‘You missed a golden opportunity there. You could have cast all sorts of doubt upon my manhood.’
‘I thought of it,’ admitted Maddy. ‘But with only the two of us here it didn’t seem worth the trouble. Besides, I think you and your manhood have taken enough punishment from women for one day.’
He laughed, dispelling the last hint of awkwardness in his manner. Maddy was relieved. She was so used to encountering a supremely self-assured Cal Whitcomb that to see him embarrassed made her feel unaccountably embarrassed too.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, when he had stopped laughing. ‘You come to my rescue in a most timely manner and what do I do? Goad you over old scores.’
‘That’s all right,’ Maddy replied. ‘What are enemies for?’
He laughed again. ‘Is that what we are? Enemies? I suppose we must be. In that case I say thank goodness for enemies. I can think of no friend who would have coped so ably with Miss Fitzherbert.’
Suddenly Maddy’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘You must have been mad, coming to such a secluded spot with her,’ she said. ‘Did it never occur to you to be on your guard?’
‘Not really,’ he admitted, somewhat shamefaced. ‘I thought I had the situation under control. She was playing some game with me, that much was obvious. Unfortunately, I misjudged the young lady’s temperament.’
‘You certainly did. What on earth possessed you to play along with her?’ Then she stopped abruptly. ‘Your pardon,’ she said. ‘That was impertinent of me, and none of my business.’
‘Now it is my turn to say “that’s all right”,’ he grinned. ‘Contrary to general opinion I am quite human. I find the company of pretty women most agreeable.’
This conversation was growing both amicable and quite personal. Maddy decided it had gone on long enough.
‘Next time you wish to prove how human you are you should either choose a less hysterical companion or else keep to more public places,’ she said.
‘That is excellent advice. I’ll try and stick to it. You are leaving now?’ for Maddy was beginning to head towards the spot where she had left her basket.
‘Yes, I’ve wasted enough time for one morning.’
She was some distance away from him when she heard him call, ‘Maddy, I’m not sure if I thanked you properly. I was in quite a spot there. I’m most grateful to you for your intervention.’
‘That makes us even,’ she called over her shoulder.
It was not until she was nearing home that she realised he had called her by her Christian name. The nerve of the man. Was there no end to his impudence?
* * *
By good luck and the manoeuvrings of Robbins, Victoria managed to get home and up to her room without anyone, bar Mary, seeing her. The maidservant’s silence she bought with a morning dress she no longer wanted. Once she had calmed down she was thankful no one had observed her in her dishevelled state. As an attempt to punish Cal Whitcomb it was a stupid thing to have done. She was thankful that someone had intervened, though she wished it had not been that wretched Shillabeer woman. For that creature to have seen her humiliation… Victoria wept bitter tears at the memory.
There was another reason for her tears: the end of her affair with Cal caused a deep hurt which surprised and bewildered her. She refused to accept that she had been attracted to a rough farmer, she preferred to blame her strange emotional state on the fact that she had lost an amusing diversion – her only amusing diversion in this mud hole.
This did not explain the bitter discontent she felt after church the next Sunday when she saw the Shillabeer woman walking with the fiddler from the church band. They were hand in hand, and their total absorption in one another struck her a blow of sharp envy. Why should that common creature be loved – and by quite a handsome fellow too, although he was of the lower orders – while she had been rejected? Resentment settled in Victoria’s heart and stayed there, fuelled steadily by loneliness and misery.
By contrast, Maddy’s heart was buoyed up by the sheer joy of living and loving. Autumn was coming on apace, a richer, more beautifully abundant autumn than any she had ever experienced, thanks to Patrick’s influence.
The salmon-fishing season was over. For the last time that year the nets had been hung up to dry on the tall frames that stood along the foreshore, then stacked away in the room below Maddy’s attic. The boat would not be needed much during the winter, and it had been hauled up into the boat store beside the house to be cleaned down, the big double doors closed protectively on it.
Maddy added up the total earnings for the summer months, and pulled a face.
‘It could have been better,’ she said. ‘But thanks to the prices shooting up over these last few weeks we made more than I’d dared to hope.’
