A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Yes, you’re right, that might be so.’ Roddy’s face was as dark as his accuser’s now. ‘Everything you say could be right except your accusation that I don’t think of my father. Let me tell you, I’ve thought as much of him as you ever could, only thing is I haven’t opened me mouth so much about him. You know, I’ll tell you this, in a way, I’m sorry I ever got me memory back, for then you would have gone on being yourself, only opening your mouth when you wanted to cut somebody to pieces. Now apparently you can’t keep it shut. As for not being grateful to those who have helped me over the years, and to Mary Ellen here most of all’—he thumbed towards her now—‘for what she did for me, you know nothing about it; only time will tell how much I appreciate it.’

  He stopped speaking and the two men glared at each other as if they had never known one day of friendship. Then Hal, letting out a long drawn sigh, seemed to slump before turning away, saying, ‘Aw, to hell! To hell with you! Do you hear? To hell with you!’

  Mary Ellen stood and watched him pushing his way roughly past the people in the square. She dare not look at Roddy, although his last few words had seemed to put a stamp of certainty on her hopes, for there was in her a sadness that these two men who had been so close, closer than real brothers, should now be at each other’s throats. Although she had always resented Hal’s presence, she recognised now that he had needed someone, not only as a boy and a youth, but as a man. The clearing of his father’s name hadn’t seemed to expunge the stigma; he was still filled with bitterness, and that she couldn’t understand. She doubted if she would ever understand him. But then, it didn’t matter; the only person who mattered was the man now standing by her side, who had, in a way, made a public promise to repay her for all she had done for him. Not that she wanted any payment for being the means of saving him from deportation, but in a way she wanted payment for all the sleepless hours and the longing and desire that he evoked in her. Now that would come. He had as much as said it. That would come.

  Twelve

  She was full of excitement the following Sunday as she hurried across the hills: it was as if she was going to her wedding. But like that of the bride who waited at the church in vain, so her heart sank with disappointment as she entered the cottage. Her first words to Kate were, ‘Is he out?’

  Kate was seated at the table chopping up a root on a board, and she turned her head and smiled her skin-stretching smile, and as if she hadn’t heard the question she said, ‘Blustery day an’ cold enough to shrivel you.’

  Mary Ellen went and stood at the other side of the table. She hadn’t put her basket down but was holding it stomach high with both hands. ‘Where is he?’ she said, her tone almost a demand now.

  Kate stopped chopping at the root and, pressing her bent back against the chair, she muttered, ‘Somewhere in London town, I imagine, at this moment.’

  ‘London town?’ The words seemed to force their way out through the top of her bonnet and the woollen scarf that had been keeping it in place.

  Kate sighed now as she looked at this girl who had been like a daughter to her, in a way more than Roddy had been a son, for she had talked more to her and been more open with her. She said gently, ‘Take off your things and sit down.’

  As if in a daze Mary Ellen did that; then slowly pulling a chair to the opposite side of the table, she looked across at Kate and asked quietly, ‘He’s been then?’

  ‘Aye, but not the day, or yesterday. He came on Tuesday and early on, for they left at six in the morning. They came by Main’s diligence. It sets off from the Rose and Crown in the Bigg Market at that hour. They got off at Hexham, and there they hired a trap from one of the carriers in Hexham, but not afore they had breakfast at the inn, she informed me.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Aye. His new godparents or such, or whatever you might call them, came with him.’ There was a touch of bitterness in her voice now. ‘Apparently the man, Cottle his name is, wanted to do some sketches hereabouts and it was a good opportunity, he said. And she an’ all was at it. She drew the outside of the cottage.’

  ‘Is she old?’

  Kate now attacked a bulbous corm as she said, ‘No, not old as age goes.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Oh’—Kate seemed to consider—‘thirty, perhaps. Aye, thirty. But he’s a lot older, old enough to be her father.’

  Mary Ellen was silent for a moment. Thirty. Well, thirty was old. ‘What was she like?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh.’ With her knife whose end was sharpened to a point Kate attacked the white pulp of the bulb as if she had a grudge against it as she said, ‘Oh, I don’t take that much notice of folk; I don’t wear me eyesight out looking at things that don’t matter.’

