by Pam Weaver
At first she was cross because his coming messed up her solitary routine. It was duty that had dragged her out in the snow and duty that revived him, and yet the thought of him going away for good…He looked different, older and more careworn. He had suffered too in his exile. Tonight his presence was companionable and welcome. He smelled of earth, woodsmoke; honest sweat glistened on his brow in the firelight.
She noticed his broad hands stretched out for warmth; farmer’s hands, chapped, gnarled with wind and rain, rough and even bigger than her own spades. His palms were callused, blistered from all their shovelling, and just for one second she wondered what those hands would feel like dusting over her skin.
A frisson of shock sparked through her body. She had undressed him and sponged him down like a brother in extremis, but now she was curious and not a little shocked by the realisation that Ben might be her cousin and a friend, but in the firelight he was first and foremost a man.
‘Remember how Grandpa Joe used to say that a good bit of wood gave two heats?’ Ben shouted as he split the logs with an axe.
‘Could we ever forget? The first was in the chopping and the second when it was on the fire,’ Mirren said as she was loading the logs onto the foddering sled, layered up in coat, scarf and sacking hood.
Splitting the wood, crashing blade onto bark, was strangely soothing, releasing all his tension and stiffness. The pile was drying off by the fire. The last of the fallen trees stored under tarpaulin was damp, but dry enough at the core to eke out the peat.
Day was following night, and still it snowed. Their daily routine was digging a tunnel out to the cattle in the byre, which bellowed in protest at having only half-portions. Ben looked out across an arctic landscape, snow on ice whipped into monumental sculptures. He thought of their flock still not rescued, heavy with lambs. No amount of wool would save them from this devouring monster. He turned back to his chore with a heavy heart.
There was relief in Mirren’s eyes when he tackled something extra, but he felt uneasy. Something was shifting between them as if being stuck together was forcing some change. There was a tension that he couldn’t explain, a restless nervous energy that was making them both busy themselves, always on the go, jumping up to see to a chore or to the stove, the dogs. When Mirren did sit down her right leg was bobbing up and down like a piston and she only did that when she’d something on her mind. He knew her so well, or he thought he did, but she was softer round the edges, her voice quieter and there was a look in her eye he’d never seen before when they talked about the old days at Cragside.
‘This house’s a bit too big for one to manage,’ he said, and then wished he hadn’t.
‘Tom and Florrie are talking of giving up Scar Head and moving back here, I think to keep an eye on me,’ she smiled. ‘They say it could do with knocking back.’
‘You can’t do that! It’s Cragside, it wouldn’t be the same.’
‘I suppose it makes sense but I don’t know what the old ghosts will think about it if we do. Josiah Yewell spent his life turning his sow’s ear of a farm into a silk purse and nearly beggared himself to keep his wives in china and embroidery silk, so Granny Adey told me once, but I don’t know if it’s true.’
‘I heard he stole a picture and was so in fear of hell that he sent it back to the artist but Dad said Grandpa was always full of fanciful tales. I wonder what tales will be told about us?’
‘You’ll find gold in the outback, raise ten kids and make a fortune,’ she laughed.
‘And you? Why aren’t you at World’s End and what’s all this about it being a refugee camp, a holiday house for down-and-outs, as Florrie says, a proper league of nations up there?’
‘Who knows? I had to make something out of it. It’s a special place, thanks to you. Maybe one of these days I’ll return there and turn into Miss Havisham and stop all the clocks. I can’t live alone here for ever–it’s not economic. If this blow-in doesn’t stop soon, the weight of ice will crack the slates, the beams will rot, the roof will cave in and I’ll end up like Miriam of the Dale, hiding under the chimney, frozen to my lamp. Last night for the first time in ages I felt…no, you’ll laugh,’ she stopped.
‘Go on.’
‘I felt the past round me. I couldn’t see anything but there was a mist and I knew they were there, watching and waiting, nice ghosts like the ones at World’s End. Am I going off my rocker?’