‘Shows how scarce they salmon have been,’ put in Jack. ‘I can’t never remember getting two shillings a fish afore. Thank gawd they fancy folk up to Lunnon be willing to pay such prices. They must be made of money.’
‘We certainly aren’t,’ said Maddy, double-checking the figures. ‘But we’ll get through the winter just as long as we don’t have any unexpected expenses.’ She looked hard at her brothers, and they shuffled uncomfortably under her gaze.
‘They’m going to behave, idn’t you, lads?’ said Jack confidently. ‘Us’ll manage fine. Bart, Charlie and me’ve already been promised places up the quarry. What about you, Lew boy?
‘I saw Arnie Chambers this morning,’ replied Lew. ‘And he wants me back. I’ll be in the wherrying trade again this winter.’
Only Davie had failed to find anything full time, but when Maddy went up to Rob Bradworthy’s farm for the apple gathering, he went along too. The cider apples were allowed to fall from the trees, carpeting the orchard floor with jewel-bright crimsons, ambers and golds. It was back-breaking work picking them up from the damp grass, and even more exhausting heaving the full sacks onto the wagon, ready to be taken to the apple yard.
‘Yer, Davie, you’m put on some muscle since I saw you last,’ remarked Rob, watching him lift the sacks. ‘I be a worker short – daft fool fell out of the hayloft doing a bit of courting. I could do with a man with brawny arms and a sound back for a spell, at least until the cider pressing’s done. The job’s youm if you wants un.’
Beaming, Davie accepted, more delighted at being called a man than at gaining steady employment for a few weeks.
Maddy beamed too, happy that a few more coins would find their way into the Delft jug, securing against the harsher, hungrier days of winter.
For a while Stoke Gabriel forgot about the summer past and the approaching inclement weather, and devoted itself entirely to the making of cider. Almost every farm had its own press and poundhouse, where the cider was made mainly for home consumption. Only at Oakwood was it considered as a money-making venture. The sweet smell of overripe fruit hung in the air as the apples grew increasingly soft and ‘sleepy’ – the ideal state for cider-making. Then farm lanes and yards became slippery with squashed fruit underfoot, and ancient poundhouses echoed to the rattle of the iron-ridged crushers mangling the apples into pulp.
‘I fair ache across the shoulders,’ complained Davie after one day’s work. ‘Turning the handle on that crusher be harder than the fishing ’cos there idn’t no easing off.’
‘Why didn’t you take turns with whoever was shovelling the apples in at the top?’ asked Maddy.
‘Didn’t think of un,’ admitted Davie with a grin. ‘Anyway, I suppose I should be thankful. Up to Oakwood they’m got a horse doing my job.’
‘You’m near as pretty as a horse, and you smells a lot better,’ said Jack, sniffing at his youngest son who was well spattered with pulp and juice. ‘What do Rob use to bed down the pulp in the press?’
‘Davie thought. ‘Wheaten straw,’ he said. ‘Yes, that be it, for they were arguing about whether the layers were thick enough. “A decent layer of apple pomace then a good mat of wheaten straw, that be the best way to build up a decent cider che
ese.” That be what Rob’s old uncle were saying. Why do you ask?’
‘Because ’tis oaten straw as is the sweetest and the best, in my opinion,’ Jack replied.
‘I offered to help Rob and his uncle but they said ’twas skilled work, and sent me back to the crusher,’ said Davie regretfully.
‘Thank your stars they didn’t want you to help screw the top of the press down,’ said Jack. ‘Then you’d have known about aching shoulders, winding down that gurt block of elm to squeeze the juice out. Makes the crusher seem like a little maid’s job, it do. I knows, I’ve done un. Tis a pity Rob uses wheaten straw.’
‘Why? What’s it to do with us?’ asked Maddy.
‘Cos oaten straw be the best, habn’t I just told you? And Rob, being a generous soul, is bound to give Davie a firkin or two to bring home.’ Then Jack gave a chuckle. ‘But cider be cider, when all’s said and done. If he offers, don’t you refuse, son, do you hear?’
