‘Very, very wet,’ he told her, neither liking her attitude nor the kind of questions she was asking.
‘You give nothing of yourself, Lancer,’ she complained, a touch of temper in her evident by the way she rhythmically beat the whip against her thigh.
‘What do you give of yourself, Sarai?’ he enquired, watching her anger register in her large eyes.
‘You are most impertinent,’ she rebuked him. ‘Now, can you do anything with that horseshoe?’
‘No, miss,’ Lancer slapped the stallion on its flank. ‘He will need walking home.’
‘Then you may walk with me,’ she said, her conceit assuming that he would welcome the opportunity.
‘Am I to feel privileged?’ Lancer raised a cynical eyebrow.
‘You may feel how you wish to feel, Lancer,’ she snapped, her heavy lips thinning a little as she rebuked him angrily. ‘The fact of the matter is I was considering offering you a position at Adamslee House.’
‘Which will make my walk to Footehill unnecessary?’ he enquired, interested now and regretting his earlier flippancy towards her. She had begun to walk. Lancer fell in beside her, the horse pacing along with them, its partially detached shoe making a regular clinking sound.
‘Not exactly,’ she replied, head down, biting at her bottom lip as she gave his question some thought. ‘You see, Alfred Gribble, my estate manager, retires this coming August. Which means that you would need to make a living until then.’
An incredulous Lancer croaked, ‘Are you offering me a position as estate manager, Miss Adams?’
‘Come now, Lancer,’ she chided him, a curl of amusement on her lips. ‘What I have just said was absolutely fundamental. You have gone out of your way to impress upon me that you are intellectually superior to the dullards I have to tolerate in the village, so surely you can grasp the meaning?’
‘I am perfectly able to understand your offer, but can’t believe that you are prepared to give such an important job to a total stranger!’
‘No one remains a stranger to me for long.’ She lifted her head and turned to look directly at him as they walked. ‘I read your arrogance as self-confidence, which tells me that you can ably manage my estate. Your way with words assures me that I will not be bored, as I now am. In the final analysis, your physique is reassuringly powerful so that I will not have to fear poachers nor any kind of intruder.’
‘And my impertinence?’ he couldn’t resist asking cheekily, although aware that it could cost him the job before he even got it.
Head down again, watching her own feet as they paced along, she stayed silent for a moment. Then she said slowly, ‘Your impertinence informs me that you are accustomed to having whatever woman you choose. Consequently, I will teach you a lesson by proving that there is at least one female who is perfectly capable of putting you in your place.’
‘Was that one of your considerations when offering me the post?’ Lancer asked.
‘Not at all, Lancer, but it is a side issue that I anticipate with relish,’ Sarai Adams said quietly, but in a way that Lancer presumed was a warning.
For Lancer there was a deep mystical sensation in walking with a woman like Sarai Adams that struck him as being primeval. It was as if they had stepped together, naked but for animal-skin loincloths, out of the first ever dawn.
The idyllic setting was suddenly enchanced when a skylark disturbed by their approach came up out of its nest. Climbing vertically into a clear blue sky, its song had the sound of angels in it. They both watched it until the bird was no more than a speck, and its delightful song had to be imagined more than listened to. Neither of them said a word, but it was a shared moment so profound that it would live on in each of them forever.
Still unspeaking, they came to a brook that bubbled as melodiously in a different way, to the bird that so recently had serenaded them. Stepping over the water, Lancer reached out a hand to her as she led the stallion across. The feel of her slim, cool hand in his was more powerfully sensual for him than the full intimacy he had experienced with lesser women. Close to him for too brief a moment, the growing warmth of the day had coaxed a natural fragrance from her that he breathed in eagerly.
It encouraged Lancer that she left the hand in his longer than was needed. But then she withdrew it, saying, ‘That was a mistake.’
Lancer was uncertain whether she was referring solely to the hand contact, or the whole magical, mystical thrill of their momentary closeness. To enquire would be to ruin everything, so he stayed quiet as they rounded a low hill to enter a miniature valley, the rocky sides of which announced that the sea was just up ahead.
