No. No. The voice was loud in her head. No, no, she wasn’t waitin’ for him, not any more. Nor had she been for a long time.
She began to run. It was only two miles to the farm but she thought she would never get there, the paths seemed endless. And when she entered the yard, there was Terry Foster standing talking to a tall gaunt-looking woman, and they both turned at her approach.
‘Where’s Hal…Mr Roystan?’ She addressed the boy now, and he, looking at the woman, said, ‘Eeh! That’s what we were just sayin’. We thought he must be over at your place, Mary Ellen.’
She now looked hard at the woman who said, ‘I’m Annie Gordon. I…I come and tidy up for him and do a bit of cooking. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning when he left to go over to Whitfield way to see about a bull.’
They looked from one to the other now; then in a very small voice, Mary Ellen said, ‘Not since yesterday morning? Anything could have happened him. He could have been knocked off his horse and lying somewhere.’
‘That’s what I thought, Mary Ellen. I’ve just said that to Miss Gordon. Didn’t I, Miss Gordon?’
‘Yes, yes, you did, Terry.’
‘What shall we do?’ Mary Ellen asked the question more to herself than of them; then she answered it by adding, ‘I…I’d better go down to the mill and…and see the men, and perhaps Mr Mulcaster will do something.’
The sound of barking had been going on in the background all the while, and Mary Ellen said, ‘Boyo. Did he come back alone?’
‘No.’ The young boy shook his head. ‘Mr Roystan never took him along with him ’cos he didn’t know whether he was bringing the bull or not. But Boyo’s been cryin’ an’ yellin’ his head off ever since. I’m frightened to let him out in case he runs off.’
‘Who’s seeing to the cattle?’
‘I am.’ The woman nodded at Mary Ellen. ‘They’re all right. I often see to them when Hal is not here. He’s…he’s been away a lot of late.’ She narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Well, of course you know that; you’re the young person from over Kate Makepeace’s place, aren’t you?’
There was no need for Mary Ellen to confirm this, but she stared back at the woman wondering if she detected resentment in the look. She also wondered if the woman had had ideas about Hal. But then she dismissed them: What ideas she would have would be motherly ’cos she was gettin’ on. You could see that, although she wasn’t as old as Hal had made her out to be, middle thirties, she’d say.
She said to the boy, ‘Have you thought of looking over the moor?’
‘No, miss; I’ve just been waitin’ for him comin’ back.’
Quickly now she said, ‘I’ll away to the mill. The men’ll know what to do.’ And with that she turned and ran out of the yard, and down the hill. There was no-one about the inn, nor at Nillston Rigg. She hurried along the lane, skirted the dam, went up the steep hill and along the waggon track. She could see a group of men crossing the yard. Stumbling over the rails and the debris, she came up to them gasping, and as she could not speak for a moment, they all stopped and gazed at her. Then one said, ‘What’s the trouble, lass?’
‘Have…have any of you seen Hal?’
‘Hal?’ They looked at one another. Then one of the men, with a slight leer on his face, said, ‘Hal Roystan? Why, lass, don’t you know he’s no longer a common workin’ man? Farmer he is now. Landed gentry is goin’ to be his next step. Why, I thought you would have known.’
Her body was already hot with running and there was colour in her cheeks, but now her whole face became suffused with a blush and in a manner very nearly her old self she retorted smartly, ‘Yes, and what you say could just come true, Mr Conway. Then, instead of spittin’ your spite you’d be raisin’ your cap.’
There were three Conway men in the group. The man who had spoken was a leading smelter in the mill and with his brothers John and Frank working alongside him, and his younger brother, Herman, mining at Stublick, he was known to think that his family ran the whole show, for he had a sister, too, who was married to a smelter, and experienced smelter men were the cream of the mill.
‘What is it, lass? What d’you want?’ It was the quiet voice of Ben Fowler. He was standing next to his son Paul, who, before she could answer, stepped forward and said quietly, ‘Kate gone? Is that why you’re lookin’ for Hal?’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head quickly. ‘Hal’s gone missin’. He went over to Whitfield yesterday to see about a bull and no-one seems to have seen hilt nor hair of him since. I’ve been over to the farm. He didn’t turn up last night, nor today either.’
