I call upon the powers of right,
I speak to that which was old when time was born.
I stand before you in humility,
Bless and consecrate me in courage and in strength,
Give power to my words,
Lend wisdom to my mind.
With the final word it seemed the shadows rustled against the walls, darkness moving beyond the reach of the lamp. Would the powers he called upon answer him as they had answered his grandmother, or would they strike him down? Questions could be asked for ever… only actions determined results. Glancing once into the thick gloom circling the edge of the lamp glow he breathed deeply then, his movements slow, began the task no other he knew of could perform.
Taking a slip of paper on which he had written Anne’s name he placed it in the centre of the table. Something the girl had owned or even touched would have been more powerful but he had nothing of that. Rapidly as shaking hands permitted, he took the seven white candles selected from the cupboard, setting them in a circle about the slip of paper. Pausing a moment he stared at the rest of what he had brought to the table and in that moment the darkness seemed to live, to move towards him. Corbett Foley’s spine tingled; there was more in this room than shadows! The challenge had been sensed, the pendant was lost but the evil of it was here all around him.
The request for blessing running silent in his mind he lit each candle and as the flame of the seventh one flared into life he extinguished the lamp then drew back the windows’ heavy velvet drapes.
Glorious in its fullness the moon filled the room with an ethereal beauty, spilling light over the table, etching the candles’ golden flames with an aura of shimmering silver, bathing the table and its contents in liquid light. Around the room the glistening purity of moonlight fought shadows which retreated at its touch and Corbett smiled. The ancient powers were with him, yet still he must work against time.
Taking up a small, silver hafted knife he held it first to the beam of light streaming in the window then sliced a small piece from a sprig of oak, placing it in a shallow pottery bowl, repeating the process with a twig of hawthorn. That done, he lifted both hands to the moonlight and whispered softly.
Thy strength to my strength,
Thy powers to my power, I call upon thee.
Spirit of Oak thy strength impart,
Spirit of Hawthorn protection lend,
Sandalwood, Myrrh and Cinnamon oil
Join thy powers to evil despoil.
Lifting the bowl he held it towards the window. Around him darkness muttered its threat and he knew he must be quick. Taking a breath to steady his nerves he went on.
Spirit of light I call thee,
Spirit of air I call thee.
Above the bowl a cloud of crystal light hovered then, soundless and breathless in its beauty, fractured into a myriad dancing rainbows. Glancing at the slip of paper at the heart of the ring of lit candles he took a spill and held it to each flame before dropping it into the bowl.
Waiting while the contents burned he dipped a finger into the ash, drawing a ring around the candles, then, standing with palms uplifted towards the silvered windows, intoned quietly.
Light which banishes darkness
Circle without end and with no beginning,
Fuse thy powers, bind thy protection
About Anne Corby, banish all evil from her.
For several seconds all was as it was and then as his ears filled with silent music he watched the moonbeams draw together into a brilliant shaft, falling in a silver column over the ring of candles.
It was his answer. Anne Corby would be protected. A sigh of gratitude rising to his lips. Sir Corbett Foley turned to leave and as he did so a cloud across the moon stole the silver light and the shadows strengthened. From each corner a rustling murmured its breath, playing over the spearpoints of candle flames and Corbett froze into stillness. He had made one mistake. He had asked protection for Anne Corby while requesting none for himself. Stingingly aware of his own danger he turned back to the table and in that moment saw the cloud of dark shadow leap to the table, felt the fingers of blackness close about his throat, the breath of death fan his face.
The sigh still on his lips, Corbett Foley fell across the burning candles.
20
It had been nigh on a year since they had laid that tiny body to rest, months in which Anne Corby had spoken barely a word. Her stitching of a girth strap finished, Unity laid it aside, stretching her back as she got stiffly to her feet. The girl did all that was asked of her, skiving leather to the exact thickness wanted, stitching neat and even any piece given her to work; she learned quickly, giving no cause for complaint but her heart was not with her hands, that was ever beside that tiny grave. It was to be expected that a mother grieve for her child, she had done it herself, but it could not be allowed to exclude all else. Anne Corby had to live life not whisper at its side like a shadow. The healing must start but it would not begin until the wound of sorrow was opened.
