i 19ecbf681bdbdaf9 (5 page)

But from the birth of her sons began the spitting. It started with the women. She'd be walking through the town. It could be on a Wednesday or a Thursday, any day but Saturday, when the town was turned over to the market, but two out of every three times she entered that town she would hear the hiss and spring aside only too late, for her skirt would be running with filthy mucus and she'd see the back of a woman or women walking away from her.

At this period they never passed through the village.

Annabel had followed the boys. She had been born beautiful, more so even than she herself had been. But she was of a strange nature, strange in such a way that it seemed to stretch to opposite poles within her, one to a depth of quietness and serious thinking, the other to laughter, gaiety, mimicking and quick temper. What was sad, however, at least to herself, was that her daughter, so intelligent, clever in so many ways, was still a sort of maid to Miss Netherton.

When she said, 'sort of maid', she

included being a companion to the older woman, for did not Miss Netherton take her shopping when she went into Newcastle, and when visiting the museums; and twice had taken her to a theatre show? She knew she should be grateful that her daughter was paying back some of the debt they owed to that very kind lady; yet, she couldn't help but have her own plans for her daughter.

And then Cherry came, and she was as fair as her father, with merry blue eyes and a tripping tongue. They were foils for each other, her two daughters. Each caused gaiety and laughter in the house where there would have been none without them, for the twins were sober young men, and Jimmy, at fifteen, was a questing boy, wanting to know the ins and outs of everything, impish in a way. And then there had been one born into life, already dead.

Her last-born was Ben. Why had they called him Benjamin? The name didn't suit him, but it happened to be the name of Miss Netherton's father. Miss Netherton had allowed that to be used, then why hadn't she let one of the girls be called Mary? for that was her name. But she would have none of it. She said she didn't believe in passing on names, it made the recipient feel fettered in some way. Nor did she believe in the role of godparents. The role of godparents, she said, was to be guardian to the spiritual life of the child. But how many godparents dare enforce their authority? She could see no spirituality in choosing a godparent for a child, only the hope by the parents that it would be a beneficiary at some future date.

She was very forthright in her thinking, was Miss Netherton. But she had constantly been a guardian angel to them all, and still was.

The payment of money for the cross had ended a year after Jimmy was born. But they had managed, because by that time they were on their feet, so to speak. The barn had been rebuilt, the wall taken down between the two rooms, a bedroom built for the girls at one side of the house and their own at the other. The vegetable garden yielded all that they needed in that way for most of the year. The apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees that had been planted in the second year now gave abundant crops. The four goats supplied them with milk and cheese, the twenty hens with eggs and a fowl for the table every now and again; and the ducks that splashed in the artificial pond that the lads had dug at the bottom of the land, gave large, greenish eggs in abundance and young ducklings by the dozen each year . She turned on her side and felt the waft of Nathaniel's quiet breathing, and she told herself once again how she loved this man;

more than loved him, adored him. Yet, it would be a sin to think about that if she had been a churchgoing Christian. No-one should be adored but God. But what were church-going Christians? Women who spat at you;

men who drove their carts through the middle of narrow lanes and pushed yours into the ditch. When that had happened for the countless time Nathaniel had made a stand: "We'll go through the village in future,"

he said, 'straight through the middle. " And this he did, and the sight of Dagshaw's Gillyvors, as she knew they were called, brought folks running to the cottage doors and the men coming out of the inns.

But as the years went on it would seem that the villagers took no notice of them, especially when the whole family sat upon the flat cart, while Nathaniel sat erect on the high driving seat. She always saw to it that every one of them was dressed in their best when they went through the village. And Nathaniel always drove straight down the middle of the street. One day they met the coach from the Manor.

When, some way off, the coachman waved them aside, Nathaniel returned the salute in the same manner and drove his cart steadily forward until, at the last minute, the coachman pulled his horses sharply aside and drove them onto the broad grass verge.

