A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy)

by Catherine Cookson

  He now scraped his heavy boots on the edge of the brick channel that ran down the centre of the byre, and as if talking to himself he said, ‘’Tis strange how a woman can keep things going. Keep their heads above water, so to speak’. He glanced now at Maggie, adding, ‘Sir Reginald was no farmer. He was but a distant relation of the old master, and had really been cut out for a teacher. Well, anything to do with books, ’cos he had been brought up in his father’s bookshop in Cambridge. But when he came into the title everything changed, yet not his passion for books.’ His smile widened, then slid from his face as he said, ‘He seemed to lose interest even in life after the mistress went. Certainly, he left the reins in the wrong hands because he was rooked right, left and centre. In my father’s day, and when her ladyship was alive, there had been eight indoor servants and six working hands outside, not counting the steward. Not a big staff as estates go, but then it wasn’t a big estate. But by the time I was sixteen there was only Betty Fowler left indoors, she was the cook, and her niece Emma, who was the housemaid. Most of the rooms were closed up. And outside there were only two men besides meself. But by the time I was twenty, that was down to one. And the stock had dwindled to practically nothing…well, about fifty sheep and half a dozen cows and a couple of horses and some arable fields. It kept you going. It was more than enough for the two of us, but we managed.’

  He was about to pick up the buckets when she said, ‘But I understood you spent a great deal of time with Sir Reginald.’

  He paused, his shoulders half bent, he turned his head towards her. ‘Yes, yes, that’s true. He was lost for company. Well’—he smiled quietly—‘not so much company, as someone to talk to, or talk at, which would be a better term. He was a natural teacher you see, and if he’d had his way, I would have spent half me time in the library. As it was, I used to go in there at nights.’ He straightened his back and looked down the byre as if seeing into the past. ‘It was a fine room, lined from floor to ceiling in black oak, and the shelves all spewin’ books. And that’s the correct word, spewin’, they were all over the place. But I’m grateful to him. I’ll be grateful all me days, for he opened a new world to me. And that chance isn’t given to many farm lads. Oh no.’ His lips fell into a firm line and stayed there for a moment before he went on, his voice low, ‘He talked to you as if you were an equal, and he thought of you as an equal. He used to quote a man who died in the last century called Lord Chesterfield. Have you ever heard of him?’ He cast his eyes sideways at her and she shook her head. ‘Well apparently…Oh’—he stretched his neck out of his open-necked shirt—‘I take that back, not apparently, because he was…he was a great man, as his books tell you. And Sir Reginald said that in his will Lord Chesterfield left his servants some money, saying, and these were his words’—he was nodding at her now—‘These men were my equals in nature, they were only my inferiors in fortune.’ And Sir Reginald was like that an’ all. He judged people for what they had in their minds, or what could be drawn out of their minds, not what they had in their pockets.’ Looking fully at her now he went on, ‘I don’t mind sayin’ this to you. I’ve never said it to anybody afore, but I looked upon him in the light of a father. And, I think, towards the end of his days, he saw me as the son he never had, and if he could have done anything more for me, he would have. But he did enough, he made me mind work, and in the right way: he showed me where true values lay.’ He paused again, and then said, ‘It was well he went when he did; I couldn’t have borne it if he had been turfed out. But he was up over his head in debt, and had been for years. Huh! Dear Sir Reginald. Just think, in his last will, which he made when his mind was still clear’—he nodded at her—‘he left me two thousand pounds in order that I could attend to my further education, and all the books I wished to take from his library.’

  He took in a long breath and let it out now before adding, ‘Well, it’s common knowledge that when the bums moved in I wasn’t allowed to take as much as a sheet of paper. But I already had a good store of my own books that he had given me over the years and all signed by him. It’s taken over three years to settle his business, because the house remained unsold, but now all his debtors I understand are practically cleared, but my two thousand was reduced to one hundred pounds, for which I was grateful, though more so for the thought that generated it.’

