Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Her face, which had been childish when she first arrived from Rosewell, was now adult with a long, straight nose and a broad brow. Her blue eyes were large and innocent and her gaze still guileless. Though she’d soon be a woman she had not yet cast off childish things and what she most enjoyed doing was wandering around the countryside with Kitty, gathering flowers to draw and watching the birds and animals. They were clinging on to the last days of their childhood, knowing that changes would soon engulf them both.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you about my granny’s knife and how I could use it to make us blood sisters?’ asked Kitty suddenly.

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Marie.

  ‘Well, I’ve got the knife. I stole it from her. It’s hidden. It’s so sharp it can slice a blade of grass right down the middle.’

  Marie stared at Kitty’s eager face with dismay. ‘Does Big Lily know you’ve got it?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not. She’d go daft if she found out. She thinks Jake took it.’ Kitty had the grace to sound a little shamefaced. Then she added, ‘When we’ve mixed our blood together, I’ll give it back to her.’

  Marie was not anxious to start the bloodletting. ‘I think you should give it back anyway. You know what she’ll do if she finds out you’ve got it,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t give it back yet. Not till we’ve used it for the thumb cutting,’ said Kitty firmly.

  ‘All right, but not yet. Let’s wait till I leave school,’ agreed Marie. Anything to put off the ordeal.

  Chapter Six

  Six months of slaving on Townhead farm under her grandmother’s cruel supervision almost broke Kitty’s spirit.

  Though she despised people who took refuge in tears, it was difficult to stay dry-eyed on bitter mornings when Big Lily drove her out into wraiths of hoar mist to gather turnips from earth that was iron-hard with frost. Without covering on her hands, and her feet without stockings even during bitter frosts, she struggled to complete her tasks. Sometimes her toes got so cold that she was sure they would drop off and it took hours of chafing them before the blood flowed back. When that happened, she wished she’d left them cold because then the chilblains throbbed and pulsed, a different kind of agony.

  She was still dressed in rags, no protection against the bitter winter because, in spite of her grandmother’s promise, no working garments had been bought for her. The only improvement in her wardrobe was that, instead of going barefoot, she was given an old pair of Big Lily’s broken boots, but they let in the water. Because they were too big, she stuffed them with hay.

  At Christmas, kind Tibbie gave her a black shawl she’d knitted and Kitty wore it every day.

  The thing that angered her most was that she received no wages for her work. The little money Craigie’s sisters were prepared to hand out for her was pocketed by Big Lily. Kitty’s situation had changed for the worse.

  By the time the grass began to grow again and snowdrops peeped up beneath the hedges, her peaked face had assumed a strange, austere expression that worried Tibbie and Marie. She looked as if she were burning up inside with hatred and Tibbie was afraid that if it burst out, she might do something very violent.

  Marie was the only person to whom Kitty could talk about her misery, and whenever she could, she sought out her friend. One balmy evening they walked along the riverbank picking primroses and watching the birds building their nests. The scene was beautiful and tranquil but Kitty’s emotions were in turmoil.

  ‘I hate her, I hate her. She hit me with the pitchfork tonight…’ She stuck out an arm and showed Marie a huge bruise on the soft flesh beneath the shoulder.

  Marie’s eyes were full of sympathy but there was little she could do except listen as Kitty went ranting on about Big Lily. ‘I feel like a prisoner. Even Craigie in Edinbury’s jail can’t be any worse off than me. When I think that I could go on like this till I’m old, I feel desperate. I could kill her, Marie, I really could.’

  ‘Do you want me to ask Tibbie to speak to her?’ asked Marie gently but Kitty shook her head.

  ‘That wouldn’t do any good. She’d take it out on me for complaining. I never speak to her now because whatever I say is wrong. She hates having me around the place, but she needs my work so she’s got to put up with me. She’s never satisfied unless she sees me bent double under a heavy sack or doing a man’s job. Look at my hands…’

  Kitty spread them out to show her friend deep hacks on the knuckles and broken blisters on the palms.

