THE Tinker's Girl

Catherine Cookson



A reluctant inmate of a northern workhouse, was
offered a position as a maid-of-all-work by the
Shalemans at Toilet's Ridge Farm, a bleakly
isolated farm near the Cumbrian border.
Before long, however, she was to discover she had exchanged one kind of drudgery for another,
for the Shalemans - Rose, invalid wife of Pug and mother to Bruce and Hal - demanded much of her. If it had not been for Bruce's willingness; to defend her against the brutish Pug and Hal, she
would have gladly returned to the workhouse.
Then she became acquainted with Richard Baxton-Powell, but eventually his over-familiarity
made her realise that despite everything her
future would owe more to the Shalemans than
any outside influence.
-- The Tinker's Girl -- is the life and fortunes of a spirited girl
who lived in an age when it was customary for
servants to know their place. With its brilliant
evocation of the period, it will be hugely enjoyed by Catherine Cookson's millions of readers throughout the world.


CORGI BOOKS


THE TINKER'S GIRL
A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14038 4

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 1994
Corgi edition published 1995

Copyright © Catherine Cookson 1995
this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78
of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

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in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd,
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and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (NZ) Ltd,
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Reproduced, printed and bound in Great Britain by
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Jinnie Howlett stood at the end of the long table in the sorting room of the workhouse. This particular room was known as the 'dead store', because in its cubbyhole-lined walls it held the remnants of clothing and articles belonging to inmates past and present, mostly past, because clothing worn by new admissions was wry often in such a condition that it practically walked unaided to the incinerator.
The room had a peculiar smell, one that Jinnie had
always termed a hot gingery smell, for the atmosphere would at times cause her to sneeze.
If there was any part of this workhouse she liked it Was this room, not for itself, but because in it she often found herself alone with Miss Caplin.
Miss Caplin was a seamstress, but she had also part-time duties, such as taking in admissions and seeing that they were stripped and bathed, then garbed
in the uniform of the workhouse. In these duties, as in the sewing-room, she chose for a helper, as often as possible, young Jinnie Howlett.
Miss Caplin straightened Jinnie's straw hat, then gave a little tug at the collar of the long grey coat that came to the top of the child's boots. And quietly, she said, 'Now, Jinnie, you will remember all I've told you, because I cannot tell you often enough that if you are brought lack from this, your second place, you'll be kept in here for years,' and she moved her head from side to
8


side before repeating, 'years. Just think of Phoebe now,
won't you?'
'Oh, yes, Miss Caplin. Oh yes, I'll think of Phoebe,
poor Phoebe. But it was the truth I told you about that
other place, Miss Caplin. I swear to God it was. He
... he crawled into my cupboard under the stairs and
I screamed and . . .'
'Yes, yes, I believe you, every word you said. But as
I've warned you, should that happen again, leave your
mark on him, tear at his face and scream your hardest.
Now, as I've told you, I know of the farm you are bound
for. I say I know of it, although I haven't seen it. But
being up in the hills as it is, it will likely be a very raw
place, in many ways. You have glimpsed the farmer. He
looked a very odd man to me. But then you cannot go by
outward appearances. I imagined he was rather stupid;
not so his son; but they are men and you must always
be aware of men. You understand that, Jinnie?'
'Oh yes, Miss Caplin, I do.'
'And you know why you are going: the wife at the
farm is sickly and cannot see to meals and household
chores. Well,' - she now gave a little smile - 'you'll be
very good at household chores, but as for meals, I think
it will be a matter of learning as you go along.'
'Well, at that other place I made breakfast, Miss
Caplin, and I cooked bacon and made porridge.' Then
after a pause Jinnie shook her head, and added, 'I'll
never understand why she lied so, when she was so
kind at first and showed me how to do things, such
as cook, then to say that I had . . .'
'Yes. Yes.' Miss Caplin again straightened the young
girl's hat, saying, 'Put it at the back of your mind. What
you must remember now is what I have told you about
my aunts. You will come across their cottage some way
after you have passed through Whitfield. Max will point
it out to you, as it lies in a tree-covered hollow and
cannot be seen from the road. But, as I've told you, if
anything untoward should happen again and you fear
they are going to send you back--' she now wagged
her finger as she emphasised, 'but not unless, mind,
you must do your best to get away and make for the
cottage, and my aunts will look after you until I come.
But, of course, as you know, I can only visit them on
my leave day, once a month. So you might have to bide
there, in hiding, for some time. Last week when I told
them of the position you are taking up in the Shaleman
farm' - she omitted to say that they had held their hands
up in horror- 'they said they hoped you would be strong
enough to tackle some farm work. Still, I understand it
is a small farm, mostly sheep.'
In the ensuing silence Jinnie sniffed and said,' Oh, I'm
goin' to miss you, Miss Caplin. Nobody's been good
to me like you have.' And Jane Caplin had the urge
to thrust out her arms and draw the slim figure into a
tight embrace, for there were times when she saw this
child as the daughter she had been deprived of through
the machinations of a loving father.
What she did now was to cup the thin face in her
hands and say softly, 'I'm going to miss you, too, Jinnie.
But we'll keep in touch through my aunts. As I've told
you before though, don't mention their name to your
new master. It is better that you pretend you know
no-one.'
Jinnie was nodding her head and was about to speak
again when the door was thrust open. A tall, bony
woman stood there, and in a tone that matched her
expression, she said, 'Matron's waiting for the tinker's
girl.'
Jinnie did not immediately move towards the labour
mistress, but she stared at her for a moment before
turning again to Miss Caplin and saying, 'Goodbye,
Miss Caplin. Goodbye.'
'Goodbye, Jinnie.'
'Put a move on, girl!'
Jinnie forced herself to cast her eyes downwards as
she passed the woman, for if she hated anybody in
this workhouse, it was the labour mistress who had,
from the day she first entered the place at the age of
seven, always referred to her as the tinker's girl. She
still held a vivid memory of this woman ordering two
inmates to carry her father from the cart, and into what
was called the hospital block. And when she wouldn't
let her follow them, she had screamed and fought her,
only to be silenced by repeated slaps across the face.
And although the guardians had sold the cart, the old
horse and what remained of the merchandise, instead of
giving her father a decent funeral, he was buried as
a pauper. She had been told that what money had
come from the sale of his belongings would be needed
to support her until she was able to work for herself.
And, two years before she had been sent out to work
for herself, only to be returned in disgrace.
Followed by the labour mistress, she walked across
the yard and into the main hall and approached the
matron, who was standing behind a table on which was
an assortment of clothes. When she neared it she dipped
her knee and waited. But the matron did not speak until
the labour mistress was by her side. And it was to her
she turned and said, 'Count them out,' while pointing
towards the articles of clothing on the table.
'Two calico nightgowns, one shift, one petticoat;
one print dress, one pair of calico bloomers, two
white aprons, one coarse; one habit shirt; one pair of
stockings, one pair of working clogs, six body pads.'
On touching the last item, the labour mistress spreadout the six pieces of calico to the ends of which were
attached lengths of tape. And lastly she reached out and
brought forward a small Bible.
Now the matron spoke to her, saying, 'You're very
lucky to be given a second chance, you know that?'
'Yes, ma'am,' Jinnie replied immediately.
'And if you are brought back again, well, you know
what to expect, don't you?'
'Yes, ma'am.' The reply came sharper this time, and
it caused the labour mistress and the matron to exchange
a quick glance, as if astonished at the attitude of this
troublesome girl, who should really be on her knees
thanking the matron for her clemency.
Jinnie now watched the labour mistress thrust one
article after the other into a small hessian sack. And
it was when she came to the pieces of linen that she
spoke, saying, 'Mind you wash these out every month
. . . boil 'em.'
Jinnie did not reply. To her, those pieces of linen
still evoked a terrifying experience, for it was something
that happened to older girls, but . . . but never
happened to her. It was Miss Caplin who had reassured
her that nothing bad or sinister was happening to her;
only that nature was beginning its long and tiresome
process towards procreation.
Again the matron was speaking to her. 'You may be a
long way off, but don't forget I'll have my eye on you.'
Jinnie had an immediate picture of one of the matron's
bulbous eyes stretching into a long way off. And as her
imagination often did, it made her want to smile or even
giggle.
The hessian bag was now thrust at her and she was
swung round by the labour mistress's heavy hand and
pushed towards the double door at the end of the room.
At their approach a female inmate pulled the doors
open, and Jinnie almost did smile when she caught
sight of the farm cart with Max standing by the horse's
head.
The matron, too, had come to the door and here
admonished her, saying, 'You're very lucky you haven't
got to shank it all the way. If he' - she now nodded
towards Max - 'if he hadn't been already detailed to
fetch a beast from The Hall at Whitfield, you would have
had a trail before you. Anyway, beyond Whitfield, you
will be met. He knows all about it.' She again nodded
towards Max. And now she added, 'Well, get away! Get
away!'
The very big man approached Jinnie and, taking her
bundle from her, threw it on to the high seat; then
putting his hands under her oxters, he hoisted her after
it and, without a word to either of the women who stood
watching him, swung himself up into the seat with an
agility that defied his height and bulk. He made a sound
in his throat, and the horse jerked the high-backed cart
forward. And so he drove Jinnie Howlett out of the
main gates of the workhouse.
Jinnie did not speak to the man at her side for some
time, but she looked about her. She was out in the
open, the real open. She was free again! 'And oh, dearest
Lord,' she actually prayed, 'don't let me ever go back.
Please! Please!'
The man at her side looked down at her and a smile
spread over his great, flat-featured face. The eyes were
spaced widely apart and now seemed to be of an indeterminate
colour, whereas at other times, when she was
to see him in a temper, they would appear to be almost
black. His nose was large and the nostrils were wide.
Only his mouth appeared normal; it was full-lipped. But
the words he spoke were uttered in a manner that was
in keeping with his main features, for his languagewas disjointed, his words tending towards a stammer.
Yet, whatever he uttered always had a reasonable
meaning. And now he said, 'Good!' The word came
from deep in his broad chest and had a ring to it.
To this Jinnie answered quickly, 'Oh yes, Max. Good,
good. D'you know where I'm goin', Max?' She did
not have to space her words in order to make him
comprehend, and he nodded, saying, 'In hills, High
. . High Farm.' And then, taking one hand from
the reins he put his thumb and first finger about an
inch apart, which gesture indicated the size of the farm.
And at this she said, 'Small.'
His head bobbed.
She looked ahead now and more to herself than to
him, she said, 'I hope I like it, and . . . and I hope they
like me, and ... I don't have any trouble.'
At this his hand came out again and he patted her
shoulder, saying, 'Somethin' f-f-for you. Somethin'
saved.' And then he swept his hand forward as if
shooing flies from the horse, as he said, 'Later.'
At this Jinnie said quickly, 'You'll tell me later?'
'Aye.'
There were times when Jinnie felt she could read
Max's mind; at least, the meaning of his stilted speech
always seemed clear to her.
Max was the only man she had ever been allowed to
speak to. He was the only man to be allowed anywhere
near the women's quarters. Likely it was because he
was considered harmless. He had been born in the
workhouse, and she knew of his strange history from old
Aggie McMahon, who had brought him into the world.
It would appear that thirty years ago a woman had
been brought in raving, so much so, she had to be put
into a strait-jacket before being flung into the quiet
room. The very thought of the quiet room made Jinnie

shudder, for she herself had once been sent there. That
was the day after her father was buried. However, they
had soon had to haul this woman out because she was
about to give birth to a child. As Aggie said, Max was a
huge baby. He could have been six months old when he
was born, so big was he. And that was why he had grown
into this huge man. When the time came to have him
christened, Aggie had told her, the woman had returned
to some kind of normality. Yet, she must still have been
odd, for she had insisted that his name was Maximilian
and that he was a descendant of a Roman emperor.
Aggie said there had been nothing on the woman to
say who she was or where she had come from, but
that her clothes were highly respectable and that she
wore bloomers, a garment rather like knickerbockers,
only made of soft material. Anyway, she died when her
child was ten days old and she was buried, like many
another, in a pauper's grave. Max, as he became known,
grew rapidly and was thought to be mentally deficient.
But from when he was put on the farm at five years old,
it was discovered that he could count. This emerged
when he implied that the hens weren't laying so well,
and he counted out the discrepancy on his fingers. The
farmer, who was also the labour master, told the parson,
whose weekly visits were mainly intended to instil the
fear of God into his wretched congregation, about the
ungainly child he had under his control, one who must
have a bright spot somewhere because he could count,
and that no-one, to his knowledge, had shown him how
to do it. It was from then that the parson had taken an
interest in the child. After reading a Bible story to the
Sunday school he would point out the letters to Max,
whose ability to remember them was eventually accepted
as proof that he couldn't be entirely mental. That he
wasn't at all mental, Miss Caplin had herself already

discovered some time before. As for Jinnie, she had never
thought of him other than as a normal man who was
unfortunately handicapped in his speech. And she had
known for a long time that if she really loved anybody
other than Miss Caplin in that dismal, work-wearying
place, it was this man. He had, in a way, taken the place
of the father she had lost; even seeming to possess the
same warm disposition. Yet she had heard of an incident
in which he had developed a deep rage which had quickly
turned to violence. A dog on the farm had attached itself
to him, and when, one day, Max found an inmate, who
was decidedly mentally ill, ferociously kicking it, he had
almost throttled the man, and had, so she understood,
then lifted him bodily and thrown him against the wall.
For this he was put into the quiet room for a time,
and his mental state was again questioned. It was only
the fact that he stood in good stead with the labour
master-cum-farmer that he wasn't transferred to menial
tasks, such as stone-breaking, or midden cleaning.
After about two hours the cart passed through Haydon
Bridge and turned into the road that led through Langley
and past the old smelting mills. It was as they came to a
green sward opposite the dam that Max pulled the horse
to a halt, saying, 'Rest . . . eh?'
'Oh yes, Max. It's lovely here, isn't it?' She pointed to
the water shimmering in the sunshine. 'I've never seen
anything like that, it's beautiful.'
As the horse began to munch the fresh grass at the
side of the road, she flopped down from the cart and,
rubbing her hands over the ground on each side of her,
she said, 'Oh, 'tis lovely, lovely.'
Max too stood gazing across the water; then letting
himself slowly down on to the grass at her side, he said,
Something f-f-for...' And now he wagged his forefinger
at her before bringing out the word, 'you.'

'Something for me?'
He bowed his head deeply; then putting his hand into
the inside of his three-quarter-length coat, he drew out a
small case about seven inches long and two inches wide,
and as he began to mulch it between his hands, he said,
'Leather . . . st-stiff long time.'
'You've had it a long time? What is it, Max?'
'I've . . . I've had it a ... long time. N-not mine . . .
yours,' he explained and thrust the case at her.
'What is it?' she said, feeling the leather pouch.
Now, his hand over hers, he slowly withdrew from
the pouch a knife and fork and spoon. They were bone
handled, but they were discoloured and the knife was
somewhat rusty.
'Y-your father.'
'My father's?'
His head bobbed slowly.
'But how? Why?'
'Clothes b-burnt, belt an' all. That--' his forefinger
was wagging again towards the pouch, and he demonstrated
as he said, 'Deep ... in ... lining.'
Slowly she turned her head away from him and the
pouch and looked across the water, and just as if he
were sitting in the middle of it, she envisaged her father,
his face smiling as he wiped the knife and fork that he
had been using and the spoon which she had used. She
could see him rubbing them and rubbing them until
they shone, then slipping them back into the pouch.
In a quick movement she swung herself round on
her knees and, putting her hand out to Max, she said, in a broken voice, 'I ... I remember, Max, eating
with these. Dada using a knife and fork and me the
spoon . . . Oh yes, yes. But I had completely forgotten
about them.' She paused before asking him: 'Does
anyone know you kept them?'

He shook his head quickly, and then, pouting his lips,
he blew out his cheeks and said, 'No . . . no. Hide. Got
. hole in the . . . boiler-house.'
'Oh, you hid them in the boiler-house, in the bricks?'
He was grinning at her now as he repeated, 'In the . ..
bricks. Loose.' And he demonstrated the pulling out of
a brick.
She answered his grin with a wide smile. 'Not supposed
to have knives. They would have taken it.' And
she now tenderly replaced the knife and fork and spoon
in the pouch, then pressed it against her breast for a
moment before she said, 'Thank you, Max. Oh, thank
you. Now I have something of Dada it makes me feel
better, not so ... lost. You know what I mean?'
'I ... know. Yes. I ... know.'
'You are very like my father, Max.'
At this the big man put his head back and laughed out
loud, then said, 'Like . . . nobody . . . me. Nobody.'
'No? Perhaps you're right.' Her face was solemn as
she nodded at him. 'There are very few people as kind
as you. I couldn't remember even having a barley sugar
until you gave me one. I don't know how I would have
fared back there if it hadn't been for you and Miss
Caplin.'
'Miss Cap . . . lin good lady . . . very.'
'Yes, she is a very good lady. She told me we'll pass
the cottage where she comes to on her leave days. Her
aunts live there.'
'Yes; I ... know. Dyke . . . Cottage. Duckworth
ladies.'
'Yes, her aunts. Have you been up to this farm where
I'm going, Max?'
He shook his head. 'No ... not that . . . f-far. Well
up ... hills. Windy.'
'I like the wind. I like it to blow through my hair.'

She patted the top of her hat and he said, 'Bonny
hair.'
Her face straight again, she said. 'They were going to
cut it off; but Miss Caplin came to the rescue. You know
what she said?'
He shook his head.
'She told the labour mistress that if she let it grow
for another year or two my plaits could be sold, and
you could get money for hair like mine. I was very sick
about it, because it was only . . . well . . . well . . .'
She was stumped for words when he said, 'Re ...prieve?'
'Oh yes.' Her face brightened. 'You are clever, you
know, Max. Reprieve, yes. Like they get when they're
going to be hung.'
They were both laughing now. Then, jumping to his
feet, he said, ' Me get . . . hung . . . get . . . back if I
. . . don't hurry,' and he pulled the horse reluctantly
from its feeding, before helping her up and back on to the high seat of the cart. And when he was again seated beside her, they smiled at each other broadly . . .
Presently the road sloped and twisted downwards
until it crossed the river and then divided. Max did
not turn the horse towards Whitfield but took the road that would climb towards Alston. After a few minutes
they passed a narrow lane, and Max, pointing back
to it, said, 'D-Dyke Cottage.'
'It's as Miss Caplin said, you can't see it from the
road.'
'No. No. Hidden . . . not much . . . further now,
JJinnie.'
'You say I'll be met?'
'Yes. They said n-next to the . . . turning . . . stile.'
'Oh, there's a stile?' She was now sitting on the edge
of her seat straining her eyes forward and upwards to the

rising land all about her. Even from this partly wooded
road it looked bare and lonely, and of a sudden she
swung round and gripped Max's arm with both hands,
saying, 'You . . . you won't forget me, Max, will you?'
For a moment she thought he was about to pull the
horse to a stop, but then, transferring the reins to one
hand again, he took hold of hers as he said fervently,
'Never! N-never forget. Some time I ... I ask holi . . .
day.'
'And you would come and see me?'
His head bobbed again.
'Oh, thank you, Max.'
'I ... I write you.'
'A letter? You'd write me a letter?'
'Ah-ha . . . ah-ha.' He seemed both amused and
pleased by her surprise.
'Oh, I'd love a letter. I can read a bit.'
He tugged on the reins again. Then the next minute
they were round the corner and there was the stile, with
a man seated upon it.
On their approach he slid to the ground. And when
Max drew the horse to a stop in the narrow road, the man
stood staring up at them. He did not speak, nor did Max,
but he, jumping down, held out his arms to Jinnie. And
when she was standing on the rough road she was able to
look closely at this man who, she supposed, would be her
master, or at least one of them. She vaguely remembered
him, for she had only seen him and his father for the
matter of a minute. And the minute had been mostly
spent in their listening to the matron, who was detailing
her character to a very small man and his tallish son.
The man spoke for the first time. 'Well, you've got
here,' he said, 'and almost on time.' He looked from her
to Max and gave a nod of approval. And Max, smiling
at him said, 'Quicker . . . th-than train.'

At this the young man answered his smile with a laugh,
saying, 'Well, if you say so.' Then turning to Jinnie, he said, 'Have you got a bundle?'
Even as he was speaking, Max's hand was reaching
behind the seat and pulling the hessian bag forward,
and when he handed it to her the man asked, 'Is that
her lot?' and Jinnie answered, 'Yes, that's my lot.'
There followed a moment's silence; then the man
said, 'Well, we'd better be making a move.' And at this;
she turned to Max and, impulsively stretching up her arms, she drew his head downwards and placed a kiss
on his cheek. Then, grabbing up the bundle, she moved
towards the grass verge, leaving the two men looking at
each other.
Max's voice came deeper than ever when he said,
'She be ... all right . . . treated?'
The young man seemed to hesitate before he said,
'Oh yes. Yes, she'll be all right. Don't worry. You a
relation?'
'Re-lation? No.'
'Well, she seems very fond of you ... So long. You picking something up in Whitfield?'
'Calf. . .bull calf.'
'Oh, a bull calf. Well, well! From Maddison's I
suppose?'
Max thought a moment before he replied, 'Aye, Madd
. . . ison's.'.
The young man now pointed up the road: 'It widens out a few yards further on,' he said. 'You could turn'. comfortably there.'
Max looked towards where the man was pointing,'
then at Jinnie and said quietly, 'So long.'
'So long, Max.'
She stood for a moment on the grass verge before walking towards the stile. The man was now on the other side of it, and as she went to climb it, he said,
'Give your bundle here.'
This she did. Then, dropping down on to the narrow
path, she walked behind the man who was now a step
or so in front of her. That was until she heard the horse
neigh. At this, she turned swiftly to where the cart was
passing the stile. Max was looking in her direction and
when she waved to him, he waved back. She stood
watching until the cart moving away disappeared around
the bend in the road, when the man's voice brought her
attention round to him again: 'You fond of him?'
She blinked the moisture from her eyes two or three
times before she answered briefly, 'Yes.'
'He an inmate in the workhouse?'
'Yes.'
'Big fella. Can't say I've seen bigger; giant size.' He
smiled at her now as he added, 'Wouldn't like to come
against him in an argument, like.'
'No.' She jerked her chin upwards and repeated, 'No,
you wouldn't. But. . . but he doesn't fight.' She paused,
thinking of the dog incident, then added, 'If he got angry
at someone doing something bad, he might.'
The man turned and looked at her closely, and she
returned his look for a moment. Then she watched
him look ahead as he asked, 'You worked on a farm
before?'
'No. But Max has. He helps the house farmer a lot.
He's very good with animals.'
Ignoring this last remark, the man, still looking ahead,
said, 'Then you have no idea of work on a farm? Any
kind of a farm?'
Again she said, 'No,' but more definitely this time,
then added, 'I understood I'm just for cooking and
looking after a sick lady.'
He turned his head sharply towards her and his tone

flat, he said, 'It's my mother you'll have to tend. And she's no lady, she's a working woman; or she was.
And the farm: well, the house is very small.' Then his
voice rising, he said, 'You've got to understand that
life is rough up here.' His hand jerked past the peak
of his cap as if he were indicating the sky and not the
hills ahead.
Her voice was low and almost a mutter as she said,
'I'm used to hard work.'
'There's hard work and hard work. It all depends
where it's placed, and who you're working for.' But then
his tone changed and, looking at her again, he said, 'I
don't suppose things were easy in the workhouse.' I
'No, they were not. I did me share of scrubbing stone;
corridors after the sewing day was over.'
'They said you could cook; can you? Were you in the kitchen?'
It was a moment or so before she replied, 'No, not:
there.'
'Then where did you learn to cook?'
'Out . . . outside, in service.'
'Oh!' His step altered. 'You've been out afore?'
'Yes.'
There was another pause before he said, 'They didn't
say. Why did you come back?'
When she didn't answer, he said, 'Like that, is it?'
Then he was actually surprised when she rounded on
him and cried in no small voice, 'No! it wasn't like that,
or whatever you're meaning, mister. I had a reason for
coming back, and it was a good one.'
There was a half smile on his face now as he said, 'Oh
aye? Well, whatever it was, if it can stir you like that, it
must have been a good one, as you said.'
They were walking up a steep incline now and when
she began to gasp for breath, he said, 'You'll get used tothem. There's three like this, short; but after that it'll be
easy going.'
As he said, there were three short steep hills before
them. And when she reached the top of the third she
stood gasping for breath, while at the same time being
surprised at the scene before her, for it stretched away
gently into the far distance, where she espied a huddle
of small buildings. But to each side of her there rose
hills, dotted here and there with sheep. The man, too,
was standing still and, pointing, first to one side then to
the other, he was saying, 'Our land stretches away on
both sides, but this is where it begins.' He now lifted a
foot and stamped his heel into the hard ground.
Looking up at him now, she said,' 'Tis bonny; round
about, I mean. 'Tis bonny.' Then she asked, 'How far
is your farmhouse,' indicating the huddle of buildings
ahead, 'from the road?'
'A mile.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'A little more,
perhaps.' And now he smiled at her, as he said,
'Distances are deceiving. You think you've come a
long way now, but although it looks plain sailing to
the house, that's a longer stretch than you've already
travelled.'
She looked back down the hills, then into the distance
again, and she exclaimed, 'Really!'
'Aye, really. Flattish plains are deceiving. Aye, well,
come on. If we intend to cross it we'd better keep goin',
hadn't we?' He was smiling at her in a kindly fashion,
and she smiled back as she thought, I'll get to like him,
that's if ... She didn't allow her thoughts to pinpoint
the main reason why, on the other hand, she might get
to dislike him.
They had walked some distance when she realised
that his head was bent all the time as if he were picking
out a path that wasn't there. She realised he was in

I
deep thought, and so her voice was muted as she said,! 'Mister.'
'Yes?' His head was erect again.
'Are there many in your family?'
'No, not many. Just my parents and my brother and me. And you don't have to call me "mister". Keep that for me da. My name is Bruce.'
'Just the four of you?'
'That's all.' Then he added, 'Mainly three. My;
brother works in the lead mine.' He threw his head back as if indicating the mine. 'And he's not home
every night; mostly at weekends.'
She wanted to ask, 'Is your mother very sick?' but told
herself she must be if she were unable to look after her
man and her son. Anyway, she would soon know. But
one thing seemed certain, there wasn't a squad of them '
and them not being gentry, like them in the place she
had been in, using six pieces of cutlery each to eat a meal
and expecting them to be polished before you put them
away, especially the forks, in case a tiny speck of food
had got stuck in them. Besides which, having to iron
even the lady's shifts and polish the boots. But there wouldn't be much need for boot polishing up here,
she thought. The ground might seem firm, but she had
already squelched in one or two soggy patches.
As they came within viewing distance of the buildings
her step slowed, and this brought his eyes down to her,
although he made no comment.
Jinnie's open mouth could not fully convey her surprise, for the huddle of buildings she was seeing and
which she had imagined to be the outhouses, were
mainly the farm cottage itself. Her impression of a large building must have been created by the hill that
seemingly loomed immediately behind.
Her steps seemed to be dragging now as she neared

the cottage, which was brought about not only by her
legs being tired from the long, uphill trek, but also from the feeling of trepidation that was now creeping
up through her whole body. The place was so small . . .
and poor-small. The workhouse had been big, every part
of it, day rooms, dormitories, sewing room, laundry, all
big . . . and clean. Oh yes, clean. A scrubbing brush,
blue mottle soap and aching arms saw to that.
'Come in. Come along in.' He was beckoning her
from the doorway, for she had stopped some feet away.
After taking in a short breath that sounded in her own
ears like a gasp, she walked towards him, then past him
and into the room. And there she stood, her expression
one of amazement at what confronted her.
The room was larger than it had appeared from the
outside. In the middle of it stood a table covered with
oilcloth on which were piled pans and dirty dishes. A
fire was smouldering on a low-barred hearth, above
which dangled a black kale-pot suspended from a chain
attached to a cross-bar just below the chimney opening.
To one side of the fire was what could be an oven and
to the other a hob on which stood a kettle. Further along
one wall was a rack of open shelves, although what they
held she could not make out, for they were lost in the
dimness of that end of the room.
Flat against the wall at the other side of the fireplace
stood a long wooden settle.
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a door leading
from the wall to the left of her. But what reluctantly
drew her gaze to the wall opposite was the sight of a
woman, who appeared to be lying in the wall, although
the light from the square window to the side of the door
was not enough to allow her to be seen clearly.
'Come and say hello to my ma.' The man's hand was
on her arm and he drew her around an armchair; then

with his foot he thrust a single chair under the table. And then, there she was, standing almost face to face with the
woman, whose eyes were set in deep sockets, provided
by the cheekbones. Her nose was thin and pinched and
the lips of her large mouth were formless. The skin was
tightly drawn over her whole face, giving the effect of its
having been moulded in parchment. It was a frightening
face, until the lips moved and the woman spoke.
'You've got here, then, hinny. But you're much
younger than I thought maybe.'
Jinnie drew in a sigh of relief, for the woman's voice,
although much rougher, common like, sounded kind,
like her son's.
'The house is in a mess, lass. The men are no good
with crocks. Anyhow, there's no time, with Bruce there' she
nodded towards her son - 'and his da out with
the sheep most times. And Hal only putting his neb
in the door when it suits him. He's my other son,' she
added by way of explanation ... 'Can you cook, hinny?'
'Yes, missis. Well, a little bit. I can make bread and
do fries; and,' she added, 'I have made a stew with
dumplings.'
Jinnie now watched the wide mouth open further
to disclose a set of broken yellow teeth, and her new
mistress said, 'Oh, that'll be fine. Oh, you'll do well
enough. The last one couldn't boil water, could she,
Bruce?'
Her son smiled and said, 'Well, she could boil water,
Ma. But it all tasted the same to me, the stuff that was
in it, whether tea, meat or taties.'
Jinnie watched the woman lie back on her pillow now
and as her chest began to heave she pressed her hands
on it as if to still some emotion, perhaps laughter in this
instance. Then in a thick muttered tone, she said, 'Show
her the ropes, Bruce, show her the ropes.'

Pointing to a chest of drawers in the dim corner of the
wall in which the bed was inserted, he said, 'That holds
linen and such. All rough but hard wearing. There's a
lot of it ready to wash outside.' He thumbed towards
the door on the opposite wall. Then again pointing, he
added, 'That ladder leads up to our sleeping quarters,
those of me brother and me.'
She seemed to detect something of relief in his tone
as he added, 'But I have it mostly to meself.' Then, he
pulled open one of the two drawers in the side of the
table, saying, 'Knives and forks and such you'll find in
here.'
'Yes. Yes.'
At the door leading to the other room he turned
and pointed towards the kale-pot that was showing
bubbling water, and he explained, 'We keep that
going for washing-up and such. But in here' - he
pushed the door open - 'other things necessary for all
you'll want. It's a big scullery.'
Facing her was a mangle, and a poss-tub, together
with a poss-stick. From where she stood, half of the
poss-stick shank was visible, which meant it was resting
on soaking clothes. One wall was taken up with
shelves, empty except for a large black pan, and a brown
earthenware cooking bowl. On the floor was a grease
filled frying pan and a griddle plate. Below the window
was a shallow brown stone trough with a hole in its
centre, from which a pipe led into a bucket beneath. To
the side of the trough was a pump and she watched him
now put his hand on the handle and press it downwards,
so that a spurt of water fell into the trough. She had been
wondering about how they would have to get water in
when he, voicing her thoughts, said, 'This saves a lot
of lugging from the pond. We had it fixed up a few
years back.' He again pressed the handle and looked atthe contraption as if he was proud of it. Then turning
to her, he said, 'This is the part that I never like to
explain: up there ... up them steps, is your billet . . .
where you sleep. It's very low; no use trying to stand
up, even in the middle. There's a straw pallet and you
can change the straw every week if you like. It's up to
you.' Then in an aside he added, 'Some would leave it!
until it crawled out by itself.'
She looked towards the stone steps, one side of them!
bordered by the far wall, the other without a rail of any kind. She saw they were shallow steps with no width,!
and she thought it was just as well there were not too)
many of them else she could fall off. She didn't like I
heights, not close heights anyway, the kind that you
felt you were going to topple over. Only once had she,
experienced such a height and she had a bad memory
of it far, far back, when she had a father and he took!
her on jaunts; that is if, of course, they had been settled in a kindly farmer's field where their belongings were!
safe.
She was surprised when Bruce touched her arm, saying, 'Don't look so scared, it's quite comfortable. And
after all, you lie down when you're sleepin', don't you?'
He was smiling at her again. She hadn't known she had looked scared.
When a loud grunt interrupted what he was about to point out next, he looked towards another door which
apparently led outside; and for explanation, he said,
'Sow; she's nearing her time. We're expecting a good litter.'
'Oh.' She returned his smile for she had seen a sow and her litter on the workhouse farm, and, unlike most
people, she liked pigs.
'Come and see her.'
Outside, and passing what she recognized by the smell

was the swill-house, he said, 'That's the boiling-up
-house,' and coming to the pigsty, he looked down
Ion a very heavily laden sow and said, 'Still hanging on, are you?' and when Jinnie put her hand over the sty wall and scratched the pig's ear, he exclaimed,
'You're not frightened of her?'
'No. I ... I think I like pigs.'
'Good! Good! That'll be a help anyway. Come on round here.'
The end of the building presented a surprise. She had imagined the hill to go straight up, almost, as she thought, forming a wall. But there was about a hundred
feet of level ground before it rose, and then abruptly. In
this area was a long hen run and quite a large, but low
barn, and a stable beyond. This was empty, although
the floor showed evidence of a horse, and she asked
eagerly, 'You've got a horse?'
'Aye, horse and cart. Me da's got them to market. It's
store day once a month; store day.' His face looked blank
now and the tone of his voice was one she hadn't heard
before: there was bitterness in it as he had added, 'Store
day.
'Over there,' he went on, 'is an outdoor closet, if you
want to use it. And along there' - he was indicating
beyond the hen runs - 'at the far end is a midden.'
Then he added quickly, 'We . . . we empty our own
slops; but you'll have to see to Ma's.'
'Aye, yes. Yes, sir. I mean . . . mister.'
He stopped and, looking down at her, and in his
lordinary tone, he said, 'You could call me Bruce.'
Her delay in answering was as if she was considering
this personal invitation; then she said, 'Thank you, but
it should be "mister";' and she added, 'Miss Caplin
would say it should be "mister".'
'Who's Miss Caplin?'

'She's an officer in the house, and she was kind to
me; very.'
'Oh, well then, it'll be "mister'
His chin now slowly drooping towards his chest, he
surveyed her for some seconds before he said, 'You're
a funny lass, aren't you? But I hope you'll stick it out
here, because me ma needs somebody like you. She
wasn't always sickly like this, you know. At one time
she was spritely and, believe it or not, bonny. That was
until this thing got a hold of her. But she's fought it
She's very plucky, is me ma. It'll win in the end, though,
but until then she'll need help.'
A great wave of pity flooded her. Strangely, not only
for the woman in the bed in the wall, but for her son)
here, her caring son; for that's what he had already
shown himself to be.
She answered quickly, saying, 'I'll do me best, mister.
I promise you, I'll do me best. And I'll clean the place
up and brighten it. And I'll cook as best I can, and I'll
see to her. I'm used to old people, you know, although
she doesn't look all that old. But there were a lot of old
people in the house. And I was on the wet ward once;
for months and . . .' She ended simply by nodding, and
he did not enquire what she meant by wet ward. But he said, 'I'm sure you will. I have a feeling that you will.
Well, come on; I'll lift the kale-pot off and it'll give you
hot water to start on that lot on the table.'
They were in the room again, and seeing her pulling
off her hat and coat, he said, 'I'd take your bundle' - he lifted it from a chair and thrust it towards her - 'and go up where I showed you, and get into something rough.'
You have another frock, I suppose?'
'Yes. Yes, a working one.'
'Well, do that.'
After she had actually run from the room he stoodlooking towards the open door, before turning to the
,bed and saying, 'She'll do all right, I think, Ma.'
'I ... I hope so, lad.' Her voice was low. 'It's a pity
it's market day though.'
'Aye. Aye, it is. Well, I've shown her the ropes, and
now I'll leave her to get on with it.'
'Couldn't you give her a hand with that lot off the
table first?'
'Ma, I should have been in the top field an hour ago.
You know what he'll say when he gets in. And if any
of them have got over the hump, God above, we'll go through the same pattern again. Not that he'll see to
any of them himself. Oh no! There's going to be a
showdown here, Ma, before long.'
'All right. But now get yourself away. I'll sit on the
edge and tell her what to do.'
'You'll do nothing of the sort. You can tell her what to
do just from where you are.' He leant over her and thrust
another bare tick pillow behind her back, saying, 'Now
you can see enough from where you are, and you've still
got a voice on you.' His own voice had softened and
when she answered, 'That's about the only thing that's
left,' he said swiftly, 'Now, now! I've told you.'
'All right, all right.' Her voice had risen. 'Get yourself
away. Go on, because one thing is certain, you
mustn't be in the house when he gets back. But that's
a point... if he comes straight back.'
'I wouldn't bank on that, Ma. Anyway, now I'm
off.' He leaned towards her and touched her cheek
gently with his fingers; then, from a nail in the back
of the door he pulled off an old coat and cap, replacing
them with those he had been wearing; then again he
glanced towards his mother before hurrying from the
room . . .

She had cleared the table. The crockery had been washed
first, the mugs needing to be scoured to remove the old'
tea stains. As for the pans, she had taken them outside,
and, kneeling by the side of an open drain at the end
of the building, had scraped off the encrusted soot,
Then, after scouring them inside, she had arranged
them on the shelf in the scullery room, and the mugs
and plates on the rack in the kitchen.
During her comings and goings the woman hadn't
said a word, but had watched her every move. It wasn't
until Jinnie said, 'Can I get you something to drink,
missis?' that she said, 'Yes, lass; and get yourself one
an' all,' for which suggestion Jinnie was thankful.
'But how do I get the kettle on the fire, missis, with a
kale- pot there? I carried it back when it was empty and
filled it; but I couldn't lift it off now.'
'Oh.' The woman pulled herself slowly upwards; then
twisting round in the bed to look towards the fire,
she said, 'Two of the bars come down and act as a
hob. There's a small rake at the side, so just lift them
down and they'll hold the kettle.'
'Oh yes. Yes, thank you.'
After some trial and error she managed to lift the bars
from their sockets to form a flat stand, and on this she
placed the kettle and pressed it towards the glowing
embers.
The kettle wasn't all that large, and so by the time
she had taken outside the heavy clippie mat that fronted
the hearth and shaken it, before turning it upside down
and jumping on it to loosen the grit from the hessian
backing, as she had been made to do back in the
house, the kettle was bubbling.
She lifted it hastily to the side before going to the
bed again and saying, 'What'll I make you? Have you
tea?'

'Yes, lass; in the caddy on the mantelpiece, the left
hand one. The teapot's under the rack over there. Put
in two spoonfuls. That won't make it too strong, 'cos
there's no milk. Bruce brings that over the night. He
picks a can up from the wall where one of the farm lads
will have left it. It saves him a long trek at the end of a
hard day.'
She mashed the tea, let it draw for a while, then
poured out a mug and took it to the woman, who
held it between both hands as if warming them before
she said, 'Thank you, Jinnie. You did say your
name was Jinnie, didn't you?'
She couldn't remember having said what her name
was, and when she didn't answer, the woman said,
'Bruce must have heard it.'
When she asked her what she would get for a meal,
her mistress again lay back on her pillow as if having
to search her mind. Then she pointed up to the ceiling
where, attached to a beam were a number of large hooks,
from which hung what Jinnie could see were pieces of
meat.
The woman now said, 'There are two hams up there
and a shoulder and a leg of lamb. Them two could be a
bit high, but the hams are just right. But then it's no use,
you couldn't reach them. You'll have to wait until . . .'
'I could, missis, if I stood on the table.'
There was again a semblance of a smile on the
woman's face and she said, 'Yes, lass, you're right.
You could if you stood on the table, but you'd have
to keep your head bent or you'd go through the
roof. Anyway, get yourself up and unhook this end
one.'
Still propped up on her elbows, she watched the frail
looking girl climb on to the table and, with shoulders
hunched, stretch out her arms and unhook the ham. But

the weight of it brought her double and she dropped it
on the table.
On the floor once more, Jinnie laughed and said, 'It's
much heavier than it looks, missis.'
'Fetch it here.'
She took it to the bed and the woman now pressed
her long bony thumb into the top of it, saying, 'That's
all right; it'll be nice for frying.' Then she added, 'About
six o'clock--' She now inclined her head towards the
mantelpiece on which stood a Staffordshire pottery figure
of two people holding a round-faced clock in their
entwined arms, and she said, 'Around six o'clock, Bruce
should be back. He'll lift the kale-pot off and you'll have
a big pan ready full of taties. You'll get them out of a
sack in the barn. You know, round the corner. You'll
put the peelings next door where the boiler is for the
pig food. It hasn't been on for a day or two ... the
boiler, and she's had to have them raw. But she likes
the hot mash, and at this time she needs it. I'll get
Bruce to show you how to light the boiler and make
her mash. But in the meantime, when you're waitin'
for the taties to boil, you'll cut six slices of ham off that
end' - she pointed to the ham - 'the first four thick,
about so--' She now demonstrated the thickness of the
required slices, then added, 'The next two not so thick,
one for you and one for me. You understand?'
'Yes, missis.'
'Well, take it out and put it in yonder cupboard until
it's needed.' She was pointing over her shoulder now.
Jinnie took the ham and made her way to the end of
the room, slightly mystified because she couldn't see any
cupboard, until she espied what looked like a hatch in
the corner next to the chest of drawers.
Lifting this up she saw a shelf that went deeply into
the recess of the wall, and after placing the ham on it,

I
she returned to the bed and, smiling at her mistress,
she said, 'It took a little finding; it's a hidey-hole all
right.'
The woman nodded at her, saying, 'Aye, this side of
the house is very thick, all of three feet, or perhaps a
bit more. Then, of course, they had to build on to
there.' She was now indicating the wall behind where
she lay. 'They had to do it in order to get a double
tick in. Me man's grandfather did it when they built
the place.' She now dropped back heavily on to her
pillows and sighed. It was an audible sound and had
the effect of saddening Jinnie and making her enquire,
'Is there anything I can get you, missis? I mean, a wash,
like?'
'No, lass. As for the wash, I had the flannel round
me face this mornin'. Bruce sees to that. But if you'd
bring me the po, it's under that bit curtain there' - she
indicated the bottom of the bed - 'where the curtain
drops to the floor.'

Following these directions, Jinnie saw a piece of ragged
curtain hanging from a frame attached to the wall
beyond the bed and, lifting it, she saw another shelf, on
which was a china chamber-pot. The smell that wafted
over her was almost a stench. She closed her eyes for
a moment and bit on her lip in order not to show her
repugnance.
After handing it to the woman, she was surprised to
hear her say, 'I know it smells, lass; I haven't been able
to scald it for months; but come the better weather I
might be able to get on me feet again and . . . and go
to the closet.'
'Oh, it's all right. It's all right, missis,' Jinnie was
quick to reassure her; but the woman paused before
thrusting the pot underneath the bedclothes and, looking
into Jinnie's face, she said, 'You've got the makings

of a good lass. I only hope you'll be able to stick it.'
'Oh, missis, I'm sure I will. I won't mind looking afti
you.'
'Oh,' the woman said, and closed her eyes tightly!
for a moment: 'there's more to put up with than met
But anyway, let's wait and see.'
A few minutes later, Jinnie said, 'Where do I empty;
it, missis?'
'There's a bucket outside the door. Put it in there
until it's full, and then you take that to the middens.
It's round beyond the hen crees. But you won't have to
do that often, as Bruce sees to it, except when they're
lambing and times like that when he's up all night,
or . . .' She stopped abruptly.
It was some time later when she was washing the
grime off the window that her mistress said to her,
'You hungry, lass?' and she answered quickly, 'Yes, am a bit, missis.'
'Well, it'll be some time afore they're in. So, look!
in the cupboard in the scullery. You'll find pig's fat
there and the remains of a loaf, so Bruce says. But;
you'll find it as hard as flint; the other one couldn't bake.'

