The Land Endures (The Apple Tree Saga Book 4)

by Mary E. Pearce

  He did not have a great deal of time for thought, but Betony had a place in his mind, and her presence there, constantly, was like a gentle kind of warmth: pleasurable, but as yet unexplored; so that now and then he would say to himself: ‘Yes, oh yes, I know you’re there. But do you know you’re in my mind and would you care twopence if you did?’

  One Saturday morning when the weather was bad and there was a lull in the work of the farm, he walked out to the carpenter’s shop to pay for the repairs that had been done on Morton George’s cottage. He spent twenty minutes with Jesse and Dicky, chatting with them about this and that, and when he left he stood for a while at the workshop gate, gazing across at the old house. Had he come in the hope of seeing her? No, not really, he told himself. Yet he went away home feeling disappointed.

  ‘You should have called if you felt like that,’ said a scoffing voice at the back of his mind. ‘No, I haven’t had time to decide how I feel,’ said another, more cautious, voice in reply.

  Purely by chance, Betony had seen him from her bedroom window, where she sat with her portable desk on her lap, writing a letter to Nancy Sposs. She had seen him looking up at the house; she had even begun to rise from her chair, thinking that she would go down to him; but then he had suddenly turned away, and she had gone back to writing her letter.

  Later that day, between the showers, she thought she would venture out to the post. Her father was just coming in from the fold.

  ‘Mr Wayman was here earlier on. He paid for the work we done on that cottage.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him,’ Betony said.

  ‘He seems a nice gentleman,’ Jesse said. ‘He pays his bills on the nail, anyway, and there ent so many that does that these days.’ He noticed the letter in her hand. ‘Have you decided, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve written to Nancy to say I want the job.’

  ‘Gadding about again?’ he said. ‘I thought last time you was home for good.’

  Betony laughed. What nonsense he talked!

  ‘It’s nearly eleven years,’ she said, ‘since I went away from home before.’

  ‘Is it, by golly?’ Jesse said. ‘Don’t the years go flying by?’

  ‘Yes, they go much too fast,’ Betony said.

  She went out to the village to post her letter.

  Afterwards she called on the vicar to say that she was resigning her post as mistress-in-charge of the village school. He was much incensed.

  ‘May I ask why you wish to leave?’

  ‘I’ve decided it’s time I had a change.’

  ‘Well, really, Miss Izzard, I am surprised! Why, only last year, let me remind you, when we had that disgraceful incident at the school, you came very close to losing your job. You were far from happy at the prospect of leaving then.’

  ‘That was nearly a year ago,’ Betony said, ‘and being dismissed is a different thing from deciding to resign for personal reasons.’

  ‘Very different indeed! And in view of the managers’ lenience on that occasion, I consider it most ungrateful of you to throw our kindness back at us, after such a short interval.’

  ‘Must I stay at the school for ever, then, to pay off my debt of gratitude?’

  ‘Oh, you’re perfectly within your rights, Miss Izzard, I don’t dispute that. But I’m bound to admit that I am extremely disappointed in you and I’m sure the other managers will feel the same. You would almost certainly have been dismissed if it hadn’t been for Mr Wayman speaking so strongly in your defence. Why, he even threatened to resign from the board, and he went to a great deal of trouble on your behalf, persuading the other managers that you should be allowed to stay.’

  ‘Did he do that? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Had he known then that in less than a year you would be resigning your post so capriciously, I doubt if he would have been so zealous on your behalf.’

  ‘No, perhaps not,’ Betony said.

  ‘You realize that your notice should have been given in before the beginning of term?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry about the delay, but it should be easy enough to find a replacement, I think. Teachers are two a penny these days.’

  ‘I don’t know what the Education Secretary will say about this, but speaking for myself and the managers, Miss Izzard, I am extremely displeased and disappointed.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Betony said.

  She had heard nothing of Linn and Jack and little Robert; no letter had come, telling her of their address; so she drove in the trap to Springs one day in the hope of finding out where they lived. She enquired at the Scopton council offices but no one could tell her anything. A man named Mercybright had been employed by them for a while, sweeping the roads, but now he had left and nobody knew where he had gone. Betony returned home, feeling depressed. She thought of Linn and the little boy, shunted about from place to place, and she feared she would never see them again. She felt she had failed them in their time of need.

  On nearing Huntlip, she decided to call at Holland Farm. She had a duty to fulfil, and it had been weighing on her mind. Today she felt a certain detachment; nothing seemed to matter much; she was facing up to the prospect of change. When she drove into the farmyard, Stephen came out of the barn to her. He was dressed in his shabby working-clothes and the pony, knowing him at once, nuzzled the string that tied his jacket. He gave her a handful of cow-cake and stroked her nose.

  ‘Your pony regards me as a friend.’

  ‘Mr Wayman,’ Betony said. ‘It appears that when the school board came close to dismissing me last autumn, you were responsible for changing their minds. I didn’t know till a week ago. The vicar happened to mention it.’

  ‘The managers’ threat was ridiculous. I’m sure they’d have realized that themselves. But, seeing that my son was one of those who caused the trouble, whatever I did was little enough.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you all the same.’

