by Jean Chapman
‘Yours, I think.’ He held the cane out to her, but she did not take it, instead staring so fixedly at him, he felt he stood naked before her, and had difficulty in not moving as if to cover himself. She nodded at him as if he had somehow confirmed what she thought. He offered the stick again, more assertively, adding, ‘Your mother’s anyway… .’ Still she did not answer. There was a dignity in her stillness and silence that was very like Ruth Abbott’s self-possession. He stood and waited for it to break, as he knew it finally would. He could sec her breasts rising more and more rapidly, and he felt again the animal magnetism she could so quickly and so powerfully sway him with.
‘How come you know so much? My mother’s stick!’
Then he realised what all this play-acting was about. She did not know the full story, but she guessed there was something more than the return of a stick she must have seen daily when her mother was alive.
‘Your father’s stick,’ he added. A look of total surprise softened Meg’s face and made him regret the satisfaction the remark had given him, but it did not prevent him finishing his story. ‘Ruth Abbott recognised it was her uncle’s cane.’
Meg stood for long moments with legs apart, as if having to keep her balance under the impact of the news. Then she thrust her hands into her waist and, arms akimbo, began to laugh, laugh with all the unrestrained vulgarity more fitting a woman of the streets than a woman of the road, Sam thought. He reached forward to grasp her arm. ‘Control yourself, woman!’
‘Why?’ She swayed away from him to the extent of his arm, repeating, ‘Why?’ Then she came back and pressed her body to him. She saw desire flame in his eyes and repeated, but softly and mockingly, not questioning now as she stated, ‘Why, I do believe you’re as big a bastard as I’ve always known I was!’
He dropped her arm as if she had stung him. She bent forward, wagging her finger at him. ‘Come on, Sam Greenaugh, it’ll do you good. Do us both good.’ He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead. ‘Come on,’ she goaded, ‘your daughter’s not afraid, is she!’
‘Leave my daughter out of this.’ He pushed by her as if to continue his walk. ‘She’s no concern of such as you,’ he retorted, but his desire for Meg was overwhelming, and his anger more with himself than the woman who goaded him.
‘Oh! I’ve got a bit of class now, you know.’ She put on a false hoity-toity tone and posed tall, but with one hand swept up her skirt above her knee. Then, reverting to the broadest gipsy tones she could manage, she added, ‘Perhaps your trouble is you’ve got a touch of the Romany in. you — like your daughter — only you daren’t enjoy it… dare you? Dare you! Ah, you Gorgios are all the same.’
They broke away and faced each other, his stillness, his quiet voice, his withdrawal, making her mean as an overlooked prima donna. ‘I thought it was you the daughter took after, you, who had the spirit. But it must be Mrs Greenaugh - she’s the one!’ She laughed, taunting him, holding her skirt up like a flounce near her waist, head back, breasts raised, as if she was about to swirl into an impassioned dance.
He tried to control his anger, taking time to bank it down with thoughts of other things less combustible. It was a discipline he had early taught himself, for anger was a kind of sickness he had laboured under since his first hiring. He had dug ditches; laboured, wresting huge mangolds from frozen fields; thrown out the back-dragging heaviness of dung from carts; nursed deep cuts and chaps on his fingers, binding them together with strips of rag; been half suffocated and half blinded as chaff-boy at threshing time- and been silent, as if he saved his anger for some special occasion, when it burst from him in a rage. As a boy, it had brought him very special beatings. But the repression of his feelings until he could bear them no longer had become a lifetime habit - the suppression of anger, which was really a suppression of sorrow. Farmer Hall and his wife and daughters had been so alien to his experience, he had at first suspected his employer’s leniency, then misunderstood Mabel’s interest. That both wife and farm had become his was still a wonder to him.
But this gipsy attacked not his understanding, but his heart - his passion for the daughter that embodied all he knew he had in his nature: the audacity, the energy, the single-mindedness that could be outrageous, the joy of living, the fearlessness. He looked at Meg more objectively, and while she tossed her head even a fraction higher, there was an apprehension in her eyes now, the quick wariness of one who lived by her wits, ever alert for omens.
