The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  Every now and again flat, tarpaulin-covered wagons harnessed to teams of huge stamping draft-horses pulled in and out of mill gates in front of them, forcing them to stop, the carts’ iron-shod wheels grinding on the stony road surface. Top-heavy with enormous loads of big, square bales of greasy wool, their passing left little doubt as to where that odour had come from. Dyers and spinners, the mills proclaimed themselves, weavers, fullers, woolcombers, shoddy and mungo manufacturers . . . shoddy? And what could mungo be? she asked Sugden.

  ‘Devil’s dust,’ he replied grimly, but did not choose to elaborate and went on puffing away at his evil pipe, not appreciably improving the atmosphere. Laura bit her lip, vowed to keep her own silence thereafter and lapsed into her thoughts, with only the jingle of metal, the creak of leather and the rhythmic impact of the little mare’s hooves to keep them company.

  As the distance lengthened the Neller valley narrowed, and the rolling hills either side soared ever more steeply up to the bleak moors on top. Small mill towns climbed the hillsides at an angle of forty-five degrees, where pinafored women hung out washing on lines strung across the streets, wearing clogs and woollen shawls wrapped over their heads, fastened under the chin with a safety pin. By now, Laura would have been glad of the fur-lined cape Lillian had insisted she packed. Forgetting her vow of silence, she asked, shivering, ‘Is it always so cold up here?’

  ‘Cold? Nay, it’s nobbut fresh today. Wait till winter!’ Laura pushed her gloved hands further under the rug on her knees, seeking warmth, very glad indeed that she would not be here by the time winter arrived. Relenting, Sugden added, pointing ahead with his whip, ‘Nearly there, any road. Yon’s Wainthorpe.’

  It was suddenly upon them, another steep little town, grey rows of back-to-back terrace houses, one above the other, like the rungs of a ladder. The main road ran in a curve here along the floor of the valley, past shops and public houses and a Co-op, with dark alleys and less than salubrious streets in between; a church and at least two chapels, a little market square. Mill machinery hummed and clattered, carts rumbled on the stone setts.

  Sugden again pointed with his whip. ‘Beaumont’s.’

  They had reached a humped bridge over the river, as polluted here with the discharge of dye products and factory effluents as it was lower down. A large sprawl of buildings, and rows of low weaving sheds from which issued a deafening racket, were dominated by a five storey mill with a smokestack taller than any of the others in the town, aggressively proclaiming ownership. ‘BEAUMONT’ was painted in giant white letters from top to bottom of its length, which were reflected in its gently steaming mill dam. An imposing wrought iron arch into a cobbled yard proclaimed the name: Cross Ings Mill. Oddly, in all this stood an old-fashioned, low-roofed dwelling house with open windows and white lace curtains, built on to one side of the mill itself. Was this Farr Clough House, where Mr Beaumont lived?

  The question appeared to afford John Willie Sugden a sardonic amusement. ‘Ainsley Beaumont? Nay, not him! We’ve a bit to go, yet. This is nobbut t’mill.’ He pointed with his whip. ‘Yon’s Farr Clough, up on th’ Edge.’

  Laura was able to catch only a glimpse of a large stone edifice perched near the top of the highest of the hills beneath which the town sheltered before it disappeared from view in the curve of the road, signposted ‘Moortop Road’. She looked for the house again, but in vain, as the road made wide upward zigzags, each turn seeming to take them only a little higher up the Pennine slope. The distance they covered could not have been far but it seemed miles away from the valley they had just left. The wind became even keener, flattening the tussocky grass, unhindered by anything other than a few stunted trees and the millstone grit outcrop thrusting its way through the thin soil.

