On his way back, Bruce called at the parsonage, only to be told by the verger that the parson was on a visit to The Hall, and so Bruce said, 'Will you please tell the parson that my mother has died and I wish her to be buried on Tuesday?'
'Oh, Tuesday! Tuesday? Oh no; we're up to the eyes on Tuesday.'
Looking the man squarely in the face, Bruce said, 'I have seen the undertaker and he will be at the house at noon . . .'
"Tis Christmas week, and there's lots to be done: I have the whole church to decorate, then there's the children's do and Parson won't..."
'You tell Parson what I said. You always have help in digging graves, don't you? Well, you won't have to dig far for this one, because she'll be on top of her husband.'
'Still, it's got to be opened up.'
He nodded at the man now, and then said stiffly, 'Till Tuesday.'
As Bruce went through the lychgate the verger shouted, 'Parson'll have the last word,' and so he turned again and called back, 'Yes, he will, and to you if the coffin is left on his doorstep!'
As he urged the horse up towards the coach road he thought it was a wonder that neither the undertaker nor the verger had asked on the reason why he was insisting on his mother being buried on Tuesday; and it was just as well, because he would have had to say that beyond Tuesday he would be unable to stand the stench of her; it was bad enough now going in and out of the kitchen and seeing her lying there.
They could no longer eat in the kitchen and he had made arrangements with Max to move the table into the scullery. Of course, the fire would have to be kept going, for that was their only means of cooking and hot water. He could not imagine how some people were able to stand the corpse laid out in the coffin and kept on the table for days so that visitors could pay their last respects to the body, more often than not already in a state of decomposition.
And poor Jinnie. She had been sick first thing this morning and had been unable to swallow a mouthful of porridge. Anyway, her tasks in the future would be much . . . What was he thinking about? Jinnie will go.
She'll have to go; at least Miss Caplin will see to it.
Tomorrow's Sunday, her day for visiting.
Oh no. Oh no. But yes; they wouldn't let her stay with a lone man out here in the wilds. If Miss Caplin didn't do something about it the workhouse crowd would; she'd been here only a matter of months, hardly a year yet.
But had they any claim on her now? She was fifteen.
He slumped in the seat. It seemed he had known her for years. It was as if she had always been here, her freshness wiping the dreariness of his life away. The thought of that place without her was unbearable.
The day he had first led her over the plain to the house she was like a young child. Now she was a young girl, and something more. But the purity she had brought with her as the child she still retained. Of course there was a way out, but it took two to cover that way. She wasn't yet sixteen, in fact she wasn't much over fifteen. Was it
fair to tie a young spirit like hers to that stone cage?
With Max gone, he'd be alone up there just waiting for Hal's return. God above! yes, Hal's return, and to his farm. He jerked almost savagely at the reins.
Jinnie was sitting on a straight-backed chair, her head bowed and her hands tightly gripped between her knees.
Miss Caplin was sitting opposite her, and the Miss Duckworths one on each side of her.
Miss Caplin was saying, 'Don't you see, my dear, it wouldn't be allowed? It... well, it would be considered improper.'
'Very improper.'
'Oh yes, very improper.' The two lace-capped heads were nodding in unison.
'You are fifteen, Jinnie, and if it came to the guardians' knowledge; well, I don't know what the rules are exactly in a case like this, but I think that you might be considered to be still under their jurisdiction until you are sixteen.'
Jinnie's head came up and her hands came from between her knees and one accompanied the protest of her voice as she wagged it towards Miss Caplin, saying,
'I won't go back, Miss Caplin; I won't! I'll never go back there. Never! never! never!'
'All right; all right, my dear. That is the last thing I would desire for you; and I shall make it my business to get you a new place. And should they take up the matter I will tell them you'll be my responsibility and that you could stay here. Couldn't she?' and she turned first to one and then to the other of the Miss Duckworths, who again nodded in unison, saying, 'Of course, yes. Yes; delighted. Oh yes, delighted. There's a little room off. It-is very sweet and . . .'
'He'll be so alone.' Jinnie's voice was very low now.