  But then she almost started in the chair as Mary Ellen’s hand, thrusting out, gripped her wrist and she cried, ‘It does matter. You know it does matter to me, Kate.’

  ‘My God!’ Kate looked at the knife that had dropped from her fingers on to the table. ‘You could have cut me finger ends off. Do you know that? That knife’s like a lance. And then Farmer Yates would come bellowin’ at me as loud as his bull because I couldn’t make the cuckoo-pint powder to open up his beast’s gut. I’ve got used to it making blisters on me fingers with its strength, but I want me fingers.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But…but you know what I mean.’

  Kate now scraped her chair back on the stone floor; then having pulled herself upwards, she shambled to the row of shelves that covered one third of the side wall, and, taking up a small jar, she returned to the table and began to spoon some white powder out of a mortar into it. And when the mortar was empty she replaced the pestle in it out of habit and pushed it to one side before placing the jar on the table. She put her hand on Mary Ellen’s shoulder, saying, ‘You’ve got to accept things as they are, lass.’

  Mary Ellen slowly lifted her head that had been resting on her hand and, looking up at this old woman whom she could say she truly loved, she whimpered, ‘I can’t, Kate. I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. Tell me straight, this woman, what is she like?’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you straight. She’s a smart piece, as is her man. Not like artists that I had in me mind. I thought they mostly ran round in their bare pelts. She’s good lookin’, after a fashion, but pert. Well, that isn’t the right word. Bossy. Aye, that’s more like it. It’s she who rules the roost. So there you have it, but don’t get wrong ideas into your head: she’s a married woman, and of the class, which is another thing that surprises me, her being the artist type. I always thought artists were lucky to have a crust. Anyway, not these two, nor their friends in London town where they’re taking him, seemingly to extend his knowledge and to show him round the galleries, whatever that might mean. But there’s one thing I’ll tell you, an’ I suppose I say it as shouldn’t, but no matter how he’s dressed his class’ll stand out. Here, he always appeared to be a cut above the rest, for most are but rough working men, but in their presence, he’ll be the brisket end compared to the top cut, if you know what I mean.’

  She knew what Kate meant all right, but she still wasn’t comforted.

  ‘Did he leave any message for me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Aye, he did. He said to tell you he wouldn’t be seeing you until come the New Year, but he’d write you a letter.’

  ‘He said he’d write me a letter?’ Her eyes widened.

  ‘Aye, that’s what he said. And only last week he was tellin’ me that his letter from Newcastle to here had cost sevenpence. He wasn’t grumbling about it, it was me asking if he had money to throw away. So God above knows what his letter from London will cost—a shilling or more I wouldn’t be surprised. Money thrown away. But then not in this case, if he sends you a letter. That’ll be something, won’t it?’

  ‘Aye. Aye.’

  ‘I’ve just brewed some mint tea. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘Yes, please, Kate.’ Her voice was quiet. Her whole body was quiet, sunk into momentary apathy,
for there seemed nothing to look forward to, nothing to live for. She had been buoyed up with hope all the week: she had felt that if they could only be together once or twice more like they had been last Saturday, something would come of it, he would kiss her.

  There had been times at night when her imagination had been so vivid she had felt his mouth on hers, and she had gone to sleep wrapped in happiness. Even this morning she had stilled her tongue when her mistress’ voice had dinned continually in her ears extolling the virtues of her grandson and denouncing girls who were thankless and wayward. Even when Mrs Davison had said, ‘You needn’t think you’ll get anything from me towards your wedding chest,’ she had stopped herself from retorting that it wasn’t the wedding chest that mattered, it was the man. And she cared for one man and one man only, and admitted guiltily to herself that she had long since ceased to care for her father.

  The thought sent her hands to the basket, and she took out a slab of cheese and another of butter; then taking up the knife that Kate had been using, she cut them both in half. And Kate, seeing her doing this, said, ‘Oh, now don’t do that; your da needs them to get him through the week.’

