The Blacksmith's Girl

by Rosemary Aitken

  ‘Af’noon, Martha!’ Will Jeffries drew up beside her on his bicycle and slid off so that he could walk with her. ‘A chilly bit of wind! Where you been off to? Don’t often see you out walking at this time of day. Leastways, not in this direction. Everything all right?’ Obviously it wasn’t. It looked as if she’d been having a little private cry.

  Martha gave him an anguished look that touched his heart. ‘Been out to see my married daughter …’ She broke off and said no more.

  ‘That’s your Patience? I heard that she’d got wed, but—’

  ‘Couldn’t have asked you, Will, if I’d have wanted to. Special service down the Methodists – only the Strict Adherents there, and just as well, perhaps. Joyless old business – no music for the hymns – but a wedding all the same. I don’t know if I was right to hope for it so much.’

  ‘How so, Martha? He’s never harsh to her? Not a man like Ephraim?’

  She shook her head. ‘It nothing that he’s done, so far as I can see, ’cepting that he’s prayed her half to death. And of course a girl has always got to learn to be a wife. But it isn’t suiting her. I never did see a girl so changed in all my life. Like as if the life has all gone out of her. Mind, that old farmhouse would make anybody glum. I’ve been down helping her to get the copper lit, and do a bit of mangling so she could get the washing out – this bit of breeze will get it nicely dried, supposing that it doesn’t come to rain.’

  Will could think of nothing very sensible to say, but she seemed to have cheered up a little now, so he ventured, ‘Glad of a bit of a hand with all of that, I’m sure.’

  She gave him another of those looks. ‘I should think so, too! You never saw the like.’ She stopped at the corner of the hedge and fixed tearful eyes on him. ‘Eight years that Ephraim’s lived there on his own, and I don’t believe he’s ever washed a rag in all that time – ’cept perhaps his underwear and an odd Sunday shirt. Certainly that boiler hadn’t worked in years: took us half the morning to get the thing to light – birds’ nests in the flue and I don’t know what, and as for cleaning out the spiders’ webs and verdigris inside! And then you had to boil the sheets for half an hour before you could begin to see that they were white!’ There was angry exasperation in her tone as she turned away and began to walk on, down the hill again.

  ‘And Ephraim?’ he asked, keeping step with her.

  She made scornful noise. ‘Too busy writing his address – next Sunday’s homily – to be any use, though he did chop up the kindling and fetch the water, I suppose. Wonder he gets any farming done at all. Still, it’s a sin to grumble at what the Lord provides. Fortunate they’ve got a wash house copper and a well – I’d pity Patience washing otherwise.’

  They had reached the stile at the bottom of the hill by now. That was Martha’s quick way home, but Will was reluctant to see her go so soon. ‘Lucky she’s got you for a ma, that’s certain,’ he said, with feeling, and was rewarded with a smile.

  ‘Kind of you to say that, Will, but I’m not so sure. I let our Toby make too much of her, I think – being the firstborn girl and all that sort of thing. “Withhold not correction from the child”, the Good Book says, but perhaps that’s what we did.’

  He couldn’t answer that. Toby had never been one to ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ – more likely to be the other way about, they’d been brought up so strictly that they wanted to rebel. But she was waiting for an answer, so he said, ‘You don’t think she’s content?’

  Martha sighed. ‘Stuck up there in that great shambling place where nothing’s been cleaned or put away for years? There’s stuff in the back room upstairs that’s not been used for years – hanks of wool and lengths of cloths and the dear what besides, all heaped up anyhow – worth a fortune, these days, if it was only clean – though who knows what moths and things might have got into it. I shall have to go and help her sort it out, though what we’re going to put it into I have no idea. There isn’t enough cupboards and drawer space in Rosvene!’

  She said it with such vigour that it made Will laugh aloud, but then an idea struck him. He was always anxious to be of service to Martha if he could. ‘So happens, Martha, I might just be able help you there. Effie – you remember Mrs Dawes, the wife of that young constable that died?’

  Martha nodded, yes.