  A few black-faced sheep skipped bleating into the heather as they passed, the road became rougher, Laura’s teeth rattled and at any moment she was convinced a wheel must come off and overturn them into one of the bright narrow streams of water that gushed down the hills – to end up in that stinking river below, she assumed. Nevertheless, with the ugliness of the industrial sprawl below left behind, and now above the smoke-pall, she began to feel exhilarated, and moved by the sombre grandeur of the scenery which now surrounded her. Of all the people who had been ready to warn her of the inhospitable weather and general discomforts of life in the North, why had none of them ever mentioned the upland splendour of these hills, moors and valleys, their rushing streams? Her dismay disappeared, she felt a quickening in her blood and a sense of expectancy.

  ‘’Ere we are, then.’

  Abruptly the rough, drystone walls that ran apparently at random over the wild moorland revealed an opening on to a rough road driven along this side of the hill, along which the trap now passed. There was still no sign of Farr Clough House but on a sudden impulse she cried, ‘Please stop. I believe I should like to walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘It’s all of a mile yet to th’ouse.’

  ‘I’m used to walking, and I need to stretch my legs after sitting for so long.’ And to get my circulation going again, in case I might never be warm again, she might have added. ‘Please take my luggage on and I’ll follow.’

  ‘Suit thissen. It’s straight on.’

  The wind tore at her hat and the tendrils of her wayward hair whipped across her face as she followed the trap, watching it disappear into the distance. Now that she was moving the wind stirred her blood and brought bright colour to her cheeks, and with it a magic feeling, as though she could run and jump, throw her arms in the air. Although the sky was grey and clouded, darkening the shortening afternoon further, there was a cosmic feeling about the great empty spaces tumbling around her as she walked, listening to the whistling wind and a bird with a piping, plaintive call. Lillian would have felt amply justified to know how cold it was, Laura thought with a laugh. Yet, here and there in that bleak treeless landscape could be seen the occasional whin bush, a splash of sunshine among the black peaty soil and the heather, a definite hint of spring not far away.

  The wide undulating track cut through the rough bent-grass, with the ground rising to the ridge of the moor above on the one side, while to her left, sloping precipitately down into Wainthorpe, a plunging road could be seen. No sign of the house yet, and the threadbare soil and the sharp, flinty stones under the soles of her shoes did not make walking any easier. She had to watch her step, so that she didn’t at first see the man with the dog who was standing about a hundred yards distant, his back to her, looking down into the valley below. The dog, however, saw her. With a low, snarling noise deep in its throat, it made a wild dash towards her, a long-legged creature with a great square muzzle and a rough-curled black and tan coat, and a turn of speed that brought him within feet of her in seconds. There was no cover and the dog’s master did not even bother to turn around, not even when an involuntary scream escaped her. She backed away, caught her foot in a twisted root of heather and fell awkwardly. With a spring, the dog was over her, its feet on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. Its jaws were within inches of her face when she was aware of someone arriving with a leap and a bound on to the path beside her, and the dog was pulled off her by a yank on its collar. She was assisted to her feet with a firm brown hand.

  ‘I say, I hope you’re not harmed?’

  ‘Not for want of trying!’ replied Laura without much grace, for she did not like to be seen at a disadvantage.

  A pair of steady grey eyes in a deeply tanned face looked down with concern into hers, as she stood shakily recovering and dusting herself down. She had suffered a shock, and might have a bruise or two, but she didn’t think there was more to it than that. ‘You might, however,’ she added indignantly, straightening her hat, ‘do well to keep your dog under better control.’

  ‘And so I might, if he belonged to me.’ He threw a glance to his right and Laura realized her mistake. The man whose back had been turned towards her was walking away with the aid of a stick, apparently uncaring of the scen
e behind him, and the dog was now loping after him. ‘There goes Sim’s master – Ainsley Beaumont.’

  It scarcely seemed a good omen for the future that the man who had engaged to employ her was one who could ignore such an incident, despite there having been a rescuer to hand. ‘Then I must beg your pardon, and thank you.’ He waved her thanks away. ‘What sort of brute is that? I’ve never seen an animal like it!’

  ‘I dare say you haven’t, he’s an Airedale – mostly – a dog bred in these parts, and not renowned for its sweet temper, though Sim’s more impetuous than vicious. He’s still not much more than a puppy.’