  She stood staring at him. Her hands were joined tightly at her waist. There was a strong desire in her to let them loose and put them out towards him, to touch him, have him hold them. To check the madness she had to turn away, and at this he said, ‘I waste time.’

  She was round facing him again, saying rapidly, ‘Oh no, no. You’ve…you’ve never wasted a minute in your life, I should imagine. I was only thinking, it…it seems like an injustice that you weren’t able to carry out what Sir Reginald wanted for you, an education.’

  ‘Oh’—he raised his eyebrows, his head to one side now—’there’s part of me uppish enough to think that he saw to that himself: he gave me the chance to read and select what I wanted to read.’

  ‘You’re lost here.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I never feel lost where there’s animals.’

  ‘You…you’d be quite content to spend the rest of your life on a farm?’

  ‘Yes.’ He inclined his head slowly towards her. ‘Yes. Did you hear what I said a little while ago about Sir Reginald putting my values straight for me? I know what I want.’

  ‘And is this all you want out of life, to work like this?’

  He turned his head from her and looked at the bespattered whitewashed wall, and it was some seconds before he turned to her again, and after a moment he said quietly, ‘No, it isn’t all I want out of life. It’s part of it, but certainly not all…’

  ‘Willy.’ The byre door had opened and John was standing there. ‘I’m off now. I don’t suppose I’ll find the rascal tonight as it’ll be dark soon, but I might hear of him. I’ve finished next door. You’ll see to the rest?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll see to it. ‘ Then advancing two steps into the byres, John looked towards Maggie, saying, ‘If he should come to you to be cleaned up, don’t take him into the house whatever time it is, because you know how Dad feels. You could take him along to Willy’s. Could she, Willy?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Don’t worry, if he turns up we’ll see to him.’

  ‘Right then.’ John turned and went out.

  Looking towards the door now, Maggie said quietly, ‘Hate’s a deadly thing, isn’t it? Eats its way through everything. Frag’s been aware of hate since he could be aware of anything. It’s made him like he is. Is it any wonder he makes for the drovers? They say he must be educated.’ She turned her head sharply now towards Willy, adding, ‘Education can be as harmful as it can be beneficial. You’ve got to be a very strong-willed person to remain the same after education has been thumped into you.’

  At this she bent towards the full pails of milk, and when he said, ‘Leave them, I’ll take them,’ she answered sharply, ‘No, I can manage. You’ll have enough to see to.’ And lifting the pails, she walked erratically down the byres, and when he hurried before her and opened the door for her she did not look at him or thank him, and his head drooped for a moment before he turned back into the byres and, taking up a switch brush, attacked the muck in the channel.

  It was around eight o’clock when John rode back into the yard. As he dismounted Maggie came to the kitchen door. She had a lantern in her hand and she held it high as she went towards him.

  ‘Did you find out anything?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, and one thing certain, he’s not with the drovers, nor has he been. There’s one lot outside Hexham, and another beyond Corbridge. I spoke to them both.’

  ‘They could have been hiding him.’

  ‘No, no. They were decent fellows, and they both promised to send him packing if he turned up in the morning. Where are they?’ He inclined his head towards the house, and Maggie replied. ‘In the office.’ She moved nearer to hi
m. ‘What do you think? That man, Kate’s father, is due to come tomorrow.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Mam had a letter from him.’

  ‘What for? Why does he want to come here now?’

  ‘She said he didn’t say. He’s wanting to ask something of her, that’s all I could get out of her. Dad’s a bit up in the air.’

  ‘Aye, yes, I suppose he would be. There was a rumpus on his last visit as I recall, but that’s many years ago. Well, well.’ He took the horse’s bridle now and as he led it forward he remarked, ‘Who says nothing happens in the country.’ Then he asked, ‘Is Willy finished?’

  ‘He was in the tack room a little while ago when I took him a bite.’ Her voice was curt, and she turned and went back into the house.

