A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy)

by Catherine Cookson

  There seemed another long pause before he answered her. ‘Yes, yes, one or two things,’ he said. ‘Some men were murdered and…and the culprit hanged himself, or some such tale.’

  ‘He was only one of the culprits.’

  ‘But it was a grim business and such are best forgotten.’

  ‘Unless’—she smiled—‘it is going to add flavour to your story.’

  ‘I…I’m not writing a story. I am not an author.’

  ‘No?’ There was a note of surprise in her voice.

  ‘No. I…I came over to England on a sightseeing tour and was rather…well, the word is fascinated by your part of the country, and there is so much folklore here that I decided to make notes on it. If Sir Walter Scott were alive he would have nothing to fear from me, nor would Mr Walpole or Miss Maria Edgeworth. Have you read any of her tales of Irish life?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘They are well worth reading. Her descriptions are very poignant and clear.’

  ‘I must look out for her work when I next go into Hexham. There is a good bookshop there, you know.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t go that far; I can lend you the very one.’ He went to the rack and, taking from it a book, he handed it to her, saying, ‘You don’t even need to return it, I’m finished with it.’

  She took these words not only as a prelude to dismissal but also as an indication that he did not wish his peace to be disturbed again; but such thoughts were scattered by his adding, ‘If you’re riding this way again, you’ll be able to give me your opinion of the work. It’s good to hear other people’s opinions. One gets very biased about one’s likes and dislikes. Don’t you find it so?’

  ‘Yes, yes, especially in the country. An idea, however wrong, is often passed down from family to family. Father has found that out in the treatment of cattle, and Mother too.’

  ‘Your mother deals with the cattle?’

  ‘Yes, in a way, because she is very good with herbal remedies for animal ills, and for humans too.’ She smiled broadly now. ‘People come from far and near at times for her poultices and potions.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  She said no more, but as she looked at him she became disconcerted by the expression in his eyes, for they did not so much seem to be looking at her as through her. Nevertheless, she found that she liked looking at him, he had such an interesting face. His skin was not ruddy like those of the boys; in fact, there was no colour in it, being of an overall matt-brownish tinge, the same as covered one’s arms in the summer.

  She wondered what age he could be. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? But he could be older, for he gave off an air of maturity. She wondered too about his own people, but didn’t like to enquire. She rose from the chair, saying, ‘Well, I must not intrude on your hospitality any longer.’

  She was surprised now to see his head go back and his mouth open wide as he laughed a deep hearty laugh. She didn’t think she had said anything amusing, but he explained his reaction to her words when, bringing his head down slightly towards her, he said, ‘Forgive me, but you sounded as if you had been entertained in a drawing room.’

  ‘Did I?’ She tried to suppress a smile, for she felt she should appear…what, a little grieved?

  ‘Yes’—he nodded at her—‘your tone was so polite, so gracious, and all wasted on a place like this.’ He wagged his hand from side to side. Then becoming serious, he looked round the room as if never having seen it before and he said, ‘It is sparse, isn’t it? Almost a hovel.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. Sparse, yes, but clean and warm. I always think there is too much stress placed on possessions. They don’t bring happiness, not even comfort. Some of the most contented people I know live in cottages no bigger than this. But they keep a good table and a glowing hearth; they have a good quantity of bedding and crockery, a patch of vegetable garden and a few hens, and it is as if they owned the earth; they seem to want for nothing more. Once you start acquiring, the impulse becomes a habit. I should know’—she smiled broadly—‘my father’s got the habit. Each year he increases his herd, lengthens his stable, takes on a bit more land. I tell him it’s a good job other people have boundaries. Do you find it the same in your country?’

  ‘No, not the same, because outside the towns it would be difficult to encompass the land, it stretches endlessly away. Yet’—he pursed his lips—‘when I come to think of it, there are constant battles going on between the Indians and the settlers to possess land, or for Indians to repossess it.’