On Jinnie's enquiring look, she said, 'It was the lass
. . . No, she was no lass, she was a woman, but she
was as lazy as she was long. Used to public-house work
behind a bar, I think, most of her life. And why she put
in for this job, God knows; or, at least, I've got an idea.;
But she found nothing doing in that quarter.' And there;
being no following up of this enigmatic statement, Jinnie went into the scullery, and there in the pantry found a
jar of pig fat. She spread some on a slice of the dry bread
and sprinkled it with salt. It tasted good; and as she cut
a second slice she told herself it would make a lovely
meal if the bread was toasted . . .

It was about two hours later when the woman, pulling
herself well up in the bed, said, 'Go to the door and see
if you can hear a cart coming.'
After doing what she was bid, Jinnie came back to the
bed and said, 'No, missis, I could hear nothing. It's quiet
out there, and there's no wind either.'
The woman's hands were gripped together tightly
against her chest as she said, 'Well, lass, when my man
comes in, I'd ask you not to take any notice of what he
says, 'cos he'll likely be ... well, you'll find out sooner
or later. He'll be in the drink. Of course, that's nothing
unusual, but he ... well, he always seems to go for it
in a big way on market day.'
During those five weeks she had been in service in
Newcastle she'd also had some experience of a man
in drink. More than once the master of the house had
come in very cheery, and twice he had talked to her and
joked with her in the kitchen. But on each occasion the
mistress was out. He had questioned her a lot about
the workhouse and herself, and she had liked him until
the night he crawled into the cupboard and got on top of
her. She had been sound asleep and she had screamed.
So yes, she knew what men were like when in drink.
She had set the table for three with the rough cutlery
and, having found a well-washed tray cloth in the chest
of drawers, she had put it on the tin tray set ready for
her mistress's meal. And whilst waiting for the men's
home-coming, she re-filled the coal scuttle, bringing the
coal in a shovel at a time, because she could hardly lift
the brass container when empty, let alone when it was
full of coal. Then she banked up the fire and blew it into
a blaze with the bellows, so that the flickering light from
it gave a softness to the room.
They both started when the door was suddenly thrust
open and Bruce entered. His entrance was like that of


L.
somebody about to fight, at least verbally. But then,
manner changing abruptly, he looked from Jinnie, who
was standing near the table, to his mother in the bed.
And it was to his mother he spoke as he walked up the
room, saying with surprise, 'Not back yet?'
'No, lad; not back yet.'
'It's close on seven o'clock.'
'Yes. Yes, I know.' Then she put in quietly, 'Perhaps
he's goin' to follow Hal's pattern and stay down there
all night.'
'Let's hope to God he does. But no such luck.'
'No, as you say, lad, no such luck . . . Been busy?'
'Yes.' He turned away from her now, pulling off his
cap and coat. However, instead of moving immediately
to hang them on the door he looked towards the table,
then around the room, and after a moment he said,
'Somebody's been busy.'
'Yes, the lass is goin' to be all right. She's a good lass,
willing, and a worker.'
'Good,' he said, and turned to smile at Jinnie standing
at the far side of the table, the while saying, 'That's a
reference for you. And you've not been in the house five
minutes.'
After hanging up his coat and cap, he turned to her
again and enquired, 'How's it been?'
'All right, thank you. I've... I've got the dinner ready.
I've mashed the taties; they're on the hob. But I've got to
fry the ham. If you'll take the kale-pot off for me, please.'
Without further ado, he lifted the kale-pot on to the
hearth, and immediately she put the frying pan on
the glowing embers, and the sound of sizzling filled the
kitchen.
'D'you like it done well or light?'
He paused for a moment as if thinking, then said,
'Just as it comes, Jinnie. Just as it comes.'

Ten minutes later she dished up the ham and the
mashed potatoes, and she placed one plate on the tray
and another at the far end of the table. The plate with
the thinnest slice of all she placed to one side.
During the frying of the ham, he had been in the
scullery, and now he came in rubbing his hair with a
coarse towel. His shirt collar was turned in and his face
was still wet. He went on rubbing as he watched her take
the tray to the bed and place it before his mother, then
push a pillow into her back as if to give her support.
After hanging the towel on the rod that was fitted
below the low mantelshelf, he sat down at the table and
he stared at his plate of heaped-up potatoes and the thick
slice of browned ham. Then, after a further look around,
he attacked the meal. At least he had taken a number
of mouthfuls before he looked up to where Jinnie was
now screwing the kettle on to the fire. 'Leave that and
come and eat your food,' he said.
When she was seated at the table, she did not
immediately tackle her dinner, although she was feeling
very hungry, but, looking at him, she asked, 'Is it all
right?'
'I'll tell you by the time I finish. If I take a long time
over it, it's no good. If I gollop it, it'll be fine.' He was
smiling at her now; then once more he was eating, and
rapidly.
He had come to the last mouthful on his plate when
his head came up as he heard the neighing of a horse
and the grinding of wheels outside. But he didn't rise
from the table, nor did he take up the last bite on his
plate. Instead, looking at Jinnie who had also stopped
eating, he said, 'Carry on. Take no notice; just carry on
eating.'
It was as if the door had been kicked open, and
an undersized man entered the room. Jinnie put the

name to him straightaway. His small stature was
noticeable as was the size of Max.
He looked towards the table, not at Jinnie, but at
his son, and he growled, 'Huh! Huh. It's comin' to
somethin'. I'm out of me house five minutes and me
place at the table is taken, is it? Get the hell out of
seat!'
When Bruce didn't move the man seemed to take a
jump from within the doorway to the side of the table,
on which he thumped so hard that the crockery bounced
as he cried, 'You heard me, paleface! You heard me!'
'Shut up!' The words were quietly spoken, but with?
emphasis.
'What did you say? Bugger me! we've come to I
somethin' else now. Not only me place is taken, but
me mouth closed.'
'Sit down, Pug, or go into the barn and sleep it off.'
It was the woman who had spoken, and quietly.
The man looked towards the bed and, his voice changing,
but still loud, he said, The missis at me now. Always
a warm homecoming. No, " Sit down, Pug, and have a
bite," but, "Get into the barn, that's your place."'
'There's a bite for you in the oven. The girl's kept
it.'
'Oh, aye. Oh, aye, the girl.' Now he was looking across
the table into Jinnie's startled face. And after a moment
of surveying her, he said, 'The workhouse skivvy. The
best they could turn up: not as thick as two spelks, and
a shilling a week. Begod! a shilling a week for that.'
His voice had risen into a bawl. 'If you're here to work,
fetch me plate, and round here to the side of the table
and not to the head. Oh no! no! Leave the house for five
minutes and your place is taken.'
Jinnie rose hastily and went to the oven to fetch
the plate of dinner. Pug Shaleman pulled a stool from

beneath the table and had just seated himself on it when
Jinnie, by his side, tentatively leaned forward to place the
plate before him.
What happened next came upon them all so suddenly
it even brought the invalid up in the bed, her legs
hanging over the side, for as Pug Shaleman's hand
grabbed Jinnie's buttock, she let out a high scream,
before, as if remembering Miss Caplin's advice on how
to deal with men who would handle her, her forearm
came up in a hard swipe and caught him fully across
the face, overbalancing his already rocking body. The
next minute he was lying on his back, one leg in the air
and supported against the fallen stool.
Bruce had already sprung to his feet, and now he
was pulling Jinnie away from the vicinity of his father,
who was endeavouring to haul himself up from the
floor by grasping the table leg.
'Did you see that?' he was yelling to his wife.
'You must have done somethin' to deserve it.'
'Oh aye, I deserved it all right; I nipped her arse. She
could have blinded me, swipin' me right across my eyes.
By God!' He now turned to where Jinnie was standing

I .near the door, and he yelled at her, 'You'll have more
pan your arse nipped before you leave here, me lass.
Let me . . .' His voice was cut off, as were all of them
silenced by the young girl's yelling at him defiantly, 'You
were going to say, "Let me tell you". Well, let me tell you, mister, you'll not handle me, drunk or sober, 'cos
I'll not stay here to be handled. I'm here to work, and
that's what I'll do. I'll look after your missis, but you
touch me again and it won't only be me arm you'll
get.'
She could hardly herself believe what she was saying; but she knew that at the end of her tirade, her mind was reminding her that she had a knife in her dada's dinner

set. Yet she was also asking herself: what had come over
her?
The man was standing utterly silent now, swaying
slightly, but blinking at her as if he were seeing something
he couldn't really believe was real; an oddity.
His wife had drawn her legs back under the cover
and was lying down, her head turned away from the
room, her face buried in the pillow. Whether she was
laughing or crying, could not be determined, but the
heavy quilt that covered her was in motion, more so
than from her usual tortured breathing.
Taking hold of Jinnie's arm Bruce propelled her
through the doorway, saying, 'There's work to do out
here.' But when they were outside she moved away from
him and stood biting on her thumb-nail as she looked
across the open land and into the gathering twilight. Up
to then, everything had been nice, because she liked her
mistress and she liked the son, and she had promised
herself that tomorrow morning the mistress wouldn't
just have a flannel around her face, she'd get that tin
dish on to a stool near the bed and she'd give her a wash
down. In the workhouse there had been a time when she
had had to assist in seeing to admissions, when they
all had to be bathed and their heads inspected for
dickies and nits. And she had planned that she would
comb her mistress's hair and tie it up on top of her
head. That's if she had any hairpins. She hoped she
would have some, because she hadn't enough to keep
her own hair up, the plaits were so heavy. She had
considered asking her mistress if she could wear her
plaits hanging down. But all these plans would be for
nothing now because of that awful little man in the
house. She already knew that she disliked him; she had
known even before she had struck out at him. And he was
lying when he said he had nipped her . . . backside.

He had grabbed a whole handful of it, and so hard she
had nearly capsized herself before toppling him.
'Look, forget about it.' Bruce broke into her thoughts.
'You'll find he's a different man in the morning. He
always plays the big fellow when he's drunk and carrying
more than usual. Anyway, come along and help me clear
the cart.'
The cart was similar to the one at the house farm, the
one Max had driven. As for the horse, it looked much
older than the animal the workhouse owned.
He was pointing things out now. 'The taties, they
go in the barn, you know. That sack's flour; you keep
that in the scullery; it's cooler there. Oh' - he pulled
a piece of hessian towards him - 'he's managed to get
some yeast. It's gone a bit dry, but it'll be all right
tomorrow. And there'll be tea and sugar in that parcel
there. Here! You take them; and the yeast and the flour.
I'll see to the rest,' and he indicated some bales of hay
and some further sacks. Then he turned towards her and
in a low voice he said, 'Take it in the side door, and then
get up to bed. 'Tis early, I know, but you've had a long
day.'
'What. . . what about the dishes?'
'I'll see to the dishes; and if I don't, they'll still be
there in the morning for you. And, I promise you, things
will be much quieter tomorrow.'
She made no reply.
As he piled the things into her arms, she asked
tentatively, 'Can . . . can anyone get into me?'
'No; and nobody would want to. Anyway, put the bolt
in the door leading out here, then anybody who wants to
get... at you, would have to come through the kitchen,
wouldn't they? And, I can assure you right now, I have
no intention of ... getting at you, even going as far as
to nip your backside. Does that surprise you?'

Yes, it did, really. She peered at him through the
fading light. He was different. That little man back
there and that sickly woman were his parents, but he
was like neither of them; somehow he was different.
She couldn't say he was a gentleman, not like those
in the town who wore collars and ties and had walking
sticks and high hats, or the workhouse guardians who
were supposed to be gentlemen. But as Miss Caplin
had once said, gentlemen is as gentlemen does. No,
this man was certainly not any kind of a gentleman;
but he was different. And what was more surprising,
she felt she could believe what he said . . . whatever he
said, which, in a way, was more surprising still when
she had known him only a matter of hours.
'Good night, Jinnie. Sleep well.'
'Good night, mister.'
Before she had reached the scullery door he was at her
side again, saying softly, 'There's a candle in a stick in
the cupboard to the side of the trough. Light it to see
your way up. But, for God's sake, put it out as soon
as you get your things off. Whatever you do, don't go
to sleep with it on. We nearly had one disaster that way
not long ago. You understand?'
'Yes. Yes. I'll put it out as soon as possible.'
'Good. Good.'
After dropping the parcels on to the table, she found
the tin candle-stick and some matches.
The glow from the tallow candle illuminated the rough
working room and gave to it a homely touch; it could do
nothing for the staircase but emphasise the fact that there
was no rail at the open side. When she had taken her
bundle up earlier on to change her clothes, it had been
something of an achievement, both the mounting of the
steps and the changing, for it was impossible to stand
up under the roof unless you bent your back double.

She had found it easier to kneel. The roof space was
as wide as the room below but much longer and she
guessed that it must also cover one of those outhouses
at the back. Her bed was a straw-filled tick, and the
pillow was the same. And when she lay down on it
she thought back to the workhouse and the flock-filled
pillows which were a luxury compared with this one, for
the straw here and there was pricking her face, as was the
straw from the tick piercing even her calico nightdress.
And she wondered why, until she realised the straw had
been chopped into chaff, presumably to make it more
comfortable for sleeping. But she wasn't finding it so.
She had been staring into the deep blackness of the roof space when, drugged with tiredness and almost
on the point of sleep, she heard her mistress's voice
almost yelling in her ear, as it were. During the few
hours she had been in this house she had imagined
that her mistress was not strong enough to shout; but
she was shouting all right now. She had, earlier, been
aware of a murmur of voices rising and falling; but now,
quite clearly the words came, 'You'll . . . you'll not get
in this bed tonight, Pug Shaleman. I've told you till I'm
sick and tired, I suffer you when you're sober, and I
repeat, suffer you. But I've warned you time and again
not to come near me when you've got a skinful and
act like a frustrated ram. I haven't much strength left,
but I warn you, you attempt to lay your hands on me
this night and I'll gather enough in me to tear you to
shreds. So, you have your choice, as usual: it's the mat
in front of the fire or the barn.'
She was sitting up on the tick now, her head almost
touching the rafters, and once more she was biting
on her thumb. Her mind was telling her that all this
was to do with what Miss Caplin had been talking to
her about. It wasn't absolutely clear, but in some way

it was connected. This was a very odd house, poor,
yet full of strange life, and at this moment she felt
strangely close to her mistress, because she was another
one who didn't want to be handled.
Why did men always want to touch you . . . why?

The next morning she was woken, not by the sound of
the cock, for it must have been crowing for some time,
but by the grating sound of the pump being used. At
the far end of the roof, streaks of light showed that it
was daylight. And now, bending forward, she leant over
the hatch and looked down into the scullery, there to see
Bruce, his body naked to the waist, sluicing his head and
shoulders under the pump. For a moment she watched
his one hand blindly pumping, the other rubbing at his
thick fair hair. When he straightened up she quickly
withdrew her head, only to make contact with a beam,
which made her eyes water. Then she was kneeling on the pallet, pulling off her nightdress and scrambling into her cold shift and the rest of her clothes, which were equally chilled, whilst telling herself that tonight she'd pack her underclothes all round her. She wondered why
she hadn't thought of it before.
She waited until he had left the scullery before she
descended the stairs, keeping tight against the wall as
she did so. Then she, too, was sluicing herself under
the pump, though not her head.
She had no real idea of the time, and wondered
whether she might have slept in and felt she must ask
at what time she had to rise in the morning.
She opened the door into the kitchen very quietly
and, to her surprise, saw the table laid out roughly for
breakfast, with Bruce standing at the fire and staring atthe pot that was bubbling on the hob. He turned an
smiled at her, saying, 'Sleep well?'
'Yes. Yes, thank you.'
'Good. Porridge'll be ready in a minute.'
She looked towards the bed. There was a stool close
to the side of it and on it was the big tin dish from the!
scullery which, yesterday, she had used for washing up
the dishes. The woman was bending over and washing
her arms up to her elbows, and she looked towards Jinnie
as she picked up a towel from the coverlet to dry herself,
and she asked, 'Had a good night, lass?'
'Yes, thank you, missis. But I don't know what time
I should get up.'
'Oh, a little afore this, but not all that much. It's
half-six now. Anyway, sit down and have your porridge
and eat your fill because that's all you'll get till noon,
except for a drink. And I'll tell you now, sometimes
we have our main meal in the middle of the day. But
other times not until the night. It all depends on the
work that's got to be done. You understand?'
'Yes. Yes, missis, and . . . and I'll get up earlier
tomorrow.'
Bruce turned from the fire, saying, 'You haven't got
a clock. Well, I'll be your clock: I'll hammer on the
bit of ceiling below you. That should make you jump.
The only thing is, don't jump too quickly and come
down the steps in your shift.'
When he laughed and her mistress joined in, she was
forced to smile, but was slightly surprised. She hadn't
expected him to say a thing like that; it didn't seem the
kind of remark he would make. And yet, what did she
know of him? Again she had to tell herself, this time
yesterday morning she hadn't known he was alive, nor
his mother, nor anyone else in this strange house, which
wasn't like a house at all when she came to think of it.

'Sit down. Sit down.' He was pointing to the table.
'And don't look so bewildered. The sun's shining, it's
warm and there's no wind. And although it isn't a good
day for running, it's a good day for the ordinary human
being.'
'Oh, Bruce' - this came from his mother - 'you and
your running.'
'D'you like to run?'
Jinnie shook her head before she said, 'I've never run,
well, not really; just when somebody's shouted for me.'
'Oh, that isn't running, that's obedience. Some afternoon
when things are slack and there's nothing to do,
you want to lift up your petticoats and take to your
heels and run across the hills. Try the one behind the
house first.' His head was bobbing backwards now.
Then quickly he said, 'Oh no, you'd better not, for you
were out of puff coming up the little inclines, weren't
you? And that was just walking at a steady pace. You'll
have to break yourself in. Try running back to where
you stood and said you thought the view was bonny.'
'Toilet's Ridge?'
He looked towards the bed now as he nodded, saying,
'Yes, Ma. Toilet's Ridge.'
The woman's voice sounded faint now, because she
was once more leaning back among her pillows. But the
words that came to Jinnie's ears had a sad note, for she
was saying, 'The first time I stood on top of the Ridge.
Oh yes' - she nodded her head - 'the first time I stood on
top of the Ridge. But as they say there's a first time for
everything and an end to a beginning.' Her next words
were quiet: 'Take a bowlful along for him, will you, lad?'
There was no answer to this at first, then Bruce said, 'I
will on my way out. Doubt if he'll be awake yet. Anyway,
with the head he will have on him this morning, he'll be
wishing for more than porridge.'

I

A few minutes later she had finished her breakfast, an
outsize bowl of porridge which tasted slightly salty, but
which had the advantage of being stiff enough to hold
to the spoon, not like the skilly that would run off it,
back in the workhouse. What was more, it had been
covered with a good dollop of milk.
Bruce, she saw, was ready to go. He had on his old
working coat and a pair of breeches, different from the
ones he wore yesterday, for these looked to be made
of strong corduroy and were laced at the sides. They
reached below his knees and their ends met the top of
a pair of high, strong boots. He looked, as she put it to
herself, ready for tramping those hills.
His mother was saying to him, 'Are you bringing any
down?' And he replied, 'Oh, no, not if the weather stays
like this. The grass is lush in parts up there. But that's
the trouble, the more lush patches they find the further
afield they go, and I know I'll have to go well beyond
the boundary of Philip's farm today. I hope they haven't
strayed into the woodlands of the big house.'
'Oh, they would never get that far.'
'Have you forgotten last year, Ma, and Mr Gregory
coming over those hills as quick as a bullet shot from
a gun?'
'Oh, yes. Yes, I forgot.' Then she said, 'Master
Richard should soon be home now from his holiday.
He went the beginning of June, didn't he?'
'Yes, he did. But once Miss May and him get abroad
in France, they forget to come back.'
'It's the first time they've gone away so early. D'you
miss him running with you?'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose so. It's good to have companionship.
But running is running, after all, and you run
for running's sake. Anyway, I must run now, Ma, if
I'm to see how they're faring.'There was a crackle in her laughter, and as he reached
the door, she said, 'Have you got a good pack with you?
It'll be cold up there, you know, no matter what it is
down here.'
'Shoulder of lamb and three pig's feet,' he said, laughing.
Then he beckoned to Jinnie from the door of the
scullery and, there, he said quickly, 'If you hear her
groan, she'll be having a pain. In the left-hand side of
the chest of drawers you'll find a bottle of pills. Give
her one; then take her a mug of hot water. It helps to
melt the tablet quickly. Understand?'
'Yes. Yes. Is ... is she often bad?'
'You never know; now and then. She keeps a lot to
herself. But listen out for that moan. Oh,' he jerked his
chin; 'you'll hear it all right. Now I don't know what
time I'll be back; but it'll be late evening. Anyway,
do what you can inside. Make some bread and that,
my dad'll be seeing to the outside. And take that look
off your face; there's nothin' goin' to happen to you.
You'll find him different altogether this mornin'. Not very polite, perhaps, but you needn't be afraid of any
repeat of last night. Understand?'
'Yes.'
'So long.'
'So long.' . . .
At about ten o'clock she was making her way to the
hen run when, for the first time that day, she encountered
the man who was her master. He seemed to be
even smaller than he had appeared to be last night. And
what she noticed right away, and hadn't taken in before,
was that he limped. The thought came to her that likely
this was the reason he did not go out with his son to see
to the sheep. She waited until he was half-way up a short
ladder before she said, 'Mister, missis says I've got to try
my hand at a bacon and egg pie, and I have no eggs.'


'Well, you know where to find them, don't you?'
She was standing near the side of the ladder, and for
a moment he looked down into her face, and she up
into his. And she knew now why his wife had called
him Pug, for his nose was definitely flat. Yet the rest
of his face could have been pleasant, she decided, if
his eyes hadn't been bleary. She was thinking of the
event of last night when she knocked him on to his
back with her forearm, and she was wondering if he
too was recalling it. And she would have been surprised
to know that he could indeed recall the whole event,
for the amazement he felt had somewhat sobered him.
Yet, looking at her now, he couldn't imagine she had
the strength to knock him over.
'Missis says there's tea on the hob.'
When he didn't answer but went to step up on to
another rung, she said, 'Could I bring you a can out?'
And at this he turned on her sharply, saying, 'No you won't bring me a can out; if I want tea, I know where
If to get it.'
She stepped back from the ladder, her chin jerking
now, then made her way towards the hen crees. She
collected nine eggs from the boxes and when she returned
to the kitchen, she said to her mistress, 'There
were only nine. Some of the hens looked to me as if
they are moulting. I used to feed the chickens at one
time, in the house, and they never laid when they were
moulting.'
'Nine?' Rose Shaleman smiled and repeated, 'Nine?
If you had been there a little earlier you might have
found thirteen, or even fourteen. Raw eggs straight from
the shell go a long way towards relieving a headache,
especially after the sort of load he had on last night.'
It seemed natural to Jinnie that her mistress should
refer to her husband as 'he'.The rest of the morning passed pleasantly, with questions
and answers, such as, how much pig's fat you
should put in the flour to make the pastry? And was
it to be thick or thin on the bottom plate?
Having covered three large plates with her pastry, she was then instructed to cut from the ham twelve large thin slices, and to divide them with the eggs, among the three plates, and to cover each with pastry.
As the oven would hold only two plates at any one
time, the third had to wait its turn.
Following this, her mistress guided her through the
making of bread ... a different way altogether from that which the lady of the town had shown her.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon before she took the last loaf and a number of bread buns out of the oven, and as she stood looking at the array of her efforts on
the table, she smiled widely, and her smile was picked
up by the woman in the bed. 'Well done, lass,' she said;
'I couldn't have done better meself. Now do something
else for me. Split open three of those bread buns and
lather them with fat. Then cut a generous shive from one
of your plates and put it on a platter and brew up a can of
tea and take the lot out to himself. Will you do that?'
'Yes, missis. Yes.'
Although she had quickly agreed to the suggestion,
she felt more than a little nervous as, the can in one hand
and a large plate covered by a piece of clean white linen
in the other, she approached the man who was now in
the barn. And the sight of him brought a feeling of pity
to her. He was sitting on a box and was sewing the side
of a sack with string, using a large curved needle.
Again they were looking at each other face to face,
for now, seated, his head was almost on a level with
hers.
'Missis says, will you kindly taste these?' Jinnie said.

He put out a hand and raised the cloth; then, dropping
the cloth and picking up the can, he surprised
her by saying, 'You gonna stay?'
There was a long pause before she answered, 'If I
can.'
'You get on all right with the missis?'
'Oh yes. Yes. Yes, we get on all right.'
Again he was staring into her face. Now he asked,
'How old are you, really?'
'Fourteen, coming up fifteen in three weeks' time;
July twenty-first.'
'You don't look it; not fourteen.'
He again took the cloth off the plate and this time
handed it to her. Then picking up the slice of bacon
and egg pie, he bit into it. And she stood and watched
him, waiting for a word of approval on her achievement.
But what he said was, 'Come winter, it won't be as easy
as now. Think on that. Everything's plummy in this
weather, but come winter it'll change and you'll feel it
an' all.' Again, he bit into the pie, and as she went to turn
away, she said, 'Well, I hope I'm here to feel it, mister.
Yes, yes, I do.' And on this she walked from the barn.
She still felt sorry for him, but she didn't know why.
And he hadn't said if he liked the pie or not. But then he
wasn't Bruce, so he wouldn't say, would he? She realised
she was looking forward to Bruce's return and to hearing
his opinion of her day's work.
But before Bruce came home they had another visitor.
As she rounded the end of the building she was
brought to a stop by the sight of a man dismounting
from a large horse standing opposite the cottage
door. She remained still while she watched him look
around.
On seeing her, he said, 'Oh . . . Good-afternoon.
Is ... Is Bruce anywhere about?'

She went quickly forward now, saying, 'He's . . .
he's gone to see to the sheep, sir. But his father's in
the stable,' and she thumbed over her right shoulder;
then she added, 'But his mother's in the kitchen. She's
. . . well, she's not . . .'
'Yes, I know.'
She now hurried forward and pushed open the cottage
door then stepped aside to allow him to enter. But he
came no further than the step, and from there he said,
'Good afternoon, Mrs Shaleman.'
'Oh, good afternoon to you, Master Richard. You're
back then.'
'Yes, I'm back.'
'Have you enjoyed your holiday?'
'Indeed, yes. It was a lovely time.'
'Bruce'll be glad to know you're back, sir. He'll be up
beyond the peak today.'
'Oh, well, I'll ride that way. How are you feeling?'
'Oh, not too bad, sir, not too bad.'
He paused for some seconds before his eyes seemed
to flicker about the room, and then he asked, 'Would
you like some fruit sent up?'
'Oh, it's very kind of you, sir, but that would be putting The House to a lot of trouble.'
'No trouble at all. From what I could see in the gardens yesterday, much of the soft fruit is going bad
for want of picking. Well, goodbye, Mrs Shaleman. If I
shouldn't happen to come across Bruce, tell him I called
and I'm ready for a run, will you?'
'Oh, sir, surely you wouldn't want to be running in weather like this, unless you really had to.'
'There's always the dawn, Mrs Shaleman. There's no sensation like running in the dawn, as your son only too
well knows. Goodbye now. I'll be seeing you again.'
'Goodbye, Master Richard. Goodbye, sir.'As he stepped into the road and walked towards
his horse, Jinnie, closing the door behind her, stood
looking after him. She had never seen anyone so thin.
Bruce was thin, but this young man was thinner still.
He had a lovely skin. His face was deeply tanned and
the colour merged with his eyes, which were a darker
brown still. She was thinking that his liking for running
must have taken all the fat off his bones, when he turned
about and said, 'You're new here?'
'Yes, mister . . . sir.'
He was about to put his foot into the stirrup when
he hesitated and, as if the thought had just struck him,
asked, 'You are a relation?'
'Oh, no, sir.' She shook her head quickly. 'No, not
me. I'm no relation, I'm . . .' She could not say, I'm
from the house. It was too deprecating, too lowering,
as she put it; you were always known as a pauper if you
came from the house. She'd heard that often enough,
and she was determined that she wasn't ever going to be
a pauper, because that meant not having enough money
to look after yourself and keep away from the house.
And wasn't that another funny thing? It must have been
this gentleman's home to which the missis was referring
when she mentioned The House. She hadn't said Manor
House or Hall, just The House.
He had mounted his horse before he spoke again, and
then it was a statement. 'You are engaged here to work,
then?'
'Yes, sir, to work, cook, like, and clean and look after
Mrs Shaleman.'
It looked as if he were about to shake his head, but he
smiled at her and said, 'Well, see that you work hard;'
then he pressed his heel into the horse's flank and it
moved off. And she moved from the door to stand in
the middle of the rough stone path, watching him until





I he disappeared round the curve of a hill, her thoughts
tumbling over each other. Fancy him coming to look
up Mr Bruce! As nice as Mr Bruce was, she had told
herself before that he was no gentleman, not in that sense. But the rider just gone, he was a gentleman
all right. Yet he was so thin. It was a good job he
wasn't over-tall, else he would look like a lamp post.
Fancy him actually calling here, though, for it was "a
poor enough place, inside and out. Everything in that
room was made of wood, one way or another, except
for the iron stove, of course. And it must be some long
time since the rough brick walls had been lime-washed.
As for the outside, as far as she could see nothing could
be done to alter its appearance as something little more
than a hovel set in a plain of rugged, sparse grassland.
Why any man should want to build on a piece of land
like this, she could not understand. Shale they called
it. And that's where his family got its name from, she
supposed: Shaleman. Miss Caplin once said that all
names sprang from places and things.
'Jinnie.'
She turned quickly about and opened the kitchen door
and rushed in, saying, 'Yes, missis? Yes, missis?'

'Why were you standing there like a stook? I could
see you through the window. Were you so surprised at
the gentry deigning to call on the likes of us?'
'No, missis. No. Only, he is so thin.'
'Thin?'
'Yes; that's what struck me about him; he is very
thin.' She laughed softly now. 'It made me think. In
the Bible it says that a rich man hasn't any chance
of getting into heaven, no more than a camel getting
through the eye of a needle.'
'Oh, you tell that one to Bruce and he'll explain to
you all about that eye of a needle. They were, I think,

referring to the eye of a farm needle that pins down the
cover on the huge haystacks. It was the size of a man
himself.'
'Really? No funnin'?'

'No funnin', really.'
The woman in the bed was laughing now, but the
sound she was making ceased suddenly and her face
became straight. 'Come here, lass,' she said holding out
her hand.
When Jinnie stood by the bedside the woman took her
hand and, looking into her face, said, 'Tell me truly, was
it only yesterday you came into this house?'
Jinnie was smiling softly now as she answered, 'Yes,
missis, it was only yesterday. But to me I seem to have
been here a long time.'
'Yes, lass, yes, a long time, because I'll tell you something:
you brought something to it. I don't know what
it is, but you brought something to it.'
'Well, missis, it won't be bad, 'cos I never wish anyone
bad.' Her head drooped now. 'Oh yes, I did,' she now
confessed, 'and I still do in a way.'
'Who d'you wish bad on, lass?'

The voice was a murmur as she said, The last
mistress.'
The hand was dropped, and now the fingers came
under her chin and jerked her head upwards and Rose
Shaleman asked in surprise, 'You hated your last mistress?
What for?'
' 'Cos . . . 'cos she lied about her man. Her man tried
to handle me and I went at him like . . . like I did last
night.' The head was inclined to droop again but the
fingers kept it up. 'But she swore, the mistress, and
said it was me who made what she called advances
to her husband when he was having a nap. She even
came to the house,' and as if to differentiate between

the two houses she added, 'the workhouse, and told
the matron and the only people who didn't believe her
were Miss Caplin and Max.'
'Max?'
'Yes, he's the man who brought me on the cart. He's a
good man. Very, very big. He's always been on my side.
He looked after me when he could.'
'Is he an old man?'
'Oh no, no. I don't know. He's aged, I should think,
about thirty.'
Aged . . . about thirty. The woman was smiling now,
saying, 'Well, lass, I'm going to tell you something.
Here's another one that believes you. Did you leave a
mark on him? Because you nearly left a mark on my
man last night.'
'Yes, I did. I dug my fingers in his neck, because he
just had a night-shirt on. But then he wore high stiff
collars during the day.'
Rose Shaleman lay back on her pillows now, and again
the eiderdown was moving up and down quickly as she said, 'Well, lass, the next one that lays a hand on you
in that way . . . the wrong way, you know, you leave the
mark where it can be seen. Eh?'
'Yes, I will, missis, I will.' The laughter now trailed
off from her voice as she muttered, 'I don't like to be
touched, I mean, handled. Max never handled me. I
... I never knew you could be handled until I went
to that place.'
The woman was nodding her head now, and her face
was solemn as she said, 'Well, prepare yourself, lass, 'cos
I can promise you this; you'll be handled a lot in your
lifetime whether you like it or not. I think you've got
something about you that'll make men want to handle
you in one way or another. But let's pray that the
majority of the handling will come in a good way, eh?'

Jinnie was some time in agreeing with this and then,
with a puzzled expression on her face, she said, 'Aye,
missis. Aye.'
'Well now--' changing the conversation abruptly, Mrs
Shaleman said, 'there'll be somebody glad to know
Mister Richard's back. And that'll be our Bruce. He's
missed him; he always does.'
'Is he the one he goes running with?' There was surprise
in Jinnie's tone, and some pride in her mistress's
as she answered, 'Go running with him? Yes, he does,
and has done for many a year, ever since he got back
on his legs. Oh--' And now the woman closed her eyes
and jerked her head before she explained, 'Well, you see,
it was like this. I know it must seem strange to you, a
fella like our Bruce, and mind' - the ringer was digging
at her now - 'there's not a better or straighter fella than
my son. Yet, I'm sensible enough to know there's gulfs
all over the world. There's a lot of them in this neck of
the woods, and they separate people. And it's surprised
more than you that my lad goes running with the son
of The House. But they owe my lad more than they
can pay. You see, it should happen that the young lad,
home from his boarding school, was lost one night. The
horse goes home, but there's no Master Richard on it.
They searched until they were forced to stop and to wait
for daylight. But not so my Bruce; he went on because
there's nobody knows holes and corners like he does, and
he knows them as well in the dark as in the light. Once,
when he was four years old he was lost in the hills for
hours before he came toddling in and, as cool as you like,
said he was hungry. Anyway, to cut a long story much
shorter, as far as I can gather Master Richard must have
ridden well up before being thrown by his horse, and
this was into a gully, a deceiving gully full of nooks and
crannies. And it was here my Bruce found him on the

freezing ground. Well, Bet wasn't with Bruce this time;
that was Flossie's mother; she had worn her legs off with
running all day and was lying up, although I bet she was
wide awake, as she always was for him till the day she
died. Anyway, what did he do? As he said himself, he
hugged Master Richard to try to make him melt and
to bring him round, and then he pulled him up and on
to his back and, crawling and slithering and stumbling
in the dark, he brought him home. If he hadn't known
the path so well they both would have died. When they
reached the courtyard he collapsed an' all, and he lay
in The House for four days before we could bring him
back here. His hands and knees had been torn, but I
am telling you he was very lucky to get off with his life
that time; but Master Richard, he developed rheumatic
fever and he was in bed for nearly a year.'
'Nearly a year?'
'Yes, lass, nearly a year; and they thought he would
never walk again. His legs were like spindles and his
body not much thicker, but our Bruce told him he'd
soon be running. You see, the young lad had demanded
to see--' here she paused before, her tone full of bitterness,
she went on, 'Pug Shaleman's son. You see, Pug
weren't thought much of in those days, 'cos this place
was a pigsty all right, then. Pug's people were bone lazy,
both of them, and I was brought into this house because
I had nowhere else to go.' She now turned her face fully
on Jinnie and said, 'I got drunk one day at the fair, like
the rest. When I was let out for my full day off, half-year
time, I always went mad. I'd worked in the kitchen from
when I was eight in that very house, the very house in
which my son was later to be openly welcomed by their
son, but at that time, lass, I was considered something
lower than you'd find under a stone. Oh yes, lower than
that. On that fair day, I was just on sixteen and I met,

one Pug Shaleman, and when I came to my senses
some months later and found myself going to have a
bairn, me own people from near Bardon Mill pointed
the way, and not with a finger but with me dad's boot,
and its direction was to the workhouse. But there was
Pug waiting, 'cos he had guessed what would happen;
and him the size he was and not presentable in many
ways, he saw that my predicament was going to stand
him in good stead: he'd have a wife and someone who
would skivvy for him and his people. And that's how
it happened; that's how I came into this pigsty. And
it must look like that to you now, but imagine what it
looked like to me in those days, almost twenty-seven
years ago.' She paused and pressed her head back into
the pillow, and Jinnie stood staring at her.
She could find nothing to say; it was such a strange
story. Everybody's life had a story, that's what Miss
Caplin had said, but this was a strange, sad story, and
she felt further saddened when her mistress spoke again,
saying, 'My elder son Hal is twenty-six. He's like his
father in many ways, but not in looks and size, and I
tell you, girl, before you meet him, you won't like him.
He's a rough character. He's a heavy drinker and woman
chaser. I say this to put you on your guard; and yet I have
no fear for you in that direction.' She turned her head on
the pillow now and smiled at Jinnie as she added, 'No;
no fear for you, for I can see you dying before you'd let
the wrong man lay hands on you.'
Jinnie felt a great heat sweep over her, like a sweat
she used to experience during a day of stone-flagged
corridor scrubbing back in the workhouse. Then her
own words surprised her when she said, 'Bruce is not
like that, missis; he's different . . . Why? How?'
'You ask why, girl . . . you ask how ..." and Rose Shaleman looked away again from Jinnie, saying, 'Yes,he is different, and thank God for it. Oh yes, thank God
for it. I've got little to thank God for in this life but
I do for my Bruce, and you know why I called him
Bruce?' She turned her head again to look at Jinnie,
whose own head was shaking.
'Because I'd once heard a parson preaching. You see,
we were taken to church every Sunday on the wagon, so
I learned something about the Bible. Anyway, I don't
suppose this fella belonged to the Bible, but they called
him Bruce. He was a king, I think, and was running away
from his enemies and he had little chance of escaping.
But then he saw a spider and as he watched it, twice it
failed to stick its silken thread to the wall, but off it went
for a third time, and this time the thread stuck. I think
that's where the saying comes from: if at first you don't
succeed, try, try, try again. Have you heard that one?'
'No, missis.'
'Oh well, that's what Cook used to say in the kitchen
down there when she would take the rolling-pin and
bring it across my knuckles for not being able to swivel
a big pie dish on one hand and trim the pastry edges
with a knife on the other. I always made a mess of it,
and she always made a mess of me afterwards. I suppose
I wasn't such a quick learner as you are, girl. You're a
very quick learner. You know that?'
'Thank you, missis.'
'Well now, don't you think we've gossiped enough for
one day? The mister will come in for his meal all right
tonight, so we'll have it no later than seven. Bruce's
will keep, as it's a stew, and dumplings don't rot. But
let me tell you first that tomorrow you must get your
hand into real work and get down to the washing. It's
always a heavy day, the washing here, but you might be
lucky; the weather might hold and a wind might come
up. That's what I used to pray for every week; the sun

and the wind together, to bring the clothes-line alive.'
The sun and the wind to bring the clothes-line alive.
A strange saying, thought Jinnie; but nice.
She was about to turn away when a thought struck her,
and she gave voice to it by asking, 'Does the gentleman
still run with Mister Bruce?'
'Oh yes, whenever he's home. They've run together
for years; but . . .' and now she turned her head completely
away and looked towards the rough wall to the
right side of her, and muttered, 'People change; they
forget what they owe you. The lad doesn't, I'm sure.
He's one of them that doesn't see the gulf as his people
do. That's why the baskets haven't come regular since
he went away on his holidays. No. You'll see, they'll
start again. Oh yes, they'll start again.'
She didn't go on to explain about the baskets, so
Jinnie, thinking ahead as she was wont to do, went into
the scullery and sorted out the heap of dirty washing
., that spoke to her of immense neglect and proffered an explanation for the chest of drawers being practically
empty. She sorted the clothing into heaps: rough sheets and towels; an assortment of men's shirts and small
clothes; and the woman's undergarments, badly stained
and just as rough. And when the sorting was finished she
stood looking down at the piles of washing and sighed
as she, too, hoped for sun and wind on the morrow.
Every article here was like its surroundings, rough and
coarse. If it hadn't already been discoloured or stiff
when it was bought, it had gained this characteristic
with wear and tear over the years.
No; there was no refinement here.
Her mind sprang back to the workhouse. In comparison,
in a way, that place had been sort of genteel,
for there had always been the voice and mannerisms
of Miss Caplin that spoke of an air of refinement, of

another world from that in which she worked; that
which emanated from her made everything in her vicinity
appear pleasant. And then there was Max.
Could she use the word 'refinement' when thinking
of Max? She had questioned the word 'gentleman' in
connection with him some time back, yet now, in some
way, she knew he was a gentleman; and yes, there was
something different about him. He was big and ugly and
gangly, yet at the same time these three things merged
into love and kindness, and surely love and kindness
should be coupled with refinement. Oh, she wished she
had someone to talk to and to explain things to her.
Suddenly she pulled open the door leading from the
scullery to outside, and stood looking up into the sky;
and there came over her a longing to see Miss Caplin
and Max again. She could hear herself talking to
them and telling them all about the strangeness, the
mixture, and the lowliness of this place. Yet this lowliness
had been touched by the presence of the gentry.

