by Ruth Sutton
‘Bet they ’ad a good laugh about that an ’all,’ said Fred, winking at John.
John stared at them both. He thought he might be blushing and hoped that they couldn’t see it.
‘Yes,’ he said, determined not to get drawn into this private joke between them. ‘They said you might have a room you could let me have, for rent of course. I can pay.’
‘Long way from t’quarry, lad,’ said Hannah. ‘He works there, in t’office,’ she said to Fred as she sat down at the table with them.
‘Aye,’ said John, ‘but I wanted to be up this end of the valley, closer to the big hills. Just a few miles over the top and I’m in Wasdale.’
‘Good pub there reet enough,’ said Fred.
‘Not for the pub,’ said John, ‘for the climbing. All the climbers go there. I’m a climber, in my spare – when I’m not working.’
‘There’s another thing tha’s good at then, lad’ said Hannah. ‘Numbers and such, and climbing.’ She turned to Fred. ‘We were talking afore, about what we’re good at. Reet talented is John, and ’e tried to tell me ’e isn’t good at owt.’ She turned back to John, moving her shoulders to use her good eye.
Hannah continued, ‘And tha were staying with Andy Leadbetter, t’vicar’s lad, at the quarry, tha said.’
‘Aye,’ said John. ‘He offered after, well, after I had a bit of trouble on the way up ’ere.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Fred suddenly. ‘This bit o’ trouble. Did Andy pull you out of t’sea? When that ship ran aground, last week, in t’storm?’
‘Yes, he did,’ John was astonished. ‘How …?’
Fred leaned over towards Hannah. ‘That’s what auld Ely were talking aboot, in t’Farriers last neet, and Tom Hanley were there and ’e told me just now. There were someone on t’beach that day, stranger like, and Andy ’ad to pull him out. ’Ad ’is coat over ’is waders. Nearly drowned. That were you, lad. Well, would tha credit it, and ’ere you are, in our ’ouse.’
John hung his head. Everyone knew. He’d always be the stranger that was pulled out of the sea.
‘More tea, Hannah,’ said Fred. ‘We got summat to celebrate. Here’s a chap back from a watery grave wanting a room, and here’s us in this ’ouse with a room to spare. Couldn’t ’ave worked out better.’
Hannah patted her husband’s hand and turned to John.
‘Gi’ us a chance to talk it ower, John. It’s all a bit sudden, like. ’Ave a walk up path behind us, that’s the quick way to Wasdale, up by tarn.’
John walked up the rocky path behind the cottage, far enough to reassure himself how quickly he could get across to Wasdale. After a while, he retraced his steps to the house, and knocked on the front door. He heard the two of them laughing inside and Hannah was still doing so when she opened the door.
‘Come by soon, lad, and dinnut bother knocking every time. We learned our lesson, eh Fred? Anyway, we’re an old married couple now, most of the time.’
John looked at them both. ‘Will it be alright then?’ he asked. The previous conversation had made him want to stay, and the walk in the evening light had convinced him. In just a few minutes he’d walked up to the high plateau between Eskdale and Wasdale feeling as happy as he’d been in a long time.
Fred stretched out a hand to grasp his wife’s.
‘This lass and me share everything in this ’ouse, John, so we ’ad to check that both of us are sure about teking someone in. If you can put up wi’ us, tek us as you find us, then we’ll be ’appy to offer you t’room upstairs, at a fair rent. If tha wants meals and such you can work that out with gaffer ’ere,’ said Fred, jerking a thumb at Hannah. ‘And there’s one other thing tha might like, too. Shall I tell ’im love, or will you?’
Hannah stirred the pot on the stove before she responded. ‘Well there’ll be a wait for t’scran, so you can ’ave th’ whole story. Get lad some beer Fred, and I’ll ’ave one, too.’
Beer to hand, Hannah began the story.
