by Betty Burton
'You are laughing, Annie.'
Annie was.
Her laughter that had been tamped-down for five years smouldered through a layer of unhappiness, unfulfilment and feelings of inadequacy, and burst into flame on Emworthy shore. It was ages before she could stop. At last she crossed her arms across her stomach and heaved a sigh, but still little hiccups of laughter shook her.
'Oh Bet! They'm all so daft. If only they could see that their best man might be a girl.'
Betrisse looked seriously at her aunt. 'I wants to give you a token too. I can't give you the Thing, else if I ever got to go there one day when I'm big, and tell who I am — they might not believe it if I can't show it.'
'You could give me a shell too.'
'No, you can't have two tokens the same. It's got to be summit that's nothing like a oyster.'
'I tell you what I would like.'
'What?'
'That bit of cloth you had the Thing in.'
'That's only a bit of old rag.'
'No it an't — no more than my token is a old dead oyster's shell. A token is what poeple means by it.'
'Like what you said by the crown?'
'What d'you mean?'
'At the christening. You said about a crown don't matter, it's people saying he's the king that makes him king.'
'Ah . . . I'd a forgot that.' She went silent for a few moments. 'I wasn't really meaning crowns when I said it.'
She fell silent again; at last she pulled Betrisse gently towards her and looked her fully in the face.
'Listen child. I hope I shan't never pester you with my ideas and that, but I'll tell you this because I thinks it is important and I hope you'll remember and not make the same mistakes as a lot of us do.'
Betrisse caught Annie's serious mood and held it, looking directly back.
'I wasn't meaning crowns so much when I said that — I was meaning wedding bands.' She looked down at her own. 'When I had this give me, I believed it was a token to show that me and France. meant to do what we said. You a understand one day.'
'I understands. You mean, when I give you this cloth and says I shan't never make no fuss nor grumble now we'm here, it means . . . oh! I know what it means, I can't just get it right.'
'It will mean that you got every intention of doing what you says. It don't mean that anybody expects you to be perfect. Tokens mean people intends to do what they say, and even when they slips up, they goes on trying. Lord, I sounds like some old preacher.'
She pulled the ring from her finger and held it on the flat of her hand.
'It wasn't only France. It got so as it never meant nothing to me neither, so what's its use.'
Suddenly, she flung the ring far out, to where there was mud below the surface of the water. It made only a small plop and a ripple of rings as it sank into Emworthy mud.
'There!' she said. 'Now give me your token.'
Betrisse did so — feeling a bit self-conscious, but nevertheless solemnly.
Annie tucked the cloth into her bodice.
'I just tell you summit else we ought to agree on. Don't let there be no holding back between you and me. If we wants to laugh or cry, we shall do it.'
'But not grumbling.'
'No, no, we said not grumbling nor making no fuss. We can show proper anger, and get it over.'
'Can I call you "Mother"?'
'No!' Annie's tone was stern. 'You got a mother.'
'She beat me — you know how she used to beat me.'
'She thought it was for the best.'
'She beat me with a strap.'
'Only so your father wouldn't beat you harder. It was her way of trying to save you.'
'She never did though! He still beat me.'
Remembering the dreadful sight that she had witnessed, Annie pulled the girl to her and rocked her gently. 'I know, I know. And nobody will ever beat you again. Nobody. Ever. Long as I live.'
'And he watched. I'm glad he lost his poxy seal.'
'I told you before — we might a been working like tramp labour, and living with them, but we don't talk like they.'
'But I am glad though. If it had been Laurie that spoke back, even threw a platter at him — he would of only just said "respect your elders and betters"; then he would a told everybody Laurie was growing into a real little man.'
'Is that what you wants to grow into?'
Betrisse did not reply.
'Can I be Betrisse Sinjen then?'
'It's Saint John really. Sinjen is the way it come to be called over the years.'
'Betrisse Saint John. Don't that sound real nice? Can I be it?'
'I dare say it'd be better. I don't reckon many people from 'Clare is likely to come down here, but if they did, "Hazelhurst" might make them prick up their ears.'
'I shan't call it Sinjen — I shall be Betrisse Saint John.'
'All right. But that's all that is changed. We don't want to start off with a pack of tales that will only find us out. I am still your aunt.' She considered for a minute, then added, 'But if people thinks we'm mother and daughter, it a stop a lot of curiosity.'
2
For the first week after Annie and Betrisse disappeared, Luke and France, sometimes with Edwin or Richard or hired men, rode about the downlands and the lanes to try to discover them. France rode over to Annie's old village where her sister still lived.
'She never said much. Only that she had stopped on her way, and thought to stop a night here.'
Annie's family had been split up for so long that her sister had scarcely remembered Annie's existence until she appeared one evening, saying, 'I expect you don't remember me.'
'And I never at first. I never knew her from a stranger. She and the girl slept in the corner there. All she said was that they were on their way to Salisbury or Old Sarum or somewhere that way. She left early. They went on the Stockbridge road, so they must a been going somewhere that way.'
It never crossed anybody's mind that Annie had been fly enough to lay a false trail. After they had asked at every inn and coaching house along the road, they gave up. There was little else they could do.