Stopping, pulling the horse to a halt, Sarai stared straight ahead.
Following her gaze, Lancer saw a man sitting on a rock, obviously expecting Sarai to come along this track. There was a familiarity to the figure, but Lancer found that he had to cancel out men he had known before coming to Adamslee while running through his mind the few acquaintances, he had made here. Then he had it: the man up ahead was the enigmatic Gray Sawtell.
‘Go now, Joby Lancer,’ Sarai was telling him while still looking to where Sawtell was sliding lithely down off the rock onto his feet. ‘Go to find your work at Footehill, but be sure that you come back to me in August.’
Noticing the change that had come over her since seeing Sawtell waiting up ahead, Lancer paused for a moment, looking at her strong, almost Mediterranean profile. Eventually turning back the way they had come, he was astounded at how difficult it was to walk away from her.
As he went, discovering an acute loneliness for the first time in his previously self-sufficient life, he felt a stab of guilt at the realization that he hadn’t given Arabella Willard a single thought since meeting Sarai.
He walked on towards Footehill, somehow as a very different man to the one who had left Adamslee earlier that morning.
‘Are you funning me, Reverend?’
A flustered Arabella stammered out her question as she reached for the hand of her mother. The two local dignitaries, Reverend Worther and Dr Rupert Mawby had come to the house at noon to announce that the May Day committee had elected Arabella to be Adamslee’s May Queen. She just couldn’t believe it, and though she could tell that her happily smiling mother had accepted what the clergyman had said, Arabella found herself protesting.
‘It can’t be. There are much prettier girls than me in the village.’
‘Not the way we and the committee see it, me dear.’ Mawby frowned at her. He was a short, chubby man who wore a constant severe, almost angry expression on his moustachioed face that belied his kindly, generous nature. ‘Not only was it decided that there is none fairer than thee, Arabella, it was also taken into account that you are an inspiration to all in the way that you take care of your good mother. In addition, your participation in the Paloma incident was praised most highly.’
Aware of the tears of joy running down her mother’s lined cheeks, and seeing that the two visitors were serious, Arabella felt elation as she at last knew that it was true. How could everything suddenly be going so right? Throughout her life fate had conspired against her, but her mother was now in better health than she had been for years, Lionel was a happy man, becoming happier by the day as his fortunes continued to improve, and now, to top it all, this honour being bestowed upon her heightened her happiness immensely.
Suddenly filled with a conviction that it would mean she could make a complete fool of herself, Arabella asked fearfully, ‘What will I have to do?’
‘Just be your sweet self.’ The Reverend Worther gave a smile that was magnified by protruding top teeth. ‘Miss Adams has graciously put the grounds of her house at our disposal for the big day, as she has so kindly done in previous years.’
Mawby came in then. ‘You will be at the centre of the celebrations here in the village on the eve, and then on May Day itself you will lead the grand parade up to Adamslee House, where you will hold a position of honour throughout the day’s events.’
>
It all sounded so good that a great excitement began to well up in Arabella. Never one to put herself before others, she was nevertheless proud to have been chosen, and had quickly accepted that it would do no harm to have her one day of glory.
‘You won’t be alone, of course,’ the clergyman told her reassuringly. ‘An attendant will be chosen for you.’
Without thinking, Arabella, who would never ask anything of anybody, was so moved by love for the good-natured, crippled Ruth Heelan, that she blurted out, ‘Could Ruth be my attendant, please?’
The magistrate and the clergyman exchanged amused glances before the latter turned back to Arabella to ask. ‘You mean Ruth Heelan?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, well, isn’t that strange.’ Doctor Mawby shook his round head in disbelief. ‘You will find this difficult to believe, Arabella, but young Ruth has already been provisionally chosen. All that remained was for you to give your consent to her being your attendant.’
That was enough to convince Arabella that the whole thing was fated, so it would go well. The only blot on her near horizon was that she would have to leave her mother for the day. This was the first subject she broached when the two men had left the house, but her mother soon put her mind at rest.
