He sighed and crossed his ankles before the radiant peat fire. ‘What do ye do for pleasure then, Torie?’
‘I read,’ she provided, rising to lift a heavy Bible from a shelf. ‘And that’s what you’ll do if you’re to stay here. If you ask me you could do with a few examples from the Good Book.’ She laid it open on the table and moved the candle closer. ‘Come on!’ she gestured to Dickie.
‘Me?’ He fingered his chest.
‘Well, unless there’s some miracle taken place the cats can’t read. Your eyes are younger than mine. Come on, boy, stir yourself! Chapter twelve of this page, verse seventeen.’ She pointed a yellow-nailed finger at the passage.
Dickie’s thick eyebrows came together as he struggled over the tiny print and began to read falteringly. ‘He who speaks the truth gives honest ev … ev …’
‘Evidence,’ she prompted.
‘… evidence, but a false witness utters deceit. There is one whose rash words are like sw … sword …’
‘Sword,’ she pronounced correctly.
‘… sword thrusts but the tongyew …’
‘Tongue,’ she interrupted his stilted narrative yet again.
‘… tongue of the wise brings healing. Tru … truth… ’
‘Truthful lips endure forever but a lying tongue is but for the moment.’
He voiced his irritation. ‘If ye know it off by heart why do I have to read it?’
‘’Cause I like to hear it,’ said Torie simply. ‘And who knows, after a couple of repetitions it might just sink in.’
Chapter Forty-Two
If Thomasin and Patrick could have seen their son at this time they would never have recognised him. He rose at five to milk the cow before breakfast, then went on to tackle all the repair jobs, of which there were many. Though Torie was a tough old bird she was no carpenter and the outbuildings had been left to rot. With the demise of her family Torie had sold three hundred acres of her land – there was no way a woman on her own could work it – but even the two, twenty-acre fields which she had kept for herself had been allowed to run rampant, and Dickie’s intention to bring every inch of soil back to profitable use was an ambitious project. However, he set to work with borrowed horse and plough, amazing himself with his discovered virtuosity. He was even more surprised to find that he was actually happy and made more so when he found out that one of his worst fears was not to be realised. Torie, though deeply religious, did not hold with churches – ‘Heathen places’ she called them. So, thankfully he would not have to face the fifteen-mile trek to the nearest place of worship every Sunday.
Of course, had she wished it he would have gone. There was no sense in antagonising the old girl over such a meaningless item as religion. Indeed, every one of Torie’s wishes was carried out with conscientious aptitude. The only job he would on no account tackle, even at the expense of risking Torie’s displeasure, was cleaning out the pig.
The fact that he only earned a florin per week for all this work did not seem half so important as it had done. He was so tired after his day’s toil that he would fall asleep immediately after supper, so there was hardly any time in which to spend it. Torie usually had a struggle to wake him in order to read her a passage from the Bible.
Despite all this, he had not completely forsaken his old pursuits. On the one day a week when he tramped the fifteen miles to the nearest village to attend the market, he usually managed to summon the energy with which to partake of a dainty morsel. Well, he had to do something to make Torie’s harsh standards bearable.
All in all it was a demanding life, but with his sights set on the contents of the biscuit barrel and the unspoken promise of the farm on Torie’s death, he was sure he could bear it. Wasn’t he working towards his fortune?
The seasons rotated. A year, eighteen months passed. They grew accustomed to each other, he to her Bible-strict living, she to his habitual tall stories – on hearing one she only had to mouth the word ‘Percy’ and he would quickly recant. And never once did he lift the lid from that biscuit barrel.
Now, Dickie laid his face against the cow’s smooth, warm flank, dreaming of his last conquest as he gripped the teats and squeezed. Apart from that one day per week he had to suffice with dreams now. Such sacrifice would never have been imagined in the old days. Unused to such celibacy he frequently rebelled and swore that this was definitely the last time he was mucking out the byre, and that tomorrow he would be off to find himself a more accommodating landlady. But the vision of that money was invariably stronger than those of bodily needs and his threats remained unfulfilled.
