The Carpenter's Daughter

by Gloria Cook

  ‘It’s just me today,’ Amy said, laying down the flowers, talking aloud as she always did, as if Toby could hear her. She told him about the wedding. ‘You’d have enjoyed the ox roast that’s to come. There’s a fair too, with stalls and cheap jacks. Can you hear the noise? People sound happy. It’s all going on just on the other side of the wall. Sol knew I was coming here today. He sends his respects. I’m quite looking forward to going to Burnt Oak when I get the chance, to find out for myself why you liked it there so much.’

  She was curious to learn if Sol behaved at home in the same manner as he did at Chy-Henver. He was quite a mixture. He worked hard, at other times languorously. He’d whistle, or sing, or swear, or keep silent. He was always considerate to her mother, and nearly always disrespectful to her father, often baiting him, occasionally quite cruelly, and Amy would find herself demanding that he stop it; after all, her father was her father, even though she loathed his mean ways. She and Sol either bickered or talked seriously about Toby. Yesterday he’d told her how Toby had taken to the lurcher puppy who’d lost its tail, and how he’d laid on the floor at his grandmother’s feet and drawn a picture of Pixie Cross, complete with pixies at moonlight, which he’d exchanged for Stumpy with his brother, Jowan. She found herself thinking about Sol a lot and told herself it was only in regard to his association with Toby, yet on the days he didn’t come to work, Chy-Henver seemed strangely empty.

  As she was making to leave and join the festivities, she realized she wasn’t the only one in the churchyard.

  She left by the back gate and sought out Sarah in the field. It was a bustling scene, with the carts and waggons of tinkers and quack medicine salesmen. There were sideshows, and pedlars and gypsies and performing animals. They got in the queue for a thick slice of spit-roasted beef, pleased it was from a prime animal. The cooking smells were mouth-watering to those, in the majority, who did not often have a full dinner table and the whole prospect of a feast and entertainment was exciting in everyone’s usually dull life. Vats of vegetables and trays of bread and butter and mugs of tea were spread out on trestle tables. Darius Nankervis had also supplied half a dozen barrels of beer, and many non-religious people and atheists were well on the way to getting drunk.

  As Tamsyn and Arthur were spending the rest of the day with their Aunt Molly, Sarah was alone. ‘Despite the fussiness of the dress, Miss Tara really did look as beautiful as any bride could wish,’ Sarah said. Her remark was said in a mature matter-of-fact way rather than the dreamy fashion of bride-to-be Peggy Wetter and many of the girls and women. ‘Like a princess.’

  ‘And as pale and wan as a heroine from a tragic legend. I hope she’ll be all right.’

  ‘Course she will!’ Sarah was astonished at the notion. ‘She’ll have servants and every fine thing that she could possibly want. She’s got herself a good-looking husband too.’

  ‘I suppose so. And Mr Joshua’s young. Some girls of their class are married off to doddering old men.’

  ‘I don’t think age should matter.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sarah looked away, becoming evasive. ‘It just came to me.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll never guess who was in the churchyard just now. A Kivell. Never thought to see one of them there.’

  ‘Which Kivell?’ Sarah tried not to sound sharp.

  ‘Laketon. A rather refined individual compared to the rest of his family. He was staring towards the church porch. I got the impression he’d lost something.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ Sarah said dismissively, her mind going to Titus. She was finding it difficult to get him out of her mind. It had to be his doing, the continuing gifts left on her back doorstep. She could hardly wait to get out of bed each day and see what new things might be there. This morning there had been some florins wedged in the rind of a thick slab of bacon. It meant she and the children had money to spend at the stalls today. Perhaps she’d get her fortune told. She decided against it. She might hear something she didn’t want to hear, that this wonderful turn of events might come to an end, although the generosity received so far meant she’d never have to struggle in quite the same way as before. One thing concerned her. What if the benefactor wasn’t Titus? The thought was frightening, just as it was that it actually was him. Titus might have saved her from a terrifying night on the downs but the man was someone to be feared. And, whoever it was, why was he, or she for that matter, giving her and her family so many fine things without making himself or herself known?

