The Blacksmith's Girl

by Rosemary Aitken

  A visitor? At this hour? Whoever could it be? The policeman about that business at the factory perhaps? Vee felt her blood run cold but Pru was unconcerned, giving her a gleeful glance and sneaking across to peer down through the banisters. Vee followed slowly, though she too was careful not to make a sound.

  Pa had already opened the kitchen door by now and was standing on the step, while beyond him a dark figure could be seen, holding a lighted lantern high. ‘Why, Brother Tull!’ Pa sounded thunderstruck. ‘What’s happened? I suppose you’d best come in.’ He stood back to admit the visitor.

  Pru glanced at Verity in the candle-light, raising astonished eyebrows and pulling an exaggerated face. But it was Ephraim Tull, indeed, dressed up in his going-to-chapel clothes and his cheeks red-raw in the lamplight where he’d been shaving them.

  ‘Sister Tregorran! Brother Toby! And Miss Patience too.’ Ephraim had politely taken off his hat, but he kept on his coat as he came inside.

  He put his lantern down and went across to stand on the only vacant bit of floor, beside the window. He did not take the proffered chair, but went on standing there, facing the family who were huddled by the fire. He was not in full view of the landing any more, but Vee could still glimpse the bottom half of him – a pair of big hands fiddling with his hat, which he held across his stomach like a shield.

  There was an awkward silence, then Pa said again, ‘Can we help you, Brother?’

  Ephraim cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been on my knees for hours, Sister, thinking what you said, and I b’lieve you might be right. I might be guilty of spiritual pride.’

  Pa said, ‘What’s all this, then …?’ But Ma interrupted him.

  ‘Not now, Toby. Let Brother Ephraim speak. It’s true, I went to see him earlier today. I’ll explain why later, when we are alone. And Constance, I think you should go upstairs. Tell the other two to stop up there as well. This is private business between Patience and ourselves.’

  There was a shuffle and a flounce as Constance grabbed a candle from the shelf, lit it from the fire and did as she was told. There was almost a commotion when she reached the top and saw her sisters there, hiding in the shadows, but Pru held a finger to her lips and made room for Constance to come and watch as well.

  There was a moment’s silence downstairs, until Pru opened and loudly shut the bedroom door, then Ma said, ‘There, she’s gone to bed. You were saying, Brother Tull?’

  ‘T’isn’t all the girl’s fault, rightly, and – if she’s penitent – I could see my way to doing as you ask. Did not Judah acknowledge Tamar when she was defiled, and from her was born the house of David?’

  There was the noise of Pa rising sharply to his feet. ‘What is this, Ephraim?’

  Ephraim raised a hand. ‘I turned to Jeremiah, and what did I find? “Only acknowledge thine iniquity, that thou hast transgressed against Lord they God and scattered thy ways to the strangers under every tree.” Well, it was clear who that applied to – but the very next verse says, “I will give you pastors according to my heart, which shall feed you with knowledge.” Now, there is a guidance text if ever one was found. I am to be the means of her redemption by study of the word, if she acknowledges her sin. If the Lord has laid this on me, I must follow his command. So, Brother and Sister Tregorran, I have come to offer for Miss Patience after all.’

  Then Mother’s voice, shaky with emotion. ‘Oh, thanks be to God! Patience what have you to say to Brother Tull?’

  Pa said, ‘Will someone please tell me what this is about?’

  But Patience – unbelievably – was saying, ‘Yes, I will. Brother Tull, I accept your offer!’ though she sounded close to tears – more like someone ordering a shroud.

  Pa was just asking sharply, ‘Patience, are you sure?’ as Constance dropped the candle in astonishment. Mercifully it blew out as it fell, but the candlestick escaped and rolled noisily away.

  There was the sound of a stool being pushed back on the flags and Ma came storming to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Here, what’s going on up there? Don’t pretend there’s no one there. I hope you’ve not been listening to what’s none of your concern. You’re supposed to be in bed.’

  It was no good hiding in the shadows now. The candlestick had given the game away. Pru, as usual, was the first to act. ‘It’s just me and Verity,’ she said, taking a step forward and moving into sight. ‘Wondering should we bring the dirty water downstairs? But Constance said there was a visitor and we wouldn’t want to come down in our nightdresses.’

