Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  She was rewarded by seeing Marie’s peaked face light up and even grim David looked relieved for, more than his sister, he had been aware of the shadow of the workhouse hanging over them.

  Suddenly Martha’s conscience seemed to strike her and she turned back from the window to say, ‘If you’re going to find it hard feeding them, I could give you some money for their upkeep.’

  Tibbie glared at her. ‘I have more than enough money to feed two children. My son-in-law Tim Maquire, the ex-navvy you know, is very generous to me. He sends me more money than I need. It’ll be good to have something to spend it on. Come on now David, come on Marie, let’s be off.’

  Martha thought of something else to say before they left. ‘We’re burying Nanny tomorrow.’

  Tibbie paused. ‘What time?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock in the abbey burial ground.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ said Tibbie.

  It was one and a half miles from the little town of Rosewell to Tibbie’s home in the village of Camptounfoot and the easiest way was by a narrow path that snaked beneath tall beech trees along the face of a small hill overlooking the river. Tradition had it that the monks who built Rosewell Abbey made the path which still went by the name of the Prior’s Walk.

  The sorrowing trio went in single file over its stony surface, all of them sunk in private thoughts. Tibbie, who led the party, was a stout little body with pink cheeks and sparkling brown eyes that made her look like the sort of cheeky little robin that haunts cottage gardens and, from time to time, makes so bold as to hop into the house itself. Her still smooth-skinned face had a girlish quality, belied by the wisps of grey curls that escaped beneath the frilled edges of the demure cap she wore to signify her widowed state. She was completely unaware that the sight of her could still make old men’s hearts beat a little faster, because she had been the prettiest girl in the district and there were many disappointed suitors when she walked up the aisle with Alex Mather, a skilled stonemason who was ten years her senior.

  He died when their daughter Hannah was still a child and she had feasted emotionally on his memory since then. There was never another man like Alex as far as she was concerned. Not even when Craigie Scott, a rich farmer and the most important man in Camptounfoot, came courting her would she contemplate leaving her widowed state.

  Oblivious to carnal passion, but full of love for her daughter and her friends, she sailed serenely through life. Even the devastating blow of Hannah’s death had not soured her essentially optimistic and loving nature.

  From time to time she looked back over her shoulder at her two companions. The sight of their woebegone faces saddened her and made her forget her own misgivings at saddling herself with two young people at a time of life when she was beginning to appreciate living alone.

  ‘It’s not much farther,’ she said consolingly to Marie, and the girl nodded but did not speak. There were dark purple circles beneath her eyes and her skin was waxen-white. Tibbie remembered with disquiet how ghastly the girl’s mother used to look and that her father had died of galloping consumption.

  ‘Are you all right, lass?’ she asked and Marie nodded as she said politely, ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Mather.’

  Nanny had brought her up well and she was trying to hide from the kind woman who had rescued them from the workhouse that she was in a state of emotional turmoil. Everything had happened so fast. She could not get used to the idea that dear Nanny was really dead and that within hours she and her brother had been thrown out of the only home she could ever remember. Tears pricked her eyes, but she did not shed them for she felt it was important to put on a brave front.

  It was not as if Mrs Mather was a stranger. Marie knew her well because she had been Nanny’s closest friend, the one who came every Wednesday night to play cards and to gossip. On Sunday afternoons Nanny had always walked with the children to Camptounfoot to visit Tibbie, so her cottage was familiar as well, but Marie had never, as far as she could remember, spent a night in any house other than Nanny’s and she was terrified of change, totally thrown off balance by the upheaval.

  Her life had been very sheltered. She had not even gone to a proper school, for she learned her lessons at the dame school in Nanny’s parlour. There were never more than four or five pupils at a time and they had all been biddable, polite children like Marie herself. David had gone to Rosewell school but Marie had always stayed at home and the outside world seemed like a dangerous jungle to the timorous girl.