She had been here for ten days; yet it could have been
ten weeks, ten months, even ten years, for the pattern of
the evenings had stayed the same. At times she couldn't
recall how she had spent the evenings in the workhouse.
Except for that particular evening when the sow had
littered, here the routine was unvaried: the last meal
of the day was usually around seven o'clock. If Bruce
was late getting back from the hills, she kept his meal
warm in the oven, but should he sit down with his
father and her, after they had eaten, the table would
be cleared and she would wash the crocks. Afterwards
she would clean the oilcloth with a damp rag, then dry
it off; the mister would then go to the chest of drawers,
take out a pack of cards and proceed to spread half
of them in decreasing rows on the table. Bruce had
told her it was a game that required patience and that
was why it was called Patience, but that there were
many variations of it. Yet his father had always played
this particular form. Some evenings he would sit for
two hours and play his cards but not open his mouth,
the while his wife and son would carry on a desultory
conversation about the happenings of the day or the
titbits he had picked up from Peter Locke the drover.
She herself never attempted to join in the conversation.
She would sit by the fire, but was never idle. There were
sheets to patch and stockings to darn. She was quite a
good sewer but not so proficient at darning, and the

stockings she found she was expected to darn had soles
on them almost as tough as leather.
But this particular evening the routine changed. In
fact, the whole day had been different. It had started
at breakfast time when Bruce said to his father, 'You'll
have to see to those lower fields, I can't be in three places
at once, and until those walls are mended on the high
bank there's no way of stopping the sheep straying, and
you know that, and you know where they'll stray to.'
At this his father had replied, 'Well, you would have
them marked, wouldn't you?' and Bruce had answered,
'Aye, yes; and that works both ways. I'd rather be
ordered to come and retrieve our scum from The
House grounds than have Stevens swear black was
white that they were his: Look there! with his mark
on them. Well, it's our mark that's on them. And by
the way, when you next see Arthur Stead you'd better
see what he wants for that young collie; Flossie's getting
on; she's not as fast as she was.'
'You're telling your granny how to suck eggs.'
'I wouldn't have to tell you how to suck eggs if there
wasn't such a thing as market day and you were wanting
to show off,' and at this Bruce had turned and stalked
out.
But this evening all was peaceful in the kitchen. The
mistress was sitting up in bed looking at the illustrations
in an old magazine that Bruce had brought in. It was the
kind of magazine that he would never have bought and
she guessed its source. She looked a different woman to
the one Jinnie had first seen lying in that bed: now she
was wearing a clean nightie, her hair had been brushed
and combed, and what is more, only that morning
Jinnie had washed her down, after having explained
to her that she used to help bath the newcomers into
the workhouse, in some cases introducing their bodies

to water for the first time. Moreover, she had found
a patchwork quilt in the corner of the bedroom loft
above the kitchen, and had washed this and replaced
the soiled one on the wall bed.
The silence that had settled on the room for some
minutes was broken by Pug Shaleman saying, as if to
no-one in particular, 'I'd prepare for a bedmate if I was
you the night, well, if not the night, soon then.'
It was almost thirty seconds before his son said, 'How
did you come by that?'
'Oh, from Peter Locke. He was passing up the stile
road and he hailed me in the top field. He'd just come
back from Newcastle; been on the road the last couple
of days. Happened to mention The Admiral was due in
last night, in fact he said it was just stuck outside Shields
waiting for the high tide. There's still sandbanks there
after all that dredging. I'll go down to Shields and have
a look round one of these days. Yes . . . yes, I will.' And
he picked a card up from one end of the pile on the table
and placed it at the other end.
'What time did you see Peter?'
'What?' Pug Shaleman raised his head with a jerk as
if he hadn't heard what his son had said, and repeated,
'What?'
Bruce's reply was slow-worded: 'I asked you what
time you saw Peter.'
'Oh. Oh, well, it was early on, nineish, I should say.
Yes, that's what I said, nineish.'
Bruce was on his feet now and standing at the other
side of the table and looking down on his father's bent
head: 'You never thought, I suppose, of getting word to
Hal at the mine?' he said.
'Why should I think about getting word to Hal at the
mine?'
Jinnie almost jumped in her chair at the sound of

Bruce's voice. It vibrated round the room in something
between a shout and a scream as he yelled,' Because you
bloody well might have stopped your son from being
murdered. Sammy Valasquey would be quite capable
of it if he found him in the house; and God knows what
would happen if he found them together.'
'My God! Listen to who's talking.' The small man had
pushed back the chair now and was standing supporting
himself by his two clenched fists pressing on the table.
'You'd think, to hear you, you were bosom pals, best
friends, when you hate the bloody sight of him; and
what he thinks about you would get another man hung.
Yet you go for me for not getting word to him to
look out for his whore's man popping in. But let me
tell you that Valasquey will get him one day, in the
daylight or dark, and for my part, I hope he does.
He's spent more money on his whoring than would
have kept the wolf from this door many a time. He
only comes here when there's not a bed open to him
in one village or the other, or when things get too hot
for him, and a lot of the beds will have cooled to him
while Valasquey's been away.'
'He's always tipped up at the weekends he's come
back,' Bruce reminded his father. 'And don't forget
there were years before he went rowdy that he tipped
up his wages every week to Ma, there, and, if you
remember, you slept it off more often in the barn in
those days. Anyway, when he turns up why don't you
tell him to get the hell out of it, to go and find lodgings
somewhere, or to pick up with one of his other bed
warmers? There are a few widows about down there
who'd welcome him with open arms, I know that, so why
does he come back here? You wouldn't know, would
you? But I'll tell you why he comes back, because you,
who's never given a thought to anybody in your life but

yourself, happen to be his father, and that woman on
the bed from which she's hardly been able to move
for the past three years, is his mother, and me, as
much as he hates the sight of me, I happen to be
his brother, and this mean, uncomfortable stone spot,
stuck out here in the wilds, is what is called his home,
and it's the word "home" that has the pull. Well, that's
my version of why he comes back here; but you, until
the day you die, will never understand a word of what
I'm saying - you never have - because if you dislike
anybody more than you do him, it's me. But let me tell
you, I only stay here because of her,' and he stabbed his
finger towards the bed. 'If she wasn't here you could go
to hell, or to where that child has recently come from,
the workhouse, because you've never in your life worked
to keep yourself and you never will.'
'You finished?' The small man was again on his feet,
and his voice was ominously quiet now as he said, 'I'll
remember all you've said, lad, and I won't forget this
night. Oh aye, I'll remember this night; and there'll
come another night when I'll tell you something.' He
now turned and looked towards the bed and said, 'It'll
keep.' And with this, he went slowly from the room,
leaving Bruce with his head bent deeply on his chest
and his hands gripping the back of a chair.
'You shouldn't have said all that, lad.' His mother's
voice was just above a whisper. 'He knows what he is
without it being rammed home.'
At this Bruce swung round to her and hissed, 'What
if Valasquey had found him there? There would've
been murder done, and he could've prevented it.
He's walked the three miles to the mine many a
time before when looking to crib a sub, the times
when he was craving for a drink. He could've got
to him today but he wants him bashed up, as he

does me too. He can't do it himself but he'd enjoy
seeing somebody else having a go.'
'Life must be galling for him.'
'Ma, after what he's put you through all the years I
can look back upon, it amazes me that you can lie there
and take his part.'
'I'm not taking his part, lad, I never have. I've got
me own thoughts about him, and only God knows what
they are, and I hope I may be forgiven for them some
day, but that doesn't stop me from understanding how
he feels.' Her voice rose now as she added, 'Just look
at you both. You are as different from him as chalk
from cheese in all ways. Yes, yes; and thank God for
that,' she now muttered. Then nodding her head, she
went on, 'And look at Hal, the size of him, the breadth
of him, he hates Hal more than he hates you. And
that's strange. Oh yes, that's strange. It's because he
knows that Hal is like himself inside, so they know
each other for what they are.'
'And me?' The question was asked quietly, and after
a moment she answered it: 'You're a different kettle of
fish.'
He made a strange rasping sound in his throat before
he said,' Yes, I thought I might be.' Then almost startling
the wits out of Jinnie, he turned and yelled at her, 'What
are you standing there gaping for?'
As if she had been lifted bodily from the room, Jinnie
found herself standing in the dark scullery, her back
against the door, gasping as if she had actually been
flung out of the kitchen.
There must be a nasty streak in Bruce, too; look how
he had gone for his father. She didn't like his father, yet
she had felt sorry for him; but just in a way, because he
wasn't a nice man. But why should Bruce bawl at her?
She had done nothing and she wasn't gaping.

Again she had a longing to hear Miss Caplin's voice
or to look on Max. There had always been something
soothing about Max. You always felt calm when you
were with him; inside, that is. He seemed to know about
things, and he straightened them out in his hesitant
fashion. Oh, at this moment how she wished she was
back in the workhouse.
Then the thought of what that would mean took her
from the door and up the steep steps, and once under
the roof she lay on her pallet just as she was.
At the end of every day she was so tired she would be
asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, and
tonight was no exception. Dressed as she was, she fell
into a deep sleep.
How long she had been asleep she didn't know, but
she awoke, realising first, that she was fully dressed,
and secondly, that there were people talking, and quite
close by. She raised herself up on her elbow and looked
towards the open hatch. Were they down there?
But no - she swung round on to her knees now the
voices were coming from just beyond her head, at
least, one voice was, and immediately she realised that it
wasn't Bruce's. This voice was thickly guttural, yet there
was a touch of laughter in it. 'The old bugger meant me
to be caught. If it hadn't been for Peter coming out of
his way to tip me the wink and knowing he wouldn't
lose by it, Sammy would likely have done for me by
now. I can hold me own, you know, like the best of
'em, but Sammy's Sammy. I have known some fathers
but ours is a stinker all right and I wouldn't have realised
he knew anything about Sammy's coming if the old boy
hadn't remarked that he had seen me da earlier on. Well,
you know, all day after that, Bruce lad, I kept waiting,
but not a hair of him did I see. By God! one of these
days!' The voice had risen and then again, 'By God!

one of these days!' And now she recognized Bruce's
voice saying, 'Quiet, man! Keep it down.'
'Oh, they can't hear over this range, they never have.'
'No, they never have, but there's a lass next door.'
'Oh!' The voice came very low to her now. 'A lass?
That's why this midden seemed to be different tonight.
And I wondered about the new bread. What's she like?'
'She's just a child.'
'A child? Huh! Some child, I should imagine, to make
an impression on this place.'
'Be quiet! will you.'
There was silence now and gradually she drew off her
clothes and put on a cold nightgown. She was just about
to lay her head down on the pillow again when the gruff
voice said, 'How d'you stand it here, Bruce, day after
day? Oh, I know there's Ma, but there's women in the
village who'd be glad to take over and look after her.'
The reply was a hiss: 'There are no women in the
village who would be glad to take over looking after her.
We tried three of them before the lass came.'
'Well, well!' There was another pause; then, 'And
she's from the workhouse?'
'Yes, she's from the workhouse.'
'Well, all I can say, lad, having been brought up in this
hovel, there's many worse places than the workhouse.'
'Ma can't help being sickly.'
'No, she can't, but it's gone on for a long time, hasn't
it, and even when she wasn't sickly she didn't like work.'
'All right, all right. Get yourself off to sleep.'
Jinnie lay staring into the blackness. That other one
was suggesting that his mother wasn't all that sick, and
had never been overclean. It was a funny house. She
wished . . . oh, yes she wished . . . She didn't know
what she wished . . . She was so tired. Once again she
fell asleep . . .

The next morning she was in the kitchen when Hal
Shaleman made his appearance. He stood in the doorway
scratching his head while looking at his brother,
who was sitting at the table fully dressed for going out
and finishing his breakfast. Then he looked towards the
bed where the two figures lay. Lastly, at the girl with
the porridge pan in her hand. They stared at each other
for a moment, before he said, 'No skilly for me. Give us
a mug of tea.'
As Jinnie went to lift the teapot from the side hob
there was movement in the bed, and she turned swiftly
and saw the mister clambering over his wife, and at this,
she put the teapot quickly back on the hob and hurried
from the room.
'Look!' Hal was shouting after her, 'I want . . .'
'Pour it out yourself,' Bruce said harshly.
'What the hell!'
'She always disappears when he gets out of bed: he's
no pretty sight for anybody to watch.'
'Oh, dear! dear! Aren't we getting finicky now! You
say she's only a child, but child or no child, she's paid
to work, isn't she?'
'Yes; and she earns her pay, but that doesn't include
waiting on you. The teapot's there; your mug's on
the table; all you've got to do is to introduce one to the
other.'
'Oh, now we're coming out with our fancy phrases,
aren't we? But I'll do it, brother, I'll do it.'
Jinnie would always busy herself in the scullery until
she heard the mister go out of the house and towards the
midden; then she would return to the kitchen. However,
this morning she did not follow this pattern. Instead,
after sorting the dirty clothes, she half-filled the poss
tub with water and was putting the sheets in to soak
when the door opened and Hal, in a high-falutin' tone,

said, 'Will it be in order, miss, that I come in and wash
my face at your sink?'
She made no reply; but when she went to pass him
and he put his hand out towards her back, she leaped
forward, then turned on him, yelling, 'Don't you touch
me, mister!'
'God in heaven! What have we here? I wasn't going
to touch you.'
'Oh yes you were. Like your father, you were going to
nip me. Oh yes, you were.' She stood glaring at him as,
leaning back against the trough, he rocked with laughter.
Then this suddenly ceasing, and his voice normal
sounding, he cried at her, 'They should've put you in a
bloody nunnery, not sent you out to skivvy. Get out!'
He was further amazed when she did not instantly
move at his bidding, but defiantly walked back to the
poss tub, picked up the poss stick, then pounced it three
times until the clothes were under the water. After finishing
the job she had started, she passed him again, this
time keeping her eyes fixed on him, only to be greeted,
as she entered the kitchen, with a burst of laughter.
Different laughter this. Bruce was looking towards her
and shaking his head; then, taking his cap from the back
of the door, he thrust it on his head and, still grinning,
nodded towards her and said, 'You'll do.'
She didn't know exactly what that meant, but on
looking towards his mother, it was to find the missis
staring straight ahead. Whether she too had been laughing,
she didn't know, but the woman was giving nothing
away.
Jinnie went to the stove, picked up the pan and
scraped the remainder of the porridge into a bowl.
There wasn't a great deal left, but that was her fault:
she knew she should have put more oats in, but last
night, as usual, she had measured out just enough for

three; the mister never ate porridge but the new addition
had helped himself apparently.
The missis did not speak to her elder son until he
was about to leave the house, when she called to him,
'Should we expect to see you the night?'
He stepped back from the doorway and answered,
'You should, Ma, you should, but I may not be as sober
as I was last night. That was an exception, don't you
think?' And then he, too, was gone.
And so the day had begun, and it ended in much the
same way as the day before! Hal came home sober but
although Jinnie tried to keep awake and listen, she did
not hear him talk to his brother in the bed beyond her
head.
Only once during the following week did she hear,
through the wall, an exchange between them, and then
the voices were muffled and she couldn't make out what
either of them was saying on that particular night . . .
In later years she was to wonder if the warning voice she seemed to be aware of in the night was that of her father talking to her, or of Miss Caplin, or of Max,
but since Hal had taken to coming home every night
she had taken the precaution of extracting the dinner
knife from her father's pouch.
On this particular night Hal had not returned home
before she went to bed, and when eleven o'clock came
Bruce had said, 'The boat must have sailed,' and his
mother had added, 'Aye; so get yourself to bed. You can
leave the door on the latch; he still may come staggering
in if he's had a skinful, and in that case he won't make
the ladder, he'll sleep on the mat.'
So they settled down for the night.
Jinnie had been dreaming: She was sitting in the
workhouse cart, with Miss Caplin on one side of her
and Max on the other and they were jogging along a

country road; but there was no sign of a horse pulling
the cart, and they all knew this and were laughing
about it; then a strange thing happened. They were
in an old shed and Max picked her up by the collar
of her dress and hung her from the bough of a tree, and
said to her, 'You are the apple of my eye,' and they all
laughed again. Then her hair began to fall out and her
two plaits dropped on to Max's shoulders. Next, two
hands came from behind the tree and gripped her neck
before moving down to her legs and the gripping pain
brought her awake, wide awake.
A real hand now was gripping her thigh and another
was groping at her face, aiming to smother her screaming.
At the same time as, with one hand, she endeavoured
to free her mouth, the other grabbed her dada's knife
from under the pillow, and as she blindly drove it home
her whole body was lifted from the bed by the scream
that rang through the rooftop, followed by a yelling and
curses as someone tumbled down the stone steps.
She lay gasping, one hand on her throat, the other
still clutching the knife. She was aware of a commotion
in the roof-space behind her, then curses and the yelling
voice of the missis.
There was a nicker of candlelight coming through the
hatch, and she leaned forward and looked down to where
Hal was lying in a huddle at the foot of the steps. He was
gripping his wrist, and there was blood pouring over his
hands.
'In the name of God! what is it?' It was the missis's
voice coming from the other room; and when no answer
was forthcoming, she yelled, 'What's happened? Is it the
girl?'
Then Bruce was answering her: 'No, it's not the girl,
but the result of her handiwork on your son; to my
mind, getting what he asked for.''You shut your bloody mouth and get me up! I've
twisted me foot; and look, I'll bleed to death.'
As Bruce helped his brother to his feet, he imagined
his words might indeed come true, for there was so much
blood spilling from the joined hands. He now helped
him into the kitchen and lowered him on to a chair
placed so that he could put his hands on the table.
'Light the lamp.'
'I haven't got two pairs of hands, Ma; I've got to try to
stop this,' and he indicated the blood that was spreading
on to the table.
Rose Shaleman's voice now almost rocked the house
as she screamed, 'You! girl. You! girl. Come down
here!'
The sound seemed to release the stiffness of Jinnie's
body as, gasping, she bent over and dragged her coat
across the floorboards towards her and after pushing her
arms into it and buttoning the neck, she pulled her boots
on to her bare feet and descended the steps.
At the kitchen door, she stiffened again, but the missis
simply yelled at her: 'Light the lamp, girl, and get the
fire going.'
Like a bewildered rat, she scurried to the table and
lit the lamp after first having almost upset it. Then, her
mind in a whirl, she blew the embers of the fire into a
blaze and thrust the kettle on.
'Get that piece of calico from the top drawer and tear
it up,' the missis was ordering now.
Meanwhile Bruce was trying to ascertain exactly from
where the blood was coming, all the time having a job
to keep his brother's hands apart, the while shouting at
him, 'Look! if you want me to try to stop this bleeding,
then let me get at it.' And he wiped the wrist almost
clean with the quick swipe of a wet rag over the hand;
then he exclaimed, 'Well, there it is! Now we can do

something.' And on this he pressed his thumb on the
half-inch cut; and presently the bleeding slowed, and in
a much quieter voice he said, 'It's all right. I've got it; I
can hang on to it;' and then added by way of consolation,
'It hasn't gone through anything big because it's easing
off.'
'What did she do it with?'
Before Bruce had time to answer his mother, his
brother answered, 'With a knife, a bloody knife, of
course.'
'Well, you weren't at the bottom of the steps when
she did it, were you?' Bruce's tone was no longer conciliatory.
'You were trying your hand, weren't you? Well,
she had warned you.'
'Shut your bloody mouth and get on with it. But
I'll make her bloody well pay for this, you'll see if I
don't.'
'Oh no, you won't.'
'Who's gonna stop me?'
'We'll see. You got what you deserved; and she's only
a bairn, anyway.'
'A bairn! She's a bloody bitch and a knowing bloody
bitch at that; one who carries a knife.'
'Yes. Yes. But where did she get the knife?' It was the
mother speaking again. 'I shouldn't think it can be one
of ours, they're too big to hide.'
They were talking as if she weren't there, yet all the
while she had been standing in the dim corner of the
room tearing a piece of calico into strips as she had
been bidden, and the muted scream of the linen as it
was being torn apart should have made them aware of
her existence; but apparently it hadn't, until her voice
did when she yelled, 'It's me own knife. It was me
dada's from his pouch - he ate with it - and I'll use
it again. I will! I will! I'm not sorry and I'm going back

the day down to the workhouse. It's better than here.
Yes, it is, 'cos I won't be handled. I told you so, and
I'll tell them I stabbed him; and I wasn't lying on the
floor in a cupboard this time but up in the loft, and
there was steps to be climbed. Yes, there were. And I'll
tell them. They'll believe me. Yes they will. And I'll have
Miss Caplin up, and Max. Max'll sort him out. Yes, he
will; he'll sort him out. And I hope the knife has gone
right through, I do.'
When her tirade had ceased, the only sound in the
kitchen came from yon side of the bed. It could have
been the mister was snoring gently or it could have been
he was coughing in his throat, or it could have been he
was chuckling. And it wasn't until the sound stopped
that Bruce said, 'It'll have to be seen to, sewn up, or
burned.'
'No! by God, you're not gonna put any poker on me!'
Hal tugged his hand away from his brother's only to see
the blood starting to run again, and as he gripped his
wrist his mother, speaking to Jinnie now, demanded,
'Was your knife clean, girl?'
'It's . . . it's in a case, missis, leather. It's hard now.'
'Is it rusty? Is the blade rusty?'
Jinnie had to think before she said, 'Where it joins the
bone handle, it is a bit.'
'That's it then.' Rose Shaleman was speaking to her
son again. 'You heard, didn't you; part of it is rusty. If
it was rusty at the top it's likely rusty at the end, and if
you don't want blood poisoning and to be left with one
hand, then you've got to let Bruce do something.'
A silence followed and it was Hal who broke it, saying,
'I can't stand it without a drink.'
'Well, that's what we haven't got here. The next best
thing is one of my pills, they'll kill the pain. Take
a couple now and wait a few minutes,' and turning

to Jinnie she shouted, 'Get the box, girl, out of the
top drawer, and take two out and put them on the
table.'
Scurrying again, Jinnie got the pills and gave them to
Bruce, who said quietly to her,' Stick the poker into the
centre of the fire. Go on; do as you're bid.'
About five minutes later, when everything was apparently
ready, Bruce said grimly, 'Da, get out of that
bed where you've had your ears cocked all the time and
come and hold his wrist. I can't do it all meself and it's
unlikely that he'll remain still.'
When there was no movement from the bed, Rose
Shaleman's voice growled, 'Get yourself up!'
A few minutes later Pug, small, a grotesque figure in
linings and vest, stood to one side of the table gripping
his son's wrist, while Bruce sponged the blood away
from around the oozing wound. Then without turning
to Jinnie, Bruce said, 'Bring me the poker and a wet
dishcloth.'
Jinnie looked dazedly about her before dashing to
the scullery to bring back the wet dish-cloth. Then
she pulled out the poker from the fire, and dashed to
the table, almost thrusting it at Bruce, and the action
brought from Hal the exclamation, 'By God! I know
where I'd like to stick that iron at this moment.'
'Shut up! Shut your dirty mouth or I know where
I'll put this iron instead of on to your hand. Now,
I'm warning you!' Then lowering his tone, Bruce said
quietly, 'This should take only a minute if you keep
still. As Ma said, the pills will dull the pain. It's either
this, mind, or losing your hand for, whether the knife
was rusty or not, the cut's gone deep, and it's near
the thumb. Hold it still, Da!'
Jinnie could see the red hot point slipping over the
raw flesh and as a groaning screech from Hal splither head open she fell into a huddle on the floor . . .
'Come on. Come on; you're all right.'
She gasped. She was swallowing water; she must be
drowning. 'Come on! Come on, sit up.'
There was an arm around her shoulder pulling her
upwards, and slowly she opened her eyes and, looking
at Bruce, whimpered, 'I ... I want to go home.'
'You are home.'
'No, no.'
'All right. All right. You'll feel better tomorrow. It
wasn't your fault, so don't worry. Ma isn't vexed with
you; and, strangely enough, neither is Da.'
'He'll . . . he'll get me.'
'Oh no, he won't; oh no. Don't you worry about
that. He won't get you; I'll see to that. Look' - he
pulled her round to face him - 'trust me, Jinnie; I'll
see that you're never hurt. I wouldn't have you hurt,
not for the world, because you're a good girl. I know
that and I'll see that he never hurts you. Anyway, he
mightn't be here much longer' - his voice dropped 'he's
thinking about going back to sea. He's fed up with
the mine; the lead's getting at him.'
She made no reply and he then said, 'Now we get on
all right, don't we, me and you and Ma? and even the
old man, 'cos he knows where he stands; he's wise.'
She was on the verge of tears now and she whimpered,
'I won't be handled.'
'No, no, of course you won't.' He did not add, not
yet, anyway; not for a long while. She was so young
in some ways but so mature in others. She worked as
though she were sixteen or seventeen, yet her thoughts
were still those of a very young girl; which was strange,
she having been brought up in the workhouse.
He now lifted one heavy plait from the front of her
shoulder and put it behind her back; then did the same

with the other; and in a soothing tone now he said,
'You've got bonny hair, Jinnie. How do you wash it and
get it dry when it's so thick?'
She didn't want to talk about her hair, she wanted
to lie down and moan, because there was a strange
feeling inside her that was demanding expression; but
she knew he was only trying to be comforting, and also
to reassure her in order to keep her here. Oh, she knew
that.
'On a hot day you want to go and wash it in the
pool and let it dry in the sun.'
'The pool?'
'Yes; I showed you where the water comes down from
the hills and through the rock and makes that pool.
That's where we get our water from,' and he thumbed
over his shoulder.
'But it would make the pool soapy.'
'Well, that wouldn't matter; there's an outlet and it
seeps away quite fast.'
He waited a few seconds, then said, 'D'you think you
can manage the steps?'
As he helped her to her feet, she said, 'What happened
to me?'
'You passed out. It was his screaming and likely the
smell, as nothing smells worse than burnt flesh.'
'I'm not sorry.'
'No, I wouldn't expect you to be, lass.'
He watched her now stumble up the steps, and not
until she had disappeared from his view through the
hatch did he let out a long-drawn sigh; and then went
into the kitchen.
There was no sign of Hal, and his father was back in
his place in the bed, but his mother was sitting upright,
and she beckoned Bruce; and when he stood by her side
she whispered, 'Do you think she'll stay?'

'I hope so. For your sake, I hope so.' But she quickly
came back at him, saying, 'Not only for my sake; you're
used to your bellies being filled as well.'
'Yes, that's in it, too.'
'What did you say to her?'
'Oh, I led her off the beaten track, talked about her
lovely hair.'
'Her hair!'
'Yes; haven't you noticed she's got lovely hair? Well,
I told her she should go and wash it up at the pool. You
know, Ma, we're very like animals: you frighten a young
lamb and it needs a lot of patting, besides sucking on
a teat bag, to bring it round.'
She said nothing, only her heart spoke as she thanked
God for him.

The next morning, white-faced and weary-eyed, she
entered the kitchen to prepare the breakfast; and after
Bruce had come down from the loft, she waited in
trepidation for Hal's appearance.
When, presently, Bruce said, 'Put your own out, he's
gone,' her body slumped with relief.
Bruce did not inform her how his brother had been
inveigled into leaving nor did she enquire.
It was half-past six in the morning and he had gone!
With that hand, how could he? And so, on a nervous
mutter, she said, 'You . . . you . . . haven't done
. . . done . . . anything to him?'
'No, Jinnie; I haven't done me brother in, if that's
what you mean. That's what you meant to say, isn't
it?'
She did not answer but continued to stare at him.
'To ease your mind I'll put you in the picture. I've
been up since four o'clock. I took him down on the cart,
reluctantly I must say. Oh yes, reluctantly. But he has a


number of friends both in the village and in the town. I
left him to make his way to one of his own choice. Now
take that look off your face and get your porridge. Then
see to Ma. She's very tired this morning and I think I'd
get her out on to a chair later and change that bed from
top to bottom. Turn the tick if you can. If you find you
can't, go out to me da and tell him to come and give
you a hand. Will you do that?'
She motioned with her head but did not speak . . .
It would appear that life had dropped back into the
familiar pattern it had taken before the elder son had
put in an appearance. From snatches of conversation
between Bruce and his mother she gleaned that The
Admiral was in dock being thoroughly overhauled and
that Sammy, whoever he was, would be still at home
and so as long as he stayed there, Adelaide Morgan
would now be getting her share. A share of what, she
couldn't fathom, but whatever it was the missis implied
that her son wouldn't be charged a lot for lodgings. And
now being back at work, he'd be well in pocket.
Then came the morning when, at ten o'clock, Bruce
unexpectedly came in. He was holding a letter, but
instead of making for the bed, he looked over the table
to where Jinnie was sitting back on her hunkers from
scrubbing the stone flags, and he smiled down at her
as he said, 'Well, get to your feet! Here's a surprise: a
letter for you.'
When the voice said, 'A letter for her?' he turned to
his mother and said, 'Yes, Ma, for her.'
'Do we ever get letters? Can you remember us ever
getting a letter? Who's it from?'
'I don't know; and she won't know until she opens it.
Can you read?'
She was drying her hands on her coarse apron, and
she said, 'A bit, if the print's big. Yes; words.'

'Well, what else would you read but words, girl? It's
a silly answer.'
'No, it isn't, Ma. No, it isn't. Anyway, there's your
letter, lass. Open it and see who it's from.'
Jinnie had never before received a letter. She looked
first at the front of the envelope, and then at the back;
then looked about for something with which to open
it. The kitchen drawer in the table suggested a knife,
so quickly she pulled one out and inserted it into the
envelope, and then took from it a folded sheet of paper.
'Well, what does it say? Who's it from?'
She pressed the piece of paper to her breast with both
hands and looked from one to the other before she said,
'Miss Caplin.'
'Miss Caplin? She's the one you liked, isn't she?'
She looked at Bruce and nodded, saying, 'Yes. Yes.'
'Well, what does she want to write you a letter about?'
She turned to look at the missis and said, 'She's
visiting her aunts next Sunday; she's got the whole day
off, and Max an' all, and he's driving her.'
'Does it say all that? Read it out, girl.'
She held up the paper before her face and looking at
the large letters, read very slowly:

'I will be at my aunts' on Sunday next: Max is
driving me. I would very much like to see you,
Jinnie. Very sincerely, your friend Jane Caplin.'

Her head bounced now as she grinned from ear to ear
and said, 'There! There, 'tis the first letter I have read.
But I've read the Bible. This was easier, though, 'cos
Miss Caplin has written in big letters.' She turned the
page round and held it out for both of them to see.
'Who are her aunts? And where do they live?'
It was Bruce she answered, saying, 'At the bottom

of the bank, where you met us. Further back along
the road, up the side way. 'Twas the last place we
passed before we came on you.'
'What's their name?' he asked softly.
'The Miss Duckworths live there.'
'What, Ma?'
'The Miss Duckworths, and they are ladies.'
'Well, Miss Caplin's a lady,' Jinnie put in, looking
from one to the other; then addressing the missis, she
said, 'Can I go? I mean on Sunday?'
'Yes, you can go. Of course, you can go.' It was Bruce
speaking, but he turned to his mother, adding, 'Can't
she?'
'I suppose so.'
'I've been six weeks here and had no time off, missis.'
'Six weeks?'
'Aye, yes, it was six weeks yesterday.'
'Well--' the woman now shrugged herself back into
her pillows, saying, 'If you want to go jaunting you'll
have to look a bit tidier than you are: you'll have to get
that print of yours washed again, and your hair washed
an' all. It's like a doormat on the top. Do you ever comb
it?'
'Oh aye, missis. Yes, every night I take out my plaits
and I comb it. But then I have to sleep on it.'
Bruce was smiling at her, and what he said to her
implied a question: 'Perhaps after seeing them you won't
want to come back.'
'Oh yes, I will. I like it here. When we're on our own,
I like it. It's good. Yes, I like it up here.'
He stared at her for a moment before suddenly turning
to go to the door, singing quietly: 'The sky is high,
the air is free, come, my love, and live with me on
this barren rock above the sea.'
Oh, he had a lovely voice. But what a strange song.

She turned eagerly to look at the missis, only to see the
woman with her head bent on to her chest and a hand
across her mouth. And so she went swiftly to her, saying,
'You feeling bad, missis? You want to be sick?'
It was some seconds before Rose Shaleman sighed
and dropped back on to the pillow.
'I'm all right, girl. I'm all right. Make a pot of tea.
I'm all right.'
Slowly, Jinnie turned from the bed and went towards
the fire, pushing her bucket aside as she did so. She
was puzzled. There were things about the people of this
house that puzzled her, things she didn't understand;
although one thing she did understand, and that was
very clear: Mister Bruce's singing had upset his mother.
The meaning in it she must have taken to heart; the
words must have reminded her of something. She had
never seen her face so waxen.
Oh, but she now had something to look forward to:
on Sunday she would see them, Miss Caplin and Max,
the two people so dear to her. And yes, she'd wash
her print frock and iron it beautifully; she'd press the
three pleats in the front until they were like knife edges;
and she would wash her hair an' all. It hadn't been
washed for weeks, and Miss Caplin would be the first
to notice it and would say, 'Why haven't you washed
your hair, Jinnie?' She'd go up to that pool. Oh, she
didn't mind what might happen now, she had Sunday
to look forward to.

The sun was hot on her neck as she bent over the bank
and lathered her hair in the water. It was the most wonderful
feeling. Through the hanging threads she could
see the ends trailing away. They looked like bronze or
gold. Yes, gold. She was glad she had lovely hair because
she wasn't pretty, not really pretty. The bit of broken

mirror hanging in the scullery used as a shaving glass by
the men told her that her eyelashes, like her hair, were
long; and that she had a nice mouth. But she didn't have
rosy cheeks, and pretty girls always had rosy cheeks. She
had very little colour in her face at all. To her it was all
of a sameness, a creamy-white, pallid-looking sameness
accentuated by the brightness of her hair.
The lathering done, she swished her head in the water,
then scooped handfuls over the back of her head to get
the soap off. It was blue mottled soap she had used, the
same kind as she used to scrub the floor, the same soap
they all used, a rough soap. Miss Caplin had once given
her a tablet of lovely soap for a Christmas box. Oh, it
had smelled nice, and had lasted for months, because
she had used it only on her face.
Sitting sideways on the bank now, she screwed her
hair into a tight rope and squeezed the first shower of
water out of it; then picking up the coarse towel at her
side, she began to dry her hair. She rubbed until her arms
ached; strand after strand of hair she dried with the
rough towel.
She sat back and propped herself up on her hands and
let her hair fall around her like a cloak, and as the sun
beat on her she knew that her hair would soon be dry.
Now and again she would lift one hand and disturb the
spread in order to get the underneath dry. She could
also feel the sun beating on to the top of her chest where
she had turned in the collar of her dress, a nice and
unusual sensation. She hadn't felt so clean, so relaxed
or so happy for a long time. This time tomorrow she
would be with Miss Caplin and Max.
She did not know for how long she had been sitting
in this relaxed state when, with a start, she looked up
to where she could glimpse a section of the rough road
that passed the farm which supplied them with milk,

and which eventually led to the village from where it
branched off to Allendale.
She reassured herself that nobody could see her, for
she would be hidden by the gorse and bushes. She was
settling back again, when once more she became alert,
this time because of the neighing of a horse. The sound
came from a distance; but it had broken the peace of
the afternoon. What if it was Mr Hal and he had been
watching her?
Well, where could he watch her from? He hadn't a
horse. She felt uneasy. She gathered up her soap and
the towel, and as she got to her feet she was glad she
hadn't taken off her boots and stockings to go into the
pool, for, apart from her hair hanging down, she would
have been showing her bare legs . . .
She had no sooner entered the door of the cottage than
she knew somebody had been riding past, and that must
have been the young master from The House, for there,
on the table, was a large basket of fruit. But sitting at
the table was the dreaded Hal.
She hadn't seen him for some time, at least not since
the night of the stabbing; and now he turned and glared
at her. Bruce, who was also in the room, exclaimed, 'By!
You've made that into a busby. It'll take some brushing
down.'
'Go and plait your hair, girl!'
She looked towards the bed and said, 'Yes, missis,'
and hurried through the scullery and up into the roof
space, and there, taking a dry but worn scrubbing brush,
she went to work to flatten the busby, as Mister Bruce
had called it.
It was a full half-hour before she came down the steps
again and into the kitchen, to be greeted by the missis
with, 'Mash some tea, girl, and butter those pieces
of pastry you made yesterday.'

Making no reply, she went about obeying the order,
all the time listening to the talk across the end of the
table between the two brothers. 'You want to think
twice about the sea,' Bruce was saying; 'there's some
tough'uns man those ships.'
'Tell me something I don't know, and tell me I can't
take care of meself.'
'Oh, you can take care of yourself all right; that's if it's
man to man; but if it's man to gang and a few belaying
pins are flying around, you couldn't do much about it.
And I'm told they're clannish on some boats.'
'Since when do you know anything about boats?'
'Oh, I've been to Newcastle a number of times. I've
even been on board one or two of them. And from the
bar-talk around the quays, you can believe at least half
of what they say about the conditions.'
'My! My! Clever bugger, as always.'
'I keep me ears open.'
'That's enough!' broke in their mother. 'That's
enough, the both of you. You know what it'll lead to.
If you, Hal, want to go to sea, you go to sea. Anyway,
you'll probably save yourself a bit of money.'
'Oh, about money, Ma. I want to have a talk with
you about money.'
'Well, it won't be now, lad, you'll talk to me about
money.'
Rose Shaleman now glanced towards where Jinnie,
her head bent, was piling the scones on a plate. And
a silence fell on the room.
After Jinnie had poured out the tea and put the plate
on the table, the missis said curtly, 'Have you ironed
that dress of yours?' and she replied, 'Not yet, missis.'
'Well, go and do it now else it'll never be done. I don't
want you to look like a rag-tag when you go down there
tomorrow.'

She had hardly left the room before Hal, looking at his
mother, said grimly, 'Has the dear little girl been invited
to a party?'
'Some such.'
'God! Where?' He was sitting back in his chair, his
eyes wide.
' 'Tis no party,' put in Bruce.
'Well, if it isn't a party what is it?' and Hal mimicked
his mother, 'Have you ironed that frock yet?'
'She's going to visit two people she knew in the workhouse.
They're coming up to the Miss Duckworths.'
'She's going down to the Miss Duckworths! Her?
They won't let her in the door, those two old hoitytoities.'
'Well, apparently their niece has some kind of a
position in the workhouse, and has kept an eye on
the lass from the time she first went in after her father
died. And there's an inmate there, a man who did the
same.'
'Well! well! well! Did she let him touch her?'
'Keep your dirty mouth closed, and look at your
wrist and remember all women aren't alike, all girls
aren't alike; and by God! if you met that fella, if you
said as much as a wrong word against her, that would
be as much as your life would be worth. I'm telling you
that.'
'Oh, a bruiser, is he?'
'No; you could say he looked to me like one of those
gentle giants you hear about, and he talked like one an'
all. I've never seen a man the size he is, I'm telling you;
I wouldn't like to be the one to upset him.'
'My! my! She would seem to have as much protection
as a brothel mistress.'
At this, Bruce sprang up from his chair and cried
angrily at his brother, 'Why the hell don't you go to

sea and stay there, or better still, get yourself into a
brothel and be a madam's man; you seem to know so
much about them.'
'I've told you!' The voice came sternly from the bed
now. 'Now, I'm telling you, please stop it! Both of you,
I'm feeling bad.'
Hal, too, rose to his feet, saying now, 'Anyway, on
Monday I'm starting in the mine again, at least for a
time; I only came up to tell you that you might have
to put up with me company for the next few days; not
for many, I hope, just as long as it takes for a certain
boat to have her backside scraped; then I'll be back to
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. So
long, Ma.'
She did not look at him, or speak, and he left the
room, slamming the door after him; but his voice could
be heard speaking to his father in an exchange that was
anything but friendly.
Rose Shaleman now looked at her younger son who
was standing and gripping the back of his chair, the while
muttering, 'I wish to God something would happen
to him before I take it into me own hands,' and she
said pleadingly, 'Bruce . . . Bruce, for my sake, don't
traffic with him. Look; now that Mister Richard's back,
before he returns to college or some such, university
you said it was, well, get some running in with him.
He'd like that. He said so, didn't he? Get yourself
up early in the morning. You always felt better when
you ran first thing. It didn't seem to affect your day's
work or the tramping that you had to do. For my sake,
lad, try it.'
He turned to her now, saying softly, 'All right, all
right; don't fash yourself; but brother Hal is a foul
mouthed, dirty individual, and mean with it. Da's mean,
but he can't hold a candle to Hal.'

'Yes, I know, I know. Anyway, it's strange how things
work out: everybody gets their just deserts in the end.'
'Oh, don't be silly, Ma.' He turned away from her
now. 'Are you getting your just deserts?'
'Yes, lad. Yes, if you only knew, I'm getting my just
deserts.'
He looked hard at her, and when she returned the look
without speaking, he seemed to fling his body around,
and he too went from the room, and again the door
was banged. Rose Shaleman lay back and closed her
eyes tightly as she said, 'Yes, everybody gets their just
deserts.'

The sun was shining, the sky was high, and there was a
light breeze blowing; her heart, too, was light and she
was ready to go down the hill. Jinnie was standing in
the middle of the room, her print dress standing away
from her thin body; her two plaits hanging down her
back, were tied with tape close to her head to keep them
in place and the tapered ends were turned upwards, each
secured with a small piece of ribbon. Her straw hat was
sitting straight on the top of her head; her eyes were
bright, her face was smiling; she was looking at her
mistress and saying, 'Thank you for the grapes, missis;
I'll tell the ladies you sent them, and they're sure to be
pleased.'
'Turn around.'
When she turned round she was facing Bruce, and he
looked at her tenderly, saying, 'You look bonny and very
smart.'
'When the tinker man comes round with his wares,
you'll have to buy yourself a piece of long ribbon for your
hair. It'd look better than that piece of tape at the top.'
She was again looking at the missis as she said, 'I'll
do that, missis; yes, I'll do that.'

'Well now, get yourself away. And you say they're
leaving about four? Well, you leave shortly after, and
give the ladies my respects.'
'I will, missis, I will.'
As she passed Bruce, he said quietly, 'Enjoy yourself,
girl,' and she said, 'Yes, mister, I will.'
'You know exactly where to go?'
'Well, it was that turning off just before we met you
that day.'
'Yes, that's it; I know the cottage well.'
As she passed through the doorway Rose Shaleman's
voice followed her, saying, 'Keep your stockings well up,
girl; I think you need new garters.'
'Yes, missis. Yes, missis,' and she half turned her head
to glance up at Bruce; and he exchanged a smile. And
presently, as she walked away over the plain towards
where it dropped quite steeply in three stages towards
the road, she knew that he continued to watch her.
She had the desire to run, to skip and run; in fact,
she did just that down the first hill. The second was
covered with patches of scrub, and she had to walk
carefully here to prevent her dress from being caught
in the brambles.
She had almost reached the bottom when something
did catch her dress, and not only her dress but her whole
body, and she found herself being lifted from her feet
and unable to scream. There was no knife to hand this
time as she looked up into the infuriated face of Hal
Shaleman. His nose was almost touching hers, a hand
was tight across her mouth and his knee was across her
thighs as he ground out into her face, ' For two pins I'd
slit your throat this minute; I could, and no-one would
know who had done it, for you wouldn't be found for
a long time, and by then you'd be rotten, you little
workhouse snipe, you! You know that you've changed

that house up there, you know that? I never had much
of a welcome; now I get none. My dear brother's for
you, isn't he? Oh yes, yes.' Her quivering nostrils were
drawing up his spirit-sodden breath. She knew whisky
when she smelled it; many admissions got drunk on
whisky before they came into the workhouse.
'Beautiful hair you have, lass, beautiful hair.' He was
mimicking now. 'Well, we'll see who's got beautiful
hair after I've used my knife.'
When the hand was released from her mouth, she
was about to let out a high scream when she was thrust
around and her face pressed into die earth; and then
her whole being was screaming as she felt the knife going
through a plait, right up close to her head. But then the
sawing motion was checked by the sound of a dog's bark
near at hand, and as the animal came bounding through
the bushes Hal sprang to his feet; and the next minute
she was alone, with the dog licking the side of her face.
Then in answer to a whistle, it bounded away again.
Slowly she pulled herself up on to her knees, and as
she did so the plait fell from her shoulder and on to the
grass. Grabbing it with both hands, she held it out from
her, staring at it as if she were looking at an idol, and she
might have been, for all she could say was, 'God. God.
Oh God. God, God.' Then she was running, the plait
gripped in an outstretched hand as she cried aloud.
She reached the road; then, like a wounded animal,
she flew along it until she came to the turning; and
she couldn't have missed it, for there was the horse
tethered to the grass verge and the cart near by; and
further up, there was the cottage.
The Miss Duckworths were very refined maiden
ladies, both in their late seventies. They had been gently
bred, but had been deprived of love by socially conscious
parents, and they each knew what they had lost, as did

their niece, Miss Caplin, whose generosity had enabled
them to live in this cottage, otherwise they might have
found themselves under her care in the workhouse.
The cottage was small. It had a sitting-room, a bedroom,
a kitchen and an outhouse and was the property
of their niece. It was her salary that sustained them, for
their father, like her own, had been so self-indulgent
that both families had been ruined; and such were the
circumstances of Miss Caplin's family that it was only
the fact that this cottage had been left to her by her
godmother that saved it from being classed as part
of her father's estate. So, here they sat, the three of
them, at the circular lace-covered table enjoying their
after-dinner cup of coffee. Miss Isabel had made it and
served it in tiny blue china cups. They were saucerless,
being old china. Near the door, and seeming to dwarf
them and the room and the cottage itself, sat Max. His
coffee was in a mug, and to the side of the mug was a
plate on which was a thin slice of cake, and as if he were
a gentleman who had been fastidiously brought up, he
sat breaking off small pieces of cake and placing them
in his mouth, but never while he sipped the coffee.
There was a large smile on his face and every time
he caught Miss Caplin's eye it seemed to widen. Then
in a flash, as if by lightning, the whole atmosphere of
the room changed, for there came a hammering on the
door, and when Miss Caplin rushed to open it there fell
into her arms her dear child, holding in one hand, of
all things, one plait of her hair.
The two old ladies were on their feet, as was Max, all
asking questions at once: 'What is it? What's happened?
Tell me, child. Tell me! This is an outrage. Your hair!
Your beautiful hair! Isabel, did you ever see anything
like it?'
'No, Connie; no, I never did. Oh, what is it, child?'

