by Valerie Wood
‘I beg your pardon.’ James flushed to his hair roots. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
Batsford turned, a paintbrush held in his hand. ‘Come in, Rayner, come in. I trust you slept well? Miss Gregory and I have been working for hours, ever since sun-up. We’ll take a break now and a bit of a stretch.’
Miss Gregory slipped on a robe and walked up and down the room. She was perhaps in her middle or late twenties, and James wondered what compelled her to such an occupation. She must be very poor, he thought, to submit to displaying her body; allying in his naïvety the art of modelling with that of prostitution.
‘Well, now, Rayner. Could you paint such a subject as Miss Gregory? And how would you portray her? She is one of the best models in London, so if you should want to paint her you will have to speak very nicely to her.’
James swallowed hard, but took heart when Miss Gregory smiled at him. ‘I, er, I think I would portray her as a country girl with flowers in her hair, or perhaps sitting in a meadow or walking by the sea.’
Batsford pursed his lips and then nodded. ‘Yes, she could have that quality, perhaps. What do you think, Miss Gregory, could you see yourself as a country maid and not a siren or Muse as some do?’
Miss Gregory shrugged. ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘all I can think of is a nice cup o’ tea and a biscuit.’
‘Alas, it is merely a job to her,’ Batsford sighed as she disappeared down the stairs. ‘She has no higher feelings than wondering what is for her lunch or supper.’ He looked James over appraisingly and then nodded. ‘We’ll see what you can do. Have you materials with you?’
‘I have my drawing pad and pencils in my bag, sir.’
‘Good. Then you can start now. Go off and do a sketch and come back in an hour. By the way, Rayner, don’t keep calling me sir, there’s a good fellow. You’re no longer at school. Batsford will do.’
‘Yes, sir – Batsford, I mean. Thank you. Thank you very much.’
With his pad beneath his arm and his pencil bag clutched in his hand, he ran down the steps and across the road to the river. The morning was warm and he had left his jacket inside. He put down his pad and pencils on a seat and rolled up his shirt sleeves; he was beginning to feel such freedom, even with such a simple act as being out of doors without his coat.
He put his hand to his forehead and with narrowed eyes looked at the bright rippling water as it flowed beneath the bridge. He knew what he would sketch. He would sketch his first memorable view of London. He would draw, and then later paint, a picture of Battersea Bridge crossing the Thames. He sat down on the seat and closed one eye and, aligning his pencil against the outline of the bridge, he sought the proportions and started to draw. Thoughts of home, his parents, his reason for being here, were gone. He was totally absorbed. I am going to be an artist. I am an artist. I shall hyphen my name as Burne-Jones does, and sign myself Foster-Rayner; and all the world will know me.
12
Sammi was puzzled by her cousins’ demeanour when she asked if she might stay for a little while. Betsy, whilst proclaiming that she was overjoyed to have Sammi visit, appeared nervous and ill at ease, and kept looking through the window or wandering to the door and looking out across the yard.
Tom seemed stunned at her request to stay, and hardly said a word to her, and Mark was positively aggressive, muttering under his breath something about a Rayner brat, and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to her or to James’s child. Uncle Thomas said he didn’t mind so long as her mother agreed, and George seemed pleased about the arrangement, although she suspected that he thought they might get their supper on time if she was around to organize it. She was surprised, too, and just a little hurt that her mother or father hadn’t come hurtling over to Tillington the same day, to try to take her back or to ask for further explanations, which she had rehearsed over and over again.
At least Mrs Bishop was pleased to see her when she visited her the next day, especially when she said that she would take the child off her hands for part of the day.
‘What name has this bairn been given, Miss Rayner? I can’t keep calling him, him.’
‘He hasn’t got a name yet, Mrs Bishop. At least, not so far as I know. What should I do?’ she asked anxiously. ‘No-one has thought about it.’
‘What? Tha’s not saying poor bairn hasn’t been baptized? That’s a sin! Tha must see to it straight away. Tha’ll not be able to tek him into anybody’s house till tha does.’
‘But you have him in your house, Mrs Bishop.’ Sammi looked at her in alarm. What if she refused to feed him any more?