  Will I have to go to school in Camptounfoot? she was wondering as she walked along. What will it be like? If David went to school with her, she would feel safe but something told her that her brother had other plans. Though it was only a short time since Nanny’s death, he had changed. Overnight he seemed to have grown up. She felt she did not know him any longer and that frightened her too.

  To reassure herself she glanced back at him bringing up the rear of their little party. Poor David, he looked so sad, with his hands thrust into his pockets and his head sunk on his chest. His sister longed to comfort him but something held her back, for there was a look of suppressed rage in his expression that warned her he might thrust away her advances. He could be very impatient sometimes, treating her as if she was stupid and unable to comprehend his thoughts.

  He’d been particularly close to Nanny and they used to enjoy sitting together in the parlour after Marie went to bed, talking about books and things they’d read in the newspaper. Oh poor David, thought his sister. Her awareness of his sorrow made her own grief even more acute.

  What she did not realise was that, as well as being sad, David was angry. Resentment raged like fire inside him, first of all at God because he had taken Nanny away and then at Martha who had cruelly rejected him and his sister, throwing them out of their home like unwanted rubbish. He suspected he had been cheated but had no way of proving it, for Nanny had left no will and what she had written in her letter to Martha would, he knew, never be revealed. Her letter to him, which he read by candlelight before going to sleep, dealt with matters other than inheritance.

  David was used to being scorned. He had grown up in the knowledge that he was a foundling, perhaps even a bastard, left behind by the navvy gang. The jeers of his fellow pupils at Rosewell school had thickened his skin and stiffened his resolve to beat them in every way possible, so he became a better scholar than any of them; a faster runner; a swifter skater on the frozen pond in winter. He was afire with urgent ambition to prove himself.

  As she walked the familiar path to Camptounfoot, Tibbie was thinking how much she had grown to enjoy her privacy in the silent cottage that she shared with her cat and the parrot that Tim Maquire had brought back from the Crimea. Taking in Marie and David would disrupt this tranquil existence and what worried her even more was not knowing if having another girl in the house, sleeping in Hannah’s old bed, might bring back sad memories. But she had a duty to Nanny and it must be fulfilled.

  At last they reached her snug little cottage that stood by the side of the road with its front door opening straight onto the cobbles. She pushed a big iron key into the lock and ushered them inside… ‘Welcome to your new home,’ she said.

  The kitchen was dim and shadowy but cosy and comforting because before she went out, Tibbie had banked up the fire in the grate and now it was glowing red. A black japanned kettle was steaming gently on the brass hob. Drawn up on each side of the fireplace were two wooden chairs with multicoloured cushions on the seats. Bonaparte the parrot watched beadily from his big brass cage.

  ‘What a grand bird,’ David exclaimed in admiration, his face lighting up as he turned to Tibbie to ask, ‘Does it talk?’

  She giggled. ‘Yes, he does. And he swears. But a lot of it is in a funny foreign lingo… French, Tim says. He bought him in Sebastopol when he was there building the railway.’

  ‘Can you make it say something?’ the boy asked, bending close to the cage.

  Tibbie shook her head. ‘He only speaks when it suits
him. Sometimes he says nothing for days and other times he prattles on for hours.’ She was pleased that David was interested in the parrot because for the first time that day he had shed his grim look.

  But he looked solemn again very quickly as he asked, ‘Is the man who gave you the parrot the same one that was the navvy ganger on the railway line here?’

  Tibbie nodded. ‘Yes, he is. He married my daughter Hannah but she died… He’s a big contractor now. He builds bridges and tunnels all over the world.’

  ‘I hope I’ll meet him one day,’ said David.

  ‘I’m sure you will. He always comes to see me when he’s in this country. Are you interested in being a bridge-builder too?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, but I’d like to ask him about our parents.’

  Tibbie went still. ‘Of course, Tim knew your mother and your father.’

  ‘Nanny’s letter said our father was a carpenter with Mr Maquire’s navvy gang,’ said David, drawing it out of his pocket. His sister was watching with an intense concentration which told Tibbie that he’d said nothing to her about its contents.