  Suddenly Sarah wished the gifts would stop and to never find out who was behind it all. The shine had been taken off the day and she was glad that she and Amy weren’t planning to stay on here after they’d eaten. They had to look after their respective mothers, and today for Sarah, tending the difficult needs of her helpless mother didn’t seem such a chore.

  Eleven

  Although a lot of patrons of the Nankervis Arms were taking advantage of the free beer at the ox roast, there was still some activity at the inn, including some raucous singing, and Sarah walked past it quickly and cautiously. She had been propositioned more than once by drunken louts lurching about over the cobbles. ‘What a place to live next to,’ she sighed. Others who had lived in Moor Cottage had moved out as soon as they could afford something better. It was unlikely there was a chance of her and her family doing that.

  It was unusual to lock doors in the daytime in Meryen, but for her mother’s safety, in case she hobbled outside and wandered off, Sarah did so when she went out. It was also necessary to keep Nancy Hichens away from the villagers. The brain damage she had suffered had left her face badly scarred and lopsided and people, especially children, tended to be afraid of her. Nancy had been chased away and even knocked into a ditch by unsympathetic folk she had chanced upon. To Sarah’s anger and dismay stones had been thrown at her too. It was one of the things that had led to Sarah’s former inclination to depression. Now she was having concerns about her mystery benefactor she was fighting the feelings of once more sliding down into the dumps.

  Outside the rough planked door of her home, she lifted up a block of granite where she kept the big iron key and let herself in. She put on a smile, deciding she would try to stay positive. ‘Mum, it’s me! I’ve brought you something nice to eat. A pasty and a lovely rock bun, your favourites.’

  Nancy was in her spindleback chair, her head lolling to the side, dribbling, her twisted left arm hanging down and swinging near the stone floor. Sarah wrinkled her nose. Her mother needed some urgent attention to her hygiene. Before the mysterious bounty that had given Nancy more clothes, it had been a terrible task to find something for her to wear while her clothes were in the wash. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll soon sort you out.’

  Sarah took off her bonnet then laid an old blanket over her mother’s bed, which amounted to straw-stuffed sacking on a bench in the corner of the cottage; at least there was some proper bedding on it now. Like many of the older dwellings there was only one room on the ground floor. There were no proper stairs and the next storey consisted of no more than a platform, called a talfat, reached by a ladder. It was up there, on straw mattresses, that Sarah and her sister and brother slept. Furniture in the cottage was made up of one chair, the settle, a three-legged stool, a small pine table, a leather-strapped trunk, a wonky dresser and a rag mat, all third-or fourth-hand. Table linen and brightly patterned cups and platters, a jug and a copper kettle, and a glass vase, all recently provided, gave colour and optimism to the dismal place. Even in summer the uneven walls, which bulged here and there as the cob ominously redistributed itself, felt cold and damp.

  After a struggle to get the thin, wasted Nancy, who struggled in panic at being hauled about, up out of the chair and to lie down on the bed, Sarah took off her soiled skirt and petticoat and the rag that served as a nappy. Patiently, she washed and dried her, and tied on a clean rag above the protruding bones of her hips. Then she put her in a nightgown, combed her long tangled hair, and finished off by fitting on a mob cap. ‘There
, that’s better, isn’t it, Mum? Hope you’re comfortable now.’

  Nancy drifted off to sleep and Sarah left her in peace. She’d feed her the treats later. After opening the windows wide in the hope of freshening the foul air, she put the soiled things in a tub of soapy water to soak. The soap was a real luxury and smelled of violets; again a gift. Sarah’s previous poverty still made her stretch everything to the last ounce or sliver but she didn’t stint on the never-ending task of trying to make her mother smell nice. Nancy slept for hours at a time, a blessing for it meant she never realized how long she had to spend on her own, and Sarah considered returning to the fair. It was rare to get a chance to mix with others and see a bit of life but it seemed wrong to desert her mother for another long period. She’d sit outside and eat her own pasty, let the sun warm her, take advantage of these precious free moments.

