A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy)

by Catherine Cookson

  Alone again, she led Ranger to the burn, then sat on the parapet looking down at the reflection of the sun dancing like stars on the water as it gurgled over the stones. He was a nice man was Mr Charles Bentley. Wouldn’t it be lovely for Florrie if something happened between them. She felt no jealousy at the thought. Florrie was her favourite sister. She was sweet and gentle, yet had a mind of her own, and she’d be able to adapt to any company. Not so Maggie. Maggie was turbulent, and her tongue could have a flashing sting to it at times.

  Ranger, unlike Mr Bentley’s mount, knew when he had had enough and, tossing his head, he came up the bank and towards her, and she, taking up the reins, stroked his nose as she said to him, ‘There’s no grass here for you to nibble; further up there will be.’ And with this she stepped onto the low parapet, then mounted the horse again.

  There was no vestige of a road now, only sheep tracks. The land, open and bare, was patterned with the dull purply brown of dead heather and the burnt brown of crumpled bracken fronds, until once again, descending, she came upon an isolated piece of woodland, and when she emerged from it and rounded the bottom of a hill there, in the distance, she saw a cottage, so small it looked no bigger than the piggery sheds at home.

  She drew the horse to a stop, wondering how the American could possibly exist there all the winter. Of course, there was plenty of wood from the thicket behind her, and there, not ten yards away, she could see the glint of water tumbling down over an outcrop of stone. But you couldn’t live on wood and water. He’d have to carry all his essential foods up here. And at times he must have been snowed in for days on end…Strange man.

  She avoided going nearer the cottage, and drove her horse towards the base of the hill beyond the outcrop of rocks over which the spring tumbled. The hill curved sharply to the right and as she rounded it the horse gave a loud neigh of fright and she a startled gasp for there, lying stretched across the path, his head resting on a small mound, was the man she had been thinking about.

  The horse’s neigh not only brought him out of sleep, but scrambling to his feet. Blinking, he looked up at her, and she down at him.

  She was the first to speak, saying, ‘I’m sorry. He was startled, the horse. He…he might have trodden on you. I’m…I’m so sorry.’

  ‘My fault.’ He smiled quietly at her. ‘Silly place to lie anyway. But the view’s good.’ He thumbed over his shoulder, but didn’t look away from her. ‘We’ve…we’ve met before,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She swallowed deeply. ‘In the hotel dining room.’

  ‘Yes, in the hotel dining room. The day my friend almost knocked over your sister.’

  Lost for the moment for something to say, she said quietly, ‘I…I have just seen Mr Bentley down by the burn.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. He left me right here not long ago.’ He too now seemed lost for further words, then found a subject in the view. Turning from her, he stretched out his arm, saying, ‘Look at that. People travel across continents and don’t see anything finer. All those hills springing up from the valley and rolling on and on.’ He glanced over his shoulder now, his arm still outstretched as he said, ‘Do you know that eternity is just beyond that last hill?’

  She smiled faintly now as she said, ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it is. I’ve tried to reach it. I walked a full day and a night and I might as well have just stood here.’

  She stared down at him. What a strange man he was, but nicely strange, and disturbingly strange. It was his eyes. She could well imagine them looking into eternity. She moved in the saddle and the horse, restless, took a quick step forward and his forepaw rested on an open book. Pulling him up, she bent over, crying, ‘Oh, dear me! I’m sorry. I seem to be…’ She didn’t finish but, sliding from the saddle, she pulled the animal backwards and watched the man lift the book, saying, in a laugh, ‘It’ll be worth more now than the author ever dreamed of, it isn’t often a horse puts its signature to a page.’

  ‘Has he torn it?’

  ‘No, no. Anyway, if it had, it would be of little loss. Horace Walpole stretches imagination a little too far, I think…Do you read? Have you read this?’ He lifted up the book: The Castle of Otranto.

  ‘No, I haven’t. I…I haven’t read anything by that author, but I have read Sir Walter Scott.’

