The Blacksmith's Girl

by Rosemary Aitken

  Though she wouldn’t put it past him to arrange it if he could! Peter had been sweet on her since they were six, and he had never got over it from that day to this – though she’d never knowingly encouraged him again. When she’d married Alex, she’d disappointed him, she knew. Not that Peter had ever said a word.

  He’d even sent an unexpected marriage gift: a hand-turned bowl he’d made himself, together with a note to say he wished them happiness and if ‘they two ever needed any help and it lay within his power, he would be “onered” to be asked’. She and Alex had been rather touched, but Alex’s mother had laughed and wrinkled up her nose.

  ‘How totally absurd. It’s not as if he worked on our estate or anything. A miner, who dared have hopes of Effie at one time! Has he no sense of what’s appropriate? Besides, the thing is hideous. You’ll send it back, of course.’

  Alex, of course – dear Alex – had understood at once. ‘Mater, we’ve no intention of returning it. The gesture was generous and sincere. And jolly dignified. If I’d lost Effie to someone else, I hope I’d have the character to behave half as well.’

  Effie could not help but smile, remembering. Alex would no doubt tell her that she was being foolish now – allowing that childhood friendship to embarrass her so much. It wasn’t that Peter meant anything to her – not in that way, at least. He was hardly a romantic figure, after all, with the red hair and freckles that all the Kellows had, and great hands ‘like mining shovels’ as he used to say himself.

  No, Peter was a really lovely chap – one of the best around, if you liked the solid type – but part of a life that she’d left far behind. So she never knew quite what to say to him, these days. Like this afternoon, for instance. She had made excuses and come away as soon as was polite, though there was no horse-bus at this hour of day and she’d had to plead a headache as an excuse to walk. Even then she’d had to dissuade Peter from accompanying her part-way.

  Though all in all she’d quite enjoyed her unexpected stroll. When she was younger she had walked alone a lot (it was the only way of getting anywhere) but respectable married ladies did not do so as a rule – especially wives of policemen who could afford to ride. But now the fresh wind had whipped colour into her cheeks, and she felt invigorated by the sea air in her lungs, the sight of the white-capped waves that lapped the shore below, and the smell of the windswept grass and heather at her feet. There was even one lone, brave golden bud of flower on the furze. And as she clambered over the stile to join the road, she saw another unexpected sight.

  Verity Tregorran was hurrying down the hill ahead, bundling her cape around her to keep out the wind. Yet, wasn’t she working at the factory these days? According to Sergeant Jeffries, anyway. So why was she not there? Effie hadn’t seen her since the day that she had called in at the police-house, looking so distressed. And she wasn’t looking very happy now.

  Effie paused and looked around her, up and down the hill. It wasn’t ladylike to shout, but there was no one else to hear. She placed a firm hand on her hat and used the other to cup against her mouth. ‘Verity Tregorran?’ she called, against the wind.

  Her voice must have carried. The blacksmith’s daughter turned, then – obviously recognizing who was shouting after her – paused politely at the corner of the road, though she did not look altogether pleased at being forced to stop. But it was too late to retreat. Effie began to hasten down to her, but she had only gone a pace or two when something whooshed past and forced her to the hedge.

  It was a young woman, of all things, on a bicycle – not wearing those scandalous bloomers, but freewheeling down the hill, with her ankle boots showing underneath her skirt and with her hat tied underneath her chin with a swathe of gauzy stuff. It was outrageous enough to make people stop and stare – if there had been anyone but Verity and Effie there to see.

  Effie had stepped back, startled, and almost tripped into the ditch. She looked up, crossly, ready to complain; but instead of pausing to apologize the rider swooped on by, with an enormous smile on her young glowing face and her fair hair streaming out behind her in the wind – not even glancing in Effie’s direction as she passed. She did however give a cheerful wave to the Tregorran girl.

  ‘Yoohoo, Miss Verity!’ she caroled and was gone around the bend. Verity seemed to know the apparition, too, because her face lit in a sudden smile and she returned the wave – too late – and stood staring in the direction that the bicycle had gone.

