The Tinker's Girl Page 26

  He pulled the dog towards him and sat down on an outcrop of rock. He'd have to wait until they were gone . . .

  Had arrangements gone as planned Richard would have been married the previous June; but fate had arranged otherwise; after a happy day in Newcastle, shopping for the new home, situated just outside Hexham, the two families were in the Rowlands'

  carriage bowling homewards when Henry Rowland fell sideways across his wife's lap with a stroke, as a result of which, four days later, he died.

  Between them, his wife and daughter had kept a continuous vigil at his bedside; and although both were devastated by his loss, it was the condition of the wife that concerned everybody, for she demanded her daughter's presence night and day. Of course, there was now no thought of a June wedding. It must be put off for a year, Henry Rowland's widow insisted. When Richard had dared to suggest that six months might be considered enough mourning time, Evelyn Rowland was aghast, and showed it. She would be unable to go on if her daughter lived all that way from her.

  What Lillian Rowland's true thoughts of the matter were, no-one knew. From her earliest days she had loved their neighbour's son Richard, and just as her mother thought his proposal was long overdue, so did she. And so, when he actually did ask her to be his wife, it had come as something of a surprise, for on his part, there had been no particular show of ardour as he led up to it.

  Nevertheless, the days of her engagement had been die happiest she had known in her life, for he had been most caring of her, and because of it the days had flown.

  In these present conditions, the waiting seemed interminable, but just bearable; that is, until her mother suggested that they could be married in February, providing they made their home with her, permanently.

  It was this suggestion that had driven Richard to Paris.

  As for Lillian herself, her one desire, apart from actually being married to Richard, was to get away from the stifling atmosphere of a house of prayer, as her mother's had become.

  From his viewpoint, Bruce thought that should those two down there get their heads together, he would certainly tell her something when he had her alone: he would warn her she was playing with fire; but he would not raise her foolish hopes by telling her that Richard was going through a very tense period and that he was now in two minds about the marriage, a doubt engendered mostly, he thought, by Mrs Rowland's determination to keep her hold on her daughter.

  Becoming impatient, he continued his way down to the farm, circumventing the pond and the pair still standing there, seemingly engrossed . . .

  At the farm, he found Roy Stevens talking to Max, and, straightaway, Bruce asked him, 'Did you not see Jinnie on the way up?'

  'I didn't come up that way, Bruce. I've been over to Timpson's.' He thumbed in the opposite direction.

  'And you walked all that way?'

  'No; the nag's round the corner. But I thought I'd drop in and tell you he's got an old cow that could give you a start. She's still giving a good measure each day, and he's wanting space, as he's starting up a new herd. I told him you were on the look-out for something more than reasonable' - he stressed the last words - 'and he said you should pop over.'

  'Oh; thanks, Roy. That was good of you. Well, we've got the space and Jinnie's picked up enough knowledge from your mother and Bessie Singleton to make butter in her sleep but, as they say, the theory's all right, it's the practical that gives you change for a shilling.'

  'Yes, you're right there; but she'll make butter, all right. I wanted to have a word with her.'

  Bruce paused for a moment before he said, 'She should be here shortly; I saw her coming along the top road.' He didn't say by whom she was accompanied and they both laughed now as Max said, 'I'll need white coat now; always have white coat when milking.'

  'And you'll need the white cap and boots to go with it,' put in Roy; 'you can't milk a cow properly unless you're wearing the proper clothes!'

  The joviality ceased as Jinnie appeared from behind the barn. She was alone.

  No-one who remembered the girl of fourteen arriving at the farm in 1871 would connect her with this tall, slim young woman. Although not yet sixteen, she would pass any day for twenty. Her face was beautiful, her skin perfect; these spoke of youth, but it was the eyes that suggested her maturity. Her hands, too, were smoother. As the rough work was now mostly carried out by Max, Jinnie's main employment, in which she showed great pride, was cooking the meals and taking care of the inside of the house.

  'Hello, Roy,' she said; 'I've just been down to your place.' Her voice too had changed, having lost its high, sharp twang. Now it was rather low-pitched and somewhat mellow, as if she had been taking elocution lessons.