  John was unsaddling the animal when Willy came in, saying, ‘You didn’t find him then?’

  ‘No. But I know one thing, Willy, that’s the last time I go traipsing round after him. The way I see it, he’s big enough now to know his own mind. If he wants to travel the road, I say let him, or put him to work on a job that will make him feel so damned tired all he’ll want is bed. If I had him here I would see that was carried out all right…You finished?’

  ‘Aye, so leave him and I’ll do him down.’

  ‘No. No. I’ve been sitting on me backside for the last three hours or more. I want to move, and you’ve had more than enough for one day, I should think. So get yourself along and put your feet up. Half past four will be round afore you know where you are.’

  Willy did not stop to argue the point; turning about, he said, ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight, Willy.’

  Out in the yard, Willy raised his eyes towards the sky. The moon was up, three-quarters of the yard was in deep shadow and in it stood the house. The only light showing through the darkness was from the kitchen window. He stood for a moment watching the figure passing backwards and forwards in the lamplight; then he turned away and walked the length of the yard, past the old barn, and the bigger newly built one with its store sheds attached, down by a drystone wall that bordered the vegetable garden, then turned to the left past the hen crees and through a gate into a small paddock at the far side of which stood his cottage.

  The cottage consisted of two rooms and a loft, which at one time had housed a family of seven, and almost every time he entered it he wondered how they had fitted in, for the living room was but twelve feet square and the bedroom less than that. Over the past four years he had made the place comfortable and suited to his needs, although this entailed its becoming smaller still, for in the main room he had made racks for his books, and in the bedroom wall cupboards to hold his clothes. His furniture was simple, a small wooden square table, a single wooden chair, and one other with a high slatted back. To the left of the fireplace was a cupboard where he kept food for odd meals; and to the right of it, a rack that held kitchen utensils. Beyond this was a narrow door leading into a stone pantry. Outside the cottage stood two narrow rough stone erections. One was a coalhouse, the other a bucket water closet.

  Before leaving the cottage in the morning, he always banked down his fire, then saw to it again at dinner time, and when he returned at night a blow with the bellows brought it into life again. But tonight he was some distance from the door when he saw a glow of firelight in the window, and he paused, then walked slowly forward.

  Opening the door, he went in and looked at the figure sitting on the mat before the fire and, as if he had expected to find him there, he said, ‘Hello. See you’ve got it going for me.’

  Fraser Hamilton rose slowly to his feet. He was as tall as Willy, and in the firelight he could have been mistaken for a grown man. His hair was jet black and hung thickly about his ears. His eyes seemed to be of the same hue, their darkness emphasised by the paleness of his skin. His face was long and his mouth, in this light, appeared to be a slit in it. It was an unusual face, handsome, but not that of a youth. Often young boys of his age, if their features could be described as beautiful, would possess some quality appertaining to refinement, even when the spots of youth attacked the skin they emphasised rather than denied youth, but in Fraser’s case his good looks gave off no such impression, for the rash on his chin was what one would expect to see on that of a grown man.

  ‘Been at it again, now, have you?’ Willy threw off his coat and went over to the cupboard on which stood a candlestick, and having lit the candle, brought it to the table before he spoke again. Looking the boy up and down, he said quietly, ‘By! You are in a mess. Where did you sleep last night?’

  ‘In a haystack, after I fell in the mire.’

  ‘You askin’ for your death?’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. What brought it on this time?’

  ‘This.’ The boy pointed to his chin. ‘I was growing hair. Bradshaw, the headmaster said get it off. He gave a me a brush and an old razor which was blunt. From then I got the spots. And then’– he put his hand to his hair—‘he ordered that my hair be cut off, close-cropped.’

  ‘Why? Had it got dirty?’

  ‘No. I was apparently paying too much attention to it, keeping it too clean. It happened to two other fellows. They looked like scarecrows. I wasn’t havin’ it.’

  ‘I can see your point.’