  ‘Well, she was living in White Cottage – the place my mother had – but it’s likely that I’ll be retiring from the police force very soon and I’ll be wanting to move in there myself. She’s moved now, to another place, out Penvarris way, where she is nearer to her folks – nice little cottage, which I found for her. Point is, I know she bought a lot of wooden crates – had them to pack her stuff and move it over there, and I’m fairly sure she won’t be wanting them again. Glad to let you have them for a few pennies, I should think – if that would be any use to you? Very likely, she’ll only burn them else. I’m going out that way, later on so – if you like – I’ll call on her and ask her what she wants to do with them.’

  Martha was no youngster now, but she still had a lovely smile. ‘Oh, Will – would you? It would be such a help! Pattie’d be delighted. You’re very good to us!’ She held out a hand for him to shake and he used the opportunity to help her cross the stile.

  ‘Bye then, Martha,’ and he got onto his bike and pedalled out as fast as possible to call on Mrs Dawes. The area had not actually been on his intended rounds today, but he’d meant to call in soon in any case – to see if she was settling in all right – and was glad to have found a legitimate excuse.

  She was in the garden when he reached the house, to his surprise, watching Amy lopping back the weeds beside the path. It was rather shocking to see her standing openly outside, dressed in black and with her widow’s cap on, naturally, but no cape or mourning veil. She waved in greeting when she saw him at the gate.

  ‘I’d forgotten what hard work this is,’ she said, as he came up to her. ‘Used to help my pa do this when I was young – this is his patch-hook that Amy’s using now. She volunteered to do it, she’s keen to clear a path to that old pigsty there, that we want to use for storage. But it’s new for her – she’s been working for ten minutes and she’s hardly made a start. Wish I could do it for her, but of course I can’t. All right Amy, that’s enough for now!’

  The maid dropped the implement – with gratitude, he thought. ‘You and the Sergeant would like a pot of tea?’

  Effie nodded and then turned to Will again. ‘Want to come inside and see what we have done? Haven’t finished by a long way, but it’s coming on.’

  It was. The sitting room looked bright and cosy now. ‘Makes a difference, don’t it, Mrs Dawes, having a bit of fire and few nice rugs about?’

  ‘Especially since I pulled those curtains back and let the sunshine in.’ She saw his disapproving look. ‘There’s no disrespect to Alex, his corpse was never here. And little Amy’s done such a splendid job, cleaning the windows – she was up at daybreak, washing down the panes – it would have been a shame to muffle them. She wanted to do it before I was down myself. Says I would have stopped her, and probably that’s true, it doesn’t seem right to sit about while others work, to me.’

  ‘That’s why you were standing in the garden, watching, I suppose? Though what your mother-in-law would say, I hate to think.’ He smiled to make this seem a little less of a rebuke.

  She gave him a wry look. ‘Oh, I think we could guess exactly what she’d say! She writes me little homilies, on black-edged notepaper, almost every week, telling me how a member of their family should behave. No balls or public dinners for at least a year, and general seclusion from society!’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘How many balls and dinners does she suppose that I attend?’

  ‘And what about “seclusion from society”?’

  ‘It only proves what I have always known – my world and her world are a universe apart. Take poor old Jilly Richards, before she wed my pa. She mourned her husband, yes of course she did – this dress I’m wearing was
one of hers, in fact – she did not go out seeking jollity and she wore decent black for several years. But how would she have done if she’d stayed prettily at home? She had a boy to care for, and household bills to pay. She had to shop and cook and clean the way she always had – and take in boarders now, as well, to help to pay the bills. And better for it – as she said the other day. That’s been half my trouble, Sergeant, I believe. I’m not like her – with jobs to do, to keep me busy and occupy my mind, or like my mother-in-law with lots of wealthy friends who’ve nothing else to do but call on her, to offer sympathy and keep her company, without her having to go anywhere herself.’

  She spoke with so much passion that he could only say, ‘So you decided to take an interest in the gardening? Nobody to see you out here, I suppose?’