The cow lowed mournfully, lancing his thoughts. There was nothing happening. He inclined his head towards the cow’s ruminous gaze. ‘What’s up, coween, aren’t I doing it right for ye?’ The cow swung her head round to the manger, snatched a mouthful of hay, then fixed him again with baleful eyes. ‘Come on, Tilly, I’ve no time for shenanigans tonight.’ He replaced his cheek against her warmth and squeezed again. There was the sharp ping of milk hitting the bucket. He smiled, closed his eyes and began to tug mechanically, sinking back into his dreams. He had not known her name but boy! had she known how to jig-a-jig. He hoped she’d be there again tomorrow when he went to market. Yet even as he thought of the girl her face metamorphosed to Dusty’s; his dear, plain, bossy girl. Likely by now she would have married someone else. The thought made him angry, mainly at himself. To have a prize like that and lose it for a slut like Peggy was sheer idiocy. He suddenly realised he was once again pulling on empty teats and groaned. Straightening his spine he peered under the cow. ‘What! Half a bucket, is that all ye can do? Sure ye won’t half be in for it when I tell madam. Let’s try the others.’ He changed teats but apart from a token trickle there was nothing.
It was then that he noticed the sore on his wrist. As he reached down for the bucket it peeped out from the cuff of his shirt. He examined it closely, feeling a cold hand clutch at his guts. It looked like an erupted blister, large and angry. He had seen something like that before. Something he had hoped never to see on his own flesh.
‘Oh, Christ!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Mother o’ God, tell me I’m mistaken.’ He stared at the mark, then slowly pulled up his sleeve. There were two more. He could not snap his eyes away from them. His heart thudded. The filthy bitch! The filthy, pox-ridden bitch. He pulled down his sleeve to cover them, then, as if hoping that the act had made them disappear, pulled it up again to inspect the arm. They were still there, of course. Consumed by fear he stood up quickly, accidentally kicking over the bucket, and swore, but made no move to stop the precious milk from seeping into the straw. Then he draped his arms over the cow’s bony back and buried his face in her red hide. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus tell me what to do.’
He was in this same pose when Torie entered the byre. ‘What’s keeping you, lad? Away now, your supper’ll get cold else.’
He stooped quickly to pick up the fallen bucket, as he did so tugging down his sleeve to hide the tell-tale sores. ‘The cow’s gone dry,’ he said dully, his back to her. ‘Will I take her to be served?’
She came alongside and ran her hand over the cow’s white-flecked hide. ‘No, she’s too old for breeding now, aren’t you, Tilly? We’re two of a kind her and me. It’ll break my heart to part with her but I’m not wrowt o’ brass. I can’t be payin’ thee to grow fodder for t’winter and getting no return. You’d best take her to market tomorrow. We’ll have to make do with what bit o’ milk we’ve got.’
‘Will I buy us another while I’m at the market?’
‘You will not! I’d not trust you to buy a bucket o’ water. Them’s fiddling demons at that market; put rouge on the udder so’s it looks nice and plump then when you get home all you got’s a bag full o’ wind. No, I’ll go meself to Turner’s place next week an’ see if he’s got anything. Come on now, let’s get them boggles locked out and take our sup.’
‘I’ll just wash me hands.’ He paused at the pump. She made to work it for him but he refused
her help tonight and watched her go in before he rolled up his sleeves. They were still there.
He took similar care at the table, dropping his hands to his lap between each mouthful, though he did not actually feel like eating at all. What the deuce could he do? He had heard it went away for a spell and you were lulled into thinking it was cured, but there was no cure that he knew of. It eventually sank its claws into your brain and all but tore it out, reducing a once-virile man into a slobbering lunatic. He shuddered.
‘What’s up with you tonight, lad?’ Torie leaned across the table and prodded him with her fork. ‘Just ’cause the cow’s gone dry ain’t no call for long faces.’ He was usually full of himself at this hour of the day, when all his work was done, and though she found his humour a bit on the bawdy side she had grown very, very fond of him.
He jumped and slid a hurried forkful into his mouth. ‘Sorry, Torie. I was just thinking … oh, nothin’ in particular; just what they might be doing at home.’
