by Jean Chapman
By two o’clock she was chilled through, hungry and could bear to wait no longer. Putting on her coat, she collected her bags, turned down the wick of the lamp until it was low and blew it out quickly to create as little smell as possible. Cautiously she turned the knob of her bedroom door, guided her bags through and closed it after herself. The passage and stairs were pitch black and needed total concentration to negotiate. Every time a stair creaked beneath her weight she paused, biting her lip and having to resist the temptation to hurry down regardless of noise and get the ordeal over. Once in the kitchen she breathed again, pushed a paper spill into the embers of the range fire and lit one of the hurricane lamps kept ready for any night-time emergency on the farm. With infinite care not to rattle a knife or piece of crockery, she packed herself bread, cheese and four of the largest apples from the pantry. Then, taking a buttered crust and a cup of milk, went back to the hearth, opened the range door, sat on a three-legged milking stool pushed her icy feet inside the oven, which still retained a gentle heat. Her bags and coat were all out of sight by the side of the elm settle, and she sat elaborating a story in case of discovery: she could say she woke ravenous and cold, so put on her warmest clothes and came down for something to eat.
But she took just one bite of the bread and found it was not hunger that churned her stomach, but anxiety to be away. Sipping the milk, she resolved to stay in the warmth until the grandfather clock ponderously ticked its way to four o’clock, for she calculated Cato would not leave before five, no matter whether he was travelling by train, trap or steam-engine. In case Meg Silver had been lying, she made further provision — taking from the writing bureau paper, envelopes and 1½d stamps then, carefully uncorking a bottle of ink, pushed the nib under the royal blue liquid and filled her father’s fountain pen. If she saw no one that morning, she could leave or post a letter to Cato telling him she had left home.
There was suddenly nothing more to do, and she watched the large pierced-metal hand of the clock move upwards to the twelve. As it began to strike she stood hand on latch; as the fourth stroke ended the door closed behind her. She had gone beyond the bounds of explanation now. The thought and the chill night air combined in a great shiver of apprehension, and already her feet and ankles felt chilled after the comfort of the oven.
She heard the rattle of the dog’s chain as the collie moved to see who was about. She held up the lamp, went to him and gave him the crust she had brought in case he began to make a fuss. He licked the butter obediently.
That was it, she decided, but even as she moved towards the orchard gate, she hesitated irritably acknowledging that there was one more thing she must do before leaving. She sighed. Cursing Levi for an interfering do-gooder, and mentally chastising him with reminders about the road to hell, she made her way to the disused barn. Finding a clean sack and clearing her throat with a low aggressive note to frighten away any inquisitive rats, she climbed to the loft. As she had half suspected, the trap was back on its hook - and all sooty from Levi’s fire. Gingerly she lifted it down with a piece of a broken broom handle and lowered it into the sack. It was a real nuisance with her other bags, and she roundly cursed Ben Langton, and Levi, as it knocked painfully at her shins.
Her progress was slow for a time, but as her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness she could begin to see the lines of the hedges and no longer needed the lantern. She turned down the wick until it went out, then pushed it beneath some rough bricks and stones supporting a cattle trough - no need to advertise the way she had gone, she thought. By the time she reached the boundary she was sure the sky was lightening and knew she must hurry.
She was over the boundary path as quickly as possible and felt she had escaped, for it had become an area less than neutral to her. She divided her bags now there were no more gates or stiles to negotiate and made better progress, walking quickly and silently down the driveway over which she had last been driven by Cato’s mother. She had never seen a dog at Glebe Farm, and perhaps they did not have one because of the many heavy machines they owned, but she was cautious.
It was soon obvious that someone was already up. As she turned the yard corner a light showed in the kitchen. Almost immediately her heart began to thump and pound as a man’s figure moved across the window — then another - but were either of them Cato? Drawn up in the yard stood a steam-engine with a living-van behind it. A red glow showed around the partly open fire-door of the engine. She hesitated only long enough to make sure that the van was hitched up to the engine, then ran to its rear door, reached high for the handle, opened it, pushed in her bags and the sack, clambered in after them and closed the door again. She was panting as if for long moments she had forgotten to breathe.