  ‘Did you come especially? It was kind of you to take the trouble. But I’ve earnt no thanks, I assure you.’

  ‘There is one other thing,’ she said. ‘I wanted to tell you ‒ the news will be pretty general soon ‒ that I’m leaving Huntlip at the end of the term.’

  ‘Leaving?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m giving up teaching, at least for a while. A friend has offered me a job, helping the Women’s Socialist Group, and I have decided to accept.’

  Stephen stared at her, feeling afraid. Her news had hit him like a blow and the shock of it, coming so casually, had told him something about himself. It had woken him out of a timeless dream.

  ‘But you can’t!’ he said in a harsh voice, and they stared at each other, silent, shocked.

  He had given himself away completely. He knew it and he no longer cared. Betony sat, very straight and still. His expression and tone had shaken her, and she found herself unable to speak. He saw the confusion in her face, and it brought him some degree of calm. He went to her and put up his hands.

  ‘For God’s sake get down from there!’ he said. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

  He helped her down out of the trap, and they walked together across the yard. He opened a gate and they passed through, into a narrow grass-grown lane, lined on each side with sycamores. It was not raining that morning, but the trees dripped moisture onto them, and they had to walk carefully, skirting the puddles.

  ‘What are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I know what you mean.’

  ‘Dropping by so casually! “Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot! ‒ I’m going away in a couple of months!” And where to, I should like to know? ‒ The end of the world?’

  ‘Only to Birmingham, actually.’

  ‘Don’t joke with me! I’m not in the mood. As a matter of fact I’m seething mad.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you are,’ she said.

  ‘Can you?’ he said, his voice still harsh. ‘Then no doubt you can see something else? I’ve given myself away plainly enough!’

&
nbsp; He came to a halt, confronting her. He knew they were hidden from the house. Betony met his accusing gaze. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘And what do you see?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Then you must be a fool, that’s all I can say!’

  The way he looked at her held her fast. It frightened her, yet she wanted him.

  ‘Stephen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have only to ask.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m asking, aren’t I?’ he said, and took her angrily into his arms, holding her in a burning stillness, a terrible weakness in his flesh as he thought how easily he might have lost her. He hid his face against her hair. ‘I’m the one that’s a fool,’ he said.

  So much for those calm deliberations of his! He might just consider marrying her or he might just put her out of his mind … As though he had had any real choice in the matter! His body had known better than he, and now it ached against her unbearably, recognizing that she was his. His eyes had known, ages ago, dwelling on her as they had done at every opportunity; taking pleasure in her looks. His hands had known, certainly, and had found excuses for touching her. Only his mind had held aloof and even that had yielded now. Capitulation was complete.

  After a moment he looked at her. Being in love at thirty-nine was not so very different, he found, from being in love at twenty-two. He wanted assurance. He wanted some pledge.

  ‘Do you love me, Betony?’

  ‘I think I do,’ Betony said.

  ‘Only think? Aren’t you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I love you. Are you satisfied?’

  But there was no answering smile from him, and when he kissed her she understood why: his longing for her was too intense: although he had only now yielded to it, his surrender was swift, free of doubts, complete. And, being a man and unreasonable, he demanded the same surrender from her. She had much to learn of what it meant to be loved and desired. His lips gave her warning of what to expect and she was almost overwhelmed. She withdrew a little, breathlessly, and looked at him, touching his face. They walked together along the lane, and the sycamores dripped on either side, splashing into the dark puddles.

  It was a strange thing, this relationship between a man and a woman. They could circle around each other in thought, each aware of the other’s interest, sometimes admitting it in a glance; sometimes even going so far as to laugh together in a certain way. But, being unspoken, lacking a sign, it could all be erased in the fraction of a second. Each or both could decide to draw back: the glance would grow cool, the laughter be withheld; and that would be the end of it. But perhaps, instead, came the overt sign: the word was spoken and the secret out; and once this had happened, it could not be recalled. There was a sense of inevitableness in it. Every glance and every word became charged with significance, and when the two people touched each other, there was a new confession in each caress.

  ‘Betony.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re certainly not going to Birmingham.’

  ‘Aren’t I? No. Perhaps I’m not.’

  She was almost twenty-nine. She was used to making her own decisions. Could she give herself up to this man? Once again their glances held. The choice was not hers, any more than his. They had need of each other, in their bones.

  One of the first things Betony did was to send a telegram to Nancy Sposs: ‘Sorry. Changed my mind. Getting married instead.’ And back by return came Nancy’s reply: ‘Treachery! But good luck all the same!’

  Betony’s family were well pleased, especially her father. ‘You’ll be staying in Huntlip after all.’ And Janie, her sister, somehow managed to take the credit for it all.

  ‘That you should marry a farmer too! I must have talked some sense into you!’

  Her mother said little, but welcomed Stephen into the house by reaching up and kissing his cheek, a thing which he took to be natural in her but which Betony found astonishing. Dicky was pleased, but had a little worry, too, which he divulged to her in private.

  ‘Four kids you’re taking on! Have you thought what that’ll be like?’ he said.

  ‘I daresay I’ll manage,’ Betony said.