Her eyes were blinking to keep the tears back. 'He's lonely, and it'll be awful up there by himself with nobody to cook or do for him.'
'He can always engage an older person. A married woman, for instance, could go up each day. I understand that was the arrangement before you arrived.'
'He couldn't engage anybody; he hasn't any money.'
'What?'
'I don't know how he'll get through the winter. I'm not taking a wage, and neither is Max. It cost quite a lot to bury his father; but now that he's got to bury his mother too, I don't know what he'll do.'
There was silence in the room for a moment; and then Miss Caplin rose to her feet, saying, 'Well, that doesn't really change the matter at all; only that one is deeply sorry for him and the predicament he finds himself in.
It's you we must be considering, dear. You see, if you had parents they could decide whether or not to allow you to stay alone with a man in that small cottage, which has really only one room.'
'It hasn't; it's got the scullery, too, and that's quite big; and I sleep above that. And Mister Bruce is nice and he's good and he would look after me. I mean, he wouldn't let anyone get at me.'
Miss Caplin closed her eyes for a moment: she wanted to say, 'We're not afraid of who else might get at you, my dear, it's what Mister Bruce himself might decide to do when he has you there alone;' but what she actually said was, 'Anyway, it will be all right for the next few days . . . well, up to the New Year when Max leaves. But afterwards you'll have to fall in with the new arrangement, dear.'
An idea striking her, Jinnie bounced to her feet, saying, 'Look; could I not go up every day and come back here to sleep at night?'
'Oh no! my dear, not in the winter. Those hills to climb and that long stretch, oh no! It's as much as you can do now in the daylight; but it doesn't get light until late, and then it gets dark so early. To do that twice a day . . . No! dear. No; it's as much as a man would be able to do.'
'I ... I could.'
Ignoring this remark, Miss Caplin went on, 'You can go back now, my dear, and tell him what I have said.
If he wishes to discuss it, then he must come straight down because Mr Beaney's cart will be here to take me to the train at three o'clock.'
'Yes, Miss Caplin.'
The day was solemn; it was damp and cold, a dead day; and this was how she felt inside too as she made her way back to the farm. She should be sweating, for she was hurrying so much.
It seemed that Bruce had been waiting for her: there he was, hurrying to meet her while she was still some distance from the house.
'Cold?' he enquired briefly.
'Freezing. It's this damp.'
'Yes, it gets right through you. Well, what did she say?'
She had walked some steps with her head down, before she muttered, 'I can only stay on until Max goes in the New Year; and then I've got to go down and live with the Miss Duckworths until I get a new place.'
He said nothing, but the chill inside him deepened.
Of a sudden, she stopped and, looking into his drawn face, she said, 'Oh, Mister Bruce; I don't want to go; I don't want to leave you; you'll be all alone.' Then she made her characteristic, impatient movement of her head, and her voice was loud as she said, 'I don't know what they're all on about, I really don't, because you're like a brother to me. You always have been from the time you me
t me down there.' Now she was thumbing back over the road she had come. 'You would never do me any hurt, I know that, not like others. You're like Max; you would look after me. I've tried to tell her but--' She turned away now and began to walk on, and he hesitated a moment before following her.
Look after her like Max did? Well, hadn't that been his intention from the first, when he used to think of her merely as a child; and she was little more now in many ways, and yet... as old as the hills in others . . .
Max was waiting for them. His welcoming words were, 'You see Miss CCCaplin?'
She nodded.
'Everything all ... all right?'
She shook her head before hurrying past him and through the scullery door, and he, looking at Bruce, asked, 'What the matter?'
'They are not going to allow her to stay here after you go.'
'No? Wwwhy?'
Bruce now walked towards the barn, with Max close by his side and his face showing concern as he waited for the answer, which Bruce did not give until they were inside the barn. There, turning to Max, he said plainly, 'She'd be living alone with me. And that's not to be thought of, is it? And this I can understand. Miss Caplin is going to get her another job.'
Max stared at Bruce; then he said quietly, 'No life a-a-alone, sp-sp-specially up here.'
'Oh, I'll get used to it. Don't worry your head now.'