They could have gone to see the magistrates, but that was to let others know too much about what wasn't their affair. Nothing so dramatic and shameful had ever happened in the Hazelhurst family and they agreed upon a story, that France's wife had gone off on something to do with a relative over Salisbury way.
'It an't none of their business,' Baxter said. 'And if anybody asks, then tell them — it's her affair and none else's.'
To cover Betrisse's absence, they agreed to say that Annie didn't know what she might find when she got to wherever she was supposed to be going, and had taken Betrisse to help out if needs be.
Now two of the Up Teg granddaughters had been let go. True, Hanna was brought over to visit whenever time and weather and state of the roads allowed, but gradually they became discounted from the Up Teg family. Jaen seldom called Hanna anything but 'Child', and Martha never spoke of Betrisse at all.
At the eventful Christening celebration, Jaen already knew that she was pregnant again. By the time Young Daniel was just over one year old, Young Baxter was born.
3
NEWTON CLARE
France became more and more solitary. Because he was a good flock-master, they gradually increased their buying of ewes in lamb to fatten for the good market in mutton. A bit of pig meat was available to everyone who had a few rod of garden, but fat mutton, for the town-dweller's table, needed good clover and grass meadows, or free-ranging down-lands like Keeper's and Brack.
Old Baxter expected something out of every Up Teg acre of land and every Up Teg person living upon it. He held the working of them in his head, and whilst he held the reins, water-meadows were properly and regularly flooded at intervals between November to March, giving France a good run for his sheep and then later a mow or two of hay. He saw to it that every seventh year the pasture was turfed up and dried for fuel then re-sown with red clover for the heifer
s and milkers. Horses were never slip-shod nor hay badly stacked.
But his breathing slowly became more difficult and he often had to admit defeat and suffer Nance's goose-grease plaisters, balsam steam, and days when he could not walk his acres and see that everything was in order.
Eventually he got rid of the oxen, so no more Hazelhurst processions were made. The grandchildren as they came along each had their Christening-day supper, but never like in the olden days. There was always present at any Up Teg gathering, like a shade or spectre, the remembrance of the occasion of losing the Up Teg seal. Original Day too was feeling his age, and gave up competing in the neighbourly rivalry for top place in Newton Clare.
On the night when the gold piece was lost, and the next day — and on many occasions after when somebody had a new idea of what could possibly have happened — they searched for it. Even some of the newly-laid flooring planks had been levered up, and the fire doused and the ashes searched.
That night seemed to be a turning point in the fortunes of Up Teg.
Sometimes France would go off up Keeper's and Brack and nobody would see him for days. Before he left he would always stop as he passed by Ham Ford Cottage, and Jaen would stop whatever she was doing for a few minutes and they would pass the time of day about sheep, or beans or the babies, and when he was gone she would be left feeling remorseful that such thoughts about Dan's brother would fly into her head.
Later, she would try to make up to Dan for them by putting her arms about his neck. But the action always ended with her feeling more guilty than ever for the fancy that it was France's black and curly beard that pressed against her face in the dark.
Strangely, now that Annie was gone, France had less need to visit Nell Gritt. He still took her a sack of whatever vegetables were in season, and the occasional rabbit or hare, but often not for the usual service that she rendered to the men of 'Clare — and as a consequence, to their wives.
Since the time, a good few years ago now, when the wild bull had reduced Tad, her new young husband, to a child, Nell had become a kind of rustic hetaera, confessor and safety-valve for the village and, as she grew out of her youth, she gained an unwanted reputation for knowing old secrets. An apothecary, a doctor or even a Cunning Man, could be consulted openly by women, but they went to Nell almost furtively.
Likewise some husbands who had too many mouths to feed already, or men like Dan who had strong appetites and wives reluctant to feed them, or others with desires like France . . . passion for close kin . . . sisters . . . thou shalt not. More openly went youths like Edwin bursting with manhood, not minding if they were seen coming from the direction of Nell's corner of the Common.
Cuckoo Bushes, the wasteland, no man's land.
Belonging to no-one and everyone.
Common property.
Cuckoo Bushes.
There, women often waylaid her with half a pie or knuckle of bacon 'for poor Tad' when she was wooding on the common. She would listen. Often that was all they needed from her, an uncritical ear, someone who would not look away, but listen and nod. Some went to her because they thought that she must have knowledge that they did not. They did not know that her barrenness was within her, that she had no secret that rendered her infertile.
But she gave them hope if they were childless, or hope if they wanted to be empty of the one they carried, or hope that they might stay barren for a while. They never got anything from her but words — no concoctions, no devices, none of the tampering service offered by some of her kind.
She was the recipient of secrets, an exchange mart and reservoir of bits and pieces of valuable knowledge about the mysterious workings of women. She often wore a sprig of some bush or a bud or cone or mast, which she would give to a woman who begged it for a charm.
'That there an't got no power, only what theece gives it theeself.'
And if it did not work then none could blame Nell Gritt, for she had said that they might find such things for themselves, that she had just come across it lying there, and that it waddn't 'nothing only two ole oak-galls that growed into one another.'
