Spirit of the Highway

by Deborah Swift

  Mother ignored the implication. ‘Such a terrible thing to happen to her, yet she manages to do everything any normal young woman could. She can lip-read so well, half the time you’d never know. And she can even write and calculate too, just like anyone. She’d work hard. And she thinks the world of Jacob. She just needs to be given a chance. I have a ring here that was my grandmother’s, I’m sure I could part with it …’

  Mother twisted the gold band on her finger, trying to remove it.

  Abigail’s face flared scarlet and humiliation burned in her eyes. ‘Don’t, Mother.’ She stood up, turned to Constable Mallinson. ‘You have made your conditions clear. My brother has agreed to furnish the dowry, but I know you might need more time to decide over the other … difficulties.’

  She gave me a look that I understood perfectly, and I leapt to my feet. ‘We must not keep you from your business,’ I said.

  Mother stood too, looking a little confused. ‘You’ll let us know then, will you?’

  But Abigail was already walking out of the door. I grasped Mother firmly by the arm, bade a tight good night to the Mallinsons and followed Abigail out.

  ‘Abi, wait.’ Jacob came running after us.

  But by the time he caught us up in the darkening gloom, Abi was sobbing and would not speak to him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jacob asked, catching her by the shoulders. ‘They’ll come round.’

  ‘I can’t bear it. All of you discussing me like I’m … some sort of simpleton! Mother saying I can do things “normal” girls can, as if I’m not, as if … as if a deaf girl is worth less than everyone else!’ She broke away from Jacob’s hands. ‘I won’t be bartered over and sold like I’m a cheap piece of cloth.’

  ‘Hush now, Ralph’s said he will find the dowry and —’

  ‘He can’t. Ralph and his grand ideas. They never come to anything. You know as well as I do that he’s never had a head for business. Money just slips through his hands like water. No wonder he wants to do away with money altogether with his stupid Diggers community.’

  They were words said in heat and anger, but they stung me just the same.

  11 - BROKEN BONES

  Cutch and I were up early as the pale sun peeped up over the horizon. My mother, who had gone to fetch milk for William, seemed to have warmed to Cutch and had left us home-baked bread and cheese on the table.

  I whipped a clean cloth from the drying rail to wrap our provisions. I was anxious to get up the Manor, keen to prove to Abigail and Jacob that my plot would soon be productive and the best tended of them all. Abigail’s words had hurt me. I’d always thought my younger sister looked up to me. Was I really the feckless person she’d described? I’d show them.

  I tucked the ends of the cloth round the bread remembering how I’d gone straight to Mallinson’s shop the very next day, and agreed with Mallinson to provide a dowry for Abigail. Two years — it was agreed. We’d shaken hands and I’d felt his plump damp palm in mine. I’d get that money sooner if I could — and prove them all wrong. They’d all eat their words when I handed over that big fat dowry.

  And if it meant putting my own ambitions on hold, and waiting a few years before I could make a Diggers life, then so be it. Abigail might not get another chance, and she was cow-eyed over Jacob. Lord knows why, he seemed pretty ordinary to me. But I was soft, I realised, at least as far as my younger sister was concerned.

  I’d had yet another sleepless night, and decided I must try to talk to Kate again. No doubt she would be pleased I’d given up my plans. Though it was only temporary, I told myself. Just till Abigail was wed. I’d choose a civilised hour to call on Kate. The thought of her gave me a shiver of apprehension.

  But as the Manor came into view, I was taken aback to see that the villagers were at work even earlier than we were, and several wagons with big Percheron horses were already ahead of us on the drive. What was more, two other carts passed us on their way to the village, loaded down with sheaves of corn. When a third came, I waved it down, and was disgruntled to find the shifty eyes of Bill Archer, the miller, staring at me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked him, surveying the heap of sheaves on the cart.

  ‘It’s going to the mill for threshing and grinding,’ he said. ‘They’ll get it back as flour and chaff. Or at least, their share of it.’

  ‘Their share? Surely it all belongs to Lady Fanshawe.’

  ‘Not now it doesn’t,’ Archer said with relish. He clicked the horse on, and we stood back out of the way.

  ‘It’s not right,’ I said.

