“I do . . . Charlie, I do.”
He turned on her savagely.
“No, you don't, you don't. You love him and really, I cannot take much more of watching you do it." "Charlie . . ."
“No . . . no . . . don't . . .”
In his headlong haste to get away from her, from the possessive love she aroused in him, from the suffering she caused him, from his hatred of Reed Macauley, from the compassion, the fascination, the tenderness, the enchantment of Annie Abbott, he almost knocked her over as she stood up. Fumbling for the door catch, he jerked open the door, crashing his head on the low frame, disappearing into the dark night. They could hear him as he vaulted the wall and the distressed bleating of the sheep as they divided before him, then it was silent.
The dogs, who had sprung to their feet, alarmed by the commotion, settled down again slowly, watching anxiously as Annie moved wearily across the room to close the door.
“He'll be back, Phoebe, he's upset."
“Aye, an' reason to be, I'd say."
“Oh, Phoebe, please don't you start on me now, I can't take much more, really I can't."
“An' neither can Charlie. For God's sake wed him or let him go.”
Annie turned to stare in amazement at Phoebe who had resumed her patient stitching.
“Let him go?"
“Aye, or he'll never be right again. I know nowt about men but I do know what it's doin' to Charlie watchin' you fret after a chap what . . ."
“I'm not fretting over any chap, Phoebe. I have had .. . sadness."
“I'm not sayin' tha 'asnt, lass, more than most. But face the truth like Charlie said. Give Mr Macauley up. Let him make his peace with his wife 'cos he would if tha' was married to another man.”
Annie bent her head and her breath left her on a shuddering sigh. She put her face in her cupped hands and her pain was an appalling menace in the room. It threatened to strike her to her knees from where she would never rise again, to bend her proud, strong back, to break it, to crush her. Blackie stood up hesitantly and moved across to her, pushing his muzzle against her knee and, when her hand dropped to his head, staring up at her with patient, loving eyes.
At last she spoke again.
“I know, Phoebe, what you say is true but . . . but I cannot marry Charlie just to keep him here, which is what I would be doing, and as for Reed . . . and his wife, that is their affair, not mine. They . . . both of them will do what they think fit, which is what I will do. Charlie .. . must make his own choices, Phoebe. I cannot say how I will feel in . . . say, six months. Last year, after Cat died, I was very close to . . . giving in ... ""Aye, I noticed. "
“You don't miss much do you?"
“No, an' neither did Natty. We both thought that . . ." "You and he discussed it?"
“Why not then? We're family . . ."
“Of course you are, Phoebe. You and Natty . . ." "And Charlie?"
“Yes, I love Charlie, but not as he would want." She sighed deeply. "Well, I'd best go and look for him and make my peace."
“Don't do that, Annie. It's not peace he wants. You go ter tha' bed for if I'm any judge, tha'll be off t' bank in Keswick first thing.”
She was.
The bank manager in Keswick knew her, as everyone in the parish of Bassenthwaite knew her by now. Who had not heard of her wild ways, her outlandish manner of dressing, her unconventional, outspoken behaviour, her notoriety with regard to Mr Reed Macauley, her capricious flouting of all the laws of decency and morality? Certainly not the bank manager in Keswick and would those who trusted their money and their investments in his honest and trustworthy hands, thank him for lending it to a woman such as her? She had certainly proved herself resourceful, turning her father's farm from failure to a small measure of success, but would it continue? And if it did not, how, he begged her to tell him, averting his eyes from her long trousered legs, the fine turn of her ankle in their highly polished boots, would she repay her debt?
She tried to tell him but he would not be moved. She was a woman, infamous and, more to the point, a risky one.
It was the same with Mr Hancock in Lancaster to where she took the train. Yes, he remembered her, he said kindly, looking not at what she had on for this time in desperation she wore the black mourning dress Reed's women had put on her when Cat died, but at her frail loveliness, for surely this brittle woman who looked as though she would snap like a dried twig, was not capable of running two farms, and certainly not of repaying a substantial loan on one of them.