Smoothing her apron in an automatic gesture Unity drew in a determined breath. No one would do it if she didn’t. Her boots sounding on the well scrubbed wooden stairs she pushed away the fears of rebuff. The girl might well choose to throw her concerns back in her face but at least that would be a change from silence.
The door to the room that had once been shared by her own sons stood open. Pausing at the threshold Unity’s determination faltered at sight of a thin, black clad figure standing beside the chest, one hand caressing a partly opened drawer.
Was she doing the right thing? Unity heard the stifled sob. Would what she hoped be what was achieved or would Anne Corby refuse the hand held out to her… could she. Unity Hurley, risk losing yet one more of the folk she loved? But Unity Hurley was not the only one she must think of.
‘Anne,’ she spoke, giving her mind no time to change itself, ‘there’s something needs to be said and none as’ll do the saying of it but me. The child be gone and though it be right you should mourn, it don’t be right you should shut yourself off from everything excepting your work; you have to live, wench.’
Anne turned. Eyes glistening with tears fastened on Unity. ‘Why… why should I be allowed life when it was my failing to love my son brought him to his grave? It should be me lies in that churchyard.’
The words caught at Unity’s heart but she thrust the pain of them aside. She had to be strong.
‘Stop that!’ she snapped. ‘You’ve wallowed in the bath of self-pity long enough and now it’s time to climb out. You don’t be the only mother to lose a son. Just look around you as you walks to and from the leather works, see the women with heads bowed, see the tears which streak their faces, hear the sobs they can’t hold back! Theirs be a grief equal to your own and one to equal mine, for like me they bear the sorrow brought of not knowing where their sons lie. War be a terrible thing, it snatches the lives of men and leaves women to cry. But though they cries they have the courage to live for the sake of others, a courage Jacob Corby’s daughter should have.’
Pausing for breath she watched the pale face crumple, hands lift to hide tears. It was cruel to speak to the wench like this but cruelty must sometimes be the tool of kindness.
‘It be time to lay aside selfishness,’ she went on, her voice hard, ‘consider others and not just yourself! This war we was told would last no more than a couple of months, be nowhere near its ending and there’ll be more mothers and wives yet to add to the river of tears flooding this land. Be you satisfied to watch that happen while you shirks your responsibilities? Be that all folk means to you!’
*
Anger at herself for speaking to Anne as she had rippled afresh in Unity as she entered the living room but this time it was anger born of a different cause. It was anger born of fear, a fear so awful it had left her trembling. Laban had held the newspaper for her to see a banner of a headline pronouncing ‘Britain at War with Germany’. She had felt the world, her world, tremble around her; once a
gain young men would be called upon to give their lives… but it wasn’t only the fighting which killed, long hours of endless labour killed men too. But what did the Kaiser care about that? What did any of them leaders care, they slept easy in their beds at night while men like her sons and husband…
Choking on that memory of a year ago she glanced at Laban. He had worked a full twelve hours at the leather works and now sat working still by the light of the lamp, the strain of the long hours showing on his tired face; and now there was this to add to his burden, Abel’s leaving the firm! Was it because of Anne Corby he was going? She had seen the feelings in the lad’s lace, feelings he carried for that wench, asking after her when in those early days following the burying of the child she, Unity, had taken and fetched leather work; she had seen his eyes cloud over at hearing the wench were no better.
