A murmur of assent went round the table.
‘He’m selling his cider,’ said Charlie, breaking the silence which followed.
The others looked at him in surprise. Charlie was not much of a one for conversation.
‘Who? Cal Whitcomb?’ asked Jack. ‘What be newsworthy about that? Lots of folk sell their spare cider.’
‘This idn’t spare. He’m making it special to sell. Even got fancy labels with oak leaves round them and “Oakwood Farm Cider” in the middle.’
‘If that idn’t exactly like Skinflint Whitcomb!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘Do anything to make money, he will! ’Tis a wonder he’t got his ma tramping round the countryside with a barrel on her back selling the cider by the tankard to anyone her meets.’
‘Give him time, Father. He idn’t so quick-thinking as you,’ said Lew, and everyone laughed. All except Bart. Still half drunk, he glowered at his empty pudding plate.
‘That’s our land he’m making his money on,’ he said. ‘Every penny piece that Whitcomb puts in his pocket should be ours by rights. They Whitcombs be naught but common thieves, and if the law were halfway just it’d be prison or the poor house they’d be in, not prancing about the place having fancy labels printed for their rotten cider.’
For a second time a murmur of assent went round the table, this time with a strong undertone of resentment. This was one subject upon which the Shillabeers were in complete agreement.
‘Think what Oakwood would be if us had un,’ said Bart dreamily. ‘A showplace, that’s what it’d be with us all working together.’
While Maddy shared his opinion of the Whitcombs and their misappropriation of her family’s birthright, the idea of her brothers working in unison was not so easy to accept. They were bad enough fishing for salmon together. She had lost count of the times when one or other had stormed off after a quarrel.
‘Us don’t really know much about farming, do us?’ she pointed out.
‘Us could learn! Us idn’t stupid!’ snapped Bart. ‘Besides, if us’d been brought up to farming it’d have come as natural as shooting a net for salmon do now.’
Maddy had to admit he had a point.
‘And when us sold our cider,’ said Davie, still clinging tenaciously to the dream of farming at Oakwood, ‘us’d have fancier labels than old Cal Whitcomb. Ours’d have gold on them. And I’d be in charge.’
‘What, you in charge of making the cider?’ said Lew in mock derision. ‘You’d drink the profits, you would.’
Davie pretended to protest, but his face went red with pride. He equated the ability to down copious amounts of cider with manhood, and above all else Davie, at fifteen, wanted to be considered a man.
‘Whitcomb habn’t been selling his spare apples for a year or two,’ muttered Bart. ‘I should’ve guessed he were up to something.’ He gave a snort. ‘Mind, us’d have thought of the idea ages ago if us had been in his shoes. Us’d have had a rare old cider business going by now.’
‘Where’d us have got the extra apples from?’ asked Maddy. ‘Oakwood habn’t much in the way of orchards. Cal Whitcomb’s got his father’s trees down to Church Farm. They never was part of Shillabeer land.’
‘Then us’d have bought in, like other folks do,’ retorted Bart irritably. ‘Or else us could’ve married you off to some old fool with more land than sense. Exchanging a useless wench for some decent orchards seems like a good bargain to me, though I doubt us’d have got anyone daft enough to wed you.’
Maddy drew in her breath to make an angry retort, but she did not get the chance.
‘If only Great-grandfather Shillabeer hadn’t gone soft in the head in his old age!’ broke in Lew. ‘He should’ve left the farm to our grandad, he was the eldest.’
‘Your grandad’s brother, Matt, took advantage, that’s what he did,’ Jack said. ‘While your grandad were away on his travels he persuaded the old man to leave everything to him. It’s just the sort of mean underhanded thing that side of the family’d do. Look at Cal Whitcomb! He’m Matt’s grandson and as slippery a character as you’d find on a day’s march. As soon as he inherited the farm what did he do? Dismiss most of the men because he were too mean to pay their wages.’
Silently Maddy rose and, unnoticed by the others, began to clear away the dishes. She shared her family’s indignation at the unfairness of their treatment, but she had heard it all before, and she did not see how repeating the details yet again would change anything.