  Vee looked at her in wonder. Pru could think so quickly in a scrape! And what she said was reasonable enough – they did bring down the water from the wash-stand every night, but generally only after they had washed in it themselves!

  Ma, though, seemed less than totally convinced. ‘Never mind the water – you leave it where it is. Patience can see to it when we have finished here. And you two get to bed, you hear me! Straight away. Or I’ll come up and tan your hides myself!’

  So after that there was nothing they could do but creep away to bed, Vee lay for a long time, straining every nerve, trying to hear what was being said downstairs, but she couldn’t make it out – though Pa seemed pretty furious when the visitor had gone. (Vee could tell when that was, from the backdoor squeaking closed.)

  It was a long, long time before Patience came upstairs, and even when she’d done so Verity could not sleep. So Pattie was going to marry Ephraim after all. Disappointed in her other friend perhaps. And Pa did not seem pleased. Did that mean that he’d had someone else in mind? Was there a Strict Adherent chapel in Penzance where he’d found a likely beau? Or had Pa come to realize – at last – that there weren’t sufficient Strict Adherents to go round, and that if his other daughters were to marry anyone, they might have to look for husbands somewhere else?

  Husbands like Ned Chegwidden, possibly? She was still thinking about that when the dawn began to break and it was time to rise and start another day.

  Three

  Ned Chegwidden was lying on a stretcher in a train. Half an hour ago, roused to get in the motor ambulance at dawn, he’d been excited at the prospect of being transferred back to a Base Hospital at last. However, he was still weaker than he’d realized, and simply getting here had almost jolted him to death. The rest of the journey promised to be misery, despite the neat bunks, clean sheets and pretty Queen Alexandra nurse who watched as he was transferred to his berth. (Quite a change from the straw-filled cattle trucks he’d heard about from men who had been wounded earlier in the war.)

  There were other bunks above him and a lot more behind, and more men were being stretchered in to fill the tiers across the aisle, so there was quite a hubbub in the carriage where he lay. It was hot – they had obviously tried to warm the train – and there was the usual unpleasant smell of wounded men, but at least there was a moment where he could just lie still and rest. Two of the men were calling to each other from their upper bunks – cheerful optimistic chatter – but he wished that they would stop. He was glad when a stretcher-bearer stopped and chided them. ‘No shouting in the ward!’

  He could understand their cheerfulness, of course. He had been itching for this moment for at least a month himself. You would think that a Clearing station would be exactly that, clearing the casualties on within a day or two, but it hadn’t proved that way. After the operations on his leg – there had been several, including ‘irrigation’ of the wound – he’d spent what seemed for ever in the evacuation tent, waiting to gain strength enough to be moved on anywhere.

  Too fast a move would kill him they’d decreed to his dismay, and they were no doubt right – once or twice he had not expected to pull through. Much of the first few weeks had been a kind of fevered dream, in which he drifted in and out of agony. Who would have imagined that a tiny scratch could cause such pain or result in the huge wound that now covered most of what had been his lower thigh?

  ‘You just be thankful, soldier,’ the medical orderly had said, quite recently,
when changing the blood-soaked bandages had made Ned shout aloud. ‘A good sign, this is. When the cavity bleeds all over we know that it is clean. It’ll leave a nasty hole for ever, I expect, but it’s digging out the dirt and damaged flesh that saved your life – if this had happened a year or so ago, you’d have been very lucky to survive. They didn’t understand these problems then. They’d have put a dressing on it, and left it as it was – and the gas gangrene would have killed you within a day or two. So hold still while I bind it up so it can heal.’

  So Ned bit his lip and managed to endure it without crying out again, though something – was it iodine? – stung the raw flesh damnably. But the orderly was right. Since that day his health had gradually improved, there were no more fevered nightmares and he’d begun to eat (mostly beef tea, which he did not like, but which seemed to do him good) and he could feel himself getting a little stronger every day. Though not as strong as he had thought, apparently.