‘Well John, it used to be me and me dad ’ere at mill. He ran t’mill and I did everything else. He were a good miller, don’t get me wrong, but he were a miserable old bugger at best o’ times. Worked too ’ard, and it showed. Any road, he died, sudden like, which were a shock, reet enough, but the good thing was that then me and Fred could get wed. Me dad ’adn’t wanted it. Said Fred could never manage at mill, and he were reet. You couldn’t, could you, love, not with only one leg.’ She turned to John. ‘Have you been in t’mill? Well it’s all up and down, stairs and trap doors and cogs and God knows what. I ’ad trouble with all those different levels and Fred would have been dead afore dinner, falling down summat. That’s reet, love? So Dad tried to stop us. We’d ’ave wed in the end, waited long enough, but him dying, well it brought it on a bit quicker, like. It were Dad who started all that stuff about one-eyed woman and one-legged man. Made a reet meal of it. Grumpy bugger ’e could be.’
‘Come on, lass,’ said Fred. ‘Get to the point or t’scran’ll be dry and we all go ’ungry.’
‘Right,’ Hannah went on, having stirred the pot again and put something else on to boil. ‘Well ’e died, and we got mill. Couldn’t ’andle it, closed it up. Farmers weren’t too pleased, but they just took their stuff bit further down to t’other mill down Birkby and that were that. Then we got to thinking. There’s all that water running that gert big wheel, all that energy just going to waste. I found a book in t’library in Whitehaven and Fred asked a few folk and, well, look at this.’
She stepped across to a large lamp standing on the sideboard and turned a switch on its neck. The lamp lit up, brighter than any oil lamp.
‘Electric,’ said Hannah. ‘We run it off that big wheel. First house in t’valley to get electric, and ’ere we are.’
‘Might charge a bit extra, lad,’ said Fred, ‘for t’privilege, but only a bit. We’re glad to share it, aren’t we, love.’
John beamed at them both.
“Well, you’ve got a new lodger,’ he said, shaking hands with each of them in turn. ‘I earn good money, or I will do soon, and we can share that, too.’
Chapter 13
Through the week before he shifted up to Mill Cottage, John struggled with the aftermath of his experience in the sea. The burning in his throat from the salt water lingered and developed into a running cold and then a cough. Staying in bed in Andrew’s damp house was less attractive than going to work, and this was his first week in the job. He already carried the stigma of being an off-comer and a townie, and he couldn’t miss his first few days with just a cough. He forced himself to get up and go to work. By the end of the week he was tired but felt he was getting better. The prospect of a new home and new friends buoyed his spirits and his body, masking the insidious whisper of infection.
Just a week after his first encounter with Hannah and Fred at Mill Cottage, John returned there with his few possessions in a rucksack, and set about making a home for himself in the upstairs room over the kitchen. The shelves they’d made for him housed his climbing books, the drawers held his clothes, and what wouldn’t fit in there hung on the rail that Fred had wedged across the corner. In this one room John felt more at home than he’d ever felt in the Ulverston house. He sat on the bed and gazed out of the window, across the valley to the brown, green and grey of the fellside lit by autumn sunlight. The burbling of the beck beside the house filtered into the room. He lay back, relishing the soothing sound at the edge of his hearing, and further away still, only just discernible, the mew of a buzzard. Then his cough returned and he had to sit up to make it stop.
He went downstairs. Hannah was clearing away the lunch from the table.
‘That cough sounds nasty,’ she said, putting the pots in the sink.
‘Just back end of a cold,’ he replied. ‘Won’t last much longer.’
‘Room all right for ye? Fred was right proud o’ them shelves. Rail across corner felt strong enough when we put it up but I weren’t sure it would tek th’ weight.’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s grand,’ he said. ‘I feel right at home here. Lucky to have found it.’
‘Well, ’appen it were meant,’ she said, smiling at him now. ‘Tha’s ’ad a bad time, lad. It’s time you ’ad some rest and a place to call your own, even if it is just a room in our ’ouse.
‘Can’t rest today, Hannah,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘Have to be out on such a great day. I feel much better, really, and a walk’d set me up. I’ll head over to Wasdale and see some mates over there. There’s always room in the bunkhouse and I’ll be back tomorrow for supper, if that’s alright with you?’
‘A bunkhouse? Sounds like ’ell on earth to me, lad. All those sweaty men, snoring. I’d rather sleep in t’byre with the beasts!’ She shuddered at the thought, and they laughed.
‘You and Fred like the house to yourself, don’t you? That’s what you said.’
‘That’s just our fun, lad. We do like our quiet times together, just two of us. We’ve both waited a long time. Dad wouldn’t have Fred in t’house, said he were a waste of space. He tried so ’ard to finish us. Wanted me for ’isself I reckon, to wash and clean for ‘im. Never forgave me for me mam passing when I was born.’
