Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  She looked up at him, her big childish eyes calm and solemn, and put her other hand softly on the one that was crushing hers.

  “Tom, all that is like the town of Vanity Fair in the book I lent you, of the Pilgrim’s Progress. Things in such places may seem fair, but they are temptations to be resisted. I know that. And sometimes we get a sign to help us too. Such things are easy enough to resist when they come in their other shape, that of men with swords and pistols who attack us like devils in the night.”

  She knew that what she said was true - surely in time she would come to feel it, too? As surely as Tom felt love for her?

  But Tom misunderstood her. “Aye - ‘twould take a foolish maid indeed to be tempted by such men, when their evil is so plain to see! But I do hope the day do come soon, as Israel Fuller says, when we honest Christian folk do rise and sweep the likes of they from the face of the earth, even as the Lord helped our grandfathers before us.”

  “Amen to that,” murmured Ann, closing her eyes in something that might have been a prayer. Then she opened them and smiled, releasing her hand from his. “But Tom, let’s not talk of war, the Poles, and such Papist nonsense now. Let’s talk about us. Do you know my father wants to give a feast for us on Thursday night?”

  “Yes, he were round here prating of it this morning. ‘Tis fine enough, but I’ve to make a speech, he says. I shan’t know what to say.” He frowned as he spoke, the very idea making him nervous.

  “Oh, come now, Tom - you’ve got enough to say for yourself in the normal way! And you’ve only to thank my father for his beautiful daughter and promise to be a godly husband to me. Surely you can manage that?”

  “I can do it, but I can’t say it. You’m the one who do love books and schooling and suchlike. You shall have to help me with it, or I won’t come.”

  “Won’t come! To your own betrothal feast? A fine husband you’ll make!” She laughed, tossing her head and flouncing to the other side of the little room, in a way that made him dumb with admiration and longing. For a while she mocked and teased him a little more, and then agreed to help, as she had always helped him with such things at school, and a peace was established between them, like that of their childhood.

  Indeed, to Tom’s parents it seemed more than a peace, for Ann, despite her brother’s injury, was over the next few days outwardly happier and more cheerful than for many weeks, and their only regret was that the wedding could not be sooner.

  Only Ann knew how desperately her joy skated above the surface of despair, and the knowledge made her skate faster to avoid falling, until at times she began to enjoy her pretence for itself, as she had promised God she would. But at night, watching the shadows in their endless slow journey across the rafters, she saw again the vision of Robert laughing in the sunlight, leaping off his bay horse and running towards her, and she wondered if it had been the moon that had lied to her after all, painting his face the grey, loveless colour of indifference.

  9

  “OLIVER, PUT that pasty back on the table at once! It is not for you!”

  “But I hungry! I want eat now!”

  “Put it down! Oh, mother, look what he’s done!” Rachel’s voice rose in a wail of indignation. “I spent an hour trimming the pasties and now he’s put his fingers right through two of them, and everyone will think I can’t do it! Oliver, you naughty boy!” Rachel picked up a wooden spoon and smacked Oliver’s hand. The little boy retreated under the table, sucking his fingers and howling.

  Mary Carter sighed, and turned away from the fire, where she was basting the leg of mutton and three spitted chickens. Since dawn she and her three daughters had been labouring to prepare Ann’s betrothal feast, and the excitement they had felt in the early morning was going sour in the midday heat. Outside it was a blazing hot June day, and the added heat of the great cooking fire had nearly roasted the cooks as well as the meat. Mary wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and picked up her defiant young son.

  “Oliver, that was very bad. You’ve spoilt the nice pasties for Ann’s betrothal feast! What will uncle John think now?”

  “Don’t care! Don’t want Ann get ‘trothed! Want her stay here, marry me!”

  Everyone laughed, and the little boy pouted, pressing his face into his mother’s neck and peeping out angrily at Ann.

  “Oh Roly, don’t be silly!” Ann smiled, and held out her arms to him. “Come here now and watch me get the hot bread out of the oven. Then you can have some of the loaf you made.”