  ‘Not more than you he doesn’t; he’s got money in his tin that he can buy food with.’

  ‘So have I. So have I. It’s in the wall there.’ She pointed to the chimney. ‘I told him to take it, but he wouldn’t, except a few pounds to buy a gift or two, as he said.’

  To buy a gift or two. Mary Ellen’s body stiffened. Who for? Not for her. Likely, if he’d had a gift for her, he would have left it here.

  Kate broke in on her thoughts now, saying, ‘You’ll be kept as busy as a bee up there next week, especially on Christmas Day, because they usually have a big table then, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Well, I meself will be havin’ a chicken, and Benny Fowler will be killin’ one of his pigs. He always brings me some rib and chitterlings. And then there’ll be the beast killin’ up in Allendale. I never like that, you know, the beast killin’. They take so long over it. A feast they make of it. Drunk as noodles and battering the things slowly to death. I sometimes wonder why I’ve ever ate meat. We could all do without it, you know. But then, as I say to meself, I’m not averse to havin’ a bit of pork or killin’ a chicken on me own. We are full of contradictions, you know, Mary Ellen. Aye, we’re full of contradictions. But what I was comin’ to is this: your da’s on his own. Now he’s not a very sociable individual, as I know, but I hate to think of anybody on their own at Christmas. It will be the first one for many a long day that I’ve eaten at a solitary table, so would you like to ask him if he’d come and take a bite with me?’

  ‘I will, I will, Kate. I can’t promise that he’ll come, because you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Aye, I do, man and boy. And there wasn’t a nicer young fellow walkin’ than your da, let me tell you, Mary Ellen. Life’s embittered him. When your mother went she drained his veins. There’s no life in him now, except that what he rakes up to be miserable with. Still, you tell him I’d be pleased to see him, will you? And he’d be doin’ me a favour. Tell him that.’

  ‘Yes, Kate, I will.’

  ‘Well now, drink up this tea. It’ll taste a little different from usual for I’ve put a wee dollop of rosemary into it. Very precious that, the rosemary, for it’s difficult to come by in these parts. Farmer Yates brought me some when he returned from his brother in August. He lives miles away down the country in Lancashire, his brother, an’ the stuff grows like weeds there. So, knowing that he owes me a debt or two for what I’ve done for his animals, I told him what I would like if he ever came across such as rosemary, and he remembered and brought me a good stock of flowers, enough for me to distil a bottle or two from them. But God knows when I’ll get the next, for now Farmer Yates’ brother is dead. ’Twas to his funeral he went last time. Anyway, lass, you’ll feel better after this for it’s a great comfort to the mind and body is rosemary.’

  Mary Ellen drank the mint tea that today had an added scenty flavour, but there followed no miraculous feeling of well-being. And even half an hour later, when she wrapped up once again and said goodbye to Kate and went on her way to her father’s, the rosemary’s magic powers had still failed to lighten her heart.

  Christmas came, and went, followed by the excessive eating and drinking on New Year’s Day.

  Then the year took on the appearance of any other year: it snowed, then thawed, then a frost took over and turned the roads into a sea of glass; then it thawed again.

  She managed to get to Kate’s on the second Sunday in January, but still no letter had come for her. Kate had little to say except that she didn’t know how she was going to get through the winter as her flesh now didn’t seem to hold any heat.

  On the third Sunday, with warnings from her mistress that she shouldn’t make the journey at all as the sky was laden with snow, she wrapped up and set out. Her basket was full today, as it had been last week. It was her mistress’ way of telling her that she was forgiven, but more so it was showing her how bounteous life could be if she would come to her senses and have no more truck with that fellow who had caused all the trouble; she had been cute enough to realise from her handmaiden’s manner that things weren’t going as hoped in that direction.

  Mary Ellen had no sooner left the farmhouse than her mistress’ prediction showed signs of being fulfilled, for single large flakes began to fall, and before she reached the cottage they were coming down thick and fast.

