by Gloria Cook
She cheered a little at the thought of the hevva cake she had tucked into her canvas bag. Her monthly fifteen shillings wage didn’t stretch to every need of her family: her mother, crippled in an accident four years ago, and her siblings. Sometimes there was only the vegetables she grew to eat. Last evening, when she had passed Chy-Henver on the way home, Amy had slipped outside and given her the cake. Amy and Mrs Lewarne’s kindness could always be relied on. In the days before Toby’s funeral, eight-year-old Arthur, and Tamsyn, a year younger, who both worked on the mine surface for a few pennies a day, had turned up at Chy-Henver and had been fed each time.
Sarah’s mood fell again. Amy had given her the leftovers from the wake, enough to feed the family for three days, but Nancy Hichens, also brain-damaged by the runaway ore barrow that had mowed her down, had thrown most of it on the fire in the open hearth. Sarah had turned her back for a minute, to discover, too late, that the gift was burning under the broth pot.
‘Oh, Mum, what have you done?’ Sarah’s voice always emerged dry and disheartened when in the cramped, draughty cottage. She blamed herself, even though it was difficult to stop vacant-eyed Nancy making random movements. Nancy panicked easily, understood nothing and made only infantile noises. Sarah also blamed herself for the disappointment and lack of comprehension on Arthur and Tamsyn’s little faces as they’d huddled together on the hardwood settle. They appeared ruddy-cheeked and healthy, but that was only because of being exposed five and a half days a week, from dawn to dusk, in all weathers. There was nothing ahead for any of them but hardship and drudgery and the care of an incontinent mother who, for her own safety, in between the times when an elderly aunt looked in on her, needed to be tied to her chair when they went to work. Sometimes Sarah wished Nancy was dead, then she’d feel guilty about it and wish herself dead.
There was a nudge on Sarah’s arm. She was so cold she didn’t feel it. Then came a sharp dig in the ribs. ‘Ow!’ Sarah yelped.
‘Look to your sister, maid.’ The bal-maiden next to her, a lively girl, who had gleefully announced at the start of the shift that she’d given in a month’s notice as she was due to be married, pointed to one of the outer sheds. Mouse-like Tamsyn, who’d been busy with the first process of dressing the ore brought to the surface by throwing out the ‘deads’, was coming Sarah’s way, sobbing, with a hand clutched to her face.
Like all the little girls, Tamsyn was dexterous at her job, which required a good eye for picking the waste from the good ore, but she wouldn’t have two good eyes if Sarah didn’t remove the particle temporarily blinding her. Sarah sighed, wishing she had only herself to think about, then she felt bad for being selfish. Unpinning the flaps of her gook, she left her place, pulled off the thick padded cloth protecting her left hand against the hammer blows, and used her hanky to carefully lift the minute bit of felspar out of Tamsyn’s eye. She gave Tamsyn a quick cuddle, kissed her cheek and straightened her little gook. ‘It’ll stop hurting in a minute. Cheer up. Soon be time for croust.’
Sarah hurried back to her own shed before she was reprimanded. She worked with one of the several tribute teams; each tribute was sub-contracted from the mine adventurers, the tributes tendered on a given area. The women, invariably spinsters and widows, were proud to be supporting themselves and their dependants, and some were religious in a condemning manner, and it mattered to them that the work, set for a two-month period, was completed without penalties. Slackers and wasters of God’s precious time were despised.
A gangly youth, Jed Greep, son of Godley Greep, the head of Sarah’s tribute team and a waggon lander at the shaft, ambled up to Sarah as she picked up her long-handled bucking iron. ‘Morning to ’ee, Sarah. How are you then?’
Absorbed in her melancholy, Sarah didn’t hear him.
‘Maid, are you going deaf?’ Peggy Wetter employed her elbow again. ‘You’re being spoken to.’
‘Eh?’ Sarah became aware of Jed Greep. He should be hard at work ragging the heaviest masses of ore. He was blushing, and as a chorus of silly remarks and a few innuendoes broke out among the bal-maidens, his unimaginative, broad face turned from pink to crimson. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just saying hello, Sarah.’ It was lost on Sarah that he was holding his cap politely and that his hair, dripping from the rain, was parted neatly down the centre.
