Luckpenny Land

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I think Meg had guts to try. I couldn’t bring the sheep in on my own.’

  ‘We know that, you great clod,’ said Joe, masticating slowly. ‘Nor would you have thought to try. Shut your face and eat your food.’

  It was when she was washing up and Joe was settling by the fire with his pipe that the subject of Sally Ann Gilpin came up.

  ‘What do y’mean, she came to see me? Why has no one thought to tell me.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’ Meg took off her apron and hung it behind the door. ‘Dan sorted it out, ask him. I’m off for a walk.’

  ‘No, you’re not, madam. I want to know by what right thee put her on to our Dan without speaking to me first.’ Joe started to tamp down the tobacco with a yellow-stained finger as if trying to dampen his rising temper along with it.

  For once Meg was surprised to see her elder brother wriggling with discomfort.

  ‘It was only a small matter,’ Dan muttered.’ Sal Gilpin needs to reduce the weekly payments for a little while, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ The voice was ominously soft. Joe Turner had learned that a quiet tone injected far more menace into simple words. He stared unblinkingly at his son. ‘Under what conditions did you agree to her reducing the weekly sum?’

  ‘Conditions?’ This from Meg who was anxious to provide Sally Ann with a defence at least. ‘What more can you ask for? If she pays less each week it’ll just take longer to be paid off, but you’ll get your money in the end, and no doubt extra interest.’

  Dan nodded eagerly. ‘She’ll call here regular to pay it, every Friday.’

  Joe stood up to face his son, his body quivering with unspent anger. ‘Didn’t she tell you that I called at her house each week along with my other regular clients? Thee has no right to change the arrangements behind my back.’

  Meg looked from one to the other, dazed by the tension that had sprung up so quickly in the small kitchen. ‘For goodness sake, what does it matter how you get your money? She’ll do her best. Calm down, Father.’

  ‘Don’t thee tell me to calm down, madam. This is my farm, and I’m in charge of it.’

  ‘You’re in charge of everything, it seems,’ Dan said in a rare show of rebellion. ‘When do I get some rights? And some wages?’

  ‘Why would you need wages? I don’t charge thee any keep.’

  ‘I’m not your whipping boy. You keep saying you’ll retire. But you won’t, I know you won’t, and how can I ever think of taking a wife with no money coming in to keep her?’

  Such an unusually long speech from Dan silenced Joe for a whole half minute. He chewed on his pipe and considered. ‘It’s come to a pretty pass when a man’s own son is after stepping into his shoes before he’s taken them off. Thee could allus go and work for someone else if tha’s dissatisfied.’

  Dan subsided into his chair, his rebellion spent.

  ‘I’m the moneylender in these parts, not you, you daft ha’porth. I’m the one that feckless women come running to when they find themselves out of money by Tuesday morning and need my coin to get them through the week.’

  Meg found she couldn’t let that pass without defending her sex. ‘Women run out of money because their husbands don’t give them enough. They drink it.’

  ‘Very likely, but where would those poor women and bairns be without me, I ask you?’

  ‘It’s not their gratitude you enjoy, it’s the profit you make out of them. Where would you be without those same poor women paying interest through the nose every Friday when you collect your coin back at the quarry face?’

  ‘I’m not a charity, miss,’ Joe roared, losing his calm again. ‘Is it my fault if some chaps can’t hold on to what they earn?’ He pushed his face close to his daughter. At fifty-nine the years of toil, of being out in all weathers, had left their mark, worsened by lines of bitterness set there by a sanctimonious determination to make life as difficult for himself as possible. As if by doing so he could be brought closer to his elusive God. What he suffered, he felt duty bound to make his family suffer likewise.

  ‘Times are hard, don’t you forget that. A bit more gratitude wouldn’t come amiss. Sally Ann Gilpin at least never complains about her lot - she does summat about it. You don’t know what it is to be without food to put on the table. When have you ever gone hungry, tell me that?’

