by Maggie Hope
He walked over the road to where Polly, still in the traces of the cart, was grazing the sparse January grass on the verge.
‘No, I can catch the bus, I’m dining at Wolsingham tonight,’ Sean answered, defeated. ‘You get along home now, you look ready for your bed.’
Patrick held out his hand to his friend. ‘It was good of you to come, Sean.’ Then he climbed up on to the cart and took the reins.
‘I’ll see you soon then,’ called Sean as Patrick turned the pony round and headed for the road up to Low Rigg Farm. He turned up his collar against the bitter January wind and sank his chin into his muffler. He felt tired to death and the whiskey in his stomach burned, making him hiccup and the taste in his mouth was sour.
*
All day long, Karen had thought about how she was going to tell Patrick that Dave had returned. She felt utterly defeated, sure that there was no hope for the future. There was only poverty and worry for her and Patrick and the children. Even Nick was suffering.
She considered the effect that Dave was having on Nick. His carefully balanced peace of mind, so hard won during these years with them after the disastrous effects of the war, was disintegrating before her eyes. She didn’t know what to do for him, couldn’t send him away. If he left the farm he would crack up altogether. But if he stayed at Low Rigg Farm and there was more trouble with Dave, he would crack up also.
Restlessly, she walked out to the gate of the farmyard, and looked over to the home pasture where Nick was spreading hay for the pregnant ewes. He saw her coming and straightened up to see what she wanted and she saw his facial twitch was getting worse. He held a bundle of hay in his good hand, balancing it with the stump of his forearm which was wrapped in grimy rags against the cold.
‘Are you wanting something, missus?’
‘No, no, Nick, I just thought I’d see if you needed any help,’ she said lamely.
‘Nay, I’m about finished,’ he answered.
She nodded, forcing herself to smile as though everything was normal and walked back to the gate. Pausing at the rowan tree, she suddenly thought of the old rhyme:
Rowan tree and red thread,
Put the witches to their speed.
She put a hand out to the trunk of the tree and looked up into the bare, windswept branches. If only it were true, she thought, she’d cover the tree in red thread. For if ever there was an evil witch, it was David Mitchell, a true son of Satan. Sighing, she walked back indoors.
Karen gave the children their meal and put them to bed. It was a while before she got them settled for Jennie was still a little feverish and fretful, but at last she was able to come downstairs where Nick had just come in from the pasture.
‘Patrick not back yet?’ she asked, and Nick shook his head.
‘Something must have kept him,’ she said, and began to set the table for the evening meal.
How was she going to tell him? she wondered. Her mind revolved round and round the problem of Dave, fruitlessly, for she could see no solution. Every time she looked up her eyes were drawn to the bare patch on the wall where the clock had hung. It was so glaring.
Patrick came in and Karen dished out the food, not even noticing the smell of the whiskey on his breath. Though he was even quieter than usual and looked drawn and tired, he was hungry and paid attention only to the food. She watched him, hardly touching her own and Nick only picked at his.
At last Patrick pushed back his plate and relaxed in his chair.
‘That was good, Karen, I was ready for it,’ he said. For the first time he looked at her properly and his tone changed.
‘What’s the matter?’ As he looked at her his attention was drawn to the bare patch on the wall and he sat up straight with surprise.
‘Where’s the clock?’
‘Dave came,’ said Karen, but she was unable to go on. Across the table, Nick put down his knife and fork with a clatter and stared at his plate. Suddenly he pushed back his chair so that it fell over backwards and rushed for the stairs.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, and fled.
‘Nick!’
Karen’s concern for him overcame her need to tell Patrick. She berated herself for being so thoughtless as to bring up the subject of Dave’s visit in front of Nick. She went to the bottom of the stairs but he was already closing his bedroom door.
‘Tell me what has happened, Karen, tell me,’ said Patrick, catching hold of her arm. ‘What happened when Dave came?’
‘Oh, Patrick, he’s not going to leave us alone,’ she said, allowing herself to be drawn back into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what to do. He took the clock of all things and the money out of the ornament.