  ‘So he was,’ she agreed.

  ‘Did you know our father?’ asked David.

  Tibbie shook her head. ‘No, but I met your mother once.’

  Both of the young people stared at her and Marie gasped, ‘Oh Mrs Mather, tell us about our mother please. I never liked to ask Nanny too much in case she thought… in case she thought I didn’t love her enough… it was difficult.’

  Tibbie gave her a sympathetic glance but turned to David and asked, ‘What did Nanny say in her letter about your parents?’

  He opened the sheet of paper. ‘She’s written down how our mother paid her to look after us when she went back to the camp after our father died. When she died too, Nanny kept us because we hadn’t any other relations. She never knew much about who we were or where we came from except that our father’s name was Benjamin and our mother was called Mariotta, so she registered us at the local census as David and Marie Benjamin, though she doesn’t know if that was our father’s first name or his surname… She thinks he was Irish. Mariotta was Irish too.’

  ‘A lot of the navvies were Irish. Tim’s Irish,’ said Tibbie softly. Her heart was full of sympathy for the solemn-faced boy, for she wondered how much more he knew of his ancestry. She doubted if he could have spent much time at Rosewell school without some lad taunting him about it. Perhaps he was testing her to discover how much she would tell him and how honest she would be.

  Marie interrupted them. ‘Do you remember what our mother looked like?’ she asked wistfully.

  Tibbie turned eagerly, perhaps too eagerly, and said, ‘Indeed I do. She was a bonny lassie with yellow hair like yours and great big blue eyes. You’re going to look very like her.’

  In fact, she had a flashback memory of Mariotta, waif-like and skeleton-thin with her bonny eyes blackened and lip split from a beating. Poor lassie, what a tragic life she had and a short one too, for she’d been dead before she was twenty-four. Tibbie also remembered the smell of gin coming from the girl on the day of their only meeting but it had been impossible to blame the poor soul for drinking because it dulled her pain.

  Mariotta’s children were intently watching her now, however, and she strove to hide these thoughts.

  ‘She was a very pretty lassie,’ she said again and hurriedly tried to remember other things to add. ‘I think she told my Hannah that she’d no family except for your father. Her own father had been a navvy working in London and he was killed there. She spoke with a nice Irish accent but she didn’t know where she’d come from or if she had any family in Ireland… It was the same with your father. He’d been born to a travelling family. And yes, there’s something else I remember about her. She was very clever with her hands. She could paint flowers beautifully. Tim bought their house after Benjy died and the bedframe and the doorjamb were all painted round with wild flowers by your mother. They looked so real you could almost have picked them.’

  This piece of information was seized on as if it were treasure. David’s voice was excited as he cried, ‘And Marie’s a good painter. She can draw and paint flowers too. Is the house still in the field where the navvy camp was?’

  Tibbie shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t. It burned down after Hannah and her wee baby died there of the cholera.’ She didn’t say that Tim, in his grief, set fire to it. That terrible time was best forgotten.

  ‘Did our father die of cholera too? It killed lots of people in the camp, I’ve heard,’ asked David.

  Tibbie shook her head. ‘No. Both of your parents were dead before it started. Your father died of consumption. Tim said he always had a bad cough.’

  When the boy did not ask what had caused the death of his mother, she knew that he’d heard the stories, but obviously his sister had not for she asked, ‘Was it consumption that killed our mother?’

  Tibbie looked at David and saw entreaty in his eyes. He did not want his sister to know about their mother’s terrible fate. It had been possible to keep it from Marie because of the semi-reclusive life she’d led with Nanny.

  Tibbie shook her head and said, ‘Not consumption. She had an accident. Her body was found up there on the hill.’

  She pointed through her kitchen window to the flank of one of the three tall hills that brooded over the village like guardian giants. Marie looked shocked but seemed satisfied by that explanation.

  David then said to his sister, ‘Nanny took us to her funeral.’