Miss Caplin, her voice soft, now said, 'She'll tell us
shortly, Aunt; she'll tell us shortly. Let us sit down,
please.'
The old ladies turned and together pulled a basket
chair towards Jinnie, still trembling from head to foot,
and Miss Caplin, crouching in front of her, asked, 'Who
did this, dear? Who did this?'
'Hal. Hal.'
'Was he the y-young man who met you?'
'No, no.' She looked up into the dark, blank countenance
of Max and said, 'No, not that one. No, Max,
not that one. That's Bruce. He's nice, good. No, the
brother.'
'Let me have your hair, dear. Come along and loosen
your fingers, let me have your hair.'
Slowly Jinnie's grip slackened from around the plait,
and Miss Caplin handed it to Max; then addressed
Jinnie again:' Now tell me quietly what happened. Quiet
now. Quiet;' then looking at her aunts, she said, 'Is there
any more coffee left, Aunt Isabel?'
'Oh yes, dear, yes; yes a lot, a lot. Oh, of course. Of
course.'
It was some minutes later, after having persuaded
Jinnie to drink a full mug of coffee, that she said,
'Now, my dear, tell me what happened, right from the
beginning. Stop trembling and hold my hand. Don't
exaggerate, mind. You know what I mean, just tell us
the plain facts.'
So, after a number of gulps and taking a long indrawn
breath, Jinnie related the events that had transpired from
her using the knife on Hal. Then, as if she were recalling
an afterthought, she also told them about knocking Pug
Shaleman off his stool. 'He was all right to me after that,'
she put in. 'He's not a nice man, though, not like Bruce.
Bruce is nice.' And Miss Caplin looked up to her aunts

and explained, 'He is the young man who met Max, the
one I told you about, and Max felt she would be safe
in his keeping.' She now glanced to the side where Max
was standing, the plait of her hair now wound round his
wrist like a snake; but Max made no response; he just
kept his eyes tight on Jinnie's face. And Miss Caplin
said quietly, 'Am I to believe you actually stabbed the
man with your knife, and that it had to be cauterised;
I mean, actually burned with the poker?'
Jinnie nodded twice before she muttered, 'Well, he
was handling me and he was going to do bad things.
And today he said he was going to slit my throat and
bury me where I wouldn't be found until I was rotten.
It was, as I said, the dog who saved me.'
They were all startled now when Max cried to her,
'Come! Come!'
As he held out his hand Miss Caplin rose swiftly,
saying, 'No, Max. No.'
'Y-y-yes, Miss Caplin. Oh y-y-yes, this . . . time,
Miss Caplin. This time. Come!'
When Jinnie obediently slipped from the chair, Miss
Caplin delayed her while addressing Max again, saying,
'Now, Max, please; you mustn't lose your temper. You
know that it will spoil everything; you'll never be allowed
out again.'
It would seem impossible for the man to grow any
taller, but his head seemed to pull up from his huge
shoulders, and he looked down on Miss Caplin and
said, 'Not tied. Not tied, Miss Caplin. Not mental.'
Miss Caplin bowed her head and closed her eyes
for a moment as she muttered. 'I know that you're
not registered mental, Max, but you were found to be
unable to look after yourself and . . .'
'Look after myself? Well . . . well, Miss . . . Miss
Caplin. Oh yes, c-c-can work on farm. Been . . .

been' - he now thumped his forehead with his fingers
- 'thinking - yes, thinking - tired of workhouse.'
Miss Caplin pushed Jinnie to one side and stood in
front of Max, saying, 'If you do anything bad, Max, you
will be held in there for life; and perhaps not only in
the workhouse. You understand? Killing someone isn't
going to . . .'
Max's eyebrows moved upwards and his mouth
opened wider; then he said, 'Not k-k-kill; no, not kill
. . . j-j-just give him a lesson.'
'Well, it all depends upon what you mean by giving
him a lesson; you're a very strong man, you know, Max.'
'Yes, I know. Good; yes, good. Come,' he said, and
gently thrusting Miss Caplin aside took Jinnie's hand
and pulled her forward. Then looking at the three helpless
ladies, he said, 'Be back. F-f-fetch her back soon ...
soon.'
'Where do you expect to find him?'
'Don't. . . know. Try house. Not there, b-b-bring her
back; then ... then try inns myself,' and he thumped his
chest, repeating, 'Myself... I go round t-till I find him.
Come.'
As he pulled Jinnie forward, she cast a glance at Miss
Caplin and said by way of comfort, 'He'll be all right.
He'll be all right.'
Some way along the road, Max said to her, 'Up the
hill?'
'Yes, Max.'
They had reached the second rise when he stopped
his long striding suddenly and, looking down on her,
said, 'Tired?' and she lied quietly, saying, 'No, Max.'
Nevertheless, he stooped and lifted her up and carried
her until they reached the plain, and there he put her
down and they both gazed towards the speck of huddled
buildings in the distance . In the kitchen, Rose Shaleman was resting on her
elbow and looking towards the ladder leading to the
loft, she turned her head to Pug, who was standing
by the table: 'What's his hurry now?' and Pug replied,
'Only he knows, but he's certainly got a reason.'
Her voice still low, she addressed Bruce: 'What d'you
think?'
'Couldn't say, Ma, couldn't say, only something's
happened.'
'Sam Valasquey after him?'
'Could be. I'm told he didn't sign on the boat yesterday,'
Bruce said and his father nodded, and Bruce asked
his mother, 'Are you going to give him anything?'
Before she could answer, his father said, 'No, begod!
she's not.'
'He's due a bit.' Bruce's voice was low.
'He's due nowt, and that's what he's getting . . .' Pug
stopped abruptly when Hal appeared on the ladder, from
where he dropped a canvas bag on to the floor, followed
by an overcoat. In the room, he stood buttoning up his
short jacket and saying, 'Well, what about it, Ma? I've
got to be off.'
When she did not answer, he demanded, 'Come on!
Come on! There's quite a bit of mine under your tick,
and you know it.'
'Well, whatever's under that tick, lad, stays there.
You've had all you're getting out of this house.'
'My God!' Hal glared at his father. 'What have I ever
got out of you, you undersized little squirt of a man?
I've never even had a civil word from you, as a bairn
or a lad, or a man. You've got a lot to answer for, you
selfish, misshapen little bugger that you are.'
'Enough of that!' This had come from Bruce, and
Hal turned on him, crying, 'You've had it easy, lad,
you know nothing about it. You weren't pushed into
the mine before you could hardly crawl just to keep
his belly full and her nursing herself. You've always
nursed yourself, haven't you, Ma?'
The look that Rose Shaleman cast on her son was sad,
but nevertheless she confirmed what he said: 'Yes, Hal,
I've always nursed meself because I've had to.'
' Had to, begod! Laziness. Other women have dropped
dead working, but not you . . . nor you!' And he jerked
round to his father now. 'If you hadn't got him' he
was now thumbing towards Bruce - 'you'd be in
the workhouse. And he's staying here only because of
her,' and he nodded towards his mother. 'You telling
me what's mine and what's not mine, you've never
earned a penny in your life. You're like your people
before you. I didn't know them but the whole village
did, and I've heard of them and had them cast up to
me, and I've worked twice as hard as any other man
in that bloody hell hole, aye, and drank twice as much
as any other man, and whored to prove myself. Well,
I'm going now, and I don't know when I'll see you
ever again, any of you, but before I step out of this
pigsty I want me share, and I want it now, quick!'
At this he straddled a chair, and it was just as Rose
Shaleman was about to beckon to Bruce to see to his
brother that the door was kicked open and so startled
all of them that they gasped audibly, for there stood the
biggest man any of them had ever seen. He was filling
the doorway, but more than that he had to bend his head
well in front of his shoulders before he could enter the
room, pressing the bedraggled and weeping Jinnie before
him.
'In the name of God! what's this? What's this?' Rose
Shaleman cried.
The only answer they heard was the man saying to
Jinnie, 'Wh . . . which one did it, Jinnie? Whwhwhich

one?' Her finger trembling, she pointed to the man
straddling the chair with his mouth now agape and
his eyes wide with fear, which he was experiencing for
the first time in his life as he watched the great fellow
unwind the plait of hair from his wrist.
Max turned Jinnie about, then held up the plait to
the nape of her neck, telling his gaping audience, 'He
... he did this. Was . . . was going to k-k-kill her an'
all, he was; but first he ... he did this.'
'God in heaven!' It was a whimper from the bed.
'Oh, you didn't! You didn't! And oh! dear, look at the
sight of her.' Then, 'Dear God!' the woman screamed
as the big man lifted Hal bodily from the chair and
shook him as a dog might a rat.
'Stop him! Stop him!' Hal, too, was screaming; but
neither Pug nor Bruce moved as they watched the man
bring a crashing blow across Hal's face, and when his
head swung from side to side as if it would roll off
his body there was a combined intake of breath in the
room like air being drawn through teeth. Then, to their
fear-filled amazement they saw the big man reach up to
one of the hooks fixed in the ceiling and lift down the
ham that was hanging from it.
Next, Max ripped the buttons off the coat that Hal
had fastened a few minutes earlier, then unbuckled
Hal's belt and fastened it tighter, making him gasp,
and held him head high, slipping the back of the belt
over the hook, and there left him hanging and screaming,
flailing his arms and legs.
"Th-th-that's it, scream. This .. . this child screamed.
She . . . she rushed in screaming' - he was now
deliberately addressing the woman in the bed - 'bebebeside
herself, beautiful hair gone.' And he picked
up the plait of hair from where he had dropped it
on the table, turned to Jinnie who was standing

pressed against the stanchion of the open door and
said, 'Knife . . . where's knife?'
'Please! please! Max, don't. Don't. No! please. 'Tis
all right now. 'Tis all right. It will grow. 'Tis all right.'
'Do no harm . . . j-just knife.'
She stared at him a moment longer, then she pointed
to the drawer in the table; and from it he took out the
large gully which was used for cutting the bread and
the meat. Then, holding the plait again on the table,
he cut off about an inch from the thick end, and as it
spread he gathered it up in his fist and, reaching up,
rammed it into Hal's gaping mouth.
'It'll kill him; he'll choke. He'll choke,' Rose Shaleman
screamed; and Max turned to the woman in the bed,
saying, 'P-pity then, missis, 'cos . . . 'cos I haven't
f-f-finished yet: said I'd leave a m-mark for all to see,
and I w-w-will, one he w-w-won't be able to hide.' Then
looking at Bruce, he said, 'Razor?'
'What? Oh man, no!'
'Not . . . not kill him, no. Nor . . . nor blood him
either, just. . . just razor.'
'No! please. I ... I understand how you feel; I feel
the same too. I promise you he'll suffer for this more
than he has already, but please! please don't . . . don't
mark his face. Please!'
'No, no, not . . .not on the face, no; razor.'
Bruce looked to his father - there was a plea in his
eyes - but Pug shook his head; the man was obviously
just as afraid of this huge beast of a man, as he thought
of him, as was his swinging son.
'You . . . you mean to cut him?'
Max shook his head vigorously, saying, 'No. No mean
to cut him. No, just razor.'
Bruce could still not comply with the demand. It
wasn't until his mother said, 'Give him the razor; I know

what he's going to do; give him the razor,' that Bruce
went to the far side of the fireplace where, underneath
the cracked mirror, a wooden box stood on a small
cupboard, and from it he took a razor which he handed
to Max.
After pulling open the blade, Max stropped it on
the palm of his hand; then he gripped the forelock of
the thick black wavy hair of the dangling figure and
proceeded to dry shave the rest of the head until there
was nothing left but a small tonsure on the crown.
Rose Shaleman's face was tightly pressed into the
pillow; one hand was covering her eyes, the other
gripping the edge of the bed. Pug was standing, his
eyes wide, his mouth agape, as if he couldn't believe
what he was seeing. Bruce was not looking at the
proceedings; his head was bowed. Strangely, there was
no sound in the room. It could have been that Hal was
frozen in terror, and likely he was.
The gruesome business over, Max released his hold on
the body and left Hal swinging gently to and fro, his arms
and legs no longer flailing but hanging limp. When he
began to splutter and the hair sprayed from his mouth,
Bruce looked at the big man who was now returning the
razor to its case, and he said grimly, 'You finished?'
'Yes, fin-finished,' only to add, as if in an afterthought,
'for a time. She'll not come back until . . .
he goes; and I'll not go' - he waved his hand as if into
the distance - 'I'll not go until ... he gone.'
'You . . . you could be had up for this.' It was a
mutter from the small man, and Max, looking down
on him in disdain, said, 'Yes, had up ... with police
in court. Good; I like in court . . . tell of attack,' and
he thumbed towards the dumbfounded Jinnie, standing
with her hands pressed tight across her mouth as she
watched the bald, dangling figure. She did not take her

eyes off him until Max's hand came on her shoulder
and pulled her to the front of him and said, ' She used
knife to ... to save herself, yes, t-tell in court; then
this,' saying which he bent forward and with his other
hand took up the depleted plait from the table and,
gripping the thick end, he swung it until once again it
was twisted around his wrist. As he entwined the two
ends he was nodding at the little man again, saying,
'Get me had up ... that p-p-please me, yes.' Then with
one hand on Jinnie's shoulder and the other indicating
her, he said, 'Like . . . like d-d-daughter, mine . . . my
d-d-daughter,' and pressing Jinnie before him, made for
the door. And they were gone.
Stunned, Bruce did not spring forward towards his
brother; his actions were slow as he mounted the table;
and it took all his strength to hoist Hal upwards in order
to release the belt from the hook. The result was, they
both fell into a huddle on to the table.
Rose Shaleman was now sitting on the side of the
bed and groaning audibly: her son was more bald than
on the day he was born, for he'd had black hair even
then. 'Oh, Hal . . . Hal,' and there was pity in her
voice. But he made no response.
He could not stand without the aid of Bruce's arm
around his shoulders, and although Bruce felt that his
brother deserved all he had received, nevertheless it was
so extreme that he could not but feel deep pity for him,
for he had been proud of his hair, as Jinnie had been
proud of hers. But then to go and cut off a plait . . .
Why hadn't he cut off both of them? And how had she
got away? Hal had come in in a scurry, almost running.
Likely, someone had disturbed him, for, God above!
he would surely have done to her what he had tried
before.
After throwing off Bruce's support, Hal now stumbled

towards the scullery, and there sluiced the remaining
hair from his mouth, before returning to the kitchen
and making directly for the shaving mirror, to stand
for a full minute amid a weird silence before saying to
Bruce, 'Take the razor and finish it off, will you?'
'I ... I wouldn't do that, Hal.'
'Well, I suppose I can do it myself.'
'Here, give it to me. Sit down,' said Pug.
After a moment, Hal obediently sat down and Pug
Shaleman shaved off the remnants of black hair.
When Hal remained sitting in the chair, his mother
said to him, 'What are you going to do, lad?'
'What am I going to do, Ma? What I intended to do
when I came in here, leave . . . but . . .'
'But, lad?'
'Oh, this.' Hal patted his very tender scalp as if he was
used to the feel of it and said,' Oh, there's been bald men
before me. I saw a young one the other day, couldn't be
past his middle twenties and all he had at the back was
a ring of hair. It runs in families, you know.'
This attitude of his brother maddened Bruce, and
he yelled at him, 'Stop playing the big bugger! You
deserved all you got. It was a filthy, dirty trick to cut
off her hair.'
'Was that all I did, just cut off her hair? Well, let
me tell you, brother' - Hal's tone changed now - 'she's
damn lucky she got away with one plait missing, for
it was half my intention to do her in. So there you
have it! Nobody, old or young, big or little has used a
knife on me before, at least, no female, and by God!
I wasn't going to let her be the first. The workhouse
brat! She's a vicious little bitch, and I did to her what
she did to me, and if she only knew it, she owes her life
to a dog that heard her squeal.'
They looked at him in disbelief now; all pity for him

was fading or had already gone. They all realised he was
quite capable of having finished her off.
'Well, I'll take me share now, Ma,' he said. 'That's
what it was all about, wasn't it, when that mad imbecile
put in his appearance?'
'There again you're making a mistake, Hal: that fella's
not daft. To my mind he's wiser than most, although
it's only the second time I've met him. I'd look out
for him. By! yes, I would; I'd look out for the rest of
the time you're in this quarter.'
'Well, if you want me out of this quarter' - Hal turned
to his mother again - 'let me have me cut.'
'No!' It was his father denying him again.
'Well, you try to stop me taking it, Da, just try.'
At this Bruce stepped to the bed and placing a hand
on his mother's side, he said, 'Move along, Ma,' and,
silently, she obeyed. He then turned up the top thin
tick and groped beneath it until his fingers came into
contact with a chamois leather bag, which he pulled
out and handed to his mother.
'You should mind your own bloody business. There's
none of yours, none of yours in there,' said Pug.
'There's as much of mine in there as there is of his,'
Bruce said, thumbing towards Hal. 'And let me tell you,
Da, there's not a penny of yours in there, because you
never earned a penny of it. But give him his due' - again
he was thumbing towards Hal - 'he paid his whack all
that long time you spent filling your guts with beer,
using money made from your private deals that should
have gone into the pot. We lost more than a sheep or
two during that time, didn't we, Da? Hal kept us going
then, while I slaved on the farm here for nothing. I
call it a farm, and it should be a thriving business if
it had two people working on it. And do I receive any
wage? I haven't baccy or beer money; but from now

ft
things are going to be different. Count out twelve,
Ma.'
At this, Hal's voice came from behind Bruce, saying
'Make it twenty.'
'You're getting twelve, and you can thank your stars
you're gettin that much. And while you're on, Ma, give
me three; I need new boots and breeches.'
Obediently the sick woman counted out twelve
sovereigns from the bag; then another three.
The twelve Bruce took from her in one hand, the three
in the other, then turned to his brother and handed him
his share, saying, 'I don't begrudge you that, Hal.'
'Huh! that's good of you, I'm sure. That's very good
of you, brother. If I was getting me due it'd be three
times that.'
'If you were getting your due you'd be in hell,' put in
Pug.
Bruce looked from his father to his brother, and it
came to him to ask how two people could be so alike
under the skin and yet hate each other; and the answer
was, he supposed, because they knew each other like
no-one else did.
They watched Hal pick up his cap from the table and
put it on his head, pulling it well down at the back to save
it slipping over his brow, and a strange feeling caused
his hands to remain on the cap for a moment before
he grabbed up the holdall from the floor, and the coat
with it, then made for the door.
There, he stood quietly looking out on to the open
plain for a time. It must have been all of two full
minutes before he turned, his eyes flicking from one
to the other, and said, 'Going to make you a promise:
I'll be back one day. Aye, I'll be back one day. I'm
going to spend me time working out a plan of what
I'll do when I come back. Every day I breathe from

now on I'll work towards it, and I hope you'll all be
here when I return to this set of pigsties. Your time,
Ma ... no; your time's run out, has been for years, but
I've got no pity for you 'cause you never had any for
me, had you? I was the thing that brought you to this
hovel and you took it out on me. Oh by God! you did.
You thrashed it out of me: you shook it out of me until
me teeth rattled. Oh aye, until me teeth rattled. Then
you pushed me into the mine to get me out of your
sight. No shepherding sheep for me. Oh no, the mine it
was; you got good money in the mine, you could starve
depending on sheep, couldn't you, Ma? Couldn't you,
Da? But when the bonny boy came along things were
different, weren't they? And you know, Bruce, I should
have hated you, yet I never did. Didn't like you much
but I never hated you, not like I should have, knowing
what I did, at least going by the gossip in the village and
which reached as far as the market place in Hexham.
Did you ever hear of a fella called The Penny Verse and
Tuppenny Painter? You will one day. Aye, you will one
day. Goodbye then, all; but don't forget what I said,'
and his voice dropping, he added, 'I'll be back and the
way I feel at this moment it'll only be just; God sparing
me. Oh aye, that'll be the day.'

There was a moment of utter silence before he turned
and walked through the doorway.

Bruce remained by the window until his brother had
disappeared from view. His father had been talking,
talking, talking, but none of it had penetrated his mind
until he heard him say, 'You shouldn't have given him
any; he must have had some stashed away, he had
something to lift at the day of the pays and he didn't
come and hand you anything then to push into the bag,
did he? No. Did he bring anything once a month out of
his subsistence pay? And since leaving Beaumont's he's


no


been paid weekly at the drift this new fella's making. I
know that, 'cos Peter . . .'

'Shut up! for God's sake, Da. Shut up! If you're so
concerned about money, why the hell don't you earn
some? Yes, I'll say what I've been thinking, just that.
And another thing, you've lost a son. Oh, you didn't
care for him, nor he for you, but you've lost a son.
And what actually frightens me is how little you have
in that mind of yours. You have just seen a giant walk
in here, hang up your son on a meat hook, gag him with
a mouthful of hair, then shave him to the last few hairs
on his head, and it hasn't affected you, has it? No, it
hasn't. The only thing that's in your mind now is the
fact that he got twelve pounds and I've got three and
knowing inside yourself that you haven't the pluck to
brave Ma and demand a cut - not a share, 'cos you
haven't earned it - just a cut.' He looked at his mother
now and said, 'I'm going down to bring the lass back;
that's if she'll come. I wouldn't blame her for preferring
the workhouse, but whether she comes or she doesn't,
I'm speaking to the two of you now: there's going to be
changes here. Oh aye, changes; big ones.'


in



The tallyman spread his wares on the waterproof sheet
in which they had been wrapped: strings of beads, and
rings and brooches and pendants, studded combs and
earrings; pearl necklaces and ruby hair clips. Absolutely
all genuine, he emphasised, as he looked into
Jinnie's bright face, then from her to Rose Shaleman,
who was propped up in the bed now and smiling as
she confirmed his statement: 'Absolutely genuine. Oh
yes, yes, tallyman, I'll stand by you in that, absolutely
genuine.' And then they laughed together, the
fat man saying, 'Well, I do my best, Missis Rose, I
do my best. And you should know for I've visited you
twice a year now for how long?'
'Don't ask me to reckon, tallyman.'
Jinnie raised her eyes from the gleaming display,
looking from one to the other, and smiling widely, she
said, 'Is that your real name, Mister Tallyman?'
'No; my dear; and it's a wrong name for me. A real
tallyman is a man that hawks goods round houses and
sells them for twice their value because he has to take
payment for them just so much at a time . . . you know, what a body can afford. A tallyman, my dear, sells dry
goods, tools and bedding and such. No, I am not a
tallyman, and I don't know how I came by the name,
really, for I have no connections going back with tallymen
or gypsies. Perhaps . . . yes, I think perhaps I come
of tinker stock. I suppose you would call me a tinker.'

'Oh.' Her mouth was wide now. 'My dada was a
tinker.'
'Never!'
'Yes. Yes, we had a horse and cart and he sold pans
and kettles and fireside things and cooking tins, all
things, like that.'
'Never!'
'Yes. Yes, he was.' Then her face losing its smile she
said, 'He died when I was seven.'
'Oh. Poor man.'
'I'm glad you're really a tinker, Mister Tallyman.'
When the laughter subsided, the tallyman, wiping his
eyes, said, 'And how old are you now, me pretty dear?'
'I am gone fifteen.'
'Fifteen. My goodness me! fifteen, and you so tall.
I would've said sixteen . . . seventeen, wouldn't you,
Missis Rose?'
'No, I wouldn't, tinkerman, for sometimes she talks
and acts like a twelve-year-old.'
When Jinnie lowered her head Rose Shaleman said,
'Now get on with your choosing else we'll get no work
done today. You want something nice for your Miss
Caplin's birthday, don't you?'
'Yes, missis.' She picked up an embossed oval locket
and, turning towards the bed, she said, 'That looks
lovely, doesn't it? She would like that.'
'See if it opens properly and the hinge is all right.'
She did as she was bidden, and looking up at the
tinker, she said, 'It swings nice.'
'Of course, it does, me dear, of course it does; I never
sell anything that doesn't swing nice, not in lockets.'
'How much is it?'
'Oh.' He handled it now, saying, 'It's a beautiful
piece and it's heavy, but it needs to go on a chain and
unfortunately I haven't a chain with me today. I have a

new supply coming in though. When is this needed for
the special lady?'
'Oh, towards the end of next month.'
'Towards the end of next month. Oh, I'll have them
in before then. Oh yes. But I may not be up this way.'
He now turned towards the bed, asking, 'Will she be
going over to the August fair in Allendale?'
'No, she won't, tinkerman, she's got too much work
to do here instead of going to fairs, but my son will be
at the fair; he'll be taking down the sheep and pigs.'
'Well, then, he can pick up the chain for the little lady'
- he now patted Jinnie on the top of her head -' and I can
tell her she's not missing all that much; there are much
better fairs during the year. It's only held for horses and
pigs and such, a chance for the farmers to get rid of
their remnants. I never think much of the August fair,
although, mind, I can look back to a time when it drew
people from far and wide; but those times will never
come again; even the ordinary fairs are getting thin.
'Oh yes, they are, because who wants to pay toll
money for their carts on the new roads? And then there's
this railway; they've got it as far as Catton now and I
think they intend to go over the hills with it. My, my!
the changes we've seen; but life goes on, and me ... I try
to brighten it with me wares as I go on along the way. So,
my dear, you're going to have the locket. But we haven't
discussed the price. Can you afford it?' He again turned
to the bed: 'Can she afford it, Missis Rose?'
'I should think she can; she gets well paid; there's not
many get a shilling a week and their keep, not these
days.'
'A shilling a week?' The bushy white eyebrows went
up to meet the fringe of white hair and the man repeated,
'A shilling a week? Oh well, then I have no hesitation
in stating the price, but before I do, I am going to tell

you it's worth twice as much as I'm asking; oh yes,
it is worth a crown of anybody's money; but because
you are a new customer, my dear, I will split it in
half and it is yours for half a crown; two shillings and
sixpence. Now, there you are.'
'Hold your hand a minute, tinkerman.' Rose Shaleman
had pulled herself up on the pillows and she was
wagging a finger at him: 'That same locket has jumped
sixpence in six months, if I've got any eyes in me head.'
'Oh come! Come, Missis Rose! I've never cheated in
my life. That isn't the same kind of locket as I used to
sell for two shillings. Look, take it into your hand and
see.' He held it out to her. 'Look at the embossment
around it, and open it. It can hold two articles: a strand
of hair on one side and a little picture of a dear one
at the other. You see there's clasps at both sides. Oh
no, I could never let this go for less than two . . .
well, say two and threepence.'
'You don't change, tinkerman, not by a farthing
you don't change. All right, girl, give him his two
and threepence, and then you have your present for
your miss. Now, tinkerman, we don't want any more
jewellery or fancy bits and pieces, but I would like to
see what you've got in your ribbon bag.'
'Oh, my ribbon bag. Yes, yes. Now, funny thing, I
have never thought of showing you my ribbon bag, not
for years, but then, of course, you haven't had a pretty
little miss running your homestead.' The man now bent
down and from a knapsack lying on the floor he lifted up
a bag and proceeded to shake its contents on to a corner
of the table.
'There's a sky full of colours for you! Now, what's
your choice?'
"Tisn't my choice, tinkerman, I'm past choosing
ribbons. Take your pick, girl.'
The, missis?'
'Well, who else? Is there any other girl in the room?'
Jinnie bit on her lip, then eyes wide, she stared down
at the galaxy of jumbled ribbons and slowly her hand
went out and she drew upwards a yellow ribbon.
'Why a yellow one, girl? I thought it would be blue
or pink.'
Jinnie turned and looked at her mistress, saying, 'Just
like the sun.'
The tinkerman nodded his head in agreement as he
said, 'You're right, me dear, you're right, 'tis like the
sun. And this one is of such a quality that it will never fade; there'll be no sunset for that ribbon; it will always
remain bright, and it will shine brighter when it adorns
your beautiful hair.'
'Enough of that, tinkerman, her head'll be turned
soon enough. Now, girl, make the tinkerman a cup of tea
and butter a wad of that flat cake you made yesterday.'
And Rose Shaleman's voice dropped to a whisper as she
added, 'She's a good little cook, none better.'
And in a similar whisper, the tinkerman replied,' Oh,
I'm glad to hear that. By the look of her I think she'll
be good at everything she tackles. Intelligent face, that's
what I say she has, an intelligent face. Bonny yes, but
sensible for her years.'
Jinnie's ears were burning: she had never listened
to praise such as this in all the months she had been
here; in fact, she had never in her life been praised
by anyone, not even by Miss Caplin. Advised, cautioned
yes, but never praised.
By the time Jinnie had mashed the tea and buttered
a generous slice of oven-bottomed bread, the tinker had
rolled up his goods and was sitting at the far end of the
table chatting away to the woman in the bed, and she
had no sooner placed the mug and plate before the old

man when her mistress said, 'Take a can to the mister.'
This order was surprising, for it was the first time she
had been told to carry tea to her master in the afternoon.
In the morning yes, but never in the afternoon.
Once the door had closed on Jinnie, Rose Shaleman
settled herself into a new position in the bed so that she
could look fully at the tinker, and she said, 'Well, give
us your news. What's the latest in your travels?'
'Well now, Missis Rose, I wouldn't know where to
start. The world's going topsy-turvy, you know, really
topsy-turvy, but some things remain the same, for instance,
you know Hannah Brown?'
'Yes, I know Hannah Brown, tinkerman. Don't tell
me . . .'
'Yes, I'm going to tell you; her fourteenth last week.'
'Never!'
' 'Tis a fact; her fourteenth, and all alive but one, and
there's eight of them still at home.'
'In those three rooms?'
'In those three rooms, and as happy as a dog with two
tails. The child was eight pounds and a boy, another one
to tip up his earnings in a few years' time. And she'll be
alive to receive it, for she's as healthy as a hog that's
been brought up on milk and eggs, and she's forty-six,
if a day. And that, Missis Rose, is a good thing. You
know, all the years I've been travelling, I've never found
big squads among people with money. I've only once
heard of a squire who managed ten; for the rest it's one
or two or three. Well, you've got to go no further than
Towbridge House and the Baxton-Powells: two, Master
Richard and Miss May, and the boy not of the strongest,
as everybody knows, and it is said that there's a marriage
in the offing for him - the Rowlands are returning this
weekend from Scotland, I understand. A Hall it is, twice
the size of Towbridge House. The maids could hardly

look at my wares this morning, there was so much fuss
and bustle going on. But then I suppose you would have
heard about it before now with your son being a friend
of Mister Richard. Now, I've always thought, Missis
Rose, that that is one of the strangest friendships I've
come across. Of course, it was only allowed, I know,
because one saved the other's life; usually there's a
small hand-out and that's that; but those two, well, I
understand they still run on the hills together.'
Rose brought her chin tightly into her neck and there
was a hint of annoyance in her tone as she said, 'I see
nothing strange about their friendship. The House owes
my son a great deal; but for him there wouldn't be an
heir.'
'Oh, I quite agree with you and I've said as much, yes
I have; I've said as much to the cook there, and before
today: I've said, say what you like about it being odd
that the young master should run the hills with the likes
of... well, I mean, with an ordinary farmer's son and
insists on doing it when he knows it annoys his mother
and father.'
'Who told you that?'
'Oh, my dear, my dear Missis Rose, you get to hear
all things in the kitchens of the great; and it isn't today or
yesterday he was told to give up his running, supposedly
because of his health. You know, he had rheumatic
fever?'
'Nobody better than me knows that he had rheumatic
fever, and nobody better than me knows that if it hadn't
been for my son, who nearly died himself, he wouldn't
be here today to get married, or anything else.'
'Missis Rose' - the white head was shaking from side
to side - 'I've said those very words, those very very
words I've said: I've said that the master and mistress
should go down on their bended knees that they've got

a son to run the hills, no matter who with. He's a
gentleman, Mister Richard, a real gentleman, he knows
he owes this house a debt, and he keeps on paying it in
his own way, so I understand: you're not without your
baskets of fruit or your butter at times. You don't need
eggs. Oh no; you don't need eggs.'
The countenance of his customer told the tinker that
it was time to take his leave; but he couldn't be dismissed
so lightly. As he lifted his bag on to the table and
buckled the leather straps together he said, 'You won't
have heard from your son, I suppose? Being on a cargo
boat like The Admiral, it'll be some time before he gets
a letter to you, for I understand what's already out there
just plies back and forward between the islands. Must
be wonderful, that, to be aboard a ship that goes from
one island to another.'
'How d'you know, tinkerman, that he's on a ship called The Admiral?'
'Oh, my dear Missis Rose, they were chatting about
it in the King's Head the last time I was in. They
were saying how funny it was that one man from these
parts should choose to go to sea while another, Sam
Valasquey, should suddenly decide to stay ashore. Now
there's a bruiser of a man for you. I could never stand
that man; most uncivil; a heathen of a man, really, and
only too willing to use his fists, so that his poor wife
almost always has both eyes looking the same colour.
And why? Why?'
'Good day, tinkerman, but let me tell you you're
on the wrong track this time.'
'I am? You mean . . .?'
'I mean nothing, but I know what you mean and
I repeat, you're on the wrong track. Good day,
tinkerman.'
'Good day to you, Missis Rose. I don't suppose I'll

be this way again until the New Year, but until I see
you again, I wish you well.'
She did not return his farewell, and after the door had
closed on the old man with his pack on his back, she lay
back among the pillows and sighed deeply.
The tinkerman was her only means of getting news
of the outside world, but he always managed to irritate
her one way or another: another time, his barbs
would have been against Pug.
Jinnie did not re-enter the house until she saw the
tinker leaving, and when she did go into the kitchen
she went straight to Rose and in a soft voice she said,
'Thank you so much, missis, for that lovely ribbon. I'll
always keep it for special days.'
Mollified somewhat by Jinnie's attitude, Rose Shaleman
nodded her head and said quietly, 'Well, you'll
likely have a lot of special days now that you'll be able
to see your Miss Caplin. You've got Bruce to thank for
that, for he's been going out of his way on a Sunday to take the cart all the way round the top road and
down to the Miss Duckworths, but I won't have that
big fella up here, you understand?'
It was some seconds before Jinnie answered, 'Yes,
missis, I understand;' but she was brave enough to go
on and add, 'But I'd still like to see Max at times; so if you don't mind, some Sundays I'd rather go down.'
' Oh, get about your work, girl!' Rose Shaleman made an impatient movement with her hand and Jinnie turned somewhat sadly from the bed. Her mistress's attitude towards Max dimmed some of the wonder from the happenings of the day, and they had been wonderful,
for hadn't she been able to buy that lovely locket for
Miss Caplin, and hadn't the missis bought her thatgolden ribbon? She put her hand up to the back of her head now, where her single plait was pinned flatly


against it. She ignored the plait but fingered the hair
growing down towards her shoulder. It was growing fast,
as Miss Caplin had said it would if she brushed it night
and morning, and she did so then and any other spare
minute she had, for she'd never feel whole again until
she had another plait hanging down her back, at least
at night time; but how long that would take she didn't
know and even Miss Caplin couldn't tell her.

After a long dry spell it had rained unseasonably for
three days and nights and now the whole world seemed
sodden. The ground outside the cottage was like a
quagmire. The pigs were up to their haunches in
glar. The hens were bedraggled and their laying
had gone off. Inside the cottage there were lines
of old and sodden linen from underwear to top
coats stretched across the scullery, and the fire in
the kitchen wasn't drawing because the top of the
chimney was so damp. Dampness wasn't the word that
could be applied to Bruce's condition: having again
been soaked to the skin, he was changing into clothes
which were still damp. Jinnie was feeling absolutely
worn out, not only with the work in general but
also with having to contend with the fire to keep
it going. And when eventually her frustration caused
her to remark, 'It's bad coal this, there's no roundies
in it at all,' neither Bruce nor his mother made
any comment; although Rose Shaleman wanted to
say, 'Have you any idea, girl, what roundies or
the best coal cost for a load?' But Bruce began
to cough and she said, 'Look, take a drink of hot
ginger before you go out, you don't want that cough
to hang about. Girl, put the kettle on and make
Mister Bruce some hot ginger.'
'I don't want any hot ginger, Ma; I've filled myself
with hot ginger these past days, and what good has it

done? What I want is a set of dry clothes. And she's
right, it's poor coal; but I'll tell you this much, Ma,
the next lot I bring up won't be poor: if they ask treble
for it, you'll have to stump up.' He turned now and
abruptly he said to Jinnie, 'Pour me out a drop of
broth.'
His mother's voice was placating now as she said,
'Must you go up there again?'
'Ma' - the word came slowly now, as if he wanted
to drum something home - 'they're taking shelter in
every nook and cranny. I've got half the number I want
down. I've only one pair of legs and one pair of hands
and the dog's only got four feet. What's more, when
I've got what I want of them down I have to get them
ready for market. You're not going to get good money
for animals looking like drowned rats. And don't forget
what you tend to point out every year; our survival
through the winter depends on the August sale; and
by the look of what I'm bringing down from the hills
tells me that this coming winter's fare will be meagre
if it weren't for double the number of your porkers we
have this year.'
When she made no remark whatsoever he turned to
the table and lifted up the bowl of broth Jinnie had
placed there, warming his hands on it before putting
it to his mouth and gulping down the contents.
He now pulled on a steaming greatcoat, then his
cap, and lastly he took up a hessian sack from the
floor, punched one end of it into the other until it
formed a hood, which he then pulled on to his head
over his cap and went abruptly out again into the driving
rain.
Jinnie's body was tired and her mind weary. She had
never experienced weather such as this. She didn't recall
this kind of weather when she was in the workhouse. If it

rained or snowed she had always been dry, sometimes
cold, oh yes, often cold, but dry. There was a difference
between being cold and dry and cold and wet. But here,
by night-time her clothes would be wet, and she would
be longing for sleep, only to be brought awake by the
feeling of the damp pallet. It seemed years ago since a
week on Sunday when Miss Caplin had come up here.
The sun had been shining then, and it had been quite
warm; and Miss Caplin had told her the great news
that Max had applied to go out to work on a farm.
She had stressed he had no real need to apply, that
in fact he was free to go at any time: after all, he
wasn't certified and, what's more, he had paid well
for his keep with hard work. Anyway, Miss Caplin had
taken it upon herself to write to a farmer in Weardale.
His advert had appeared in the newspaper. Apparently
he had a hill farm and wanted help but the advert
stated that the applicant must be experienced in some
form of farming. Miss Caplin had added quietly that
she had described Max's impediment and his outsize
stature, but added that these were compensated for by
his intelligence on the one hand and his colossal strength
and appetite for work to be of use on the other. The
only disadvantage to Jinnie was that she would see less
of him then than she did now.
The air of the room was heavy with the smell of
sweat. She put her hand out and supported herself
against the iron plate under the mantelshelf. If only
it would stop raining and she could get the clothes
dry and this room clean. She found the heat from the
iron plate comforting to her hand, which was red and
swollen. She was about to warm the other one when her
mistress's voice brought her upright: ' 'Tis no time for
dreaming, girl,' she was saying; 'if you want to be near
the fire put the bellows to it; then get another pan of

broth ready, because that's the best thing for anybody
in this weather, and, if I know anything, Bruce'll be
back before long. This is the third day of it and he
can't stand much more. He's strong but he's not a
horse.'
It was as if her mistress was talking to herself, and
apparently she was, for she began muttering and her
words became indistinct to Jinnie; in fact, all sounds
became indistinct as she prepared the vegetables for
the broth. These she scooped by the handful on to
the ham bones which had served as the basis for the
broth over the last three days. As she did so she thought:
back in the house, after they had made the first broth,
they used to throw the bones away. There must be
nothing left in these, and it came to her that the bones
were like herself, there was nothing left in her either. A
few days ago when it had been dry and warm she had
lain in bed one night and wondered if anything really nice would ever happen to her, and from somewhere
deep within her had come the question: What did she
want? What would she like to happen to her in a nice
way? to which she could find no answer. Yet there
was in her a strange desire, a longing for a little bit of
wonder to come her way; but since the rain she had
become more convinced that nothing nice would ever
happen to her: she'd work in this house until she was
old and like her mistress, and every day would be the
same. Nothing seemed to change here. The place was
enveloped in melancholy and she could see no escape
from it.
Such were her thoughts until the clock on the mantelpiece
showed six o'clock, and it was almost at that
precise moment that the door was pushed open and
Bruce staggered in, pressed the door closed, leant against
it for a moment, then would have slid down to the floorhad not his father, who was coming down the room
carrying the empty soup bowl, flung it on the table and
pushed himself against his son while crying to Jinnie,
'Give a hand here!'
When, between them, they went to place Bruce in a
chair and saw immediately there was no way he could
support himself, Jinnie cried, 'Lay him on the mat,
mister. Lay him on the mat.'
Rose Shaleman was sitting on the edge of the bed now
and she called to them, 'Don't let him lie down in those
wet things, strip his coats off.'
And this they did, but only after much effort. When
they laid him back on the mat his breath was coming in
such short gasps that Jinnie imagined he was choking,
and, jumping up, she ran to the bed crying, 'I must have
a pillow!'
Her mistress almost threw the pillow at her, and when
Pug raised his son's shoulders so that Jinnie could place
the pillow in position, Bruce began to cough, and such
was the tearing sound that Jinnie screwed up her face
against it; then it was she who almost choked on a
gasping cough as she looked up and saw her mistress
hanging on to the edge of the table. She appeared to
be so tall, almost as tall as Max, and she too was
gasping as she addressed her husband, saying, 'Get
him out of those wet trousers, man; and you girl, go
up aloft and drop his hap and biscuit bed down and
any clothes that you see lying about.'
Jinnie scrambled about in the roof space which,
although much bigger than her own, was still cramped,
and grabbing up the damp quilt she flung it through
the hatch and on to the floor; there followed oddments
of clothing, and lastly she dragged the pallet bed to
the top of the ladder and slowly eased it down the
side. She waited until it fell with a quiet thud on

to the floor, then she was almost sliding down the
ladder again, only to stop at the bottom: Bruce
was lying quite naked and his mother, from a chair
pulled to the side of the table, was yelling at her
husband, 'Rub him hard! It's no good just drying
him, rub him hard, get the blood flowing. Girl!' She
had not directly addressed her, but Jinnie, keeping
her eyes averted from the prone figure, darted to
her side, saying, 'Yes, missis?'
'Pull the bed tick up here, then go and take the top
sheet off my bed and pull it over. Be quick!'
Jinnie was quick, and when the sheet was placed over
the tick Rose Shaleman said, 'You got a dryish blanket
up there?'
'Not bad, missis.'
"Well, fetch it. Go on, quick!'
It seemed only seconds before she was back in the
kitchen, the blanket held in her hands, and her mistress
was shouting at her, 'Well, don't stand there with it;
get down and wrap him in it.'
Her master had already wrapped some of the bottom
sheet around his son and all she had to do was to lay
her blanket hap on top of him; then she was tucking it
in all around him.
Bruce had had his eyes closed most of the time, and
now when he opened them he seemed to be looking up
into hers and he muttered, 'Drink.'
And she, scrambling to her feet again, said, 'Yes,
Mister Bruce; yes, I'll have you a hot drink in a couple
of shakes.' Then of a sudden she stopped, saying, 'But
how will I get to the fire, missis?'
Rose Shaleman didn't say, 'Well, step over him,' but
looked down on her son for a moment, then said to her
husband, 'Pull the tick towards me at the bottom; leave
it so his head and chest are near the grate . . .'