  Oliver let go of his mother and shuffled shyly over to watch his beloved big sister open the door of the bread-oven and pull out the hot loaves on her long wooden peel. The glorious smell of fresh bread wafted across the room.

  “That one mine!” Oliver pointed excitedly to the most unusual-shaped loaf. “I make that one! Cut it now, Ann! Eat my bread!”

  “Wait a minute, Roly. Tis hot, you know!” Ann took the loaf in her gloved hands and carried it to the table. “Let’s eat outside, mother, shall we?”

  “That would be a blessing.”

  So for a welcome half hour they relaxed outside, under the shade of the apple tree where Simon sat with his leg stretched out in front of him. They ate hot bread and chunks of cheese, and drank long cool draughts of watered cider. Ann watched little Oliver trying to feed bits of cheese to a butterfly, and thought perhaps it would be all right after all. ‘It is only a feast for the family to enjoy, that’s all,’ she thought. ‘I will make the promise but I don’t have to leave them, not yet.’

  Refreshed, they returned to work, and by mid-afternoon the floor was scrubbed, the pans cleaned and shining, and the great table in the middle of the kitchen was laden with pasties, mutton, chicken, salads, junkets, cheeses, bread, butter, pickles, good wax candles, and all the knives, spoons, plates, bowls, and mugs the house could provide. Behind the table stood a tall, redfaced woman and her three daughters, all tired, hot, and sticky, their faces and aprons smudged with flour or gravy, their hair sticking out in untidy knots from beneath their coifs. Rachel nudged Sarah, and the two sisters watched entranced as Ann wiped the sweat from her forehead with a hand grey with the ash she had just cleared from the grate. Ann gazed at her giggling sisters in tired exasperation.

  “Whatever’s the matter with you two?”

  “That’s beautiful, Ann! That’s re … really n … nice!” Rachel clung onto Sarah for support. “D … do you think if I make myself into a chimney sweep Tom’s brother will marry me”

  “Chimney sweep, chimney sweep! Ann was sleeping in the fire!” shouted little Oliver, jumping up and down with delight at the joke.

  “Right then, ‘tis time for the washhouse.” Mary Carter took charge, dragging herself back into movement. “You’d laugh even more if you could see yourselves. We could all do with a proper wash, and then you maids can put next week’s dresses on today, since they’re dry. We can keep these to wear tomorrow, when we’re cleaning up.”

  “We won’t have to clear up, too, will we?” asked Sarah. “We’ve done enough today.”

  “Only the dishes. The guests will take care of the food.”

  They went out to the washhouse at the back, where there was a great copper boiler over a fireplace which they heated once a fortnight for the washing, and once a month for a bath. But there was no need for that today; they scrubbed themselves in cold water from the well.

  An hour later the room was full of people, and Ann, sitting between Tom and his mother, suddenly felt a flutter of nervousness she had not had time for before. This feast was a public acknowledgement of something that had so far been only a private understanding; indeed, it was very little different from a wedding. There were seven members of her own family, Tom’s parents, sister and three brothers, and their godparents: John Spragg the mason and his wife Ruth, for Tom, and William Clegg, the skinny, humorous old weaver, for Ann.

  “A fine spread, indeed, Adam. Be that there pork, or lamb, now?” Ann glanced at the thin, stooped eager
figure of Luke Goodchild, Tom’s father, and realised sadly that he had left his working spectacles at home, and without them his weak, watery eyes were half blind, from years of careful, precise stitching at his shoemaker’s bench.

  “‘Tis lamb, Luke. The Lord be thanked, we can still feed well when we’ve a mind, whatever troubles may be abroad in the wide world.” Adam smiled at his old friend.

  “Troubles, Adam? There bain’t no more news, be there?” asked John Spragg from across the table, his voice in the deep chest booming loud as usual.

  “Nothing much. Only that they have stood the militia down in Exeter. I don’t rightly know if that be good news or, bad.” Adam’s voice was careful and even, giving nothing away. The two men’s eyes met across the table, in understanding, and the subject was dropped.