  ‘There you are then, soldier!’ The pretty nurse cut across his thoughts. She was holding out a mug of something warm and sweet and helped him sit forward so he could sip from it. ‘We’ll soon be on our way. Just waiting for our escort … Ah, and here they are!’ She broke off as a group of mounted military policemen drew up outside the open door. ‘I’d better go and tell them that everyone’s aboard – we’ve already checked the lists. Then we should be off.’ She gave him a quick smile and disappeared, closing the carriage door behind her as she went.

  Ned leant back on his pillow. He was very tired and only dimly registered the voices from elsewhere. But he’d barely shut his eyes before he heard the door again, and the nurse’s voice was saying. ‘He’s in here, officer. Private Chegwidden!’ She came and shook his shoulder with a gentle hand. ‘Someone here to see you.’

  Ned blinked himself awake. She was smiling down on him, and behind her was a redcap standing at the door, brandishing a document and looking quizzical.

  ‘Private Chegwidden? I saw the name on the list and thought it might be you. You’re from Rosvene, aren’t you?’ The officer climbed into the carriage and came across to him. ‘You don’t know who I am?’

  Ned shook a weary head. The face was familiar somehow, but he was too tired to work at placing it.

  ‘It’s Alex Dawes. Don’t you remember me? I used to see you sometimes at Rosvene. Even once caught you scrumping apples, I recall.’

  ‘My dear life!’ Feeble or not, Ned raised himself an inch or two on one elbow. ‘That policeman chap! Of course! Heard from my girl that you were in the forces, sir. Well, I’ll be blowed! PC Dawes, who’d have thought of seeing you!’

  ‘It’s Major Dawes, these days,’ the man said, with a smile. ‘But I’m glad to have made contact with you, young Chegwidden. You get well, you hear? Bit of an ordeal this journey back to the Base hospital, but it’s the first step back to Blighty, eh? Think of it that way. And when you get there, you go tell my wife that you’ve seen me, and I’m well and thinking about her. Will you do that for me?’

  Ned managed a wan smile. ‘A pleasure, Major.’

  ‘Good man,’ Dawes said, and closed the door again.

  Back to Blighty. Talking to Mrs Dawes and Verity. Really home! Somehow, till that moment, it had not seemed possible. Ned leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes again. Whether it was the effort of the journey to the train, or whether there had been something in the tea, he never knew, but within a moment he was fast asleep – and not even the shell that rocked the train awakened him, though it wrecked the next carriage (killing several men) and caused a huge delay.

  So Ned didn’t know – until a long time afterwards – how close he’d come that day to being blown to bits.

  Will Jeffries was feeling pleasantly important. This business at the factory was serious, of course – those supplies had been intended for the troops. The Quartermaster General for War Supplies took a dim view of crimes surrounding food, so when the culprit was apprehended he could expect to be hauled off to London for a public trial – and – though not even Will could pretend this was a capital offence – the miscreant could expect a hefty prison sentence and an even heftier fine, to say nothing of a mauling by the national newspapers. ‘A deplorable business,’ as Will had said to Mr Grey.

  But there was something secretly satisfying, all the same, in doing something real to assist the war effort. There had been lots of ‘special directives’ from above, of course, and Will had dutifully done the rounds, making a list of all homing pigeons in the area, ensuring that licensed premises were shut by nine, or that the ‘no-treating’ law was properly observed and people were not buying one another drinks. He’d even visited the local farms to check that no-one was feeding precious bread to animals or fowls – though for the life of him he could not really see the sense in that; the creatures created food for people in the end!

  But there’d been no opportunity here for the more exciting tasks – like stopping and questioning suspicious strangers – and although the local station had a modern telephone, there’d not been a single aircraft – marked or otherwise – flying overhead for him to report to the Admiralty, though he kept the telephone number written in his notebook, just in case.

  But here at last was a significant affair and he had actually been called on to investigate. It was distinctly gratifying – and it was pleasant, too, to dispense advice about what kind of security measures should be put in place. He almost wished that Ivy was still here so that he could tell her all about it – modestly of course.

  Though, perhaps not! He could almost hear her voice. ‘Hardly a crime of national importance – a few hundredweight of tinned butter, milk and cheese!’ And she would have sniffed and gone on knitting those horrid lumpy socks, her four steel needles flashing as she worked.