A week later Upfell Farm was sold to a farmer from Lancashire. It was rumoured he had bought it for his younger son, who, having no expectations of inheriting any part of the family farm, wished to strike out on his own.
Chapter34
She had been shearing her sheep, her mind dazed with how she was to get through when the shearers from Long Beck came down,
“We've come ter do tha' 'boon clip'," one said dourly, his short pipe clenched between his teeth.
“But . . ."
“Mr Macauley says if tha' was ter give us an argument to tell thi' tha' can coom and give us a hand next week.”
She could not help but smile though Charlie did not, at the idea that Annie Abbott would make the smallest difference in the shearing of Reed Macauley's 2,000 ewes and gimmers, his yearlings and twinters and the fine rams he owned to keep his flock pure and strong. She could just imagine him, his eyes gleaming with sardonic humour, giving the message to this man, knowing her and her stubbornness against taking what she would see as charity. He had been at Long Beck for several weeks now, so they were told, the news brought by Maggie Singleton who could not resist her natural pride in the fine son she had borne Jake Singleton, when she came down to Browhead to show him off to Phoebe.
Annie and Phoebe, thankfully, both of them, left the yard to the men who had brought their own shears and shearing stools, and with Charlie and a boy to heave the sheep in their direction and a couple of others to salve those shorn, the two women contented themselves with the women's age-old task of feeding the workers.
It was Charlie, not the presence of the Long Beck men, who had inclined Annie to move indoors. She and Charlie were not easy in one another's company these days and she knew she would have to come to some decision, make a commitment, one way or the other, either to Charlie, or to a life of loneliness, spinsterhood even, without him. He had said he would wait for ever, positive he meant it at the time, certain in his male heart and masculine pride that Annie would turn to him eventually. He may not have thought it consciously, for Charlie was not given to arrogance, but his logical mind would reason that she had no choice. She loved him, more than a friend, if less than a lover and it was pretty reasonable to assume that Reed Macauley would never be free of his pretty wife. So what other option was open to Annie Abbott? She was not fashioned for celibacy, for barrenness, for the arid life of a woman alone. She needed warmth, love, emotionally and physically, children, a woman's life in which her capacity for all these things would be fulfilled. So surely everything was tilted in Charlie's favour and soon, when her mind was at peace and the anguish of losing Cat had lessened, when her equilibrium was restored and the even tenor of their life together resumed, Charlie and Annie would be man and wife, and very well they would do together.
But he and Annie had not bargained on her body's stubborn refusal to consider any but Reed Macauley's, nor on her wayward female heart which, now that it was released from the icy paralysis it had known for over a year, bucked and plunged and leapt with gladness at the very mention of Reed Macauley's name.
Annie fidgeted fretfully about the kitchen that day, getting in Phoebe's way, until Phoebe began to tut-tut irritably. She had her own way of doing things, devised over the four years she had been at Browhead. This was her kitchen, her parlour, her dairy and cow shed and vegetable garden, and in them she worked tirelessly, methodically, contentedly, with no other woman to say her 'yea' or 'nay'. She knew very well that had the men not come down
from Long Beck, a circumstance not at all to the liking of Charlie, who even now from the side door which stood open, she could see had a face on him like thunder, she and Annie and himself would have blundered on, day after day, in an attempt to get the flock clipped. An impossibletask for one woman since Charlie, though he had tried to shear, hadn't the knack for it. The ewe he had started on had nearly bled to death from the numerous slashes in her skin and Charlie himself, at the end of a long struggling hour, had a cut so deep in his forearm Phoebe had threatened to stitch it up for him with her own needle and thread. He and the ewe looked as though they had just come from a slaughterhouse, slicked in the blood of both of them, Charlie grim faced, the sheep the same, the atmosphere of tension so deep and dreadful Phoebe had feared he and Annie might come to blows. He felt useless, she knew, less than a man as he was forced yet again to let Annie do the work he should have been able to do, and no matter how Annie assured him it really was of no consequence and she would manage, and though it was no fault of hers, Charlie was tight-mouthed with frustration at his unhandy ways. In the old days, of course, before this awkwardness had come upon them, he would have grinned engagingly, made a joke, laughed at himself, but not today.