  “Adam,” said Mary, who had been carving, and handing the laden plates to Rachel and Sarah to pass around the table. “Will you lead us in our prayers, before we eat?”

  They all bowed their heads, and Adam led them in the humble grace with which they began every meal.

  “Almighty God, we humbly thank Thee for Thy loving kindness in providing us with this Thy food which we see before us; let us remember Thee with gratitude in our eating of it, and hope that it will strengthen us to serve Thee further, and remember Thee in all our daily acts upon this earth.”

  He paused, and a slight smile played around his lips before he continued. “And we ask Thee also to give Thy blessing to our two children here, Thomas and Ann, whose betrothal we are gathered to celebrate; bless their promise, Lord, and grant that they do come in the fullness of time to the blessed state of matrimony, therein happily and fruitfully to continue all their days, in love and harmony, and by their lives to be an example to their children, and to all the people of this village, of the holiness of Thy true religion.”

  Amid the hearty ‘Amens’ Ann’s vision of her father blurred, and her eyes filled with tears. She had done this thing now, and it was good, or should be; but she was an evil, wicked person to do it so, with a devil inside her, dividing her in two so that she did not know which was right. Which was the evil, which the lies? Were they lies which she had told to God, was she damned for trying to deceive the Almighty? Or were these lies, now, these thoughts that were trying to persuade her that what she was doing now was not right?

  She felt Martha Goodchild’s arm around her. “There, there, my dear, you have a good weep. ‘Tis a bit much for us all, when we comes down to it.”

  “I ... I’m not worthy, Mrs Goodchild.”

  “‘Course you are, my dear! Not worthy? Why, you’m the finest girl in this whole parish, you are! I wouldn’t never want my Tom to choose another, not if he could have any girl he liked in all the three counties!”

  Desperately, Ann brushed away her tears, and looked up, to see tears on Mrs Goodchild’s cheeks too, and her mother’s. Everyone was looking at her, and half of the faces were as long and sad as though it were a funeral! It was absurd! Then she caught John Spragg putting his arm round his own wife, and winking at little Oliver, whose eyes were wide with amazement, and the craziness of it all made her laugh, although her laughter sounded much like crying too, when it came out.

  William Clegg turned to her bemused father with a shrug. “Well, Adam, I reckons us better start on these yer vittles now, don’t ‘ee, ‘fore it all d’get washed away, like?” - a remark which only served to spread the laughter and weeping further, so that all around the room men were grinning and women wiping their faces with their aprons.

  They all began eating in a fine good humour. And despite her own bewilderment at the effect of her tears, Ann could not help being cheered by it too. For a while the devil of doubt within her was quelled, and she felt that she really did belong here, and nowhere else. This was her home, these were her people; if she cried, they accepted her for what she was. Or what they thought she was.

  She could feel Tom’s mother bubbling with emotion beside her, and soon the reason came out. She looked around the company, her plain ruddy face beaming with delight. It was a great moment for her.

  “‘Tis only that ... well, this afternoon I’ve gone and found a house for these two youngsters yer, which they can have as soon as they gets married, if they wants it.”

  There was an excited murmur of appreciation around the table, and Mary Carter and John Spragg asked, almost together:

  “Well, come on, dear, tell us! Where is it to?”

  “‘Tis in Rosemary Lane - you know, that little cottage between the two houses - where old Granny Marples do live.”

  “Oh yes, I know it.” Mary looked puzzled. “But old Granny Marples is still living there.”

  “That’s just it, see.” Martha looked immensely pleased with herself. “You know she’s Tom’s grandmother-in-law, so to speak - well, I knew she ‘aven’t been too happy there on her own since ‘er husband died last winter, she’d rather lodge with my brother Martin. So I goes round to ‘er this afternoon, and ‘er says ‘er’s quite happy to move out and let these two have it whenever they do want. They’d have to pay rent to Martin, o’ course, ‘tis his cottage - but I thought ‘twould suit they just fine!”

  “Why, if that bain’t the hand of the good Lord, just as plain as day!” Mary Carter looked as pleased as Martha; and as the conversation broke up again amongst the small groups around the table, the two mothers continued talking excitedly about the cottage, drawing Ann in as much as possible.

