The Lonely Furrow

by Norah Lofts

  Possibly some Captoft long ago had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and remembered what he had seen, come back and given descriptions which had been handed down and fired some woman’s lively imagination. Some of the beasts were very strange indeed.

  Adam and Eve were naked except for, in his case, the fig leaf, and in hers—symbolic touch—one coil of the Snake which she appeared to be fondling.

  When Master Captoft’s household was broken up, nobody wanted this article. Two of his daughters said they had spent so many tedious hours on it in childhood that they never wanted to see it again—in fact just to look at the tiny forget-me-nots and pansies made their eyes ache; the third had an aversion to snakes. One of his sons thought so much naked flesh indecent, and the other said he had hangings enough. Their stepmother was more than welcome to it.

  Very little work remained to be done on it and now Mistress Captoft realised how useful a seemingly useless thing could be. It would look splendid on the unbroken stretch of wall over the hearth. And it fitted as though made for it. Jem Watson was called in to help Henry and David with the hanging of it, for it was so long that it needed two men to hold it level and taut while a third drove in the nails. Everybody then stood back to study the effect.

  Since, when not being worked upon, it had been kept rolled, the colours were as bright and clear as ever and the glowing, crowded panorama altered not only that one wall but the whole hall.

  Mistress Captoft was enchanted with it—so beautiful in itself and another contribution to Knight’s Acre. David was under the misapprehension that she had stitched it unaided and was dumbstruck with admiration. Henry said, practically, that they must never in future put a smoky log on the fire for fear of dimming it. Jem reserved his opinion until he was back in the village.

  ‘You never seen such a thing in all your born days.’

  ‘Tell us about it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I towd you,’ but he proceeded to tell. A man and a woman, stark naked, not so much as a clout between them, standing together under a tree. Close together? Yes, hand in hand. And all around such beasts as never went on four legs. Things with stripes, with spots, with humps; one with a single horn in the middle of its head and one like a dog but with a face like… not unlike your Timmy, Father.’ That was a most accurate piece of observation.

  It could be, thought Father Matthew, who was one of the gathering in Bert Edgar’s kitchen that evening, a picture of the Garden of Eden.

  ‘Is there a snake?’ he asked.

  ‘Is there a snake? Thundering great thing as thick as my arm. And the woman a-nursing it, like it was a baby.’

  That brought a gasp of horror from all the women in his audience. All women had an inborn horror of snakes. And was not a snake as much the representative of the Devil as a dove was of the Holy Ghost?

  ‘Suckling Old Scrat, eh? And she stitched that into a picture! Well, you don’t surprise me.’ That was Old Ethel, still venomous against Mistress Captoft who had, she felt, usurped her place as priest’s housekeeper, then employed her in a very menial capacity and seen to it strictly that the humble jobs were properly done—and then, crowning injury, not employed her at all after the move to Knight’s Acre. A born gossip, Ethel could always give the impression that she knew more than she chose to say. In fact she knew nothing of the relationship that had existed between Father Benedict and Mistress Captoft, for until the shutters were closed and the door barred they had acted their parts to perfection. Father Benedict, priest of this parish, and Mistress Captoft, his housekeeper and his aunt.

  Jill Edgar, hostess for this evening—in winter the people of Intake saved firewood by taking it in turns; letting the fire die on three or four hearths, gathering around another—had no specific grudge against Mistress Captoft but she hated Knight’s Acre and Master Tallboys because she’d once had an easy job there. Then Master Tallboys had chosen to marry Griselda, a fellow servant of Jill’s; jumped up, pernickety, unbearable. So Jill had married Bert Edgar. A plain case of out of the frying pan into the fire; with Bert such a beast. Worse. Beasts at least knew whether a female wanted it or not; Bert took no notice of her wishes and then, when what couldn’t be helped happened, beat her. As though a woman deliberately made a baby on her own. Out of her own deep misery Jill Edgar was prepared to take some slight comfort by criticising another woman, apparently more fortunate. So she said, ‘You mean to tell, Jem Watson, that him and her sit there together and take food with naked people looking down from the wall?’