She had said Belle was like Mabel! It was ludicrous, and he laughed aloud. Belle. Something of the hurt, something of the pride in his daughter, something of the disappointment at his wife’s prudishness, something of the boy before his abandonment - something so basic it was Sam Greenaugh made him reach forward, take the woman roughly by the arm, pull and press her to him.
It was Meg’s turn to be startled now, to try to break away, but he held her firmly, brought his mouth down on hers and kissed with a force that took both of them by surprise. His shock was greater as, after a first resistance, he felt the woman force her tongue between his lips. He nearly released her, he was so surprised; instead his anger forced him on and he replied, novel as the action was to him, with his own tongue. He felt Meg’s body respond, cleaving to him, needing to be part of him. He ran a hand over her back, felt the absence of any corset, and up to her breast, felt the aroused nipple, hot, bare, beneath her blouse. He knew he had complete mastery of her then, but as she turned against him he half opened his eyes and saw along the boundary path - straight and unsullied here. The boundary which had until that moment encompassed his worldly ambitions and been symbol of possession: a man of his own land, his own wife and family - son and daughter. His eyes were wide now, speculating. So what did the path now symbolise? What now lay within his boundary? A daughter who wanted to escape — and a wife who had wanted husband but not lover.
Meg, sensing his momentary distraction, moved demandingly against him. ‘No.’ The denial broke from him and he released her so suddenly that she almost fell. For a few seconds they stood looking at each other, and their looks were mirrored, for neither at that moment understood the other.
Meg quickly read on his face that the embrace was over, and blasphemed at him with a string of abuse. When he was still silent, she retreated from him, not turning her back at first, not trusting a man who acted so perversely. Finally, as she did turn, she screeched at him: ‘I’ll see you’re sorry for that, Sam Greenaugh!’
He made his way back along the path, knowing he had not finished with Meg Silver, nor she with him, but there was something he must do, something he must begin that day.
Sam found Levi in the farmyard and gave his instructions with an urgency that brooked no questioning. He knew Levi disapproved of taking his two best shire horses from a long morning’s mangold-carting to begin another hard job of work. He heard the old man muttering, but stood over him as the harness was unlooped from the shafts of the two mangold carts, then helped remove the unnecessary tackle from the shires’ backs. He needed only collar and girth on each horse for the plough.
It was with a growing sense of excitement that he went to an open hovel, reached forward and felt the familiar handles of the old single-furrow plough beneath his hands again. The ploughshare was deep, like a mould for a wave. Its disc coulter in front with free-spinning cutting edge would deal with any tangle of weeds or grass. This tool was one he had known since a young man. The handles were as familiar as old gloves; the balance needed a touch heavier pressure on the right, he recalled.
Plough hitched up, he left the yard, aware that Levi and the two men withdrawn from mangold-carting drew together, that Mabel came to the kitchen door, wiping her hands in the bundled length of her apron. The only kind of flounce he had ever seen her with, he thought ironically. No doubt they were discussing this unprecedented change to a day’s routine of work. They, he thought with some satisfaction, did not know the half of it.
He strode behind his horses, enjoying the feel of the power at the end of t
he reins, the chink of the chain traces from horse-collars to plough-beam, the dull thud of mighty hooves on soil making the very earth ring like a hollow cave. Obediently Queenie and Bess waited as he opened and closed gates, and went on through the top pasture land. Queenie acknowledged a greeting from her own foal of the previous year as they passed.
To achieve his objective, it seemed to Sam, there was only one way to do this thing, a kind of ritualistic correctness must be observed. He drove the horses on to the path and along the way he had taken earlier — past the spot where he had encountered Meg, past the scene of the fire — until he came to where the drive to Glebe Farm forked off from the bridle-road. Then he turned the horses to take the first run back along the way he had come.
With the ease of years of familiarity he urged the horses gently forward. They too knew the tool they powered, knew the need for alertness at this stage, their ears twisting back for their man’s every word.
At the precise line where the now gravelled and steamrollered pathway gave way to the old compacted footway, he lowered the ploughshare. The Abbotts had alienated the path with stone; now he would obliterate the other part of this boundary. His only torment was that he did not know whether he was destroying a path, a boundary - or a dividing line in his own mind. He only knew it was something he had to do.