  Effie started down the hill once more – conscious that she’d muddied her pretty ankle boots. ‘Good afternoon,’ she proffered, when she was near enough to speak in normal tones.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Dawes, it is you! I thought I heard your voice, but it’s hard to be certain over all this blaw, and then I saw the bicyclist and thought that it was her.’

  Effie looked at her with curiosity. ‘You know that person?’ It wasn’t a polite enquiry perhaps, but there weren’t many young ladies who rode bicycles in the whole of England, let alone Penwith. Effie could not remember seeing one before! She could just imagine what Uncle Joe would say. ‘Tidn’t natural!’ she could almost hear his voice. ‘A woman racing round the county, like a man, showing her legs up almost to the knee. Wanton, that’s what that is. Girl wants locking up for her own good.’

  But Verity was answering the question by this time. ‘I only know her more or less by sight. Vicar’s daughter, over to St Erne. He used to bring a horse to Pa for shoeing now and then, and she’d come with him on the trap – but we haven’t seen them since the war began. Lost the creature to the army probably. We did hear from Crowdie that the vicar had a bicycle these days – uses it to visit the parishioners and things – but I never thought I’d see his daughter riding one. Looks some fun, though, doesn’t it?’ Her face split in an enormous impish grin.

  Effie nodded. Truth to tell, she’d thought the same herself. Imagine the freedom! Better than a horse. You could go to visit Pa and be home in half an hour – or even venture all the way into Penzance and not have to worry about what time the bus was due.

  ‘My husband used to ride a police bicycle,’ she said, conscious of sounding something of a prig. Though it was true. Alex had ridden it for miles when he was stationed here – though he’d always been far happier on an animal. In fact he had been keen that she should ride as well – his family would doubtless have approved – but somehow she had never mastered it; it wasn’t the sort of thing her folks had ever done and horses were so big they rather frightened her. And they were wilful with it.

  But a bicycle, perhaps? You could park a machine and it would stay where it was put. It wouldn’t come round behind you and try to bite your bottom if you turned your back. Looking for sugar, Alex had declared, but he’d thought it was funny, you could see it in his eyes.

  ‘… haven’t you?’ a voice was saying in her ear, and she realized with a start that Verity was talking and she hadn’t heard a word.

  Effie smiled and murmured, ‘I’m quite sure you’re right!’ wondering what on earth she was agreeing to.

  ‘Though I expect they’ll clean,’ the Tregorran girl went on. ‘Don’t see many people hereabouts in lovely boots like that. Or that costume, come to that.’ She nodded at Effie’s matching pale-blue skirt and coat. ‘Mind, you used to work in a haberdashers, one time, so my sister said?’

  ‘Briefly, before I married Alex,’ Effie said, politely. ‘Though I was in service before that. But I was always interested in needlework.’ She was about to add that she had won a prize for it at school, but Verity did not give her a chance.

  ‘Most I ever did was sew new ribbons round my Sunday skirt when it was handed down from Prudence and my mother turned the cloth.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Though here I’m talking out of turn, again! Sorry, Mrs Dawes, you don’t want to hear all that. You wanted me for something?’

  Effie shook her head. ‘Only to ask if anything came of that potential smuggler? Or if you had ever seen that man out on the cliffs again?’

  �
��Never been out there, since,’ the girl replied. ‘Though matter of fact, I’m on my way there now – meet with my sisters. That’s how I’m in something of a rush. Probably wasn’t anything suspicious about it, any case – or so Sergeant Jeffries says. Tell you I’m being flighty, I expect.’

  She sounded so resigned that Effie smiled and said, ‘Now, don’t let me delay you, if you’ve got folks to meet. But if you ever hear or notice anything again – never mind Sergeant Jeffries – you come and let me know.’

  The thin face lit up in a delighted smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes. You at least believe I aren’t an idiot. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take the cliff path here!’ And off she scampered, bonnet round her neck and blue skirt, plaid shawl and wild curls flying in the wind.

  Effie watched her with a thoughtful smile. There was something very likeable about that young scatterbrain – perhaps because she reminded Effie of herself. Like the way her eyes had lit up at the thought of bicycles. A foolish dream for both of them, of course. Verity could never have afforded such a thing and respectable married ladies had to be more decorous.