  She made the announcement as if with pride, and he nodded, ‘Oh, yes, your Sir Walter Scott. Yes, he is a good writer, but I find he drags things out. I suppose it goes without saying that you have also read Miss Austen’s work?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’ She smiled frankly at him. ‘It goes without saying.’

  ‘De-light-ful woman.’

  She noticed how he drew out the word delightful, as he did most of his words, even the ordinary words sounded different on his tongue. She found she wanted him to go on talking. And remembering the advice Miss Pritchard had given to all her pupils should they be in a drawing room and were called upon to keep the conversation going, either to ask a question delicately, or bring in tactfully some interest of your own, so now she said, ‘Referring to Scott, have you read Quentin Durward?’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t read that one.’

  ‘I…I should imagine that you might like it. It is full of foreign adventures.’

  ‘And you think I might like foreign adventures?’

  She felt colour rising to her face, but said, ‘Well, seeing as you’re not English, I…I imagined…well, perhaps, you might recognise some of the places.’

  ‘You give me credit of being a great traveller, which I’m sorry I cannot claim, for, apart from comparatively speaking short journeys I have made in my own country, England is the first foreign place I have visited.’

  ‘Do…do you like it?’

  ‘Very much. But I have one grievance.’ He inclined his head towards her and smiled. ‘Your cold is much too cold.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes’—she returned his smile now—‘especially up here.’ As she spoke, a quick gust of wind came up the valley and caused her to shiver slightly, and he was quick to say, ‘You see, even on a day like this, when the sun is warm, the wind reminds you that this is a cold climate.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Again she felt at a loss for something to say. And so she turned to the horse and started to walk it back round the hill. He walked with her, and when they came in sight of the cottage he said, ‘It would be both American and English courtesy to offer you some refreshment, but I have no tea, I only drink coffee.’

  ‘I like coffee.’

  Now why had she said that? Miss Pritchard would not have approved. She would have put it under the heading of unladylike behaviour,angling for an invitation. Even her mother would have exclaimed, ‘Oh, Kate!’

  He stopped and she drew the horse to a standstill, and once again they were looking at each other straight in the eyes, and of a sudden she felt embarrassed and deeply ashamed as she acknowledged that she had for a moment hoped that he would offer her coffee.

  She gripped the pommel of the saddle, saying, ‘I must get home. Goodbye, Mr…Mr…

  ‘Please.’ His hand was extended towards her. ‘I always have a pot on the side of the fire; I’d be happy if you would join me.’

  She turned her head and looked from his outstretched hand to his face again, then formally she said, ‘You’re sure it will not be interrupting your work?’

  His head went up and he laughed outright, saying, ‘I don’t work. I haven’t any work.’

  ‘Oh.’ Slowly she turned the horse in the direction of the cottage, and they were walking side by side when she put in quietly, ‘I understood from Mr Bentley that you are writing about the history of the country.’

  ‘Oh, that. Well, if that’s work, then I work.’

  As they neared the cottage she realised that it wasn’t so minute as she had first imagined. It had a low door, with two small windows to the right of it and one to the left, and there was a kind of byre attached.

  When she drew the horse to a stop on the edge of the rough
slabs laid in front of the cottage, he said, ‘You can tie him to the post there, or let him into the field with Daisy. Oh, Daisy would like that.’ He smiled at her and looked towards the drystone wall running parallel to the side of the cottage, and she smiled in answer, saying, ‘Oh, I’m sure he would like to meet Daisy.’ And on this she walked the animal towards a rough gate set in the wall.

  There was no sign of another horse until he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, then said, ‘She’ll be away down the hill having a talk with Biddy.’

  ‘Biddy?’ She looked her enquiry, and he nodded at her, saying, ‘Yes. I have a goat, and she gives me milk when I can catch her. See yonder’—he pointed—‘at the bottom of the hill, you see a black dot?’

  She saw what he termed a black dot.