  ‘You should have a bandage on those,’ Marie said but Kitty shrugged.

  ‘What’s the use? They’d open up again the day I took the bandage off. I wish I could run away. The only reason I stay is because of my mother. I’m feared that I’ll still be here when I’m sixty, hard and cruel like my granny is now…’

  Marie slipped an arm round Kitty’s thin waist and hugged her. ‘Don’t give up. You should go away as soon as you can. Go to Maddiston hiring fair and get yourself another place.’

  Kitty brightened a little. ‘I was thinking I might do that next year. I could tell folk I was fifteen.’

  ‘You’d pass for that now,’ Marie told her, for Kitty was tall and her breasts were swelling, something that annoyed her a lot, for she wished she could always be flat-chested, like a boy.

  Kitty cheered up a little at the idea of getting another place and asked her friend, ‘What about you?’

  Marie frowned. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this yet because it might never happen, but Lady Godolphin came to the school yesterday and went into raptures about my pictures again. She said that I ought to have lessons from a real artist and I think she’s going to find out about where I could go.’

  Kitty was delighted. ‘That’s grand. There must be some good artists round here who could teach you. Lady Godolphin’ll know them all. But will you be able to pay for lessons?’

  Marie shook her head, warning against over-optimism. ‘Tibbie said she’d pay for them but Lady Godolphin might forget to make enquiries… and David won’t want me to go’

  Kitty snorted. ‘If you get the chance, go. Don’t let David stop you. It’ll be your way out of Camptounfoot… Promise you’ll go.’

  ‘All right, I’ll promise if you promise me that next year you’ll go to the hiring fair,’ Marie replied. They shook hands on their bargain.

  While the girls were making this pact by the river, Lord and Lady Godolphin were entertaining the Duke of Allandale in their mansion a mile away.

  A smiling Bethya was sitting in an armchair by the window with the setting sun’s rays casting golden light around her. She knew she was still beautiful and was relieved to realise that she felt better than she had done for a very long time, for though she had been hiding the true state of her weakness, her malaise had lingered for so long that she was afraid it would always be with her, and Sydney was short-tempered with invalids.

  ‘I went to the village school today and saw a girl there who really deserves help,’ she told her husband, who grinned.

  ‘Good works again. You’re never happy unless you’re doing something philanthropic.’

  She frowned. ‘Where I come from it’s considered one’s duty to give to the poor, but this isn’t charity. This girl is an excellent artist. She should have proper tuition.’

  Sydney said, ‘And I suppose you want to pay for it. What does she paint? Kittens and wild flowers, I’ll wager.’

  ‘No, she does landscapes. She could be really good if she was taught properly.’

  The Duke, who was an art connoisseur, leaned forward and asked, ‘Is she a local?’

  ‘I think so. She lives in the village anyway. Such a nice, well-mannered girl… obviously from a good home. Do you know of any painters in the district who might teach her?’

  Allandale frowned. ‘There’s no one of any great merit round about at the moment. You’d have to go to Edinburgh for proper tuition. I could find out for you if you like.’

  Bethya clasped her hands. ‘How kind of
you!’ And she bestowed one of her sweetest smiles on their guest while her husband scoffed, ‘That’s a good mark on your slate, Dickie.’

  The Duke was as good as his word. A few days later Bethya received a letter from him with the addresses of three painting academies in Edinburgh.

  He had also gone to the trouble of finding out which was the best. ‘I’d recommend that you send your protégée to Professor D’Arcy Abernethy in Princes Street. All the best Edinburgh families send their girls there for tuition,’ he wrote.

  Next day another letter was delivered to Tibbie’s cottage by a uniformed flunkey from Bella Vista. In spidery black handwriting it was addressed to Miss Marie Benjamin. Both Tibbie and Marie stared at it as if it were liable to explode, before Marie carefully split the green wax seal and drew out a sheet of thick writing paper which was covered with the same handwriting.

  She read aloud… ‘Dear Miss Benjamin, I was so impressed by your artistic talent when I re-visited Camptounfoot school, that I would like to become your patron and pay for you to undertake a course of study.