She filled her mouth with vegetables, to cover her dismay. ‘You’re not going to tell poor Torie you’re leaving her? Not after all this time?’ .
He produced a strained smile. ‘Leave me favourite girl? Ye must be joking.’ Then his frown returned. ‘I can’t help wondering about them, that’s all.’ Will I ever see any of them again? he wondered hazily.
‘You’ll go back someday then?’
‘Probably.’ He sawed at his mutton. ‘When I’m rich enough to stop them ordering me about.’
‘Takes more than money, lad,’ Torie told him. ‘Experience, that’s what counts. Anyway, where d’you suppose you’ll be making this fortune? I hope you haven’t got your eye on my savings again.’ Her voice was hard but he had known her long enough to interpret that spark in her eye. She knew very well why he stayed with her, and did not mind in the least. ‘I’ll wager the minute I’m dead you’ll … hey, what’s that?’ Her hand shot out and grasped his own, making him drop his fork. She tugged it up to her face in order to examine the sore that had caught her eye. His heart turned a somersault. What would be Torie’s Old Testament retribution for this unspeakable sin? Would she cast him out, making all his work in vain? Christ, what was he talking about? It was already in vain. He would probably not live to spend it He gulped and awaited his fate.
‘Have to see to that after supper,’ she grunted and dropped his hand to resume her meal.
‘Ye mean … ye mean ye know how to cure it?’ he hardly dared to hope.
‘S’only cowpox, lad, not Black Death. You been rubbing noses with Tilly each and every day, what else did you expect?’
‘Cowpox!’ he almost shouted, then laughed out loud and sprang up, grabbing Torie’s arm and lifting her from her seat.
‘You soft dunnock, what’re you playing at?’ She lost her fork and slapped at him. ‘Put me down!’
‘Ah, Torie, you’re a miracle-worker.’ He swung her round the litter-strewn kitchen in vast relief. ‘Ye oughta have yourself more fun, ye know. ’Tis no life ye lead all alone here. Here – let me teach ye how to dance.’ He set her down and clasped her around the waist with one long arm, demonstrating with his feet. Unfortunately, when he whisked her past the window his elbow caught the telescope and dashed it to the ground.
‘Wisht!’ She pushed herself free. ‘Now look what you’ve done! The glass is cracked. You’ll have to take it to get mended tomorrow – and you’re paying for it, mind. And will you stop all that cavorting. I’ve told you I’ll have none o’ your heathen ways in this house. Go draw me some water to wash these plates.’ She tutted once more at the broken spyglass and laid it aside.
‘Work, work, work! That’s all you ever think about, Torie.’ He danced along beside her as she fought her way to the sink, his eyes twinkling. ‘Ye know what you are, don’t ye? You’re an old tyrant; but ye’ve just made me the happiest fella in the whole bloody world – an’ that’s swearing for ye. Go on, clout me, I don’t care, nothing ye could do would upset me tonight. An’ d’ye know another thing?’ He crushed her frail body against his, ignoring her protests to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘I love you, Torie Hughes – will ye marry me?’
* * *
Torie watched the pair of them set off down the hill, the youth and the cow, and experienced something she had not felt in years; the something which her own sons had evoked. Though her voice was sharp her periwinkle eyes had a maternal shine to them. ‘And don’t be coming home with a handful o’ beans in exchange for the cow!’ she bawled after him. ‘I’ve heard enough o’ your fairy stories without getting a beanstalk in my garden.’
He laughed heartily and flung over his shoulder: ‘Sure, what giant would be fool enough to climb down into your garden? He’d want his head seeing! Come on, Tilly!’ He tugged at the cow’s halter. ‘I know you’re in no hurry to get there but I am. Now that I know me rod an’ tackle’s in fine working order I can’t wait to catch meself a pretty little minnow.’
At the halfway stage he employed a milestone to take the weight off his feet while the cow took the opportunity to graze. ‘Aye, you do that,’ he told her, his words emerging on a cloud of tobacco-smoke. ‘Poor bugger, ye’ll not be getting much o’ that where you’re going.’