Her chores finished, Maddy left the menfolk to their favourite pastime – going over how they had been cheated. If there was one thing the Shillabeers were good at it was bearing a grudge. At least they were not fighting among themselves, which was a common occurrence on a boring Sunday.
She took the steep path back to the village and made for the churchyard. She rarely missed these weekly visits to her mothers grave. They were a haven of calm in her busy life. On this occasion, however, her tranquillity was shattered. The plants she had so carefully tended the previous week were crushed, the neatly dug soil disturbed. Unmistakable signs of iron-shod hooves were imprinted in the earth. A horse had got into the churchyard and stamped all over the grave. At the sight of it Maddy gave a cry of distress.
Hasty footsteps sounded behind her and the vicar’s voice demanded, ‘What’s wrong, Maddy? I heard you call out.’ Then he, too, saw the damage. It was not Lizzie Shillabeer’s grave alone: right across the churchyard there was a trail of destruction. The Reverend Bowden clicked his tongue angrily. ‘Really, this is too bad! People should make more effort to keep their livestock secure. I shall mention this at Evensong most strongly.’ He looked down at Maddy with concern. ‘I know you set great store by keeping your mother’s grave beautiful. I hope the damage is not too severe.’
‘Naught I can’t replace, I suppose, thank you, Mr Bowden. I be sorry I cried out. It just upset me to see such destruction.’
‘Rest assured, when I find the culprit I will say a few well-chosen words to them on the irresponsibility of people who let their animals stray.’
At this Maddy could not help smiling. He was quite a firebrand, was the vicar. Someone was going to get a scorched ear when he caught up with them. Still muttering to himself he wandered off in the direction of the vicarage.
Maddy turned her attention back to the grave. There was too much damage to be rectified that afternoon. She would have to come back later with fresh plants and do the job properly. She set off back to the cottage at Duncannon to get tea for the menfolk before Evensong. Sunday might be a day of rest for some folk, she observed wryly, but as far as she was concerned it was not much different from other days.
* * *
Once it was light next morning the five Shillabeer men launched their boat and took themselves off to the fishing. The tide was dropping, leaving expanses of glistening mud on either shore of the River Dart. Still bleary-eyed, Jack and his sons had set out early, determined to get to the prime positions first, for they knew that there would be plenty of others hard behind them.
The village of Stoke Gabriel was famous for the quality of its Dart-caught salmon, but it was the tiny hamlet of Duncannon, hard on the river’s edge, that had the advantage. Already Joe Crowther, who lived in the third cottage at Duncannon, would be astir, for he, too, held a net licence. But he had to wait for the rest of his crew to come over from the village. Jack Shillabeer was proud of the fact that, in his four sons, he had provided himself with a full complement.
‘There idn’t many with that sort of foresight,’ was his usual boast.
‘Just give us a few years and then us’ll see who’s got the last laugh,’ was Joe Crowther’s cheery reply, for the Crowthers’ young brood was numerous and fast increasing.
For the moment, though, the Shillabeers had supremacy and they meant to make the most of it.
As always, Maddy paused in her work to watch them make the first cast of the day. Born and bred in the riverside cottage, it was something she had seen frequently enough, y
et it never lost its magic. Often, especially on a perfect spring morning such as this, she wished she could have accompanied her menfolk in their stealthy pursuit of the great silver fish; but that would have been unheard of, despite the fact that she could handle a boat as well as any of her brothers, and was strong enough to haul in the catch with the rest of them. Salmon fishing was exclusively men’s work. For a woman to join in would have earned her the stern disapproval of the entire village; Maddy had to be content with watching from the garden.
Slowly and steadily Jack was rowing the boat in an arc, with Davie carefully paying out the long length of net over the stern as they went. With one end firmly secured on shore, it hung in the water, buoyed up by cork floats on top and weighted with lead at the bottom, hopefully making an impenetrable wall for any luckless salmon encircled within its mesh. But the salmon were swift and agile, and could escape from the tightening circle if anything alarmed them, which was why Jack’s movements were stealthy as he rowed back to the shore, and why the others hauled in the net with steady, unhurried movements.