  Though, if vicar’s daughters had begun to cycle around the lanes, it could not be entirely disreputable nowadays. One of the things that had altered with the war, perhaps – like women taking tickets on the railway trains. And bicycles must be available for sale.

  She shook her head. It was impossible. Whatever would Alex and his mother make of the idea?

  Martha Tregorran pushed her hair back from her eyes and put the kettle on the trivet by the fire to boil. In a crisis, it was what she always did. Not that a cup of tea was going to help this time – but Strict Adherents did not keep alcohol about, not even for medicinal purposes. Though the Chegwiddens did. She was almost tempted to go and beg some from next door, claiming a headache, and it would have been no lie. Patience had given her the biggest headache of her life.

  She looked across at her eldest daughter now, sitting at the table in a sobbing heap, her hair dishevelled and her face all red and streaked. ‘Dear Heaven!’ she said aloud (it was the strongest oath that she allowed herself). ‘Pull yourself together. Don’t sit there snivelling. We’ve got to think what you are going to do.’

  Patience raised tearful eyes. ‘Do? What on earth can anybody do? Except tell Pa – I suppose he’ll have to know?’

  Martha gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You think you’re going to hide it and pretend the fairies came? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’s got to know.’

  ‘He’ll throw me out, I know it. I’ll end up in the workhouse!’

  Martha did not answer. It was a possibility – Toby held strong views about immoral girls.

  Patience began to weep hopelessly again. ‘Well, if I do, I just hope the factory don’t turn off Pru and Vee as well. Scandal sticks to families, that’s what they always say. Oh, why was I so stupid?’

  ‘First sensible remark I’ve heard you make today,’ Martha said tartly. ‘A bit less self-pity and bit more penitence, that’s what you need, young lady. But you’re thinking about other people now, and that’s a start, I suppose. Not that I expect your father to agree.’ She shook her head. ‘Fair break his heart, you will. Always hoped to live to see you wed and happy with a family of your own. But not like this – without the marriage first. If your young Mr Radjel was not already wed, your father would be down there like a bolt of lightning – though the man is barely Christian from what I understand.’ She meant it. Old Mr Radjel was generally liked, but his son was a scandal – to the Strict Adherency at least. In fact he had once been ‘prayed against’ for his father’s sake, because Satan had tempted him to gambling, and he didn’t hardly show his face at church or chapel any more, except for feast days, weddings and funerals – which didn’t really count.

  ‘Not the kind of husband we’d have chosen for our girls, but better that than nothing,’ Martha said bitterly. ‘But even he is not available, so it’s nothing – it appears.’ She sighed. ‘Whatever possessed you to get mixed up with him – a married man?’

  The question was enough to start the tears again. ‘Told me that he loved me and that we’d run away and start again – in London, possibly. He was putting away money to pay the fare, he said – but …’ She let out such a piercing sob it touched her mother’s heart. ‘And I believed him. I must have been a fool.’

  ‘We aren’t about to disagree on that, I don’t suppose!’ Martha said. ‘But perhaps if your father went to talk to him?’ Old Radjel was a decent sort of man. They might make an allowance for Patience, possibly? Something that would enable her to go away in fact – somewhere like Launceston, where she would not be known. And later, perhaps, if Toby could be talked around to it, they might take in their grandchild and pass it off as theirs. Such things were not unknown – and little Faith was just a toddler still, so another baby would be unremarkable.

  Her mind was working overtime by now. Suppose she wore a few extra layers for a bit? Of course it was deception, of a kind, and Strict Adherents shouldn’t do that sort of thing, but if nothing was actually said, it was not exactly lying, was it? And this was clearly an emergency.

  ‘It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good.’ Patience’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘He’d say it wasn’t him. He’s already said as much to me. And how could I prove it? He took some proper care to make sure that we weren’t observed – we’d leave different times and meet up on the cliffs, out of sight of everybody else. Supposed to be on different errands for the factory – Mr Radjel had it sorted out. And no-one ever saw us – ’cept, nearly, Verity.’

  ‘Verity?’ Martha was startled.