‘Ho! Now m’beauties, pull!’ he urged.
With twin obedience the horses lowered their heads and leaned their weight and power into their collars. The coulter moved round, slicing deep, and the ploughshare followed, down into the virgin earth. The rape of the ancient right of way, this silent witness to the passage of centuries of travelers, desecrated to fulfil the need of one man — a man who had needed to hit back at life. But who with each difficulty of stone or root, each obstacle overcome, broke through to a distant youngster. Sam had a vision of a stalwart little boy who could at last now afford to cry, for a man reached back in time for him, holding out a new freedom — a freedom of little to lose, little to gain, except perhaps his true self at last.
One furrow completed, Sam turned to take the second cut, and as he worked he stumbled from time to time, for at last the man cried with the lost boy.
16
Although whoever was coming through the osier beds was certainly making no secret of the fact, Meg was nearly caught unawares. She was so intent on her own sense of injustice and her need for revenge, even her keen senses had not heeded the sounds of twigs snapping under someone’s hurrying footsteps.
Meg had always taken her men as and when she occasionally admired and wanted them — and she had wanted Sam Greenaugh. He had attracted her when she first saw him in the village on his spirited mare, although he had not been aware of her. She had thought the animal suited him, for he seemed to have a fine intelligence and a dark, wild humour that appealed to her. Her appetite for him had come with a quick surge of excitement such as she had not felt since she was a girl. He had held her, and as quickly released her as if she were a heathen. Now she needed to satisfy nature’s baser law, a hurt for a hurt.
‘Aye, and you’ll do m’beauty, you’ll do!’ She muttered as she saw who it was hurrying so recklessly from the willows towards her. The girl was in a pale blue knitted suit, a little thing, her auburn hair almost seeming to glow of itself in the misty autumn colours, fey-looking, but not fey-hearted, Meg reminded herself. She leaned in the doorway of her current domain, motionless and silent, wondering if Sam Greenaugh had by any wonder sent his daughter with some message — or whether it was fate delivering Belle into her hands in such a timely way.
Belle took in the uncompromising stance of the woman as she drew nearer and saw she must be careful, for there was a certain unveiled insolence on Meg Silver’s face. ‘I need to buy something,’ she said, as uncompromising in her approach as the woman she faced, ‘something … strong… .’ She paused, unsure how to word her request. She looked for some glimmer of understanding in the older woman. If there was any, Meg certainly did not show it. Belle realised she was being as coy as her mother, trying to pussyfoot around the matter, and continued determinedly, ‘Something to make sure I’m not going to have a baby.’
Meg laughed and nodded. ‘Aye, you, and a good many thousand more. Only one way I know about.’
Belle looked at her uncertainly, not quite sure what the woman implied. ‘You can sell me something?’ she asked, ‘something strong and sure?’
The woman’s expression changed, the amusement gone now, seeming to assess Belle for some purpose of her own. ‘I can pay,’ Belle began, and some need to impress made her hold out the hand concealing the gold fob-watch. She spread her palm flat and held it up towards Meg, stepping nearer and lifting it higher so it could be inspected. ‘It’s valuable,’ she added. The next second she started as Meg launched herself forward, knocking the watch out of her hand, sending it flying into long sedge grasses.
‘Take your watch. You’ll send for the police, say I’ve stolen it! A Gorgio trick. Go away, girl!’
Belle stepped back, astonished. There was more hostility here than she felt she merited. She went to where the watch had landed, picked it up, unharmed, from a cushioning tuft of marsh grass. ‘I didn’t intend that, I only wanted to make sure of your help. I have some money.’ She showed the three half-crowns. ‘Or I could get small coins if that’s what you want.’
‘ I don’t want anything.’ Meg’s tone was unyielding.
Belle tried another tack: ‘I could tell you who your father is.’ But Meg’s voice cut in on the idea like a whiplash. ‘I could tell you what your father is.’ Meg gave a final snort of disgust and turned into the lean-to she had made her home.
‘The stick… .’ Belle was as determined as ever that this woman should give her what she wanted, and advanced to the doorway.