  ‘Ain’t that what I been saying? Anyway, they’re as good as married. Leastways they oughta be.’

  Many of these evening gatherings ended up with a bit of bawdy talk. It was the thing everybody understood and found amusing. Father Matthew, in spite of a little learning, was one of them, earthy and coarse-humoured. He was capable of understanding why nine out of ten brides coming up to the altar to ask God’s blessing on their marriage were pregnant. He understood that any working man needed to know that a woman was capable of bearing a child before he committed himself for life—till death do us part. Jokes about children born seven, six, five or even four months after their begetters had been united in Holy Matrimony did not bother him at all. But, plodding home, Father Matthew recognised that he was a priest and responsible for what went on in his parish—not in the ditches and hedgerows, or under the shelter of haystacks, but openly, in the only big house, occupied by the very people who should be setting a good example.

  He was unaware—or unwilling to face the fact—that he liked neither Master Tallboys nor Mistress Captoft. He considered the Master of Knight’s Acre to be mean; he never proffered the invitation to share a meal or a mug of ale, leave alone a glass of wine, as the better-off parishioners should do; and his manner, though invariably civil, struck the priest as cold and unfriendly; Mistress Captoft, he had sensed, criticised and despised him; she’d taken herself—and her order for Masses—to Nettleton.

  These personal feelings combined with a sense of duty, which was not lacking in him, to assure himself that a rebuke, a warning would be in order.

  Mistress Captoft opened the heavy front door herself. Of two servants only so much could be expected; Katharine was in the kitchen and David busy with one of the many jobs he had taken on.

  ‘Oh! Good morning, Father,’ she said, her tone betraying the surprise she felt. She was no longer of his congregation and Master Tallboys was not a man who needed to be rounded up and reminded of his religious obligations. Although he never gave any other sign of piety, he never missed a Sunday Mass or a Holy Day.

  Now that he was in her presence, Father Matthew realised the awkwardness of his mission.

  Mistress Captoft knew how a priest should be received. She indicated a seat on the most comfortable settle, near the bright fire, and bustled about producing wine, silver cups and small saffron buns from one of the cupboards. She made an affable remark or two about the seasonal weather and how the leaves were falling.

  Father Matthew seated himself clumsily, perching on the edge of his seat, spreading his knees wide and placing his coarse hands upon them. A peasant’s stance. For a second the contrast with Benny sprang to mind again but it no longer pained her. Pouring the wine she thought, in a way unusual to her, that some people had quick-healing flesh and in the same way some people had quick-healing spirits. While he was alive she had given Benny all she had to give; when he died she had given him deep grief, misery that had driven her almost distraught—and Masses for a year to shorten his time in Purgatory. So the wound had healed, not festered.

  She seated herself on the other, less comfortable settle, the one that Walter had somehow procured for the Lady Sybilla, and waited for Father Matthew to state his business—if he had any.

  She thought it might concern the glebe. For, despite his hob-nobbing with the people of Intake, his—in her view—lowering attempt to be one of them, he hadn’t got his glebe ploughed. And never would at this rate. Though she had held he
rself aloof from the village, she knew the people of Intake. With one exception, ingrates.

  And if, having failed with them and their oxen, he’d now come to ask aid from Master Tallboys and his horse-drawn plough, she had her answer ready; Master Tallboys had all he could deal with; offer the men of Intake eleven pence and the job would be done. She was willing to give the money; for she, of all people, knew how utterly inadequate the living was.

  Since she was thinking such fundamentally kind and charitable thoughts, it was all the more shock to her when the clumsy man, after some false starts, some mumbling, managed to say what he had come about.

  Unpleasant talk about her and Master Tallboys down there in the village!

  She always carried good colour in her face; now it darkened until it matched the crimson velvet of her new winter gown, brought into use only two days earlier when the wind changed and the leaves began to blow about.