  Then behold, when she pushed open the cottage door, there he was. At least, at first sight she thought it was him, but then for a second not, because he looked so different. He had an overcoat in his hand and was standing, about to put it on. He was wearing trousers not breeches, the material being a sort of thick twill and of a salt and pepper colour. It was akin, she thought, to the clothes the gentry wore, and when, with a quick movement, he pulled on the overcoat which was of a deep fawn colour, she walked up the room gaping at him, and even when he said, ‘Hello, there. I thought I was going to miss you,’ she still offered no greeting.

  ‘I’m having to look slippy.’ He thumbed towards the small window. ‘If this keeps up the roads will be blocked.’

  She said weakly, ‘You’re going now?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have to. If I’d taken Kate’s advice—’ He nodded towards the fire where Kate was sitting in the chair, her gaze concentrated on the big black iron pan set on the iron stand that was pushed halfway into the fire. ‘She told me it was coming, but I thought I’d hang on a bit in case you turned up early. What are you looking at? These?’ He flicked his hand down the front of his open overcoat and laughed self-consciously as he said, ‘I haven’t gone mad and spent all me money. These are Mr Cottle’s cast-offs. He’s fatter than me but Mrs Cottle had them altered. I’ve never worn anything so warm in all me life. An’ they feel good.’ He now buttoned his coat. ‘I’m sorry, Mary Ellen, but I’ll have to be on the move. Kate will give you all me news. Anyway, if this doesn’t lie’—he again looked towards the window—‘I’ll be along next weekend.’

  He walked past her and went to Kate, and bending down to her, he said, ‘You heard what I said, didn’t you?’ He put his hand on the side of her head.

  ‘Aye, I’m not deaf yet, lad.’ The words were like a rebuff, and he straightened up and rather sheepishly he turned to Mary Ellen and said, ‘Well, ta-ra. Take care of yourself. You’re looking fresh.’

  This remark she ignored, and more to detain him than anything else, she said, ‘Have you seen Hal?’

  He shook his head: ‘No. I only got here late yesterday afternoon. Apparently, he’s still out on his hunt. I went along to his cottage but it’s all locked up and there was no fire on that I could see. He’ll drive himself mad. It’s ridiculous; the whole thing’s over and done with. He should have been satisfied when Bannaman died, but no, he’s out for blood. That’s Hal.’

  She made no answer to this, b
ut when again he said, ‘Ta-ra,’ she answered, ‘Ta-ra.’

  When the door closed on him it was as if a stranger had walked out. There was silence in the room. The basket was on the table; her two mittened hands were gripping the handle; the melting snowflakes dropping off the head shawl round her bonnet were dropping onto them. It was Kate, turning from the fire, who spoke. ‘Sit yourself down, lass,’ she said. ‘You look buffered.’

  Mary Ellen loosened her hands from the basket now and stretched out her fingers as if they were cramped; then she went round the table and sat on the cracket opposite Kate. Her hands now joined tightly in her lap, she asked, ‘What’s all his news that he’s talked of?’

  Kate bent down and, taking up a square of peat, she placed it behind the black pan and as she did so a waft of smoke came down the chimney and she turned her head away, coughing. After a moment she remarked, ‘I’ll have to get a brush up there; it’s tight at the top…About his news. His friends are leaving Newcastle; they are going to London town. And they want to take him with them, so he came yesterday to ask my advice.’ There was an unusual bitter note in her voice as she uttered the words. Then looking fully at Mary Ellen, she said, ‘That was only a form; he’ll do what he wants in the end. I’ve had to come to terms, sort of face up to the fact that he’s a lad…no, no, not a lad any more, a man who’ll go his own road. He’ll do it quietly and without fuss if possible, but he’ll do it. He doesn’t mean to hurt anybody so he beats about the bush. And that’s what he’s doin’ now, because, lass, let’s face it, he’s bound for London and all it proffers. Better instruction he says, wider outlook on art, whatever he means by that. Up there, there are people who can draw and paint, he says. I did say to him, I’d understood there was a lot of fine artist-like people in Newcastle. He agreed, but apparently the Cottles think there are better still up in the big town.’