  There was a knock on the door. The Hichens rarely had visitors. Sarah frowned and looked out of the small window beside the door. Jed Greep was outside. ‘Sarah, hello, it’s Jed! Can I speak to you for a minute, please?’

  What’s the point? Sarah wanted to call back through the door. She didn’t feel a spark of anything for the persistent youth, who’d made sheep’s eyes at her while she’d been at the ox roast. But he had overcome his shyness and taken the trouble to follow her and ask to see her at her home, so she felt she must at least answer the door.

  ‘Hello, Jed,’ she said, opening the door a crack. Embarrassed, she hoped Jed wouldn’t notice the smells made by her mother’s incontinence. ‘Shush. My mother’s asleep.’

  Jed turned his cap round nervously in his long thin hands. His face was bright pink and twitchy. ‘Sorry. I was wondering, that is to say, are you going back? To the fair, I mean? We could go together, if you want. I mean, I’d be honoured if you’d walk back with me?’

  Sarah felt sorry about spurning him but all she wanted was for him to leave. ‘I can’t leave my mother again. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Well, I understand. It’s good of you to think of her.’ Jed swallowed and went pale. ‘Um, w–would you like some company?’

  ‘Not really.’ She half-closed her eyes, hoping he’d received the message.

  ‘Oh, I see. Perhaps another time, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps. Thanks for calling. You go back and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘All right.’ His chin drooped and he stepped away reluctantly. As Sarah was closing the door he made one more attempt to capture her attention. ‘See you in chapel tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see. Goodbye.’ She closed the door with some relief. Then knew a moment of unease. Why wasn’t she like other girls? Most would fly at the chance to have a pleasant young man like Jed Greep calling on them. Life was complicated, even more so now she had taken in charity and displayed it by wearing the new clothes at work and in the village. She went to the hearth and coaxed the banked-in fire into life and put the kettle on the hook to boil for tea.

  A minute later there was another knock on the door. Cross now, thinking Jed had returned, she marched to the door to thrust it open and get rid of him more determinedly. There could never be anything between them and he might as well accept it. ‘Oh!’ Titus Kivell was standing there, tall, brawny and resolute.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’ He leaned forward, putting his arm against the door frame.

  ‘Hello.’ Nothing more would come out of her lips. His intense dark eyes fixed her to the spot.

  ‘Was that boy bothering you?’

  ‘What? Jed? No, not at all,’ she answered quickly. If Titus thought that, he’d likely frighten Jed off, perhaps do something worse to him.

  ‘Good, I’m glad to hear it. Let me know if anyone ever does bother you and I’ll sort things out. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘I . . . yes, if you want to,’ she faltered. ‘It’s not very pleasant in here, I’m afraid. I’ve just had to tend to my mother.’

  ‘I very much want to see you, Sarah.’ Titus advanced on her and she moved aside so he could duck his head under the low portal and enter the cottage. He shut the door after him. He smiled and kept a straight face. If he noticed the unpleasant odours he didn’t show it. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’ She felt small and vulnerable. Should she ask if he was responsible for helping her and the family? She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but if it was someone else, she got the strong idea that he would be jealous, perhaps cause trouble.

  ‘You look less and less troubled as the days go by. I’ve been watching you.’

  Sarah gulped and blood burned a path up over her neck and face all the way to her hairline. ‘You have? It was you? Leaving things for us?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased to have a few things to make your life easier. I left them anonymously so as not to embarrass you in case you should feel you ought to refuse. I’ll help you in any way I can, Sarah. If you need anything, anything at all, if you ever need any help, don’t be afraid to ask.’

  Almost too nervous to breathe, awkward and shy, she asked, ‘Why are you being so kind to me, to us?’

  ‘It’s easy to be kind to you, Sarah. You’ve had a hard life. You’re struggling but you keep on trying. You’re brave. You touched my heart that night you fell on the downs.’

  ‘Do you, I . . . do you want something back from me?’ She felt compelled to ask and was terrified of the answer, trembling all over, shrinking back from him.