The dawn light was just sufficient now to show her the rather bleak interior. A small iron stove to the right of the door, its chimney going up and out at the top; a bunk with blankets in the left corner; a small table and one chair the other side; and a small cupboard between table and stove. There was certainly nowhere at all she could hide; the bunk was a solid, boxed-in affair. She just had to hope that no one came to the van before setting off. She bit her lip, wondering whether Cato’s father, or brother, or some of the men would be travelling with Cato. It was even possible that Cato was not travelling at all.
She had time for no more thought as footsteps and voices came near. She heard Joe Abbott ask, ‘You’ve all you need? Map, list of water and coal stops, money, food?’
The answer must have been a nod, for though she strained to recognise the voice, there seemed only silence. The next moment she stood rigid in the centre of the wooden room as the living-van door was opened. A large black leather bag and a coat were pushed in alongside her own bags, almost touching — but the door closed again without anyone looking inside.
Her knees were suddenly fluid. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bunk, then started violently as excess steam burst mightily from some pressure valve. Voices were raised in goodbyes and final instructions. Then, with a ringing of gears and an extra loud double chug-chug, chug-chug, the engine moved forward.
‘I’m off somewhere, with somebody,’ she whispered as the iron wheels of engine and van ground noisily over the hardcore of stones the Abbotts had laid over yard, drive and path.
12
It was four hours before the engine stopped for the first time, and consulting the fob-watch Belle saw it was still only a quarter to nine. She had not anticipated the sheer physical fatigue and tedium of being bumped about on the solid rubber tyres of the living-van. All she had done in those first hours was pile her bags and the sack containing the trap on the bunk and sit next to them. The act of standing, knees bent, on the bunk to see out of the one tiny high window had been too much effort to make it worthwhile.
The one thing she was sure of was that her driver was alone, for she had heard one or two people call out as the engine passed and only one man’s voice ever returned the greeting. Now she hoped to catch a glimpse of who she was travelling with. If it was not Cato, she had already decided to slip out of the van with her belongings, walk to the nearest railway station and make her way back to the town. Standing on the bunk, she squinted forward towards the engine and almost cried out aloud. She could see Cato unlooping the water-pipe, walking across to a bridge and throwing the suction hose down into the stream to refill the engine’s water-tank. He went back to the engine to turn on the steam for the water lift, and returned to lean over the bridge, a man far lost in thought. She wanted to burst out upon him shouting, ‘Look I’m here, it’s me, I’m coming with you, staying with you for ever!’ Caution reminded her that four hours away from home could be turned to four hours the other way, and she could be taken back home before midday! No, if Cato did not come into the van and discover her, she intended to stay hidden until midnight. Then there could be no going back… .
Content now that she knew she was alone with Cato, she lay on the bunk, the effects of a night without sleep beginning to tell. When s
he awoke ravenously hungry they were still travelling. She bounced up to the window, but did not recognise the countryside around. It seemed flatter. Then a signpost at a crossroads passed under her window, but the only name she managed to read was Peterborough on the arm pointing back the way they had come. Past Peterborough! She had always thought of that as being well on the way to the seaside. Sitting crosslegged on the bunk she ate some bread, cheese and one of the apples, and felt elated, as if she was on the way to a holiday, a holiday with Cato.
By the time afternoon had given way to early evening she had run the range of most emotions, as she imagined Cato’s reactions when he did discover her. One moment she saw herself wrapped tight in his arms, making plans for an early marriage; the next confronting him in argument, aggressive, picking up her bags and walking away from him, tears in her eyes but determined never to let him see. She calculated one extreme or the other was the most likely outcome.
By the time the engine stopped for the last time, it was dark, her head ached, her body ached and she felt grimy, as if the coal smoke had seeped into the van.