When a head was thrust out of the coach window and a voice yelled at him, "What in hell's flames do you mean, man?" Nathaniel had cried back, "The public highway is for all men, and it runs through this village."

Again this incident was brought to Miss Nether- ton's notice, and what she said to Nathaniel was, "You're tilting your spear at the castle gates now, I hear. Well, you'd better keep your visor down. Still, I wouldn't worry; their arms don't stretch all that far around here. The one that bawled at you would likely be what I term the carp among the salmon. But his father is all right, quite a pleasant man really, and the younger son too. But I wouldn't say the same for his wife. There's a vixen if ever there was one. Why do nice men allow themselves to become ensnared?"

What would they have done without Miss Net! ton? But oh, she wished she would do something Anna: get her a position of some kind worthy of brain and intelligence. She had hinted at it more tl once, yet here the girl was, seventeen years old, n eighteen, and neither one thing nor the other:

quite a servant and not quite a companion. But must get to sleep; it would soon be four o'cloci the morning.

Maria had cooked all day; the table was laden with her efforts: there was a currant loaf and a rice loaf, and caraway seed cakes, yule do's made from pastry and decorated with pieces of ripe cherry; there was a large earthenware platter containing two chickens, already dismembered, a bowl of pig's- head brawn; and there were moulds of soft goat cheese and a platter of unsalted butter standing at both ends of the table, besides two crusty loaves. It was a fare that would have done credit to a banqueting hall, and Maria surveyed it with pride.

She was now thirty-six years old and the little mirror in the bedroom told her that she looked her years but that she was still a beautiful woman. She hadn't lost her figure through childbearing and her carriage was erect. But there was a deep age in her eyes. How could it be otherwise, for over the past nineteen years the life of ecstatic love had been mingled with fear and humiliation not only for herself but for her brood, for they each one carried the stigma of their birth and would do so until they died. But would she have had things otherwise? Yes, oh yes. If she had been the acknowledged wife of Nathaniel her eyes would not have admitted the pain, for then she would have been the wife of a schoolmaster. And her children would have been

free to wander at will from the time they could toddle, whereas they had all been kept to the boundary of the wood, the hill and the garden, and they had no friends, except for Miss Netherton.

She turned from the table as two voices hailed her from the kitchen, one saying, "We are home, Ma," the other, "What can I smell?" She went quickly down the room now, saying, "What I can smell are muddy boots and sweaty stockings. Have you left them outside?"

She was met at the kitchen door by her two sons, both in their stockinged feet, and Oswald, laughing, said, "Oh, Ma, let's get near the fire and put our slippers on. It was actually freezing coming over the fields. I'll bet there'll be an early frost the night."

As both young men pulled crackets from the wall to sit down opposite the open hearth, she went to a box at the side of the fireplace and, taking out two pairs of moccasin-like slippers, she threw them onto the mat between them, saying, "You're a bit early, aren't you?"

"Yes, Ma, we've been good boys and Mr. Green let us off. And we've got some news for you, too, both of us."

"Oh! Good news?"

"Yes. What other news would we bring?" Olan smiled up at her.

"Well, will it keep till the others get in?"

The twins looked at each other, smiled, then Oswald said, "Yes, Ma, it'll keep. Where's Dada?"

"He's in the barn with the pit lad."

"Oh, the pit lad." Oswald stood up, then added, "That poor beggar. We heard in the town there's

trouble at the Beulah mine. They've been routing out some of the men from the cottages, putting them on the road because they've been agitating. "

"I thought they couldn't do that now," said Maria.

"Oh, they can do that, Ma. The men have only got to mention union, I understand, and they're for it."

"God help them if they've got to live out on the moor this winter.

D'you remember three years ago? There were six families out there.

Four of the children died, besides an old man and woman. The young ones, I understand, eventually made it to Australia. Still'her tone lightened 'come and look at the table. "

"I could smell it down the road, Ma."