  ‘Well, I must take your word for it.’

  He laughed. ‘All the same, he can hardly be blamed for what he did, he’s on his own ground here, and we’re not used to trespassers.’

  ‘I’m no trespasser,’ she returned crisply, gathering her dignity. ‘I’m expected at the house. My luggage has gone ahead of me.’

  ‘Ah. Then it appears I must now beg your pardon.’ He raised a humorous eyebrow, and she flushed, suspecting he knew very well who she was. A tall, loose-limbed man with a craggy, lively face, he was evidently not one to adhere to convention. Cold as it was, he went hatless, with the wind raking his crisp hair. His dress was relaxed and informal, a dark jacket and a snuff-coloured waistcoat, a flowing tie. ‘You must be the new lady librarian from London,’ he added, confirming her suspicions.

  ‘I suppose the description will serve as well as any.’

  ‘And what are you doing out here, all alone on the moor?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind being alone, and I simply felt like walking.’

  ‘Did you, by Jove! Well, I can understand that, there’s nothing like it, up here, that’s what I was doing myself, but in the circumstances I think we’d better be getting you back. I can leg it to the house and get them to send the trap back for you if you don’t mind waiting.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

  ‘Then may I offer you my arm?’

  ‘Really, I’m quite all right.’ Her knee did feel a little bruised but she was not about to mention that. ‘I can actually walk better alone on this surface, thank you.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Miss . . . ?’

  ‘Harcourt,’ she said briskly. ‘Laura Harcourt.’ She held out her hand, and smiled.

  ‘Tom Illingworth,’ he returned, taking her hand and looking so intently into her face, and for so long, that she began to blush. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Harcourt.’

  From the moment Tom Illingworth saw that smile, looked directly into the determined little heart-shaped face and those luminous hazel eyes, all the years he had been waiting suddenly seemed worth it.

  He apparently did not live at Farr Clough House, as she might have assumed from that proprietary ‘we’, but he had been born and bred in the valley, here in Wainthorpe. After qualifying as a railway engineer, he had gone out to South Africa to work on Cecil Rhodes’ proposed Cape to Cairo railway. Yes, she was quite right in thinking the outbreak of the second Boer War had put a stop to that ambitious project, but after the war was over he had stayed on for several years. He knew he was almost certainly talking too much about himself, but since her interested responses seemed to show she didn’t mind, he carried on, deliberately slowing his quick stride as he spoke, forcing them both to walk slowly. He had no wish to arrive at Farr Clough just yet. He was more than content at that moment to be up here, in a world inhabited only by himself and Laura Harcourt, the peewits and the wind.

  ‘So, shall you be going back there?’

  ‘No, I’ve had enough of South Africa. Well, it’s God’s own country, Miss Harcourt, for some, which was what it seemed to me, once. I fought there during the war, but afterwards . . . well, let’s just say, I stuck it for as long as I could, and then came home like the prodigal son. I was homesick, I hadn’t seen my mother for nine years and it seemed like a good idea.’

  This was neither the time nor the place to talk about his real reasons for abandoning his dream of settling out there in that ineffable country, with its boundless possibilities. The intention to free the blacks from the yoke of the Boer, and allow them to live under the more moderate British rule had seemed a lofty ideal, but during the war and after, the dream had turned sour. Disillusionment with the empire building of the powerful English-born diamond and gold magnate turned politician, Cecil Rhodes, and his avowed aim of planting the British flag in any country in which a Briton set foot; with conditions in the aftermath of the war; with the scorched earth policy the British army had employed, which had made refugees of Boer women and children; with the disgrace that was the concentration camps in which they were kept. He had become ashamed to be British in that country and could no longer stomach it.

  For all that and other, more personal, reasons he did not choose to think about now.

  ‘And what will you do now?’