Sure now that Cato would come into the van, she quickly ran a comb through her hair and tried to make herself as presentable as possible, but as the chuffing and hissing of the engine died, she heard his footsteps going away into the distance.
Cautiously she opened the door and stepped down. Cato had parked at the far end of a rough piece of land near a public house. A burst of laughter from inside the bar made her unreasonably out of sorts. How long, she wondered, was he likely to stay in there?
She walked a little, easing her aching back and limbs, making herself comfortable after the day-long excursion. She paused outside the public house and through a small leaded-light at one side of the front door could see the men drinking their beer. It made her realise how thirsty she was. The apple at midday had quenched her thirst then, but she had drunk nothing since the milk in the early hours of the morning.
Once the thought of a drink had come into her mind it became an irresistible necessity. There would be a pump somewhere around - probably in the back yard, it was the usual place. She made her way carefully down the side, but the next minute was rubbing her shin, hopping about, exclaiming her favourite string of expletives, composed out of her farming upbringing and fitting such sudden hurts. ‘Bullocking, fowling, hoss-mucking, hell!’ She kicked back at the wooden cask that stood close to the wall and turned back the way she had come. ‘I’m done with this!’ She went back to the living-van and found her handbag, then with more bravado than real confidence strode up to the front door of the public house.
Had she descended from heaven in a cloud she could not have caused more consternation. What had been a group of some dozen hearty, gossiping farm-labourers and farmers, with Cato sitting at the far side of the fire, became a dumbstruck still life, stopped mid-sentence and mouths agape.
She saw Cato half rise from his seat and pause, hands on the arms of his seat, holding him balanced so, then he slowly lowered himself back into the seat. Glances passed from Cato to Belle and back again, the implication that two strangers in their company must be in some way connected obvious, but as Cato leaned forward to pick up his tankard and take a deep draught, the company in the bar were not so sure. The landlord too was uncertain. He cleared his throat and frowned, but nodded a greeting at the same time. ‘Miss?’ he queried.
Belle glanced again at Cato, but his face was oblique, half turned to catch the glow of the fire. It acted like another hurt; the bruised shin had brought her into the pub, now his play-acting pretence of not knowing her took her up to the counter. She opened her handbag and found a shilling. She was not sure how much beer cost, had never enjoyed the taste of her mother’s homebrew, but she intended to order a pint. She placed her coin on the counter. Behind her someone sniggered, another gave a snort of disbelief, while others made deep, disapproving, if individually inaudible, comments to their neighbours.
‘Miss.’ The landlord made a new, more determined start. ‘I’ve never served unaccompanied ladies.’ He paused and looked over at Cato, but he gave no sign, so the landlord continued, ‘Not had more than Old Sal Bates in here, to tell the truth… .’
‘And she’s no lady,’ a man sitting near Cato shouted, to the accompaniment of much knowing laughter, and adding final judgment by sending a hearty and accurate spit sizzling into the fire.
‘Miss — if you’d like to go through to the snug, I’ll serve you there.’ He waved an arm to a half-glazed door beyond the bar with the words Snug Parlour etched in the opaque glass.
She was aware of everyone’s eyes on her, but she was more aware of the two that were not, as she tossed up her head defiantly and walked the length of the mahogany bar.
‘What can I bring you, miss?’
She turned back. The landlord was holding up her shilling and the locals were staring to a man. The younger ones leering openly now, but several older men had condemnatory, even aggressive looks on their faces which told her she had no business there at all, either in the bar or in the snug parlour.
‘Hmm,’ she wavered, ‘a large glass of… lemonade, please.’ She suddenly capitulated and escaped as quickly as possible into the snug and closed the door behind her, while more laughter and astonished comments broke out.
What was Cato trying to do to her?
‘She’s not with you, then, that lass?’ she heard the landlord ask.
