by Valerie Wood
He shuffled impatiently as he waited and took off his hat, letting the breeze ruffle his hair; he was going to be behind with his work now, what with the village meeting and now the drive into Hull. He was provoked by Walters shirking his responsibilities; it wasn’t the first time that he’d found him drunk in the stables and he was fearful that he might one day go out under the influence of drink and turn the carriage over. On the rutted roads around Monkston care was needed, as he’d realized today. But the most annoying trait about the man was his arrogant and surly manner, and Will would not expect, or receive, any thanks for covering for him today.
He gazed around the Market Place. Things looked very much the same as they used to. There were still swarms of people gathered around the stalls outside the church, or watching the performing bands of showmen; but as he had driven into the town he had seen that old slum buildings and a disreputable house of correction had been demolished, and fine new red brick houses were rising in their place. He wondered where the slum dwellers had gone, for the new buildings were far too grand for them. Gone too was the old gaol and where it had been was a new, broad road lit up with street lamps.
Even King Billy had been cleaned up, he mused, as he looked down the long street and saw the gilded statue glinting. Maria would like to see that, he thought, it was always a favourite of hers, yet never once had she asked to come back to visit the town where she had been born.
A young boy took hold of a rein and stroked one of the horses. He looked up at Will. ‘Spare me a copper, mister,’ he said cheekily, though his pale eyes were anxious. ‘I’ve had nowt to eat since yesterday.’
Will felt in his breeches pocket but there wasn’t any money there. He put his hand into the inside pocket of Walters’ coat, found a coin and threw it down to the boy. He’d consider that a return for a favour from Walters. He watched the boy as jubilantly he ran off, shouting back his thanks. It could well have been Tom a few years back, he thought. Who knew what depths they might have sunk to had they stayed in the town, hawking or thieving, pilloried or gaoled? And here he was, dressed in fancy clothes, driving a carriage and pair and handing out money to beggars.
He climbed down from his seat as Mrs Masterson and Janey came out of the shop. Janey was carrying several parcels tied up with ribbon, and as he reached out to relieve her of them, he was suddenly jostled from behind by a man who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and who bumped into Janey, sending the parcels scattering on to the road.
‘Look out,’ Will ordered. ‘Watch where tha’s going.’
Mrs Masterson drew back hastily into the shop doorway as the fellow tore past. He didn’t speak or apologize, but ran on, leaving them staring at his disappearing back.
‘I don’t think anything’s damaged, ma-am,’ said Janey as she picked up the scattered parcels.
Will handed Mrs Masterson into the carriage and for a moment gazed thoughtfully down the street. A strange feeling of disquiet had come over him, a vague sensation of familiarity with the stranger who’d glowered at him from under his hat. He tried to dismiss the thought. Probably it was someone with a grudge against the richness of Mrs Masterson’s appearance, the fine carriage and obvious wealth, but the thought worried away at him as he drove down the High Street on his mistress’s instructions to call at the Masterson office.
‘Will?’ Janey put her head out of the window as they waited. ‘Tha knows that fellow that nearly knocked us over?’
‘Aye, what of him?’ Will leaned down from the box.
‘Well, I’ve just seen him again, round ’corner. He’s been watching us. He seems a bit shifty to me.’
‘What does he look like, Janey?’ Will had caught only a glimpse of him as he ran past them.
‘Can’t hardly see his face for his great black beard,’ she answered, ‘and he’s got thick bushy eyebrows. Looks a proper villain to me.’
‘Tha can’t go by appearances, Janey.’ Will smiled down at her; he could see she was apprehensive by the worried frown on her forehead. ‘Why, look what a handsome fellow I am, tha’d never tell from my face what a scoundrel I am.’
She laughed back at him, her round face, so like her father’s, creased into dimples. ‘I don’t believe that of thee, Will.’ As they were talking Mrs Masterson came out into the street on John’s arm. He handed her in to the carriage and came to speak to Will.
‘Why are you here, Will?’ he asked. ‘Enjoying the sights of the town?’
‘No, sir, Walters is sick, and Mrs Masterson needed to come to Hull.’