‘An old house is steeped in people’s stories and feelings. Was Sylvia there?’
She didn’t reply, but bent her head. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because when I go round the rooms I can’t see a single photo of her and I want to take one with me when I leave. I’ve been plucking up courage to ask you and if I don’t say it now I never will. If you like, tell me where I’ll find one and I won’t mention her again, but I loved her too.’
‘I know and I’m sorry, but Florrie took the stuff away and I never asked where, and she’s never said, but there must be some somewhere. Perhaps it’s time I went and looked while you’re here…It’s not something to do on my own.’ She paused, gazing out of the window. ‘Oh my God, look at that! Hares are foraging for food in the open. Things must be bad, get the gun. Quick, there’s supper out there if you’re still a crack shot!’
Ben shot up at her command and made for the gun cupboard.
Later he flung the carcass across the table with satisfaction. ‘That’ll make a change from salt bacon.’
The smell of the jugged hare boiling wafted through the kitchen, raising Mirren’s spirit at the thought of a feast. She would make a batter pudding with rhubarb jam and topped with cream. The wind was howling through the doors and a sad bunch of bedraggled sheep were bleating outside but they were on rations that were fast running out.
The two of them were cocooned inside now that it was dark, and might as well make the most of it. She saved some precious hot water for a strip wash. Tonight she would drop her breeches and put on a thick skirt, take off the old Land Army jumper and find something half decent to honour the poor beast that was cooking up a treat on the range.
It was agony stripping off in the icy blast, but she’d put a hot brick round her undies and Gran’s old paisley shawl. For once she would attempt to look half human, but why the fashion parade now was hard to fathom. It was something about reminding her and, by default, Ben that she was still a woman, not a snowball. She wanted him to remember her as she once was, and not the fierce animal that had brayed at him before he left. She unrolled her hair and let it hang down to her shoulders for a change, looked in the mirror and decided to pin it back up again. No use frightening the man.
‘You’ll do,’ she pouted back at her reflection. How long was it since she had dressed up for anyone? Her legs had not seen daylight for months. Florrie would be impressed by this effort. She was all dolled up like a dog’s dinner, wondering if it was a bit much.
The tantalising smell was wafting upstairs, and Mirren knew that dratted Ben had left the blanket off the door and the door open. Every degree of heat must be saved. The draught was that keen in the hall it would cut them in two. Time to get down and brave the stairs, dart back into the kitchen and see to the dinner.
It was strange eating at night. But there was no time in the day to cook up much. Doreen was the one to see to the meals for everyone. Beasts came first and then, as there were only two of them, they must forage for themselves. Tonight they deserved a reward for all their hard work.
Tomorrow she must scrape out the last of the oats and make up some oatbreads to hang on the pulley to dry. With cheese from the dairy, they wouldn’t starve, and there was always the sack of the National Flour that tasted of floor sweepings, but with some treacle cake mixed in it wasn’t so bad.
Tonight they were eating civilised, like the toffs, in celebration of shooting the hare and for keeping the show on the road. There was nothing more they could do to save their flock. You had to admit when you were beaten, Mirren sighed, and Nature as
always was having the last word.
*
They sat stoking up the fire, full to bursting after the dinner, warmed through with a hot toddy of spiced elderberry cordial.
‘Grandpa Joe was wrong about there being only two heats from wood. There’s a third, don’t you think, the one you get from just looking at the flames and the colours? It cheers your soul,’ Ben said.
‘I never took you for a romancer,’ Mirren laughed. ‘But happen you’re right.’
He was touched she had made an effort to change for supper and he was glad he had put on a clean shirt and his dried-off tweeds.
There was another heat tonight that he didn’t like to share: a spark of interest in her eyes when she looked at him and held his gaze just a little too long for comfort, making him want to look away. It didn’t take much for a spark to ignite into a flame but he drew back at such a thought. What if he got it wrong?
From the first second he opened his eyes and saw Mirren’s worried face, her hands rubbing life back into him, all the old feelings had come rushing back: admiration, concern, gladness that they were still friends, but most of all a stirring in his groin that would never go away when she was close.
