Thursbitch
Page 8
“Just a thought. I’m out of my depth. But, if you take the site of the outcrop as fixed then, by observation and the placing of markers, it would be possible to make accurate calculations of time.”
“For what purpose?”
“I don’t know. Whatever. For a reason good enough to lug these stones around.”
“And who would do that?”
“But they probably don’t work now as they were meant to, if they ever were meant to.”
“Why?”
“The earth shifts on its axis.”
“I thought it was just me.”
“That moon really was impressive. And from here, Bellatrix is clearing the outcrop. Which means that Orion will rise, though we’ll scarcely see it. Dawn’s not – Look out!”
He pushed her round and held her against the stone with his body. There was a thumping above in the heather, and rocks crashed into the wall, some bouncing over into the field.
“Fools! Stop it! Stop! You’ll kill someone!”
More rocks came tumbling; and then there was a loud, drawn out cry.
“Sheep,” he said. “They dislodged the scree.”
“There isn’t any scree,” she said. “And that wasn’t sheep.”
The cry came again, desolate. Then silence.
“A fox.”
Something landed in the heather and rolled to the back of the stone. He shone his torch. It was a small lump of rock, but different. He picked it up and gave it to her, lighting it with the torch.
“This isn’t from anywhere near here,” she said. “It’s carbon fluoride. And it’s been hollowed. Stick your torch inside.”
The stone glowed white and violet. It was rough on the outside, but had been polished within.
“It’s a cup. Of sorts,” he said.
“You find this colour only in the carboniferous limestone at Tray Cliff, outside Castleton. The miners call it bull-beef. So there is someone up there. Or there was.”
They waited, but there was neither sound nor movement. Over Cats Tor there was a brightening in the sky. They began the slow way down to the brook.
At the stone above the ford they drank more coffee and finished the food. Orion was waist-high from the outcrop, but faded from their sight before he was free.
“Let’s watch the sun rise,” she said. “Then I shall have known it all.”
He arranged the bag so that the stone cup was protected. Behind them, the light crept down Andrew’s Edge. She sat forward, holding herself with expectation.
The sun rose.
The sun rose clear from the outcrop, as the moon before it.
“It’s functional,” he said.
“It’s wonderful.”
“I simply don’t have the maths.”
“Who needs it? Just look. What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
“I mean, is it significant?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But. No, that’s irrelevant.”
“What is?”
He looked in his diary.
“The only thing I can think of is that today happens to be the Feast of the Decollation of Saint John the Baptist. Which doesn’t exactly sit comformably with the notion of problematic stones.”
“I need to move,” she said. “The valley and the pills are telling me.”
He lifted her and they left the ford. The air was all new, and the light fresh, bringing back the colours of the place.
She looked up at the ridge.
“That noise.”
“Wasn’t it?” he said. “But foxes can make frightening sounds.”
“Not a fox. It was a man. I heard him. I heard what he said. He was calling: ‘Wife’.”
19
“Early monday morning, late on Saturday night,
I saw ten thousand mile away a house just out of sight!
The floor was on the ceiling, the front was at the back;
It stood alone between two more,
And the walls were whitewashed black!”
He raised his hat to Jenkin as they passed the stone.
“I am a roving jagger,
And fightable to rights;
I travel countries far and near,
And march by days and nights.
I travel countries far and near,
As you may understand,
Until at last I do arrive
On The Red Erythræan Strand!”
He was close enough to set the dogs barking.
“O I’m a blade
As knows no trade,
And folks they do adore me!
I’ll shoe their feet, I won’t them cheat,
But they’ll not reach home before me!
For I can sing and I can dance,
I am that roving jagger;
If Trouble ever should me chance,
I’ll stick him with me dagger!”
Nan Sarah came down the path into the lane. She put her arms about him.
“I thought I’d not see you again.”
“There, there, love. Have I not told you often enough? I’m the one as always comes back. I gave word to a chap, telling you I’d be away. Did he not?”
“He did. But he didn’t tell where you were for.”
“I met a man at Derby, and he was lost to take a jag down south; so I must give him a hand. And one road leads to another, they say. My, woman, but you’re biggening.”
“You’ve been gone that long.”
“Let me see to me beasts now; and then I’ll tell you all about me little periploos. I could sup a jug of ale.”
He unloaded the horses, watered and fed them, gave Bryn a bone, and went into the houseplace. Richard Turner and Mary were sitting on either side of the fire.
“Now then, youth.”
“Now then, Father.”
“Yon was a tragwallet and a bit.”
“Above a bit. But it made a mighty penny.”
“That’s what counts.”
“So you did get a second bite off his head, I see.”
“We did. An abundation. Yon good slobber of rain fixed us nicely. And yours is in, too. High Medda and all.”
“Grand. And I picked the corbel bread, gen next year, on me way up from Chester.” He set apart a bag of red and white toadstools.
“What have you fetched us?” said Mary.
“Now why should a man as has been down London be at fetching trinklements all that road? It’s jag enough, without trinklements on top.”
“London?” said Mary. “What’s that?”
“Where King is.”