Turning to the fire she busied herself with the kettle, hiding concern she could not altogether dismiss. Abel Preston had always had a soft spot for the little wench along of Butcroft House, playing with her on them outings took by the Sunday school. The kettle held in her hands, Unity allowed her mind to travel back to days long gone. Matthew and Luke had declared themselves ‘too old now for babbies’ trips’ but she had gone along, enjoying the rides on farm wagons, joining in the children’s songs. It was on those outings she had watched young Abel point out flowers to a wench who stood no higher than his waist, heard his patient answers to a thousand and one questions, never being too ‘grown up’ to spend time with her. But now they were both grown up and the look which sprang to his face whenever he talked of her could not be labelled childish interest. Abel Preston felt deeply for the daughter of Jacob Corby but they were feelings it would do no good to hold, ones which boded naught but heartbreak. Despite all the wench had said, the property of her father still belonged to her and a woman of property didn’t go weddin’ herself to a saddle maker.
‘Be the wench alright?’
Laban’s words winging her back to the present, Unity scalded water over tea leaves ready in the pot, her sharp answer the result of worry.
‘It be yeself you should be asking that of! How long will you be alright when left to work the leather on your own, how do you expect to manage if Abel goes?’
‘That don’t mean we have the right to ask him to change his mind; the lad must follow after what his heart tells him be the thing to do.’
‘We said that once afore!’ Unity’s answer burst out. ‘We said that when Matthew and Luke told they wanted to join up… they fought for Queen and country and what did it get them? Six feet of earth in a land we’ll never see! And that’s what it’ll get Abel Preston.’
‘Maybe it will.’ Laban nodded, marking out a piece of pigskin for tomorrow’s cutting. ‘But that be his choosing. He’s a man full grown and his own master, t’ain’t like he has kin to worry over.’
‘No, he has no kin but that ain’t to say he don’t have them that love him… the lad has been like a son to both of us ever since his coming into the leather.’
Abel Preston had been like a son. Laban laid the pigskin aside, taking another of the carefully selected pieces and beginning to mark the outlines of a saddle seat. He had been given all the skills taught to Matthew and to Luke, now he must be afforded that same freedom and no ties of friendship must be called upon to bind him.
‘There be plenty others have gone.’ Unity banged cups on the table, distress and anxiety jerking her movements. ‘You need only look at the streets, there don’t be hardly a face over fifteen or under fifty.’
It was an exaggeration. Laban continued marking the pattern. But the absence of young men was obvious, leaving not only the streets but the town’s workplaces almost empty. They had answered Lord Kitchener’s appeal for his ‘New Armies’, volunteered in their hundreds to fight this war with Germany, but how many of those hundreds would live to see their homes again?
‘And who be going to make the things them lads be needing to fight with?’ Cup in hand, Unity glanced again at her husband. ‘Who be going to make guns and the bullets needed to go with them… who will mek the saddles and harness you y’self says the army have ordered by the thousands, and that without all the other necessaries! I says them government ministers should ought to think straight, but then that be like asking for the moon… it ain’t never like to happen!’
‘I shall make the guns and the bullets.’
Surprised by the quietness of the words Unity and Laban glanced to where Anne stood framed in the doorway which gave on to the stairs. She never should have done it… should never have spoken so harsh. Unity’s worry for Anne returned. It had done naught for the wench but unbalance her further.
‘Anne, wench,’ she spoke gently, ‘I be sorry I spoke to you as I did—’
‘But I am not!’ Anne’s voice was steady. ‘It was what was needed, the time for selfishness is, as you rightly said, ended, as is the time for evasions. Tomorrow I take on my responsibilities. Here—’ she held out the papers given her by Sir Corbett Foley ‘— is all I need to claim what is mine; that is what I shall do.’
‘You mean you’ll take—’
‘I mean I shall claim all that was my father’s, it will be put to the fighting of this war. Were Sir Corbett still living I would ask his help and advice but since that is not possible…’ She tailed off, leaving the thought. Were he still living! Horrors which had plagued her mind since the announcement of the man’s passing rushed in on Anne. Was it that thing she had carried to Bentley Grange had somehow caused the death of her parents’ friend? Was it responsible too for the war the country was now bound up in?