They sat side by side, savouring the chickeny meat, the pot herbs and vegetables. He kept darting glances at the flames shooting up into the grate, feeling content for the first time in months.
Is this what marriage was about, going about jobs side by side, sitting in companionship sharing the triumphs and disasters of the day? Only the silence between them wasn’t so comfortable now. There were things to discuss, feelings to sort out and a photograph to find. He meant to keep her to her promise and now was as good a time as any, but she was quick to seize the moment.
‘Shall we play cards?’ she said, jumping up to the sideboard. ‘It’s too early for bed yet.’
‘We could listen to the wireless,’ Ben countered.
‘There’s only a little juice left in the battery and we need to listen out for news. If it gets worse they’ll have to do a drop. They did it before.’ Mirren was back to her usual practical self.
‘There’s a gramophone in the parlour,’ he suggested. ‘We could polish the floor with our feet.’
‘You can’t dance,’ she snapped, laughing. ‘Last time you nearly broke my toes.’
‘I can boogie-woogie. We used to go to the dance hall in York.’
‘Oh, aye? What was her name?’
‘Sheila…Sheila Hayes. Her brother worked with me on the farm. He’s coming to Oz with us.’
‘And Sheila?’
‘She’s a teacher in York, not interested.’
‘You trod on her toes once too often then?’ Mirren was teasing him, seeing his discomfort. Sheila was only ever a friend but he was not going to tell her that. There were other girls he had met in York who’d shown him what’s what in a much earthier way, taught him a thing or two about female anatomy, shown him some tricks, but he wasn’t going to tell her about them either.
‘Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm.’ She sprang up. ‘But only for a few minutes. It’ll be freezing in there and my chilblains are itching.’
Ben made a foray into the big parlour. It was damp and musty, well shuttered. There was a piano in the corner and a wind-up gramophone with a cabinet full of 78s, mostly classical music, quite a bit of Handel. It was Grandpa’s collection, but if Ben recalled right, tucked at the side were some of his Joe Loss Band records and some Anne Shelton tunes. Then he found the country dances and put one on for fun.
‘This takes me back,’ Mirren smiled, holding out her hand to him. ‘Two steps forward, one step back and twirl in the church hall with Miss Bickerstaffe on wet playtimes.’
They pranced around, bumping into furniture, acting silly like children of the storm, kindred spirits shut off from the real world, dancing without a care, making fools of themselves. He could go on dancing like this for ever. He could feel her breath on his cheek, the warmth of her hand in his as they swirled, and the daft dog jumping up to join in. For a few minutes they could forget the terrible havoc being wreaked over the dale and the stranded sheep and the suffering, and everything could be as it once was.
What am I doing, prancing like an idiot? Mirren gasped, out of breath at all their silliness. If Florrie could see the two of them messing about in the best room, letting the dust fly and the dog loose on her sofa, she’d go wild. The feast had been a success and Ben had lapped up her cooking with relish. His beard was frosted with cream and for a second she’d wanted to kiss it off his lips until common sense got the better of her. He was her cousin, for God’s sake.
This was Lanky Ben of the size twelve boots, who even now was careering round like a mad thing. How could she be thinking of him like that? It was when he mentioned his girlfriend in York that she had felt a dart of panic. Why shouldn’t he be courting? Once he got to Australia some farmer’s daughter would soon get her hands on him.
How strange that her body should be coming alive to the notion of romancing with someone she’d known almost all her life? It must be the spicy juice she’d sipped that was making her silly. Who needed whisky to feel so giddy and light?
It was as if suddenly the snow was melting and there was sunshine again and birdsong, and the earth was coming alive after a long sleep.
Ben was handsome in a gruff Yorkshire sort of way, tall, broad and fair. Perhaps he was the one man capable of melting the ice around her heart. Was that why he came back? For so long she’d felt nothing. It was as if she was a block of ice, frozen, unable to move, but now it was warm and things were shifting fast.