  “‘Tisn’t much, you understand, dear, just the two rooms downstairs and the attic, but it’s got its own well in the backyard, which is something, and a little bit of garden too, for herbs and such. You’ve seen it from the outside, haven’t you, love?”

  “Yes, I know where it is,” said Ann. “But I’ve never been inside.”

  “What about cooking, Martha - do it have a decent fireplace?”

  It might almost be her own mother that was moving there, Ann thought - she looked so excited.

  “Big enough, I suppose. Not so big as yer, o’ course, but then you won’t be cooking for so many - not at first anyway, will you, dear?”

  Ann smiled shyly, and blushed; and again the feeling began to come back that the smile, that her whole body, in fact, was not her own - that it was a doll, going through a performance, holding a captive screaming soundlessly inside. She hadn’t expected this – it was happening too suddenly, too fast.

  “But it has a real good chimney, my dear, and ‘er says ‘e do draw beautiful, and never blows smoke back but in they northeasters, like we had last winter. But the best of all is, where the woodshed be to - right outside the back door, so you’ve hardly a step out there in the cold weather; and there be a proper little wooden slat in there too, so ‘ee can keep the wood and sea-coal separate ...”

  Ann nodded and smiled politely, trying to see the good points of the cottage, and ignore the panic inside her, like a thin whistle in her ears that made her want to leap up, throw her food across the table, and run from the room. She felt the hair crawl on her scalp as she forced herself to sit still. People spoke of being possessed by devils - was this what they meant?

  She looked carefully at the people around the table - people she had known all her life. They were good people, who loved her and cared for her, and wanted what was best for her - she knew that. They would always help her, keep her from sin and danger, never tempt her to do anything which might lead to her wandering the streets of a strange wicked city, a lost, abandoned harlot.

  She should be glad to be betrothed to such an industrious, handsome man as Tom; her heart should leap up at the chance of setting up a little cottage of her own with him, making real the house that they had played at so often as children. Surely the idea should thrill her, as Mrs Goodchild so clearly believed it did? And the doll Ann - the part that felt like a doll to her, but was the real Ann to everyone else - the doll Ann was thrilled by it, and nodded and smiled and asked further questions until Martha Goodchild and her mother had the cotta
ge all completely furnished in their minds, and were beginning to plan ahead for their grandchildren.

  But what had that picture to do with her fantasies of music and laughter and dancing in London? Of herself honoured by handsome cavalier officers, or travelling overseas to Holland, perhaps, or Belgium, Germany? This could have been yours, the captive inside her whispered; he really meant what he said, you know! If you could just forget about the night Simon was hurt; if you could have agreed to love him as his mistress, he would surely have come to love you in the end - you could have returned to Devon with honour, a lady in Shute House. He did not mean what he said that night; it was only his anger, and the moonlight greying his face.

  Ann played with her knife and looked down at the table. It was Belial, she knew, the devil within her; the courtier Belial she had read of in Paradise Lost, who could persuade anyone of anything if only they listened to him, and his smiles, and honeyed, glozing lies. Or was she herself Belial, to pretend to be happy here tonight, when really …

  “There’s that old spinning wheel of my mother’s, that I have no use for at all, though ‘e do go just as well as my own. And ‘e wouldn’t take up so much room in that kitchen, being an upright one - you’ve seen ‘un in our house, haven’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, Mrs Goodchild, ‘tis a very fine one. I prefer using the upright ones, myself.”

  “And I think I’ve got several old pans would look lovely in there ... “

  There was a sudden, urgent knocking at the door. Conversation died, and then rose again as those who had only half heard questioned each other as to what it had been. The knocking came again, louder in the silence where the talk had been. Faces looked at each other, questioningly; most merely curious, but a few - Simon’s, her father’s, John Spragg’s - anxious, a little afraid. Ann remembered Simon’s words the other night, about Robert’s search of the house in Farway. Surely not? Her pulse raced in fear and ... hope?