Her voice was always quiet, her dialect broader even than the rest of her broad neighbours.
'Waal, if 'twere Oi . . . I reckons I might try the Cup of Roots but added in, a garden crocus bulb ground fine.' Adding, with a laugh so that they would not pin too much reliance on the abortive power of a garden crocus bulb ground fine, 'Ah, but then it b'issn't Oi, 'tis thee, and thee's the one must say whether 'tis a trick tale or no.'
'. . . black hellebore — waal, so Oi bin tole — made up into pellets like . . .'
'. . . peppermint with honey . . .'
'. . . be thee sure 'tis what thee do'st want? Ah. Well. Young rundles of ivy leaves spread with honey. But 'tan't no blessing without chick or child — so be thee sure, for 'tis a tender place to be putten ivy leaves.'
She lived her precarious existence from day to day. She was an open secret. Her shanty was on common land, but that would be no obstacle to her being sent from the parish should she ever be an embarrassment or burden.
No matter how much they despised her, ostracized and feared her, communities like 'Clare needed a good woman like Nell Gritt. An unobtrusive woman who presented no bastards likely to threaten private or public purses. An independent woman who never came begging for anything or asking for help to provide for the man she had been bound to within the sight of the God of the nails.
In any case, there was no help.
Those who cared had not the means, and those with the means cared not to discover that help was needed by such as Tad and Nell.
Nell Gritt was not a warm-hearted whore. She and Tad were of those at the bottom of the pile. They had nothing, never had, never would have. She had been a young wife, and now was an older one. She had a husband who needed looking after like a child. She provided for them both.
She was France's only confessor to his thoughts about Jaen.
'And don't tell me 'tis sinful thoughts, for I knows that.'
'Thee casn't help thoughts, France,' she said. 'Only so long as thee tries to put them from thee.'
'I tries. Times, when I stop out on Keeper's for days and never comes down. I sometimes won't even take the flock on Brack, where I can see their garden, because I know I shall end up sitting there, waiting to see if she comes out. And I makes up my mind to go down by the back path home. And until I'm nearly there I haven't got no intention of coming across the Common. Then it's like having a parched thirst, and the means to slake it and forcing yourself to go without. Then I suddenly finds that I've come to the Ford. And then I'm looking to see if she's there drawing water, then if she's working on their patch, or whether cooking smoke's coming from the chimney. I tries all right, but I gets driv without realizing. Then 'tis all remorse.'
'Poor France.'
4
You gets worst instead of better!'
Dan, hungry and tired, had again come in to a delayed supper. Sometimes he looked furious enough to give her a good leathering, knock some sense into her. But he seldom gave her more than a passing angry knock.
When he had first taken a fancy to her, although she was pretty, he had not thought her more desirable than many another pretty maid he had taken unawares and seduced with his good looks and playful charm. His mother had always said that all the Hazelhursts could charm linnets down out of the trees, but only Dan could make 'm sing as well.
He knew it. He had been confident that she would return his kiss. What had surprised him was her passion. And now where was it?
Occasionally it seemed to flare up, and when it did, Dan would feel quite light-hearted believing that she was getting better. Better from what, he did not know, but it made him hopeful that their marriage might stop being the scrappy, unsatisfactory affair that it was. When he was feeling buoyant and hopeful, he might make up a treat for them.
'Why don't us go for a treat on Sunday. We could go to Morning Service — you wear that new blue skirt �
� and we'll take the wagon . . .'
Occasionally they might even go. If they did, Dan would be led into imagining himself a few years hence, head of a family of sons, perhaps living at the main farm.
'We shall be all right. Father is as pleased as a dog with two tails now he can see the line succeeding. What we should a done was to call the first one Baxter, but then it's only natural I wanted to call him Dan. Still, Father's lived to see another Baxter Hazelhurst.'
It was as though Jaen had lapses of normality, but that her usual state was one of wretchedness when she could scarcely hide her dislike of being touched by him.
'What be a matter now!' Exasperation in his voice.
'Nothing. It's just . . . I wish you would . . .' Then she would remember the pact about being a good wife and mother. 'I wish the children didn't come so fast one upon the other.'
'You wouldn't want to end up like Annie, would you.' It was not a question, but an assumption. 'Threatening people with a sickle . . . running off in the dark . . . stealing her own brother's child because she was so eat up with wanting a child of her own.'
You wouldn't want to be like Annie?
You wouldn't want to be like Jaen!
'I only meant that they seemes to come one a year.' She might have said about the bother of wet-nursing, but that would have been being dishonest, for she always felt a sense of relief when she handed the child over to be fed by a village woman.
''Tis a blessing for the farm that they do come so often. I seems to be the one with the male seed for this family. Can't run no farm without men and boys coming on.'
Jaen did not give voice to the thought, that she and her mother and little Ju had done pretty well. And now, by all accounts, they were doing even better, what with Ju's idea that they make products especially for selling, and not simply taking the stuff that was surplus. But Dan would never have it that Croud Cantle was a farm. 'Fairy Acres', 'Pixie Farm'.