A half hour passed, and although Bruce had been
given another hot ginger drink, and pieces of flannel,
wrung out in boiling water, had been placed on his
chest, he still showed no improvement, more the reverse.
Between gasps of racking coughing, he was talking to
Mister Richard and using strange words as if he were
reciting poetry, between times berating Hal and his
father. Rose Shaleman looked at her husband and said,
'He's bad, he needs a doctor.'
' 'Tis just a heavy cold,' said Pug.
'Heavy cold be damned, man! He's had colds before,
but never like this. If pneumonia sets in that'll be the
finish of him. Andrew Stevens went the same way in
this sort of weather, and he was the same age, so get
your coat on and get down to the village or along to
the Stevens'. Ask them to send one of the others down
to the village or into Allendale, or wherever the doctor
is stuffing himself with his high living, because he'll
still be at it, if I know anything.'
'I could never find me way down there: it's coming
on dark and me legs wouldn't take me; I'm slithering
outside as it is. He'll be all right.'
'Be damned to you, Pug Shaleman, for a dirty little
coward! You always were and you always will be.'
'All right. All right.' He was yelling at her. 'If I go,
who's going to look after him?'
'The girl can do what has to be done.'
'It wouldn't be decent, woman, it wouldn't be
decent.'
His wife now stared at him in silence for a moment,
her mouth agape, and now in a strange and low voice,
she said, 'God above! I can't believe me ears. You! you
above all men talk about decency connected with man,
woman, or child.' She now gripped the edge of the
table and pulled herself round to say to Jinnie, standing

wide-eyed, 'D'you know where the Stevens's farm is?'
'I've never been there, missis, but I've got an idea.
It's on the road past the pool, and when Mister Bruce' she
inclined her head to the heaving figure on the
floor - 'when he brought Miss Caplin and me up he
pointed down the hill into the valley and said that was
where we got our milk from. There was a road went
off.'
'D'you think you could find it?'
'Aye, missis. Oh aye, I'll find it.'
'Well, hap up as much as you can, girl, and get away.
Say to Mrs Stevens I sent you, say that my Bruce is very
sick and would she oblige me by sending one of the men
for Dr Beattie.'
'Yes, missis, yes.'
'Take your clogs off - you'll lose them in the mud
before you get halfway down the bank - put your boots
on and put a sack on your head, not your hat; your hat's
no good the night.'
Jinnie now dashed into the scullery and up into her
loft, and there, grabbing up her coat and her boots, she
came down the steps again, put on the coat, slipped
out of her clogs and laced up her boots; then from a
cupboard, she plucked out a piece of the rough linen she
had brought with her from the workhouse and, folding
the square crosswise, she put it on her head and tied
a knot underneath her plaited coil: she couldn't bear
the thought of the dirty hessian sack, when it should
become wet, sticking to her hair. Then running into the
kitchen, she said, 'I'm off, missis.'
Her mistress said no word, but gave her a sharp
nod.
Outside, head down, she began to run, past the pigsty
and the barn; she then scrambled crabwise up the hill
until she reached the rough road. Here the wind was

stronger, driving the rain into her face, each drop as
cold as an icicle. She tried to run holding the sack well
forward over her brow, but this impeded her balance.
Presently, above the whistling of the wind and the
beating of the rain, she thought she heard the neighing
of a horse; but on turning and peering back, she could
see no sign of one so she stumbled on.
She had almost reached the place where the road
leading to the farm diverged when she was startled out
of her wits by the sound of the screeching of wheels,
which lifted her into the ditch with fright. She knew
she was lying against the bank, her face pressed tight
to the earth, and when a hand came on her shoulder
and a voice said, 'What on earth are you doing out
here, girl?' her mouth went into a gape and she slumped
against the wet bank and peered up through her dripping
eyelids at Richard BaxtonPowell.
He had taken hold of her hand and had pulled her on
to the road, and again he was asking, 'Why are you out
here?'
'I ... I was going for a doctor, sir.'
'Oh; is Mrs Shaleman worse?'
'No.' As she shook her head the sack dropped from
her shoulders, and now, seeing that the white cloth she
was wearing over her hair was getting soaked, he pulled
her towards the carriage door, then almost roughly he
put his hand under her oxters, saying, 'Get up there
a moment,' only to add quickly, 'Oh, I'm sorry, May;
but she's drenched. And anyway, I can't stay out in
this.'
In the dimness of the carriage Jinnie made out the
figure of an elegantly dressed young woman who was
staring at her none too kindly, and she said, 'I'm sorry,
ma'am.'
'Well, who's ill?' Richard demanded.

'Bruce. Mister Bruce. He managed to get into the
house before collapsing. He's lying by the fire now. He's
very bad, sir.'
'Bruce? But. . . but why were you on this road going
for the doctor?'
'To ask Mr Stevens to send a man for him.'
'Oh, I see.' He now turned and looked at his sister
and explained, 'She's from Bruce's place.' But the reply
to this came through tight lips: 'I gather as much; then
let her get out of the way.'
'How can I, May? She's wringing and she's some way to go over those fields to the farm. Look, I'll drop you
home, then go and pick up the doctor. It's as little as I
can do.'
'I think I've heard that phrase before with regard to
the person in question. And I don't have to remind
you that if you don't get back to the Rowlands' for
dinner, Mother'll have something to say to you, more
than she has already, and that's not to mention Father,
with regard to that abode. To my mind this whole thing
is becoming a bone of contention; a debt is a debt but
once it's paid, it's done with.'
'Shut up!' The words were softly said but nevertheless
uttered emphatically, and Jinnie realised that this
gentleman's continued association with Bruce must be
causing much trouble at The Manor, and so, quickly,
she put in, 'Look, sir; I know me way and once I
get off the road I'll soon cover that field,' and she
put her hand out to open the door. But his voice stayed
her. 'Sit where you are,' he said, not in a kindly tone,
but in one of command. Then he pulled down the
window and shouted to the driver, 'Tim! Make for
The House. We'll drop Miss May off; then we'll drive
to the village to pick up the doctor.'
'As you say, Mister Richard. As you say.'


The words seemed to be wafted into the carriage
on a gust of wind; then the window was closed and
Jinnie found herself jolted back in the seat; and as
the carriage moved on she remembered the sack and
was about to remark that she mustn't leave it behind,
when she thought the better of it.
The young lady was muttering something but the
noise of the carriage wheels blotted out the words until
her voice rose and she said, 'You'll go too far one of
these days; Father won't stand for it.'
There was no answer forthcoming but Jinnie could
see that Mister Richard had thrown one leg over the
other, which she took as a sign of him being annoyed.
Presently, she felt the slowing down of the carriage
and when it seemed to turn she was jolted again; then
the horses trotted a short way before they stopped, and
Mister Richard, opening the door, said to her, 'Stay
where you are.' Then he held out his hand to help his
sister alight; and Jinnie had been quick to note that the
young woman made sure that her cloak and dress did not
come in contact with her own long and sodden coat.
Left alone, she looked through the window and saw
in the light of a bright lantern a flight of steps leading
to the house, and a man dressed in a green breeches suit
holding an umbrella over the young lady as she mounted
the steps.
Now Mister Richard was shouting up to the driver:
'Turn them round, Tim; I won't be long.'
Although it was only five minutes before Mister
Richard reappeared, to Jinnie it had seemed an age,
and she felt she could have reached the farm by
now.
'We needn't go as far as Allendale,' Richard was
calling up to the driver. 'I understand we might find
him in the village; he left here only half an hour ago.'

The door was pulled open now, and then he was
sitting opposite her in the grey light and she was experiencing
the most odd sensation and recalling how,
only last night, she had lain in bed and asked herself if
anything wonderful or even just nice would ever happen
to her, and here she was riding in a carriage with a
gentleman sitting opposite her. She was no longer feeling
wet or sodden; in fact, her body was experiencing a warm
glow. Mister Richard was nice, he was kind; in a way he
wasn't unlike Mister Bruce, only Mister Bruce wasn't so
polite as Mister Richard, nor did he look so smart; and
he hadn't the same accent. Well, he wouldn't have. And
yet he didn't speak rough. Oh no; it was surprising that
Mister Bruce didn't speak rough, not like Mister Hal
or his father. And sitting there musing and half asleep
she thought, well, wasn't it wonderful to know three
nice men. Max of course would always come first, then
Mister Bruce, and now Mister Richard.
The swaying of the carriage was like being rocked in
a cradle, she imagined. She felt comfortable and warm
and so tired. She wasn't actually aware of the carriage
stopping, and so when she opened her eyes and heard
no sound about her, she closed them again.
It was some time later when she jerked them wide to
the sound of a strange voice saying, 'Why d'you concern
yourself? They are scum up there.'
'They are human beings in need and you're a doctor.'
'Look, Mister Richard; if it wasn't who you are, and I
have great respect for your father and your lady mother,
I would tell you where you could go to at this minute,
and that lot up there too, but as it is, I'm not taking my
horse and trap out this night. If you take me up you'll
bring me back.'
'That's agreed. Well, then, will you get in or d'you
want us both drenched?'

That the doctor was surprised to drop on to a seat
opposite a white-faced girl with a plait over one shoulder
in tangled disarray and with a white cloth hanging round
her neck, was putting it mildly; and his eyes travelled
down her greatcoat to where it was dripping water on
to her boots.
Richard had taken his seat when the doctor demanded, 'Who's that?'
'She's the little maid from up there.'
'A maid up there? Who would stay up there? A maid?'
'Yes, you've said it, doctor, who would stay up there?
She's been up there for some months now. And if I
remember, and Bruce is right, it's two years or more
since you last visited the place, and all you did was
leave tablets.'
'What more could anybody do? She's on her last legs.
She has been for years now; I'm surprised she's still here.
She'll go out like a light one day.'
'Yes, she'll go out like a light one day.'
The doctor's voice rose above the grinding of the
wheels and the horses' hooves as he cried, 'Don't take
that attitude with me, Mister Richard. I know these
people better than you do.'
'That you do not, doctor; at least not one of them.'
'Oh, we're on about the saving of life again. That kind
of thing's happening every day, and the debt doesn't go
on for ever. If a man is rescued by a cannibal it doesn't
mean that he can let the cannibal eat him by way of
thanks.'
Jinnie was very wide awake now and aware once again
that she was at the centre of trouble; but then she heard
Mister Richard laugh as he said, 'That's a very good
simile, doctor. Indeed, I must remember it.'
There followed a silence apart from the noise of the
vehicle; then, as if the conversation had never been

interrupted, and in a more moderate tone, the doctor
said, 'You know, Mister Richard, people can't understand
you running the hills with young Shaleman.'
Mister Richard did not reply, and a silence again
seemed to weigh on Jinnie, making the journey seem
never-ending. And the silence wasn't broken until the
driver shouted, 'Whoa there!' and she realised that they
had reached the cottage.
Jinnie sat still until the doctor had descended from
the carriage, and then she was checked from alighting
herself by Mister Richard's voice calling to the driver:
'There's a barn further along, Tim; see if it will give the
horses a bit of shelter until we are ready.'
When the man replied, 'Yes, sir,' Jinnie imagined
that the carriage was about to move on, and so,
seeming to decline the outstretched hand, she jumped.
Unfortunately her feet landed in a pool of muddy water
which sprayed over the legs of both the doctor and
Richard, and the older man cried at her, 'You stupid
girl! Look what you've done,' as he pulled off a glove
and whacked the front of his trousers back and forth.
Jinnie looked at Mister Richard's legs. His trousers
were of some dark material and his shoes made of a fine
leather and they too were bespattered with the muddy
water. Again she heard that long intake of breath.
She ran to the cottage and thrust it open; and although
she was used to it, the stench of wet clothes and body
odours hit her like a wave. Her mistress was still sitting
in the chair, bent over, with her hand on her son's head,
while her husband was bathing Bruce's chest with a piece
of hot flannel.
'What's this? What's this?'
At the words, Pug Shaleman jerked round, and his
wife said curtly, 'Well, doctor, you can see for yourself,
if you look closer: he's in a bad way.' She had never

liked the man: she would never have sent for him for herself, and it must be all of two years since he was last up here. 'He can't last like this, his chest is bursting,' she added.
The doctor dropped his bag on to the table. He had
not removed either his tall hat or his overcoat, because he could see nowhere suitable to lay them; then he went
towards the hearth, where first of all he touched Pug
with the toe of his shoe, saying, ' Get up out of that, man,' then, turning to Rose, said, 'and move back, woman.'
He did not kneel down but dropped on to his hunkers and, lifting Bruce's hand, he felt his pulse, after which
he turned and looked up at Richard, saying, 'Hand
me my bag, please,' and having been given it, hesitated
whether or not to put it on the floor. He finally
did; and extracted from it a stethoscope and began to
sound Bruce's chest. After a moment he returned the
instrument to his bag; then to no-one in particular he
said, 'Pneumonia. What he'll need is a cage.'
'A cage?'
He straightened up and looked at the woman of
this place, as he thought of her, and said, 'Yes, Mrs
Shaleman, a cage over his head and chest to keep in
steam.'
'Oh, that. Well, we can soon fix that up.'
'I'm glad to hear you say so. It's a pity you didn't
think of it before. Also, it's a pity he hadn't seen to his
own condition before, for I should imagine he's been
like this for some time. And I must tell you plainly, if
he gets through tonight he'll be lucky.' He lifted his bag
and replaced it on the table, and from a small cardboard
box he took ten tablets and placed these on the table
in single file, saying, 'If he should need them you will
see that he takes two a day.' Then after a moment he

said, 'There's nothing more I can do. It's up to God
and a steam kettle of sorts now. And, mind, he'll need
constant attention all night. Where's your other son?'
He was now addressing Pug, who answered him in
almost a growl. 'At sea,' he said.
'Oh well, that only leaves you and--' He paused
before his gaze fell on Jinnie again, and to her he said
abruptly, 'You'll have to keep awake or take turns; it's
up to both of you now; I can do no more. And as for
you, Mrs Shaleman, I'd advise you to get back into
bed before you need a night watch too; you're only a
hindrance where you're sitting. You know that, don't
you? That chair you're on will probably be needed to
help make the tent.'
He now picked up his bag and made for the door,
saying to Richard, 'We'll be on our way. I had to break
an evening's engagement for this, so you'll oblige me by
getting me back as quickly as possible.'
Richard stood for a moment and looked from one
to the other in the room: to the mother of his friend,
then to the undersized father, then to the girl, that
slip of a girl, and lastly he looked down on to his
friend before turning abruptly and following the doctor
out.
He had not uttered a word since he had first entered
the room.

If Mrs Rowland was annoyed by the fact that her
future son-in-law - which state was not yet known
to the man in question - carried his charitableness
to exaggerated lengths she showed no hint of it;
in fact, she welcomed him in as she always had
done, giving not the slightest indication that she
had noticed his bespattered trousers and shoes. Her
daughter took after her, for Lillian greeted him, inthe hall with a low tinkling laugh as she said, 'You're
very wise to make it late, Richard; Miss Bristow and
Mr Williams have finished their duet, and Colonel
Falconer has gone over his army exploits yet again.
Anyway, we have held dinner until you should arrive
home. Your mother and May are in the drawing
room, but your father has escaped with mine to the
smoke-room.'
Lillian Rowland was nineteen years old. She was
plump and pretty and, like her parents, a Christian of the
highest standard. Like her parents, too, she had never
missed Mass and she believed firmly in life everlasting,
of course as she had known it on earth, and that all this
was guaranteed to her through the Church.
The affinity between the Rowlands and the BaxtonPowells
was close in all ways, for were not the
Baxton-Powells High Church; in fact, so high that as
far as they themselves were concerned, there seemed
to be little difference between the two denominations,
certainly no impediment in the coming together of the
daughter of the one house and the son of the other? The
parents of both these young people were agreed on this.
If the matter of marriage had still to be voiced it was
certainly understood by all concerned.
The dinner, as usual, was excellent, perhaps made more so by the fact that, although religion played a
great part in the life of the Rowlands, it didn't mean
that it was fortified only by ethereal spirit, oh no; Mr
Rowland enjoyed his whisky, Mrs Rowland was partial
to port; and as for Lillian, she loved sherry; but
of course, none of these natural tastes was indulged
in during Lent. Later, it was agreed that the whole
evening had been so very enjoyable.
When it came to Richard saying goodbye, he kissed
Lillian on the cheek, and she returned the kiss in the

same way; then linking her arm in his, she walked with
him down the steps. The rain had stopped and there
was a full moon, the light from which was outdoing the
lanterns.
When the carriage door had closed on Richard, Lillian
called through the window, 'Will you be at the Wisdons'
tomorrow, May?'
'No; I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you, Lillian, we are
going by train into Newcastle tomorrow.'
'Oh, how exciting. We'll have to make up a party one
day and all go in.'
'Yes; yes, we will.'
The goodbyes flowed back and forth now; then the
carriage moved away, Richard pushed up the window,
then lay back against the leather headrest and waited
for the reprimand. But it was not forthcoming until
they reached the house, when it was very brief: 'I will
see you in the morning, sir,' Mr Baxton-Powell informed
his son, and without waiting for a reply, ushered his
wife away hastily up the stairs.
However, May seemed to be determined to express
her feelings, for after handing her cape and hat to the
manservant, she said, and in a polite tone, 'Can you
spare me a moment, Richard?'
Richard followed and, after closing the door behind
him, was greeted with: 'You know, you won't get away
with it this time; Father really is wild.'
'Away with what, May?' His voice sounded tired.
'Your escapade tonight, playing the good Samaritan.'
'No; I won't get away with it, not if you grow expansive
on the matter.'
'I won't have to; they must have drawn conclusions
from your clothes; as no doubt did Lillian and her
dear mama, not to say her father. I bet he's over here
tomorrow to see Father, determined to get to the bottom

of it, and why you should be so concerned for that dirty
little brat of a girl. And they've always objected to your
running the hills with that fellow up there. You know
that. They would accept your running with Tim for he
is a household servant, but not when you take up with a
person who isn't even a farmer. As I understand it, they
live up there like prehistoric animals.'
'Yes, they do live like prehistoric animals, May; you
don't know you're born. A flick of fate and you could
be that young girl up there living in that stinking hole;
and it is stinking. I hold out no excuses for the father,
for he's twisted in mind and body, and the mother is
not far behind him, but that's been through illness;
and her elder son has always been a drunken bully;
but Bruce is a different kettle of fish altogether. I don't
know how he came to be bred of them, because he's
a highly intelligent fellow, and something of a poet
too.'
'A what?'
'I said he is a poet, and I mean a poet: he can
hardly write, but he can turn his own thought into
magic lines. I, too, have a love for life, for the open
spaces, for the beauty of nature and for lovely things,
and I would know nothing about them at this moment
if it hadn't been for Bruce Shaleman. He saved
my life at the risk of his own, and no matter what
you or Mother or Father say, or anyone else, I owe
him the debt of my life, and this knowledge didn't
come instantly, I can tell you. It came when I was
lying on my back for a year and I recognized taste,
smell, touch and sight in a way that I'd never done
before, and all through his visits during that period.
And it was he who got me on my feet again; nobody
expected me to walk. And, also, I had lain in that
gully expecting to die and go into nothingness, yes,

nothingness, not heaven with a halo waiting for me as
they would have had me believe.'
'Oh, Richard,' May's voice was a plea now, 'please
don't turn away from your religion, too; it would break
their hearts.'
After a moment he said quietly, 'No, I won't turn
away, I'll play the hypocrite, as I've been doing for
some time now, because between you and me, May,
I don't believe a damn word of it, all the gospels, all
the preaching.'
'Oh, Richard.' Her voice came as a beseeching whisper
and he went and sat beside her. Putting an arm
around her shoulder, he said, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry,
May. I don't want to distress you, but as a result of
that accident that's how I feel. You know, during that
year I lay on my back, I seem to have lost all my youth;
I have never felt young since. And I know I've got
to face up to myself. My body isn't strong because
of this chest business, and I take the easier way out
because I can't bear hurting people.'
She now patted his hand and said, 'I'm sorry I
went for you, but I do love you, Richard, and I am
concerned for you.' And she added, 'But I would ask
you to keep the better side of your nature to the fore, and
don't hurt the parents,' in reply to which, he smiled at
her, saying, 'What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't
grieve over, so I'll practise my hypocrisy.'

Timothy Riley was what was known in the BaxtonPowell
family as an all-rounder, although mainly he
was Master Richard's man. His parents had died in
the Baxton-Powells' service. They were both elderly
when he was born and they had occupied what was
known as the Back Lodge Cottage. The cottage had
once been a farmhouse and so had stables attached,

and even now the every-day carriage and two horses
were stabled there.
George Mather, the main carriage driver, had also
suffered badly from the wet weather, and he had been
ordered to bed with a severe cold. Tim had been detailed
to pick up Master Richard and Miss May from the
station at Haydon Bridge. It was part of his duties to
see to Master Richard's wants last thing at night and
first thing in the morning, but on this night he was
detailed to help the yard man rub down and bed the
animals and dry off the main carriage so that its high
varnish would not be marked with dried raindrops.
Knowing this, Richard had told Riley not to bother
with him; he would see to himself. He had given this
order in the hearing of his father, but had then made
his way to the yard through the side-door, calling Tim
aside and giving him a new order, which was to go to
his cottage but not to retire to bed until he returned.
Timothy Riley had ceased to be surprised at anything
his young master said or did, and because he considered
that most of what Richard did was right, he felt no strain
in sitting up awaiting his arrival.
His fire was burning brightly, his pipe was drawing
well, and he had just stuck the poker into a mug of
beer when a knock came on the door. Jumping up, he
immediately opened it and for a moment showed some
surprise to see how his young master was dressed, for
he was wearing high boots and a large cape over his
topcoat, with an earflap cap on his head.
'Have you any spare sheets, Tim?'
'Sheets, Master Richard, bedsheets?'
'Yes, of course: bed-sheets, and what goes with them,
pillow-cases and towels.'
'Well, yes, yes,' he said, somewhat bemused; 'there's
a drawer full of them in the next room. They never

cleared them after Dad died, and I've got my own share,
which are changed every week, top and bottom. At least,
they give them to me to change.'
'Tim - ' Richard's voice held a note of impatience
as he said, 'I want two pairs of sheets, pillowcases,
some towels and any food that you've got to spare, and
now.'
After one keen glance at his master, Tim hurried
out of the room, to return shortly with four sheets,
four pillow-cases and three towels. These he dropped
on to the table and, placing his hands flat on them,
he looked at Richard and said earnestly, 'You're not
going back up there the night, sir, surely? It's killing
out.'
'No such thing; the moon's shining and it's drying
up quickly. Anyway, since you ask, that is where I'm
going.'
'Well, if you're going, I'm goin' an' all.'
'Oh no, you're not! I'll have enough trouble crossing
country myself without looking after you. You know you
hate walking, at least on the hills.'
'I've done it afore with you, sir.'
'Well, you're not doing it tonight. Now look, have you
any spare food?'
'What kind, sir, meat, milk?'
'Anything.'
Tim pulled open the cupboard door to show three
shelves well stocked with bread, butter, meat pies and
bottled fruit, and standing on the front of one shelf was
a meat dish holding the remains of a piece of sirloin.
Lifting this up, Tim said, 'The only real meat I have is
that, sir; and Cook gave it to me for Betsy, but I thought
I should keep it. There's a nice bit on it.'
'Well, cut if off then, wrap it up in a handkerchief
and give me whatever else you have in there: butter,

tea, sugar, and cheese, et cetera. I'll see it's all replaced
later.'
This Tim did; but all the while shaking his head, and
saying, 'You'll not get this lot up there yourself.'
'You've never seen me pack a knapsack. Wrap them
up singly so the sugar won't spill.' And Richard added,
'Don't worry about losing your handkerchiefs, there's
plenty more. You know where they are. Now, let me
see.' He unrolled the canvas bag he had brought with
him; then spreading the sheets, pillow cases and towels
on the bottom, he laid the food on top; then before he
went to pull the flap over, he said, 'There's nothing else
you've got to spare, I suppose?'
'No; no, sir. The only things you haven't got are eggs;
and they've got plenty up there, I should imagine, but
no milk.'
'Milk? Dear, dear! But I can't carry milk.'
'Tell you what, sir. I've got a couple of tins of condensed
milk in the back here. I never use it 'cos it's sweet
like. It's got sugar in. You have to dilute it.'
'Let's have them, Tim.'
When the knapsack was strapped up, Tim said
dolefully, 'If it starts raining, sir, all that stuff could
get sodden long before you get there.'
'Not the way I mean to carry it, Tim,' and at this he
unclasped the neck of his cloak, saying, 'Give me a heave
up on to my back with it.' He slipped his arms through
the straps, then pulled on his cloak again, saying, 'This
is mackintosh, so nothing'll get through it. It never has. I
often bless Mr Macintosh. Now, listen, Tim. I'll be back
about seven. Get a bath ready for about then. See to my
room; I mean, remake the bed and so on, as usual, and
lay my striped serge out for tomorrow. We are due to
go into Newcastle.' He had nearly forgotten about this
arrangement, which he had meant to get out of, but he

had the feeling that if he complied willingly, it might
take the edge off his father's tongue in the morning.
'Sure you'll be all right, sir?'
'Tim, how many times before have you let me out
of the side door on nights like this; even on occasions
dropped me from the window? Do you remember the
time it was on to the conservatory roof? My hat! It was
a miracle I didn't go through, but I slid down like an
eel on to the ground and was away.'
'Yes, sir, and left me with my heart in my mouth.
But this night is different. The ground is still sodden;
there'll be gullies full of water, and you can never trust
a moon like that. Anyway, be careful. And, sir, let me
ask you not to cut across country, but to keep as much
to the high road as you can. It's not much further, and
it'll be safer in the long run.'
Richard paused a moment, then nodded at his man,
saying, 'Yes, you're right, Tim. All right, I'll do as you
advise. Be seeing you in the morning.'
Tim pulled open the door and Richard edged his
way outside. Then, humping the load further on to his
shoulders, he hurried away. And Tim, his head shaking,
watched until he had disappeared from sight.
The sweat was streaming down the faces of both of
them: Pug Shaleman had taken off his shirt and vest
and was standing in his trousers; Jinnie's apron had
long been discarded and the front of her print dress was
unbuttoned almost down to the curve of her breasts.
Her underclothes were sticking to her; she had even
discarded her stockings and clogs. For the countless
time she took the steaming kettle from Pug's hand
and refilled the two basins under the blanket that was
covering the chairs, and whisked it back and forth above
Brace's chest.

The skin on his chest was scarlet, as was that on his
face. Whether what little steam that came from the
basins was doing him any good could not be known
for he was still gasping for breath. At times his coughing
would bring him up from the floor.
It was about one o'clock when his mother, pulling the
blanket aside, looked through the bars of the chairs down
on her son and, knowing that he could not last much
longer in this condition, dragged herself from the chair
and went back to her bed, where she lay staring at the
ceiling.
When her husband came to her side and, wiping the
sweat from his face with his forearm, croaked, 'He can't
last,' she answered quietly, 'I know.'
'I've done all I can.' His tone was apologetic, and
she answered again, 'Aye, I know;' but when he added,
'I'm beat meself. I don't know how much longer I
can stick on me legs,' her voice was curt as she said,
'You'll stick on your legs till he goes,' and at this he
turned away from her to go back to the fireplace and
assist Jinnie by once again lifting a kettle from the
fire and handing it to her . . .
When the door was thrust open and a big humped
figure appeared, the cry Rose Shaleman let out drowned
those of her husband and Jinnie, for it was as if the
black-cloaked figure was the devil.
'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have knocked, but
I didn't want to disturb anybody.' Richard's voice trailed
away and he looked from where Rose had slumped back
into her pillows to Pug Shaleman, kneeling bent forward,
his hand covering his face; and as for Jinnie, having
just refilled the two basins, she had just dropped the
kettle, luckily with only a little water still in it, but
enough to splash on her arm, causing her to cry out again.

Richard had thrown off his cap and cloak and lowered
the knapsack on to the table and dropped into a chair,
saying, 'How is he?'
It was Rose Shaleman who answered, 'Bad, sir; very
bad. I don't think he can last much longer.'
Richard left the table and, kneeling by the chairs, he
threw off the blanket; and when he saw the condition
of Bruce's upper body and face he cringed inwardly and
bit tight on his lip. Then in a voice of authority, he said,
'He's had enough of this; take all this stuff away. Then
you, girl, empty that knapsack and get me the sheets
and towels.'
When the towels were put in his hand, he took the
softest and began gently to dry Bruce's face and upper
body. Presently, he said, 'Take out a sheet and hold it
before the fire,' and it was Pug Shaleman who obeyed
this order.
Then, to Jinnie's amazement, Richard said, 'Have you
got a tin opener?' and when she replied, 'Yes; yes, sir,'
he ordered briskly, 'Open a tin of condensed milk, put
four spoonfuls into a mug and fill it three parts with
boiling water, then bring it here.'
She obeyed these orders exactly and when she brought
it to him he rose to his knees, took off his overcoat,
then drew out a small silver-topped flask from an inside
pocket and, unscrewing the top, poured a good measure
of brandy into the hot milk. He then knelt down by
Bruce's head and, slipping an arm under his shoulders,
he gently raised him, saying, 'Come on, fellow, drink
this.'
Bruce's parched lips made no movement to sip' and
when Richard poured a little of the milk into his mouth it
immediately caused a bout of coughing. At this, Richard
handed the mug back to Jinnie and, taking the towel

again, he began to massage the upper part of Bruce's
chest.
It wasn't until the fourth attempt that Bruce could
swallow the milk laced with the brandy, after which
Richard said to Pug, 'Help me to turn him over and
get this wet sheet off him. And you, girl, put the dry
one in a roll and push it underneath him from yon side,
understand?'
'Yes, sir, mister;' and although she said she understood
what was required of her, she tried to keep her
gaze away from the naked body she was handling.
This was the second time she had looked upon Bruce's
naked body, and the sight was disturbing her. However,
the business was soon over, and Bruce was not only lying in dry sheets, but also his breathing seemed a little easier. The damp blanket Richard threw to one
side and said, 'Pass me my greatcoat.' This he placed
over the sheets; then swinging round, he pulled his cape
from the chair and laid this half-way up Bruce's body,
so that it could be tucked under his feet. Then taking
up the softest towel of the three, he again began to wipe
Bruce's swollen and contorted face.
For a time there was only the sound of the agonized
breathing in the room, that is until Pug, who had been
sitting at yon side of the fireplace, fell on to his side and
awoke with a start, saying, 'I'm sorry but I'm . . . well,
I feel all in.'
'Yes, you're bound to,' said Richard. 'I would go
to bed: there's nothing you can do for some hours
yet. I'll call you if necessary.'
He stood up and looked towards the bed, saying, 'I'd
advise you to do the same, Mrs Shaleman. Once the
fever reaches its height, I'll let you know.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Richard now turned his head away, partly with

embarrassment and disgust, when he saw the small
man crawling over his wife to the far side of the bed.
Then he looked at the slim girl hanging a thin blanket on
the rod. She had to double it so that it would not cut out
the heat from the fire; and bending down to her, he said,
'I'm going to sit here' - he pointed to a chair that was
near Bruce's head - 'Would you like to go to bed?'
'Oh no, sir. Oh no; no. Not when Mister Bruce
is like this. I can keep awake; you'll probably want
help. I'll sit here, near the fire.'
He smiled at her gently, thinking, Not for long, you
won't, because her eyelids were already drooping and
her face looked utterly weary. He could see no place for
her to sleep, except on the bare floor.
His eyes took in the knapsack on the table, and, calling
her to him and with a wag of his finger, he whispered,
'Take the rest of the stuff out of the bag. Put it in a
cupboard; then bring the bag to me and I'll show you
something.'
Quickly she did this, and after she had handed him
the knapsack he took the straps and tucked them in,
then folded it into a short form of pallet, saying, 'You
see, the bottom's quite stiff. It isn't very long, but if
you lay it alongside the wall there and put your feet
towards the fire, you can curl up on a good part of
it. And look, take that towel, the big one, and roll
it up and make a pillow of it.'
She stared blankly at him, her mouth slightly agape,
for she said, 'What if you want help, and the kettle,
and ... ?'
'I won't need the kettle, not for a while, since you've
made up the milk. I'll wake you if I need you.'
She stared at him for a moment longer; then taking
the knapsack from him she turned about and laid it
down against the wall as he had instructed, and for

the first time he noticed her hair. One bedraggled plait
was twisted on her head above her ear, making her head
appear lopsided, so that he noticed the hair growing in
straggly ends on the left side of her neck. Good gracious!
he almost exclaimed aloud. She had only one plait, the
other had been cut off. Why? Who had done such a
thing? She had had beautiful hair: he had once watched
her washing it in the pool, and afterwards it had fallen
like a cloak about her. He recalled the day when, out
riding, he had reached the end of the ridge, when the
light hitting the top of the hill in the far distance made
him draw the horse towards the broken wall bordering
the ridge, and he had taken from his pocket the book
which he always kept there. It was no larger than four
inches long and three wide. It had a pencil in the slot
of the cover and, over the years, he had used many such
for sketching parts of this attractive countryside. Later,
in the deep winter months, or when his bones ached too
badly, he would transfer special sketches to canvas and
the memory would be reproduced in oils. But this day
his hand became still on the book, because out of the
corner of his eye he saw a small figure bending over
the pool below, with its hair floating out on top of
the water. For a moment he thought someone had
drowned, and then he felt further amazement as he
watched two hands come up and massage the scalp,
then sway the head backwards and forwards in the
water. Suddenly the head came up and back and the
naiad that she represented at this moment now began
to dry her long tresses with a towel.
He recalled that he almost prayed that his horse
wouldn't neigh or make any movement, because he
knew that never again would he see a picture so perfect
and innocent.
The next toss of the head had sprayed the hair around

the small shoulders, and it fell like a cape on to her hips.
Following this, she put her hands behind her flat on
the grass and still with her legs tucked beneath her
she leaned backwards, her face turned to the sun. He
recalled the tight restriction that had gripped him by the
throat, and he had known he must move away for he was
experiencing pain, a pain evoked by unusual beauty.
But could this be the same child? No, this was no
child, this was a girl, soon to be a young woman. But
look at her, half her hair gone and in such a bedraggled
state! Well, what could you expect from anyone living in
this hovel? And for a moment he thought of the maids
in his own home, and he knew that even they would
scorn to take her place, even the meanest of them.
Yet when he saw her lying with her head on the rolled
towel on the knapsack, the damp hair on her forehead,
her cheeks streaked with dirt, the red and swollen hands
now joined together on the makeshift pillow near her
face, the hidden beauty of the water nymph remained.
When Bruce moaned and his chest heaved painfully,
Richard dropped on to his hunkers and raised him up,
saying, 'Spit it out, Bruce. Get rid of it. That's it. That's
it,' and his own words took him back down the years to
the time when he lay like this, coughing as if his heart
would burst, and his godmother, one Lady Hannah
Bolton, uttering those same words, 'Get it up, boy.
Get it up. Spit it out.' He recalled now, with an inward
smile, that his godmother had been a disturber of the
peace, for she had stayed with them for two months
during his bad period, and had succeeded in upsetting
the whole household. As for his mother and father, they
were worn out by the time she left in order to go on one of
her arranged tours. Poking her nose in, she called it, and
she had poked her nose into many countries. The only
thing that seemed to prevent her from entering a country


was a revolution; an ordinary war she could take in her
stride. No-one had known his godmother's real age, but
he guessed it must have been fiftyish. He knew now what
he didn't at the time she had nursed him, the reason
for her interest in him: it was because he was like his
grandfather and she had, let it be whispered, in her early
years been that gentleman's mistress. It was a buried
secret in the family, because his grandmother, he was
told, had taken to her bed on hearing of the liaison. How
shocked his parents would have been if they knew that
he had received the news from Lady Hannah herself.
And now her voice seemed to have taken over his
own as he laid Bruce back and, his face hovering over
the sweating distorted features, he said, 'Now listen to
me, Bruce: you've got the will, you must use it. D'you
hear me? Oh, you can hear me. Look - ' his voice was
a whisper but the words came strongly, 'who am I going
to run with if not you? Who can I talk to, if not you?
You've got a mind, a poetic mind, and I've told you till
I'm tired that you've got to learn to write. I'm going to
see that you write. You hear me, fellow? I'm going to
see that you write. Now it's coming up to the testing
time.' Yes, that's what his godmother had said, and he
repeated it, 'Bruce, hear me! It's coming up to the testing
time. Make an effort.' Then once again he was holding
him up and using his godmother's words, 'That's it. It's
better out than in. Get it all up.'
Following on this bout, Richard drew himself up on
to the chair again and other than periodically wiping
the sweating face and rubbing down the heaving chest,
and easing drops of brandy and milk down his friend's
throat, he did nothing more.
He had been sitting on the chair with his legs wide
apart so that he could bend easily, but at what time
he crossed his legs and put his right forearm on top

of them while his other hand lay on the edge of the
seat, he didn't know, but he was amazed and not a
little ashamed when, blinking his eyes, he opened them
fully to realise he had dropped off to sleep.
Gasping himself now, he looked down on to Bruce.
He pressed his eyeballs with his finger and thumb for a
moment, then when he opened them it was to see Bruce
lying quietly looking up at him.
He was on his hunkers in an instant and, putting his
hand on the still sweating brow and stroking back the
wet hair, he said, 'Good. Good. You've made it.'
Bruce was now moving his swollen lips and when
on a croak he brought out the word, 'Dry,' Richard
said, 'Right. Right; I'll get you a drink,' and he rose
to his feet and went to the table.
There was still some cold condensed milk in a mug.
His nose wrinkled at it for a moment, but it was either
that or water, and he decided there was more substance
in the milk, and he made certain there was more when
he added drops of brandy from his flask.
Bruce actually gulped at the liquid, then lay back and
closed his eyes for a moment.
'Go to sleep.' Richard's voice was low, and when
Bruce lifted a weary hand towards him, Richard clasped
it and their gaze held. Then, like a child, Bruce closed
his eyes, turned his head to the side and went to sleep.
Again Richard sat in the chair and he, too, after a
time, went to sleep and did not wake until the cock
crowed . . .

Later, while he was walking back home, he stopped
suddenly to look up at the lightening sky. There was
a strange feeling on him: he should have been feeling
tired, but instead there was a feeling of lightness as
if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. And

it came to him that that was exactly what had happened.
For years now he had been paying the interest
on a debt which he imagined could never be cleared:
his friendship and running the hills with Bruce had
been obligations expected of him. But after what
had happened this night he could, in all honesty,
now tell himself that he had given Bruce back his life
and in doing so had expiated his own debt.

If he hadn't been aware of the atmosphere prevailing
in the breakfast-room, May's quick glance and raised
eyebrows were a clear warning that there was trouble
ahead.
'Good morning, Richard.' His mother's voice was
cool, icy cool. His father gave him no greeting, but
when he stabbed yet again at a kidney that would not
remain still on his plate, he said to Pearson, who was
about to serve Richard, 'Tell Cook from me that I like
my kidneys cooked but not to the extent of being so hard
that they can bounce off the plate.'
'Yes, sir. Will I remove them? There are some others.'
'Can I expect the others to be any better? Take them
away!' He thrust his plate at the butler, causing the
offending kidney not actually to bounce from the plate
but roll around what was left of the bacon, eggs and
sausage, the master's usual breakfast.
When the butler had left the room Mr Gregory
Baxton-Powell looked at his son and said, 'I'd advise
you to eat a good breakfast because you'll need it to
fortify you against what I have to say to you,' and
at this he thrust his chair back, got to his feet and,
pointing a forefinger at his son, added, 'I give you fifteen
minutes. I'll be in my study.'
'If I'm to eat this good breakfast, Father, it'll take me
more than fifteen minutes. It would ruin my digestion to

gobble,' a remark which brought a scathing glare from
his father as he left the room.
'Richard!' It was his mother's voice, now high and
commanding.
'Yes, Mother?' he said quietly.
' Don't you dare be so facetious when answering your
father. You're an ungrateful individual.'
'Yes; yes, Mother.' He had now pushed his chair back
and was on his feet, and in as angry a voice as hers he
said, 'Yes, I'm an ungrateful son. I should go on my
knees every morning at prayers and ask God to make
me good and dutiful in the only way that will make
you and Father happy. Of course, I won't ask God if I
shall be happy or even if Lillian would be happy. That's
beside the point, I suppose. Nothing else matters so long
as this High-Church house is joined to Rome, and for my
pains I can be assured of being cosseted for the rest of my
life in high style, can't I, Mother? It will be a payment
for the attention I've been given all these years and for
being unable to take up a profession. Of course, one
doesn't recognise painting as a career; it's only people
in the low dives of Paris who paint.'
'Yes; yes, you are right, Richard. And perhaps that's
where you'll find yourself in the end, the way you are
going.' And at this, his mother rose from the table
and marched from the room, leaving May to say, ' Oh,
Richard, you have done it this time. Why did you have
to stay the night up there; you did stay the night, didn't
you? Mother went to your room early on; then she cornered
Tim, but he's like a clam where you're concerned;
knew nothing, nothing. What time did you get in?'
'Oh, around seven, I think.' He sat down again.
'What were you doing all that time? Surely you . . . ?'
Richard banged down his knife and fork, and now
leaning slightly towards her across the table, he said

harshly, 'May, I was trying to save the life of the man
who once saved mine.'
Her voice was quiet too as she said, 'Well, did you?'
He let out a long sigh before he said, 'Just; but he's
still got some way to go, just as I had after my do. But
there are no nurses and doting parents to see to him.'
'There you are, then; you must give Mother and
Father credit for how they felt and thought when you
were ill.'
'I do. I do, May; but . . . this marriage business: to
tell you the truth--' his voice dropped and he repeated,
'to tell you the truth, May, I'm afraid to marry.'
'Why?'
'Because . . . well, just think back. Two years ago I
felt as fit as a fiddle, and although I did not relish this
business of taking up law, what happened? Six months
on my back again, almost having to learn to walk once
more. This thing's with me for life.'
'It isn't. The doctor said you'll grow out of it.'
'I was near death's door on and off for weeks, so
I'm told, after Bruce brought me in. You see old men
sitting at cottage doors, their hands on top of a knobbly
stick. They are riddled with their rheumatics. Well, I'm
not an old man, I'm a young man and I'm troubled
with something similar, and if I were to marry Lillian,
just imagine what would happen if I took ill again.
One family is bad enough to put up with, two would
become unbearable; but I am to believe that everything
is being done for my own good.'
'Well, it has been and still is. You've got to see it that
way.'
He took another mouthful of bacon, then muttered,
'Well, if I could go for a few years clear I might feel
different about it. But it isn't only the marriage business,

May, and you know it; it's because I will not break my
friendship with Bruce Shaleman. And you know, it isn't
only because of the debt I owe him, for if he was a dear
brother I couldn't think more of him.'
'Oh, Richard' - May tossed her head from side to
side now - 'for the life of me I cannot see what you
find in him. He's a very ordinary-looking man and he's
not even a farmer, he's shepherding most of the time,
and his people are noted for their . . . well, lazy ways.
If only they had been at least respectable and tried to
make something of that place up there . . . but as far
as I can gather it's . . . well, it's a dreadful hovel,
and you have said so yourself.'
'As far as you can gather, May, yes, it is a dreadful
hovel, and compared to this house, it's a pigsty, but of
late the young girl has made a difference to the place. I
should imagine she works unceasing inside and out. As
I think I've said to you before, May, it's all a matter of
environment.'
'I don't agree with you, Richard: it isn't just environment,
it's a matter of getting down to work and making
the best of what you've got, being respectable.'
He cut her off here, saying, ' Getting down to work,
May?' He now poked his face towards her. 'Have you
ever washed a cup in your life or polished a shoe?
Oh, May. And being respectable, you can only be respectable
when you've got something to be respectable
about. Anyway, the quarter of an hour was up some
time ago, so wish me luck, or perhaps bon voyage, I
might be sent on a long holiday for my health once
again, and if I am I'll welcome it.'
'Oh, you are ungrateful, Richard, and weak. I've got
to say it; you're ungrateful and weak.'
He was at the door when he turned and there he

said quietly, 'There you are wrong, May, I am not
ungrateful,' and he went out. But he paused a moment
as he said to himself, 'She was right on both counts; I
am weak, or I'd take a chance, as many another in my
position must have done, and get the hell out of this I
could exist in France; I know I could.'

The sun was at its height. It had been shining for the
past three days and had dried up the mud beyond
the rough flags that bordered the cottage. What was
more, both the room and the scullery were free of wet
clothes, and yesterday Jinnie had tackled and managed
to get dry an enormous amount of washing, including
the beautiful sheets that Mister Richard had brought
them. One had been patched darned, but they were
still beautiful; and they were so white. Bruce had lain
in them for three nights by the fireside. On the fourth
night she and the master had replaced his pallet in the
loft, and how Bruce had managed to pull himself up, she
did not know; but he hadn't come down at all the next
day and had eaten hardly anything. However, yesterday
he had managed the climb, and again today; and now he
was sitting outside on a kitchen chair, his head leaning
against the sun-warmed stone, his gaze cast upwards
into the clear unclouded sky.
He was aware of Jinnie flitting in and out of the cottage
and surprised to hear her humming gently to herself.
He raised his head and when she went to pass him, he
stopped her, asking, 'What's that you're singing?'
'Singing? Oh, I don't know, Mister Bruce, just a
tune, I don't know any words to it. Like the organ
on a Sunday in the dining-hall: they used to take the
services there and a man used to play the organ both
before the preacher came in and after he had gone.