  Unless I control myself, master this rage, I shall be taken with a fit.

  And she was schooled in self-control. No protest or sullenness when she was informed that the husband her parents had chosen for her was an old man, with children older than she was. And after that, when he was running the old husband’s business for him, patience and calm had been demanded of her; and after that the years of secretive, rigidly controlled life with Benny, every word to be watched, and the little vinegar-soaked sponge between her and what she most wanted; a child.

  Draw in, hold, count to twenty before releasing that breath. It worked. She felt the hot flush subside; knew that she was again in command of herself and of the situation.

  ‘I wonder at you, Father Matthew, giving an ear to village gossip.’

  The contempt in her voice was a spur to him and he said, ‘You live close.’

  ‘Certainly, we eat together, at this table. Would the people of Intake prefer that I ate with servants in the kitchen? As for sleeping… Between my bedchamber and Master Tallboys are two others; one occupied by a maid-servant, the other by a child—except when he chooses to sleep in his father’s room.’ And she thought; the irony of it! All those years with Benny, being careful, dreading this very thing and now to be accused of it with Master Tallboys!

  Good night, Mistress Captoft. Good-night, Master Tallboys. And each to a lonely bed. ‘I daresay,’ she said, keeping her temper but feeling the worse for it, ‘your village cronies may find it difficult to believe that a man and a woman can share board but not bed. If so, you have my permission to question my cook-woman about any comings and goings in the night.’ Suppressed anger made her vicious, willing to wound and knowing exactly where to strike. ‘When tongues cease to wag about Master Tallboys and I living close, as you call it, they may turn on you and accuse you of sodomy with that ugly boy.’

  It was a word that most people understood but seldom used, except in its shortened form, silly sod, poor sod, terms of derision or pity. Never, never used by decent women.

  Father Matthew did not know—and had he known, would have discounted—the fact that Mistress Captoft had for years lived close with a scholar who had used words as words. He was therefore shocked and appalled. He stood up, clumsily and said, ‘That is an insult, to me; to my office; to Christ Himself.’

  ‘It was not so meant. A mere warning.’ Mistress Captoft rose, too and faced him. ‘Who started this scurrilous talk? It is someone to beware of.’

  Being ushered in he had caught only a glancing look at the picture; sitting below it, he had had no view of it at all. Now, backing away, he saw that it was all and worse than Jem Watson had said. Thought the serpent was not actually being suckled; its head lay on the woman’s arm, its lidless eyes staring with defiant malevolence.

  Confused; shocked; an evil woman and an evil picture, Father Matthew said, ‘I do not know. The kitchen at Edgarsacre was crowded.’

  With that he made for the door.

  The ugly word rang in his mind all day, the more clangingly when he looked at Tim, so like the strange beast in the evil picture. An object for charity if ever there was one. And the priest had been charitable. It was so unjust. Such a terrible insult. Grown man as he was, Father Matthew could have wept from sheer mortification. At one point he seriously considered finding a lodging for the boy in the village—for what that evil woman had said, others might be thinking. He rejected the idea; nobody would lodge the boy for nothing and he simply could not afford to pay even the smallest charge. Besides, it would expose the poor creature to the harsh cruel world from which he had been rescued.

  In addition to that most repulsive word the wicked woman had used others. Village gossip. Your village cronies. In a lonely parish like this with whom could a priest consort except with the villagers? With whom had Christ consorted during His earthly sojourn? Humble men! It was all very well for her to be so scornful; when her nephew occupied this living he’d had a mule and could ride around making visits to his own kind. Moyidan was five miles away; Nettleton as far if not farther. Besides, hadn’t friendliness with the villagers borne good results? More people came to Mass now than ever before. A nasty voice—not unlike Mistress Captoft’s, spoke in his mind, stating the fact that the ultimate sign of friendship had not yet shown itself. His glebe was still unploughed. Father Matthew spent a miserable day. He was an earnest, conscientious, practising Christian; but he lacked the mysticism that had kept old Father Ambrose going; nor could he, like Father Benedict, seek consolation in books.