‘I won’t, Father, and that be a promise.’
They grinned, knowing that this was one promise Davie was certain to keep.
* * *
Autumn brought other changes: a rash of balls and parties among the local gentry, determined to have one last social fling together before they moved on to spend the winter in London or the warmer climes of the Mediterranean.
‘Will you believe it, I’m entering society?’ announced Patrick one day. ‘The squire has taken it into his head to invite his neighbours to an evening of country dances such as he knew in his youth, and who better to provide the music than Mr Patrick Howard, musician extraordinary?’
‘Just you alone?’ asked Maddy excitedly.
‘No, we will be the church band under a different banner. Already we’ve had a practice and we’re coming along nicely. But I’ve left the best bit until last. Can you guess how much the squire is paying us? A guinea each!’
‘A guinea for one night’s work?’ Maddy was astounded. ‘Then let’s hope country dance parties catch on among the gentry. You’ll have your carriage yet.’
‘And you shall be the first to ride in it with me,’ Patrick laughed.
Before the winter finally came, the people who lived beside the Dart were to find themselves blessed with one more unexpected harvest. The working of the tides in conjunction with an exceptionally dry year resulted in some phenomenally low levels in the river, which promised to expose cockle beds not seen within generations.
‘You’m all ready for tonight?’ demanded Annie, although it was a question she had already asked half a dozen times. ‘They say it be going to be the lowest water in the Dart within memory.’
‘I’m ready,’ smiled Maddy. ‘You don’t think I’d let an opportunity like this slip, do you?’
Annie gave a sigh. ‘What wouldn’t I give to join in. Think of it! Cockle beds what likely habn’t never been touched. There’ll be some with shells as big as pot lids. Where’m you thinking of digging?’
‘Middle Back, I think.’
Annie nodded sagely. ‘That’s your best bet,’ she said.
Patrick was less enthusiastic. ‘I prefer to keep my feet on dry land, as you know,’ he said ruefully. ‘What I will do is to stay on the shore and play for you while you toil.’
‘You’ll be playing just for me?’ Maddy asked.
‘Just for you,’ he assured her.
That night it seemed as if every inhabitant from both banks of the Dart was abroad. Just as the river prophets had predicted, the tide had dropped and dropped, revealing vast gleaming banks of mud and sand which had not been exposed for a century or more. The decreasing channel of water was choked with boats heading for the cockle beds.
Like many others, Maddy had made her way to Middle Back, a sandbank off Stoke Gabriel creek. Even under normal conditions it was a popular spot for gathering cockles, but now it was so vast it almost seemed to stretch from bank to bank. She found herself a spot on a newly exposed area and, her bare feet sinking into the cold, wet sand, began to work. By the light of her lantern she watched for the telltale spurt of water by which the cockle betrayed its presence, then she would dig swiftly for the shellfish, employing the small sharp tool normally used for scraping the boat. Annie may have been over-optimistic, hoping for cockles as big as pot lids, but the ones Maddy dug up were certainly bigger and of better quality than anything she had ever seen before.
‘You knows what be going to happen?’ commented her neighbour, hitching her skirt higher out of the wet. ‘Us be going to take that many fine cockles to market tomorrow there won’t be no selling them.’
‘You’re a little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?’ laughed Maddy. ‘If the worst comes to the worst we can all live on cockles for days to come.’
‘With a drop of vinegar and fresh bread and butter there idn’t a better dinner,’ agreed her neighbour.
‘And don’t forget the tea, Beattie! You’m got to have a good pot of tea with cockles,’joined in another woman, while from round about the sandbank came a chorus of agreement.
There was a carnival air on Middle Back that night, with everyone joking and chatting as they dug. Maddy regarded the scene about her. Each bending figure, illuminated in the darkness by its own lantern, was reflected in the gleaming wet sand, making a picture she would never forget.
The conversation turned to where they would sell their cockles.
‘And what about you, maid?’ Beattie enquired.
‘I think I’ll give Paignton a try to start with,’ Maddy began. She got no further, for drifting across the river came the sound of a lone fiddler playing from somewhere on the Stoke Gabriel side.