It was nice, and everybody sat quiet. Well' - she laughed
now - 'you weren't allowed to speak to each other.
On a Saturday afternoon, the married couples could
during visiting times. It was odd, though, some didn't,
they just sat there . . . mute.'
He stared at her. She seemed to have altered over
the last few days. How long was it since he knew he
couldn't go on? A week or so; but before that he had
known what was happening to him. She must have had
to look after him in every way. Dear Lord! in every way.
His father had been there, but not all the time, as she
was; nor had he tended him, as she had. He said, 'Are
you tired?'
'No, Mister Bruce. No; I'm not tired, not any more.
I was a bit a few days ago but it went off. One night I
had eight hours bang; I was dead out. After that I was
all right.'
There was a pause before he asked, 'Are you happy
here?'
And she, too, paused before answering, while she
looked away, right away over the green to the far distant
ridge before she muttered, 'Yes; yes, I am now, because
you're better.'
He didn't know why he should go on to ask her: 'What
would have happened if I hadn't got better, would you
have stayed?' And without hesitation she said, 'No. No,
Mister Bruce, no.'
'Not even to look after my mother?'
There was another pause before the answer came: 'I
couldn't have, I couldn't have stayed . . .' She didn't
add, 'because, you gone, I would have been left alone
with just the mister.'
'About Max. You did say he was going to get a job
on a farm?'
'Yes, I did; and he's got it; he goes in a fortnight's

time. But it's a long way off, and although I'm glad
for him I'm sorry for meself.'
'He's a lucky man is Max.'
'Yes, I think he is, Mister Bruce ... I mean, to get
the job.'
That wasn't what he had meant, but she wouldn't
understand. He continued to look at her. Yes, she was
changed, and it had occurred apparently only in the last
few days. His eyes hadn't been open enough and so he
had missed the butterfly emerging from the chrysalis,
but his thoughts, nevertheless, told him that its wings
would still be wet and fragile and it would be some
time before they became strong enough for it to fly;
but when it did it would be exceedingly beautiful. What
was she now? Fifteen? Well, give her two years . . .
yes, two years, and what then?
'Will I make you a cup of the coffee that Mister
Richard brought you?' she now asked.
'Yes; that would be good, but make enough for four
this time.'
Her face straight, she now bent towards him and in
a low voice she said, 'Well, it won't last long at that
rate, and then you'll go for me, saying I've had it on
the sly,' smiling mischievously at him, and his eyes
twinkled back as he said, 'Well, I know you do; you're
not to be trusted with coffee.'
She straightened up. 'Oh you! Mister Bruce,' she
countered, and turning, she almost danced into the
cottage. Again leaning his head back against the wall,
he did not, however, look up into the sky, but away to
the hills to the right of him, and his thoughts touched
on more mundane matters at the sight of his father
coming out of the pigsty, and he considered, It'll take
something stronger than coffee to get me on my pins
for Wednesday. If I'm not we're going to be in the

cart unless - his thoughts checked - unless he can
see to them. He can see to the pigs all right, but what
about the sheep? It's a good job I got most of the
flock down ready for market. Otherwise, we would have
been in a fix. Anyway, there's five days to go; we'll
wait and see. I could always sit on the cart and let
him do the herding; but that'll be only part of it, for
you need legs when you get there, and also a voice
to bargain for a decent price.
Jinnie was handing him a mug of coffee and saying,
'It's got a lovely smell, hasn't it? Makes you think
of foreign places, like the missionaries went to. The
missionaries used to come to the workhouse and
talk about the foreign places.'
He smiled as he said, 'Yes, the aroma sets fancy
free.'
'What was that, Mister Bruce?'
'I was saying that the smell of coffee makes your
thoughts wander.'
'Does that. It does that.' Her voice had dropped; then
she said, 'The missis said you could get drunk on it,'
and she turned and skipped again into the cottage; this
time returning with a tin mug full of the steaming
liquid.
At the far end of the barn Pug Shaleman had made
a kind of armchair for himself with some empty crates
and a couple of bales of straw, and to the side of it was
a low table holding pieces of wood and whittling tools.
And he was sitting there now; and he turned as Jinnie's
voice came to him, saying, 'A drink of coffee for you,
mister.' As he took it from her he sniffed the mug and
said, 'Oh, that again. Kindness will never cease,' and she
replied flatly, 'Well, there wasn't a lot; there was only
one packet; I think it was a half pound.'
'Kept for special occasions. Is this a special occasion?'

She was backing away from him as she said, 'I don't
know, mister, only that it's a nice day, and on nice days
people are generally pleasant.'
This remark must have left him speechless, because
he sat with the mug in his hand and his mouth slightly
agape until she was out of sight. Getting too big for her
boots, that one. Yes; yes, indeed. Things hadn't been
right since she came into the house. For two pins . . .
but his mind at this point did not tell him what he would
do for two pins; instead, he gulped at the coffee.

Bruce was still sitting outside at three o'clock in the
afternoon. He had fallen asleep, his head to one side
and resting against the stone wall, one hand holding the
seat as if to prevent himself from sliding off. The other
arm was hanging limply down by the side of the chair.
'Don't wake him, there's plenty of time. I'll wait
out here if I may have a seat.'
Jinnie dashed into the cottage room, and as she went
to lift a chair she turned her face towards the bed and
in a loud whisper she said, 'It's Mister Richard.' ;
'Yes, I can tell that, girl.'
Outside, Richard took the chair from Jinnie, straddled
it, then leant his arms on the back and asked softly,
'How long has he been asleep?'
But before she had time to answer, Bruce's throaty
voice came to them, saying, 'She doesn't know, and I
don't know, but I'm awake now, for who could sleep
with all this narration going on?' He opened his eyes
now and smiled as he looked at Richard, and he, smiling
back, said, 'How're you feeling?'
'Much better. Oh, much better.'
' Can I get you a cup of tea, Mister Richard?'
'Yes, Jinnie. Thank you. That would be nice and refreshing,
for that sun is never moderate, it's one extreme
or the other. We shouldn't grumble though, for I think
these will probably be the last sunny days we'll have
this year. At least,' he added now, 'at this end.' Then
abruptly, he said, 'I'm off to Brighton tomorrow.'
'Brighton?'
'Yes. I was to be sent either to Switzerland or to
Germany to do penance, but not France, because I might
paint there. My godmother has a house in Brighton. It's
really her main base. She has a place up in Scotland too,
but the south is much warmer.'
'I thought she was touring in India?'
'So did I; but something's brought her back. I had a
letter last week and she was apparently asking me to go
down to see her and to stay for a while.'
'Will your . . . people be going down with you?'
'To my godmother's?' Richard's laugh rang out. 'Oh
no; she's a firebrand: they dread her visits; always
have done; although, as I remember, they've only
ever been short, much too short for me. I seem
to be the only one she doesn't swear at. No; I
think my parents would rather take a tour to India
themselves than go to Brighton.'
'She sounds interesting.'
'That's just one of the words you can put to her,
Bruce. I think you would like her.' He now turned
to look through the open doorway, to where Jinnie
was mashing the tea at the cottage table, and bending
towards Bruce, he said, 'I've never asked, but I'm
interested to know how she came to lose the plait. Was
it anything to do with--' His voice dropped to a whisper,
'Your brother and his quick departure?'
'Yes, everything;' and more quietly still, he said, 'I'll
tell you later.'
After Jinnie had brought them out each a mug of tea
and they had drunk it, Bruce pulled himself up from

the chair, saying, 'I'd better get some practice in with
these legs before market day.'
'You'll never be able to go down on market day.'
'It's only ...'
'Yes, I know it's only a few days off. Couldn't your
father see to it?'
'I don't know. With someone with him, yes; but on his own I doubt it. There's the herding, although that could
be seen to, but there are other factors too. Anyway, let's
walk a while.'
'You're not fit to be up yet, never mind walking.'
Bruce made no comment on this, and they walked
slowly over the flat plain.
They had walked some distance before Richard said,
'You were going to tell me about Jinnie and the hair.'
'Oh, that! Well, if it wasn't for the fact that she's
lost half of her bronze beauty the whole thing could
be laughable, like a farce. You see, it started the day
she entered the house: she knocked my father off the
stool on to his back.'
'She what!'
'Just what I said.' Bruce was smiling now. "Twas
the funniest thing I ever saw enacted in that kitchen.
Apparently she will not be touched in certain places
and he had made a grab at her backside; and after she
had dealt him a blow with her forearm, she explained
in no small voice that she wasn't going to be handled
by anyone. That was the word she used, "handled",
and with emphasis. Apparently at her previous place,
the boss of the house had tried it on in the middle of
the night, and that was that. Anyway, that was the first
we heard of her objection to being handled, and from
then everything went smoothly until Hal came home.
Well, I did my best to warn him off - you know Hal but
one night he went up her ladder with the intention

of... "handling" her; and what did she do? She stabbed
him.'
'She stabbed him?'
'Yes, in the arm, with a sort of dinner knife. Her
father, who was a tinker, so I understand, carried this
little pouch around with him with a knife and fork and
spoon in it. That's the only thing she's got that belonged
to him. But she wouldn't have had that if that Max fellow
I told you about, the huge fellow, hadn't rescued it after
her father died. Otherwise, it would likely have gone in
the incinerator. She can tell some amazing tales about
what happens not only to their clothes but to the inmates
of the workhouse themselves.'
'Was he badly cut?'
'Yes, he was. What is more, part of the knife was rusty
and that could've meant trouble later on, so I had to take
the poker to it.'
'You . . . you actually cauterised it?'
'I had to, or get him to a doctor - ' and now slanting
his gaze towards Richard, he said, 'and you know what
it's like getting a doctor up here, don't you?'
Richard ignored this statement, but said again,
'Stabbed him? You can't imagine her doing such a
thing.'
'Oh, I can. There are two Jinnies inside that budding
exterior. The day she arrived she looked like a child, but
only for a short while. Anyway--' his voice altered now
as he went on, 'Hal is a spiteful devil; I could say he is
evil; and he meant to do her in, and so he waited his
chance. She was all tidied up one Sunday to go down
to the Miss Duckworths, who happen to have a niece
who is a seamstress in the workhouse. Anyway, big
Max apparently gets leave once a month to take Miss
Caplin to visit her aunts on her day off, and there was
our Jinnie going joyfully down to see them all. You see,

she has a great feeling for Miss Caplin. But there was
Hal waiting for her.' He nodded and went on, 'He must
have been waiting for her in the copse down the hill.
Whether or not he intended to kill her, I don't know;
but he certainly meant to take her down. The beauty
of her hair must have enraged him enough to drive him
to cut off her plaits. He had managed one plait when
a dog sniffed them out and this must have frightened
him off. And there she was running like a wild thing
down to the Miss Duckworths. Well, what followed you
really wouldn't believe, but to give you it in brief, the
big fellow brings her back right into the kitchen.
'There we were, the three of us, sitting, and Jinnie
points out Hal, and Max picks him up, gives him a
blow in the face that should have broken his neck,
then gets him by the belt, hoists him up like this' he
now demonstrated, putting both hands above his
head - 'steps on to the table and hangs him by the
belt from one of the bacon hooks. And to repay him
for what he had done to Jinnie's head, he shaved him
bald. Then he takes Jinnie away again.'
'It's almost unbelievable,' said Richard.
'It was more unbelievable seeing it played out. Anyway,
he was for going to sea. He had talked about it for
a long time, besides which there was an irate husband in
the village on the hunt for him; so he went to Newcastle
the same day swearing that he would come back, and he
will. That's one thing I'm sure of. What he would hope
to achieve, if that big fellow's still about, I don't know.
Of course, there's always the shotgun.'
They were walking on again and had gone some way
before Richard said, 'Do you mean to say that Jinnie
won't allow anyone to touch her at all?'
'Oh, touching and handling are quite different things
in Jinnie's mind - I've seen her jump into Max's arms

in greeting. When she says "handled" she means something
else, you know.'
'Oh yes. Yes, I see. But she looks so thin, so fragile,
and she'll likely grow into a very pretty girl.'
'She'll never be pretty, Richard, beautiful yes, but
never pretty.'
Richard gave a short laugh as he said, 'Yes, there is a
difference.' And he paused again: 'Dare I ask if you've
got a feeling for her?'
'Oh yes.' The answer came promptly. 'Always have,
from when I first brought her over this plain. Sometimes
it's that of a brother, sometimes that of a father; and now
and again, of something else too; but I doubt if the latter
will ever come to anything, for she'll never see me in that
way.'
'How on earth d'you know?'
'Oh, I know. I am in a way like her Max, who is a sort
of protector, a friend. Anyway, whatever feeling she has
for me I'll make sure I don't spoil it.'
'But if you . . .'
'Look, Richard; let's forget about Jinnie and her . . .
what would you call it? I can't think of any name for it
except nicety, and that isn't right, is it?'
'No, it isn't right.'
'Well, anyway, what I want to know is how long
d'you think you'll be in Brighton?'
'Oh, just so long as I can stand it; for about a month,
I should say. Perhaps not that long; she may decide she's
going to Timbuktu. Of course she would want me to go
with her, as she always does, but this time I have the
excuse that we're all going to France.'
'Well, you know, Brighton will do you good. After
your trip there last time you felt much better.'
'I didn't, not really. I never feel so well as when I'm
out on these hills.'

They were nearing the cottage when Bruce stopped
and said, 'I've never thanked you for the other night.
If I'd been left to the care of me da and Jinnie, I'm
sure I wouldn't have made it.'
But knowing what he had already decided in his
mind, Richard did not answer for a moment; when
he did he said, 'Well, that makes us about quits,' and
they walked on in silence until they reached the cottage
when Richard said, 'When we come back from France
I will likely be engaged to be married.'
Bruce turned and looked at his companion but
Richard was staring straight ahead and he added, 'It's
expected of me; that's if my health keeps up.'
'Is it Miss Rowland?'
'Yes, it's Miss Rowland. Well?' The word was a
question and now Richard stopped and, facing Bruce
he said, 'I, I don't feel ready for marriage.' He tossed
his head to one side now and said,' Candidly, Bruce, I'm
afraid I ... well, I won't be up to it, because there are
times, and you know this, that I'm as weak as a day-old
kitten. All my brave talk has never hoodwinked you.'
'D'you care for her?'
'Lillian? Strangely, yes, in a way.'
'What d'you mean "in a way"? You must know if you
love her or not.'
'Oh, what is love? It has so many facets. I love my
nanny; at my boarding school I fell in love with a teacher,
he had blond hair and blue eyes; I love my dog. I love
my pony. Oh, how I loved the pony that tipped me into
the ravine--' he sighed, and they had covered a short
distance before he asked, 'Whom or what have I loved
since then?' His head drooped and he gave himself no
answer.
'You should marry, and it will be all right.' Bruce put
out a hand now and caught Richard's arm and, after

pressing it tight, he dropped into the jargon of his class:
'Marriage could be the makings of you, man.' At this,
they both stopped and looked at each other and burst out
laughing, and their laughter rang clear across the land to
the hills, so loud that it brought Jinnie out of the cottage
door, and there she stood awaiting their approach. Their
faces were bright with their laughter, and hers became
bright too, and she said to them, 'An apple a day keeps
the doctor away, but a laugh a day keeps life at bay.'
They were standing before her now, their faces no
longer spreading laughter, their gaze soft on her, and
as if they had but the one voice between them they
repeated, 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but
a laugh a day keeps life at bay,' and they both knew
in this moment, though barely conscious of it, that she
was the life they must keep at bay.


7

Bruce stood by the cart and looked up at his father,
and he had to shout to make himself heard above the
combined din of the squealing pigs packed into the
back of the cart, all aiming to climb up the high sides
of it.
'Mam's given you a sovereign, and let that make do,
d'you hear? There's some hard months ahead of us and,
as far as I understand, prices are low. It will all depend
upon who is there this morning. Avoid Dickinson if you
can, because he'll beat you down.'
The reins in his hand, Pug Shaleman leaned over
and, his face almost touching Bruce's, he said, 'Who
d'ya think you're talking to, a bairn? a lad? I was at
this game before you were born, remember; I haven't
always been pushed to the side.'
Angry now, Bruce yelled, 'You went to the side because
you found it easy; no responsibility, anybody else
could take the pull; it was first Ma, then it was me.
Look, get down from there.' Bruce put his foot on
the spoke of a wheel and as he aimed to pull himself
upwards his father thrust him back, saying, 'Go to hell
with you! This is still my place, my stock; I can do what
I bloody well like with them.' And the horse moved
off.
The sudden jerk of the cart almost toppled Bruce
backwards and, likely, he would have fallen if Jinnie
had not placed her hands flat against his back.

After steadying him, she remained standing by his
side as they watched the cart joggling over the rough
ground, and she said, 'Don't worry, Mister Bruce, Mr
Locke will be with him. He's a steady man, is Mr Locke,'
and added hesitantly, 'isn't he?'
It was a moment before Bruce answered, 'Yes, Peter
Locke's all right in his way, but he won't be selling
the stock, nor will he be handling the money. When
he once gets the stock into the market his job'll be
finished, at least with us. Somebody else will then pick
him up to get their stock home. I should have gone in.
God! I should have gone in.'
'No, Mister Bruce, you shouldn't. Look what happened
to you yesterday with that walking. That kept
you lying flat nearly all day, so come on back; it's a
long day ahead.'
They were about to turn towards the cottage when
Bruce exclaimed, 'He's stopped! What's he want? He's
standing on the seat looking back. He's forgotten something;
but what?'
'Oh, he's off again, Mister Bruce. Come on; come on
back and have a sit down; the sun's warming up now.
You've had no breakfast; I'll make some fresh porridge.'
And she put the tips of her fingers on his arm and turned
him about. They went forward and into the cottage.
Bruce flopped down into a chair near the table and,
looking at his mother, he said, 'He stopped at the end
of the lane. He must have stood on the seat, because I
could see all of him. He stood looking back here.'
' Stood looking back here? On the seat? How long?'
'Oh, just for a minute, perhaps.'
'Could he have forgotten something?'
'What was there to forget? He's got the piglets, he's
got the sheep; perhaps he was sorry he didn't take the
eggs. But he said, didn't he? that they'd be mulch by

the time he got there, even if he'd had them on the seat
with him.'
She was now lying on her side, half raised from her
pillows by supporting herself with the hand flat on the
tick, and she continued to look at her son where he sat,
his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and her
voice was quiet as she said, 'You feeling bad again?'
It was a moment before he raised his head to answer
her: 'No,' he said; 'not any worse than usual; but I'm
worried, Ma. I've got a feeling on me about him. I know
I shouldn't have let him go in by himself.'
'Lad, as he's told you many a time, he used always
to go in by himself at one time, for his own father was
pretty much like he is now, doing anything to get out of
work of any kind; in fact, he was worse because he didn't
spend any of his time whittling a stool or a bowl or a
platter, the only thing he was good at was snoring. Oh,
don't worry your head, lad. When it gets a bit warmer
get yourself out in the sun and sit there and thank the
Lord you're still alive. And I must admit that's only
because of Mister Richard, and I've thought a lot about
that, y'know. Life's funny: it gives tit for tat: you saved
him and he saved you. Tit for tat, that's life.'

The weather had changed again back to drizzle, and
by the afternoon the sky had darkened so much Rose
Shaleman said, 'Light the lamp, girl.'
As Jinnie did so, she thought to herself that it was the
first time it had been lit in the afternoon; the mistress
was very mean where oil was concerned; sometimes she
even had to grope around the kitchen by the firelight,
especially if the men weren't in. But there was very rarely
any glow from the fire to give light to the room: if the
kale-pot was not hanging above the flame, the kettle on
the hob would be obscuring it.

Jinnie gave a pleasurable sigh as she placed the lamp
on the table, moving aside the jar of dog-daisies she had
picked that afternoon. It was one of the rare pleasures
of her life now to slip along to the copse above the
pool where, during the seasons, different wild flowers
would appear - she remembered her joy at seeing her
first cowslips - but she had, until lately, never thought
about picking them, in case her mistress should call them
falderals. This word had first come to her notice when
she had suggested that she cut a bit off the bottom of
the window curtains to make a little frill to cover the
ugly hooks that pinned them to the window frame: 'We
haven't time for your falderals here,' Rose Shaleman had
almost barked at her. 'Cut the bottom off to stick on the
top ? Did you ever hear of it!' Nevertheless, she had made
no such remark when Jinnie had first dared to place the
wild flowers on the table, saying tentatively, 'I thought
you might like to look at them, missis.'
There had been no response to this, but no censure
either.
She now glanced to where Bruce was sitting in a
somewhat lopsided cane chair. This had been retrieved
from the rubbish piled in one end of the barn after
Bruce, having lain on the biscuit tick on the floor for
three days and nights, found that he still needed support
for his back, support which could not be given
by one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. And so,
Mrs Shaleman had badgered her husband into raking
out the chair and lacing its broken seat with whatever pliable pieces of cane he could find.
Because of the chair's shape, Bruce had to lean back
and stretch out his legs; but he was not leaning back now, .
and his mother must have noticed it, for she called to
him, 'It's no use worrying your guts out: drunk or sober he'll be back. Oh yes, he knows how far he can

go. Girl, make some griddle cakes and we'll have a sup
of tea with it.'
'Oh yes, missis. Yes.'
Jinnie liked making griddle cakes: there was nothing
tastier than hot griddle cakes with butter on, and to have
a sup of tea with it and the lamp burning brightly and, as
today, the fire glowing because the kale-pot was shelved,
was grand.
While making the pastry for the griddle cakes she
smiled across the table at Bruce, who was now lying
watching her, and as she was about to put the griddle
on the hot iron plate she said to him, 'Now, don't move
your feet, they're not in the way;' but when he drew up
his knees, she shook her head at him, and he, smiling
for the first time that day, shook his head back at her.
She was feeling happy. The house was quiet without
the mister here, and nice and homely. Of course, he
spent most of his time outside or in the barn, but then
she was always aware that he was about. Now there were
just the missis and Mister Bruce, and it was different,
lovely.
She made the griddle cakes, and she buttered them;
she made the tea; then putting one piece on a tray with a
mug of tea, she took it to the bed. Then she gave another
to Bruce who, chewing on a piece of griddle said, 'They
melt in your mouth. You're a fine cook, Jinnie,' and in
reply to the compliment, she smiled widely at him, only
for a voice from the bed to say, 'Don't swell her head.
That's enough of that,' which took away some of her
joy.
A few minutes later, sitting at a corner of the table
with her mug and a piece of her pastry, an idea came to
her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before,
but supposed it was because every evening the mister
was always in the kitchen. Now that there were only

the three of them, and as the mistress couldn't read,
and neither could Mister Bruce, which surprised her,
how would it be to bring her Bible down and read
them a story? She herself was a very slow reader, she
had to admit, even having to break up some words; but
then she knew all the Bible stories off by heart; well, the
Gospel ones, anyway, and she would be able to tell them
the story; that's if the missis would like it.
She looked towards the bed and said, 'Missis?'
'Yes, girl?'
'After . . . after I've made the meal the night, and seen
to the hens and pig swill and things, would . . .?'
'Yes, would I what?'
'Would you like me to get me Bible down and ... and
read you a story? I can read a bit. Well, I'm slow; but you
see I could tell you the story. What I mean is . . .'
Only very rarely had she heard her mistress chuckle or
laugh, but now her laughter started on a chuckle and it
brought Jinnie to her feet to look apprehensively towards
Bruce, who also was smiling broadly, as he nodded at
her, saying, 'That would be nice, Jinnie. Yes, it would.
It would indeed be nice to hear a story. Wouldn't it,
Ma?'
The laughter from the woman in the bed died away.
Jinnie looked towards her mistress, who was wiping
her eyes on the end of the sheet; then, after sniffing
several times, she said, 'I wouldn't have said it's any
use bringing down your Bible the night, because himself
will be back and there'll be lots of things to talk about.
But there must be another hour afore the meal and the
animals need seeing to, so away up to your loft and get
your Bible and let's hear you read. Wonders will never
cease.'
After Jinnie had scampered from the room Rose
Shaleman said, 'I didn't know she could read, not

really. She's spoken of the Bible stories the parson
used to tell them and which they had to listen to every
Sunday whether they liked it or not, poor beggars . . . but read.'
'She's a bright girl altogether.'
I 'Oh, I give you that. She's bright all right, too bright
in some ways, could be cheeky if she was given half an
inch.'
'You don't know when you're on a good thing, Ma.'
'What d'you mean?' His mother's tone was tart now.
'Just what I say. There's such a thing as appreciation.
She came here, not so long ago, little more than a
child; then she became a girl; and I can tell you she
won't remain one much longer. And another thing;
she's got a thinking mind and, putting her growing
and the thinking mind together, she must ask herself
why she's stuck here.'
'What's up with you, man? We took her from the
workhouse; she was a tinker's girl.'
'Yes, she was a tinker's girl; but you didn't know the
tinker and why he was a tinker. By what she has told
me, he wasn't a very successful tinker but he was an
intelligent ofie, and he passed a lot on to her. As I see
it, it was very unfortunate for her he had to die when
he did; but it's been pretty fortunate for us. Just think
of the three you had before her. The house has never
been so clean for years; nor, while I'm on, I must
say it, have we ever eaten so well, either. Her cooking
gets better as the weeks go by.'
'My, my! She has found a champion in you, hasn't
she?'
'Well, she had to find a champion in somebody, Ma,
'cos she didn't find it in your elder son or your husband,
and if I remember, right from the beginning you haven't
done much yourself to encourage her to stay.''Well, well! Do I smell a rat?'
He pulled himself up from the basket chair and put
his hand out and gripped the edge of the table to steady
himself, saying, 'No; you don't smell any rats, Ma,
but if you're not careful you might again smell the
stink of that bed you're lying in; and this kitchen will
become the pigsty it was before; she's got friends down
below and she could up and go the morrow and get
service in some decent place.'
There was a telling silence before his mother spoke
again, when, quietly, she said, 'What's come over you?
You never used to go on like this.'
'No, perhaps not. What maybe it is, I've grown up
too; grown up to the fact that I've been a damn fool
to spend all me years up here. If I hadn't, I would have
taken the offer of Arthur Wentworth, when I was twelve,
to work on his farm. I know now that life would have
been different. D'you know something, Ma?' He bent
his body towards her. 'That girl, as you keep calling
her, knows more about the outside world than I do;
she knows more about people and their ways; aye, and
what they think.'
'You're thinking of taking her on, aren't you? And I
suppose ... oh yes, you could do worse. She'd keep you
clean and snug and well fed.'
'For God's sake, Ma! Sometimes . . .' He broke
off as the door opened and Jinnie entered, and she,
seeing him standing by the table, said quickly, 'You
want something, Mister Bruce?'
And at this he turned from the table and flopped into
the chair again and lay back before he answered her,
saying quietly, 'No, Jinnie; just to hear you read.'
She put her Bible on the table, then pulled the lamp
towards her; and, opening the small book, she thumbed
through it before saying, 'I'll read you about Jesus going

into the desert and being tempted by the Devil. It's the
first story in the New Testament by Saint Matthew.
Parson McKane went all through the Testament;
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' Then on a little giggle
she said, 'There are some funny rhymes about Matthew,
Mark, Luke and John.' But she went no further, realising
that this was no time to bring in funny rhymes.
And so she began to read: 'The Gospel according
to Saint Matthew.' She now nicked her eyes upwards,
wetted her lips, and began in earnest: 'Then . . . was
. . . Jesus . . . led ... up ... of the Spi . . . rit
into the wil-der-ness to be temp-ted of the Devil.' She
now looked up and smiled from the one to the other
as if very satisfied with her progress; and when neither
of them made a remark, she went on, 'And when he
. . . had fas . . . ted forty days and forty nights, he
was after . . . wards hungered.' Again her eyes nicked
upwards before she continued, saying, 'And when . . .
the . . . temp-ter . . .' But Bruce's voice broke in quietly,
saying, 'You're a good reader Jinnie, but you could tell
the story yourself just as well.'
'You think so?'
'Yes; like you told me about the one where the farmer
lost one sheep and he was sorry about it, likely afraid
that, as you said, it wouldn't find its way back, so he
went out and searched for it.' And here she nodded
at him, saying, 'Yes, I liked that one about the lost
sheep. Well, then, about Jesus going up the mountain.
In one of the other Gospels they say it was a desert and
there was nothing to eat there at all, but that he was
praying all the time, and when he got very famished
the Devil appeared and he said, "Look, if you're so
hungry and you're so well in with God--" Yes; yes,
that's what he did say, that's how Parson McKane
told it; Parson Freeman said the Devil said something

different; but anyway, what he did say was, "You see
them stones? Well, you being so clever like, why don't
you turn them into bread . . .?"'
'Well, why didn't he?'
Jinnie stared wide-eyed towards Rose Shaleman as
she replied quickly, 'Well, 'cos it would've been a sin
and Jesus was up there to get away from all sin, and
he told the Devil where to go to. At least, that's how
Parson McKane told it: "Get off with you about your
business," he said. But the Devil wasn't finished with
Jesus and the next thing he offered him was to be a
kind of boss of all the towns roundabout, and the cities
an' all, everything, and when Jesus would have none of
it, what d'you think the Devil did then? He put it to
Jesus that if he bowed down to him he would give him
everything he wanted, everything.'
'Lucky fellow.'
'Aw! Ma.'
'All right, I was just saying he was a lucky fellow. Go
on, girl.'
Jennie hesitated for some seconds before she started
again: 'Well, God was very very pleased with Jesus' her
voice was very low now - 'and He gave him food
for his soul.'
'Food for his soul?' The words had come from the
missis. 'Where did he keep his soul? You're just making
this up, girl. I think we've heard enough.'
'I'm not making it up, missis; He did give him food
for his soul and his soul is next to his heart. Parson
McKane said the soul is so near the heart it's almost
one, and he always said that people should look to
their souls more than to their bodies. I wasn't making
it up . . .'
Bruce had risen from his chair again and he said, 'No;
you weren't, Jinnie;' then almost glaring now across the

ms

lamplit room to his mother, he said, 'My mother is an
ignorant woman. But it isn't her fault; she never had
the chance to listen to a parson, as you did. And I
enjoyed your telling. And you read fine, but go now
and put your Bible away, then see that the hens are all
in, for who knows when Mr Fox or any weasel will pass
by.'
She made no retort to his light chatter, but went
quietly from the kitchen; and he was about to resume
his seat again when his mother's voice rasped at him,
'It's come to something, hasn't it, when you can insult
me in front of a workhouse skivvy?'
Bruce reacted so quickly, she hitched herself away
from him.
'Ma,' he said, his tone deep with anger, 'for two pins
I'd send her packing down to her friends: and me, I
would take to the road; even feeling as I do I'd take
to the road; but before I left this quarter I would call
in on Nellie Kingsley and tell her you'd be glad to have
her back, gin bottle an' all. Now mind you, this is no
idle threat. I can't do it at this moment because I'm in
no fit state, but I'll soon be me own man again; and
I'm warning you, it could happen just like that,' and the
crack he made with his fingers caused her eyes to blink.
'I've stayed with you because you were a sick woman,
but sometimes I have to wonder just how sick you really
are.'
Her voice came as a whimper now, saying, 'What's
come over you? You never used to be like this to me.'
'And you never used to be like the way you are now,
Ma.'
She whimpered again, saying, 'It's just that since she
came into this house, you've changed.'
He drew himself up, and it was a second or so before
he said slowly, 'Yes, perhaps you're right there, for she

brought something with her, not only cleanliness and
a smattering of comfort that she scraped out of this
hovel, but she brought another world with her. All
right, it might have been a smattering of the workhouse
world, but unconsciously she must have studied all the
people she met, even in there, and is able to describe
them in the same way as she related that bit of the
Gospel the night.' He now shook his head. 'Oh, Ma,
you would never understand.'
As he turned away her voice, high now, cried at him,
'No! I'll not understand, because every time I look at
the back of her head I can see my son swinging from
that hook' - she pointed to the ceiling - 'brought low,
made to look like an idiot by that ugly beast. I know
what he was, no-one knows better, but I bred him
and to see him treated less than a man - in fact like
some animal in the slaughterhouse - did something to
me. So there you have it. And another thing I'll tell
you: I always made more of you than I did of him
because I wanted you by me side; but now I know
you're farther away from me than he is, and he's away
across the sea. Even Mister Richard didn't make the
difference in you that she has.'
'Perhaps it is as I've said before, Ma: I appreciate a
clean room and a decent meal now and again, something
I've never had, not even when you were about.' And on
this he turned and went down the room, though not
back to his seat: he opened the kitchen door, and when
he closed it behind him it wasn't gently.
Outside, he stood looking up into the sky. The
darkness was coming sooner than usual, bidden by
the dullness of the day, so his deeper thoughts told
him; then leaning for support against the wall of the
cottage, he began vigorously rubbing at his legs, telling
himself he must pull himself together, he must get

outside and walk . . . walk, walk and get himself as
far away as possible from that room.
He straightened up now, and walked past the pigsties,
noting that the three large pigs, amid loud grunts, were
now licking the remains of the swill.
When he came to the barn he stood with his hand on
the stanchion and looked into the dim length of it. It
was a good barn. The far end was warm and snug. Oh
yes, his father had made another house for himself. But
there would have to be changes. Tomorrow morning he
would tell his father that if he wanted to spend his time
in the barn, well and good, but that he must turn it
into a workshop. He was very handy at making those
little crackets, and there would be a ready sale for them
in Hexham, as well as for other odds and ends. Well,
instead of just putting his hand to work between dozing,
he'd be earning his keep. And if he didn't like that, then
he could attend the sheep, those on the lower hills. He
had lived on his bad leg for far too long.
The sound of scuffling round the corner of the barn
brought him walking again, and in the distance he saw
Jinnie grabbing the cock by its tail, then expertly holding
down his wings, and by the time he reached the crees she
was pushing him in.
She had seemed unaware of his approach, yet she
spoke to him without turning her head, saying, 'He
does this every night, y'know. He gets to the door after
they're all in, then turns and looks at me and hops off
again. I'm sure he does it on purpose, that it's a kind
of game.' She now closed the door of the hen crees
and slipped the peg into the staple; then brushing her
hands one against the other, she turned to him and
looked at him squarely for a moment before, without
any lead up to the subject in question, she said, 'The
missis doesn't like me reading, does she?'

For a moment, he was slightly taken aback and
he found himself stammering: 'W-w-well, she doesn't
understand the BBBible.'
'You don't much either, but you're not nasty about
it.'
'How d'you know I know nothing about the Bible?'
There was a surprised note in his voice.
'Well' - her head wagged - 'you've asked me to tell
you the stories I know from the Bible.'
'Yes; yes, I have, because I like to hear the way you
tell them. And let me tell you something, miss' - he now
bent towards her - 'your stories are not always true, I
mean they're not always really right.'
'Oh yes, they are. Parson . . .'
'Yes, I know all about the parson, but you've got
a wonderful imagination, Jinnie, and you paint your
words.'
'Paint me words? I don't paint me . . . what d'you
mean, paint me words? Tell lies?'
'No, no; it's something to be proud of, having a
good imagination and putting a different meaning on
things.'
They were walking away from the hen enclosure now
and after a moment she asked quietly, 'Where did you
learn about the Bible?'
'Oh, for a short period, very short period, I went to
Sunday school; then came the time with Mister Richard,
and I saw him pretty often. He taught me, yes and
pretty often, for nearly two years. The second year he
was taking lessons again. And, you know, his family
is very church-going; everybody in the house gathers
between the hall and the dining-room for prayers before
breakfast, and it's the same at night.'
'Really! Every day?'
'Yes, every day.'

'Oh.' She was smiling now. 'We only had it on a
Sunday; and some people didn't like that. I did. Well,
not listening to sermons, but the reading and the stories.'
She glanced at him now, saying, 'And . . . and that's
where you learned all about the Bible and things?'
He laughed outright as he said, 'Learnt all about the
Bible, Jinnie? I'm afraid not; I listened and I took in bits
and pieces, snatches.' Then his voice trailing away, he
said, 'I suppose I could've learned to read and write if I'd
merely... well, mentioned it, but likely Richard thought
I could already. Yes, that's it; he thought I could. Well,
now he knows differently.' And he sighed.
They were nearing the corner of the barn when the
neighing of a horse came to them, and they looked
sharply at each other, and it was Jinnie who said, ' 'Tis
the Mister; he's back early.'
Her words were significant, and Bruce thought, Yes,
he's back early, early for him.
He hurried forward, she by his side, and when they
reached the cottage door they both stood peering into
the distance to see a man driving a horse and trap come
out of the gloom.
Peter Locke waited to pull the horse to a standstill,
when he himself was looking down on to Bruce and
the young girl, and he said, 'Hello, there. Aye-aye! I
suppose you're surprised to see me, and driving a trap?
Mr Stevens said to me, "You'd better take it, Peter, 'cos
you've got a long trek back after you've been up there.
And you're the one that seems to know more about it
than most; so you'd better put it over like . . . what
y'know about it, if you see what I mean."'
He jumped down from the trap, saying, 'Can I hitch
her to anything? 'Cos I can't stay long, and I wouldn't
want her to go jaunting off in the hills on her own. That
would put the finish to a very odd day, wouldn't it?'

'What are you talking about, Peter?'
'Well, give me a chance, Bruce, to get inside; I'm not
going to go over all this twice.'
Bruce had taken the reins from the elderly man and
hitched them to a post near the door. Then the three of
them made their way into the kitchen.
Rose Shaleman was already sitting bolt upright in
bed, and her greeting was, 'What do you want, Peter
Locke?'
'I want nothing, missis; I've just come to tell you
something.'
'Sit down.' Bruce pulled out a chair, and Peter Locke
said, 'Ta, Bruce. Ta. I always get off me legs when I
can.'
'What d'you mean, tell us something? Where's Pug?'
'Well, you know as much as me at this minute, missis,
where your husband is. I can only tell you where I
left him; and that was on the station, Catton way. He
had booked to Newcastle, but would have to change
at Hexham, I told him that.'
'You told him what? What in the name of God are
you on about?'
'Shut up! Ma, and listen. Go on, Peter.'
'Your husband's gone off, missis; where, I don't know,
but he's made it plain to everybody that he's off, and
for good. He was questioned when it came to selling
the cart and horse, but, as he said, Mister Richard was
doing you all fine, and because Bruce wasn't yet fit to
manage, he was going to send up another man. But
few believe this, because they know who holds Mister
Richard's purse-strings: his old man.'
'What you on about, Peter? Mister Richard was due
to leave last night.'
'Oh yes, that's what I'm meaning; that's what your
da said, but that it had been all arranged beforehand.'

'God almighty!' The cry came from Rose, and Bruce
saw his mother flop back on the pillows. He stood
looking down at the drover as he asked, 'And he sold
everything?'
'Oh yes, naturally. Well, the stock was for sale, wasn't
it? But I didn't think he would get rid of the old cart and
horse. I couldn't see any need for that meself; neither
could Mr Stevens; but at five pounds for the horse and
three pounds for the cart ... of course, as you know
yourself, they both had had a lot of wear. Oh aye, a lot
of wear.'
Jinnie was standing at the end of the table, her hands
gripped together, and she watched Bruce pull out a
chair and almost drop on to it.
Rose's voice came from the bed now like a deep croak,
'What did he get for the stock?'
'Oh' - Peter Locke's voice was airy - 'you wouldn't
believe it. Everybody around thought it would be low,
but no, there were some good dealings the day; the
good lambs went a guinea a head. And then there were
twenty-five piglets. Pug took out the odd one, and the
other two dozen went to Carters of Hexham.'
'What did he get for them?' Again Rose's voice came
from the bed.
'Now, missis, I'm not sure; I wasn't there at the
time. But prices seemed to be very good the day, and I
wouldn't be surprised if they fetched ten shillings each.
Although what he got for the lambs was surprising,
and fifty of them, besides the few old sheep, he would
probably have picked up nearly eighty pounds. You did
have them down on the bottoms for a time, and that
would have put a bit of weight on them.'
'He'll come back; and just wait till he does!' Rose
Shaleman's words were weighed with threat, and Peter
Locke stood up, looking from one to the other, and

I
said, 'I wouldn't bank on it, missis. You could have;
but in the bar he played the big fella and stood a round
of drinks, and then brought out all that about Mister Richard; and later, after he sold the cart and horse, too,
it was evident he was going to do a bunk.'
Bruce's voice was low as he asked, 'Did he say anything
to you? I mean, leave a message of any kind? You
said you saw him on the station.'
'Well, he said a lot of things I couldn't really make
sense of, but he did say he was heading for Norfolk
eventually. Had some people there once, he told me.
He give me me due, but not a penny over, and him with
his pockets weighed down, as they could never have been
before in his life.'
There came into Bruce's mind the picture of the small
figure standing up in the cart and looking back towards
the huddle of buildings. He knew now that it had been
his way of saying goodbye to them.
Peter Locke was addressing him across the table,
saying, 'He's left you in a nice hole, anyway; you not
right on your pins yet and with a long winter ahead.
Scurvy trick, I call it ... scurvy. But he's not much of
a loss, I would say.' And with this he rose, adding, 'After
I drop the trap I still have a long haul. I must be off.'
When he turned and made to go out, Jinnie sprang to
the door and pulled it open, and when he came abreast
of her he stopped and looked at her and said, 'You're
growing, lass, aye, noticeably growing. Bonny with it.
Good-night all.'
'Good-night, mister.'
Bruce followed Peter outside, and after the drover
had mounted the trap he said to him quietly, 'Thanks,
Peter.'
'I wish it could be something different you were
thanking me for. I reckon he took a tidy pile with him;

but you know, Bruce, it won't last for ever, and you'll
likely be hearing from him again. You can't really see any
relatives in Norfolk or anywhere else greeting him with
open arms. Well, I'll be off ... Get up, there! . .'
As Bruce entered the kitchen Jinnie was screwing the
kettle into the heart of the fire, and she turned towards
him saying, 'I'll make a strong cup of tea eh, Mister
Bruce?' but before he could answer her his mother
yelled, 'You'll make no cups of tea until you're told,
girl; and you'll be lucky if you get a cup of tea a day
after this.'
Bruce's voice was almost as loud as his mother's as
he countermanded her order: 'You make a cup of tea,
Jinnie, and now; and a strong one; I need it.' Then he
walked towards the bed, holding up a hand to stop the
tirade he knew was coming, and said, 'Now listen to
me, Ma. He's gone. I doubt if he'll ever come back.
For my part I hope he doesn't. Yes, I know he's taken
what would have got us through the winter and a bit
to put by--' He paused, and bending towards her, he
said, 'Now let me have that bag from under your tick
and we can do some counting.'
'No! Leave it to me; I'll dish it out.'
'Oh no, you won't,' and suddenly he tipped up the
edge of the mattress and dragged out the chamois leather
bag causing his mother to fall flat back on to her pillows.
'I struggled all me life for that,' she moaned. 'It was to
put me away decent. I've always wanted to go decent.
And the rest was for you.'
The? Well, let's first see how much there is, Ma,' and
he added slowly, 'Don't worry; I'll see you go decent,
money or not.'
With his forearm he slid the crockery and oddments
on the table towards the lamp, and after he had emptied
the contents of the bag on to the table, his mother leant

from the bed to peer at the not so small glittering
pile of sovereigns, all the while shaking her head at
the prospect of seeing her scrounged and scraped life
savings about to be disposed of.
Bruce began to count.
Altogether there were fifty-four sovereigns, twelve
half-sovereigns, four crowns, sixteen half-crowns, and
seven pennies. He stood back and let out a long slow
breath before he said, 'Seventy pounds, seven pence.
My! My! With what has already gone my impression
was, Ma, that there should have been around the thirty
left. Well now, as far as I can see, we needn't worry.'
She was sitting back on the bed, her head on her
chest, but when he said, 'I think five pounds would
see you nicely away, Ma, wouldn't it?' her head sprang
back and she said, 'You'll not leave me with just five
pounds. Oh no; you'll not do that.'
'All right then, we'll double it.'
'It's my money; it's what I've scraped and worked for
and . . .'
'Ma, you've never in your life worked for a penny of
that money. If everybody had their rights you know who
would have that money at this minute? Hal, for since he
first went into that mine as a lad you saw to it that he
tipped the lot up. In fact, you made your yearly journey
on the Day Of The Pays to see that he wasn't dragged
down into the town and into the bars, and spend what
you considered to be yours. Then there was the head of
the house; he used to work at one time, remember?'
'He's never worked for years.' Her voice was like a
bark now.
'No, but when he did he, too, tipped his money up.
You saw to that, Ma. As for me, I have never had wages
to tip up. But I was being fed. You once said to me that
you had paid for me in suffering. I didn't understand it

at the time, I do now, though only up to a point, for there
was very little suffering on your part. I was the one who
did the suffering, and that at the hands of your husband,
Mr Pug Shaleman.' The last few words had been ground
through his clenched teeth; and now, his whole body
shaking, he pulled a chair towards him and sat down.
His doubled fists on the table, he said, 'It seems to be
a night for plain speaking, so let's have it, Ma.'
His mother was sitting bolt upright on the bed now,
pointing past him and yelling, 'Get out of here, girl! Get
out!'
Quickly, he turned and checked Jinnie's departure,
'Stay where you are, Jinnie. Stay where you are. Everyone
except me seems to have known for a long time who
I really am, so we'll get on with it, Ma. From what I
understand, Jinnie, my father was a man of some culture.
He must have been to write poems, for he made his
living at it, a penny a rhyme, tuppence a song, which he
both wrote and sang. He could also draw and paint.'
Jinnie said not a word, just stared at him, and he
turned back to his mother and said, 'I've been sick of
that being thrown at me in different ways over the years.
At first I couldn't understand it, I couldn't understand
it at all; until one day I began to sort myself out, when I
realised I had nothing in me of Pug Shaleman and very
little of Hal; and it's many a year now since I thanked
God that you had your fling with the travelling poet. To
my mind it's the one good thing you've done in your life,
because for as far back as I can remember, most of the
time you've lain on top of the bed or under the sheets.'
Rose Shaleman looked at her son. If she had loved
anybody in her life she had loved him. She remembered
the day he was conceived. It was very hot; the sweat had
been running down her breasts and she had opened her
blouse to give her skin air. She was attending to the

fire when the Penny Poet appeared in the doorway.
She knew her face was red and her hair was straggling
about her. It was the third time he had called in on his
yearly round, and, she recalled she had been about to
speak about the weather when he said, 'Don't move;
stand just like that, your hand to your hair, like that,
yes.' And then he had whipped a coloured crayon and
a large pad from a side pocket and had made a drawing
of her. It had taken only minutes; and when he handed it
to her saying, 'It doesn't do you justice, but I've caught
something,' she couldn't believe she was as bonny as the
drawing showed. He had said her eyes were lovely but
lonely. Over the years she had kept the sketch hidden
here and there. It was lying under the newspaper that
lined the bottom drawer of the chest, only she could
hardly make out her face on it now.
On one of his visits she saw him looking at Hal as
he ran in and out of the cottage. She had said to him,
'Do you paint children?' and he had shaken his head,
telling her that children were most difficult to paint;
only real painters could paint children and he wasn't a
real painter. She had contradicted him here and said she
thought he was a lovely painter, and he had said it wasn't
true, but if she called him a lovely poet he'd kiss her.
He would say odd things like that. She couldn't
remember how on that day they came to be sitting
close to each other as they drank their tea, or when
his fingers began to trace the contours of her face, but
she did recall when his lips fell on her eyelids. She had
never known anything like it. She had thought often
since it may not have been love but it had certainly
been beautiful. It led to this very bed where she was
lying now, dying of a heart problem.
When the child came she felt that Pug knew from the
minute he looked at it that it wasn't his. Things had

never been good between them because of the conditions
on which he had taken her, and of the man himself, and
from that time they had worsened.
She had waited for the poet's return, but he had never
come. She recalled that when Bruce was about seven
years old Peter Locke, being up here one day, looked
at her and said, 'He reminds me of somebody; the cut
of his chin and his fair hair.' Then he added, 'We never
get that songster round these days, do we? Likely he's
gone back to Ireland. His name was Bruce, too. I've
never known a man attract the women as much as he
did. In the town they would be round him like flies.
It was open doors for him. Oh yes, open doors for
him; but he never bothered. It was thought he wasn't
made that way; but you never know, you never know,
do you, Missis Rose?' he had said.
She had never liked Peter Locke. He was nosy;
he knew too much about everybody and everything.
Nothing seemed to escape him. And yet it couldn't
really escape the eye of anybody who had seen the
poet painter that her child was the image of him.
Therefore, she loved Bruce, that is, right up till
lately she had loved him, because he had loved
her. Oh, she knew he loved her; and he had looked
after her, that is until that girl came on the scene.
Oh, that girl! She had an influence on him. And
yet she herself had liked her when she first came;
and there was no doubt about what he'd said that
she'd made a difference in the house. But then the
house wasn't the point; it was the difference she had
made in him. Just look what he was doing about the
money. She couldn't believe it.
He startled her by saying, 'We'll have to buy a new
horse and cart, that'll be twenty pounds, at least.'
'But Peter said he only got eight for the old ones.'