‘Oh, aye. But there’s not so many heathen such as me. Most of good Christian folk round here wouldn’t have him inside of ’house door. Besides,’ she added, ‘I put a screw o’ salt in his crib to keep ’Devil away.’ She unbuttoned her dress and started to suckle her own child. ‘So, I’m telling thee, miss. Go and see ’parson now whilst ’bairn is sleeping, and see if he’ll do him straight away.’
Sammi took the child in her arms and wrapped him in a blanket. He was warm and smelt of milk and she hugged him and put her face next to his.
‘Tek care, miss. Tha’ll ’come over fond on him like I keep telling, and won’t want to let go.’ She called Sammi back from her door. ‘Bring him back when he’s hungry – and Miss Rayner?’
‘Yes?’ Sammi turned to her and smiled. Mrs Bishop looked the picture of contentment as she sat by her low fire. The room was clean though sparsely furnished, another child slept in a cot in a corner and two more were by her feet on the floor. She had a glass of ale by her side which she kept sipping as she fed her baby.
‘Think on how tha names him. It’s with him all of his life, and think too how tha names his parents.’
I know what she is telling me. What a good woman she is. The villagers will think he is mine if I say that his name is Rayner.
She passed a group of women standing outside their cottages, some of them dipped their knee as she passed, but she felt all eyes upon her and their curiosity.
They all knew her, she worshipped at Tillington church where the family had their pew; she visited those in need with her mother, and she was known as a member of the Rayner family who had lived all of their lives at Monkston. But what were they thinking now, and what would be the gossip when she was out of hearing? She lifted her chin and walked on. They could think what they liked.
The vicarage was opposite the church just down the hill from the mill, but she hesitated at the entrance to the large redbrick house, and on impulse turned back, crossed the lane and went through the lych-gate into the churchyard. She cut across the winding path and made her way up the sloping grassy area to the highest point where her grandparents’ grave was laid. Here was the spot which her grandmother, Sarah Foster Rayner, had chosen when her husband John had died. She had chosen it especially, knowing that one day she would lie here with him, and that together they would be within the sight and sound of the German Ocean which washed the cliffs below their beloved home. How they loved the sea, Sammi thought, though they loved the land more; Grand-mama, especially, was devastated each time the sea claimed more land. What an appetite it has, she used to say. What hunger.
Sammi looked down at the grave, neatly kept and garlanded now with flowers from the Fosters’ garden. What would you do, Grandmama? What would you do about this child?
She heard the creak of the church gate and glanced up to see Luke Reedbarrow coming across to her. He touched his hat. ‘How do, Miss Rayner. Grand morning.’
‘Yes.’ She prepared to move away, down to the gate, her reverie disturbed. ‘It’s very pleasant indeed.’
‘Taking ’bairn for a walk, is tha?’ He opened the gate for her and stood back as she went through.
‘Did you want something, Luke? You didn’t come into the churchyard to chat about the weather?’
‘By, tha’s that sharp, Miss Rayner.’ He glanced at her sheepishly from beneath his long lashes and she wondered why she had the impression
that he was mocking her. ‘How did tha guess?’
‘What is it then?’ she said. ‘I must be going.’
He took off his hat, and his fair hair ruffled in the breeze, and she mused that Betsy was right, he was quite handsome, not in a gentlemanly way with fine chiselled features, but with broad, strong cheekbones and a winning smile on his wide mouth.
‘Will you give Miss Betsy a message for me?’ he asked. ‘Will you tell her I waited? And I’ll do ’same again.’
Sammi stared. What was this? A tryst between Betsy and Luke Reedbarrow? Uncle Thomas would be furious if he knew.
‘Please.’ His blue eyes were appealing. ‘I’d be grateful.’
She swallowed. Would it do any harm? Betsy never had any fun. A mild flirtation wouldn’t go amiss, surely? ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But I won’t promise.’
He grinned and put on his hat again. ‘Thanks, Miss Rayner. I knew I could rely on thee. I’m much obliged.’
She watched him go back down the lane. What an infuriating fellow, she thought. I’m sure he was laughing at me.
The bell on the vicarage door jangled and she asked the maid who answered if she could speak to Mr Collinson. Mrs Collinson crossed the hall as she waited and invited her into her husband’s study.
‘What have we here, my dear? Whose child is this?’