  ‘For the moment, I’m looking around. This will always be home, the place I return to, but there’s plenty of opportunity for railway engineers all over the world. It won’t be difficult to find something.’ For the moment his face darkened, like a cloud passing over the sun, but then he was smiling again. ‘That’s more than enough of me. What of you, Miss Laura Harcourt?’

  ‘Oh, me! Nothing so thrilling has ever happened to me.’

  ‘Thrills of that sort are overrated, I can assure you,’ he returned dryly. ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘The lawyer who has attended to Mr Beaumont’s affairs for some years passed on to me that he was in need of someone to catalogue his library, so here I am.’

  ‘His library, oh yes!’ The idea seemed to amuse him. ‘Well, don’t let him make a slave out of you. The old curmudgeon will, if you don’t watch out.’

  Before she had a chance to pursue this, the house was suddenly upon them. They had approached it sideways, but the rough road now swung round to bring them to the front elevation, and there it was, set on a kind of natural plateau in the rise of the hill, overlooking Wainthorpe. In front was a small garden of sorts, dominated by a stone-flagged area in front of the house, in which was set a square pool. The low drystone walls that formed the boundaries had crumbled away in parts, so that it was hardly possible to distinguish where the moor ended and the garden began.

  But it was the first sight of the house itself which was never to fade from Laura’s memory as long as she lived. A fine old three-gabled Yorkshire manor house of dark grey stone and mullioned windows, and a massive oak door over which, carved into the stone, was a coat of arms, and the date 1589. Of the three gabled sections, however, only two remained intact. The third, projecting at right angles some several feet in front of the others, was roofless, windowless, and nothing more than an empty fire-blackened shell.

  Open to the sky, the ruin still stood attached to the rest of the house. Creepers tumbled over the walls, and rooks and jackdaws had made their nests in the crannies and corners of the stone. The silence of the darkening afternoon was broken only by their melancholy cawing as the wind tossed them about like bundles of black, ragged feathers, while they restlessly settled and resettled themselves on their nests. But for the open windows in the occupied part of the house, and smoke issuing from a chimney, the stone pile might have been one with the stones from which it was built.

  Laura laughed nervously. ‘Straight out of Jane Eyre!’

  ‘Yes, there was a fire here, too, as you see, some twenty years ago.’ He added abruptly, ‘That wing should either be pulled down, or rebuilt.’

  ‘Why is it allowed to remain like that?’

  For a moment his face was grim. ‘Who knows? Put it down to an old man’s stubbornness – which I’m afraid is something you’re all too likely to find out . . . there, I’ve frightened you when I only meant to prepare you.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not in the least frightened.’ she said, not very truthfully, still recovering her wits. This was not like her, Laura Harcourt, who prided herself on her
common sense, and took most things in her stride. The sight of the house had simply come as a shock, something she hadn’t expected in the least.

  At that moment, the front door opened. A woman stood on the steps, the Airedale beside her.

  Four

  ‘Good afternoon, Una,’ Tom Illingworth said, as they reached the steps. ‘This is Miss Harcourt, whom I met on the way here . . . Miss Beaumont.’

  ‘And who else could she be, Tom, unless John Willie left another lady walking up to the house?’

  Facing Laura was a young woman of around her own age, slim to the point of fragility, very striking, nearly a beauty. An oval face with a pale skin and remarkable eyes, grey-green, long and assessing; thick, smooth, honey-blonde hair, tightly drawn back, almost as if with the deliberate intention of playing down her attractiveness; dressed severely in a high-necked blue and white striped blouse and a narrow dark blue serge skirt with a tight belt at her waist. She appraised Laura with a quick glance before extending a brief, cool hand. Their fingers barely touched. ‘Miss Harcourt – walking all that way! Come in, Grandpa’s waiting. And you, Tom? Will you come in for a moment?’

  ‘After yesterday? I believe not, thank you all the same.’ Their eyes met, hers judgmental, his look quizzical. ‘In any case, my mother’s expecting me.’

  ‘As you wish. It’s no any use arguing with Thomas Illingworth, Miss Harcourt, he will never change his mind once it’s made up.’