He’s going to leave us with nothing at all. And then there’s Nick … It’s not fair on him, all this trouble, it’ll send him over the edge. None of this is his fault but he’s so upset about it, I’m frightened for him.’
‘I’ll go up to him,’ decided Patrick. ‘I’ll talk to him, tell him not to worry. Dave can’t really hurt us.’
If only that were true, Karen thought miserably after Patrick went into Nick’s bedroom. Please God, she prayed silently. Please make Dave leave us alone. Let him be satisfied with what he’s had from us, make him go away to Canada.
Patrick was still in with Nick. She couldn’t hear anything from the bedroom, even when she went upstairs to check on the children. They were both sleeping but restlessly, as though they knew something was wrong. The strained atmosphere was affecting them all, she thought. Oh God, let this nightmare end.
Karen filled the kettle and settled it on the glowing coals. When it boiled she filled the stone hot water bottles and took them upstairs and put them in the big bed in their room. She considered filling one for Nick and using that as an excuse to interrupt the men, find out what Patrick was saying to him, but in the end she changed her mind.
At last she heard a bedroom door open and close upstairs and Patrick came down. Anxiously, she looked up at him.
‘He’s all right, Karen,’ was all he said. ‘Now, let’s away to our bed, I have to be up at five in the morning.’
She wanted to protest, to know all that Patrick had said to Nick, but she held her tongue. Wearily, she followed him up to bed and when he turned away from her after a chaste peck on the cheek, she thought nothing of it. Exhausted, she fell asleep immediately she put her head on the pillow.
The weather closed in and for a month there was snow almost every day, accompanied by high winds which formed it into mountainous drifts which blocked the lane and obscured the normal landmarks of the fell. Work on the roads was put off until spring and the family at Low Rigg Farm had to live on what they had. Karen was by now well used to this happening, so she had a good store of flour and pulses in, besides a side of bacon from the Christmas killed pig. The eggs were few at this time of year and the butter sparse since the remaining cow had dried up, but they eked out what remained with pork fat.
At least it meant that Dave couldn’t come to harass them, Karen thought thankfully. The snow had been an answer to her prayers.
The work was still hard, even though Patrick was home and could do his share. To venture out even into the yard entailed wrapping up as warmly as possible against the bitter wind which flung particles of ice and snow into their faces as soon as the door was opened. Patrick and Nick took to wearing large woollen scarves over their caps and tied round their necks, and Karen made Nick a sheepskin cover for his stump which tied securely around the upper arm and kept the forearm snug and safe from frostbite.
The menace represented by Dave Mitchell faded into the background as the weeks went by. Karen even allowed herself to hope that he had gone from their lives altogether.
‘Do you think he has gone?’ she asked Patrick one day. There had been a slight thaw and pale sunshine sparkled on the frosty snow on the roof of the barn, and in the yard below slush was threatening to become a quagmire.
Patrick didn’t need to ask who she meant, Dave was never f
ar from his thoughts either.
‘I don’t know, Karen,’ he replied, sounding slightly impatient. What on earth was the use of supposing anything? He pulled on his high boots over his fisherman’s knit socks and struggled into his worn overcoat. Sometimes he thought it took more energy to get dressed these days than it did actually to do the work.
‘I’ll have to clear the yard before it becomes a swamp,’ he remarked to Karen, and trudged through the slush to get a shovel from the barn.
The slight thaw continued and Fred Bainbridge brought his tractor up the lonnen and cleared a track through the remaining snow. Karen invited him in for a cup of tea and a piece of lardy cake.
‘I’m sorry, there’s no butter but there’s plenty of rhubarb jam,’ she said humbly, feeling ashamed that she had no more to offer.
‘Never you mind, missus, I’m fond of a bit of rhubarb jam, I am,’ he replied. But when he had finished his lardy cake and rose to go, he paused.
‘I can let you have a bit of butter, if you like,’ he said. ‘Have both your cows dried up, like?’