  Tibbie’s face was full of pity as she looked at him. ‘I was there too and so was my Hannah. She and your mother were friends.’

  David smiled at her. ‘And I’m very grateful that you’re still our friend, Mrs Mather,’ he said. It was the first sign of trust that he’d shown her.

  * * *

  Nanny Rush was buried next day in the shadow of the ancient Abbey of Rosewell. Her grave was dug in the dark soil in the middle of the velvety sward beside a broken red sandstone pillar which once supported the roof of a cloister where long-dead monks had walked. A crowd of mourners attended the interment because the dead woman was a well-respected member of the community and many of the townspeople had either been pupils at her little school or sent their children to her for education. They turned out to pay their respects, the men in stiff black suits and women with black linings sewn into their bonnets.

  Martha, resplendent in midnight-coloured crêpe with maribou feathers around the edge of her cape, was chief mourner and when the ceremony was over she stood with a bowed head accepting commiserations. Tibbie, with David and Marie walking beside her, was one of the last to approach her and their exchange was stiff. It was obvious that Martha wanted to get away but Tibbie would not let her go without one last plea…

  ‘Can’t you see your way to letting the bairns have their books and paints?’ She could not imagine what use Martha would have for children’s treasures and it seemed unfair that they should be turned out of their home with only enough clothes to fill one small straw basket each.

  Martha stiffened. ‘I’ve told you already that my sister left me everything she possessed.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe she didn’t leave something to the children, because she loved them.’ Tibbie’s temper was up now. ‘I’m beginning to wonder why you won’t let me see that letter…’ she went on.

  ‘You’ve some impudence, Tibbie Mather! Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘Maybe I am. That’s up to you. Where’s the letter?’ asked Tibbie.

  ‘It’s in the fire.’

  Tibbie laughed. ‘Isn’t that handy!’

  Red patches mottled Martha’s cheeks and neck as she turned to look for her husband, who was standing a little way off with her sons and some friends.

  ‘Willie, Willie,’ she called. ‘Are you going to stand there and hear your wife called a liar and a thief?’

  He waddled over and glared at Tibbie, who stood her ground and glared back. ‘What’s this
?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s saying I’ve done the navvy’s bastards out of an inheritance from my own sister. Did you ever hear the like? They were lucky to be kept for nothing all those years.’

  Willie glared at Tibbie. ‘You’d better watch your tongue, missus, or we’ll have the law on you,’ he threatened.

  She shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is I find it strange that Nanny didn’t leave them anything, because she never liked Martha and she loved the bairns, so it’s funny that she left nothing to them… That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Why should she leave anything to them? They’re not blood kin. Family ought to inherit and she knew it! Anyway she didn’t have much to leave. I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. You’re meant to be so well-looked-after by that son-in-law of yours,’ cried Martha viciously.

  ‘And so I am,’ snapped Tibbie. ‘I’m not worried for myself. It’s those two children being done out of their rights by somebody who doesn’t need it, that’s what’s worrying me. It’ll not do you any good, Martha, mark my words.’

  Martha grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘Did you hear that, Willie, she’s putting a curse on me!’

  Willie gobbled like a turkey cock and it was obvious that he wished he was miles away from Rosewell at that moment. ‘You watch your tongue, missus…’ he said again.

  ‘I know, or you’ll put the law on me,’ snapped Tibbie as she turned away and put an arm on each of the children’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home,’ she said.

  This time the walk to Camptounfoot went quickly because they talked about Martha as they went.

  ‘It makes me mad to think she’s cheated you two,’ raged Tibbie but David seemed philosophical.

  ‘She’s done it because we’re not blood kin, but I’ll be rich one day and able to look down my nose at people like her and her fat husband. I’m going to start tomorrow. I’m going over to Maddiston to see about a job in the big mill,’ he said.

  Tibbie stopped in mid-stride. ‘Oh you cannae do that, laddie! Nanny wanted you to be a minister or a lawyer because you’re so clever. If you go into the mills it’d be a terrible waste.’