  'How did I miss you?' There was a touch of anxiety in the question.

  'Oh, I've been over to Timpson's, and I'll likely get it in the neck when I get home. You can never get away from there, you know, once you get in their kitchen: I'm stuffed up to here' - he patted under his chin - 'with cake and home-made wine, and I bet that'll kill me tomorrow, if not before, because it hadn't been standing long enough, it was too fresh. Anyway, I must get back now.' He moved from one foot to the other with his eyes still on her, then added, 'I'll go and get my nag.'

  As the young fellow disappeared around the barn, Bruce said softly to Jinnie, 'Go and have a word with him.'

  'I've had a word.'

  'Look!'

  'Oh, all right.' She swung about and walked away in an obviously disgruntled manner.

  'Nice fellow . . . Roy.' - Max nodded in Jinnie's direction - 'What d'you say?'

  'What d'you mean, what do I say?'

  'Just that. It would be good thing. He's only son; he have farm of his own some day.'

  Bruce sighed, a long slow sigh; then he nodded and said, 'Yes; yes, you're right.'

  'Know I am. Yes; know I am.'

  'Yes, of course you would be,' Bruce almost shouted.

  'You're nearly always bloody well right, at least you think so, where she's concerned.'

  Max had not moved an inch while looking down into the eyes of the man he thought of as his best friend and quietly he said, 'No. But I know her.' Then his tone taking on a more serious note still, he added slowly,

  'Best for everybody's sake, Roy is. Everybody's. You know what I mean?'

  Bruce knew very well what he was suggesting, but he said, 'No, I don't know what you mean; and I don't want to hear what you mean. Sh! Here they come.'

  Roy was leading his horse and Jinnie was walking by his side, but they weren't talking, and it wasn't until they were abreast of Bruce and Max that Roy said, 'I'm trying once more to get her to come to the dance, but she keeps saying she can't dance. Well, she'll never learn if she doesn't come, will she? And anyway, there'll be no experts there.'

  'Why don't you go?' Bruce was looking straight at Jinnie now, and she answered promptly, saying,' Because I can't dance. And anyway, I have no--' she did not say,

  'desire to go to the dance or anywhere else with Roy,'

  but added lamely, 'I have no suitable shoes.'

  'We get you suitable shoes.'

  'You'll do nothing of the sort, Max. Anyway--' looking at Roy now, she smiled, saying, 'we'll see. We'll see. I'll go if he goes,' and she pointed to Bruce, who said immediately, 'Very well, yes. It's a long time since I've been to a dance. Yes, I'll come too. So it's a deal, Roy: we'll be at the barn-dance.'

  'Good. Good.' Roy was smiling broadly now. Then turning to Jinnie, he said, 'But I'll be seeing you before that; 'tis not for another month or so.'

  'Yes, yes,' she said briefly.

  Roy mounted his horse and with a' Tara! then,' trotted off leaving the three of them standing watching him for a moment, until Bruce turned to Jinnie saying, 'Why don't you go to a dance with him; he's asked you often enough? You go into the farm, you have tea there, you're always chatting with his mother.'

  Jinnie's face seemed to stretch: her mouth opened wide and she cried, 'Oh you! You're a dumb-head.

&
nbsp; And you an' all!' she included Max in her tirade. 'Yes, I have a cup of tea with his mother and I let her talk and talk and talk because she likes talking, and I take down the eggs and I get the butter in exchange, and the cheese and so on, and sometimes he walks back with me and carries the basket. Well, as far as I can see that's enough, because I just need to go alone with him to a barn-dance and what kind of construction would be put on it then, eh? I'd be courting, because that's the term, isn't it, around here? They walk out up and down the lanes on a Sunday, and then they take them to a barn-dance and their death warrant's signed, or whatever you like to call the marriage licence. The reason why I've refused Roy's offers is because I don't want to give him the wrong idea. He's a nice fellow; I like him. I like to be in the kitchen with his father and mother and listen to all the talk being flung back and forth, but that's as far as I go. Do you understand, both of you? I am not for courting Roy Stevens!'