Max turned and stood staring out through the open barn door for some time, before he emitted loudly,
' Sol-sol-solution.'
'What did you say?'
Max turned quickly to Bruce, saying again, almost shouting now, 'Sol-solution. I got it. I go down to Miss Caplin n-n-now,' and he gently thumped at Brace's chest, and said with assurance, 'Everything all ... all right. You see. I go now.' And he made hastily for outside, saying, ' Ch-ch-change my boots and cccoat.'
Bruce now ran after him and, pulling him to a standstill, said, 'Look, Max; it's no good. Anyway, why all the fuss? I'm used to being on my own; I'm a shepherd, aren't I?'
Max stared at him for a moment before repeating flatly, 'Going to change boots. M-m-must hurry . . .
else Miss C-C-Caplin gone.'
A few minutes later, Bruce and Jinnie watched Max go into a lolloping run across the plain. Neither of them spoke, not even when Jinnie turned and went into the scullery, where, after closing the door, she stood for a moment looking towards the stone steps, and they seemed to remind her she must go up there and change her clothes . . .
Having done so, she sat on the edge of her pallet, her arms hugging her knees, rocking herself. It was a dreadful place up here, and it was a dreadful place downstairs, but the kitchen had become more so since the attitude of the missis towards her had changed. She couldn't help thinking it, but she was glad she was dead.
And yet, it was because she was dead that she herself would now have to leave Mister Bruce.
She was brought from her musing by the sound of a loud thumping on the door.
As she scrambled down the steps and opened the kitchen door, it was to see the man who had driven the parson to the farm some time ago; and he said to her, 'Where's Mr Shaleman?'
'He's along there working in the barn.'
'Go and fetch him, then.'
'Wait a moment.' The parson spoke as he descended from the trap. 'I'll see him myself.'
At the door of the barn, he called loudly, 'You there!
Mr Shaleman.'
Bruce appeared at the far end of the barn and called back, 'Good-day, Parson. Have you come to see my mother?' There was a surprised note in the question and the answer he was given was sharp and brief: 'No!
I have not come to see your mother' - he could have added, he had seen her once and that was enough 'the dead are dead and should be left in peace; we don't believe in wakes.'
'I wouldn't expect you to.' Bruce was now standing in front of the parson as he added, 'Yet one never knows, with your Church and Rome hand in glove.'
'Mr Shaleman, I have not interrupted a very busy routine to make this journey to discuss theology with you, about which I am sure you know nothing whatever, but to remind you that I have been here before and it must have been a matter of interest to you when my verger was called into the cottage. Perhaps you are not aware that it needs two signatures to make a will'
legal. Your mother made a will, verbally, that is--' He now thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the envelope, which he now handed to Bruce, saying, 'There it is.'
Bruce took the envelope, but did not open it immediately: he just looked at the parson and said,
'Well, I'm not surprised. I've been expecting something like this. I think I know what's in it.'
'Oh, you do, do you? Well, then, in that case your mother wasted her time, and mine also. And lastly, Mr Shaleman, I would thank you not to leave impertinent messages with my verger.' And on this the irate parson turned and marched smartly back to the trap, leaving Bruce with the envelope, his jaws clenched.
He did not open it until he had returned to the other end of the barn and seated himself on a box; nor did he put his thumb under the envelope to roughly open it, but, taking a penknife from his pocket, he inserted it in the flap and slowly cut it open.
He drew out the perforated sheet of paper and stared at the words. Then his teeth clamped together as a wave akin to shame swept through him: Why hadn't he taken advantage years ago of Richard's offer? Because of his damn silly pride, that's why. But what had he to be proud about? Nothing in the world. He could have learned much even from Max these past weeks or from Jinnie these past months, but no ... no, he was too big in the head; and so he'd have to go and ask her to read it. Anyway, it was only Jinnie; she'd understand.
He met her coming towards him from the cottage, and when she said, 'He didn't come in to see her,' he made no comment but took her arm and led her back to the barn. Handing her the letter, he asked, 'Will you tell me what it says, Jinnie?'