‘I didn’t know she was,’ Cato answered clearly. The certain enigma in the answer produced another silence. Belle sensed them all thinking - puzzling, who she was, how she had come there. Then gradually conversations began again, isolating her in the tiny room, which was more private parlour than snug. There was an old easy chair, a much read newspaper by the side of it, and a pair of men’s slippers by the fireplace. The landlord seemed to be a bachelor or widower - pipes and a collection of men’s clothing about the room (waistcoat on chair back, a working smock hanging on the door, scarf, cap and a walking-stick on a horsehair sofa) created a close, warm clutter. She welcomed the disorder; it was curiously comforting when she was beginning to feel more outcast than runaway.
The landlord came through carrying two drinks, a lemonade and a small port. ‘Someone in the bar’s treated you to the short,’ he said, but his tone of voice suggested disapproval, and he added, ‘One of our locals who fancies his chance.’ He opened his mouth as if to say more, but again propriety made him unsure how to begin. Instead he stooped to pick up the newspaper and plump up the cushion of the armchair nearest the fire. With open hand he invited her to sit there, placing her drinks on a solid brass trivet on the hearth.
Belle drank the lemonade quickly, thirstily, then sipped the port, unconcerned and incurious as to who had bought it. All her thoughts centred on Cato and how he was eventually going to come to terms with her presence. If he loved her-surely… the port and the fire made her incapable of reasoning in more detail. She was very comfortable, very drowsy, but all the time her ears were attuned for anything Cato might say. Anticipation of their meeting had tingled through her deliciously ever since she had seen Cato at the first stop for water, and now a little apprehension further heightened the prospect.
She heard the sounds of someone leaving the bar, goodnights called and returned. Had Cato left? She was not sure, and the only way to find out was to run the gauntlet of curiosity — go through the bar and out to the van again. She went to the door, composed herself, took a deep breath and walked quickly into the bar. ‘Goodnight and thank you,’ she said, smiling stiffly at the landlord, noting that the seat Cato had used was empty and, walking behind several men leaning on the counter, made her way to the front door.
‘Enjoy your port?’ A hefty man with a ruddy complexion and a mass of black curly hair turned to ask as she passed him, his eyes roving over her like a farmer grading a piece of horseflesh.
‘I wouldn’t if I’d known who bought it,’ she half turned to retort as she stepped out into the night.
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br /> The small storm lantern under the porch pushed the darkness back a mere few inches, and one step beyond she had to stop to allow her eyes to adjust after the lamp and fire-lit parlour. Even as she paused the sound came of someone else following her out. She stepped to one side to let the man pass, but instead he stopped behind her, and the next moment her arm was caught and held in vice-like fingers.
‘What you playing at?’ the man asked. ‘You drink my treat and you owe me, right!’
‘Just let go of me.’ She tried to twist from his grasp, but he held her easily.
‘Don’t play miss high and mighty with me, my gel, coming into a public house by yourself. You’re just getting what you ask for.’ He attempted to draw her closer to him. She tried to kick his shins, but both were prevented as the man was suddenly and unexpectedly jerked backwards.
‘Leave her alone,’ Cato ordered.
The man snatched his jacket out of Cato’s hand. ‘If she was with you, why didn’t you say so? Wasting my bloody money on her… .’
‘Here.’ Cato thrust his hand in his pocket and threw some coppers at the man’s feet. ‘She’s nothing but trouble anyway,’ he added, taking Belle’s arm.
‘No!’ She snatched her arm free. ‘I won’t be pulled about - and if I’m trouble, leave me!’
The gravel ground loudly under Cato’s heel as he turned quickly and walked towards his van.
You came away without telling; me,’ she began as she followed, not anxious to be left in range of the man from the bar once he had retrieved the money. She put a slight rising peevishness in her voice, as his silence made her feel a mild attacking tactic might be best. ‘Without letting me know.’
‘You came with me, without telling me,’ he replied ironically, ‘or at least, I presume that’s how you got here.’