When was the last time she’d pranced around this room? She froze. It was when she had chased Sylvia around, playing catch-up, trying to get her dressed in time for the fancy-dress parade…What would her little girl think of all this? Were the ghosts of Cragside shaking their heads, wondering if she had gone mad at last?
‘Enough,’ she said, stepping back and shaking her head. ‘This’s not right–not here, not now.’ She felt cold and shivery and backed away from Ben. ‘You wanted a photo, we’ll have to find one somewhere. Stop here while I search.’
‘I’ll come and help you,’ he said, making for the door.
‘No, go and see to the fire. We don’t want to let it down,’ she snapped. There must be no more romancing. It wasn’t right, not when her baby was lying in the frozen earth all on her own.
She raced up the stairs two at a time. The suitcases were in the top bedroom, the one they used for junk. Florrie wouldn’t have shoved stuff in the damp under a leaking roof. She went through each drawer in the bedrooms, one by one: clothes, shirts, old bed linen. She looked under the bed just in case there was something hidden beside the jerries. Florrie would have put the things in an orderly fashion.
Why, oh why had she never demanded all the stuff back to cherish? How blind she had been. When she was in drink she’d not cared about anything but being blotto. It had taken a mere man to remind her of how cruel she was, to shove her beautiful daughter out of sight so no one could share her.
A passionate energy tore through her limbs as she opened every cupboard, and then she realised that Florrie had taken them with her, all the little baby things, just in case. Perhaps she’d given them to a needy child in the village without her permission.
There was nowhere else to look now. Wardrobes and chests and blanket drawers held no treasures, for now she knew that that was what they were: her treasures so wantonly abandoned.
‘I can’t find anything,’ she sobbed, standing in the doorway, suddenly limp with frustration. ‘There’s nothing left. Florrie took me at my word and destroyed everything, and I’ve only myself to blame. I’m sorry but there’s nothing left.’
Everything went blurred and she was sobbing, and Ben was holding her tight and she buried her head into his chest with relief.
‘We’ll find them. No one destroyed anything. I know Florrie. She’d do what you said but keep them safe for just the day wh
en you were ready to have them back.’
‘I am so tired,’ Mirren cried, going limp, leaning on him for strength.
‘I’ll make us a brew and we’ll sit by the fire and see if there’s anywhere else we could look. Where are those old photo albums, the one with the eclipse in and Grandpa in the Gazette?’
‘Where they always are, on the shelf in the parlour,’ she muttered. It had been the obvious place to look. They took their mugs back into the parlour and scoured the shelves to no avail, stopping every now and then to admire a snapshot of Joe and Adey. It was then she recalled Dad’s tin box that she had brought, with the postcards from the front and Paddy Gilchrist in his uniform, and the one of Mum and Grantley Where had they gone?
Photos were important, especially of their family, she mused. These snaps brought back memories of the eclipse, of Jack as a lad, and Adey and Tom and Florrie. Seeing them all together brought them closer. It wasn’t right to hide Sylvia away. She was as much a part of this old farm as Mirren herself was. As long as she and the others were alive Sylvia would live on in their memory. But where was she now?
Ben was trying to be helpful, searching under the stairs, in all the nooks and crannies, but there was nothing.
‘Better sleep on it, love. You’ll feel fresher in the morning.’
‘In the morning there’ll be no time for searching. I have to find them now. Oh, if only I’d asked. How could I be so stupid?’ she snapped.
‘You weren’t stupid. It just wasn’t the right time and now it is, and I’m glad ’cos it’s cleared the air between us a bit. You can be a stickler once you get an idea in your head, Miriam. You go at it like a cock at a grozzit. It’ll wait.’
‘Sylvia wasn’t a Miriam, though. Jack wouldn’t let me name her that,’ she sighed.
‘She was a Yewell through and through, just like you and all the rest of the Miriams of the Dale. We even dressed her up…Oh, no!’ Ben stopped, seeing her shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry.’