The men looked from one to the other and one said, ‘Perhaps he’s gone off jauntin’, to town.’
‘No. He…he went after the bull. Anyway, he always brings me milk every mornin’.’ She paused now and met the glance of Peter Conway and she repeated, ‘Aye, he brings me milk every mornin’. And just by the way, Mr Conway, I can tell you, he saved me life when the bairn came because nobody else tried to get through to me in the snow.’
There was the sound of scraping of hobnailed boots on the stones, and one man muttered, ‘Lass, you should understand we couldn’t move up here. Nobody could. Anyway—’ the man was looking round the group now saying, ‘this needs lookin’ into. What d’you think? He’s not goin’ to stop bringin’ the milk and that without sayin’ somethin’.’ He turned his head towards Mary Ellen again and said quietly, ‘He would likely have told you, lass, if he had been goin’ away, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes, Mr Fowler, yes, he would.’
‘And you say nobody’s seen him since yesterday mornin’?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well now’—he nodded his head—‘that’s comin’ up close on two days. Look’—he half turned now and glanced towards the offices—‘don’t you think she could go and see the boss? Because somethin’ should be organised.’
‘Aye, yes.’ They all agreed quickly to this. Then the old man said, ‘Come on, lass. Come on and see Mr Mulcaster.’
Mr Mulcaster came to the office door and gazed down on Mary Ellen and the men behind her. And she told him why she was there.
At first he smiled at her tolerantly, no doubt thinking back to the last time she had approached him, concerning another man who had later thanked her for saving him from transportation by taking her down, then leaving her. Now here she was concerned about that same man’s friend, and if all tales were true, hers also, for Hal Roystan was known to visit her pretty frequently. But she was showing real concern and it was true what one of the men had just stated, you wouldn’t go away from around here for nearly two days without saying where you were going. Well, he supposed something must be done. But then, the young fellow could have taken it into his head to go jaunting. He was a young man and young men often went jaunting when the need was on them. And he said as much but he put it in a different way. Looking down at her, he said, ‘Now you don’t think he just could have gone off on some business or other?’
She looked up into his face, saying quietly now, ‘He’s got a farm. He loves animals. When he left he told the boy he’d be back around dinner time; it all depended if he brought the bull back with him.’
‘Where was he goin’ for the bull?’
‘A farm near Whitfield.’
‘That’ll be Johnson’s farm, sir, if it’s over by Whitfield,’ one of the men spoke up now. ‘Or Plummer’s,’ said another man.
‘Oh, Plummer’s is only a small place; he wouldn’t have any bulls for sale.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
Mr Mulcaster held up his hand, saying now, ‘Well, it’ll be one or the other. I think’—he paused a moment—‘what must be done first is to organise someone to go across there and find out if Hal was there at all. What about you, Frank. You like riding a horse?’
Frank Conway didn’t show any enthusiasm, until Paul Fowler said, ‘Well, if you don’t want to do it, I’ll go.’
‘Who said I didn’t want
to do it. I’ll go. Can I take a horse from the stables?’ Frank Conway was looking at Mr Mulcaster and the agent nodded at him, saying, ‘Yes, yes, of course. How long will it likely take you?’ He paused and, reckoning in his own mind, he said, ‘You could be back here within an hour and a half couldn’t you?’
‘’Tis over four miles each way.’
‘Yes, well, take a fresh pony, he’ll skip the miles for you.’
Ben Fowler turned to the others, saying quietly, ‘We’d better get cleaned up. Whatever message he brings back will determine what we’ve got to do.’ Then turning again to Mary Ellen, he said, ‘That’s all we can do for the present, lass. The only thing I can add is, if he’s not found by the morrow mornin’ we’ll have to call in the constable.’
A shudder went through her as she thought of Hal lying out somewhere injured, especially on the moor. Another night could do for him, especially if a mist came down, because it sank into your bones even if you were scurrying through it.