  ‘Thought you were all for sharing it,’ Cutch said. ‘Isn’t that the Diggers way?’

  I frowned, although more uncertainly now. As we watched, another laden cart went by, this time filled with baskets of apples. The scorching summer had made the trees fruit early. I had seen windfall apples and plums in Kate’s orchards, and meant to tell her to begin plucking and preserving them. Now they were disappearing in front of our eyes.

  ‘That fruit —’ I asked a woman in a large straw hat, who was sitting on the back of the cart. ‘Where’s it going?’

  ‘Soper’s barn,’ she said. ‘Come tonight if you want your fair share.’

  ‘Wait!’

  But the cart was already creaking its way out of the gates.

  I turned to Cutch. ‘I’m going to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better to keep out of it?’ Cutch said.

  I was already on the move though, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw Cutch shake his head, but then shove his fork into the ground and run after me.

  When we got to the orchard, we could only stare. Every tree was stripped bare. Not a single apple, pear or plum remained. The grass was trampled flat round all the trees as if a Biblical horde of locusts had been there.

  ‘Told you so.’ I threw the words at Cutch as I strode to the back door and hammered fit to wake the dead.

  Abigail stuck her head out of the door. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Fetch Kate,’ I said.

  One look at my face was enough to send her scurrying, and a few moments later Kate, hair still mussed from sleep, and roughly dressed in a skirt over her chemise, was following me to the orchard. I told her what I‘d seen. Her eyes travelled over the denuded trees, with an expression of disbelief. ‘They won’t get away with it.’

  We found Downall in the yard. ‘What do you mean, taking all our corn and all our fruit?’ Kate said. ‘Who gave you permission to do that?’

  Downall smiled long and slow. ‘Why you did, Milady.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You were glad enough to get your harvest in. And how else will you pay folk? You’ll get your share like everyone else. Except that seeing as you haven’t worked for it, your share will be less.’

  ‘But it is my land and my crop!’

  ‘I heard tell you were a Digger. Soper says he heard tell you were with them that built on the common.’ He gave a wily grin. ‘So you believe in the earth belonging to all, don’t you?’

  ‘But this isn’t fair! You’re stealing my harvest. What will I sell, how will I —’

  ‘’Tis too late, now anyway,’ Downall said. ‘It’s gone to Soper’s barn.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ I shouted, setting off after Kate, who was already running into the yard. The last cart, laden with sheaves of barley, was about to leave. Several men were briskly sweeping the yard of the chaff.

  Hitching up her skirts Kate leapt onto the tailgate and scrambled aboard. Like a crazy woman she hoisted up sheaf after sheaf and tumbled them one by one back into the yard.

  ‘What are you doing? Get down!’ Ned Soper waved his pitchfork at her.

  ‘Kate!’ I shouted with him, but she did not heed me, her breath coming in short gasps as she hurled the barley down.

  Around me, Ned’s workers closed in on the cart, threatening her with their pitchforks, and trying to load the bundles back on. I pushed through, leapt
up onto the cart beside her. Ned scrambled up behind us and tried to pinion Kate’s arms, but she twisted away, dragged another sheaf to the edge and tipped it over. I gathered up another few and threw them into the yard.

  Ned wrenched Kate’s arm up her back. ‘Leave go,’ she cried. ‘You’ll not take it. It’s mine by right!’

  The sight of the filthy Ned Soper with his hands on Kate incensed me. ‘How dare you!’

  I tried to wrestle him away, but he would not let go. I grabbed his fingers and bent them back, forcing his grip to loosen. Kate staggered back away from him. He lurched towards her again to take hold, but I pushed him off with a great shove.

  In horror I watched Kate reach out to grab him as he toppled backwards, his arms flailing, grasping at nothing. For a moment his body hung in mid-air, his mouth open in shock. A thud and a crunch. The gasp from the onlookers, told me he had hit the ground. Men rushed forwards to look.

  I jumped down, tried to part the sea of bodies, but they were all stepping back to make a circle. In the centre Ned Soper did not move, his legs were bent at an odd angle, the pimples on his face suddenly red against the white.

  I looked up. Kate was still standing on the cart, a sheaf in her arms, but she was motionless, as if she held her breath.

