little nearer and her voice sank to a whisper.

  Anny shrieked and started back.

  “Holy Mother of God, defend me!” she muttered.

  Pet laughed weirdly.

  “Prayers don’t frighten Pet Salt,” she whispered, coming still nearer to the terrified Anny, who clung to the gunwale.

  What will you do?” The girl’s voice was so low that Pet could hardly hear it.

  “Nay! What will you do, ronyon? Shall the handsome Captain lie by thee or no?”

  Anny clenched her little brown hands so that the nails cut into her palms. The vision of Hal’s hurt and angry face kept rising before her.

  “And if I do not wed him what will you do?” she said at last.

  “Bewitch you, girl, so that even your young slave Hal may loathe you,” Pet began in a slow, sing-song voice. “So that your beautiful black hair may fall off on the sand like seaweed leaving you old and hairless—so that your eyes may burn up and grow dim and the sight of the sea never more be seen in them—so that your teeth may grow black and ache with the pain of ten thousand devils tearing at their roots—so that your nails may drop off and lie on the floor like shells, and your fingers wither and grow black, and their knuckles decay and the joints drop off, and——”

  Anny covered her eyes.

  “Oh, peace—peace, I pray you,” she screamed, “I will do anything. Oh, peace——”

  Pet began to laugh.

  “Have a care, Anny, how you tell this,” she said, “or I will bewitch thee certainly.”

  Anny looked at the old woman curiously.

  “Yet I will not wed,” she announced suddenly. “I mind me when you vowed that Master Patten should have a blister grow on his skin to the size of an egg, and I mind me that he had no such thing at all.”

  Pet began to swear heartily.

  “The hell-kite went to the priest at West,” she explained.

  Anny’s eyes lighted.

  “Then so will I,” she said promptly.

  “That you shall not,” Pet laughed raucously. “Look you, Ann Farran,” she said, “if you do so there’s other things that Pet can do. Send Hal Grame and you to Colchester to the Castle to rot your lives out in the foul dungeons they have there.”

  This was the last. Anny, who was by this time thoroughly frightened, had been brought up along with the other Island children to fear Colchester Castle worse than death, and, indeed, the stories of the dungeons current at that time were very terrible, the Civil War being only just over. She began to cry.

  “I will wed with him,” she said.

  “Secretly on this boat to-morrow night?”

  Anny gasped. Nevertheless she shrugged her shoulders and nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Good! The Captain comes to-night to hear of it, will you wait to see him?”

  “Nay,” the word broke from her lips like a sob, and she ran over to the rope-ladder.

  “If you fail——” Pet’s voice grew threatening.

  Anny’s voice trembled.

  “I will not fail,” she said, and then added beneath her breath, “Oh, Hal, what will I say to you?”

  As she ran back to the Ship across the fast-darkening saltings, Anny began to realise the situation a little more clearly. She had bound herself to marry Dick on the morrow; that was terrible enough in itself, but after she was married, what then? The girl stopped in her stride to think on it.

  “After I am wed I can go back to the Ship,” she said, half-aloud, “but why be wed first? Oh! whatever will I do?”

  Two weeks ago she would have gone to Hal naturally, now she swallowed uneasily in her throat.

  Hal had hardly spoken to her of late; he had grown strangely sullen and taciturn, and spent all his spare time in a fishing-boat with Joe Pullen. She knew that they took the fish they caught up the Colne and sold it in the little inland villages. She had tried to speak to him several times, but he had always looked at her so fiercely that she had abandoned the attempt.

  Alone on the wild, wind-swept marshes, the girl sank down on her knees on the damp, spiky grass, and covered her face with her hands. She remained quite still for several seconds and then sprang up with a little cry. Hastily she passed her hands over her shining plaits as though to make sure that they were still there, and examined her nails anxiously. Then she sighed with relief and, with one fearful backward glance at the Pet, set off to the Ship, her skirts flying out behind her as she ran.

  Chapter XX

  The same evening, Hal Grame and Joe Pullen walked up the Ship lane together in silence. They had just returned from one of their fishing expeditions, and Joe carried the catch in a dripping basket on his shoulder.

  Hal strode along beside him, his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed moodily on the ground.

  No word of Anny had passed between them since the night a fortnight before, when Hal had stumbled into Joe’s cottage and told the story of his quarrel with her. Ever since with natural delicacy Joe had carefully avoided the subject, and had carried his mate off fishing as often as he could, thinking that this would take his mind off the girl.

  Suddenly Hal stopped.

  “How much had we from the sale of yesterday’s fishing?” he asked abruptly.

  “Four groats,” replied Joe promptly.

  “Wilt thou give me two, mate?”

  Joe looked at his friend in surprise; Hal was not wont to want money, but he answered readily enough:

  “Certes, lad, certes,” and setting his basket down, he brought out the two coins almost reverently from his pocket and held them to Hal, who took them thoughtfully, weighed them in his hand, and then looked up at his mate questioningly.

  “How much silk can I buy with these at Tip-tree?” he asked slowly.

  Joe looked at him in astonishment.

  “Silk? Why, Hal Grame, what in Heaven and earth do you want with——?” he broke off abruptly, a wave of understanding passing over his face. “She’s not worth your troubling, mate,” he said at last.

  A dull flush of anger spread over the younger man’s face and he broke out impetuously:

  “Not worth my troubling! Lord
save you, Joe Pullen, if it was any other man who said as much, I’d——”

  Joe put a huge paw on the boy’s shoulder.

  “That’s right, lad, that’s right,” he said kindly. “The lass is your love when all’s said an’ done—pray Heaven you may not be as fooled as I was, though,” he added mournfully, the thought of Mistress Amy flashing through his mind.

  Hal smiled in spite of himself at his friend’s lugubrious expression, but he soon became serious again.

  “Joe,” he said hesitatingly.

  “Ay!”

  “You have had a deal of truck with women?” Joe grunted.

  “Wi’ one woman, you mean,” he said savagely.

  Hal looked at him curiously before he spoke.

  “What will I do about Anny?” he said at last.

  Joe cleared his throat; he had very strong views on this subject.

  “You make too much ado about her,” he said.

  “But for these last two weeks I have said naught to her,” Hal objected.

  Joe knew this was true and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “I should be sharp with her, lad,” he said at last. “Tell her there be other lasses you could love, and she’ll come round in no time.”

  Hal nodded.

  “I had thought as much myself,” he said.

  “Depend on it I’m right,” said Joe, shaking his head sagely, and reshouldering the basket he continued thoughtfully up the dusty road.

  On turning into the Ship yard they saw the usual company seated on benches before the kitchen door, drinking beer and rum, each man to his fancy.

  Old Gilbot’s chair had been moved out into the porch, and he sat in it, drunk and happy, singing to his heart’s content.

  The two mates were greeted cheerily; Joe sat down and called for rum, but Hal, seeing Blueneck and one or two others of the Anny’s crew among the company, walked into the kitchen, put his cap and coat by, and looked about for Anny.

  She was not in the kitchen or the scullery, so presently he wandered out into the garden where the evening shadows lay deep over the plants and shrubs. He sat down on an upturned barrel, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin on his hands.

  Hardly had he been there a moment when there was a rustling in the shrubbery at the end of the garden and Anny, her plaits flying out behind her, sped up the path towards him. She did not notice him, and would have passed had not he put out an arm to stay her.