Oswald punched his slender brother, saying, "You can smell food from Land's End to John O'Groat's. But look at that." He gazed on the table; then turned to his mother, saying, "My! you have been busy, Ma.

And where've you hidden all this stuff for the past days? It wasn't in the pantry yesterday. If it had been it wouldn't have been here today, would it? "

They all laughed now, then turned as the far door opened and Nathaniel came up the room with his youngest son by his side; and while the young boy stood, open-mouthed, gazing at the table, Nathaniel turned his gaze from it and onto Maria, saying quietly, "You have put some spreads on that table in the past years but I think that's the best yet."

Maria pursed her lips at the compliment, while her eyes shone with the pleasure of it. Then she asked, "How was your pupil?"

"Doing nicely. Fine. Oh, if I could have that lad every day he would go some place, far beyond me,

in what I could teach him. He just gollops up knowledge. I've never known anyone like him. "

"I golloped up your knowledge, Dada."

Nathaniel put back his head and laughed; then looking at Olan, he said,

"All you golloped up, my son, was food. And what have you got to show for it? You're as lanky as a bean pole."

"Aye, but I'm strong with it. You can't deny that."

"No, you're right. I can't." And Nathaniel slapped his son on the back; then turned to Maria again, saying, "We're going to wait until they all come, aren't we, no matter what time?"

"Of course, of course," she said, nodding emphatically.

"But let's hope Mrs. Praggett doesn't keep Cherry late tonight."

"She should stand out for her time. She's paid for eight till six,"

said Oswald; then on a laugh, "Even if Mr. Praggett decided to throw his hairns into the river or down the mine shaft. Eeh! she was funny, wasn't she, that last time she described the row he was having with his wife when she tipped the dinner over him? It's a good thing she sees the funny side of it else she wouldn't stay there five minutes."

They were laughing again when the door of the kitchen opened and Anna came into the room. And it was her walk that brought the rest of the family to concentrate their gaze on her without giving her any greeting, because her step was slow and the pose of her head suggested hauteur, but on reaching the end of the table her manner underwent a change as she gazed along its length, but then was resumed as she addressed her father, saying, "Mr. Marten, I have news for you, and for you, Maria Dagshaw. "

"Such news, daughter, that portends a rise in your station in life, an elevated rise, into the aristocracy, say?"

"It could be so, Mr. Marten. It could be so."

"Let up, you two." Oswald napped his hand towards them.

"Anyway, you're not the only one that's got good news. We have too, Olan and me here, but we're keeping ours for the tea."

"Oh. Oh," she exclaimed, and laughed; then her manner returning to normal, she looked towards Oswald, saying, "You really have good news?"

"Yes. Aye, we have."

"Oh, I'm glad. Well, I'll keep mine an' all for tea. And Dada, when the postman brought Miss Netherton's mail he said he had a letter for you. Here it is." She put her hand into the pocket of her short coat and handed him an envelope.

After looking at it, Nathaniel glanced at Maria. Then, turning from them, he went to the small desk that stood in the corner of the room and, picking up a paper knife from it, he slit open the envelope and read the letter.

When Maria, who was watching him, saw one hand go down to the desk as if for support, she went hastily to him, saying quietly, "What is it?"

He did not answer her, but turned his head and looked into her eyes.

Then gently pressing her aside, he walked across the room and through the door that led into their bedroom, and she followed.

"Nat. Nat." She was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him now.

"What is it? What does it say? Who is it from?"

Slowly he handed her the letter and she read it, and k was a long moment before, in a pained murmur, she said, "No, no. She wouldn't do that. Five years. Oh, Nat."

He was holding her close as he murmured now, "But it wouldn't have altered their situation; they would still have been classed as ... as gillyvors."

She didn't pursue his statement for her mind was crying. No, but it could have altered my situation, and in other ways, too, it could have been a relief.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, saying, "Shall we tell them?"

After a moment's thought he said, "No. Not till after they have given us their news. They're full of it, whatever it is, and it seems good.