  ‘On about seeing something suspicious on the cliffs. I could have killed her, but turned out it wasn’t us. But when I told him – thinking that he’d laugh – he did the opposite and took a proper fright. Said it was over, it was far too dangerous, and since that day he’s never even looked at me again. That is, until this morning, and you know what happened then.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t let Pa go down and see him, it won’t do no good, just make trouble for the other girls. Stephen Radjel’s like that, I can see it now. How didn’t I realize he was a liar and a cheat?’

  ‘You might have guessed that when he cheated on his wife,’ Martha said sternly. She was torn between anger and worry for her girl. ‘I wish I knew what I could do to help.’ She shook her head. ‘Might go down the chapel and say a little prayer – or look in the Bible and find a guidance text. That’s what your grandfather would recommend.’

  ‘Well it’s no good looking in the box of promises!’ She nodded towards the round container by the hearth – it was full of little rolled-up tubes of paper, each of which contained a cheerful text, and you took a pair of tweezers and selected one. ‘Grandfather would say I needed a penitential text. “Therefore I will wail and howl, I will go stripped and naked, I will make a wailing like the dragons and mourning as the owls”!’ Patience – like all Strict Adherents – knew many such scripture passages by heart.

  Martha looked at her. ‘That’s from the prophet Micah! And you know what follows next! “Declare it not in Gath, weep ye not at all: in the house of Aphrah roll thyself in dust.” Don’t mock the Good Book, Patience. Aphrah must mean Ephraim. We’ve had guidance after all. Ephraim Tull has offered for you more than once – he’s been looking to marry since his first wife died. And he’s a Strict Adherent, which would make things easier …’

  ‘Ephraim Tull? But he’s as old as Pa, and he’s got warts all down his nose and everything! Besides, he wouldn’t have me – not after what I’ve done.’

  Martha, for the first time, found solace in her tea. ‘He might do, since the Lord is on our side. Course we’d have to tell him that you were in the family way – but you picked the text yourself – “tell it not in Gath”. We don’t have to tell him everything, it seems. But if he thought somehow that it was Christian charity – that you’d been set upon by a stranger on the cliffs perhaps – he might be persuaded that he wa
s saving you from harm.’ She put her cup down with a clatter suddenly. ‘That must be it. And didn’t he always hope that he might have an heir, someday? And that text says, just a few verses on: “yet I will bring thee an heir unto thee”. Patience, seems the Lord is good to you. He’s given us a sign. Perhaps you won’t end in the workhouse after all.’

  But Patience did not look comforted at all. ‘You mean I’ll have to marry that awful Ephraim Tull?’

  ‘My dear girl, have you got no sense at all? Ephraim Tull would be a saviour to you, after what you’ve done. If he agrees to have you, you’ll take him and be grateful – do you hear? Fortunately he’s a great believer in the Word, and if I go and tell him how it was a guidance text …’ She stood up abruptly. ‘I believe I’ll do it now. Sooner the better, if it’s done at all. It isn’t very far, and he’s generally in his farmyard of an afternoon – and if I can persuade him to agree, it will make things much easier with your father later on.’

  Patience looked a little hopeful, suddenly. ‘And what should we tell Pa? About how this happened?’

  Martha unhooked her bonnet from the door and tied the ribbons underneath her chin. ‘Tell him the same as Ephraim, I suppose. T’isn’t all the different from the truth – by what you say it did ’appen on the cliffs, we just won’t mention that you knew the man. Though your pa will likely give you a dreadful walloping for not telling him about it at the time.’

  Patience said nothing, just sat in misery.

  Martha took down her cloak and wrapped it round herself. ‘But perhaps that’s a blessing in its way as well – it’s no good his asking the police to find the man, which he’d be bound to do, else – because it’s months ago and any stranger would have gone away.’ She sighed. ‘Now, it’s getting time the others will be coming home. You go out to the water butt and wash your face in it, try and look a bit more normal. There’s sprats out in the wash house, you can fry them up for tea. Tell them I’ve gone for cabbage, I’ll bring some home with me. And I’d best be off and do it, if I’m to be back here before your father is. And when he does come – you leave your pa to me.’