Detecting her anxiety, Mr Mulcaster said, ‘Now stop worrying and go home. The men will call and give you their news as soon as possible.’
She swallowed deeply, then said, ‘Thank you.’
The men made way for her, and as she passed through them she moved her head from one side to the other, saying, ‘Thanks. Thanks.’
‘Don’t worry, lass, he’ll turn up. Knowing Hal, he’ll be there in the mornin’ like a bad penny.’
Paul Fowler patted her arm and she inclined her head towards him, then hurried away.
Hal did not turn up like a bad penny the next morning. One of the men had called last evening to say that Farmer Johnson had said Hal had called at the farm but that he hadn’t taken the bull with him because the pony had shied away from the animal. He had expected him back but he hadn’t yet turned up. Farmer Johnson had related that the young fellow had been in high spirits and very pleased with his purchase. He had also warned Hal to beware his pony didn’t throw him for it seemed very high-spirited.
The warning seemed to have been justified when, later that day, a pony was found nibbling quietly on the moor.
One thing puzzled the searchers who found it: it had a hole in its rump, as if it had been jabbed with an instrument of some kind.
All around were now deeply concerned. Hal Roystan had been well known, even before the business of the discovery of his father’s grave and the downfall of the Bannamans. But now, at the mention of his name, be it in Allendale, Haydon Bridge or even Hexham, people would nod their heads to acknowledge their acquaintance with him.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Mary Ellen stood in the kitchen of Hal’s little farmhouse and with the tears running down her face looked about her. Everything was neat and orderly. The woman Annie had just gone after tidying up where there was nothing to tidy. She too had been crying, and her last words as she went out of the door were, ‘He was a lovely man, a lovely man, and kind. There’ll not be another like him. No, there won’t. No, there won’t.’ And in her mind Mary Ellen endorsed this, for she knew now there would never be another like him. And she asked herself why she hadn’t found it out long ago. She must have been blind, or just young and silly. She was about to sit down when she stopped herself muttering aloud, ‘You’ll have to get back. You’ll have to get back.’ Kate was in a very low state, and Mrs Patterson could only stay with the child for an hour or so at a time.
She was a depressing woman, was Mrs Patterson. Before she had got through the door this morning she was saying, ‘It’s hopeless. Four days now. They should give up. Some of the men are dead on their feet: they do a shift, then wander the moors, then back to their shift again. It can’t go on.’ And then she had nodded at her, saying finally, ‘Make up your mind, lass, make up your mind. Wherever he is, there’s no comin’ back, not after four days out there. And they’ve been over the place with a small tooth comb. ’Tis another mystery that’ll not be solved for years, just like that of his father afore him. And they’re sayin’ now, and it’s quite true, and it’s strange, that when his father disappeared he was ridin’ a pony. And where was that found? Right down the river in Newcastle. And now his pony’s been found. I tell you, it’s uncanny. History repeats itself in cases like this, always did and always will. Her lying there’—she had pointed to the bed—‘she could tell you that…’
Mary Ellen went into the farm sitting room and stood there gazing around the room. No wonder he had been proud of his home. And he had picked up nice odd pieces of furniture. It was a lovely little house. It had everything. Oh, Hal, Hal.
The whining of the dog penetrated her mind, and she went out and stood in the yard looking towards the shed where the animal was, and she thought, Poor thing; it’s as lost as I am. Going to the shed, she lifted up the heavy latch and pulled the door open a little way, and the dog thrust its head through and licked at her hand. She peered into the dimness and said, ‘Oh, you haven’t got any water. Just a minute.’ And as she went to close the door again she felt the animal thrust itself against it, and then he was out in the yard dancing round her. And she called to it ‘Boyo! Boyo! Stay! Stay, Boyo. Here, Boyo!’