  ‘I haven’t seen a soul, except yourself,’ she said. ‘And it wasn’t gardening. I was only explaining to Amy what to do, so we could put a few of those old crates in the shed – they’re piled up in the other sitting room and there isn’t room to move until they’re gone. I wasn’t intending to stay out very long. But you know, Sergeant Jeffries, I was quite enjoying it.’ It was obviously true. She looked at him, her eyes and cheeks aglow – more alive than he had seen her since her husband’s death. A breath of fresh air and an aim to think about had done a bit of good – ‘taken her out of herself’ as Ivy would have said.

  ‘Tell you what, my han’some,’ he said heartily, ‘I’ll have this bit of tea, and if you like I’ll stop and give a hand. I’m out on general patrol, keeping a lookout on the cliffs, so I’m not expected anywhere particular – though I can’t be long, of course. But let me have that billhook and a stone to sharpen it, and I’ll clear a path for you before you can say “knife”.’

  He thought for a moment that Effie would refuse, but she gave a rueful smile. ‘I expect you’ve got the trick to it,’ she said. ‘I used to have it, but I can’t explain to Amy how to hold the hook. I was deciding I would have to wait for Pa – he’s coming here the weekend, when he’s got a half-day free, and hopes to make a proper garden by and by. But I’d be glad if you would help – just enough so we can move the crates. We can’t finish the unpacking till we’ve got rid of some.’

  ‘Those crates, now—’ Will was saying, when Amy interrupted by bringing in the tea – not bad tea either for a brand-new pot – and she even remembered that he liked two sugar lumps. No one offered anything to eat. Unfortunately people often didn’t, these days, with the war. But the tea was very nice. ‘Now, Mrs Dawes,’ he ventured, when he’d taken a long sip, ‘as I was saying, funny thing about those crates …’ And he outlined his suggestion.

  Effie was even more enthusiastic than he’d hoped. ‘If she can find some way of fetching them, she’s welcome to them free. Nothing but a nuisance, in a tiny place like this. Some of them are rather spoiled and split, I was going to get Pa to chop those up for kindling wood – but there’s at least a half a dozen that are good as new.’

  ‘Martha – Mrs Tregorran – will be delighted, I am sure,’ he said, finishing his tea. ‘She’ll send the older girls to pick them up, I expect. Now, if you’d like to show me where you want these weeds took down …?’ He lumbered to his feet.

  ‘Amy will show you,’ Mrs Dawes replied, rather to his disappointment. ‘I’d better change my skirts. Got my hems all wet and grassy and they need sponging clean, though I wasn’t there five minutes – and serve me right, I suppose. I’ll see you in a moment!’ And she went off upstairs – every inch the mistress of the house.

  ‘Done her good to come here,’ he said the words aloud and was rather surprised to be answered by the maid.

  ‘Worlds of good. More like she used to be when she first took me on. But I’m glad you’re going to come and clear those weeds a bit. Man’s job that is, and I nearly told her so – but she wouldn’t have harkened and it’s not my place to say. Now – want me to show you where this path is supposed to be?’ She was already leading him outside. ‘There!’ she pointed with her finger, sketching out a line. ‘Funny thing, they can’t have used that shed for years – but there’s a path that leads right to it, over through that field. I went round to have a peek and you can see inside.’

  ‘Anything in there?’ he said, in policeman mode.

  She shook her head. ‘Not a chibble. It’s all swept and clean. But someone’s been using it for something, by the looks. Wonder who would want to come there, wouldn’t you? Smelly old pigsty – what would be the use?’

  Will Jeffries gave a thoughtful tug at his moustache, but he had been a policeman far too long not to think how it would make a trysting place, out of the weather and out of public sight. For unfortunates like Pattie Tull, perhaps?

  But he did not say that to Amy. He took off his jacket, whetted the billhook, and set about the weeds. After all, as Effie Dawes had said, there was nobody to see. There were lots of thorns and brambles and it took longer than he thought, but by the time that Effie Dawes came down again (prettier than ever – in black cashmere this time) he’d managed to hack a narrow pathway to the shed.

  ‘Better be off then. Be in touch about the crates,’ he muttered as she tried to thank him fulsomely. That was two lovely ladies helped today, he thought. He put his helmet and his jacket on and rode off whistling.