  How could she dispute such logic? Meg knew she was fortunate. They may be short of cash, and not keep so fine a table as Kath’s family, but they never went hungry like the Gilpins. She felt diminished, as she always did when her father turned the attack upon her. ‘I was only meaning to speak up for Sally Ann,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, well, happen she can speak up for herself.’

  On top of her foolishness of the afternoon Meg felt she had failed to defend her friend. Perhaps her father was right and she was selfish, ungrateful and greedy, with, as Dan said, too high an opinion of herself.

  But if that were so then why did she feel deep inside that the name of the emotion she experienced so strongly was not greed but ambition? Not selfishness but self-esteem. She wished with all her heart that she could work it out.

  Chapter Five

  On the last day of September 1938 Chamberlain was boasting of ‘Peace for our time’. Czechoslovakia and later Britain herself would have cause to doubt this statement but for now appeasement was all. It seemed to Meg that similar political efforts were being made in the Turner household.

  She was determined to have no more arguments with either her brother or her father. Life was otherwise too perfect to let them spoil it. Sally Ann called regularly at the farm every Friday to pay what she could and there seemed to be no further trouble there. Meg wished with a deep longing sometimes that Jack could be as easily welcomed. If only she could pluck up the courage to tell her father about him, but she never managed to.

  Though Jack sometimes complained she spent too much time away from him, she loved him all the more for that little show of jealousy. Meg too preferred it when they were together but she also enjoyed helping Lanky.

  She wanted Jack to come with them all to the Merry Neet which was a favourite social event. It took place in the backend of the year so that any sheep that had strayed in bad weather, or through a gate left carelessly open, could be checked against the Shepherd’s Guide and their rightful owners take them safely home. Meg loved these traditional get-togethers.

  In the old days horse racing would often follow the serious business. Nowadays it might be hound trailing or Cumberland and Westmorland wrestling, both of which were favourite pastimes of her brother Dan.

  There was a great fire at the inn to toast toes and cheerful faces. It burned so fiercely that after a while caps were removed, brows mopped and chairs eased back. The trestle tables were as packed with plates of hot pot and tankards of ale as the floor was with dogs. And everyone was expected to do a ‘turn’ as they sat and smoked and drank and chatted into the small hours.

  The chairman in charge tonight was Lanky, and he volunteered to ‘get the ball rolling’ with a rendition of ‘The Bonnie Sheep’ on his fiddle.

  Several other people sang songs while the shepherds beat time with their sticks, the dogs with their tails, and Meg and Charlie sat laughing together on the wooden settle in the corner, not taking part but feeling privileged to be allowed to join in with the merriment. Oh, but how she wished Jack were here. He’d sulked when she’d insisted on coming tonight, wanting her to go with him into town.

  ‘You’d love it,’ she’d urged, kissing him softly on the mouth. ‘Why won’t you come with me?’

  ‘You’ll be the only woman there.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘What would your father say?’

  ‘We don’t have to tell Father about us. You’re entitled to come with Lanky.’

  But he refused, so she’d come with Charlie instead, and was glad.

  There were no women shepherds, of course. How she would love to be the first. But several of the wives
had come.

  And then cries went up for the gurning to start. A popular local sport it might be, nonetheless she was astonished to hear Joe volunteer. She watched him stick his round head through the horse collar, known as a braffin, and start to pull and stretch his lips and cheeks into the most horrendous face. All the farmers stamped their feet and roared with laughter. Meg couldn’t believe this was her own, stern-faced father who was performing so outrageously. How could he be so unfeeling towards her, yet the life and soul of the party with his friends?

  ‘Nay, Joe,’ cried one, as he let his face relax into a grin. ‘Give over, that’s worse.’

  He was declared champion gurner of the night and was so well pleased with himself he told them a lively tale of losing two sheep from the back of his van and chasing them all round town, which had the farmers almost falling off their seats with delight.

  ‘Why isn’t he like this at home with us?’ Meg asked Charlie, but her brother only shook his head, equally bewildered.

  ‘Because he isn’t happy there,’ came Lanky’s voice from behind her. ‘Not since your mam died. Come up and see me tomorrow. I’ve got summat to show you.’