Karen blushed. ‘We had to let the red cow go, Fred,’ she said. He looked hard at her but said no more. Next morning, his son arrived and handed over a pound of butter.
‘The postman’s coming down the lane,’ he said as he came in. ‘I’ll wait for him and save him a journey down to our place.’
It was the first time the post had got through for a while and Karen felt a little surge of pleasure. There was probably a letter from Morton Main, from Kezia; she could just do with reading a chatty letter, it would cheer her up.
Fred’s son walked out to meet the postman then went on his way, waving cheerily to Karen as he went. She pushed the kettle back on the fire so she could freshen the tea and offer the postman a cup. She hummed a little tune to herself as she went back to the door to greet him, putting out a hand for the letters which he was holding.
‘Aren’t you coming in for a cup?’ she asked as he half-turned to go. She didn’t look down at the pile of letters, she could open them later.
‘I’ll not stay, thank you, missus,’ he replied. ‘I have a lot to get out today, what with being held up by the snow an’ all. I’ll be getting on my way.’
‘Goodbye, then,’ she said and closed the door after him. She would take five minutes before the men came in from the low fell for their breakfast. Brian and Jennie were playing quietly on a clippie mat under the table, they were playing house. Sitting down in the rocking chair before the fire, she looked at the bundle of letters. Yes, the top one was from Kezia and there was one from Annie. Dear Annie. She still wrote twice or thrice a year, giving all her news of Greenfields, and Karen wrote back telling her about her own family. There was a letter from the Chapel steward about a members’ meeting and underneath there was another in a man’s hand. Dave’s hand.
Karen jumped to her feet, hardly realizing she was doing it, and the letters went skidding over the flagged floor of the kitchen, dropped from her suddenly nerveless hands. All except for one, the letter from Dave.
‘Is something the matter, Mammy?’
Brian crawled out from under the table. He had picked up the other letters and was holding them out to her. Karen didn’t hear him, she was still staring at the envelope covered with Dave’s crabbed handwriting.
‘Mammy?’
Karen looked down at her son. After a moment she took the letters from him and put them on the table. Slowly she sat down again and opened the envelope.
Just to let you know I’ll be up to see you on the thirteenth. I’ll expect you to have a little present for me when I get there. D.
The thirteenth, that was tomorrow. How was she supposed to get any money together by tomorrow? How was she supposed to get any money together at all? Patrick had no pay from the road making, the weather had been too bad. And there was nothing else to sell. All they had was the stock and how could they sell that? They wouldn’t be able to live at all if they did.
‘Mammy, I’m hungry,’ Jennie said plaintively. With a start, Karen glanced up at the bare patch on the wall. She just couldn’t get out of the habit of looking for the clock. There was no other clock in the house but she realized it must be nearing noon; it was past time she had the dinner ready. Fortunately, she had a pan of mutton stew all ready to warm up. She raked the glowing coals to the middle of the fire and added lumps of peat to the sides. Soon she was able to place the pan on the coals to heat up the stew.
‘Go and call in Daddy and Nick,’ she told Brian, and he obediently went out to the barn.
I won’t say anything to Patrick, she decided. Not yet, not until I have to. Patrick intends to be out tomorrow, he is fetching lime to spread on the near fell. I’ll just have to tell Dave I can’t give him any more money, and he can do what he likes. We have to make a stand.
Chapter Thirty-Two
DAVE CROUCHED DOWN in the shepherd’s hut high on the moor above Low Rigg Farm. He shivered and shook with the cold. There was a makeshift fireplace in one corner but he daren’t light a fire in the daylight for fear someone saw the smoke. The night before he had had to; he would have frozen to death else. He thought of the warm kitchen down on the farm. There would be hot food there an’ all. And Karen, by, she was a corker when she was angry. Fair gave a man ideas.