Sammi felt some reluctance to discuss the baby with her. She had always found the vicar’s wife an overbearing, condescending woman who habitually lectured her husband as well as his parishioners.
‘His mother is dead, Mrs Collinson.’ She gave scanty explanation. ‘She died giving birth to him.’
‘And so the Rayners have shown compassion on the little one!’ Mrs Collinson clasped her hands together in praise. ‘How commendable. But it is of course our Christian duty to assist others in their need.’
Sammi heaved a sigh of relief as the door opened and Mr Collinson entered and greeted her. He looked dour, his thin face hiding a benevolent nature.
‘Would you baptize this child, Mr Collinson? His mother is dead and I—’
‘You mean he hasn’t yet been baptized and you have brought him here?’ Mrs Collinson threw up her hands. ‘Take him out. Take him out at once. He is unclean until he has been blessed at the font!’
‘Come, come, Mrs Collinson,’ Mr Collinson protested. ‘We don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense. God blesses all of His children.’ He put his hand out to Sammi and she followed him, turning her head to see the indignant horror on Mrs Collinson’s face.
‘I don’t understand.’ She hurried beside the vicar across the lane to the church. ‘How can innocent babes be unclean?’
He opened the heavy church door and ushered her inside. ‘There are many who believe that children are conceived in sin, Miss Rayner, and therefore with their mothers must be cleansed before being accepted back into society.’
‘You don’t believe that, Mr Collinson?’ she asked as she watched him pour water into the font.
‘No.’ His face lit with a radiant smile. ‘I don’t. I believe that God accepts all of His children, sinners and all, without question. But,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘don’t tell my bishop or my wife that I said so.’ He took the child from her and unwrapped his head. ‘We should also have witnesses to this baptism, Godfather and Godmother to guarantee his Christian upbringing. Is there no-one who will stand for him?’
She shook her head. ‘Only me. Can’t I be his Godmother? There is no-one else who cares.’
He looked at her for a moment, a candid question in his eyes, and then nodded. ‘I will join you then as a second witness. Together we will take care of his spiritual upbringing. How do you name this child, Miss Rayner?’
Sammi hesitated. It isn’t really up to me, she thought. But then no-one else seems inclined to trouble themselves. So what name shall I give him?
Her mind turned again to her grandmother. She wouldn’t have turned this child away. She would have shown compassion. As James’s child, he would have been her great grandson, as much a part of her family as I am and my family and cousins are. How wide the ripples spread.
And, she realized, he was the first. She gazed at him sleeping contentedly in the vicar’s arms. The first of the next generation.
‘Adam,’ she said. ‘Adam Foster Rayner.’
‘Can tha be sure he’s a Rayner?’ her uncle asked when she told them that evening. ‘There’s no proof.’
‘Why should the woman lie, Uncle? There’s no reason why she should walk all the way to Anlaby if she didn’t know; she could so easily have taken him to any other family with sons in Hull.’
‘Why did she walk all that way?’ Betsy wondered. ‘Why didn’t she just take him into Masterson and Rayner’s office?’
‘She’d have been turned away,’ her father said, lighting up his pipe and stretching out in his chair. ‘She’d never have got past ’door.’
‘Perhaps she was hoping to see a woman there,’ Sammi said thoughtfully. ‘Someone who would show compassion.’
Her uncle gazed at her as he sucked on his pipe. ‘Just as well tha was still there, then. She’d have been sent off wi’ a flea in her ear if it had just been James’s ma.’
Tom had been sitting silently, just listening to the conversation, and Mark had turned his back, whittling furiously on a thin sliver of wood.
‘God’s teeth.’ Mark dropped the wood and threw the knife on the table. Blood gushed from his hand.
‘Watch thy language!’ his father barked. ‘I’ll not have blasphemy in front of thy sister and Sammi.’
Mark put his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood. ‘Tha’ll not have blasphemy. But tha’ll have a bastard child in ’house!’ He pointed a bloody, accusing finger, first at Sammi and then at his brothers and then at his own chest. ‘Just wait. Afore long there’ll be rumours all round Holderness that ’child belongs to one of us. Why else would it be here? And if she stays here,’ he pointed again at Sammi, ‘everybody will think it’s hers and that she’s been turned out by her ma and da.’