  ‘All I ask, Sarah, is that you trust me.’ He smiled a deep warm smile and Sarah managed to return it. He looked around the place, squalid, dark and bleak despite the additions from his generosity. ‘You shouldn’t have to live like this. If you let me, I’ll do something about it.’

  Sarah saw her home through his eyes and she was ashamed. Tears flooded her eyes. ‘It would be nice for the little ones and my mother if we could get out of here.’

  ‘Trust me, Sarah.’ He reached out and touched her hair. ‘Don’t cry. Come here to me.’ Before she could make up her mind whether to approach him or not he moved in on her and she found herself nestled in his arms. He was strong and solid and she felt herself to be in a safe place for the first time in her life. Tension drifted from her, she buried her face against his chest and her tears, of past pain and relief, flowed freely.

  Titus stroked her hair. ‘You’ve got such pretty hair, Sarah. You’re lovely, beautiful.’ His sight fell on the gruesome, curled up spectacle of Nancy, slumbering with her mouth wide open, saliva seeping from the corner of her mouth. His eyes turned hard. ‘No, my dear one, you shouldn’t live like this. I’m going to look after you.’

  For some moments he held Sarah against him, caressing her hair, her back and her arms. Then he tilted her head back and gazed at her. He pressed his lips to her cheeks and kissed away her tears. Sarah shivered. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll never hurt you.’

  She received her first kiss on the lips, the kiss of a man to a woman, and for her it was strange and daunting and wonderful.

  Tara lay in Joshua’s low post bed, waiting for him to come to her. What was taking him so long? What preparations did a bridegroom need to make for his wedding night?

  What a horrible day it had been. She had endured glowers and sarcasm from Phoebe, and to her fury at her aunt and the stupid dressmaker, the tittering about her dreadful dress. At least some of the servants had seemed more respectful towards her on her arrival back at the house as the second-in-importance Mrs Nankervis. And to her surprise, Michael had been polite and friendly. To escape the tumult of voices baying to be noticed, and the dancing, an exercise virtually impossible in her stupid dress, she had slipped away to the library.

  The curtains were kept almost closed during the day to prevent the light spoiling the antiquated books, maps and family records. Lanterns illuminated one dark corner and Michael had glanced up from a red leather club chair, where he had a book in his hands. He took off his spectacles. ‘Ah, sister-in-law, I don’t blame you for feeling the need to get away
from the melee.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, Michael.’

  ‘You may wander where you will in the house, Tara, but I do appreciate having this room to myself. I hate crowded places. I prefer as much peace as possible. So does the old house. It’s complaining at being packed to capacity. I can hear its timbers groaning and whispering to the trees how fortunate they are to be free.’

  ‘You can?’ Tara had intended to make an immediate withdrawal but she moved closer to him and stood in front of the fireplace. The surrounding plaster mantelpiece, which reached up to the ceiling, was ugly and had faces of Nankervis children who had not survived infancy or their formative years incorporated in it. Tara thought it tasteless. Here, as in all the family rooms of the house, there was a tender likeness of Jeffrey Nankervis.

  ‘I’m the only one who’s sensitive to the house. It’s an unhappy place, but of course, you know that. Did you know nine men were killed during its various stages of construction? Two fell off scaffolding. One was killed by falling tiles. One architect, a fellow of no account and little inspiration, died of heart failure, a deserved just end, during the raising of the Long Corridor. Septimus Bloombury was his name. He haunts the corridor day and night, it’s why even when the house is entertaining there is very little real merriment. Septimus howls during storms, the house keeps the echoes of his voice for days. The house broods. It consumes. Sucks out one’s soul. I was livid at first to be consigned to the Dower House, now I’m delighted. It’s as dismal as a ditch but there’s nothing there that can’t be put right with some decoration. Phoebe’s nagging me to approach the old man to grant us a few thousand so work can commence.’

  Tara had a strong feeling of foreboding during Michael’s morbid account. She had often felt the strange sensation of being watched when walking along the Long Corridor but had attributed it to being spied on by human eyes. Ghosts were going to make the company here even less palatable. ‘I hope Mr Nankervis allows it. I’m pleased you’re happy there, Michael. I was worried about how you felt when your father demanded you live there.’