“Who’s he now?” said Richard Turner.
“And a right midden of a place, I can tell you,” said Jack. “I don’t know how he tholes it, King. I was glad to be shut; I was that.”
“What did you see, Jack?” said Nan Sarah.
He looked around, and then leaned forward, pulling them in to hear.
“I saw houses thatched with pancakes, walls of pudding pies; and little pigs running in the streets with knives and forks in their backs, saying, ‘Who’ll have a slice?’.”
“Did you?” said Nan Sarah.
Richard Turner laughed, spat in the fire and settled back in his chair.
“He’s twitting you,” said Mary.
“Jack?”
Jack drank deeply from the jug, his eyes bright above the rim.
“Jack! You great nowt!”
She pummelled his chest.
“Do you not want to hear of me little periploos?” he said. “Me periploos of The Red Erythræan Sea?”
He lifted his satchel onto the table.
“There’s nowt as can beat a good periploos for telling strange tales and finding rum things and hearing daft songs. And this one’s had them all. There’s some folks with thoughts fit to grow wooden legs; I’ll tell you. Now where’s the old powsels and thrums?” He rummaged about. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Right. Now then, Father, what do you make of this?”
He put into Richard T
urner’s hand an oval brass box. The lid was sunken, without any way of opening it. Richard Turner tried to slip his fingernail in, but it was too coarse. He shook it; there was no sound.
“Fetch us a knife.”
“No, Father. What should you do if you were up the fields with this here, and no knife? You’d still want it open.”
Richard Turner held the box every way, looking for a button or a catch, but the box was smooth, with only the outline of the sunken lid. He laughed.
“Nay, youth. Yon’s reckoned me up.”
“Hold it in your hand, Father, and thrutch both sides at same time. Not too hard, mind; but hard enough.”
Richard Turner set the box in his palm and squeezed. Nothing happened.
“Too much,” said Jack.
He squeezed again.
“Too little.”
Both men were laughing.
“Trust you, our Jack, to make a man’s life a misery. Eh!” The lid sprang wide on a hinge, and Richard Turner nearly dropped the box. “Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!”
“Poke your nutting-hook in that, Father.”
“There’s near an eight ounce o’ bacca, youth!”
“There’d best be,” said Jack, “else there’ll be a chap wanting his face mending next time I see him.”
“It’s a grand un. Spon spitting-fire new.” Richard Turner closed and opened the box, over and over, chuckling. “As good a job as any I’ve seen in many a long day.”
“Ay, well,” said Jack. “So one of you’s suited, and that’s a mercy. Now what? Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Here we are. Will this do you, Ma Mary?”
He brought out a looking glass in a wooden frame and handle and gave it to her with the back upwards. Mary took it, turned it over and squealed.
“Our Jack! I’ve heard tell on ’em! Eh, Rutchart.”
She held it up to him.
“Who’s that smart chap?” said Richard Turner. “By, he’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he? It’d be a lucky woman as could catch him. Wouldn’t it, Nan Sarah?”
He showed her the glass. “Barm pot,” she said, but peered closely into it before giving it back to Mary. “What’s for me, Jack?” Her face was flushed.
“What’s for you?” Jack looked at her belly. “Haven’t I given you enough already?”
“Jack!”
“I don’t know. I do not know. You’re a bucket with no bottom, you.” He lifted the satchel. “Light as a feather. Feels empty. Let’s see. Powsels and thrums. No. Nowt. Wait on. There’s an old muckender, if that’s any good to you.”
He pulled out a dirty handkerchief. It was crumpled and knotted. He looked into the satchel, and shook it over the table.
“No. You’ll have to make do, Nan Sarah.”
His face was mournful.
Nan Sarah took the handkerchief. She tried to unfasten the knot, but it was firmly tied. She struggled and tugged.
“Oh, Jack!”
“I tell you. It’s this or nowt. A man has more to think on than trinklements when he’s leading a full jag.”
She pushed at the knot, and it began to loosen. She worked on the rag with her teeth, and it moved. The handkerchief opened of itself from within and was covered by a blossoming unfolding of red, embroidered with flowers and bees, yellow and black and white and green.
“What is it?”
“You tell me, Nan Sarah.”
“Is it silk?”
“It is that.”
“But silk’s white.”
“It is while other folks get their hands on it. You’re a throwster. What happens next?”
“You take it for spinners down Macc, and fetch another brood of grubs.”
“Then what?”
“They give it weavers.”
“Then what?”
“It gets woven.”
“Then what?”
“How should I know? I’ve seen old buttons.”
“Oh, Nan Sarah, do you never think? Throwster gives spinner. Spinner gives weaver. What’s it all for?”
“Summat or other.”
“Woman, woman. That’s how folks make their fortunes. It’s dyed, and cut, and sewn; and kings and queens and suchlike wear it.”
“Do they?”
“They do. And yon’s for why I’ve fetched you this. So as a throwster can be as grand as any.”
“But what is it?”
“Pockets.”
“It’s never pockets. Pockets are in your britches.”
“But, down London, it’s what them fine ladies wear, I’m told.”
Nan Sarah opened up the silk.