  ‘I have been given the names of suitable painting academies in Edinburgh which I would like to discuss with you to find out if you would be willing to attend one of them. Perhaps you will come to Bella Vista so that we can have a talk. I suggest that you come next Friday at three thirty o’clock…’ Bethya’s signature was scrawled over the bottom of the page.

  Marie handed Tibbie the letter and said in amazement, ‘She wants to send me to Edinburgh to learn painting!’

  Tibbie was delighted. ‘Isn’t that wonderful!’ she exclaimed.

  Marie shook her head. ‘Is it? I don’t know. I’ve never been farther than Maddiston… I’m not sure I’m a good enough artist to go to a painting academy… What will David say?’

  Tibbie snorted. ‘Of course you’re good enough. Lady Godolphin knows what she’s talking about and if he’s any sense, David’ll see what a chance this is for you.’

  Her positive attitude rallied Marie a little. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to go to the big house and talk about it,’ she said doubtfully.

  Tibbie was sure of that. ‘If you refused the invitation it would be very rude. Friday’s the day after tomorrow. Now let’s find a bit of paper and write back to her saying you’ll be there.’

  * * *

  On Friday morning, while Tibbie and Marie were fussing about which dress she should wear for her visit to Bella Vista, David was adding up columns of figures in the payments book of Henderson’s Mill in Maddiston. His mind was not on his work, however, for he was dreaming of the day when he would be sitting in the next room, the manager’s office, with some other clerk labouring to his command.

  Mr Coleman, the mill manager, was looking out at him through the glass-topped door. David Benjamin, he was thinking, is the perfect employee. Meticulous in his work, in the office early every morning and always the last to leave. If there was ever any extra work to be done, David did it without complaint.

  Coleman rose from his seat and went through into the outer office. ‘Eh, lad,’ he said in his broad Lancashire accent, ‘I wish all the clerks in this place were as hard-working as you.’

  David, perched on a stool before a high wooden desk, looked up and ran a hand through his long fall of fair hair. ‘What’s the matter, Mr Coleman?’ he asked.

  Coleman, who had been brought up from Manchester to run the Maddiston mill and still felt out of place and friendless in the Borders, did not reply but walked back into his own office where he bent down and fetched a dark-coloured bottle out of the bottom drawer of his desk. Uncorking it, he put it to his lips, took a long draw, sighed, wiped his mouth, recorked the bottle and put it back before saying loudly, ‘That’s better. Good for the nerves.’

  David said nothing but his eyes were watchful. He knew the manager drank more than was good for him and one day he intended to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

  Coleman, a tall, rangy man with a face like a hungry horse, went to stand in the big window overlooking the mill yard where the drays came in to load and unload.

  ‘There’s a lot of lazy buggers about,’ he said. ‘They don’t realise you’ll get nowhere unless you use a bit of graft. Graft, that’s what’s needed. They all say, “I’ll finish it tomorrow, Mr Coleman.” Tomorrow won’t do, will it, David? I didn’t get where I am by putting things off till tomorrow.’

  David nodded. ‘You’re right, sir.’

  ‘You don’t put things off till tomorrow, do you, lad? But then you’re not a local, are you? You weren’t born here.’ Coleman turned and stared at the boy on the stool in the outer office.

  David had no idea where he was born but agreed, ‘No, I’m not a local, sir. I was brought here when I was about three I think. I was born in London.’ It might have been true.

  As far as Coleman was concerned it would have been better if the lad had said he was born in Lancashire but London was at least better than Maddiston. He found the easy-going attitude of the local people almost unbearable. Anything he asked for they pretended to misunderstand and when they finally got the message, they put off doing it for as long as possible. He’d been waiting for a carpenter to repair the roof of one of the woolsheds for a month and the man had still not shown up. It was driving him crazy.

  ‘That bloody carpenter’s still not come and the woolshed’s leaking. The winter’s coming and the bales’ll get soaked if he doesn’t turn up soon. What’ll Mr Henderson say if I let his bales get soaked?’ he said mournfully.