John raised his eyebrows. ‘Sick?’ he queried. ‘Again? What’s the matter with the man? He was ill not long ago. Is it serious?’
Will hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’ He cupped his hand and made the motion of drinking. ‘Just a temporary condition, I would say.’ He didn’t want to get the man into trouble, but felt nevertheless that a warning might be in order.
John nodded. ‘I understand. Perhaps a second coachman might be a good idea? I might suggest it to Mr Masterson, but forget I ever mentioned it.’
* * *
The village men worked unceasingly every night for two weeks. They worked by lantern or moonlight until the early hours of daybreak. Most of them were working men and couldn’t take time off during the day, and they were anxious to build the wall before the onset of winter. Every available means of transport was taken along the sands and every piece of brick or masonry, boulder or cobblestone that they could lift was loaded up, carried back and deposited at the foot of the cliffs.
Will and Martin, who were working as a team, brought back their last load of the night and viewed the heap despondently.
‘It’ll make a wall no higher than a man,’ said Will wearily. ‘And first storm of ’winter will wash it away.’
‘That’s what me Da says,’ Martin answered gloomily. ‘He said it was hopeless, that’s why he wouldn’t come to help. Said we’d have been better building some cottages further back.’ He eased his aching back. ‘But it was surely worth a try, wasn’t it?’ he asked, anxious that his idea was sound. ‘We can’t move a whole village, church ’n all, now can we?’
‘No, ’course we can’t,’ Will replied, privately agreeing with Martin’s father. ‘Course it was worth a try. At least we’ve tried to do summat.’
There was a west wind, which blew off the land and dispersed out at sea, during the latter part of October, and so the wall held, much to Martin’s delight. But as November approached, the weather suddenly became much colder, the wind changed to easterly and there were a few snow showers.
‘I’m right bothered about that young woman and her bairns,’ Maria said one bitterly cold morning. ‘If tha’ll cover for me, Lizzie, I think I’ll slip over. ’Babby was poorly again ’other day and I said I’d take some syrup for him.’
Sarah slipped off her chair and put down the sketch which she was drawing of a spindle shell that she had found on the sands, and went to the cupboard where the syrups were kept. She pulled a stool over and climbed on to it, reaching in for one of the bottles which were kept there.
‘This will do him good.’ Solemnly she handed the bottle to her mother. ‘It’s thyme and honey, it’ll give him strength.’
Mrs Scryven smiled to herself and then, answering Maria’s unspoken query, said, ‘Aye, ’child’s right, that’s ’best thing for him.’
Sarah jumped down from the stool, her red curls bouncing. ‘I made it myself, so I know it’s good,’ she said earnestly.
Maria hid a smile as she surveyed her small daughter. ‘Well, in that case, miss, tha’d better come with me and administer it and we’ll see if it works.’ Her smile faded. ‘Though I think ’poor bairn might be past our help.’
Mrs Scryven packed a basket of food and Maria held Sarah’s hand as they took the shorter way across the fields to the village. Sarah skipped at her mother’s side, there were no lessons today as Mrs Love was confined to her bed with a cold and Lucy had gone visiting with her mother.
They knoc
ked on the closed door of the cottage, but on receiving no reply Maria opened it and called out, ‘Mrs Vickers, is tha there? It’s Mrs Foster, I’ve brought thee some medicine for ’babby.’
The room was dark and Maria stepped inside. ‘Mrs Vickers?’ There was a snuffling and whispering coming from the opposite corner and as Maria peered towards it, she could make out the shapes of the woman and three of her children lying huddled together on a straw mattress on the floor.
‘Can I open ’shutters?’ she asked, but did so without waiting for a reply. The dim light filtered into the room showing empty desolation.
The children sat up pale and wide-eyed and looked listlessly at Maria and Sarah and the basket of food which she held.
‘We’ve brought some syrup for ’babby,’ Maria said softly to the woman who was lying silently with the baby in her arms. ‘Can tha sit up?’