  The two men now exchanged glances, and the expressions on their faces were similar. One retort from them could have been of laughter, another could have been of amazement, for here was a young woman definitely speaking her mind; but neither of them was given a chance to express an opinion, for she flung around and went into the cottage, banging die door shut behind her.

  With the sound of the door being banged there arose in Bruce a feeling of righteous anger. What was she, after all, he asked himself, but a girl? She wasn't even sixteen, yet she was already talking like a fully fledged woman, and a knowledgeable one at that. If she had taken up with Roy he would have had to bear it, but as she didn't want to take up with Roy she was still open to anybody, and that particular anybody was a man out of her class. She must put him out of her mind. No matter what difficulties he was now experiencing, he would eventually marry, and it certainly wouldn't be her.

  He almost bounced into the kitchen, and he too banged the door after him.

  She was standing at the far side of the table. She had taken off her light sun bonnet and was now fastening an apron around her blue print dress, and without warning he began pelting words at her: 'What d'you mean, miss, by acting so big and grand you can turn your nose up at a good fellow like Roy, while at the same time walking secretly with a man who you know is going to be married and can never, never, never be anything to you?'

  His teeth were clenched as he glared at her and the fact that her face was now almost devoid of colour did not stop him from going on: 'And what's more, you've only got to be seen walking with that certain gentleman more than once and your name will be mud; and so much so that Roy wouldn't look the side you were on if he knew of it. And who d'you think you are, miss, to take up this stand? You came from the workhouse; you came into this very house a little whippersnapper of a girl. Granted you worked, but let me tell you something: if I was anybody but the man that I am you'd either be gone or you'd now be in the family way, or you'd be married to me. Now, Miss High and Mighty, think on those things; and if you should want to leave here the door's open. In that case I could have a wife tomorrow; but as long as you are here and in this position I cannot take one: there would be no room for two of you. Now what d'you think about that, eh? I'll repeat: as long as you are here I cannot take a wife, because she wouldn't put up with you in this house; and there are two girls in the village just waiting for me to speak, and neither of them acts like a slut; they know their place.' He stopped, gasping for breath as if he had been running, while he continued to glare into her wide-eyed, stricken face. Then flinging his body around, he stamped out and almost collided with Max, who muttered, 'H-hold on a minute. Steady on.

  You hit her hard . . . very hard. But I know . . . Mister Richard not g-g-good for her. Come on.' He now put an arm around Brace's shoulders and led him towards the barn.

  The emotion in Bruce that was now replacing his anger warned him with a touch of shame that, like any woman, he was near to crying.

  In the barn, Bruce sat with his head in his hands; that was until Max said, 'All bad things come together.

  P-P-Peter called; says, Hal's boat in. L-l-lying outside last night.'

  Jerking up his head, Bruce exclaimed, 'It's in! The Admiral?'

  'Yes. So he'll be up soon. You must expect. I do.

  And if he stays we go, her and me. I'm sorry. Very . . .

  very.'

  Bruce drew himself up from the box. That's all he needed to know: Hal was back. Life would never be the same again anyway: as Max had said, she would go and he would go. Well, in that case, if something wasn't worked out between them, he could see himself leaving, too. And after all, that wouldn't be such a bad job.

  Max was saying something, quoting from the Bible again: The thing they feared had come upon them.

  And indeed it had; what with one thing and another had come with a vengeance.

  Four days had passed and Hal had not showed up. Nor had there been any talk of him being in the village, although his lady love's husband was at sea again.

  The harmony had gone from the long room in the farmhouse. Jinnie cooked but she did not sit down to have her meal with Bruce and Max. She cleaned the place and baked and washed as usual; and twice she had had further straight words with Bruce. On the first occasion she had said, 'I'll be seeing Miss Caplin next Sunday and will arrange about getting another place,'

  and had added tartly, 'so there'll be no obstructions to your courting.' She had stressed the last words; but he had given her no reply whatever; he'd just looked at her sadly, because all he wanted to say was, I'm sorry I said what I did, but it's because I love you. Don't you see? But as those words were impossible to utter he had turned and left the room. Next time she spoke to him had been very much to the point: 'I read in a newspaper in Mrs Stevens's kitchen that there is a position vacant on a farm near Haydon Bridge. I think I am due for a day off. I would like to go on Thursday and see about it, if that's all right with you,' to which all he could find to say, and with his head shaking in desperation, was, 'Oh! Jinnie. Jinnie.'