For a second, no-one spoke. Sammi felt sick with dismay. She had had no intention of embroiling her uncle and cousins into any controversy over the child, and the fact that Mark had suggested that she had, horrified her. ‘No-one would think such a thing,’ she began, but Mark interrupted her.
‘Everybody will think it.’ He stared her in the face and she shrank back from the anger she saw there. ‘Tha knows there’s every reason why. Women can hide a babby under their skirts ’till it’s time to drop.’ His lip curled. ‘We’ve onny thy word that it isn’t thine.’
‘Enough!’
Tom and his father rose to their feet at the same instant, and Sammi didn’t know who it was who had roared out. Uncle Thomas’s face was flushed and furious, while Tom’s was ashen.
‘Outside!’ Tom spat through clenched teeth. He pointed to the door. ‘Go on. Out!’ He moved towards his brother and helped him on his way with a prod to his ribs. ‘Out, I say!’ His voice grew to a roar and he started to unfasten his shirt buttons.
Without a backward glance, Mark reached for the brass door knob, leaving a smear of blood on it, and charged outside.
‘They’ll have a scrap now, Da.’ George rose to his feet and made for the door. ‘I’m going to watch.’
‘Sit down!’ his father bellowed. ‘This isn’t a game. Tom will give him ’hiding he deserves, and if he doesn’t I will, and thee as well if tha doesn’t watch thaself.’
Sammi sat frozen-faced and trembling. She wasn’t used to violence. Her father, Richard or Billy settled their differences by talking them through, and her father’s temper, which often simmered below the surface, was usually kept well in control.
But Mark had always been hot-headed and quick-tempered, yet she was amazed and not a little confused to find that his anger had been directed at her and the child.
‘Get your coat off.’ Tom rolled up his sleeves.
‘I’ve no quarrel with thee.’ Mark ki
cked the dust with his boot.
‘Shall I send Sammi out to fight with you then? Is that what you want?’ Tom pushed his brother on his chest and Mark turned away angrily. ‘Is that why you picked on her? A woman who can’t fight back?’
‘I didn’t pick on her. I’m onny saying what’s true; folks will think ’bairn belongs to one of us.’ Mark laughed mockingly. ‘Maybe tha won’t mind, tha’s allus been sweet on her.’
Tom aimed a fist at Mark’s jaw and he staggered back, holding his chin.
‘Truth hurts, does it?’ Mark undid his waistcoat. ‘All right, if tha wants to fight, so be it.’
They both unfastened their shirts and pulled them over their heads and dropped them. The night was warm and it was still light; a moon had risen over the sea and was shedding its brightness over Tillington, and the church and the mill stood out in silhouette against the sky.
Sammi came to the door and Tom heard her gasp as she saw them half-naked, preparing to fight.
‘Go back inside,’ he ordered. ‘We don’t need spectators. This is our fight.’
‘Aye.’ Mark gave a short laugh. ‘Go inside. Tha won’t want to see our Tom bleeding all over ’yard. ’Sight would sicken a lady like thee.’
She picked up her skirts and ran towards them and hammered blows at Mark with her fists. ‘Don’t you dare!’ she threatened. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Mark doubled over with laughter then swiftly picked Sammi up and swung her out of the way and, aiming a swift blow at Tom, hit him squarely on his nose.
‘Leave them.’ Betsy had followed Sammi outside and pulled her away, as she helplessly watched the two brothers punching each other with their bare fists. ‘They’ve been building up to this for weeks. Don’t think it’s just about you,’ she said calmly. ‘Mark’s been asking for a hiding and now he’s getting one.’
‘But they’re killing each other!’ Sammi with her hand over her mouth watched from the doorway. ‘I’m going to fetch Uncle Thomas.’
‘Aye, all right, little lass. I’ll go and stop them if it upsets thee.’ Her uncle knocked out his pipe and rose reluctantly from his chair at her plea to come at once. ‘But it doesn’t mean owt. They’ll not be sworn enemies ’cos of this, though Mark spoke out of turn; and it’ll not happen again.’ He went out into the yard and stood for a few minutes watching his sons as they grappled together on the rough ground. Then with a sigh, he walked across to them and with a heave of his brawny arms he took hold of both of them by their hair like a pair of young pups and hauled them to their feet.