Mrs Vickers smiled and wearily pulled herself up. The baby was wrapped in a thin, dirty grey blanket and she gently pulled it away from his face. ‘Come on then, lovey,’ she crooned. ‘See if tha likes what this kind lady’s brought thee, for tha doesn’t want owt that I’ve got to offer.’
She smiled patiently at Maria. ‘He doesn’t seem to be hungry, but he’s stopped his crying at last, so we can all get some sleep.’
Maria poured the syrup into a spoon and held it to the baby’s mouth, then with a soft cry she drew back, her hand trembling.
‘Let me give it, Ma.’ Sarah took the spoon from her but Maria snatched it back, spilling the sticky syrup.
‘Mrs Vickers,’ she cried compassionately. ‘Doesn’t tha realize thy babby’s gone? Poor little mite’s passed on.’
The woman hugged the dead baby against her, rocking it steadily. ‘Don’t tha dare say such a wicked thing.’ Her voice was harsh and fretful. ‘He’s asleep, that’s all.’
She laid him down tenderly and covered him with a blanket. ‘Just as well he’s sleeping, for his fayther will be in in a minute and there’s no dinner ready for him.’ She got up from the mattress and ignoring them both walked over to the empty hearth and put a kettle on it.
‘Sarah?’ Maria whispered. ‘Can tha find thy way back and ask Ma Scryven to come straight away? Tell her that Mrs Vickers is sick and ’babby has died. I’ll stay here until she comes.’
Sarah walked quietly across to the bed and gazed at the still little body, then she tenderly stroked the pale cold cheek with the tips of her fingers. She smiled at her mother and at Mrs Vickers who was suspiciously watching her. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said quietly, ‘the babby is better now, he’s not hurting any more.’
Mrs Vickers put her hands across her eyes and sank slowly on to the floor. She rocked backwards and forwards until finally her body shook with convulsive sobs.
‘What really surprised me was that Sarah wasn’t at all afraid,’ Maria explained to Will later that evening as they sat together in the firelight at Field House. ‘She even stroked ’poor bairn’s cheek. It was as if she understood about death without being told.’
‘No need to be afraid.’ Will looked up from his supper. Maria seemed tired and strained, the baby’s death had upset her, and he noticed for the first time the fine lines which had appeared around her eyes and the scattering of silver threads amongst her dark hair. ‘Think of it as snuffing out a flame, just before a final sleep.’
She nodded and pushed away her bowl of soup, her appetite having deserted her. ‘I can’t help thinking of those other bairns going off to ’charity. Poor Mrs Vickers is going to be a long time before she’ll be well enough to look after them. They looked so dowly and miserable as they went off in ’cart.’
Will went on eating. ‘Don’t think of asking, Maria,’ he said, without even looking up. ‘We can’t take on any more bairns. We can’t be responsible for all ’waifs and strays in ’kingdom, no matter how sorry we feel for them.’
She opened her mouth to speak.
‘I’m not saying any more on ’matter,’ he said. ‘I’ll put word about in Hull next time I’m there, and maybe their father will turn up and rescue them.’ He got up from the table. ‘Who knows, he might have made his fortune. On ’other hand,’ he added bitterly, affected just as much as Maria was by the injustice of poverty and the peck of troubles that befell those like Mrs Vickers who couldn’t help themselves, ‘If he has, he might well be drowning his sorrows with it.’
‘I was only going to ask if tha could go and see Mr Crabtree,’ she complained. ‘He went right out of my mind, what with ’worry over Mrs Vickers’s childre’. Weather’s getting bad, he ought to be moving out. I saw some huge cracks in his wall last time I was there. His place will hardly last over ’winter.’
He bent and kissed her on her forehead. ‘Aye. I intended going anyway. I’ll go first thing in ’morning. There’s going to be a bit of a blow tonight, by ’sound of it.’
She rose and put her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. ‘Hold me tight, Will. I feel so strange and uneasy.’ She shivered. ‘It’s been a miserable day and I’m that tired. I’ll go to bed now, though whether I’ll sleep with that wind howling is another matter.’
He kissed her again, tenderly on the lips. ‘Aye, go to bed. Tha’ll feel brighter in ’morning.’ He stretched. ‘I’ll just take a last look round, then have a jar down at ’Raven with Martin.’