'Yes, Ma; he only got eight for both the cart and the
horse, and he was giving it away because together they
were worth twice as much as that. Anyway, we'll say
twenty; and then ten to put by for you. That leaves forty
odd. Now, if we're careful, thirty would get us through
the winter, and the remainder... well, I may have to pay
out for a little help now and again until I get right back
on me feet, because if it gets around that I'm not able to
tend far and wide up there, others will help me, as they
did Jim Beckett. Those Scots are still long-rangers, and
they've got cats' eyes, so they can travel at night. If you
remember, Beckett lost fifteen at one go.'
'They should've all been marked.' It was a mutter
from Rose, and he said, 'Yes, Ma, they should've all
been marked years ago; and if your husband had been
any good they would've been marked. I've only one
pair of legs and one pair of arms and I'll have to get
help, for the time being anyway.'
'And how d'you expect to pay them?' She was barking
at him again. 'You heard what that sneaking little squirt
said the last time he was up here; farm workers all over
the place are asking for more.'
'They're out, Ma, to get enough to eat, not for big
money, just enough to eat. Anyway, we won't go into
the condition of farm workers at this moment.'
A small voice came to them from the far side of
the room, saying, 'I ... I've saved me wages and
you can have that. And I don't need to be paid until
you're on your feet again.' Jinnie's voice trailed away
into silence.
The fire crackled and the lamp spluttered twice before
Bruce, turning to his mother again, said, 'Well, Ma,
what d'you make of that offer, eh?'
On receiving no answer, he turned to Jinnie and
said, 'Thank you, lass. Thank you, lass. I'll not forget

your offer, ever. And if it should turn out we're hard
pushed, I'll take you up on it. Now,' his voice dropping,
he said, 'get yourself off to bed. There's another day
tomorrow.'
'Good-night, missis.'
She was answered by a grunt from the bed.
'Good-night, Mister Bruce.'
'Good-night, Jinnie. Good night.'
When the door had closed on her Bruce turned to the
table again, picked up ten sovereigns and put them into
the leather bag, which he then handed to his mother. She
had watched the proceedings, and now she demanded,
'And where d'you think you're going to store that?'
'Where I can lay me hands on it at any minute and
not have to ask for it.'
'You're playing the big fellow all at once, aren't you?'
'And not before time, Ma. Not before time. But if
you want a different arrangement, just let me know.'
He now gathered up the rest of the money and thrust
it into his coat pocket and immediately felt the weight
of it. As he made for the ladder leading to the loft she
said, 'What if he was to come back?'
'Then you'd have him all to yourself, Ma, because
I would go.' His foot was on the bottom rung of the
ladder when he stopped and, turning his head towards
her again, he said, 'And I'd take the girl with me; at
least as far as the bottom of the hill, because I wouldn't
like to hear of her being imprisoned for stabbing your
husband to death for, as you know, she doesn't like being
handled.'

Jinnie spent a very restless night. After she had climbed
the steps to her pallet she had lain awake for hours, and
as the night wore on she became more and more aware of
the change in herself: she could understand very clearly

why her mistress had, of late, shown evident dislike of
her. It was because at one time she must have had all
Mister Brace's attention: she had been his main interest,
and she had played upon it; but since she herself had
appeared on the scene and he had been so thoughtful
towards her, the missis must have built up a resentment
against her. And all that money in the bag. The only
time she herself had turned the tick she hadn't seen it.
The missis must have had it hidden in her nightdress.
As sleep at last began to overtake her she made up
her mind about one thing, if the missis kept on going
for her when there was no need, she'd make a stand
and point out to her that it wasn't a very nice job
having to see to all her dirty bed needs, and so she
should be grateful they were done for her. Yes, she
would; that's what she'd say to her; and also that
she thought that there were lots of things she could
do for herself if she had the mind. Yes, she would dare
to tell her that, too.
The cock woke her up at half-past five, and as she
lay struggling out of sleep she recalled her thoughts of
the earlier hours with regard to her attitude towards
her mistress, and sleep left her. She realised she was
still of the same mind and also that she wasn't, as she
put it to herself, like the person she had been yesterday
morning at this time; for one thing she felt older . . .
Her mind checked her thoughts here . . . perhaps not
older, just different, because she realised she wasn't
afraid any more, and she had been afraid of so many
things; she had been afraid of having to return to the
house, of men and their hands; but her main fear since
coming here had been that of her mistress. Now she
was afraid of her no longer. It was an odd feeling,
the loss of that fear, for it was making her dress more
slowly, not drag on all her clothes anyhow so as to

get downstairs quickly and see to her mistress and her
bed needs. Oh, those bed needs.
When she arrived in the kitchen, a lighted candle in
her hand, it was to see Bruce descending the ladder.
He didn't speak to her on his way to the scullery,
and the door had hardly closed on him when Rose
said, 'See to me, girl, I'm wet.'
She was about to jump round in her usual scamper,
then stopped herself and, going to the fireside, she took
up the bellows.
'Girl! You heard me.'
'Yes, missis.' She did not turn round, but kept
applying the bellows to the damped-down fire as
she said, 'I'll be with you in a minute, when I get
the fire going and the kettle on.'
'Girl!'
From the tone of her mistress's voice, she knew that
she was now sitting up, but she still took no heed until
the flames were well spread over the top of the small
coal, when, after brushing down her apron, she made
for the bed, there to be greeted by an infuriated woman
who did not speak but who raised a hand to strike
her, only to be checked by a yell: 'You do, missis!
Just you hit me once! that's all, and out I go and
nobody'll stop me, nobody, Mister Bruce or nobody.
I'd rather go back to the house this minute. Oh yes, I
would.'
Rose Shaleman was now lying back on her pillows
gasping, her hands pressed tight against her breast. On
the sight of her Jinnie omitted a smothered 'Oh my!'
and dashed to the chest of drawers, grabbed the bottle
of pills, shook one out, then dashed again to the water
jug on the delph rack and spilled most of it as she tried
to fill a mug. Then she was at the bedside again and
hardly aware that Bruce was by her side.

After a moment, he pressed her away, saying, 'Make
some tea;' then to his mother he said, 'Just lie quiet.
You're all right. You're all right.'
He took hold of his mother's hands and held them
until her breathing became easier; then he said, 'Go to
sleep now. You'll be all right.'
Jinnie had made the tea and as she handed him his
mug, he said, 'Drink yours, go on. She'll be all right.'
'I ... I shouldn't have yelled, but she was going to
hit me.'
'You did right there. Anyway, she was due for a turn. I
expected it last night and was a bit amazed when it didn't
come. When things happen up here they happen, don't
they? and all at once.' He gave her a wry smile; but she
couldn't answer it, she was still shaking, not only from
the threat of being struck but from the realisation that if
her mistress, had died she would have been to blame.
After they'd had their breakfast together Bruce said,
'I'll see to outside while you carry on as usual in here,
and when she's ready for changing I'll give you a hand:
the mattress will have to be turned. Now don't worry.'
His voice was very low, and he put his hand up towards
her but didn't touch her. 'The air has been cleared: we
all know where we stand. Things'll be different from now
on, I don't know how, but just different. Come on now;
take that look off your face, and just remember you'll
soon be going to see your Max and Miss Caplin.'
Yes, yes; it wouldn't be long now before she would see
her dear friends. She hadn't thought about them since
last night . . .
It was just turned seven in the morning. She had
scrubbed the table, the chairs and the kitchen floor
and, throughout, her mistress had slept. She was now
about to pick up a very heavy clippy mat which lay
on the grass, getting the wind through it, as she put


it; but it would have taken a very strong wind to raise
the matted rags that had gone to make it. She had just
gathered it in her arms when Bruce's voice, from some
way behind her, said, 'What's that?' He was pointing
ahead, and on the sight of two vehicles she dropped the
mat, saying, 'It's the cart and Patsy.'
Bruce said nothing; he just stood staring at the approaching
vehicles. Presently he went forward and as
he passed their old cart he said to its driver, 'Hello,
Roy,' and the young Stevens boy answered, 'Hello,
Bruce.'
Mr Stevens himself was seated in the smart trap and
he said briefly, "Morning, Bruce.'
'Good-morning, Mr Stevens.' They looked at each
other in silence for a moment before the farmer said,
'Bad business, yesterday, real bad business. I thought
there was something in the wind, but what could I
do? He put about this tale about you being all set
up and so on ... well, I know you're friends with
Mister Richard, but as I know that family a bit I could
never see him having enough of his own to set you up.
He depends on his father, doesn't he? Anyway, when
I heard Pug was going to sell the cart and horse I
knew there really was something wrong: people don't
get rid of their only means of transport. That was one
thing that came to me mind. The other was, if you
were going to have a new set-up you could always do
with an extra old girl like that in front, 'cause there's
quite a bit of work in her yet, and in your cart; and
to let it go for eight pounds, well . . . Anyway, Bruce,
you can have her back for what I paid for it. That's
fair, isn't it?'
'Indeed it is, Mr Stevens, and I'm more than obliged
to you.'
'How are you feeling?'


It was a moment before Bruce answered, and then
he said, 'Well, to tell you the truth, I'm still somewhat
shaky. I would never have believed a cold like that could
have taken it out of me as it has done.'
'Oh, that couldn't have been just a cold. As I understood
things at the time you were lucky you got through
it. Pneumonia can finish off the strongest, and if you do
pull through, it takes its toll on your pins for some time.
Anyway, how are you going to manage?'
' Oh, we'll manage all right. Now I've got the cart back,
half my troubles seem to be over.' He gave a short laugh
as he added, 'The small half anyway.'
'You'll need help of some kind because, as you know,
your lot like to stray.'
'Yes; that's what worries me. But I'll manage.'
'Well, if you say so, Bruce, I'll take your word for it;
but if I can be of any assistance in any way, you just
have to say.'
'Oh well,' Bruce came back quickly now, 'it's strange
but I've been thinking it would be a help if we had a
cow; not a spanking one, just an old one that would
still give us enough milk to carry on and perhaps get
a little butter and cheese from it.'
'Well, that's a good idea, and it should happen I'll
be sorting out shortly, and I'll think of you along those
lines.'
'Thank you, Mr Stevens; I'm more than obliged to
you because the sky was very dark this morning, the
clouds low, no break in them anywhere and I couldn't
see how they were going to lift, but now the sun is almost
shining.'
During Bruce's last few words the farmer had looked
up into the sky and was now saying, 'Bright enough
down our way;' then, his brows shooting upwards, he
laughed and said,' Oh. Oh yes; I see what you mean. I see

what you mean, Bruce. My missis said you've always
had two languages and I think she's right. Anyway,
shall we get down to business?'
'Of course. Of course.'
Bruce now hurried into the house, went up the ladder
quicker than he had done for some time, came down
again, and when he handed the eight pounds to his
benefactor he said, 'I would not have thought any less
of you, Mr Stevens, if you had asked twice as much.'
'Anybody else, man, and I might have. Oh yes, I
might have. And if it had been your brother, or the
old one himself, I still might have, but you yourself
have always sold good stock, because you've looked
after them, and you never haggle on a private deal.
Of course' - he put his head back now and started
to laugh - 'I remember once, when you were just a
nipper, coming down with three chickens and saying
to me, "We don't want for them turnips. Don't mind taties but not turnips."'
'I said that?'
'Aye, you did. And I can remember wanting to scud
yer ears.'
He pointed now to where his seventeen-year-old son
Roy was talking to Jinnie and he said, 'He's not losing
any time, is he? Never does where lasses are concerned.
Can talk the hind leg off a donkey yet we can't get a
word out of him when he's in the house. But she's
grown into a bonny piece, that one. Lovely head of
hair, at least . . . well, old Peter told me half of it
had been chopped off. Something to do with Hal.'
His eyes narrowed now as he looked down on Bruce
and asked the question point blank, 'Was it Hal up to
his tricks?'
'Yes, Mr Stevens; you could say it was Hal up to his
tricks, but he got more than he bargained for in the end.'


'There were some funny tales going about after he
left, very funny, and unbelievable really, and not all to
do with big Sam. No, no.' He paused now as if waiting
for Bruce to clarify matters, but he was saved from this
by the horse suddenly throwing its head up and letting
out a long neigh, and the farmer, pulling on the reins,
shouted, 'Whoa! there. Whoa! there;' then he added,
'She's very fresh and not used to the trap. Just got her
a few weeks since. Feel she had been a bit of a racer.
She came with a pack from over the border, so perhaps
somebody found their stables had one horse fewer.' He
laughed. But then, his voice rising to a shout, he cried,
'You! Roy, come on. Stop your gossiping,' and, backing
the horse away from the old cart, he turned her; then
experienced quite a business holding her waiting for Roy
to jump up beside him. His last words shouted to Bruce
were, 'If we can give you a hand in any way, we're just
down below. Don't forget, just down below.'
Bruce caught up with Jinnie as she led Patsy towards
her old stable, and he said, 'Take her on into the barn.
There's more room there to unharness the cart.' Then
he stroked the horse's muzzle, saying, 'Hello there,
Patsy, old girl. Am I glad to see you back!' And as
if the animal understood him, it replied with a gentle
whinny.
A short time later, as they walked back towards the
cottage Bruce smiled at Jinnie, saying, 'Roy's a nice
boy, isn't he?' to which she answered simply, 'He seems
all right, but I wouldn't really know as that's the first
time I've really spoken to him. He asked me if I go to
the barn-dances, and I said no, because . . . well, I
didn't know what a barn-dance was. What is a barn
dance?'
He stared at her. Of course she wouldn't know what
a barn-dance was; they didn't talk about such things in

the kitchen. He himself had only ever been to two. The
first time he had sat on a bale of hay all evening and
nobody had been able to get him off it. The second
time, several people did get him up from a bale of hay
and each of them, as he had pointed out, afterwards
wished they hadn't. He had learnt over the years that
some people danced in their cottages to tin whistles,
one-string fiddles, melodions, accordions and the like,
and, everything else being missing, a Jew's harp. But
there never had been any dancing in their cottage. As
for musical instruments, not even a Jew's harp: and so
strange, when he had to think about it, his supposed
father, who could whittle most shapes, had never made
either Hal or him a little whistle or a flute.
So he explained to her what a barn-dance was, and
finished with, 'You must go one day. He'll take you.
Oh yes, he'd be delighted to take you.'
She looked ahead as she said dreamily, 'There was
a girl in the house. She used to clog-dance. Once she
wanted to show me, but I didn't like it. It was sort
of ugly and noisy. But there was another girl, who
slept in the end bed, who could play tunes on a comb,
and I can an' all.' She turned a bright face towards
him now and he said, 'You can?'
'Oh yes; a bit of paper on a comb. And I can play
hymn tunes.'
'Then you must play for us some time.'
The smile slid from her face as she muttered, 'No; I
don't think I could; 'cos the missis wouldn't like it.'
He did not contradict her and say, Oh yes, she would,
but when she asked, 'Will it be all right for Sunday for
me? I mean, to go down and see Miss Caplin and Max?'
he was quick to answer, 'Oh yes. Yes, of course. Rain,
hail or shine, you must go down and see them.'
She stopped with her hand on the sneck of the door

and looked up at him. It was in her mind to say, I
wouldn't stay here a minute if it wasn't for you, Mister
Bruce, but she thought she'd better not. Yesterday, she
could have said such words, and without thinking about
their meaning, but yesterday was when she was very
young.

8

It was six days later and Bruce had just harnessed up
Patsy to the cart in readiness for driving in to Allendale
to replenish stores for both the kitchen and the animals,
when Jimmy Dixon's hired cab arrived at the door,
having come all the way from Haydon Bridge, and out
of it stepped a policeman and a man in plain clothes.
On the sight of them Bruce brought Patsy to a standstill
and hurried towards them. The policeman was a
stranger to him, as was the other man.
'You Mr Bruce Shaleman?'
'Yes; yes, that's me.'
'We . . . we understand your mother's alive but not
well.'
'That's right.'
'And her husband . . . well, do I understand he left
some days ago?'
'Yes, six days gone.'
It was now the man in the plain suit who asked,
'Would it be possible to have a word with your mother?'
'Yes; yes, come in.'
Bruce pushed open the door and entered the room,
calling loudly, 'Ma! There are two men here to see
you.'
Rose Shaleman pulled herself up on the pillows and
peered down the room, and when she saw the policeman
her hand went to her mouth.
The two men stood by the side of the table and both

looked around the room before the policeman said,
'This is Inspector Morris from Hexham, missis. I'm
afraid we have bad news for you.'
She said nothing, but waited.
The policeman now looked at the Inspector and he,
after clearing his throat, said, 'Your husband, Mrs
Shaleman, died yesterday morning in South Shields
Infirmary. He had been found near the waterfront,
badly beaten and stripped of most of his clothing,
right down to his boots. He was revived for a short
time and was able to give his name and address. I
understand his last words expressed the desire that he
be taken home.'
Rose Shaleman now made a strange noise in her
throat, then she said, 'South Shields? All that way?
Why? Why South Shields?'
Before either man could give her any answer Bruce
put in quickly, 'We . . . we understood he was going to
Norfolk.'
'Norfolk?' The Inspector raised his eyebrows. 'In that
case, South Shields was somewhat out of his way.'
A long pause followed this remark before the policeman,
turning to Bruce, said, 'The body's in the mortuary
but it will have to be removed shortly. Will you make
the necessary arrangements?'
After again casting a critical glance around the room,
the Inspector continued, 'If it would be easier for you,
arrangements could be made with an undertaker to
bring the body directly to your nearest cemetery. This
could save you a lot of journeying and trouble. Of
course, it's up to you as to whether you make the
arrangements yourself. Otherwise he would be buried
in a general grave.' Out of politeness he had omitted
the word 'pauper's'.
'Oh. Oh, thank you. Thank you, I'd be glad if an
undertaker could deal with the matter,' Bruce replied.
'Well, that being so, we will take our leave.' And
turning again to the bed and in a sympathetic tone,
the Inspector said, 'We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs
Shaleman. Good-day to you.'
She gave him no reply, nor to the policeman when he
added his sympathetic comments.
Outside, the inspector brought up the matter of
finance with Bruce. 'Of course,' he said, 'you understand
it will cost more than an ordinary funeral: it's a long way
and it'll need to come by train and there'll have to be
pall-bearers too.'
'That's all right. The bill will be met, and on the day
the undertaker finishes his job.'
'Oh well, that's good to hear. It will likely take three
or four days to arrange but you will be notified when
they are due to arrive.'
Without further words of farewell or commiseration
the two men left.
As Bruce made to re-enter the cottage Jinnie came
out of the scullery and hurried towards him, although
she did not speak. It was he who said, 'You heard?'
and she nodded. He knew she couldn't say she was
sorry, no more than could he.
'Go and hold Patsy for a minute, would you?' He
indicated the horse, who had wandered and was nibbling
at the grass. 'She'll get so full she won't want to
move.'
He now went into the cottage and straight to the
bed. His mother was sitting upright, her clasped hands
beating the hap, and the expression on her face was one
he hadn't seen for a long time. In fact, he didn't think
he had ever seen her look so sad.
'Awful way to go,' she said.
'Yes; yes it was.' His own voice was low.

'You'll. . . you'll put him away decent?' It was a plea
to which he responded quickly, 'Of course, Ma; yes, of
course.'
'You . . . you can have what's under the tick.'
' Oh, Ma,' he said, shaking his head. 'Don't worry. Just
leave that where it is; what has to be done I'll see to. If
our belts get very tight later on, I can come to you.'
'Aye. Aye.' And then she added, 'They must have
beaten him up. And what was he doing on the seafront
in Shields? Shields is a long way off.' She was looking up
at him appealingly now, and he answered her quietly,
'Not today, Ma; not with the trains running. And he's
been gone, you know, for nearly a week.'
She was nodding again. 'I forget about the trains. He
must have been badly knocked about to die like that.
And you know, Bruce' - now she gulped in her throat 'I've
wished him dead for years. Oh aye, I've wished him
dead for years; but not to go like that; I meant he should
just go in his sleep, sort of. I've never been sorry for him
in me life, but I'm sorry for him now. You . .. you know
what I mean?' She put out her hand to him, and he took
it and patted it as he said, 'Yes; yes, I do; and I feel the
same, Ma. I too have wished him out of the way more
than once but, as you say, not in that way. But don't
worry; I'll see he has the best that can be bought.'
'You will, sure?'
'Sure. Oh yes, sure, Ma.' And he laid down her
hand; then went out of the room.
He walked until he came to an outcrop of rock, and
there he sat down.
Yesterday, the man he had assumed for many years
to have been his father was still the man who had run
off six days ago with the earnings of six months' hard
graft, his hard graft, and he only had to call up the image
of him to feel his fingers clutching his throat. He knew

too that his mother would have done the same then, had
she the strength; yet here, today, both he and she were
consumed with pity for him. From the very beginning,
she had apparently resented the nearness of his body yet
now her pity was oozing from her like a soft mantle and
enwrapping him almost in love.
Such were the effects of death.

Jinnie stood before her mistress. She was wearing a
long grey coat, her polished boots and her flat straw
hat. Rose Shaleman looked her up and down before
she said, flatly, 'You look tidy enough.' There was no
censure in the remark, yet neither was there a trace
of kindness. It was a tone that expressed indifference.
Yet when Jinnie said softly, 'I won't go if you think
it shows disrespect, missis, with the Mister not being
buried yet,' she was told, 'Oh, you needn't worry your
head about that; your visiting won't make any difference
one way or t'other,' only for a note of interest to
show itself in Rose Shaleman's voice when she asked,
'You've got the locket for her?'
' Oh yes. Yes, missis.' Jinnie put her hand in the pocket
of her coat and brought out the small cardboard box,
saying, 'I'll have to tell her I'll get the chain for it
later.'
'Aye, well, mind how you go, and mind your
manners.'
Jinnie stared at her mistress for a moment before
saying, 'Goodbye then, missis. I'll not stay all that long.'
She felt obliged to say this, because for the first time in
days Rose Shaleman had spoken civilly to her. And so
she added, 'I've laid your tea and Mister Bruce's and I've
wrapped up the oven-bottom bread so it won't get. . .'
'All right. All right. Now get yourself away. Go on.
Go on.'

Jinnie took two steps backwards saying again, 'Goodbye,
missis.'
Rose Shaleman gave no further farewell but watched
her until she had passed through the doorway when she
lay back on her pillows, muttering to herself. . .
Jinnie hurried in the direction of the barn, but as she
passed the boiler-house Bruce's voice hailed her. 'You're
off, then?'
Laughing, she turned and went into the steamy room,
where the pig food was cooking in an iron boiler. The
walls were covered with odd pieces of harness. In the
middle of the room was a bench like a butcher's block,
and Bruce was seated there. He had been about to press
the large curved needle through a thick leather strap.
She watched what he was doing for a moment before
she asked, 'The leather's dried, hasn't it?'
'Yes, you could say that, Jinnie; it's dried all right.'
And he withdrew the needle from the hole it had made
and he looked her up and down, as his mother had
done; although what he said was, 'You look bonny;
and you're excited, aren't you? Well, it's something
being invited to a birthday party.'
'Oh, it won't be a party; just a cup of tea and a piece of
cake. The Miss Duckworths are very old, you know.'
'Yes, I know.' He laughed now. 'But they weren't
always old. I remember them chasing me when I was
a lad.'
'Did they?'
'They did indeed. I was scrumping their apples. I
remember one collared me and said, "You must come
and ask if you want any."'
'And did you?'
'No; there was no fun in asking.'
She looked at him intently now before she asked, 'You
still feeling tired.'

'No, no; I'm fine.'
' 'Twas a long day yesterday, going all the way into
Hexham.'
He smiled at her, saying, 'I was on the cart.'
'Yes, I know; but it can be long, with having to wait
about an' that. Did they bring him to Hexham in a glass
coach?'
'No; in the guard's van. Now, forget the funeral and
get yourself away.'
She smiled now, as she backed from him, saying, 'I
wish you were coming with me;' then, biting on her lip,
she turned and ran from the room. He stood up and,
through the murky window, he watched her as she ran
for some distance before stopping to straighten her hat,
then walk sedately on. He continued to watch her until
she disappeared beyond the ridge. It was as if she
had floated into the air like the ethereal creature she
sometimes appeared to be. But what was he thinking?
Ethereal? Practical would be a more apt word . . .
Yet, he didn't know. She was a gentle creature, until
she was provoked. And he had seen the result of that,
when rather than anything ethereal, she was more like
a gale of wind creating havoc.
He smiled to himself as he went back to the block.
He picked up the needle and continued to mend the
worn-out harness, and as he sat there he wondered
how they were now going to survive the winter after
having paid fifteen pounds for conveying Pug's body to
Hexham; and this would be only the beginning.
An hour later he had finished his mending and went
indoors, where he put the kettle on and brewed a pot
of tea. He did not, however, speak to his mother, nor
she to him until he handed her the mug and then, as if
she had picked up his thoughts from the swill-room, she
said, 'Fifteen pounds! Daylight robbery.'

"Twas a double journey, Ma.'
'Double journey or not, fifteen pounds!' Then, as an
afterthought, she said, 'How are you feeling?' to which
he answered, 'Not so bad. But don't worry, everything'll
be all right.'
'.Ml right, you say--' She took a drink from her mug,
then she continued, 'All right, you say. You don't look
fit enough to walk the flat, never mind the hills.'
He picked up his mug of tea and went to the door,
which he had just opened when his mother demanded,
'Where are you going now?'
'I'm going nowhere, Ma; I was just going to stand
here and drink my tea.'
After a short silence her voice came again: 'You never
sit with me now. I hardly ever see you, except when you
come in to eat or to go to bed.'
He looked towards her and said, 'Ma, you want it all
ways: you want me up the hills to see to our living, you
want me outside, and in the kitchen here; not to talk,
no, or discuss anything, no, just to moan. And you're
never alone for long, anyway. Jinnie spends most of her
life in this damn kitchen or the scullery, and a big slice
of that time is taken up attending to you. So there you
have it.'
He did not walk away from the door but stood looking
out over the plain. Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he
spotted two figures far away in the distance but coming
his way.
He took two quick steps back into the kitchen, placed
the mug on the table, then hurried out, ignoring his
mother's querulous enquiry, 'What is it now?'
He went some little distance before his shortened
breathing caused him to stop, when his eyes stretched
wide and he muttered,' 'Tis her and the big fellow. Well,
well; what now?'

Jinnie was still some distance from him when she
called: 'Hello, Mister Bruce; I've brought Max to see
you,' and after hurrying towards him, she continued
breathlessly, 'He . . . he's got something to tell you . . .
to ask you. Haven't you, Max?'
'Y-y-yes, Mister Bruce.'
Somewhat puzzled, Bruce looked from one to the
other, then started to laugh, and he said, 'Well, if
it's good news I'd like to hear it. Come on back to
the house.' But even as they made their way towards
the cottage he was telling himself he'd better not take the
fellow in there or he'd have his mother screaming; and
so, he led the way to the barn, and there said, 'We
can talk here;' but even as he said the words his
mind took a wild turn and thought, Surely he's not
come to tell me he's going to take her away, and that
with Miss Caplin's approval!
He waited for Max to speak, but Max was looking
about him and to no-one in particular he said, 'Nnnice
barn.'
'Well, will you tell him or will I?' said Jinnie now.
'You st-st-start. I say lllater.'
'Well' - she had now turned to Bruce - 'it's like
this. You know I told you Max had got this job on
a farm? Well, he doesn't start until the New Year.
There's a cottage and the man won't be out until then;
I mean, the other man. And so, as Miss Caplin says,
at the moment, Max is as good as his own master,
at least until then. Well, he can leave the house, the workhouse, any time. The farmer there has been very
good to him and he put in a good word to the guardians
for him.'
At this Max said, 'Yes, to the guardians. They all ...
right to me.' He grinned now, a wide toothful grin as he
added, 'Not always ... all right . . . guardians.'

Bruce nodded understandingly; then he looked at
Jinnie again and said, 'Well, go on.'
'Well, then, that's it, you see; he's got nearly two
months and he wants to come and help you.'
'Oh dear.' Bruce now shook his head, then to Max he
said, 'That's very kind of you, Max; but I'm sorry to say
I can't afford to employ anyone at present.'
'Not em-ploy. No money... just eat and ... sleeping,'
and saying this, he flung his arms wide to take in the
barn and on a deep laugh he said, 'Best bed . . . hay
bed.'
'It's very kind of you, Max, but . . .'
'Oh, Mister Bruce, he'd love it. And . . . and he'd be
such a help. He can do all kinds of things. The farm at
the house is quite big, with pigs, chickens, ducks, cows
and sheep.'
' Sheep?' Bruce looked down at her now.
'Well, not as many like you've got, but there were a
good few dozen.'
Bruce now looked at Max and asked, 'You've dealt
with sheep?' and Max nodded, then said, 'N-n-not on
hill; on fells. And I l-l-lambed and clipped.'
'You can shear sheep?'
'Huh! Huh!' The big head bounced. 'Frederick show
me.'
Bruce now looked to Jinnie for confirmation, and she
said, 'Frederick was the man who came to shear the
sheep, and he showed Max how.'
Turning fully to Bruce now and lowering her voice as
if Max were some distance away, she said, 'He can turn
his hand to most things. Miss Caplin said the Master
didn't want to let him go, but the farmer put a good
word in to the guardians, as he said, and they can't
keep him because they haven't got a paper on him.
Well, you know what I mean.'

No, he didn't know exactly what she meant, except
perhaps that he wasn't certified.
The two men now stared at each other and one part
of Bruce's mind was saying: Yes, he is ugly but he's a
splendid creature, nevertheless, and should be as strong
as a horse. I really shouldn't look a gift horse in the
mouth. But the other part was saying, But there's Ma.
Just think what she'll say. She's never forgotten the last
time she saw him. But then she needn't see him: he
wouldn't be in the house at all. She would have to be
told, though. Oh yes; she'd have to be told. What was
he saying? Was he saying that he had already decided?
Yes, he supposed he was. This was a gift from the
gods; a man who didn't want paying and could turn
his hand to anything; even if it was only for the next
couple of months until he got on his feet again and
before the winter really set in. He glanced from Max
to Jinnie. They were both staring at him, a plea in
both faces. That was another thing: she loved this man;
he was like a father to her. His presence would make
her happy, if nothing else did.
'All right; we can but give him a try.'
'Oh! Mister Bruce.' She had hold of his hands now,
her face reaching up to his, and for a moment he thought
she was going to kiss him. But then she turned and flung
her arms around the big fellow; and he held her; and
as Bruce watched the embrace he knew a moment of
aloneness that he had never experienced before. It was
as if he had never known either Richard or her, or,
worse still, having known them, had lost them. And
then the big fellow was standing in front of him, his
hand extended.
When his own hand became lost within the tough
palm and was shaken vigorously, yet without a hurtful
grip, and the stilted voice came to him saying, 'Nnnot

sorry. Regret no,' he found himself responding warmly,
answering: 'No, I'm sure I'll not be sorry, Max. When
can you start?'
'Wednesday.'
'Wednesday? Good.'
Bruce watched his new assistant turn and look about
the barn as if he were viewing a new house, and when
he said, 'Must go. Miss Caplin . . . back before dark.'
'Yes, yes of course.' And Bruce looked at Jinnie and
said, 'Are you going down again?' and she answered,
'No. No, we had tea and birthday cake, and Miss Caplin
was so pleased with her locket.'
'So she should be; it was a lovely locket.'
Jinnie said, 'I'll. . . I'll set Max on his way, just a little
bit, and then I'll come back and see to the missis.'
'But there's another good two hours yet before dark.'
'I know. I know, but it doesn't matter.' Then again
lowering her voice, she said, 'It's so kind of you, Mister
Bruce, 'cos I know you'll have to face the missis, and she
won't be for it. But she needn't see him, need she?'
They both turned and watched Max as he walked well
outside the barn entrance and looked about him, and he
answered her, also quietly, 'No, she needn't see him;
but, as you say, Jinnie, she's still got to be faced . . .'
Fifteen minutes later he faced his mother with the
news, and the yell she let out caused him to screw his
eyes and turn his head away as he listened to her tirade:
'You mad? D'you want us to be murdered in our beds?
He's not safe. He'll do for you first chance he gets.'
He rounded on her then, crying almost as loudly as
she had done, 'The only thing he'll do for me, Ma, is
to help me over a very, very bad patch. I'm not yet fit to
shepherd the hills; I'm not even fit enough, let me tell
you, to keep walking about here. I'm aching from head
to foot; all I want to do is to lie down . . . somewhere

. . . anywhere. The alternative, Ma, is to sell up and
then you'd have enough to keep you in a back room
down in the village, with someone like Mary Fanny
Cook to see to you. There'll be no Jinnie down there
to answer your beck and call. Yes' - he jerked his head
down to her - 'that's what I could do; sell up. And
the quicker the better for me.'
Her voice came back at him, deep and flat, and
holding a touch of disdain as she said, 'You could
sell nothing: this place is still mine, and when I go it
is Hal's.'
He straightened up and stared at her; and she stared
back at him; then her head emphasising the words, she
repeated, 'It is Hal's. Legally, you haven't a leg to stand
on. You hadn't thought along those lines, had you? If he
came back, and he said he would, you couldn't claim
a dead hen. He might keep you on as a hand, because
he's always hated farming of any kind.'
He stepped back from her as if, in doing so, he
would be seeing her in a different light, because he had
never imagined her as being capable of venting such
spleen: he had always been her first choice because he
was the result of the only love she had ever known,
perhaps had ever been capable of.
His voice came as a croak when he replied, 'Well,
now I know where I stand, Ma, and I'll fit into the post,
something between a farmhand and an acting manager.
Well, being the acting manager, I'm definitely keeping
the big fellow.'
Her voice rising again, she cried, 'You do that and I'll
have every word I've said put in writing. I will. I will.'
'Yes, you do that, Ma. Have it put in writing if it'll ease
your bitterness.' And he went slowly from the room.
Outside, he stood leaning against the wall of the
swill-house. He was feeling so tired and drained that

he could have slid to the ground. In the distance, he
could see the figure of Jinnie returning from seeing Max
off. She was neither walking nor running, but like a child
she was hopping from one foot to the other.
On seeing him, she changed her step and began to run.
And when she reached him she panted, 'He'll be such a
help, Mister Bruce. And you know what I was thinking?
He said he could sleep in the barn, but the nights are
cold, you know. I tell you what I could do.' She pointed
to the door of the swill-room, saying, 'I could clean up
in there: take the cobwebs down and do the floor and all
that, and he could put in a plank bed.' She paused now
and leaned towards him, saying, 'You all right?' and he
answered wearily, 'No, Jinnie: I'm far from all right.'
'Oh; the missis went on?'
'You could say the missis went on, Jinnie. Yes, you
could say that.' And he pulled himself from the wall,
adding, 'You know something, Jinnie? If I had thirty
pounds of my own I know where there is a derelict
cottage that could be made warm and snug, and it has
quite a bit of land around it. I would buy it and take
you and Max with me. We might have to eat grass for
a year, but I know we'd make a go of it.'
'Oh! Mister Bruce. That would be nice. Oh yes; it
would, but--' With a slow shake of her head, she added,
'The missis needs you and she's sick.'
'Yes--' he looked towards the ground as he muttered,
'She's sick,' and he could have added, 'but she's not
so sick that she doesn't know what she is doing. And
she meant what she said. Oh aye, she meant what she
said.'

As she rounded the side of the barn, and carrying a flat
straw-lined basket layered with eggs, Jinnie was brought
abruptly to a halt. Drawn up opposite the cottage door

was a trap, with one man seated in it, another standing
by the horse's head. The man in the trap was a parson:
his collar, his black garb, his hat yelled that at her;
but she did not hurry towards him: she put down the
basket, then dashed back the way she had come and
into what had once been the cowshed, where Bruce
and Max were examining a crumbling wall, and she
called, 'Mister Bruce! you'd better come quick. Parson;
parson's here!'
"What? Who?'
'A parson. He's in a trap by the door.'
He hurried past her and after rounding the barn, he
too hesitated for there was the parson to whom, on
the advice of Mr Stevens, he'd had to give a precious
sovereign; and for what? for yammering some nonsense
about the corpse now being in heaven and protected by
angels as he awaited the last day of judgement.
He purposely slowed his step; and it was the parson
who spoke first, almost heartily, saying, 'Good-day to
you, Mr Shaleman. I am on my rounds of the outposts of
my parish, seeing as I am what you would call new to the
job, and in visiting you, I thought I would kill two birds
with the one stone; introducing myself to your mother
as that new parson from down below, and offering her
my condolences on her loss.'
When there was no reaction from Bruce, the parson
became slightly embarrassed. From his verger he had
heard of the extreme poverty of some of these hill
farmers. It had been said that church mice had more
than this particular family. Yet it was odd that the
old man, whom he had buried, had been driven to
the cemetery in a glass hearse and he himself had
been given a gold sovereign. Normally, he was lucky
if he got half that amount, and from those he was
well aware could afford more.

However, the outside of this place certainly fitted
Verger Wilson's estimation. He would soon see if the
inside matched up to it, for the young man who had
given him no greeting at all had thrust open the door
of the cottage and was now addressing someone at the far end of the room, saying, 'You have a visitor,
Ma.'
For a moment, the Reverend Norman Cuthbert stood
just inside the room so as to allow his eyes to become
accustomed to the gloom after the bright sunshine outside,
and when his vision cleared his suspicions were
confirmed, for the inside of the cottage appeared to him
little better than the outside. The place was sparsely
furnished, and he noticed that although it was clean it
offered not the slightest trace of comfort.
He now looked up the room to where a woman was
sitting in a wall-bed, and he was about to speak when
she said, 'He sent for you?'
'No-one sent for me, Mrs Shaleman, but I thought
it was time I made your acquaintance and offered you
my condolences on the loss of your dear husband.' He
watched her flop back on her pillows, then he turned
quickly to see the young girl, the one who had been
carrying a basket of eggs, pushing a chair towards him,
and he said, 'Thank you, my dear.' Then turning back
to the woman in the bed, he asked, 'Is this your granddaughter?'
'No;
she is not my grand-daughter; she is a maid.'
'Oh.' He half turned and watched the girl going out
of the room, and when he turned to the woman again
she was staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly
agape, and when she said,' How did you know I wanted
you?' he paused for a moment, then said, 'I... I wasn't
aware that you wanted me, or you needed me, but the
spirit is a very mysterious thing. It is, as it were, God's

messenger. Now--' He was about to bend towards her
but was checked by the strong body odour emanating
from her, and so he remained seated upright; but his
voice had a confidential note to it when he said, 'Is there
something you would like to tell me?'
'Yes. Yes, there is. I... I didn't know how I was going
to get either you or the doctor. I want a letter written;
but it's only to be read after I am dead.'
'Oh, you mean a form of will?'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose that's it, a form of will.'
'Well, now, I take it you can't write yourself?'
'No, I can't.' She could have added, 'I wouldn't be
asking you, would I, to write me a will if I could write
meself?'
'Have you any paper?'
'Paper? No. No, we have no writing paper.'
He sighed deeply before he said, 'Well, all I have on
me is a notebook. Is it going to be very long?'
'No; just a few words.'
'Oh, well.' He now thrust his hand into an inner
pocket of his black open coat and withdrew a large
notebook from it, and he had to flip over a number
of pages before a blank one presented itself, and then
he said, 'Well, what would you like to say?'
'I would just like to say who I'm leaving the farm to
when I go. It is my farm at the moment.'
'Oh, well . . . well now, give me your full name.'
She gave him her name, Rose Ann Shaleman, and
when he asked, 'The name of your farm? It's just slipped
my mind,' she replied, 'Toilet's Ridge Farm.'
This done, he now prompted her: 'Tell me what you
want to say.'
She came back sharply at him, 'I've just told you, it's
to do with who I want to leave the farm to.'
He sighed deeply, paused a moment, then said, 'I shall

write: "I, Rose Ann Shaleman, of Toilet's Ridge Farm,
wish to leave the said farm and land and stock to my
son--"' He now looked at her and asked, 'What is your
son's full name?'
She told him, and he wetted the pencil lead on his
tongue before writing the name on the paper in block
letters; then below that he wrote:' Signed this 14th day of
November 1871 in the presence of the Reverend Norman
Cuthbert'. Then he looked up again and said, 'As this
is a form of will there should be two witnesses to your
signature.'
'Why?'
'Oh; without going into the legal details, I only know
that it is ... well, a law, and makes the bequest valid,
if you follow me.'
She didn't follow him, and she only knew that she
didn't want anyone else to be aware of the details, and
she voiced this by saying, 'I don't want that splashed
around. I thought that you, being a parson, would keep
it secret.'
'And it will be kept secret, Mrs Shaleman, until the
time comes for it to be read. My verger is outside; he
is my driver too.'
'You've got a driver? How did you come?'
'A sort of trap; a light brake, really.'
'And you've a driver?'
His tone was sharp now as he answered, 'Yes, Mrs
Shaleman,' but he did not go on to explain to her why
he had a driver for a trap-cum-small-brake, although
it was already known in the parish that he had had
a serious accident with a horse and therefore did not
trust them. He hadn't let it be known that the horse
had really been but a donkey and that it had happened
during his early childhood, but he had never been able
to overcome the fear of animals since.