It never failed to amaze Maddy that her brothers, normally so volatile and argumentative, could be so restrained the instant they actually began hauling in the catch.
The curve of the net had been gradually growing smaller as the boys pulled it in, till now it was only a few feet across. The water within its bounds seethed with silver bodies. Maddy continued watching while her brothers stunned the fish and laid them in a basket on shore. Later, when cleaned and properly packed, they would be sent upriver to Totnes to the fishmonger there who acted as agent for the big London market at Billingsgate. Maddy had counted six salmon, a respectable first catch of the day.
Already Jack was stowing the net meticulously back in the boat for the next casting. The river had fallen a little more. Bart had stuck twigs in the mud at the water’s edge to check how much the tide was dropping. He untied the net, and they moved further downstream, to begin the whole patient process again. But Maddy could not watch any longer, she had her own work to do.
She had more than enough to keep her occupied. As soon as she had risen that morning she had set the copper to heat, and now it was ready to take the mountain of washing that was her lot every Monday. As she was pegging out her second batch of clothes the sound of boots crunching on the pebbles of the foreshore caught her attention.
A stout stone wall protected the cottage and garden from high tides, for the River Dart was tidal way beyond Duncannon, up as far as Totnes. Looking over, she found herself staring down at a stranger. It was early in the year for ‘foreigners’. They usually arrived in the summer – rich folk who had nothing better to do than admire the scenery. This young man was not like the usual seasonal visitor. He was not so well-dressed, for one thing, but when he smiled Maddy forgot about the shabbiness of his coat and the scuffed state of his boots. All she saw was that he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen on a man, and those eyes seemed to sparkle as they lit upon her. Maddy, who normally cared nothing for her appearance, was suddenly conscious of her faded calico dress and coarse sacking apron.
The newcomer wore a black slouch hat ornamented by a single peacock’s feather. He took it off with a mighty flourish, exotic plume and all, exposing dark waving hair worn longer than was customary among the village men.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘You’ve a fine day for drying your washing.’
He was from up-country by the way he spoke. Much more crisp and swift than the normal Devon burr, and quite gentlemanly. He sounded almost like the squire. More incredible to Maddy was his remark about the washing. Her lot would not have known a good drying day from a downpour. For drying salmon nets, yes, but for clothes…
‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘Yes, there be a decent breeze today. You’m off one of the boats?’
‘No, I’ve been following the river. I’m trying to get to Stoke GabrieL By my reckoning I can’t be far off.’
‘No, you’m yer.’
This is Stoke Gabriel?’ He looked at the three cottages with something like dismay.
‘Well, as good as.’ Maddy laughed at his expression. ‘This be Duncannon, we’m in the parish. The village proper be just downriver, past the old quarry and round the point into the creek.’
‘Can I get there along the foreshore?’
Maddy looked at the cracked state of his boots.
‘I wouldn’t recommend un,’ she said. ‘Best go overland. That be the path, behind the house.’
‘It looks steep.’
‘You’m welcome to come in and rest yourself for a while afore you tackles un, if you wish.’
‘How kind of you.’ Gratefully he strode up the narrow slipway between the cottages and came into the garden, but he would not enter the house. ‘My boots are far too muddy,’ he said, depositing his two bundles on the path. ‘Til do fine here, on the wall.’
Such consideration impressed Maddy.
A rich savoury smell was coming from the kitchen, and the stranger sniffed appreciatively. Maddy grinned. She could take a hint.
‘You’m welcome to a drop of broth,’ she said. ‘There idn’t no dumplings, though. I habn’t made they yet.’
‘The broth alone will be delightful.’