  It was around nine o'clock in the morning, just as he was making for the hills, that he was hailed from the coach road by Geoff Taggart, who took the letters around. The man was shouting, 'One here for you, Bruce; a letter!' He was waving it, and when Bruce reached him the man handed him the envelope, saying,

  'You don't often get post; and that looks a business one an' all. Name at the top; look.' He pointed.

  All that Bruce said was, 'Thanks, Geoff. Thanks,' then turned slowly away and walked back towards the farm; at least, until he was well out of sight of the postman, who must have been disappointed at not learning the contents of this important-looking letter.

  Bruce now stood and slowly put his finger under the flap of the envelope. It was tough paper and he had to press hard to get it open. Then, from the envelope he withdrew a piece of thick writing paper, and his eyes narrowed as he attempted to read the printed words.

  Over the past year he had learned to read and write, but found the reading much harder than the writing. And slowly he made out the name of the firm of solicitors at the top of the letter; then he read:

  Dear Sir, Having ascertained that the parents of Harold Shaleman are now deceased and that you are the only surviving member of that family, we are pleased to inform you that if you will call at the address above at your convenience, you may hear something to your advantage.

  Three times he went over the words before, calling Flossie to him, he made his way back to the farm and, going straight to the hen crees where he knew Max would be working, he called to him, 'Here a minute!'

  and when Max had come to the wire gate he handed him the letter, saying, 'Read that.'

  Max could read well, although he couldn't transcribe on to paper what he was reading, but the joyous sound he made was evident that he understood every word and implication of the letter. ' Something happened to Hal.

  You go right in today?'

  'Yes; of course.'

  'Come on; sh-show it to Jinnie.'

  'No. No.'
r />   'But y-yes. Come on.'

  After pushing a hen back into the wired enclosure, Max caught hold of Bruce's arm and hurried him along the front of the buildings to the cottage door, and when Bruce was again for pulling back, Max opened the door and almost thrust him inside; and there, staring at the startled face of Jinnie, he said, 'R-r-read that. Read.'

  Slowly Jinnie took the letter from him, and after she had read it she looked up at Bruce and said, 'You've read it?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm glad.' She nodded at him. 'It could mean that he's . . .'

  'Dead.' Max almost spat out the word; then he repeated, 'Yes, dead. Good thing. Bruce must go into N-N-Newcastle now. Make cup of tea, eh?' His smile was almost beguiling as he gazed down at her: it was begging her to be her old self, and for a moment she was, as she said, 'Yes; yes, I'll make some tea.'

  'I'd better go and wash and change,' Bruce said as he hurried out. And when the door had closed on him Max went up to Jinnie and in a quiet voice he said, 'Very sad.

  Very sad, 'cos he cares for you. Yes, yes, he does. Love you, but you never love him that way.'

  She drooped her head, saying now, 'Oh, Max, I...

  I feel dreadful. Dreadful. I'm sorry; I ... I can't think of him in that way. As you are my father, he is my brother.'

  'Very loving brother. You . . . we both owe him lots.'

  'Yes, I know. I know, and I'm sorry for what I said, too; but it's done now.'

  'Needn't be. Needn't be. Now Hal gone.' He put up his hand as if calling on the gods and looked up towards the ceiling as he said, 'Praise be the L-Lord if it be so.'

  It was one of those times when she might have laughed outright, but instead all she said was, 'I... I can't help how my heart feels, Max. I've tried. Oh yes, I've tried again and again, telling myself I'm stupid, silly; but it won't listen to me. I know ... I know more than anybody, you or him, that nothing can come of it.'

  'Oh, my dear. My dear.' He drew her towards him and pressed her head against his shoulder and patted her hair as he said, 'Heart awful thing; c-can't rule it. My heart ache one time, f-f-for children I would never never have, then God gave me you. I was man of twenty-seven when I first saw you.' Then pressing her from him, but still holding her, he smiled widely as he added, 'You were k-k-kicking the labour mistress.