  As she walked to the door she made herself probe by asking, ‘Are you from a large family?’

  ‘No. I was the only child.’

  His tone was flat and sharp and brooked no further investigation. In fact, once more she felt embarrassed.

  They walked to the stone wall in silence and there he whistled again, and after a moment the two horses came galloping towards them…

  When she was mounted, the pony put its head over the wall and let out a loud neigh, and on a lighter note now he said, ‘She’s going to miss her companion.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she nodded. Then added, ‘Goodbye.’ There was nothing more she could say, she did not know his name. But he knew hers, for he answered, ‘Goodbye, Miss Roystan.’ And with that she left him.

  For quite some distance she sat straight in the saddle, not trotting the horse but walking it. And it wasn’t until she had left the hills and almost reached the valley bottom that she drew it to a stop near a group of trees, and tried to sort out her emotions. She knew she was disturbed as never before and she asked herself why this should be. It was only the second time she had encountered the man, and on this occasion he appeared an interesting and likeable young man. Then she questioned the likeable, because in a way he was strange. It wasn’t natural, she thought, for a man of his appearance and evident education to live alone and in a place like that. Terry’s quarters above the stables were a palace compared to it. At one time during their meeting, she had felt strongly that he wanted rid of her, she was intruding. That was when he had given her the book. But then he had said he would like to know what she thought of it.

  Before spurring her horse into a trot, she told herself she wouldn’t tell them at home about the meeting because Maggie would surely demand to accompany her on her next ride out, and she felt that he wouldn’t thank her for bringing him more company.

  Five

  The family were in conclave. Kate had just ridden out again. This was the fifth week in succession that she had taken a satchel with her, holding books.

  ‘And there’s a different one every week.’ Maggie said. ‘I went into her room and saw it last week, it was one by a Mrs Radcliffe, and before that it was by Mr Walpole, and this week it was another by Jane Austen. It must be someone of education she’s exchanging books with. Why doesn’t she say?’

  Yes, why didn’t she say? Mary Ellen nipped at her bottom lip. And it wasn’t only the books that she put into her satchel. It had been Kate’s turn to do the cooking last week and, as was the rule, she made the ten hand-sized meat pies and the same of fruit, but, to her knowledge, she also made a meat turnover, which did not appear on the table. Now if whoever she was visiting was a cultured person, they wouldn’t be in need of extra food, would they now? Last week she had gone as far as to try to probe, but had been baulked before she had hardly opened her mouth by Kate smiling quietly and saying to her, ‘Let me have my half-day out a week, Mam.’

  Indignant and hurt, she had answered her, ‘That isn’t fair, Kate, for you to say such a thing. You know that your time’s your own, anytime you want it.’ And Kate had hung her head and muttered, ‘Sometime I’ll tell you, perhaps soon. You see, I have a little friendship with someone; I don’t want it spoilt by the wrong construction being put on it.’

  Mary Ellen looked at her family and listened now to John going for Maggie who had suggested that one of them follow her. And she found herself searching in her mind to pin down someone she knew, s
ome male whom Kate was seeing on these weekly visits. But she could think of no-one. All the people she knew for miles around, those families with sons, would not be taken up with reading, other than newspapers. Yet this friend of Kate’s was someone who lived in the vicinity, at least within an afternoon’s ride to and from him.

  ‘Perhaps she’s come across an old teacher.’

  They all looked at Tom and nodded, and Florrie said, ‘Yes, that could be possible, Tom, for there are some learned men in Allendale. There’s Mr Carrick, and Mr Dickinson, and Mr Arnison. Then there’s the clever parson who’s a great mathematician.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. They are all old men.’ John dug Florrie gently in the shoulder. Then Maggie had their attention, saying, ‘Well, it isn’t so silly. Perhaps it is some learned old fellow she goes to see, it certainly wouldn’t be any young learned fellow, would it now?’