Will be delightful… She considered the words as she went indoors. She had never heard anyone speak like that – leastways, not to her. Quickly she filled a bowl with broth and added a hefty slice of bread. Scalding as it was, he devoured the broth and the bread with the concentration of a man who had not eaten for some time. Yet Maddy noticed that despite his evident hunger, he ate neatly and without noise. A well-spoken man with tidy manners. Again, she was impressed.
He finished eating and set aside the bowl. ‘That was food for the angels, and no mistake,’ he said, beaming at her.
Maddy felt that both the compliment and the smile were a bit excessive for such a simple meal, but she liked them just the same.
‘I suppose you’m passing through,’ she said.
‘Not at all – well, I hope not. It will depend upon circumstances. If I can find a job.’
‘You’m looking for work? What can you do?’
‘Anything that needs doing.’
‘You idn’t fussy, that’s always a help. Tidn’t a good time of year – too early for harvesting or the apple gathering.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘The Church House Inn may still need a potman, since young Alfred joined the army.’
‘That sounds an excellent possibility. Is the remuneration good?’
Remuneration! He was certainly one for fancy words.
‘Why do you think young Alfred took the Queen’s shilling?’ she replied, and they both laughed.
The young man rose to leave with evident reluctance. ‘I must be on my way, I suppose,’ he said, ‘before someone else snatches the post of potman from under my nose. I never expected my arrival at Stoke Gabriel to be so filled with agreeable people. May I know your name, you who have shown such kindness to a stranger?’
‘Madeleine Shillabeer,’ said Maddy, somewhat flustered by his unaccustomed compliments.
‘Madeleine. I might have known you would be called something elegant… Madeleine.’ He repeated the name softly.
Maddy did not know why she had told him her full baptismal name – to sound all fancy like he did, she supposed.
‘Lor’, don’t go calling me that,’ she said, increasingly embarrassed. ‘Folk wouldn’t know who you was on about. I be known as Maddy, plain and simple.’
‘Miss Maddy it shall be then, but definitely not plain and certainly not simple. I am Patrick Howard. At your service, ma’am.’ He gave her a bow.
When Cal Whitcomb had made such a gesture she had found it pretentious, but the stranger made it look natural.
‘I fear I have no money to pay for the excellent food you have given me,’ he went on.
‘I don’t want paying for a bit of broth and the end of the loaf,’ she protested. ‘You’m welcome to un.’
; ‘In that case, will you permit me to show my gratitude in the only way I can?’
Mystified, Maddy watched as he opened the smaller of his bundles, a canvas sack.
‘A fiddle!’ she exclaimed with delight, as he took out the instrument. ‘You play the fiddle!’
‘It is my one small talent. Do you like music?’
‘Above all things, only I don’t get the chance to hear much.’
Then this shall be for you, with my thanks for making my arrival at Stoke Gabriel so memorable.’
He tuned the strings for a few seconds, then he was away.
He was good. Even Maddy, whose knowledge of music was rudimentary, recognised his skill. She had never heard a violin sing so sweetly, nor the notes fly from the strings with such consummate ease. He played an old country dance that she knew well; then a sweet melody she had never heard before; finally he finished with the liveliest of jigs, setting Maddy’s toes tapping and the blood coursing through her veins. By the time he stopped her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
Slipping the fiddle back in its bag, he shouldered his pack and began to move towards the lane.
‘I hope I have the opportunity of playing for you again,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Miss Maddy—’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know you are the only person I’ve ever met who has aquamarine eyes?’ With this he smiled his bright smile and strode away.
Aquamarine eyes! Maddy did not know what aquamarine was, but by the way Patrick Howard had said the word it sounded beautiful. That could not be right. Someone telling her she had beautiful eyes. She must have misunderstood.
‘Well, did you ever hear the like,’ said Elsie Crowther.
‘That man be a charmer and no mistake,’ added Annie.
It was too much to expect that the arrival of Patrick Howard would have passed unnoticed by the occupants of the other cottages. But Maddy had been so fascinated by the newcomer that she had scarcely been aware of Annie and a whole brood of Crowthers pressing against the garden wall, listening to the music and the conversation as well.
Daughter of the River Page 2