‘Does tha have to go out tonight, Will? It’s so wild out there.’ She was unduly anxious. ‘Stay in, please.’
‘Tha calls that wild?’ He smiled at her consolingly. ‘It’s nowt but a capful of wind.’ He reached for his thick jacket. ‘I feel a bit fidgety, like thee. A walk and a drop of rum’ll mend matters. Go to bed now, I’ll try not to wake thee when I come in.’
He picked up his crutch which was leaning in a corner by the door. He wouldn’t bother to strap on his limb or wear his boots tonight, for he didn’t intend to be long – just one drink and then home again.
Maria sat staring into the fire after he had gone, trying to understand her uneasiness, her thoughts still lingering on the Vickers baby, when she felt a small warm hand in hers. Sarah stood solemnly in front of her, her red curls tousled, her brown eyes clouded with sleep, and her bare toes curling against the cold floor.
She put her arms around her mother’s neck and climbed on to her knee. Maria hugged the child, pressing her warm body to her, and it seemed as if she drew strength from her as Sarah patted her hand and whispered soft endearing words, so soft and low that she could neither hear nor understand, but which lessened her melancholy and brought her comfort.
* * *
Will turned up his collar as he walked across from Field House towards the cliff. The wind was rising steadily and he could hear quite clearly the resounding thunder of the sea swell. He recalled his surprise when they had first arrived in Monkston at the nearness of the village to the sea. Since then the cliff had steadily eroded bit by bit, slipping away into the waters until the village which stretched haphazardly along its length now faced the sea like the ragged front line of an army about to do battle against the might of an invincible foe.
‘Perhaps I’d best walk up towards old Crabtree’s tonight,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Make sure that he’s all right.’
He turned towards the village, cutting through a small copse which afforded a little shelter from the blast of the wind. Most of the leaves had fallen and were lying dry and crisp on the ground, whilst the bare branches silhouetted against the sky shifted and creaked against each other, buffeted by the increasing gusts. He stopped. His senses, attuned to the night cries, questioned a different sound, but the bark of a fox distracted him, and with a shrug he walked on.
Nathan Crabtree’s cottage was in darkness, the shutters at the window blocking out any lamplight that might have been seen, and he pondered for a moment on whether or not to knock and risk disturbing the old man.
He made his way to the bottom of the garden, looked over the brink at the sea, and was disturbed to see that a large chunk of cliff h
ad fallen since he had last been there. He bent down and in the darkness scrabbled his hands around on the ground near the battered old fence, finding to his consternation wide cracks which ran from the cliff edge and under the fence, snaking their way towards the walls of the cottage.
It’s not going to last much longer, he thought, I’ll have to warn ’old fellow, or it’ll be too late.
He hurried back through the small garden, crushing decaying leeks and sorrel in his haste, and raising his crutch banged loudly on the door, calling out the old man’s name. ‘Nathan. Nathan, wake up. Can’st hear me, Nathan?’
He put his ear to the door and listened intently but there was no sound from within. He walked to the window and banged again, this time on the heavy wooden shutters, but still there was no response.
Hesitating for only a moment he spun round and pushed out of the gate. I’ll fetch an axe from ’Reedbarrows, he thought quickly. I’ll have to break down ’door, he can’t stay there any longer, and turned towards the direction of the Reedbarrows’ farm further along the cliff.
He almost fell over the man who was standing by the fence, so quickly did he come across him. ‘Is that thee, Martin?’ He peered in the gloom at the bulky figure in front of him.
‘Tha doesn’t remember me, then, Foster?’ The voice that sneered was rough and antagonistic.
‘I can’t see thy face, do I know thee?’
‘Tha should – we’re what tha might call old comrades. Partners – that might be a better name. Aye, that’s it. Partners. We had a bargain once, thee and me, and somebody else who’d better remain nameless – only ’partnership split up ’cos of thy double crossing.’
‘Crawford!’ Will drew in a hasty breath. ‘What’s tha doing out here? Tha’s never seeking me out – not after all these years?’