  But it was a matter of local consequence, he told the ghost of Ivy inwardly. Even the Borough Chief of Police had been involved, responding to the Sergeant’s telephoned report with a special phone call of his own, asking to be kept informed about developments. ‘Good man, Jeffries. Keep up the sterling work!’

  ‘Don’t worry sir, we’ll catch him! I’ll go down there first thing,’ Will had answered, almost bursting his tunic buttons with pride.

  And of course, he’d done so – though in truth, there was not a great deal more that he could do. He’d questioned everyone, with no results at all, and his system of gate-checks and double signatures had been introduced at once, but – though it would doubtless put a stop to future theft – it had slowed down deliveries so much that the waiting carters were beginning to complain.

  Perhaps that was why, after a swift visit to the dairy earlier, he had decided to leave matters there to Mr Grey, and allowed his bike to carry him up Rosvene Hill. He was not conscious of having such a plan, but somehow he reached Forge Cottage without really meaning to. He dismounted by the gate, left the bike against the tree, and let himself into the yard to tap the kitchen door. When there was no reply he pushed it shyly open. ‘Anybody home?’

  But if he’d been hoping for a cup of tea and a sympathetic chat, he was disappointed.

  Martha was in the kitchen with her eldest girl, surrounded by piles of damped washing. Sheets and petticoats drooped from every stick of furniture, while a box-iron heater stood hissing on the brandise at the fire. Both women whirled around as he appeared.

  ‘Sergeant Jeffries. Well, as I’m alive! You gave me quite a turn!’ Martha looked flustered, perhaps because she was surrounded by female undergarments. She gathered an armful, of various sizes, into a rough heap and thrust them at her daughter as she said, ‘Please excuse the mess. I’m all three scats behind here, like Jan Trelawny’s band. Pattie, you take these things upstairs to sort, and help Constance keep an eye on Faith!’

  Patience took the clothes and scuttled off, seeming quite relieved if anything. She was pale and sickly-looking and her eyes were swollen red. Under the weather by the look of it – presumably the reason why she was not at work. Though Will was quite
surprised. Hardworking people, like this Strict Adherent family, didn’t usually stay home for common ailments – not without they were too ill to stand. Perhaps Pattie’s malady was more serious than it looked. He was about to ask Martha, but she cut across his thoughts.

  ‘But what brings you here, Will Jeffries, any case? Not Verity again? Is there some sort of problem?’ She didn’t meet his eyes, but turned away and spread a scorched sheet across the table as she spoke.

  He shook his head. ‘Only that business down the factory. I’m sure your girls have said.’

  ‘What business?’ For a moment Martha sounded sharp. Then she nodded vaguely. ‘Oh, I know what you mean. Pru mentioned it last night. Goods going missing or something, wasn’t it?’ She did not sound especially impressed.

  ‘Goods intended for the army.’ He found he was using his most serious policeman’s voice. ‘Acting against the interests of His Majesty’s forces, overseas. In breach of DORA, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  That caught her attention. Even Martha must have heard of DORA – the Defence of the Realm Act.

  ‘Dear Lord alive! Toby won’t be happy when he hears! Won’t want our girls going down there, to mix with criminals. And it would be, wouldn’t it? Pru said you thought it was a member of the staff!’

  ‘We will catch him Martha,’ Will said soberly. ‘Whoever it is won’t have the chance to contaminate your girls.’

  ‘Sounds as if you already have suspicions, who it is?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Will said ruefully. ‘There are several lines of enquiry I’m intending to pursue,’ he added – trying to sound confident, but privately wondering what steps he could possibly take next. ‘And when this fellow’s caught he’ll have an awful time in clink. Even jailbirds don’t like people who work against the interests of the war.’

  ‘Be a feather in your cap, if you do capture him,’ she said, picking up the heater with a pair of tongs and slipping it into the iron as she spoke. ‘There’s not that many serious incidents round here. Course, there was that cart accident last year, when that poor soul was killed, and that rick fire over to Nanclere. That was a five days wonder at the time, when people thought that somebody had done it purposely, but it turned out it was only lightning!’