After ten minutes’ rest he was sufficiently revived to continue his journey and, walking as briskly as the cow would allow, eventually reached the village. He took no time at all to complete the main business, his slick tongue – a little rouge and a bucketful of milk pinched from someone else’s cow – earning him much more than Torie had expected for the beast. But instead of spending it all on himself as he might once have done, he decided to use some of it to buy Torie a present, if only for the good news she had given him last night. Cowpox! Jaze, he had been laughing about it all night. Now, what could he buy her? She didn’t go in for ornamentation or gewgaws. He passed a stall selling confectionery and back-tracked to it If Torie had one weakness it was her sweet tooth – what was left of it; he doubted she had an undecayed tooth in her head. Purchasing a quarter-pound of the bull’s eyes he pressed on, keeping his eyes peeled for a mate.
When the hour came around when the market traders began to pack away their unsold wares he had imbibed several quarts of ale, had purchased a pair of woollen stockings to go with Torie’s sweets and had tested his ‘tackle’ successfully three times.
He whistled all the way home, grinning at himself for the way he regarded Torie’s home as his. It was a fact that he felt more at home with her than he had ever done with his own parents. Very odd indeed, for she was a stubborn old cuss and kept an even stricter control over him than they had done. But something in her makeup – perhaps it was the way she always got the better of him – had earned his grudging affection, and it was probable that he thought as much about Torie as he had ever done about anyone. Gob, she was a funny old bird and no mistake. But she had treated him as he imagined she would one of her own, and last night when he had jokingly said he loved her it wasn’t so far from the truth.
In the time it took him to reach the foot of the hill the sun had turned to orange and his rumbling guts told him it was nearly time for supper. He fingered the stockings in his pocket and wondered what Biblical anecdote Torie would dish out at his choice of gift. She would likely think the stockings much too familiar a present. He was sure she wouldn’t refuse the bull’s eyes, though. The thought brought a smile with it.
His giant strides had eaten up most of the slope – he was pretty fit these days – and had just taken him through the lengthening shadows towards the back of the house, when he heard the grunts and scuffles. His primary reaction was – Christ! the pig’s got out and killed her! But when he reached the corner of the wall and peeped cautiously round it he saw that it was not Percy who was attacking Torie but two men; looming shadows against the burnished sky, punching and slapping her about the face and body. The grunts were coming from Torie as each vicious punch forced the breath from her. His immediate reflex was to slip back out of sight.
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br /> ‘Where is it, damn you?’ One of the shadows put his fingers round her throat and shook it. ‘We know on good authority you got money here some place.’ He slapped her twice across the face.
Dickie’s hand flew to his own face as Torie’s lip burst open under the assault, but much as he felt he should help her he could not move.
‘There’s nowt here! I’m a poor widow woman!’ screamed Torie, fighting his grip. ‘Do I look like I’ve got money?’
‘You can’t bluff me, you old crow,’ growled the man holding her throat.
‘I don’t know who told you I had money, but he’s lying,’ came the strangled reply. ‘Not here anyway – it’s all in the bank. You’d best be gone before my lad gets home. He’s twice the size o’ you two. He’ll kill you for what you’re doing to me.’ Behind the wall Dickie cringed in fear and self-abasement. She had said that about him, and here he was letting those men hit her.
‘I’ll ask you one more time, missus!’ The man tightened his grip and hauled her face close to his. ‘Where is it?’ Torie’s answer was to shoot a glob of spittle into his face. The man appeared to go insane. Dickie cowered as the plucky old woman fell back under a particularly vicious punch. And then both the men began hitting her, pulling her about by the thin, wispy hair, tossing her from one to the other and laughing as if it were all a huge joke. ‘You’ll tell us, missus! Oh, you’ll tell us.’
Dickie hugged the wall, hamstrung by terror, wanting to stop her punishment but too afraid to move. There were two of them, both big men, and he could not take on the pair of them. He would end up getting beaten – like Torie was. Oh, Jesus please stop this! He averted his face but he could still hear the blows raining down on her poor body.
‘You’ll not have it, you bastards!’ It was the first time he had heard her swear. ‘My boy didn’t work his fingers to the bone for you to steal it all from him.’ The defiance terminated in a sharp cry of pain.
For My Brother’s Sins Page 55