  A white cap amongst the crowd, pushing through. Abigail.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she signed.

  ‘It’s Ned,’ I pointed, mimed ‘tumbling’ with my hands.

  ‘An accident. He fell off the cart,’ Kate said.

  John Soper was crouched over his son. ‘Pushed, more like,’ he said. ‘Speak to me, Ned, where does it hurt?’

  Ned uttered another groan of pain and his lips were grey as goose grease. He turned on his side and retched.

  ‘Help him somebody!’ John Soper said, tugging at his arm. ‘We need to get him up.’

  ‘No, don’t move him yet,’ Abigail said, ‘give him room.’

  The crowd moved back a little. ‘Is he alright?’ Kate said, suddenly all motion, scrambling down.

  I put my hand out to help her. Her face was almost as pale as Ned Soper’s. I squeezed her arm, but she did not meet my eyes.

  My stomach churned. ‘It was an accident,’ I repeated. ‘He overbalanced. Cutch!’ I called, my voice full of panic.

  The people parted to let Cutch through. He crouched to feel Ned’s arm. More yells of pain.

  ‘Cutch will know what’s wrong,’ I told Soper. ‘Seen every type of break on the battlefield. If something’s broken, he’ll likely be able to fix it.’

  ‘Hope he’s better at fixing bones than cartwheels,’ someone muttered.

  ‘It’s your fault. I’ll not pay a bone-setter’s fee,’ Soper grumbled.

  ‘I’ll do it gratis,’ Cutch said, running practised fingers over Ned’s shirt. ‘It’s broken right enough. Shoulder’s smashed.’

  My heart seemed to collapse inwards. Ned was hurt, and it was all my fault. I hated him, and felt sorry for him at the same time. ‘Can you fix it?’ I shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

  Cutch sucked in his breath. ‘Not the shoulder. It’s a long job, and not much I can do. But nothing else is broken. He’ll have to rest, take liquor to ease the pain.’

  ‘You did it on purpose,’ Downall said staring straight at me.

  With a supreme effort, I clenched my teeth. It would do Ned no good to argue. We could sort it out later. ‘Empty the cart, and give us a hand. We’ll see he gets home,’ I said.

  Downall gave orders for someone to fetch the board from the trestle table in the dairy as a stretcher. Meanwhile Cutch had found a fence lath to make a splint and bind the arm to the body, with much yelling and groaning from Ned.

  ‘What about compensation?’ Soper said, glaring at Kate. ‘It was your fancy-man pushed him.’

  ‘Don’t dare to speak to Lady Fanshawe that way.’ I could no longer keep quiet. I appealed to the knot of workers. ‘You all saw it. He lost his footing. None of it would have happened at all if you hadn’t been stealing —’

  John Soper stood up, wagged a finger at me. ‘You wait. I’m going to talk to Mallinson. There’ll be new laws now Cromwell’s in charge. The King’s fled. You won’t get away with pushing us around, you and your Fanshawe shit.’

  ‘Pa!’ More groans from the cart drew Soper reluctantly back to his son.

  The cart set off with Ned yelping at every bump in the track. Soper turned and yelled, ‘If he can’t work, or if it doesn’t mend, I swear I’ll fleece you bastards for every penny you have.’

  ‘And thank you to you, too,’ muttered Cutch. ‘Ungrateful bastard.’

  I glanced over to Kate and Abigail, who watched the cart’s slow progress down the drive with their arms wrapped around each other.

  Downall picked up his rake from where he’d dropped it earlier, began to push the sheaves into a pile.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Getting back to work,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ He waved his arm to the crowd who began to drift away.

  ‘Oh no you’re not,’ I said.

  ‘Ralph,’ Abigail’s warning voice, ‘please. You’ve done enough damage.’

  ‘You’re not working here, not unless you see to it that every last grain is returned to Lady Fanshawe’s barn.’ I braced my shoulders, saw Downall’s eyes narrow. The men who were dispersing paused, stared.