  She stared thoughtfully at her father and wondered if she knew him at all.

  Meg finished her chores and walked up to Broombank as promised. She took her time, enjoying the softness of the autumn breeze which failed to shift the phosphorous cloud that clung to the mountain tops. Dundale Knott rose up at her left as she walked, looking like a lop-sided cottage loaf with a knob on top and a large slice of it cut away, leaving a sheer drop to a bubbling beck below. She found Lanky mending broken walls.

  ‘You look busy,’ she said.

  ‘Thee’ll not catch me laikin,’ he said, meaning lazing about doing nothing. ‘I’ve summat to show you. Hold on a minute while I finish this bit.’

  He laid all the stones out on the grass and then it was like watching him put a very complicated jigsaw puzzle together. He never picked up the same stone twice, just slotted each one together perfectly. Meg did what she could to help, learning all the while.

  ‘It’s nowt much, just summat to say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you for what?’

  ‘For helping an old man.’ He grinned, showing gaps in his teeth. ‘But mainly for your company. Why a young girl like you should waste her time with an old chap like me, I don’t know, but I’m right grateful for it.’

  ‘Oh, Lanky.’ Meg put her arms round him and gave him a big hug.

  ‘Go on. It’s in t’barn. See what you think.’

  ‘But don’t we have to put the cam stones back on top of the wall yet? Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, it can’t. Our Jack’ll help lift these big stones. They’re too heavy for a young lass, and an old man. Go on. Get away with you.’

  He was clearly as eager with his surprise as a young boy, and, laughing, Meg ran down the slope and pushed open the great door. The barn was packed from floor to ceiling with hay as it always was at this time of year. Nothing else that she could see. Except the dogs, of course, who slept in a corner. There was a gap in the bottom of the door so they could move in and out of the barn at will on the ends of their long ropes. There was Tess, Lanky’s old collie, and her two sons, Ben and Rust. She stared at them now, a sudden wondering idea coming to her.

  Meg turned to look questioningly at Lanky. ‘Tess hasn’t had more pups, has she?’

  ‘Nay, she’s past it now. But Rust is young enough to risk with a change of master - or mistress.’

  ‘Oh, Lanky.’ She was stunned for a moment by his generosity. ‘You can’t. He’s your best young dog. You can’t give him to me.’

  ‘I can do what I like, I reckon, with me own dogs. He needs someone young to tackle him. And Charlie says you’d like one.’

  Meg grey eyes were shining. ‘Charlie would say that. He saw me make a proper clown of myself trying to do something clever without one.’

  Meg looked at the dog. Most of him was black, the colour of all Border collies, but the rest was rust, as if he’d been left out in the rain too long. Hence his name. He was standing in front of her, feathered tail out straight, one brown ear erect, the other black and flopping over. Feet foursquare, eyes bright and alert with a question in them. ‘He understands. He’s weighing me up. Can you see it in his eyes?’

  ‘Oh, aye, he’s not daft is young Rust. Lie down, lad.’

  The dog obeyed instantly, falling softly to his belly, velvet eyes fixed upon Lanky’s face. ‘He’ll make up for the loss of the pet lamb, eh?’

  ‘Oh, Lanky. He’s much better.’ She could feel tears in her throat.

  ‘You’ll have to keep him fastened to you for a while till he gets accustomed or he’ll keep coming back home to me.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I will.’ Meg held out the back of her knuckles for the dog to sniff, talking softly as she knelt beside him. ‘I’ll take good care of you, boy. You and me can be friends. Would you like that, eh?’

  Tongue lolling from the side of his grinning mouth, he gazed at her, then up at his old master.

  ‘Aye, lad. Go on. It’s all right.’

  Reassured, the dog nosed the hand, indicating he’d be happy to have it stroke him. Meg obliged. Then she remembered what Joe had done with the pet lamb, all those years ago. ‘Can I leave him here for a while though, just till I’ve made it right at home?’

  Lanky smiled. ‘Not told Joe yet then about your efforts in the sheep department?’