‘Well, you’ve said it. I’m busy.’ Sarah turned away from him as if he was an annoying insect.
He hovered about for a few moments then plodded off, disappearing behind the shed where one of the senior bal-maidens was brewing the tea for the croust.
Peggy Wetter faced Sarah. ‘Are you mazed, Sarah Hichens? Jed Greep could be the answer to all your prayers. He’s sweet on you, he, and a few others, and ’tis no wonder with the lovely face the good Lord’s blessed you with. Jed came here, risking a telling-off from his father, because he don’t get much chance to see you as you’re rarely in chapel or out and about. That was brave of him just now. He’s as good as proposed to you! Marry Jed and you’ll be able to stay at home and look after your poor mother.’
‘Oh yes? Who are you to live my life?’ Sarah hurled back. Unlike most girls Sarah did not dream of falling in love and getting married, it was a dream that was bound to end in some sort of nightmare. She was furious with Jed Greep for making her look a fool. ‘Marry him? And then what? End up having lots of babies? The mine’s a widow-maker, remember. My own father was killed in a rock fall underground. Jed Greep’s about to go under grass where he can earn more money. I don’t want to be responsible for a lot of brats who’ll likely starve to death!’
‘All right! All right, Sarah.’ Peggy Wetter was outspoken but she had a kindly way. ‘I can see your reasoning. But Jed could offer you a good life. He’d build on to your cottage, plant some barley, perhaps keep a pig or two. You and the little ones would have warmth in winter and you wouldn’t have to scrabble for every crust. I’m sure Godley won’t see any of you go without if the worst happened.’
Sarah reflected, but she was too cynical about fate to see things in a different light. ‘Sorry.’ She was too weary to say anything more.
The rain suddenly stopped and the wind was easing. The count house bell rang for the ten-minute croust. Sarah sent Tamsyn to fetch the canvas bag and mugs of tea, staying put to avoid Jed Greep. Arthur joined them from jigging the crushed ore through a sieve. The sieves were shaken under water and Arthur was wet up to his elbows and Sarah tried to dry his scrawny arms with her towser. While her brother and sister ate and drank, Sarah saw how, despite the hardships, they were content, trusting her to care for them. She dredged up a smile and vowed to always protect them.
The day wore on. The sun shone brightly and the workers’ clothes dried out. Peggy started up the singing. The bal-maidens sang nearly every day. Hymns, folk songs, ballads, comical ditties. Sarah sang to forget her troubles. She would try to spend a few minutes with Amy tonight. She brightened at the thought, and had no notion that her finely spaced features and soft brown eyes shone with beauty. A beauty natural and alluring, and it made her fellows pause and gaze and enjoy the sight of her. Godley Greep, checking on the progress, rubbed at the thatch on his chin and thought her a fair bride for his son. Jed would just have to try again.
The bell in the count house tolled the end of the core in the dimming light. Sarah shepherded Tamsyn and Arthur to the shed where their tools, bought from their own pay, were kept. Towsers were swapped for clean white aprons, gooks for coloured cotton bonnets. Sarah hung back from the other bal-maidens and boys on the long trudge home over the scrubland, not wanting to hear comments about Jed Greep, who had tried to catch her attention again before going on ahead with his father.
Tamsyn and Arthur had gathered some energy and they ran off with the other children. Sarah shouted to them to go straight home and not to play on the downs. She wanted to wash their clothes for the following day, which, because they had nothing else to wear, meant they would have to lie naked under their bl
anket while she dried them. She smiled as they ran off laughing and larking about, a short reprieve in their uneasy existence. ‘Be careful! Watch out for rabbit holes.’
Sarah went off the beaten track a short way, to a secluded spot where she could grab a few moments alone. To clear her mind. To feel a person in her own right. Nature had unceremoniously formed the hills and valleys and tumbled the giant boulders of granite in free and easy patterns; an upright slab here and there, in other places a group stacked one on top of the other. On one such stack the top stones were larger than the bottom ones, looking as if collapse was imminent but the formation was eternally set. Sarah took a moment to watch, at a safe distance, just in case it fell. She chose a pair of slabs, one standing high and proud behind a short flat one and forming a useful seat, on which to linger. There was nothing else of particular interest here so it was unlikely she would be disturbed.