Meg stood in the shadows near her homemade bed, motionless, but there was a tension in the air, a barrier of fury which would have repelled the superstitious or faint-hearted. ‘The stick!’ She snatched the word from Belle’s lips. ‘You arrogant fool. I’ve known about the stick all my life.’
Belle sensed she lied, in part at least, but knew she had to find some new bargaining power. ‘I would always do my best to help you, perhaps persuade my father to find you somewhere better to live before the worst of the winter…. if you’ll help me.’
Meg let out a hoot of laughter, humourless, harsh as the screech of scratched tin.
‘Please help me,’ Belle repeated, thinking of Tweeny and standing her ground. A silent confrontation developed, going on, and on, far too long for comfort. Belle felt a pricking at the nape of her neck as her instincts became ever more vigilant - but with all her might she willed the woman to give her what she asked for.
At last Meg laughed again, but this time there was a real note of amusement, making it more a chuckle - with a wicked undertone. ‘Wait outside,’ she said. ‘You’re like your father - you deserve something for your face!’
Released from the pressure of the woman’s presence, Belle shivered as she stood outside. Though it was the height of the afternoon, the light was grey, and apart from the slightest of sounds as the gipsy moved about taking down jars, replacing them, murmuring to herself as if to remind herself of ingredients, or quantities, the silence was oppressive. She wondered if Mordichi Evans was drugged so he felt no pain; there was no sound from the front of the cottage. His sons, she supposed, must be away working, leaving Meg in sole charge. A chill of apprehension went over her at the thought of being in the power of such as Meg Silver. She remembered the remark she herself had made to Cato about needing to be good to the local witch or your cows died. She would offer the money again, she thought.
Meg appeared in a few minutes and held out a screw of brown paper. ‘Three doses – tonight, in the morning and again tomorrow night, twelve hours between each and tell no one… .’ Belle offered the money again, Meg extended her hand, the coins were tipped into it and without another word Meg went inside again.
Be
lle walked out of sight of the cottage, found a fallen tree and, sitting down, tipped the contents of the paper into one hand. She had expected a powder, but instead came three small leaf-wrapped pellets. She stirred them with a finger, surprised at the neatness of each pill, more like something an insect might manufacture — or an owl regurgitate — than a woman would fashion. She grimaced, then pinched and smelt one. There was no doubt that the enclosing leaves were balm. Belle wondered if she had parted with three half-crown pieces for just lemon mint. She eased open one of the pellets, and could see, mixed with other tiny leaves and a greyish powder, tiny dried florets of camomile. Something strong, she had asked for! She rolled them around in the palm of her hand, thinking they looked like no more than three Mexican jumping beans - an amusement for a child. She thought of tipping them into the grass, but instead, with a sigh, cupped them in her palm and began to walk towards the track she and Cato had taken the very first time they had walked together.
She felt an overwhelming need for him, a longing that became first a deep physical ache, and then an anger that life seemed to be slipping beyond her control. With resolution, but without much conscious thought, she suddenly threw all three pellets into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, time and time again, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth as the taste of minty lemon was replaced by one that scoured and dried her palate. With fatalistic determination she swallowed everything, but once she had, a drink became imperative, and the nearest she knew of was a tiny spring at the edge of the white willows. She turned that way and began to hurry as she felt her throat begin to burn, to take on the same sandpaper dryness as her mouth. Then her stomach burnt.
Panic swept over Belle, as she wondered just what it was she had taken—and all three doses at once instead of twelve hours between each, as Meg had instructed. She stopped to try to heave, to rid herself of the concoction, but could not, feeling there was not enough moisture in the whole of her body to make sickness a possibility. She ran on, desperate for relief now, and for a moment overlooked the rusty-red pebbles around the spring which gave it the name Red Pool. Then, seeing them, threw herself to her knees and scooped up handsful of the water, but had difficulty even in swallowing. It was as if her tongue was too large and hard to function, filling her mouth. She had to tip her head right back and let the water trickle down. It seemed to help at first, but as she took more and more, it only served to spread the burning sensation, until the whole of her stomach seemed aflame.