‘I’m sorry,’ John mumbled, taken aback by her revelation.
‘Dad going so quick was a blessing. ’E couldn’t have borne being an invalid, and I’d ’ave gone mad, being stuck with ’im and away from Fred. Now ’ere we are, with a lot of catching up to do. Can’t keep our ’ands off each other.’ She laughed again. ‘And ’aven’t you ever been in love like that?’
John thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not been around girls much, and they don’t like me.’
‘Don’t like you? That’s daft. Look at you, tall, dark and handsome. I’d be after you meself if I wasn’t old enough to be your mam, and if Fred wasn’t around. Tha needs to go dancing, lad. ’Ave a look around. Plenty of fine lasses up and down t’valley. Tha’ll see whether they like you. Tha’ll find someone who makes you go weak when they smile at you. It’s like being ill, that feeling in your stomach, that buzzing in your ’ead. Love, sex, makes th’world go round, Fred says. So we do our bit to keep it going round. Too much mebbe, but why not?’
John stared at her. She talked about sex, just like anything else, like doing the washing or going to church. What would Enid have thought? Hannah caught his expression.
‘Sorry, lad. I shouldn’t talk so free. Fred says folk don’t like it. Mebbe ’e’s right. No wonder them at Hill House hardly look at us. Dinnut let it bother you.’
‘No, no,’ he stuttered again, not knowing what to say. He stepped crab-like towards the door, away from the sharp light that seemed to come from her. ‘I have to go, get there before dark. I’ll get my bag.’
‘Tea afore ye go?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll get going.’
‘Right-ho. We’ll expect you back tomorrow afternoon shall we? Supper’s at five on a Sunday. Eat with us. Tell us what you’ve been up to.’
‘I will, yes. Just climbing talk. Boring.’
‘Nowt’s boring, lad when you live quiet like us. Fred and me love to ’ear what’s going on in th’ world, even if it is just next valley. That’s why we wanted you to stay with us a while, keep us joined up to th’ world, like. Otherwise it’s just the two of us, happy though we are. We don’t know owt about climbing, so you’re our chance to learn.’
‘I’ll be back for supper then,’ he said, relieved that she’d stopped talking about girls and sex.
It was nearly two when he pulled the garden gate shut behind him and set off up the path that wound over the shoulder of the fell, past a stand of larches and onto the flat, treeless plateau that lay hidden between the two valleys. Shadows of clouds raced ahead of him, chivvied by a north-westerly wind that sharpened the air and made him cough again. The path was stony but dry and John strode out, aware of a tightness in his chest but still elated by a sense of release. The path grew steeper. He was sweating now. Push yourself, he told himself. Get that air in your lungs, breath deep, start living again.
By the time the path flattened and began a gentle descent toward the tarn he was breathing hard and coughing, still sweating, but cold. The sky was brighter up here, picking up the long light of the afternoon sun. He sat for a while on a rock by the dark water, drank out of his cupped hand and splashed his face. The coughing started again, and it was a few minutes before he picked up his rucksack and walked on.
As he breasted the ridge on the east side of the lake and began the steep descent to the Wasdale valley floor, he knew that things weren’t right. His head throbbed and felt hot although the rest of him was cold. Dizzy, he stumbled and fell into a wall, picked himself and went on, although the ground seemed to rise and fall unexpectedly under his boots. He thought there was a farm ahead, further down into the valley, but he didn’t know why he thought that. He couldn’t see it, behind the trees ahead of him, but he knew that it was there. He needed a drink, something hot. Maybe he could stop at the farm. Not far now. He stumbled again. Seemed to be having trouble keeping his balance. Something had given way. Throbbing head. Dizzy. Dark. Have to keep walking.
* * *
Daniel Asby, standing at the door of his farmhouse, had been watching the man stumbling down the path for some time. The dark blue eyes squinted to catch the detail, and he held up a scarred hand to his face to get a better look. At first he assumed the man he could see was drunk, although it was early in the day for that. Drunk or not, the man was lurching unevenly, slipping and having trouble keeping his balance by the look of it. Maybe the pack was too heavy for him. As the stranger came closer, onto the cobbles of the farmyard, Daniel stepped forward and looked hard at him. He was just a lad and there was certainly something wrong with him. The boy looked up, stopped and tried to speak but then bent forward, coughing. The bag spilled over his shoulder onto the ground. He slumped to one knee.