  Part Four

  April – August 1916

  One

  Life at An Dyji had begun to settle into order now. Amy had moved the empty crates out to the shed, and most of the rest had been unpacked and put away. Not quite all, there was some stuff of Alex’s which she could not bear to touch. She would have to deal with it sometime, but she was not ready yet – she just left it in the boxes and put it out to store.

  The parlour (if the tiny front room deserved the name) looked a little better with some photographs and embroidery on the walls, Effie’s pretty antimacassars on the chairs, and the mantle clock that Pa had given them installed above the fire – though that had not been lit. That chimney too needed the attentions of a sweep. The third tiny bedroom, which to start with had a truckle bed in it, had become what Amy grandly called ‘the writing room’. Effie had moved the truckle to underneath her own bed in the room next door, pushed the chair and washstand table into the space this left behind – underneath the window where it got the light – and filled the two sloping shelves with her books and sewing things. The whole house felt a lot less crowded suddenly.

  The Sunday visit was a great success. It was mostly conducted in Effie’s crowded middle room, because of the problems with the parlour fire, but Pa and Jillian both declared An Dyji – and the rosehip pudding, too – to be ‘simply wonderful – and in no time ’t all!’.

  After that Amy was finally induced to take her half-day off, though she insisted on keeping on her uniform – Effie’s old one, duly taken in to fit. That had been the first achievement of the ‘writing room’ – and Amy was so delighted that she wouldn’t take it off (though she had consented to remove the apron and the cap before she went).

  ‘Want to show it off to Mother,’ she declared, twirling to display it as she brought in Effie’s lunch. But, though the garment had been partially unpicked and all the darts resewn, to Effie’s eyes it still didn’t look quite right – there was too much fullness in the cut for Amy’s skinny form.

  ‘It will do,’ she said to Amy, who was now itching to be off. ‘But that material is faded and the alterations show. Next time I go into Penzance I’ll try and get some more and we’ll make you a uniform of your very own – supposing there’s the gingham to be had.’

  Amy put down the basket she was carrying (rosehips, for her mother) and gave a little cry. ‘Oh, madam. I like this one.’

  Effie smiled. ‘You’ll want another one in any case while this is in the wash. No steam laundry out here that we can send it to, to get it clean and ready while you have your free half-day! Now!’ She spread a little of Jillian’s pre-war bramble jam onto her National bread (no butter – that was almost impossib
le to get!) ‘You hurry off, or you won’t catch your bus. I’ll see you this evening.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll be back to make your tea. You’ll be all right, while I’m gone – out here all on your own?’ She was enjoying her new responsibilities so much, sometimes she seemed to think she was not a servant, but a sort of mother hen.

  Effie managed to suppress a smile. ‘Perfectly, thank you. There are letters I must answer, and I’ve a book to read.’ It was a treat she was promising herself. There was a story about sisters, called Pride and Prejudice which Alex (knowing how she loved to read) had sent her as a Christmas gift the year he went away. She had begun it, and liked it very much – but she had not read a word of it since she got that telegram. But she had come across it, in the move, and told herself that – as with everything else – it was time to start again.

  But she had hardly settled in the ‘writing room’, with a comfy cushion at her back and her feet on an embroidered footstool from downstairs, when – through the window – she saw a horse and cart draw up outside. This room did not directly overlook the road, so she could not see the person who got out – from this angle they were hidden by the hedge – but it was clearly someone coming to the house. And a woman – she was almost certain she had glimpsed a skirt.

  Effie was puzzled for a moment. Who’d be calling here? The landlord’s wife perhaps? She craned a little further, but she couldn’t see, and the visitor by this time was knocking at the door. Effie sighed, put her book away and went to answer it.

  There was a young woman on the doorstep whom she did not recognize. ‘Is Mrs Dawes at home?’

  The question was so bald that it was almost rude – not even a conventional ‘good afternoon’! Effie was about to make some curt reply, but there was something about the woman that made her think again. Thin to the point of skinniness and very plainly dressed, with pale cheeks, a drawn expression and a pair of anguished eyes – yet oddly familiar, she could not think why. ‘Should I know you?’ she heard herself enquire.