  ‘Willy’—the boy suddenly sat down on the high-backed chair—‘I’m not going back. If Father attempts to force me again through reason or any other damn thing, I’ll take a ship. I won’t need to be press-ganged.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Whether you realise it or not, you’ve had it soft for years. That life would finish you.’

  ‘I’m not soft, Willy. I’m hard underneath. I’m hard. I’ve slept out in the open with the drovers for years. You know I have.’

  ‘Because most of them are decent fellows, lookin’ after you and happin’ you up. But you get on board one of those ships and you won’t be happed up, I can tell you, but the skin’ll be flayed off you. We had a crippled sailor came back on the estate a few years ago, he had hardly an inch of his skin that wasn’t scarred and he was only discharged because he could no longer run or jump at the sound of a voice or the end of a whip. He’d only half a foot, and I won’t tell you how he came by that. So get that idea out of your head. Anyway, get those things off and see if we can get them cleaned up. Have you had anything to eat?’

  The boy nodded towards the cupboard, saying, ‘I took some of your bread and bacon.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Well, let me get this pan on the fire and we’ll have some hot gruel. But come on, strip off, the mud looks dry; I’ll brush them down. But you can’t go home like that.’

  When the boy took off his coat that had been buttoned to the neck, Willy gazed at him for a moment, saying, ‘You’ve got nothin’ underneath. How’s that?’

  ‘I…I was put in a detention room because of this.’ He tapped his head. ‘They always take away your small-clothes. There’s not much warmth in serge. They call it cooling your capers.’

  ‘My God! And your father pays through the teeth for that. Surely there are better schools in Newcastle?’

  ‘Yes, there are, but this one was chosen for its strong discipline, I understand.’

  ‘Brutality would be a better word. Come in here.’ Willy picked up the candle and led the way into the bedroom, and, setting it down on top of a chest, he opened the cupboard door and took from one of the shelves a shirt and woollen drawers and vest, saying, ‘Put them on.’

  But before getting into the clothes the boy handled them, saying, ‘’Tis fine wool.’

  ‘Yes, and so it should be, for these belonged to my old master. He saw me well supplied in this way over the years. There were cupboards full of such, lining the bedrooms. They had belonged to his relative who died. They must have both been about the same size and the only difference in stature between them and me was that their legs were slightly shorter. I’ve been well suited for years,
inside and out.’

  ‘I used to wonder when I saw you dressed in the market, not like our herdsmen.’

  ‘So now you need wonder no longer.’ He looked at the boy, smiling now as he said, ‘They’re a bit big, but they’ll be warm. And here, put this lined waistcoat on. The nights are chilly and we’ve got a longish walk afore us.’

  ‘You’re coming home with me?’

  ‘Aye, in case you stray again.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here till the morning. I could sleep on the mat.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. Your mother’s half demented as usual. You’re a thoughtless lad, you know.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m not really, but…but I’m always being told what I must do and what I mustn’t do.’

  ‘But you’ve been on the run since you were a nipper. You know you have.’

  Fraser turned away and went into the other room, saying. ‘I can’t help that. Something comes over me. I just must up and go. I…I want things to happen.’ He turned round now and faced Willy. ‘Can you understand that? I want things to happen.’

  ‘Adventures like?’

  ‘Yes and no. I can’t explain. I…well, there’s only one thing I do know, I don’t want to be like other people, all those around following their humdrum everyday existence. How do you stand it? You’re well read. Everybody says you’re well read. Superior in a way—Mother says that—so how do you stand it? I don’t know how you can put up with this kind of life, working like a slave all day for my grandfather. And yet you go on. Why? Why?’

  ‘Because it’s my nature, I suppose: I like workin’ with animals; I like the open air; I also like time to meself to read and think. Strangely, you have a lot of time to yourself when you deal with animals, time in which to think. It all depends upon how one’s made, one’s nature.’

  ‘Well, I’m not made like that, I suppose.’