… with that package goes the peace of nations…
It rang like a bell in her brain. First Russia and Germany, now France and Britain, how many more nations before the evil of it was played out? How many more lives would it claim?
‘Take care, wench,’ Laban said quietly, ‘Clara Mather be a force to be reckoned with, her’ll not loose the reins willingly.’
‘Then her fingers will be rapped and so will those of any other who stands in my way.’
‘Words be all well and good but that woman be sharp as a blade and can stab as deep.’ Unity glanced to Laban, letting anxiety show in her eyes. ‘A young wench be no match for her.’
‘Unity is right in her words.’ Laban spoke again. ‘If it be you means as you says, Anne, and your eyes tell me that be so, then I’ll go along at your side.’
Stepping further into the sitting room Anne shook her head. ‘Not to Butcroft House, that I must do alone, but I will need you both by my side in all I do next; I shall need the skills of your hands and the love of your hearts. Will you give me that, will you help me rebuild my life?’
Unity swallowed the lump risen in her throat. ‘You have no need of asking that, wench, Laban and me look on you as our own and won’t never see you struggle so long as it be in our power to help.’
‘Then help me now.’ Anne spread the papers on the table. ‘Show me how best to use what my mother left to me.’
*
She had been refused. Clara Mather read again the letter with its official heading. ‘It is regretted,’ the words screamed up at her from the page, ‘but given the severity of the present situation every able bodied man is required to serve in the armed forces. No exception can be made.’
No exception can be made! Clara stared at the cold black print. She had written to the War Office stating that Quenton was needed to run the ironworks, that without him to supervise the making of iron and steel the works would close and the war effort be deprived of a much needed asset, and this… this had been her answer. Quenton had been conscripted, taken into the army despite her threat.
No exception can be made… she read the words again, letting her eyes follow the rest: ‘In the event of possible closure of Glebe Metalworks a replacement manager will be appointed.’
A replacement manager! Clara threw the letter to the floor. Not while she held those works. A month ago
she had received that notification, a month in which she had shut down that factory, sacking every man left to work in it; and it would remain shut, no more metal would be produced there no matter should the government send a hundred replacement managers! And men like Laban Hurley… he had come protesting that without lorinery he could not complete orders for harness, that without strap buckles, snaffle bits, spurs, stirrups and the many other pieces of metal furniture the leather industry called for he would go out of business. So let him! Clara’s thin mouth clamped. Without business he would be unable to give Jacob Corby’s daughter lodging, and no other home in Darlaston could carry a mouth which couldn’t feed itself. Maybe then the girl would leave… there may yet be no need for the wolfsbane hidden in her bag.
‘Letter for ya, mum.’
Clara snatched at the envelope, not looking at it until the daily woman was gone from the room.
The handwriting was precise and neat but it was the cipher in one corner held her gaze. The War Office. Clara’s fingers tightened. The War Office… was this a letter to say they had appointed their replacement manager?
‘Tearing open the heavy cream parchment envelope and extracting the single sheet of paper her eyes glued themselves to the imprint of a badge at its head… the military insignia of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. Quenton’s regiment. A coldness creeping into her stomach she scanned the same neat hand, then, unbelieving, scanned it through again.
‘Dear Madam,’ she read, ‘It is with regret I must inform you of the injury sustained by your son, private Quenton Mather, during action on the Somme. Private Mather will shortly be repatriated for recuperation in Britain.’
It was signed with a scrawl almost impossible to read but that was of no consequence. Quenton, her son, was injured… her son was probably crippled for life! His application for exemption from compulsory military service on the grounds of essential war work had been rejected whilst the likes of Abel Preston had been deemed as engaged in too vital a production. Leather, pah! Anger clawed again. How could saddles be more important… why her son and not Preston!
Heritage of Shame Page 20