  ‘Maggie!’ The word came harshly from Mary Ellen, and Maggie tossing her head, said, ‘Aw, Mam. Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean, an’ it’s very unkind of you.’ Mary Ellen rose to her feet and marched from the room, and Tom, looking at Maggie, said, ‘Your big mouth, sister, will swallow you one of these days.’ And on this he too left the room. And Maggie, indignant now, turned to John, saying, ‘It’s only what we all think. Anyway, look what happened with Harry Baker.’

  ‘Harry Baker was a fool, and she was well rid of him; if I was a man on the outside and I had to pick and choose for a lifetime ahead, I know where I’d toss me cap.’

  As the door closed on John, Maggie turned to Florrie, saying, ‘Well, now you have a go at me.’

  ‘I agree with John,’ said Florrie. ‘If I were a man and sensible, I would pick someone like Kate to spend my life with.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly. If you were a man. How do you know how a man feels? Put a pretty face and a good figure before them and do you think they look for brains and a nice disposition? No, their thoughts are on the bedroom. And anyway, it’s always Kate, Kate, Kate.’ And now it was her turn to stamp from the room, leaving Florrie with her lids blinking rapidly over her grey eyes and her fingers pressed tight on her lips.

  She had been brought up on a farm. She knew how foals, calves and lambs came into being, and she also knew how human beings came into being. And the latter had its place in life she knew, because she had thought about it, but never, never had it been openly alluded to as Maggie had just done. There was something happening in the house. It had begun the Monday Kate was left at the church.

  When the typhus had taken Peg and Walter the house was weighed down with sadness for a long while, but they had all seemed very close; yet, since Kate’s tragedy, and she thought of her desertion as such, there had been an uneasiness in the place. The harmony was gone. And now a strange thought occurred to her: it had gone because Kate herself had been the pivot around which that harmony had revolved.

  The sun was hot on her face. Her body seemed to be sweltering under her riding jacket and skirt. Ranger’s skin was shining with sweat and she hadn’t galloped him at all, simply let him trot most of the way. She looked first to the right and then to the left of her. The land looked parched. They had been without rain for some weeks now. The crops would be very poor, and already they were having a hard job to find grass for the herd. If the weather didn’t change soon it would lead to a very hard winter for many people. So much depended upon the weather. She narrowed her eyes and looked up into the sky. It was cloudless, blue and high. She wished, like everyone else, to see it almost touching the far hills and the rain being driven horizontally by the wind across the moor. Yet, it was only because it had been so dry these past weeks that she had been able to make her weekly journey to the far hills, because once it should rain heavily, the path would become bog-like.

  He had said he had been cottage-bound for five days earlier in the year just through the rain…He had said…He had said. She was always thinking of things he had said. Why was she going on, because this association, she knew, would only lead to heartbreak. Harry Baker’s desertion had upset her, but the main feeling there had been one of humiliation, because she hadn’t known then what it was to love. Now she did, and it was a torture, becoming ever constant, sleeping or waking, because she knew that the future was black. When he left to go back to America, which could be any time now, the dazzling light would go out of her life.

  Why had this to happen to her? If she had been petite and pretty, she could have fostered hope. But as it was, she knew that there was not the slightest hope he would ever see her as other than the big-framed, more-than-plain-faced woman. He might think she was quite good company, as he surely did, for now he always welcomed her warmly, but she felt that he also looked upon her as being a sensible woman without any romantic or silly ideas in her head.

  That seemed to be the curse of her life: everyone took her to be steady and sensible, a mature woman. Was she not? Yes, outside she looked her age, and her appearance pointed to sensibility, but inside, she felt like a young girl, and had only recently checked the desire she often had to pick up her skirts and run across this very moor and to stand on the summit of one of the hills and fill her lungs with air and then yell out her hidden joy. These were times when she seemed blind to the externals of her being, when her inner self took over and she was young, and beautiful, and attractive to men. Yes, to men…one man. She had once been gullible enough to imagine that somewhere there would be one man who would like a young woman with a big frame and a plain face because he would like the sound of her voice and admire the way she sang, not forgetting how she could cook and look after a house.