Where was that lovely lilting harmony they had known a year ago, she asked herself despairingly? That lively joy and anticipation of each day they had dwelled in. Annie, Charlie, Phoebe, Cat, and later Natty, living in peaceful understanding beside one another, the future shimmering ahead of them like a silver ribbon. Natty's, short certainly, but filled with the warmth of friendship, the satisfaction and fulfilment of knowing, even at his age, that he was a trusted, needed member of the household. Cat had been at school and ahead of her were the days and years her splendid education would bring her, her clever young mind nourished and complete, her lovely young body giving promise of the same. Herself, here, as she had wished to be until the day she died, serving those she loved not in self-sacrifice but in joy for it was in doing so that she was complete. And Charlie and Annie growing closer, growing softer, growing together until their children came to complete the natural circle of love which filled this house.
Now there was nothing but strain, awkwardness, politeness, Charlie's face sad and empty, Annie's always turned in the direction of Dash Beck, or so it seemed to Phoebe who watched her. Gone were the laughter, the songs, the impish endearing humour with which Charlie had entertained them. Charlie, honest, sincere, candid and true-hearted, was becoming truculent, inward-looking, bitter, waiting for Annie. And how long would it be, as he waited, before he was spoiled, his love and need and sweet gentleness soured within him?
“See, get out o' me way, Annie, ah've put that milk to set and if tha' keeps movin' it it'll tek three days instead o' three meals for t'cream ter come."
“Well, let me help you with the churning."
“There's no need lass. Ah've managed it these months gone an' . . ."
“I could make the clapbread."
“An' how long is it since tha' made clapbread?"
“I've been making it since I was tall enough to stand at that table, Phoebe, which is longer than you."
“ 'Appen it is, but ah've got me own way o' doin' it and I can't abide havin' it messed about."
“Messed about! This is my kitchen, you know." "No, it's not, it's mine, so go an' . . ."
“Go an' what? What do you suggest?"
“Isn't there summat in t' fields tha' can be checkin'?" "No. The hay isn't ready to be cut yet."
“Well . . ." Phoebe tutted again, looking vexedly round her clean and shining kitchen which she could not abide having 'messed about'.
“Tek this tea out to t'chaps . . ."
“No, Phoebe . . . I don't want to do that." Annie's eyes turned to look out of the side door to where Charlie had a firm grip on a bawling sheep. They were both determined to have their own way, Charlie and the ewe, the ewe to get back to its frantic lamb, Charlie to heave it on to the shearer's stool. Charlie was soaked in sweat, his brown face grim, the muscles straining in his strong neck. With an enormous effort, he landed the ewe in its proper place, stepping back to grin in triumph and as he turned to get another, his eyes caught Annie's. Both looked awayhurriedly, not in embarrassment but in an effort not to have a confrontation of any kind, even one as simple as a sympathetic smile.
“Lord's sake then, why don't tha' take Royal up to t' . . ."
“No . . ." for Charlie would see her and wonder where .. .
“Well, I don't know, but just stop gettin' under me feet." "I'll go and cut some peat then, if that's the case." "Aye, tha' do that." Phoebe was obviously relieved.
“Sledge's at back and Charlie left the flay spade with it. . ."
“Really, it's corning to something when I have to be sent from my own kitchen so that . . ."
“Oh, get on wi' thi'! Tha' knows tha'll enjoy a walk up to t' peat moss.”
She simply stepped through the back door whilst Charlie was bending over a salved sheep and before he straightened she was up behind the farmhouse dragging the loyal sledge behind her, moving through the deep tunnel of bracken towards a stand of trees and the peat moss which was beyond it.
The wood was in full summer bloom. The air beneath the canopy of trees was cool and damp-smelling, the energy of the hot sunshine soaked up by the leaves which spread above her head. The leafy crowns were so thick, barely any light got through, forming a solid mass which seemed to float above the tall, straight trunks of the graceful trees. Beech trees and oak, and growing freely beneath them were rhododendrons, their natural purple blossom gone now with the month of May. There was an open glade in the wood's centre where the sun reached, thick now with bilberry bushes, nettles, the bright yellow of celandine, the white of wood anemone, the delicate pale green fungus growing on fallen oak branches.