Daniel covered the space between them in a few long strides. He moved the bag out of his way and knelt down in front of the stranger. There was no smell of drink.
‘Tha’s not reet, lad,’ he said.
‘I just need to rest a bit,’ said John, raising his head and trying to stand. ‘I’m cold. Need a drink.’
‘Where’s tha headed?’ said Daniel. He picked up John’s bag with one hand and swung it over his shoulder. Then he stretched his hand to John, took hold of his jacket and pulled him up. ‘Come away in for a bit. Let’s ’ave a look at ye.’
He steered John towards the door, and pushed it open. ‘Get kettle on, Edna!’ he called into the house. ‘Lad here needs summat hot. Sit the’sen down,’ he said to John, pulling out a chair and pushing John down into it.
John rested his head on the table. Daniel felt the back of his neck. ‘Tha’s burning up, lad. Get that scaif off.’ He unwound the scarf and John leaned back, his head lolling like a baby’s, until Daniel leaned him forward to rest on the table again.
‘Edna!’ Daniel shouted again. The back door opened and his wife entered. She was a short, round person, a grey shawl round her head. She pulled off the shawl as she came in, revealing short white hair. She looked up, adjusting to the gloom in the house.
‘What’s up? What’s t’yammering?’ She stepped closer. ‘Who’s ’ere? Has ’e ‘ad a drop?
‘He just came danderin down the path from Boot,’ said Daniel. ‘ Looked pissed to me too, but ’e’s not. Reckon ’e’s badly.’
‘Gi’s a look,’ she said, pushing her husband out of the way. She bent down and peered into John’s face, and felt his forehead. ‘By God, ’e’s hot,’ she said. ‘Help me up with ’im, Dan.’
Between them they half carried, half pushed him into the big chair near the range.
‘Just lean back for me, lad,’ she whispered to him. ‘Let’s get this jacket off.’
John began to stir, as if waking from sleep. Edna brought some water in a cup and put it into his hand, guiding it to his mouth. That roused him further, and he drank, greedi
ly. ‘More please,’ he said, giving the cup back to her. She filled it again from the enamel jug by the door and he drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around him.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got really dizzy. Had to sit down. Feeling better now, thanks.’ He rubbed his face and scratched his head. ‘Don’t know what happened there. Saw you in the farmyard and then my legs just gave up.’ He smiled weakly at them both as they stood side by side, looking down at him.
‘Don’t look too good, lad,’ she said, putting the cup down on the table. ‘How far ’ave ye come?’
‘Just from Boot, ‘ he said, pointing vaguely behind him. ‘Going down Wasdale. Not far.’
‘It’s not a walk ye need, lad,’ said Daniel, ‘It’s a doctor. We can get you down to t’pub, that’s easy enough. They’ll get word to Doc Mackie.’
‘Mackie?’ said his wife. ‘It’ll be morning before ’e’s sober enough to get up ’ere. Tha’d be better off getting that Baker lass, the one that went nursing, to Newcastle. Tha knows, big lass, what’s her name? Helen is it?’
‘Nay, not Helen. Nora. Helen’s th’ older one, married, gone to Seascale. It’s Nora that went to nursing. Nora the Nurse, the kids call ’er.’
‘That’s the one. Nora. What’s tha name, son? Are ye from round ’ere?’
‘John, John Pharaoh,’ replied John weakly. ‘Mill Cottage.’
‘Mill Cottage, he says,’ Edna called out to her husband.
‘Wi’ Hannah and Fred?’ she said to John.
‘Yes, Hannah and Fred,’ he repeated.
‘Well, I ’adn’t heard about that,’ she said. ‘Fancy them two tekin’ a lodger.’
Daniel took a cap from the peg by the door and put it on. He handed Edna her shawl.
‘We’ll take lad in t’cart,’ she said, wrapping the shawl round herself. ‘You get ’im into t’pub and I’ll fetch Nora. Tell Sam to get ’im a proper bed.’
John sat in front of them as they talked, like a child awaiting punishment.