  Meg lifted anxious eyes to his. ‘No. I will tell him. In me own good time. You won’t. . .’

  ‘Nowt to do wi’ me. But that cur will need training. He’s young yet, coming up to twelve month. I’ll teach you to whistle.’

  And so he did. Meg spent hours practising the signals in quiet corners, finding it far more difficult than she’d imagined. And twice as many hours encouraging Rust to round up the ducks and hens in Lanky’s yard without setting them off in a flurry. Only when he had served a long apprenticeship, and obeyed her every command, would he be permitted near sheep.

  All of this had to be done in complete secrecy from her father and brother, so Rust stayed, for the moment, at Broombank. But Meg meant to have him with her as soon as she had spoken to her father. There was so much now that she had to talk to him about, the prospect was chilling and exciting all at the same time.

  Meg’s peace ended one day in October. It was one of those quiet, still days only found in autumn. The leaves of the Lakeland woodlands were a paint palette of russet, gold and terracotta. A fat yellow sun that never seemed evident in August now turned the cooling lakes to a blinding sparkle of light. Dew-spangled cobwebs knitted the thorn hedges and, high above, swallows and martins bossed and ordered each other into massive groups ready for their flight south.

  The weather was unseasonably warm, almost balmy, and Meg and Jack had walked to their favourite place in Brockbarrow Wood. As usual she had responded eagerly to his kisses, but this time he objected to the set boundaries and there was a particularly undignified tussle. Meg was forced to slap his exploring hand away, cheeks flying flags of hot scarlet.

  ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’ she demanded to know, feeling disappointed and somehow guilty all at the same time.

  ‘You’re turning into a prude.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve told you I’m..’

  ‘Yeah. Keeping yourself on ice. Well, maybe I don’t want a woman with ice in her veins. It’s hot blood that warms a man, Meg.’

  Meg flushed. ‘You know how I feel about that. I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ He stroked her leg, making her shiver with longing. ‘What’s so wonderful about settling down, I’d like to know? Make’s a man boring and middle-aged before his time.’

  ‘It needn’t.’

  ‘Don’t expect too much from me, Meg. I am what I am.’ Dark brows crashed down over violet eyes, and he got quickly to his feet. Then thrusting his hands deep in his pockets Jack strode briskly aw
ay, leaving her alone on the cold grassy slope where a moment before she had been warmly clasped in his arms. ‘Let me know when you decide to be a real woman,’ he tossed casually over his shoulder, his frustration finally spilling over into temper.

  Meg thought of running after him but his broad back looked so furious and unapproachable that she let him go. An action she later regretted.

  She spent several miserable days hoping he would come round and ask forgiveness for his ill temper. But he didn’t. Nor did he meet her in their usual place each afternoon in Brockbarrow Wood.

  Meg’s despair deepened. Perhaps she was wrong to hold herself back. Should she take the risk? She did love him, but any talk of marriage had always come from her, not Jack. Surely that only meant he was waiting till she was twenty-one?

  In the end she decided to seek advice about her dilemma, and who else was there to ask but Kath? It didn’t seem quite right to talk about such personal matters, even to a dear friend. What went on between herself and Jack was their affair after all. But Meg was desperate to know what she should do, for she was so afraid of losing him.

  ‘We’ll walk as far as Whinstone Gill,’ Kath declared, determined to enjoy the warm sunshine. A deep cleft cut in the rock, the two girls loved to scramble along the gill, sometimes as far as Whinstone Force, a gushing waterfall that burst out of the rock face from a network of underground mountain streams.

  Kath had been out riding and her cheeks were flushed by the wind. She wore jodphurs of pale cream cord and a shirt that was very likely silk clinging to firm uptilted breasts. By comparison Meg felt frumpish in her old sandals and cotton frock, and foolishly naïve.

  Nevertheless she decided there wouldn’t be a better opportunity and, screwing up her courage, she put her question. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Goodness, this sounds serious.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Have you ever, you know, gone all the way?’ Meg’s cheeks fired up with embarrassment.

  Kath stared at her, startled for a moment. ‘What did you say?’