  But those dreams were dead and buried. Yet the one man had come into her life the very week another had deserted her, and when he walked out of her life she would feel deserted again. But this desertion would cause her agony.

  She bent over and patted the horse’s neck, saying, ‘Not far now, and you’ll see Daisy.’

  As if he understood her, Ranger answered immediately her signal to trot and in a very short time they were rounding the hill and in sight of the cottage; and on this she began to pray that he would be there today, for last week he had been nowhere about.

  Now her heart seemed to bounce off her ribs for there he was coming out of the door and down the slope towards her. ‘Hello there,’ he said.

  ‘Hello. Isn’t it hot?’

  ‘Lovely. I can’t get too much of this weather. But I seem to be the only one that is pleased with it, for all about they are moaning.’

  ‘Yes, the crops are suffering.’

  ‘Of course, of course. I’m very selfish.’ He helped her down from the horse, then patted its neck, saying, ‘Daisy’s been enquiring for you, old fellow.’ And turning his head towards her, he remarked, ‘I’m sorry I missed you last week. You must have just gone when I got back. I was held up in a place over there’—he thumbed over his shoulder—‘called Haltwhistle. Got talking to two old fellows in an inn and the time passed so quickly and the ale was so heady that I overlooked the urgency to get back. But I must not forget to thank you for the pies. They were delicious. You are an excellent cook.’

  ‘I cannot take the credit for those pies,’ she said smiling at him. ‘My sister, Florrie, made them. You see we take turn and turn about to do the cooking, and my turn comes every fifth week.’

  ‘But I thought you only had two…He stopped and laughed. ‘Of course, there is your mother, and…Annie. I feel I know Annie.’

  ‘Well—’ Her face was straight now as she said, ‘You would certainly recognise her. She is like me or, at least they say, I take after her.’

  ‘Really?’ He stared at her, and she inclined her head towards him. ‘And there is no relationship between you?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Ah, here comes Daisy. I keep saying I wish she would move like that when I’m on her back.’

  Ranger neighed loudly as they let him through the gate. Then the horses were once again pranc
ing away together.

  He did not walk towards the cottage but stood with his back against the wall now, looking at her, and when he said, ‘I have news for you,’ she checked her breathing before she forced herself to say, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ll be vexed or pleased…but I think Daisy is in foal.’

  She felt the smile pass over her entire body. ‘How wonderful! Why did you think I’d be vexed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Silly thing to say, I suppose. Yes, indeed, it was a silly thing to say. And, of course, I forgot you are a farmer’s daughter and will be quite used to such events.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m quite used to them, but, nevertheless, each birth or calving gives me a thrill. To see those thin beautiful straggling legs finding their way upright within minutes almost never palls; it’s like a miracle each time it happens.’

  His face was straight, his eyes had that piercing look about them again and were tight on her. She blinked and, looking down at the satchel she had taken from the pommel of the saddle, she said, ‘I…I’ve brought Mr Richardson’s novel back.’

  ‘Well?’

  She pursed her lips, ‘I’m…I’m afraid I…I didn’t enjoy it as much as others. Although, as you said, his books were written mostly for lady readers, I must confess not to be in that category. The characters, I found…well, rather unreal.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. I told you how I came across it with some others in the bookshop in Newcastle, and what interested me at first, it had been very much thumbed, and so I thought, well, there must be some good reading here. But I agree with you. I have one for you this week, though, that perhaps might be better to your taste. It’s another of those I picked up. It’s by Laurence Sterne, called The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. It’s a very odd book and rather difficult to get into, and surprising reading in parts, but his characters are real. Anyway, come along in. I have a cool drink ready; I have kept the two bottles in the spring since yesterday. It’s what you call ginger beer. I suppose you’ll know all about it.’