She closed her eyes. She tried not to think about anything, but Jed Greep’s bashful, hopeful face wouldn’t go away. Perhaps she should do as the other girls did, dream of marriage, a future. Give Jed a chance. It wouldn’t hurt to dream, if only for a minute.
The minute turned into several more. Exhaustion had taken its grip and she awoke to find her back hurting against the stone behind her and her limbs cold and stiff. She shivered. The last heat of the day was bidding goodbye. She sat bolt upright in horror. Tamsyn and Arthur would be worried about her. How were they coping with their mother? It would soon be dark. She edged forward and jumped down off the granite. She must hasten back to the track yet be wary not to take a tumble over a hidden jutting rock. It was imperative she didn’t lose her bearings. It wasn’t unknown for a badly injured loner to die overnight on the downs, or disappear altogether, perhaps into a patch of marsh – or stolen away by the moor spirits.
Shadows were falling, deeper and deeper, creating strange shapes of the familiar crops of granite, making the paths she knew so well warped and indistinct. Prickles of nervousness made her stomach churn. Her every sense was at its highest pitch. There came a peculiar sound. A dog fox? A goblin? A lost soul? Like many Cornish folk Sarah was superstitious and now she was afraid. She hurried along. Suddenly the grimness of her home, the exhausting battle to care properly for her family, seemed utterly desirable to being here alone . . . and yet not alone.
She was back to where she had called to Tamsyn and Arthur. It was a narrow meandering track, with a bank of thorn bushes and tall ferns which fell away down to rough moors where the ground was waterlogged from the earlier rain. It was safe to run along the track. She made a few yards then her foot no longer landed on firm ground. She was over-ended, and despite her struggles, she was falling, tipping over the bank and then crashing down through clumps of hawthorn and ferns. Her hands reached out to grasp something to stop her tumble, but she was rolling over and over, crying out louder and louder. Finally she came to a stop and she scrabbled to get up but she was tangled up in something and sinking into something soft and wet. She was in a marsh! She was about to drown in foul black sludge!
In terror, she clamped her eyes shut, not wanting to see herself founder, see her approaching fate. ‘Help! Help me someone!’
Her cry was answered at once, the surprise making her cry out again. ‘Keep still,’ a deep male voice ordered.
‘Get me out! Please!’
‘Get you out of what, girl?’ The voice was gruff and puzzled.
Sarah opened her eyes. Her panic subsided when she saw that all she was thrashing about in was a wide dip of long wet muddy grass. It was the grass that had wrapped round her legs and tugged at her dress. ‘Oh! I thought I was – oh, dear God!’ Her terror came rushing back when she saw who it was, bending from the waist towards her. A pair of dead rabbits dangled from one of his hands and a shotgun lay over his arm. Titus Kivell.
‘Don’t be afeared, missy,’ he said, laying the shotgun and his kills down. ‘Give me your hands. I’ll help you up.’
Her mouth gawping open she tentatively reached up to him. Titus wrapped his hands round hers and in a smooth continuous movement he hauled her to her feet and up out of the dip. She was trembling, breathless, and he supported her firmly. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ Her legs were taking her weight and no pains became apparent. She pulled up a threadbare sleeve. ‘Just a few scratches on my arm.’
Titus eased her round in the circle of his arm so he could look into her face. ‘You’re a long time lagging behind the other bal-maidens. Been meeting a sweetheart?’
‘No!’ Sarah had never been this close to a man before and she did not like it. The fact that he was the infamous Titus Kivell made it so much worse.
He was gazing at her, searching every angle of her face, peering into her eyes. ‘Men are slow round here. Even in this light I can see what a lovely creature you are.’
A new panic rose up inside her. ‘Let me go! I have to go! I’ve got my sister and brother and mother to see to.’
Titus let her go. ‘No need to worry. It’ll be dark before you get to Meryen. Come with me. My mare isn’t far from here. She can find her way even if it’s pitch black. I’ll get you safely home.’