Jinnie looked at the small squiggly handwriting; then she began laboriously to read:
'I, Rose Ann Shaleman, of Toilet's Ridge Farm, wish to leave the said farm and land and stock - '
She paused, and then went on,
' - to my . . . son, Bruce Arthur Shaleman.'
Jinnie now looked up into Brace's startled face and smiled widely before finishing,
'Signed this 14th day of November 1871 in the presence of--'
She again looked at Bruce, saying on a laugh, 'His name's all squiggly, but I can make out the Reverend something, and then the verger's name.'
She laid the paper on her lap and, putting both hands out to him, she said, 'It's yours! The farm's yours. A little while ago, I thought, if Mister Hal comes back - oh, I hoped he wouldn't - but if he did, the farm would be his.' But seeing Bruce place a hand across his forehead, she said, 'What is it? What's the matter?' His face had almost blanched. 'Is . . . is it the shock?'
His hand dropped from his forehead and he said,
'Jinnie, she swore to me that she was going to leave it to Hal. In any case, you know, Hal is the rightful heir, and he could still claim it. You see, Jinnie, I am not Pug Shaleman's son and the farm was handed down from his family. But it isn't that which upsets me; it is because she wanted to leave it to me and, as she said, she wasn't as black as she was painted, and she was aware that I would be thinking the worst of her.'
When his head drooped, she quickly put her arms about his shoulders, and drawing his head into her small breast, she stroked his hair, saying, 'Don't worry about having hated her, because I've hated her as well. I know she was ill but at times she asked for it. Oh yes, she asked for it, so you shouldn't blame yourself. Come on. Come on.' She lifted his head, and now she was cupping his face in her hands, her bright eyes looking into his, and she said, 'It's yours. Nobody can take it away; that is a real will.' She pointed down to the box on which she had laid the paper. 'And you know something? You must keep it in a safe place, because if he was to come back' - she straightened up and her own head drooped<
br />
- 'everything would be worse than it is now.'
He sat staring at her: she had laid his head on her breast; she had held his face between her hands. She wasn't a child any more, she was a young girl, older than her years, but her very actions had proved that, if nothing else, she looked upon him as a brother. She had handled him in a way she objected to others handling her
... oh yes, indeed, she thought of him as her brother.
It was almost dark when Max returned to the farm.
A light was showing from the small window of the scullery, and when he went in it was to see Jinnie, an apron over her best coat - in fact, her only coat - and a shoulder shawl covering her head and ears, standing at a rough-made bench and pounding dough in a large brown dish.
Since her mistress had died she had refused to work in the kitchen. It was enough for her to hurry in to keep the fire going, but on each flying visit she was freshly conscious of the woman in the box on the wall-bed.
Whenever possible Bruce himself would do this chore, although even he was reluctant to go into the kitchen.
'Wh-wh-where is Mister Bruce?' asked Max.
'He's along yon end, knocking up a kind of trestle table instead of this,' she said, pointing to the rickety bench.
'C-c-come on.' Max put out his long arm and tugged her from the table, while she exclaimed, 'Wait a minute!
Wait a minute! Max. Look; I'm all covered in dough.'
He allowed her to wipe her hands before he again tugged at her arm, when she said, 'What is it? What's the matter?'
'W-w-wait. Not w-wasting two breaths. Cccome,'
and he hurried her out and along to the barn.
Bruce was working by the aid of an oil lamp. He turned at their approach and, looking at Max he said quickly and abruptly, 'Well?'
'Y-y-yes, well. All is well. Miss C-C-Caplin agrees.
S-s-says authorities have n-n-no juris . . . diction bbbig word that, eh?' He grinned from one to the other. 'Miss C-C-Caplin uses b-b-big words.'
'Well, for goodness sake! Max, spit it out. What did Miss Caplin say?'
'I'm trying to t-t-tell you. She s-s-says, if I stay on here, s-s-so can Jinnie.' And he pulled Jinnie towards him and, gently touching her bright face, he said, 'As l-l-long I'm here, y-y-you can stay.'
The Tinker's Girl Page 24