  ‘Look at yourself,’ Downall sneered. ‘What were you fighting for? You don’t give a toss for the common man. All that Diggers talk of sharing, but one look from the lady of the manor and you’d lick the King’s arse if she told you to —’

  My fist shot out, catching Downall on the cheek. It was like hitting a stone wall, but he staggered back, clutching his face. There was an audible gasp from the farmworkers behind me. Cutch leapt to my side, grabbed my shoulder.

  ‘You shit.’ Downall looked at his hand to see if there was blood.

  My knuckles stung, and tears sprang up in my eyes. I hadn’t meant to do that. God, what was I thinking? I’d already pushed a man off a cart. I dropped my head to my chest. Cutch pulled me closer into a protective huddle.

  ‘I will have respect.’ Kate addressed Downall in a voice that was sharp as flint. ‘You’re dismissed.’ She turned to me then, her face suffused with anger. ‘Both of you. I won’t have fighting here.’

  She turned and walked to the back door, her back rigid as a board. The slam of the door made me wince.

  In the yard all was silence. Abigail had both hands over her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. She turned to me. ‘You fool. You’ve ruined everything.’ Then she bunched her skirts in her fists, ran after Kate.

  Downall kicked his rake to one side. One eye was watering and a bruise was coming already on his cheek. ‘You’re too free with your fists, Chaplin. Constable Mallinson will hear of this,’ he said, ‘and when he does, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’

  12 - THE HUNT

  At mother’s cottage I was up early, unable to sleep. The events of the day before rolled round my head over and over. Everything was going wrong. I knew I should not go near the Manor, but Kate drew me there as if I was bewitched. I prayed to God he’d take away the longing in my heart, but it burned there still.

  I put my spade over my shoulder and crept out past Cutch’s curled and sleeping shape.

  The land had always been my solace, and hard physical work my comfort. I did not know what else to do to ease my heart, but dig. Maybe that was why a Digger’s life spoke to me so. In the pale dawn the view was so beautiful, it made me catch my breath, the sight of the deep belt of green oaks beyond the meadow, the heat haze shimmering over the dew. A few orderly stooks of corn marked where the gold had been shaved to a soft brown, and where after yesterday’s events, all work had stopped.

  I inhaled a deep breath, sighed. I wished it had been me, not Downall, coaxing the land back to its seasonal cycle. The land being worked was the only sign that order might at last return to Englan
d. After the King had been beheaded and even his distraught son could not scramble an English army to defend him, it seemed like England herself had lost her head. In the last six months, my life had been turned upside-down by war and my father’s death.

  But even more so by love.

  The very sight of Kate was still enough to set a tremble in my chest. It was as if my eyes were caught to her by a string, wherever she moved I couldn’t help but watch. Her grace and strength in equal measure wrung out something deep inside me.

  Yet I had to confess, I was no longer certain who or what Kate was. Before I left for Worcester, she had been set on the Diggers ideals of freedom, but in just a few short weeks the tug of her aristocratic past had begun to draw her away from me. How could I compete with all those generations of tradition and power, the sheer weight of her forebears? And now I was weakening too. I was being worn down by the needs of society for dowries and certainties. I felt as if I was grasping after shadows.

  But I would not be defeated. There would be setbacks, perhaps. But I would fight for Kate and for my vision of the future for as long as I had the strength.

  I struck my spade deep into the soil until I felt the crunch of it under my boot. Stood on its edge to feel it slice deeper, turned over the rich brown earth. The land in front of me was unchanging. The trees still grew, the river still flowed, despite the wars of men. As if to keep me company, the early blackbird sang its sweet, sharp song.

  After I had been digging a while, Cutch arrived and began to work beside me, lifting the earth over with his fork, the clang of iron and the patter of earth the only other sounds.

  When we heard hoof beats, we looked up, shaded our eyes.

  Jacob Mallinson reined in his horse in a skid of earth and stones.

  ‘You fool! I warned you to keep away from Downall,’ he shouted without dismounting. ‘My father has a warrant for your arrest. Downall’s put in a complaint. You hit him, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had to. He was stealing, and he insulted Kate.’

  Jacob slid down. ‘I don’t know what it is with you, Ralph, but trouble sticks to you like a burr. Father’s angry as hell. I’d just about persuaded him that you really were serious about Abigail’s dowry, and then Downall comes to our door looking like he’s been in a prize-fight.’