‘Hark at he,’ declared Beattie. ‘It be that Patrick from the church band, surely? No one else plays that beautiful.’
Across the sandbank the laughter and chatter ceased as everyone straightened up to listen to Patrick’s music, Maddy listening with a greater delight than anyone else. She had not believed him when he said he would play for the cockle-gathering, she thought he had been joking. Listening to the sweet notes floating on the night air, she felt more than ever that this was a night to remember.
‘Idn’t he the grand one, to think up summat like this,’ Beattie said appreciatively. ‘Goose flesh all over, that’s what I’ve got, he’m that good. He makes up times hisself, did you know?’
Maddy made a noncommittal reply.
‘I heard one of his tunes once. At Miller Bond’s daughter’s wedding it were. I were helping with the serving and afterwards he played a piece as he said he’d made up special for the day. “A Devonshire Rose” he called it, Rose being Miller Bond’s daughter’s name. My, her were that pleased her cried, and so did her ma, and I heard her pa give that Patrick fellow an extra half-crown just for the tune.’
Maddy felt uncomfortable. Patrick had never mentioned making up a tune for Rose Bond. In fact, he had never mentioned making up a tune specially for anyone else, only her. A cold little dread stirred inside her. What if he had played her tune?
He wouldn’t do that. How can you think it? she chided herself. He promised the tune was mine.
She was annoyed at her lack of faith in him. Surely she was confident of his love by now? But she could not stop herself from asking, ‘How did it go, this “Devonshire Rose” song?’ ‘Bless you, maid, I can’t remember. It were months since. I’d knows un if I heard un again, but I idn’t good enough to sing un.’ Beattie paused to listen. ‘He’m started to play again. That last one were “Sweet Nightingale” but I be blowed if I knows this one. Pretty, though, bain’t un?’
Maddy thought it was very pretty indeed; unlike Beattie she knew the tune well. It was ‘Miss Madeleine’s Air’. Her heart warmed as she heard it, and her eyes filled with tears. Patrick had kept his promise, he was playing for her alone.
For Maddy the midnight cockle-gathering seemed to put a special stamp upon the weeks which followed, when the autumnal weather came with a rush. Somehow the lashing rain and fearsome gales, usually dreaded because they presaged the
coming of winter, did not seem so terrible. One benefit of her cockle money was that she bought Wuthering Heights, a volume fat enough to get her through the longest winter. Not that she needed books now to divert her. In the worst of the storms she had merely to let her mind go back to the magical evening, to hearing her song coming to her across the dark water, and the rough elements outside were forgotten. Even when the river overflowed, flooding right into the kitchen, it did not seem a disaster. Patrick’s love was protection against everything, or so she thought.
* * *
Maddy was preparing to bake bread. The day was raw and the prospect of being indoors by the bright fire was a pleasant one. She had just emptied the flour into the big earthenware crock when she heard running footsteps coming down the path. Davie burst in, his face ashen.
‘Maddy, oh Maddy! Help me!’ he cried, and flung himself into her arms.
‘Here, boy, what’s this about?’ she asked, hugging him close. ‘Something terrible’s happened. You’m got to help me get away, our Maddy. Constable Vallance be after me.’
Beneath her grasp Maddy could feel him trembling. ‘Constable Vallance? What’ve you done?’ she demanded in alarm. ‘I can’t help you until I know what’s wrong.’
Tve killed a man! I’ve killed Farmer Whitcomb!’
‘You’ve what?’ Maddy suddenly went cold.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ sobbed Davie, pressing his face against her, desperate for reassurance. ‘I had my catapult… I just meant to knock his hat off… but he fell off his horse with such a crash and lay so still…’
‘Your catapult?’ Maddy swallowed hard with relief. ‘You shot him with your catapult? You daft idiot, hefty men like Farmer Whitcomb don’t get killed by a pebble from a catapult. As like as not you took him by surprise, that’s why he fell off his horse. The fall will have knocked the wind out of him.’
‘Do you think so?’ Davie raised his head and looked at her hopefully. ‘But he lay so still.’
Daughter of the River Page 18