He smiled as he thought of the note he had sent the day before yesterday. That would have shaken them up a bit down there. It had just been a joke really, he’d had much richer pickings in mind, him and his mate Jacko. They had been watching a house in Jesmond, a posh house in a posh area. And the best thing was the house belonged to a jeweller, a good jeweller an’ all, with a shop in Northumberland Street. He was bound to have plenty of money stashed away in that house, not to mention other things, Jacko had said. So what did he want with the few coppers that poverty-stricken bitch he was married to could scrape together? No, it had just been a joke at the time.
Dave blew on his hands. God, he thought, he’d have frostbite before long if he didn’t make a move. A hell of a joke, he told himself savagely, it was all in earnest now. Karen represented the only way out he had left. No one would think of looking for him on these Godforsaken fells. No one in their right mind would be here in this weather.
Everything had gone wrong, everything that could happen did. The jeweller had come home and changed into his evening suit, as he had done last Friday and the Friday before that, and the chauffeur had brought the Rolls round to the front door for him as he did every Friday evening and the jeweller had gone out.
That was their chance, said Jacko when they were planning it all. The staff were all in the back of the house having their own bit of a do and they could get in the front, up the ivy, and in at the bedroom window, for the house was hidden from the road by trees.
I might have known it would all go wrong, Dave thought grimly. He’d got up the ivy all right and had the bedroom window open in no time. A case of practice makes perfect. But Jacko, the bloody fool, had slipped and done something to his leg and the butler had come out to see what the noise was and there was such a commotion as he’d never heard in his life. Of course, he’d come down the ivy a bit sharpish, like, and the old feller had set up such a hollering and screaming he’d had to bash him with his jemmy before he could get away on his bike.
And here he was on this bloody awful fell, frozen half to death, and wherever Jacko was it served him bloody well right, that’s all.
Funny about that note he’d sent Karen, though. Dave even smiled as he thought of it. Maybe she had managed to scrape something together, he’d just away down there and see. Best leave the bike hidden away in here, though, the polis would likely be looking for a man on a motor bike. He’d take it careful, creep down the fell and across the road and down the lonnen. It wasn’t more than a couple of miles.
‘By, you look grand today, lass.’
Karen started and the cup she had been drying fell from her hands with a crash but she didn’t even notice. She was watching Da
ve as he walked past her into the kitchen and over to the fire. She followed him as he held out his hands to the blaze, watching him as he stripped off his top coat and muffler and dropped them on the floor before leaning forward to the heat.
‘Bloody hell, that hurts,’ he said, wincing as it reached his frozen hands and the blood began to return to them. Steam began to rise from him and a rank, sour smell started to fill the room. He wasn’t usually so scruffy, she thought dully. He looked like Nick had done when he had been sleeping out on the fell. Bits of dried bracken were stuck to his trousers and sheep droppings had fallen from him all over her clean floor.
‘What do you want?’ Karen asked at last. ‘Whatever it is, you won’t find it here. We have nothing, Dave, you’ve seen to that. We’ll be lucky to last out the winter.’
He turned and faced her. ‘Nay, lass,’ he said, ‘I only want a place to stay for a few days. For the minute, anyroad. I need food and a bed, that’s what I need. And who else would I come to but my lawful wedded wife?’
‘You’re not staying here!’ she cried. ‘Get out, get away from us. Leave us alone, I’m telling you.’
‘Oh, but I am staying here,’ he said softly. He sniffed, leaning towards the oven where Karen had a dish of panhacklety cooking for the midday dinner.
‘Mind, that smells great,’ he went on, opening the oven door and peering in at the bacon and onions and potatoes bubbling in the pot. ‘Ready to eat, is it?’
‘I told you, you’re not staying here, neither are you eating our dinner. Get out, I said, and I meant it. I’m not giving in to you any more, do what you like.’
Dave smiled and Karen’s hatred intensified. She felt like clawing the smirk from his face. Her hands clenched at her sides and the nails dug into her palms as she imagined them digging into his eyes.
‘Don’t talk daft, Karen,’ he said easily, and walked over to the stone jar on the dresser and took out a heel of bread. He took it to the still open oven and dipped it in the gravy, pulling a lump of bacon on to it. Turning again, he grinned at her.