  Adalbert Henderson, the arbiter of all their fates, was the proprietor of Maddiston mill. He also owned another, smaller mill in Rosewell, and was locally respected for being both ambitious and crafty. This shrewd businessman had seen the potential of the rapidly growing weaving trade early and had sunk his fortune, made from cattle dealing, into it. He had prospered but did not allow the possession of great riches to change him, for he remained a working-class, rough-spoken fellow with no pretensions to grandeur.

  Because he knew little about running weaving mills, he hired specialist labour from the south when he first embarked on the business. That was how Coleman came to be in Maddiston, living in the big mill house that Henderson had built for him and trying to turn people who were used to the slow and unchanging rhythm of the land into factory workers. He’d been doing it for ten years and it was a thankless task.

  ‘Why do the people around here say they’ll do a job and then never turn up?’ he moaned.

  ‘Would you like me to find another carpenter?’ asked David.

  ‘I’ve tried most of them and they’re all slow,’ groaned Coleman, wondering if it was time for another slug from his bottle.

  ‘I was thinking that we ought to have our own carpenters in the mill. It’s big enough for that now,’ was David’s next suggestion.

  ‘Aye, big mills do that. It’s the only way to get them to work I expect,’ agreed Coleman.

  ‘I could find a master carpenter and Mr Henderson might take him onto the payroll. I’ve got a man in mind,’ said David.

  Coleman looked at his assistant with respect. Only eighteen years old and as canny as a septuagenarian, he thought.

  ‘You do that, lad. If you’ve somebody in mind, get your jacket and go to find him,’ he ordered.

  David looked down at his ledgers. ‘I’ll finish making these returns first if you don’t mind, Mr Coleman, then I’ll go.’

  The mill manager was impressed but also impatient, for when David was out of the office, he felt easier about taking more little nips from his whisky bottle. He could tell from the expression in the lad’s eye that he disapproved.

  It was midday before David’s clerking work was done and he set off for Rosewell where he knew there was a carpenter called Billy Black who would be glad of the offer of a job in Maddiston mill.

  Billy lived behind the house where David and Marie used to stay with Nanny Rush. He had set himself up in business young, unwisely marrying at the same time,
and his family grew yearly but he was still struggling to find enough customers to keep him fully occupied and pay his bills. The last time David met him, he’d talked of emigrating to Canada with his brood. The only thing that stopped him was the impossibility of raising the fares for them all.

  The walk from Maddiston to Rosewell over the hills was about four miles but David thought nothing of it, striding along with his head up and the wind blowing through his hair. All the time he was scheming and planning, adding up sums in his head, calculating how long it would be before he had enough money put by to take a lease on a little house for Marie and himself. At the moment he lodged with the family of the mill gatehouse keeper and spent nothing apart from his board money and the sum to cover Marie’s keep. Everything else he saved.

  Billy Black was in his workshed, gloomily planing a long spar of wood, for someone had ordered a coffin.

  ‘Hello, Davie. It’s a while since I saw you,’ he said when his visitor appeared in his doorway.

  After a preliminary chat and exchange of news, David asked, ‘How’s trade?’

  Billy groaned. ‘Bad, bad. I cannae make enough tae buy boots for the bairns.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to work at the mill in Maddiston,’ said David.

  The carpenter brightened. ‘Have you a job needing done?’

  ‘We have. The woolshed roofs leaking but there’s other things as well and all the Maddiston carpenters are too busy. The delay’s driving Coleman crazy. He’s thinking of hiring somebody full-time.’

  The reception of this piece of news was ecstatic. ‘I’m your man, I’m your man. I’ll get my bag of tools directly… You’re a good lad, a damned good lad. I’ll no’ forget this, Davie,’ cried Billy.

  The finding of a carpenter being so quickly over, David felt justified in taking some time off to look in on his sister and Tibbie. When he got to the cottage, he saw them through the window shelling peas in the kitchen and talking away fifteen to the dozen. He stood very quiet, listening to what was being said.