‘My only regret is that I won’t be able to see it all happening,’ Lucy Willard said. ‘You must not worry about me: Josephine will come and sit with me. She will be as proud as I am of you, Arabella. This is to be your big day, and I want you to enjoy it to the full.’
‘I will bring something home for you, Mama,’ Arabella promised, as she kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I will make sure that you have a memento so that you, too, will remember the day.’
Four
FOOTEHILL WAS A collection of houses and buildings that flanked a wide street of considerable length. Lacking the intrigue of the towns that have side streets and passageways to be explored, it struck Lancer as being so bland that it was totally characterless. Cow dung was liberally splattered over the street, the unmistakable and not unpleasant odour of it heavy on the air. The cattle fair was over for the day, and to Joby Lancer’s chagrin the hiring fair didn’t seem to have ever begun. There were just two girls and himself, a trio to whom passers-by paid scant attention. His hope of employment was dying in advance of a sun that was slowly dropping towards a western horizon of cloud-crowned, purple hills. He was aware of a growing urge in him to walk towards those distant hills. Yet logic cautioned him that though there was nothing here for him, it was likely that there was just as little awaiting him on what was to him the far side of nowhere.
‘It ain’t never been like this, mister, honest it ain’t,’ one of the girls told him, as if the absence of potential employers was her fault.
As thin as a rail, she had a narrow face and crossed-eyes that wrongly, Lancer was to discover, gave an impression of slyness. The neck of her cheap frock was low cut. Where breasts should have been there were just bones that looked sharp enough to cut through the tightly stretched skin. Her companion was, in contrast, a buxom, rosy-cheeked wench with a heavy bosom as full as that of a nursing mother. She looked at Lancer through piggy eyes as she supported what her friend had said.
‘I’ve been ’ere when there’s been twenty of us all taken on of a morning,’ the big girl recalled better times.
‘Are you sisters?’ Lancer asked, not in the least interested but making an attempt at polite conversation in return for their friendly overtures.
His question made the cross-eyed girl giggle, while the large girl parted her fat cheeks to smile as she replied, ‘We bain’t sisters. More like cousins, I allow, but we ain’t in no way related, really. Until two years ago, Hett and me had worked up at Moor Farm since we was both twelve. Then old Mr Matthews passed away.’
‘Gertrude and me bin in service at two other houses since,’ Hett added. ‘We’ve been together all the time and we was hoping to get work for the two of us this day.’
Looking Lancer up and down, her small eyes squeezed tighter by the fat of her face, Gertrude questioned him. ‘What manner of work do ’ee be seeking?’
‘Anything.’ He gave a shrug, hope having him cut off any further conversation as a wizened old man rode slowly towards them in a trap.
Reining up, the old fellow climbed stiffly to the ground, his body no thicker than wire, the clothes he wore hanging baggily on it. As he came walking up on legs so bent that he rolled with each step, the two girls tidied their threadbare clothes in anticipation. But Lancer found that the ancient man was watching him through eyes that leaked tears that owed everything to age and nothing to sadness. This encouraged Lancer to believe that he was the one the oldster was interested in, but it was then he realized that he was being watched cautiously by the old man, who stopped in front of the two girls.
Flicking another wary glance sideways at Lancer, he enquired, ‘Can ye keep house?’
Opening his mouth to speak had caused the old face to implode, leaving on display a toothless upper gum and a row of black and brown, snaggly teeth in a lower jaw. His sunken eyes watered profusely as he looked to one and the other of the girls.
‘Indeed we can keep house, sir,’ Gertrude dropped one knee in a half curtsy. ‘Have you work for the two of us, sir?’
Shaking his head, lined face screwing up as if this was the most difficult question he had ever been asked, and it was causing him pain, the old man looked at Hett critically before commenting, ‘You look more than a mite sickly, wench.’
‘She’s strong and wiry, sir,’ Hett’s friend came loyally to her defence.
The old man studied Gertrude intently. ‘You do seem to be the picture of health, girl.’