  ‘That was a shepherd’s shelter, a very rude hut, and apparently Biddy was brought up there and her owner didn’t tell me she had a preference for her own house when I bought her. So every time I bring her across the field and tie her up here to the wall or post, she is gone by morning. How she does it, I don’t know, but once back near her own house she will give me her milk. But it’s quite a tramp down there, especially if a gale is blowing. She’s like her namesake. I christened her Biddy after a remarkable old Irish lady I met on the ship coming across to England: she’d walk the deck in storms, and had the captain worried to death; he could do nothing with her, she was so stubborn…Mrs Biddy O’Leary, they called her.’ He laughed. ‘We became good friends…But not so the goat.’

  ‘Have you thought of putting her on a chain?’

  She was amazed at the expression on his face now. Gone was the laughter and his voice seemed to lose its drawl as he put in quickly, ‘Never a chain! No, never a chain. I’m against chains. Man or beast should never be chained.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was small. ‘No, you’re right, quite right. Neither should be chained. I’m sorry I suggested it.’

  His expression lightened a little. ‘No, no. Your suggestion was understandable, and no doubt many would follow it.’ He turned from her and pointed now to the pony galloping over the hill, saying, ‘If only she would show the same speed when I’m on her back, we’d get some place…Oh! Oh!’ He had opened the gate and had to step quickly aside as Ranger made eagerly to get into the field, and Kate cried, ‘Steady! Ranger. Steady! Let me slip the reins. There. There. Go on!’ And Ranger went on.

  They watched the two animals come to an abrupt stop, and their noses tentatively touched before they were away again galloping like the wind, the smaller horse leading.

  ‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’

  Kate glanced at her companion. It was as if he had never seen horses cavorting before.

  Then turning abruptly from the wall, he said simply, ‘Coffee.’

  He stood aside and she bent her head and entered the cottage. The room looked almost starkly bare. It was about twelve feet square and one wall was almost entirely taken up by the open fireplace, with a bricked-in part to the side piled high with logs. There was a small wooden table and a single chair in the middle of the room, and on the wall to the left of the wood store was a row of three shelves holding two pans and odd pieces of rude crockery. And under the shelves and just about a foot from the floor was a slatted rack on which were a number of books, about thirty in all, and writing materials. The wall to the right had a door in it which she guessed must lead into the byre.

  He made no apology for the state of the dwelling, but said politely, ‘Please be seated.’

  She noticed that his manner at times was most formal, by which she gauged that whatever part of America he had come from, he must have been brought up in cultured surroundings, which in a way was surprising to her, for the impression that she held of the Americas was one of people living rough, mostly pioneers harassed by Indian tribes.

  She sat down on the wooden chair and watched him now bring two mugs from the shelf, then go to the fire where a black coffee pot was standing in the hot ashes. She watched him pour out the liquid. It looked deadly black. Then as he handed her the mug he said, ‘Would you like some sugar?’

  ‘If…if you please.’

  He now left the room and went into the byre; then he was back again proffering her a bowl of brown sugar, saying, ‘I rarely use it myself.’

  She put a spoonful of the sugar into the coffee, stirred it before sipping at it, then knew a moment of panic when she almost spat the contents out of her mouth. It was with one great effort that she swallowed the liquid, but she could not stop herself from choking and coughing, so much so that she splattered. When she felt his hand patting her on the back, she thought in despair. Dear, dear; it would happen to me, wouldn’t it? She groped for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Then still coughing, but less now, she gasped, ‘I’m sorry. Oh, I am sorry. I…I seem to be saying that all the…the time.’

  ‘Please, please, it was me. I’m a fool; no-one but a madman would drink coffee like this. Here, give it to me.’ He grabbed the mug from the table and, going to the open door, he threw the contents out; then came back to her, saying, ‘A drink of milk, goat’s milk? It will soothe your throat.’