It stood still, but as she came towards it to grip its collar, it again darted from her; then it ran to the house door and, reaching up, scratched at the knob. And when once again she made to grab at it, it darted from her, then turning, fled from the yard. And she cupped her face in her hands, saying, ‘Oh now, where will they find him? If he roams he’ll be picked up by the gypsies again or shot by a gamekeeper if he gets into someone’s land.’ But what did it matter? She let out a long shuddering breath. If Hal was gone, and Hal must be gone by this time, the dog would pine; if not, he would certainly be unmanageable, because he obeyed nobody but Hal.
Her step was slow and weary as she made her way back to the cottage…
Mrs Patterson greeted her with, ‘I’m not gona ask if there’s any news because I know there couldn’t be, that’s unless they find him. But anyway, the men are calling it off the night and leaving it to the constables. It’s their job anyway, although what that handful will do will make no difference one way or the other.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Patterson. I’ll manage now.’
The woman put on her shawl; but before opening the door she said, ‘Me chest’s not so good. I could do with a drop of that cough mixture. And our Mary isn’t sleeping. Kate often used to give me a powder for her.’
Everything must be paid for. The words echoed through her mind as she measured out the cough mixture and spooned some white powder on to a piece of paper. Kate was always saying that, everything must be paid for, even the help given by a neighbour in a kind of crisis. This was the third time this week she had made up potions for Mrs Patterson.
After the woman had gone she went to the basket and picked up the child. It was sucking on a pap bag, but it was empty. So she made up another one, dipped it in the milk and placed it in the child’s mouth. The baby’s face was very red, and she lifted up its dress and saw that once again Mrs Patterson had tightened its binder. Almost angrily now she undid the length of linen that was wound round the child’s middle, and the baby let out something of a sigh. And she muttered aloud, ‘Why must it be made so tight? They can’t breathe.’ But even Kate said the binder must be tight or the child’s stomach would blow out like a balloon. There was moderation, though, there must be. The child was always happier and didn’t whinge when it lay in a slack binder.
She replaced the baby in the basket, then patted its cheek before going to the bed. Kate was lying with her eyes open and her mouth moved into the word, ‘Well?’ but made very little sound. She didn’t answer her but just shook her head.
When Kate tried to speak again Mary Ellen bent down and put her ear towards the thin blue lips and the word she heard was, ‘Ban…na…man.’ It sounded as if it had been split into three. She looked at Kate and said, ‘But they’ve gone. There’s no-one there. The house is empty.’
Kate’s lips moved again and once mo
re Mary Ellen put her ear down.
‘Ban…na…man.’
Mary Ellen looked down into the eyes that still showed conscious intelligence and she shook her head and said, ‘They can do nothing, Kate. They’ve gone. The place is empty. The men were all round there yesterday, both those from the mill and the constables.’
‘Find out.’ The words were low and clear now. ‘Enemy. Hal’s enemy. Find out.’
More to soothe her than anything else, Mary Ellen said, ‘All right, Kate, all right. I’ll tell them to find out where they are, the Bannamans. Yes, I’ll tell them.’
She watched the old woman’s eyes close, and only the slight rise and fall of the hap indicated that she was still breathing…
It was late afternoon when the scratching came on the door. She opened it, and in amazement saw the dog standing there. And she looked down on it, saying, ‘Why, Boyo! Oh, Boyo, you’ve come back. Come away, come on, that’s a good dog.’
But the dog did not come into the room, it turned round and walked halfway down towards the gate before stopping and looking back at her, as if trying to tell her something. And she knew it was trying to tell her something: it wanted her to follow him. In an agony of mind, she looked back up the room to the bed and then to the child. Then grabbing up the big shawl that used almost to envelop Kate, she put it over her head and tied it round her waist in a tight knot; then lifting the child up, she put her into the folds of the shawl between her breasts, and hurried out, closing the door behind her. And when the dog saw her he moved on, running now straight across the field towards the quarry top. When she reached the top of the bank she was gasping for breath. But the dog was only a few yards in front of her, and she thought for a moment, He’s going to the tunnel. But that was silly. She had been there. The first thing she had done after she finally realised he was missing was to make herself go there, while trying to forget it was from there he must have dragged Feeler and made him hang himself.
A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy) Page 30