‘I am so, sir.’ The big girl did another little bobbing curtsy.
‘What about in the winter?’ the old man asked as he reached out a skeletal hand that was sheathed in horny, discoloured skin. ‘Don’t get cold in these, lass, do ’ee?’ he continued, cupping the girl’s big left breast, first taking the weight and then caressing it.
Aware that Gertrude’s face had paled and that she was shrinking back from the lecherous old man, and with Hett’s cross-eyes begging him to intervene, Lancer took a step in the direction of the oldster. But he was halted by a discreet signal from the big girl. Gertrude was desperate for work for Hett and herself, and she was confident that she could handle the old man. A perturbed Lancer was far from sure about this, but his attention was drawn to a farmer who had walked up to him unnoticed.
‘Do ye seek work, Ted?’
The question came from a squat man who had shoulders like an ox. His short, bull-like neck kept his head down close to his chest. Lancer at once recognized the build as that of a fighting man. This farmer, whose thick, black, wavy hair was brushed back from a forehead so low that just a narrow strip of skin separated the hair from the bushing eyebrows, would be a formidable battler with his fists. Lancer had known the type in the army. Often they were bullies who loved violence behind the lines but became cowards when called upon to face the enemy from a trench.
‘I do need work,’ he replied.
‘What can you do, Ted?’ asked the farmer. He had an aggressive face that was beard-stubbled. The slit of a wide mouth opened and closed like a trap when he spoke.
‘Anything that is asked of me,’ Lancer replied.
He looked past the farmer to where the two girls were walking with the old man to the trap. Gertrude’s head was held high, but Lancer assessed that it was bravado and not confidence that was motivating her. A quaking Hett looked over her shoulder at him, her fear showing in her out-of-line eyes. Wanting to interfere, aware that he had no right to do so, Lancer tried to shut the girls and their possible fate out of his mind as he brought his attention back to the farmer.
‘Full of yourself, are ye?’ the farmer said cynically, his voice a deep rumble as was to be expected from a barrel chest. ‘I don’t go for boasting, Ted. If I wants to ’ear that sort of thing I do listen to the ducks fart b
ack at my place. Never ye mind, though, I am in bad need of help, so I has work for ye if ye wants it. I suppose you know that the hirings here are for six months?’
‘So I understand,’ Lancer said, though he had never heard of the rule. There was no point in arguing over something that meant nothing to him.
‘Well,’ the farmer said, becoming furtive, his voice coming from higher up in his body, squeaking a little as his confidence leaked away from him, ‘things ain’t too rosy right now. I cain’t offer ye six months right off, Ted, but there’s two months’ work out at my place if ye wants it.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Lancer said without hesitation.
‘You’ve made a good decision, Ted, as any bugger aroun’ ’ere’ll tell ye. Ye’ll get a fair deal from Euart Owens,’ the farmer told him. ‘Ye’ll get two-shillin’ a week and your keep.’
‘That will do me,’ Lancer nodded. ‘And I go by the name of Joby Lancer.’
‘I’ll remember that, Ted,’ Owens told him pointlessly. ‘I’ve some buying to do ’ere in town. What’s say I pick ye up in an hour? Do you know Maxwell’s Lane?’
‘No, but I’ll find it,’ Lancer assured him.
Less than an hour later, after having slaked his thirst at a well he had located in the town, Lancer discovered that Maxwell’s Lane was what the lower section of the main street of the town was called. It was the thoroughfare along which he had arrived from Adamslee. He stood there for close to two hours before Owens arrived in a creaking cart drawn by a pony that was in a worse condition than the vehicle.
Pulling up beside Lancer, Owens clambered down to kick one of the axle pins with the toe of a boot. Taking this to be mechanical maintenance, Lancer assumed that, without the kick, the wheel would have come off somewhere along the track. Owens was a little unsteady on his feet, and when they both climbed up onto the seat of the cart, the farmer blew out bitterly foul fumes that Lancer identified as the cider that flowed freely in Adamslee but which he had avoided.
The Toll of the Sea Page 6