  Stephen’s children were filled with dismay when first he broke the news to them. They stared at him in numbed silence. But then Joanna, who prided herself on her quick perception, said: ‘I knew there was something in the wind!’ and somehow the ice was broken with them all.

  ‘I knew it too!’ Jamesy claimed.

  ‘So did I,’ Emma said.

  ‘I’m hanged if I did!’ Chris said, and there was a bleak, precarious moment when he hung between anger, disapproval, and disbelief, all of which could be seen in his face. ‘I’m hanged if I did!’ he said again.

  ‘Well, now that you do know,’ Stephen said, ‘I’m hoping you will give me your blessing and wish me well.’

  He made it clear to his eldest son that the blessing was very important to him, and when he offered Chris his hand, the boy remembered that he was a man. The difficult moment passed away.

  ‘I do wish you well! I wish you all the luck in the world!’ He clasped Stephen’s hand with a son’s loyal warmth. ‘Both of you! I should think I just do!’

  When Betony met the children for the first time after they had heard the news, there was shyness on both sides. But Joanna, who was nearly fifteen, had been reading a great many books lately, and she knew the mature way to behave. It was her duty to make Betony feel at ease, and, encouraged by Aunt Doe, she made herself spokesman for the rest.

  ‘The main thing as far as we are concerned is that you should make our father happy.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ Betony said.

  ‘It’s a great comfort to all of us, to know that when we begin leaving home, Dad will not be left alone.’

  ‘I hope that won’t be for a long while yet. I’d like a chance to get to know you first.’

  ‘Well! I’m the clever one of the family!’ Jamesy declared, and in the laughter that greeted this sally, there was an easing of constraint.

  ‘Will you still be my teacher?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Only till Easter,’ Betony said. ‘Then, when your daddy and I are married, I shall be your stepmother instead.’

  ‘Will you be coming to live with us?’

  ‘Of course she will, silly!’ Jamesy said. ‘What did you think?’

  Emma fell silent, and while her sister and two brothers vied with each other for Betony’s attention, she wandered out to the garden alone. At tea-time, when Betony took her place at the table, there was a marigold on her plate, and Emma, slipping into the chair opposite, was watching her with steady eyes.

  ‘My favourite flower,’ Betony said. She took it and held it to her nose. ‘How did you know it was my favourite flower?’

  Emma merely looked away, almost as though she hadn’t heard. She reached for a piece of bread and butter and was scolded for it by Aunt Doe.

  ‘Visitors first, Emma. You know that.’

  Chris offered the plate to Betony, and Jamesy passed her a dish of jam. Stephen, in his place at the head of the table, watched with relief and some amusement as his children put themselves out to please. Once he met Betony’s glance, and a smile passed between them, out of their eyes. ‘My God! I do love her most damnably!’ he thought, and looked away hastily for fear of betraying his feelings too much, under the watchful eyes of his children.

  Joanna was talking about the wedding. She was already picturing it, at the church, with herself and Emma as bridesmaids.

  ‘It’s a long time to wait, until Easter, isn’t it?’

  ‘The time will soon pass,’ said Aunt Doe.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They were married on Easter Monday and spent their honeymoon in Wales. When they returned to Holland Farm Aunt Doe, true to her word, took herself off bag and baggage to the cottage she had bought in Holland Lane.

  ‘We shall be better friends this way,’ she said to Betony. ‘The children are your responsibil
ity now. You don’t want a watcher in the house.’

  But always, during the busy times on the farm, or when some domestic crisis occurred, she would come without fail, rattling into the yard on her old ramshackle bicycle, scattering the poultry in all directions and shouting at them in Hindustani.

  ‘Here comes Aunt Doe!’ Chris would say. ‘Trying to see how many chickens she can run over before she gets to the back door!’

  At shearing-time she would be there, helping to prepare the shearing-feast; at harvest-time she would be there, working tirelessly in the fields; and always, on any family occasion, she would come to lunch or tea and join in the family celebration. When Chris won first prize in a ploughing-match; when Joanna was made head girl of her school; when Jamesy’s design for a village hall was accepted by the Huntlip parish council, earning him the sum of twenty guineas; when Emma had a poem called ‘Autumn Leaves’ published in The Chepsworth Gazette: these were landmarks in their lives, and the celebration was not complete until Aunt Doe was in the house, to add her word of encouragement and praise. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, brought her to them laden with gifts, bought as always at church bazaars and rummage sales.

  She enjoyed having a home of her own. She called her cottage ‘Ranjiloor’. It stood next to that of her old enemy, the retired schoolmaster, Mr Quelch, and she delighted in vexing him. Her garden was full of docks and nettles, tall purple thistles and willow-herb, and the seeds, floating into his well-kept plot, would bring him storming to the hedge.

  ‘I will not get rid of my nettles! ‒ The butterflies like them!’ Aunt Doe said. ‘As for the thistles and willow-herb, did you ever see anything so beautiful?’

  ‘Wretched woman!’ the old man would say. ‘You only came to live here to be a plague to me!’

  Although her garden was a wilderness ‒ she had sown the willow-herb there herself ‒ she was able to grow all sorts of things merely by clearing a small space and sticking a cutting in the ground.