  When he offered her another mug, holding some milk this time, she drank it gratefully, while at the same time telling herself that she had never been able to stand goat’s milk. There was always that smell about it. Yet, it did ease her throat. And now she smiled at him weakly, saying, ‘You must have a very strong stomach.’

  ‘Yes, I must have.’ He was laughing nervously now. ‘A doctor once told me that such strong coffee is much more harmful than either whisky or rum, or moonshine…home-brewed stuff, you know.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt about it.’

  ‘I’ll promise you on your next visit I shall make you coffee fit for a lady.’ His voice trailed away and again they were staring silently at each other. On her next visit, he had said.

  She noticed, too, the effect of his own words on himself, and now he murmured, ‘That is if you are this way again. I mean, should you care to call in. I…I don’t see many visitors, in fact, no-one except Charles. Of course’—his head wagged a little now—’I’m out a great deal.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said; ‘I understand from Charles that you have been studying the history of Langley, its mill and its mine…Have you seen the castle?’

  ‘Oh, yes. What is left of it, of course. What a pity it’s in ruins, although the original towers still stand, which is amazing when you think how old it is. But…everything here is so old, isn’t it? Everything has its feet deep in the ground going down to solid rock. You can stretch the imagination but never see it changing. So different from my country.’

  ‘Do you miss your country?’

  He seemed to consider for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll know when I get back later in the summer.’

  Why should she experience an immediate sense of loss? It was ridiculous. It was some seconds before she said, ‘You are returning home this year then?’

  ‘Yes. Oh…yes…well’—he jerked his head to the side—‘I say I am, but it all depends.’ His voice faded away like the echo of a note and for a moment she thought that she had detected a lost lonely quality in his expression. On an impulse she said, ‘Would you like to come down and meet my family sometime? They would be delighted to have you. My brothers particularly would like to hear about America. And you would find my father a source of information about this part of the world. You see, he once worked in the smelting mills.’

  To her surprise he now turned from her and walked to the open door and stood looking out for some seconds before he said, ‘I’m…I’m not a very good mixer. I don’t seek company as a rule.’

  She stared at him. His back looked long and thin and his black hair appeared like a large fur cap on his head. He had said he wasn’t a very good mixer. She’d imagined he would be just the opposite, for his way of talking and his manner were both free and easy.

  He surprised her further now by going to the side of the fire and rolling
a large round log towards the table, seating himself on it, then looking up at her and saying, ‘Tell me about your family. I’d like to hear about them.’

  There was a long pause before she answered, and then her voice was tentative as she said, ‘Well, there are my mother and father, and I have six brothers and sisters. The twins are the eldest, John and Tom, then comes Maggie. She was the one in the hotel dining room that day.’ She nodded at him, and he inclined his head in understanding. ‘Then there is Florrie, the one that caused the rumpus.’ Again she smiled at him and he answered her in the same way. ‘After Florrie comes Hugh. He is training to be a lawyer. He spends most of his time in Newcastle. He has rooms there. Gabriel is the youngest. He is eighteen. There were two others, Peg and Walter.’ Her voice dropped. ‘They died with the typhus, in forty-one.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I am, I am sorry.’

  ‘Well’—she lifted her shoulders—‘that’s the family. I mustn’t forget Annie Gordon. She has lived with us at least all my life. She is like one of the family. We have no servants as we girls and my mother run the house and the dairy, and at times help outside, but most of the work outdoors is done by my father and three of my brothers. I said we had no servants, but Terry is a farm worker. He’s been with us for years too, in fact since he was ten.’

  ‘Have…have you always lived in that farm?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. As I said, my father first of all worked in the smelt mills; then he had a little money left him and he bought a small farm. That was the beginning. He moved to two others after that, until ten years ago we came to Moor Vale.’

  ‘Life sounds very smooth and uneventful for all the family.’

  His eyes were hard on her now as if there were a question in his words and he was anxious to know the answer. And she gave it to him, saying, ‘Oh, there you are wrong. There have been many tragedies in the family, some that have made local history. Perhaps in your journeying you have heard of them.’