It was a belt, and from it hung two deep pouches, all in red. In each was a slit running down from the top to the middle, and every seam and edge was stitched in green. Patterns of yellow flowers on green stems were interlaced, with petals marked and hued, and among the flowers hung bees, the wings embroidered white, with every vein clear.
“Jack. It’s gorgeous. How must I wear it?”
“I’m told sideways.”
“I’ve got no sideways!”
“Down London, ladies put them under their skirts and petticoats.”
“What?” said Nan Sarah. “You mean none of this shows?”
“Well, I never saw any,” said Jack. “I got all this off a Frenchie as didn’t talk too much English. It makes you wonder how them lot manage. He seemed in a bit of a hurry, so it didn’t take much to knock him down. He was glad enough with me malt. And I always like to leave a chap happy and smiling.”
“I’ll not wear them under,” said Nan Sarah. “Let’s give Lomases summat to talk about. Lend us a hand, Jack.”
Jack put the belt around Nan Sarah and tied it in a bow. The pockets sat on her hips.
“It’s a good job I came when I did,” he said. “Another three-week and you’d have had to wait.”
Nan Sarah lifted her arms to show off the pockets.
“You look well,” said Mary. “But if they’re pockets for ladies, what shall you put in them?”
“Me hands,” said Nan Sarah.
She thrust them deep into the pockets, and skipped around, holding them out.
Mary sat with the looking glass and made different faces in it. Richard Turner filled his pipe, staring into the fire.
Jack went to settle the horses. Nan Sarah followed, her hands still in the pockets.
“Yon young youth,” said Richard Turner. “He’s got a boggart in him. Don’t ask me: but in him there is a boggart.”
“Time for bed, wife.”
“Yes, Jack.”
“So they’ll do, will they?”
“They’ll do, love.”
Still with her hands inside the silk, she took hold of him, and they danced together into their room, and kissed. He undid the bow and she folded the pockets and put them on a chair. He snuffed out the rush light.
“Has there been any foreigners while I was gone, Nan Sarah?”
“Above a few jaggers, but none as we don’t know.”
“I saw a couple of chaps standing up Thoon when I was coming down Todd Hill,” he said. “I couldn’t make nowt of ’em, except one was on two sticks. How does a chap on two sticks get up Thoon? But from me to them the distance was savage.”
“No. There’s been none like that.”
“Savage. Oh, wife, each night of all them miles, how I have missed you. But if I never went, how could I come home?”
20
THEY WERE DOING the autumn jobs.
“There’s some thackstones loose,” Jack said. “I’ll fetch the ladder.” He climbed onto the roof and walked around, checking the slabs. Some he slid into place on their latts; others had lost their bone pegs and he took fresh ones and set them in their holes. Richard Turner watched from below.
“We need two narrow ladies, Father, for close by the chimney; one rogue-why-wink-thee, a small duchess, a wide countess, a short haghatty; and we’d best have a twothree bachelors. I’ll give you a hand.”
Once on the roof, they moved together, gentle and slow, not to slip, and so that no fixed stones were damaged. They had to prise firm slabs to take out each broken one and peg in the new. It was all heavy work on the pitch of the roof.
“Father?”
“Ay?”
“What’s Sin?”
“How do you mean, sin?”
“It’s summat to do with churches, I reckon; and you’ve been Taxal and Macc. What are they for?”
“They’re bury-holes.”
“Then what are steeples?”
“So as you can tell where the bury-hole is, and folks don’t go traipsing round all day carrying dead uns.”
“But I see ever so many when I’m leading me jags.”
“That’ll be on account of having ever so many dead uns. They’d not all fit in Taxal and Macc. I recollect you can get wed there, too, if you’ve a mind and can find a parson. There had used to be a lot on it one time o’ day, I do believe. Quite a curfuffle. Me father had used to talk of it. And his father had used to say there was a big to-do once. But it was always summat and nowt, in my youth. And there’s none of it goes on as makes any odds now. Why do you ask?”
“Down Derby and places, I’ve seen churches thrunk with folk, and bells ringing. What are they at?”
“Oh, I’ll grant you, there’s many as like to get together and sing their little ditties. But in these parts, it’d be a day’s work to fetch enough on us for make a cat laugh.”
“But what’s Sin?”
“Don’t be daft, youth. Yon’s a word; same as, It’s long sin we had such a storm. Or, It’s a while sin you gave me this here thackstone to hold while you rambled and romped with your mither.”
Jack chuckled, pegged the stone and fitted it over the latt.
When they had done, they climbed down and sat in the lee of the wind and smoked their pipes. The day was golden.
Richard Turner dozed. Jack looked out over Park Meadow up to Buxter Stoops, but his eyes were seeing beyond. He took a short stick out of his britches. At the top was a drum, deeply carved, and above that a knob, or an acorn, or a bud. From the edge of the drum hung a wooden bead on a chain. Jack worked the handle with his wrist, and the drum began to spin. As it spun faster, the bead moved outwards on its chain, and the weight of it made the spinning easier. The drum whirred. Jack saw further through the tobacco smoke.