  Mistress Captoft, finishing off the wine, was thoughtful, too. If such things were being said… Why not? But this time no subterfuge. Marriage—and perhaps, after all, a child.

  She was not skilled in the art of cajolery. Her marriage had been arranged by her parents and the attraction between her and Benny had been mutual, both, in a way, fighting against it but caught in a net. Now she faced the task of attracting a man somewhat her junior, a grave, courteous, reserved man and one with whom, as Father Matthew had said, she had lived close for over a year without the slightest sign of familiarity.

  Her glass—just large enough to show her face—assured her that though youth had gone, the years had treated her kindly; fresh complexion, firm flesh, bright eyes, hair fading a little but still plentiful. Her figure had lasted well, too, though thickening slightly around the waist. Something could and should be done about that.

  She had other assets. She was capable, level-headed. She had money of her own.

  She had the affection of her god-son who had taken to calling her Mamma-Captoft. At first he had resented being taught but a little bribery—a cake or a sweetmeat or a ride on the mule—worked wonders; and Henry had used his influence. ‘When I was your age, son, I had the chance to learn and didn’t take it. I’ve often been sorry.’

  ‘It is never too late,’ Mistress Captoft remarked. ‘I could teach you at the same time.’

  There was something not quite acceptable to his pride in that suggestion; to attempt to remedy a defect was to admit its existence.

  ‘That is a kind offer. I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks.’

  ‘What nonsense, Master Tallboys. You are in the prime of life.’

  ‘For doing things that I know, maybe. Not for learning.’

  That was before Father Matthew’s visit. Now she could see that this lack of learning might be to her advantage. She began to make frequent references to the great service she had been to her first husband.

  ‘He was old and infirm, you see, when we were married his children were all older than I was myself. Quite soon he became house-bound and relied upon me absolutely. I assure you, Master Tallboys, that if at any time I can be of assistance to you, in any way, you have only to ask.’

  Thank you; but I do little business in that sense of the word. And I have a fair head for figures.’

  She spoke of the child. ‘I have come to look upon him as my own. I have always felt that a child does better with two parents.’

  ‘Most of my youth we made do with one. Our father was so often absent.
<
br />   ‘Ah! I see that you are looking at my new gown, Master Tallboys. Do you think the colour too garish? I hesitated myself between this and crimson.’

  ‘Poppy colour is cheerful on a dull day, Mistress Captoft.’

  ‘One of the sad things about growing older—away from the place where one was young—is that there is nobody to use one’s given name any more. Mine is Martha but I was always known as Mattie.’

  ‘It has occurred to me, from time to time,’ Henry said, ‘that you live rather a lonely life, Mistress Captoft. But I thought you would know that any friend of yours would have a welcome here.’

  A snub direct? Inside herself she reacted with spirit and why not indeed? Who provides the wine, the silver, the spices, the servants, everything which lifts this house above the level of an ordinary farm?

  Impervious, that was the word to describe him. Deaf to all hints; blind to new bright dresses and a waist rendered more shapely by the cruel clench of iron-braced stays.

  She tried other approaches; an appeal to self-interest. Under pretence of consulting him as to whether this was or was not a good time to sell, she let him know exactly what she owned. Henry listened, pondered, asked a few cogent questions about lease terms and rents and then said that, so far as he could see, land was the one thing that had real value. It didn’t go sick; it couldn’t get up and run away.

  There was one trick left. Withdrawal. And that she tried.

  She had, she said, sometimes considered buying or hiring a house in Baildon or in Bywater. Which did he advise?

  Again, that careful consideration.

  ‘Bywater is livelier, all the year round. When my Uncle William was Bishop there, we used to look forward to our stay with him, though he supported so many charities that his guests were half-starved. And there is the east wind to bear in mind. It is tempered a bit by the time it reaches Baildon but having lived in Dunwich you know about the east wind.’