The silence was broken only by the droning song of a heavily laden bee and the sudden broken laugh of a jay as it was startled up from the tangle of a fallen tree when she approached. She continued upwards, moving again through bracken and gorse, following a sheep trod beside the rushing noisy waters of the beck, skirting the deep fern garlanded tarn into which the beck emptied. The sound the water made was deafening after the peace and calm of the woods but beyond it, as Annie reached the flatter area of the peat moss, the silence fell again.
It was sultry now, the sun scowling from behind the frown of a cloud. She dug for an hour, her thin cambric shirt clinging wetly to her back and breasts as she stacked the cut peat neatly on the sledge. Sweat trickled unpleasantly down her body and she thought longingly of a bath and of the jugs of cool water Phoebe would pour over her. Her hair, which had started the day braided tightly about her head, had fallen in its usual vigorous tangle across her back and shoulders and she thrust it impatiently from her face with both hands.
The man who studied her felt the hot glow begin and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was above her, hidden from her by a natural buttress of boulders which formed a screen from all eyes but that of the hawk. His face was quite inscrutable, dark and brooding, brows scowling over his darkened blue eyes and he slouched on the mare's back, one arm resting on the pommel of his saddle, both feet hanging loose from the stirrups.
He continued to watch her for several more minutes, then with a deep sigh, one of resignation to a fate which seemed greater than his own will, he threw one leg over the mare and jumped to the ground. Several sheep cropping close by twitched nervously, moving away with their heads held high and the collie dog who dozed by the mare's hooves, eyed her master in anticipation. Throwing the mare's reins over a jagged piece of rock from which she could not stray, Reed Macauley spoke quietly to both animals and then began the slow descent towards Annie. He could see her small figure in the distance all the way down the sprawling slope, but as he gazed at her, only taking his eyes from her to keep a sharp watch on the rough rock strewn track he walked, she straightened up, threw her spade on to the peat-laden sledge and began to manoeuvreit across the pe
at moss towards the wooded ravine a hundred feet below where she worked. There was a rocky gutter to which she kept as she went down, moving behind the sledge, clinging to the rope to prevent it from going too quickly. It was heavy, too heavy really and it took all her strength to hold it. Had the path been less rocky, it would have careered away from her. Now and again it became stuck and she was forced to go to the front and pull it free.
When she reached the tarn she was so hot and uncomfortable, she felt as though she had been plunged into a warm bath, her clothes sticking to her body like a second skin. Trickles of perspiration ran down from her hair, slipping across her eyebrows to her eyelashes. One drop kept catching at the end of her nose, and others ran into her mouth, salty and unpleasant. She paused to get her breath, bending down with both hands on her knees, gasping in the warm air, and beside the rocky path the water of the small tarn glistened deep and black. Above her the cloud had moved on, not a wisp remaining and the sun scorched down from the blazing blue of the sky. She could feel it on her back and when she straightened, pushing her heavy hair from her face, a heat haze danced, with the midges, across the surface of the pool. Dragonflies clung to the stalks of the reeds, and two delicate yellow butterflies waltzed madly in the heat. There were birch trees on the water's edge, leaning over gracefully towards it as though they would like nothing better than to dip their heads into its icy depth and beside them, crowding in great sheltering profusion were fern, flowering rush, water violets and crowfoot, green and lush and fragrant. The water ran into the tarn from the beck which careered down the ravine. It quietened when it reached the still pool, sliding sinuously round and across the satin smooth grey rocks, then moved on to the rushing drop of the waterfall and down again to follow the course of its rocky bed. A tiny breeze had stolen through the gorge to the pool. The dripping mountain plants which clung to the glistening vertical walls surrounding it moved and the dancing, tossing spray drifted across it, a million crystals shimmering where the sun touched them. The churning waters of a thousand years had carved this smooth basin from the solid rock and its peaceful beauty enchanted the mind and stole reason and good sense.
All the dear faces Page 49