Sarah felt like a reed battered in a storm. Titus Kivell had released her and was speaking in a calm, thoughtful manner, but she didn’t trust him and yet she was too afraid to reject his offer. He wasn’t a man to be argued with. She could just make him out as he picked up his shotgun and the rabbits. ‘Take my hand,’ he said. ‘Step where I step.’
In this way they climbed to the bottom of the hill, and all the while Sarah’s fears were mounting. Where was he taking her? Would he really take her home or was he about to violate her and then serve the ultimate violence on her? In past times at least two Kivells had been hanged for murder. Titus encouraged her until they were on flat ground. Sarah felt stones beneath the worn soles of her shoes and reckoned she was standing on a track.
Titus gave a low whistle. She heard hooves. His mare was coming towards them. Sarah waited, her hands clutched together, praying he’d not take her off somewhere and hurt her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked in a conversational way.
‘Sarah,’ she whispered, staring at his broad outline in the rapidly dimming light, getting ready to run in case he suddenly leapt on her.
‘That all?’
‘Hichens.’
‘Well, Sarah Hichens. Moonlight’s here.’
He was securing his things to the saddle and mounted. She had a new fear, that he was going to leave her stranded. Then she stepped back. Torn what to do. If she slipped away and groped about carefully she might find shelter in the darkness. She could curl up somewhere and survive the night.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Titus said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I’ve told you not to be afraid. If I was going to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. Give me your hand, Sarah.’
Something in his tone made her decide her best hope was to trust him. Moments later she was up on the mare in front of him, encompassed by his hefty arms as he took the reins. She was instantly warmer, protected from the cold night air by his body. ‘I remember who your father was. Amos Hichens. Was crushed to death back in ’thirty-two. Quarrelsome, he was. Couldn’t hold his drink. I heard he threw his fists about at home. Then his wife was badly injured at grass. Life must be hard for you.’
Sarah didn’t reply. Her father had picked a fight with this man while in a drunken state and Titus had tossed him head first down the village well. It was a wonder he’d survived. ‘Could you let me down at Chy-Henver please?’
‘I could indeed. What business have you there?’
Sarah was too ashamed to reveal she wanted to collect food for her family. ‘The girl who lives there is my friend.’
‘Amy Lewarne. A pleasant girl. A good friend to have, I should think.’
Sarah wondered how he knew Amy. ‘She is.’
The mare must have been following short cuts for within minutes
they had arrived at Chy-Henver. Titus reined in. He slid off Moonlight and lifted Sarah down. Given over to safety, she found a little confidence. ‘It was very kind of you to help me, Mr Kivell.’
‘Not at all, m’dear. Call me Titus. Would you like the rabbits?’
‘Don’t you want them?’ Sarah was astounded that anyone would give away at least half a dozen family-sized meals.
‘I wasn’t out purposely hunting for food. You’re welcome to them, Sarah. If you ever need any help, for anything, at any time, come to Burnt Oak. Come with Amy. She’ll be going there soon.’
He swung up into the saddle and rode away, leaving Sarah with her gifts, and burning with curiosity as to why he’d assume Amy had a reason to visit his lawless community.
Six
‘I can’t stay long,’ Morton Lewarne told the two men he joined in an upper room of the Wayfayer’s Inn. It was on the main road to Truro, five miles from the parish where they lived. Rain, driven by a cold easterly wind, rapped on the dusty, tiny-paned window, and made him start nervously.
‘Afraid someone’ll see you?’ Titus Kivell jeered, downing half a tankard of ale in one noisy draught. ‘No one from Meryen’s likely to come in here. Although you do, and Mr Nankervis and I do. Thought you’d been going far enough away from home to seek your extra pleasures, didn’t you, Lewarne? Had no idea that you’d be seen by us.’
‘I haven’t been back since that day,’ Morton said, colouring brightly, not from shame but because it was partly a lie. Most of the girls who worked here as entertainment lived out and he now visited his favourite at her shanty home, near the village of Chacewater. ‘Why have you summoned me here? I’m a busy man.’ He looked at the squire for his answer.
‘Things getting too much for you, Lewarne?’ Darius eyed him mockingly. He used the inn as a resting place and for pleasure on his way to and from his town house in Truro.