'Will he spill it about?'
'If you mean, will he talk about what is in this will,
the answer is no, because he won't read it. All that is
required of him is to write his name at the bottom. Now
do you understand?'
She did and she didn't, but she lay back now and he
rose and went to the door, and lifting his hand to his
verger, who was talking to the son of the house, he
beckoned him. And when the man entered the room
he, as his master had done, paused for a moment to
get used to the gloom. Then he made his way behind
the minister to the gaunt woman sitting on the wall
bed, where the minister said, 'This is Mrs Shaleman,
Wilson, and she would like you to sign your name
to this document.' He now held the notebook out to
the man, but kept his hand over what he had written,
and pointing with the forefinger of his right hand he
said, 'Write your name there.'
'Write my name?'
'That's what I said: just write your name there. That
is all that's required of you.'
George Wilson picked up the dangling pencil and in a
large sprawling hand he laboriously wrote his name, and
he had hardly finished putting the long stroke attached
to the end when the notebook was almost whipped away
from him and the parson said, 'That'll be all; I'll be out
in a moment.'
'Just as you say, Parson. Just as you say.' The man
gave one hard look at the woman in the makeshift bed,
before walking with slow strides down the room and
out into the fresh air again, his whole mien showing
his protest. He'd have something to tell his missis, all
right, when he got home the night.
Back at the bedside, Parson Cuthbert now very carefully
tore the leaf from the notebook, but as he went to

hand it to her she pushed it away, saying, 'I can't
keep that; I've nowhere to put it. Anyway, I don't want
anybody to see it.'
'Then you wish me to keep it in my care until . . . ?'
'Yes. Aye, of course that's what I wish. No other way,
is There?'
He folded the piece of paper with the perforated edge
and after placing it carefully into an inner pocket, he
said, 'I shall see that it goes into an envelope and is
sealed.'
At this, she let out a long slow breath and said, 'Oh.
Well, thanks. Thanks very much. That's off my mind.'
Then pulling herself upright, she said, 'The girl will
make you a cup of tea.'
'No, thank you. No, thank you.' He busied himself
now returning the notebook to the inner pocket of his
plain coat; then, as he was in the process of buttoning
it up, she asked, 'Would you like a few eggs, then?'
'Yes. Yes, thank you very much, Mrs Shaleman. Yes,
I'm very partial to an egg.' She put out a hand as if
thrusting him aside and, leaning out of the bed, she
called, 'You! girl.'
As if she had been waiting for the command to come
in and to make tea, Jinnie appeared from the scullery,
saying, 'Yes, Mrs Shaleman?'
'Pack up half a dozen eggs for the parson.'
Jinnie paused as if surprised by the order, but then
turned and went out, and the Reverend Norman
Cuthbert said the words to himself: half a dozen
eggs. Really! A dozen and a chicken, he would have
thought, at least, if not a suckling pig, for they couldn't
be that hard up if they could afford such a funeral
as they had given the old man after bringing him all
the way from South Shields, which he heard would
have cost them nearly twenty pounds; and this after

the old man had absconded with the market takings.
There was something fishy here.
His voice held a distinctly cold note as he bade her
his farewell: 'Good-day to you, Mrs Shaleman. I'm glad
to have been of service to you.' He stressed the words,
then added, 'I'll remember you in my prayers.'
'I'm obliged,' was her only answer.
The parson lost no time over his departure; yet
he hesitated before climbing into the trap, for he
had glimpsed a very large figure of a man standing
near the girl. He had no recollection of anyone so
big in the parish; still, he wasn't going to enquire
further. All he wanted to do was to get away from
this mean and miserable place, and he promised
himself it would be a long time before it saw him
again.
Bruce stood apart, watching the trap disappear into
the distance. She had done it then. But how had she got
in touch with him? She had seen no-one from outside.
Was it by chance that he had come? Well, if it was, it
was strange, for she must have carried out her threat:
the verger had been called in, and it would have been to
put his cross to something. Being a verger, he probably
could write.
Well, he knew one thing: if she could make her plans,
so could he, for he had no intention of slaving on until
she died; and afterwards, when Hal returned, as he
likely would, he could sell up.
When Jinnie's voice at his side said, 'He wasn't over
pleased with half a dozen eggs; he never even said
thank you,' he made no comment; but when Max said,
'P-p-parson, ch-ch-church beggars,' he nodded at him,
saying, 'You're right there, Max. You're right there.'
Max now continued the conversation they had been
having before the arrival of the visitor. ' C-c-could build

that wall p-p-proper. Good for cow. Good for cow and
next-door dairy.'
At this Bruce laughed ruefully, saying, 'Yes, good
cowshed and dairy; all we want now is the cow.' He
patted Max on the arm, adding, 'It's a good idea, Max,
but we'll leave it for the time being.'
'There were several cows at the house, and a dairy,'
put in Jinnie. 'Three of the girls worked in the dairy.
But' - she now pulled a face - 'nobody in the house
saw a bit of butter or cheese; it was sold, but only
after them up top had their share. It would be nice
to have a cow, Mister Bruce.'
'Jinnie!' There was a reprimand in his tone, and it
was enough to make her say, 'Oh yes. Yes, I'm sorry.
I know. It was just that I thought, with Max being here,
he's so handy, turn his hand to anything, he can--' She
looked at her self-appointed guardian with admiration,
and he modestly tossed his head, saying, 'Not . . . not
everything, no. Things I want to do, but can't.' He now
wagged his fingers. 'Write. Y-y-you know, write.'
'But you can read. You can read well.'
Bruce's interest was momentarily aroused, and he
looked at Max and said, 'You can read but you cannot
write? How comes that?'
'D-d-don't know. Writin' all m-m-mixed up. Letters
won't fffit.'
Bruce sighed and smiled at the big man; then said to
him, 'Well, you've got much more in your head than I
have, Max, because I can neither read nor write.'
'Try. Try.'
'Oh, there's no time; never has been. And no need.
Well--' He jerked his chin upwards as if in denial of
his last statement, then added on a laugh, 'When I'm
older and have plenty of time, I'll start then.'
'T-t-too late.' And on these words Max turned away,

and Bruce, looking after him, thought, an amazing fellow,
really amazing. He's got a mind, and yet look how
he's placed. Why? Oh, for God's sake! he said to himself;
let's keep off the whys and get on with the job, and with
this thought he said briefly to Jinnie, 'You'd better go in
and carry on as usual.' And to himself he added, 'We'll
both carry on as usual, for the time being at least.'

10

November had come in with wind and sleet showers.
Towards the end of the month it snowed heavily and
lay frozen for three days; then followed a thaw and
intermittent rain that took them into the first week in
December. In the second week, the weather changed
again, this time to frosty nights and mornings, and a
modicum of weak winter sun.
A week after Max's arrival, Bruce had been able to
take him up into the hills and show him the ropes of
getting the sheep down from the high fells and also of
controlling Flossie. It was strange, Bruce found, that
here was this man who stammered on every other word
yet who could whistle perfectly, and he was quick to
learn the different notes to which the dog answered.
Flossie had taken a liking to the big man to the extent
of following him each night to share the warmth of his
sleeping quarters in the swill-room.
Max had made the room as comfortable as possible.
He had constructed himself a plank platform on which
to lay a home-made tick full of straw. He had also built a
rough open cupboard to hold his two changes of underclothes,
a number of coloured handkerchiefs, a new cap,
and a long hand-knitted muffler. On another shelf he
kept his Bible and a number of old exercise books,
which were covered mainly with his efforts at writing,
some old newspapers and three-year-old magazines. His

Sunday coat and other oddments of top clothing were
hanging from nails in the wall.
Altogether Max was very pleased with the accommodation.
As he had pointed out to Bruce, after lying in
the twelfth bed, the one that was farthest away from
the door, since he could remember, this was a private
domain, and he was very grateful for it.
After the sheep had been brought down to the lower
pastures, there was much less work to do, so Bruce let
Max carry on with his suggestion of making the old cow
byre fit to be used again; although where the money to
buy the cow would come from, he didn't know.
Max spent much of his time on the building next to
the byre, and, whenever possible, Jinnie would visit him.
These, of course, had to be flying visits because, these
days, the missis was keeping her on her toes. One day,
Jinnie had dared to protest that she had the chickens to
see to, and the missis had shouted at her, 'You don't
keep dogs and bark yourself. You brought him here to
work, so let him get on with it. He eats enough for two,
so let him work enough for two.'
There were times when Jinnie came to wonder how
it was possible to feel sorry for someone and hate them
at the same time.
Yet these days, on the whole, Rose Shaleman was
much quieter. There was no longer a nightly conversation
with her son. When she had bad breathing attacks,
he would still see to her, but afterwards he no longer sat
with her until she went to sleep. He would say, 'You'll
be all right now,' and leave her. And what conversation
she had with Jinnie was always in the form of either an
order or a reprimand.
At one time, Rose might have thought that if Bruce
married the girl he could do worse; but no longer, not
since she had brought that beast to the place. He was

just another throw-out from the workhouse, as Jinnie
was.
The Shalemans could, by no stretch of the imagination,
claim any prestige in the farming world, but they
had survived on the sheep, and independently; and
no matter what the general opinion was, they hadn't
risen from hinds either; in fact, right back, one of their
ancestors had owned Valley Farm.
Rose Shaleman was now asking herself why the girl
should be wanting to change her half-day off from a
Sunday to a Saturday, and further, why she wanted to
go down to the Stevens's farm. She had said it was to
ask Mrs Stevens how to make a Christmas cake. Rose
couldn't come back at her and say, 'Why didn't you ask
me?' because she had already admitted to the girl that
she was no hand at any kind of cake-making. And now,
there she was off on the cart with that weird individual.
She strained to sit up in bed and through the window
just managed to see the high back of the cart disappearing.
She lay back on her pillows and for a moment was
consumed with a feeling of loneliness, which led on to
bitterness. It seemed as if those two had taken over the
place. She wished she was dead.
The thought brought her up from her pillows and
almost aloud she said, Oh no, I don't! She was afraid
of death and what lay after. For a moment she wished
that Hal was back . . . But then she mustn't be here
when Hal came back. He was too much, was Hal.

Jinnie took the seat Mrs Stevens offered her, a padded
black oak settle set at an angle to the roaring fire that
fed two ovens; and there were two hobs, on one a kettle,
on the other a large black pan. Her eyes were wide, her
mouth slightly agape. She had never imagined anything
like this farm kitchen, every corner of which was bright.
On the mantelpiece were several pairs of shining brass
candlesticks. The wall above was thick with pewtered
plates, and to the far side of the fireplace from where
she was sitting, an oak dresser stood, bright with china
of every description. To her amazement she saw that
apart from a cooking table a long oak trestle table stood
at the far end of the large room, and positioned around it
some chairs. Four black rafters crossed the ceiling, each
one heavy with cuts of ham. The floor was flagged, but
smoothly flagged, and there, beneath her feet, was a rug,
a carpet rug, a real carpet rug.
'Now, you can have tea, coffee or a glass of ale,' said
Mrs Stevens.
'What? Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. Thank you. I'll have coffee,
if I may.'
The small woman laughed as she leaned towards
Jinnie, saying, 'You were miles away, lass.'
'No, no, Mrs Stevens, I wasn't miles away; no, I was
right here, 'cos I've never seen such a beautiful room.'
'Oh. Oh now; well, that's nicely spoken.' The little
woman seemed to bounce to the table now, and as she

began spooning coffee from a caddy into a tall jug she
said, 'Well yes, yes, you're right. I'm very proud of my
kitchen; I have a place for everything and everything in
its place. What's that you say?' She turned again and
looked at Jinnie, whose head was now moving slowly
as her eyes were taking in every item in the room, and
after a moment she answered, 'I said I could live in this
room for ever.'
'Huh! No, you couldn't, girl; no, you couldn't. I
have to get out of it at times. I look forward to my
breaks on market day and my chapel on Sunday and
my meetings once a week, because, you know, there's
an old saying that you can get too much of a good
thing, and if you're wise you don't take too much of
a good thing when you know you've got it.' Then, her
voice changing, her hands became still and looking at
Jinnie with pity in her gaze, she said, 'I've never been
up there, not for years and years, not since I was a girl,
but I understand you've got it rough.'
All Jinnie could answer to this was, 'I ... I like the
open air.'
'Well' - again the little woman was laughing - 'you'll
get plenty of that up there, and it's cheap. But now you
tell me what you want to know. It's about a cake, isn't
it?'
'Yes. Yes, Mrs Stevens. Well, you see, when your
son came up for the eggs he asked if I was baking for
Christmas, and he said you made grand cakes. Well, I
... I don't know how to make a Christmas cake and
I would like the men to have one. So I asked him, if I
came down, would you tell me how.'
Mrs Stevens stared at the young girl: she was a bonny
lass; over-thin perhaps, but you couldn't get away from
the fact that she was bonny. And by! she must have had a
time of it up there, the tales that Roy had brought down

since the agreement about exchanging oats and taties
for eggs and such like. She herself had always refused
to keep hens, too much bother and little result. As for
pigs: no, she didn't like pigs either. They'd kept some
when she first came here, but that was years ago. She
had soon made her new husband understand that she
would never attend to pigs or chickens; the house was
her concern, that, and supervising the dairy. Oh yes, the
dairy. And he had seen it her way, for now they had a real
fine herd of cows and the best horses in the district.
Charlie had a soft spot for young Bruce up there. He'd
always liked Bruce, and yet he had hinted at things about
him. Couldn't believe he was a son of Pug Shaleman.
Hal now, yes; he was Pug all over again. Anyway, he was
out to help Bruce, and he was tickled to death by Brace's
new help and he had said, laughingly, that if Max could
wrestle he would make a fortune at the games.
And then there was this girl and her Roy. He was
struck on her, was Roy; but if she was to speak the
truth she wasn't for it. The lass was bonny all right,
but she was from the workhouse, and supposedly from
the tinker's clan. Well, that meant the gypsies, didn't
it, or their like? Yet, as Roy said, she was well spoken
and worked like two donkeys up there. And yes, she
would have to, looking after that lazy trollop, for Rose
Shaleman had never liked work, and if everybody took
to their beds when they felt off-colour there would be
such a to-do in farmhouses, wouldn't there? And then
there was Mister Richard going up there. Funny thing,
wasn't it, a friendship between the high and the low?
Yet if it hadn't been for Bruce, Mister Richard wouldn't
be here today. Still, she knew it wasn't looked upon
with favour by Mister Richard's people, and this she
could understand, oh yes, because she was feeling the
same about her Roy and this lass sitting here, for this

lass was, in some way, beginning to touch her own life.
She said now, 'It takes a lot of ingredients, you know,
to make a Christmas cake; and it should have been made
weeks gone and wrapped up and put away in a tin.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes. Oh yes; must be two months since I made
mine, half a dozen or more of them.'
'Haifa dozen Christmas cakes!'
'Yes. And don't look so surprised; they get through
them, not only the family, but the people who drop in
here, especially at New Year.' She went on, 'What kind
of an oven have you up there?'
'Oh, it's only small compared with these.' Jinnie
pointed to the black-leaded oven doors.
'Dear, dear! A little oven.' Mrs Stevens now handed
Jinnie a cup of steaming coffee, which didn't fit in with her idea of coffee, for surely that was cream floating on
the top; and when she was then handed a plate of stottie
cake, the little woman said, 'Now, get that down you,
and then we'll talk business.'
It was only a few minutes later when the business
began with the farmer's wife pulling up a chair towards
Jinnie and saying, 'Now this is how it's done.'
Five minutes later Jinnie asked pointedly, 'But how
much would all that cost? There's such a lot of fruit and
fat needed, and you say it must be butter; and beer an'
all.'

'Oh, I don't rightly know, lass, I've never reckoned.'
Mrs Stevens looked at Jinnie with a touch of pity in her
glance, and then said, 'I tell you what, my dear, I'll give
you a Christmas cake as a present for yourself.'
'Oh! Mrs Stevens. Oh! how wonderful. How good of
you. Oh, but I could pay, I could pay you something.'
'Have you enough money to pay me, lass?' There was
a look of amusement on the face that was pushed close to

Jinnie's, and she said, 'I... I've got thirty-four shillings
left, but. . . well, I had two pounds, but I spent some on
a present for Miss Caplin and a reading book and some
notebooks for Max, and . . . well, I'm sort of saving up
for something for Bruce. I want to buy a cow.'
At this Jinnie had to put her hand out quickly to
prevent the little woman falling off her cracket, because
she was shaking so much with her laughter, and it was
a surprisingly loud and boisterous laugh to come from
such a small frame. It was at that moment that the door
opened and the farmer himself appeared, and Jinnie
noticed immediately that he was in his stockinged feet.
And there was a broad smile on his face as he said,
'Tell me what's tickling you, woman. I haven't heard
you laugh like that for a long time.' At this his wife
turned round to him and she gasped and swallowed
deeply before, pointing a thumb back towards Jinnie,
she spluttered, 'She wants to buy a cow ... a cow. She's
got thirty-four shillings saved up. Did you ever hear the
like?'
'Well, missis--' He looked towards Jinnie now, his
face a beam as he said, 'You have to start somewhere.
So you've got thirty-four shillings, lass, and you want to
buy a cow? Well, if you ever want to buy a cow of good
stock this is the place to come. But how long d'you think
it'll take you to save up enough to buy a cow?'
'I ... I don't really know; I haven't talked about
it to anybody because I ... well, I thought that with
Max mending the cowshed and the place next door
that could be a dairy, because back in the house--'
and she looked from one to the other as if she had
to explain the word - 'workhouse, he looked after the
cows; and there was a dairy there and I just thought
how wonderful it would be for Mister Bruce if I could
get a cow. I wasn't meaning one of yours, Mr Stevens.'

She looked at the big bony man who, hands on knees,
leaned towards her. 'I meant just sort of a ... an old
one, well, you know, that wasn't giving all that amount
of milk and was nearly finished, and well, just to give
him a start. I thought, well, Max could milk it; and then
I knew that was silly, 'cos Max leaves us in the New
Year.'
'Oh, he does, lass, does he?'
She nodded. 'Yes, he's got a situation over in what he
calls Weardale, and a cottage to himself. It'll be very
good for him. But I'll miss him; and so will Mister Bruce,
because he's done such a lot of work up there mending
things that you never thought could be mended. He's
very handy, is Max.'
'Yes; yes, I know that; I've just been talking to him
along there. I've left him with our Roy. He could show
one or two of our men some ropes, I think, if only he
could talk straight. Roy seems to have got the hang of
his lingo, but I can't. Roy says he's got it all up top.
'Tis a pity he's going. Would you still want a cow if he
left?'
'Oh yes. Yes; I want it for Mister Bruce, 'cos he's
finding things rough. I mean, not that it would help
straight away, but later on, if we could make butter
and cheese for market.' Her voice trailed away. 'Oh,
we wouldn't want to upset you in the market.'
Again the farmer's wife started to laugh, and at this her
husband said, 'Give over, Dilly. Give over; this is serious
business.' And now he sat himself down by Jinnie's side,
and when he put an arm round her shoulders his wife
said, 'Take no notice of anything he says from now
on, girl, because he's quite capable of promising you
a cow if you'll run off with him.'
At this his red weather-beaten face was thrust towards
Jinnie's, and he said, 'Would you run off with me?' and

she, joining in the joke, said, 'Yes; yes, Mr Stevens, for
a cow; but it would have to be a good one, not one I
would get for thirty-four shillings.'
Now the man took his arm away from Jinnie and
lay back against the settle, and he was roaring with
laughter as he said, 'She's all there, this one, isn't she?
I can see what our Roy means.'
'Shut your mouth, you big galoot, and I'll tell you
what you can do. You can go down to the cellar and
bring up a couple of bottles of my home-made wine,
a parsnip and an elderberry. Yes, that's it, a parsnip
and an elderberry; and on your way back pick up a
pound of butter from the dairy and a shive of cheese;
and if you can remember all that, put it in a basket.' He
got up from the settle and, looking down at Jinnie and
without any laughter on his face, he said, 'You really
were saving up to buy a cow?'
'Yes, Mr Stevens.'
'And, as I understand it, you get a shilling a week?'
'Yes.'
He shook his head; then turned away and muttered
something that Rose Shaleman had muttered once
before; 'He could do worse.'
Jinnie could hardly believe her eyes when she saw
the big, beautifully smelling Christmas cake, the slab
of butter, the shive of cheese that must have weighed
all of two pounds, and the two bottles of wine, as
well as a big, round stottie cake.
As Mrs Stevens was packing them in the basket she
said, 'One of these bottles is for the big fella outside;
and you'll give him a share of this other, won't you?'
'Oh, I always halve what I have with Max,' she said;
'always. He's . . . he's like a father to me; he's always
looked after me, Mrs Stevens.' She was feeling teary; she
did not know whether it was because of her talking

about Max caring for her, or for the kindness of this little
woman in heaping this wonderful food on her.
As Mrs Stevens was lifting the basket from the table,
she said, 'Is this too heavy for you to carry to the
cart? I'm not letting that big fella in here with his
outsize feet. Look; you take the two bottles in your
arms and I'll take the basket.'
As Jinnie went to follow her, she said, 'Mrs Stevens.'
'Yes, lass?' The small body was turned towards her.
'I'll never forget this visit, and I'll never be able to
thank you enough. I wish there was something I could
do for you, but I know there isn't, or ever will be but
. . . but I thank you.'
'Oh, lass, lass. 'Tis nothing; absolutely nothing. When
you have plenty, as we have, you don't miss it; though
of course it would be something if we had very little.
That's how our parson often puts it; and he's right. Now
come along; I don't want you to shed any tears on my
behalf: you've got to get back up on that farm and start
saving more for your cow.' And again Mrs Stevens was
rocking with her laughter; and when they got into the
yard, there was Max standing by the cart with Roy at
his side, and Roy, turning to his mother, asked, 'What's
so funny? I want a laugh an' all.'
'You'll laugh later on, lad, when I tell you; or then,
on the other hand, you mightn't. Here, girl! give me
those bottles.' And now she turned to Max, saying, 'And
you, big fellow, take them and push them down the side
there . . . That's it. And be careful of them.'
Max now took the basket from the woman, who
hardly came up to his chest, and placed it between a
sack of potatoes, two sacks of oats and some bales of
hay, then turned to see Roy hoisting Jinnie on to the
seat.
Lastly he bent down to the farmer's wife and, his

mouth agape for a moment, he brought out the words,
'Th-th-thank you;' and she was checked from answering
by his struggling with the next word, 'Grgrgrateful.
Wish I could stay . . . help with h-h-horses, big horses
. . . shires.'
'Yes, indeed.' Charlie Stevens was nodding at him.
'Yes, shire horses, the best,'
'Y-y-yes, straight furrow.'
'You said it, man. You've said it, straight furrow. I
understood that all right. Yes, indeed.'
Max went round to the other side of the cart and after
seating himself, he looked across Jinnie to Roy, who was
reaching up to Jinnie, saying, 'Give it a thought;' and
she answered, 'Yes; but I don't think so.'
Max jerked the reins and the horse moved forward,
and Jinnie turned in her seat and waved to her
benefactors.
They had gone some way before Max asked, 'What's
he want, that Roy?'
' He wants to know if I would go to the dance in the
New Year; they're having it in their barn; but I said I
didn't think so.'
'Why not? Nice fffella.'
'Yes, he is; but how could I go to a dance, Max? I
can't dance; and I haven't a dress or shoes or anything,
have I? But believe me, oh please, Max, believe
me, I'm quite satisfied as I am.'
'No . . . nobody satisfied ..."
Back at the farm, Mr Stevens said to his son, 'What
were you asking her?'
'Just if she could come to the do in the barn, Dad.'
'And she said no?'
'Along those lines.'
'Aye, well.' The farmer made to move off, saying,
'Time will tell. But don't forget you've done a bit of

near courtin' down in the town; Jeanie Brown, Mary
Cotton and Bella.'
They both swung round now as the wife and mother,
making towards the house door, said in no small voice,
'Flibbertigibbets, the lot of them! Flibbertigibbets! Here
the day and gone the morrow. Anything with breeches
on.'
After banging the door behind her she stood for a
moment, slightly bewildered as she asked herself: was
she, after all, for that girl? No; no. Men. Men. Let
her get on with some cooking.
Back in the yard her husband and son were pushing
at each other, the while aiming to still their laughter.

Before taking the basket into the cottage, Jinnie gave
Max the bottle of elderberry wine; she thought it might
be nicer than parsnip. Her immediate greeting from
Rose Shaleman was, 'What have you got there?'
'Just some things Mrs Stevens gave me for Christmas.'
'Gave you for Christmas? You? If she was sending
anything up here it would be for me. So what do you
mean by you?'
'Just what I say, missis. She gave them to me because
I offered to pay for the ingredients to make a
cake. She wouldn't take it; and she said I had to have
these and share them with Max.'
'God in heaven! girl. You'll try my patience too far
one of these days. All that lot! Is it butter and cheese?'
'Yes. Yes, it is butter and cheese, and two cakes.'
'And you say she gave them to you?'
'Yes, she gave them to me; and she wouldn't take the
money for them. I offered it. And she said I could share
them with Max; but I'll share them with all of us.'
After a long pause Rose Shaleman said,' Give me that
bottle here.'

Slowly Jinnie picked up the bottle and took it to the
bed, and when her mistress demanded, 'What make is
it?' she asked, 'Parsnip.'
'Parsnip?'
'Yes; that's what she said, parsnip.'
'It's a wonder she gave you that; it's the nearest thing
to whisky, they say. And she only gave you the one?'
'No; she gave me two; one was for Max.'
At this the woman grabbed the bottle from Jinnie's
hands, saying, 'For two pins I would hit you with this
bottle, girl. A bottle for Max? a whole bottle for Max,
and there's two of us here! I mean three if you want your
share, and there's only one bottle?'
Jinnie stepped back from the bed and dared to shout
at her mistress, 'You're the most ungrateful woman I've
ever met in my life. There was nobody as bad as you in
the workhouse. If it wasn't for Mister Bruce and the
plight he's in, I'd walk out of here the morrow. Do you
hear? Yes, I would. And from what I gather, Mrs Stevens
would find me a decent place somewhere. So look out,
I'm telling you. Look out, missis.' And she swung about.
She did not go to the table but went outside again
and along to the stable where Max was seeing to the
horse, and without any lead-up, she cried at him, 'You're
leaving here, Max, and so would I if it wasn't for Mister
Bruce. I'm telling you, so would I. That woman in there
is so ungrateful; she's awful, awful.'
'She's sick . . . lonely . . . lonely.'
' She's not so sick and she's not so lonely. If she was
lonely she would want friends, and I could be a friend;
but she's awful to me. Never a civil word. Oh, Max,
how wonderful it would be to work for someone like
Mrs Stevens.'
Max went on brushing down the horse while saying,
'Few and f-f-far between, the Stevens.'

She sighed now, and said, 'Perhaps you're right. But
the others couldn't be worse than her in there.'
'Go b-b-back. Be sorry for her.'
'Oh, Max!' There was a note of impatience in her
voice now. 'It's all right you talking; you haven't got to
be in there with her.'
'No.' He gave a small laugh now as he turned to her,
saying, 'G-g-go barmy.'
'Well, what d'you expect me to do? I'll go barmy too
before long, I'm telling you.' And abruptly she turned
about and went back to the cottage; there to be met
by the demand, 'Bring me a cup, girl;' and when she
reached the bed, instead of handing the cup to her
mistress she placed it on the stool that was always to
the woman's hand; and when she was ordered, 'Give
me a shive of the Christmas cake,' she boldly said,
'I'm not opening that till Christmas; I'll give you a
piece of the currant flat cake.'
'You! girl.' The neck of the bottle rattled against
the edge of the cup and Rose Shaleman paused for a
moment before pouring herself out almost a full cup of
the wine.
Jinnie was still at the table cutting into the stottie
cake when she heard the sharp exclamation and, looking
towards her mistress she saw her screw up her eyes while
drawing her lips inwards, so demonstrating the effect
of her first drink; and when she placed the flat cake
on the stool, her mistress was again drinking from the
cup. Then her mouth opened and Jinnie could hear
the woman's tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth and the sound caused her own nose to wrinkle.
At the same time she snatched up the bottle from the
stool; and the yelling of 'Girl!' did not stop her from
taking it to the table, from where she looked at her
mistress and said, 'It's to be shared. And it was meant

for Christmas; and you've already had more than your
share.' Then she placed the bottle on the delph rack
and placed the cake next to it; the rest of the good
things she put in the cupboard.
She had taken off her hat but not her coat; and now
she grabbed the hat and went out into the scullery. There
she stood for a moment panting with vexation. It was her leave time; she needn't have come back until just afore
dark. Well, she wasn't going upstairs to change her frock
and then get started again with the meal; she'd take a
walk until the light faded and let that one back there stew
in her own bitter juice. She'd walk as far as the pond.
Ramming her hat on her head, she went out and to
the stable again.
Max wasn't there, but she could hear him in the hen
cree and she called, 'I'm going for a brisk walk.' He had
been bending over a hen and he straightened his body
and called back to her, 'Oh, good. W-w-walk it off.'
She knew what he meant all right, and she repeated
to herself, walk it off; yes, but I've got to go back
into it; and still mumbling, she started to climb to
the path that led between banks of frozen brushwood
to the surroundings of the pool.
She stood looking down into the water. It was very
still, but had risen considerably during the past two
months, because of the rain and snow. The hill beyond,
which lay in deep shadow, was still tinged with frost and
this went up to the railings that bordered the short section
of the coach road above. The land to the left of the
pool rose steeply and in the still clear light she could see
a distant rise tinged with snow. It was the rise that Bruce
had told her was only the beginning of many more, and
if the sheep never went any further than that they were
all right. He had brought the last of them to the lower
land yesterday and was out there now seeing to them.

Max had said to walk it off, but perhaps she hadn't
walked far enough because she was still feeling angry
inside, and the pool and its surroundings weren't helping
her today. Back in the summer, whenever she could
escape for a short while, she had come running along
the path to this spot and had sat by the water's edge for
a few minutes and dreamed; but as the seasons changed,
something seemed to change in her too so that now
there was no comfort to be found within herself. She
was turning away to retrace her steps back to the farm
when a voice, apparently from above, hailed her and she
quickly turned to look up the hill to the coach road, to
see Mister Richard seated on a horse.
'Hello! there,' he called.
'Oh; hello, Mister Richard. You're back, then?'
'Well, if I'm not' - his voice came to her - 'then
somebody's impersonating me.'
She laughed outright, and he called, ' Stay there, and
I'll come down.'
'But . . . but how?' She could see no possible way
to bring the horse down the hill; and he called to her,
'Further along; there's a cut.'
Yes, she had noticed a narrow cut leading up to the
road but had never investigated it, and when she reached
the place it was to see the horse negotiating the cut very
carefully, so that it appeared to be dancing.
Then he dismounted and stood before her saying,
'Oh! you have grown. How many months is it since I
last saw you?'
'Almost three,' she said.
'Good lord! yes, it is almost three months; but you've
certainly grown in that time. How's everybody?'
'Oh now, what can I say, Mister Richard?' She shook
her head. 'You do know that the mister died?'
'Yes. Yes, I heard of that.'

'Well, since that, something nice has happened.'
'That's good to hear. Tell me.'
'Well, you know Max? You saw him once; the big
fellow. That's what Mister Bruce calls him: the
big fellow.'
'Yes; yes, Max, your guardian.'
'Yes; he's always been my guardian. Well, he works
on the farm now.'
'Here? With Bruce?'
'Yes, but only for a time: he's got a job in Weardale,
and it seems very good. He starts in the New Year.'
'He was in the ... I mean, he's been able to leave
the . . .?'
'Yes; yes, sir, he was able to leave the workhouse. He's
not simple, or anything like that, far from it. He's what
you would call very intelligent.'
'Yes; yes, I understood that from something Bruce
said. By the way, how is Bruce?'
'Well--' she turned her head slightly to the side and
looked away from him as she said, 'you know he took a
long time to get over that dreadful bout; and he would
never have got over it if it hadn't been for you.'
'Oh, that's nonsense.'
' 'Tisn't nonsense. Oh!' She now bowed her head and
said, 'I'm sorry.'
'What on earth are you sorry for? And why are we
standing here jabbering? Let's get to the farm and say
hello. Oh, dear.' He was looking along the flank of his
horse now and he said, 'The three of us can't walk on
this path; one of us has got to ride.'
'Oh, it's all right, sir.'
'No, it isn't all right: I meet a fair maiden who has
lost her way. What kind of a cavalier am I to leave her
stranded? Would you care to ride on my horse, madam?'
Her head deep on her chest, her shoulders shaking

with laughter, she muttered, 'I saw a play like that once
back in the house. They used to come at Christmas,
and it was just like you said, the hero found this . . .
this lady was lost and he puts her on his horse and
took her back to the castle. But,' she now spluttered,
'it was all very religious: I think he was out to save
her soul, and he was really an angel in disguise and
the castle was heaven.' She now looked up at him, her
face wet with tears of laughter. 'Those of us who had
laughed got into trouble next day.'
He too was laughing now as he looked down at her,
and he said softly, ' Oh Jinnie, that was very funny. I'm
sure I would've laughed too. Out to save her soul. Dear,
dear.' Then his voice changing, he said, 'But I have
found a lady who is lost and I'm going to ask her if
she will do me the honour of riding my horse back to
her castle.'
The ride the horse?'
'Just sit on the saddle like this.' And before she knew
what was happening, he had taken her under the oxters
and hoisted her on to the saddle; and still holding
her, he said, 'How do you feel?'
'Frightened. It's very high.'
'Hang on to the pommel.' He pointed out the front
of the saddle, then assured her, 'Don't worry, you won't
slide off. Anyway, if you do, it won't matter because
you'll only be trodden underfoot by the horse.'
Oh, he was funny; and so different. She couldn't have
imagined that he would joke like this.
When her body began to rock with the motion of
the horse she bit tightly on her lower lip; but as they
neared the farm she thought, and regretfully, what a
pity the path wasn't longer. She had been so miserable,
so tired and fed up with everything, and now
she was feeling happy, strangely happy . . . that was

until they came into the clearing, there to see Max
and Bruce standing together, their expressions showing
amazement mixed with disapproval, until, bringing the
horse to a standstill, Richard said, 'We couldn't walk abreast, so I hoisted her up there.'
He reached up and lifted her to the ground, saying to
her, 'Don't expect that to happen every day. Go on with
you and get away inside and out of the cold.'
His tone could have been that which he would use to a
child, and laughing, she looked towards Bruce and Max,
before slowly walking away, and with her departure the
look on the faces of Bruce and Max changed. Bruce,
thrusting out his hand, said, 'When did you get back?'
And Richard, shaking the hand warmly, answered, 'Last
night; and it's good to be back, I can tell you. How are
you?'
'Oh, I'm fine. And you?'
'It's a long tale, as usual, but not so much about me
as about Mother. She was pretty groggy while we were
away, and that kept us stuck in the same place for more
than a month.'
'You know Max?'
'Oh yes. How d'you do, Max?' Richard said, although
he didn't hold out his hand to the man, whose height
and breadth made his own dwindle.
'Well . . . sir, v-v-very well,' Max answered.
'Good. Do you like it here?'
'Oh . . . yes. More . . . more than like.'
'Well, I'm surprised at that,' said Richard, and pointing
to Bruce, said, 'working under a boss like him.'
And Max, picking up the jocular tone, replied, 'You're
r-r-right, sir. Hard boss. Big stick,' and when Bruce
aimed to push him away none too gently, they both
laughed, leaving Richard feeling, for the moment, he was
being left out of something. What, he could not rightly

put a name to, as he witnessed the obvious affinity there
was between his life-long friend and this new fellow, this
very strange new fellow who, being stuck with such an
impediment was nevertheless not without a wit of his
own, workhouse product as he was.
'Come on,' Bruce said; 'let's go into the barn out
of this wind; I want to hear all your news.' Then,
turning to Max, he said, 'Walk Mister Richard's horse
for a time. We won't be long.'
At the far end of the barn they sat on upturned
boxes facing each other, and, laughing now, Bruce said,
'Privacy. We never could talk indoors, could we, either
here or at your place?'
Except for the death of his father, Bruce's news was
the same as always. He was unable to speak of the change
of feeling between his mother and himself, and so he
ended his short recital with, 'Now, what's yours?'
'Well; first of all,' Richard said emphatically, 'I'm
not going to be pushed into this marriage. All right, I
shall marry some day, and it will likely still be Lillian.
And yet, I have to wonder what difference marriage
would make in our lives anyway - we'd never be free
of either family. You've no idea, Bruce, of the closeness
between them; it's extraordinary, even though they are
of different religions. Even the recent papal declaration
of the infallibility of the Pope on his personal immunity
from error in faith and morals hasn't loosened the tie,
as would have been expected. You know, Father and
Mother were as excited about it as Lillian's people
were. They all went to Mass together that morning. I
was conveniently unwell. I can't help but say it, Bruce,
but I think it's weird.'
'About you being unwell: how are you these days?'
'Oh, as fit as a fiddle. I always am when I'm back here
in the hills.'

'No, you aren't.'
'Well, most of the time. There's only one other place
I'd like to be, Bruce; that's in Paris. There's a marvellous
quarter there for painters; and they're so helpful to each
other. I think it's the only place in the world where you
could live on a pittance. By the way, I heard a bit about
your father absconding with the money. How're you
fixed now?'
'Oh, I'm all right,' Bruce said; 'we'll survive.'
'Jinnie tells me you're soon to lose your new hand.'
'Yes; and that's one thing I'm sorry for. But I can't
employ him. The fact is, he's working for nothing now,
but he insisted on staying under those conditions.'
'Working for nothing? Not many in his position would
do that today. The farm workers are at it again, you
know. They're gathering strength as they get together.
Not that it'll do them much good; but I'm sorry for
them. It wouldn't be so bad if they were provided with
decent living quarters.'
Bruce laughed, saying, 'Such as I provide for mine?
Max is sleeping in the swill-room; from his own choice,
I may say.'
They were outside the barn now, and they stood
looking to where Max was walking Richard's mare up
and down by the cottage, and Richard said, 'Look; I
know we've been over this before but, on this occasion,
why don't you accept a little help? I've had quite a bit
from my godmother; I don't have to depend entirely on
the powers that be, so who's to know? And you could
keep him on.'
'Yes, Richard; we've been over this before, and I have
to say again that it's more than kind of you, but as
I've also said, I'm not starting on that tack; I value
too much what is between us.'
'Well, you don't value it any more than I do; but in

a matter like this I don't see why you can't accept just
a little help; in fact, treat it as a loan: you could pay me
back later if it niggled you so much to be beholden to
me.'
'Oh, don't be silly. It isn't a case of that, and you know
it; but look ... all right, when I reach rock bottom, I'll
yell for help. As it is I've worked out that I can manage
until my two lady friends and her husband decide to
supply me with another litter. There's quite a market,
you know, in that direction.'
Richard sighed and said, 'I'm not so ignorant of
farming as not to know it'll be a matter of months
before you could rake anything in from them,' to which
Bruce had no answer; and so they walked to where Max
was now holding the horse still.
When Richard took the reins from Max, he did not
address him but just nodded to him; but once mounted,
he looked down at the big fellow and said, 'Goodbye,
Max;' and Max replied, 'Goodbye, sir.'
'And the best of luck in your new position.'
'Th . . . thank you, sir.'
Bruce walked alongside Richard's stirrup until they
were well past the cottage; and then looking up at him
he said, 'You intended to go this way?'
'Yes; I've been out for some time. She's had enough.'
He patted the horse's neck; then looking down at Bruce,
he said, 'You will miss Max when he's gone.'
'Yes, I know; in more ways than one.'
'Well, it's up to you: you can keep him if you like,
you have a choice.'
'Oh.' Bruce now stepped to the side, saying, 'Get
yourself away; I'm not going through that again.' Then
he added quickly, 'Will you be at home for the holidays?'
'Oh yes; I hope so. And for some good long time
afterwards if I have my way; so, be seeing you soon.'

'Yes; yes.' Bruce watched him tap the horse with his
heel, setting the animal into a trot; then he immediately
turned about and went back into the cottage.
As soon as he opened the door the broadside came
at him: 'Been enjoying yourself out there? Glad you've
got something to talk about. And I'm not allowed to see
your visitors these days, am I?'
'Well, Ma' - he was hanging his cap on the back of
the door, and he stayed his hand on it as he looked down
the room towards her - 'they would have nothing to talk
about if they came into this house, now would they?'
'Well, who's to blame for that, eh?'
He was about to go towards the fire to warm himself
when he caught sight of the bottle on the delph rack; and
he turned to look enquiringly at Jinnie, who was standing
at the far end of the table working up the pastry for the
dumplings; but she kept her eyes fixed on her work as she
said, 'Mrs Stevens gave me some things for Christmas
instead of giving me the recipe for the cake, as I asked
her. She gave me a cake and some currant stottie bread, together with butter and cheese and a bottle of wine.'
'Two bottles of wine.' This came from the bed. 'Your
creature outside has one to himself, and this one is
supposed to be shared.' But Jinnie immediately put
in, 'The missis has had her share; you can see by the
bottle,' and she thumbed over her shoulder.
He walked slowly to the delph rack and lifting the
bottle up to the light, he commented, 'And a good share,
I'd say.' Then looking towards the bed, he said, 'You've
certainly wetted your whistle this time, Ma.'
'And who has a better right, I ask you; it was never
meant for her; Dilly Stevens isn't so free at handing
things out.'
'Well, she has been on this occasion, and for the
time being I think you've had more than your share. I

suppose Mrs Stevens meant it for Christmas?' He had
turned towards Jinnie. 'Isn't that so?' and she muttered
her answer, 'Yes, it was for Christmas.'
'Well, we'll keep the rest for then, shall we, Ma?'
He walked to the cupboard and after placing the
bottle inside, he closed the door, then tapped on it
twice, saying, 'See you on Christmas Eve.'
No remark on this was forthcoming from Rose, and
he went towards the fire and, bending, held out his
hands to the flame that was escaping from beneath
the bottom of the iron pan of stew bubbling in the
heart of it. He glanced back at Jinnie, saying, 'Did
you enjoy riding on the horse?'
The question brought her hands to a standstill before
she said softly, 'Yes; but I never asked.'
'No, no; of course you wouldn't.' He straightened up
suddenly and, now turning his back to the fire, asked,
'Did she charge you for the Christmas cake?'
'No. No, she charged me for nothing. She was most
kind.'
'Where's the cake?'
She jerked her head backwards, ' On the top shelf of
the cupboard.'
He was about to mount the steps to the loft when his
mother's voice called, 'Here! a minute.'
His hands remained on the rung of the ladder for a
moment before he turned and walked slowly to the bed.
Rose Shaleman did not speak immediately, and as he
looked at her he realised with some surprise that she was
slightly tipsy: her eyelids were blinking rapidly and her
mouth was opening and shutting, and her body seemed
to be ... the only word he could think of was 'bristling',
her shoulders hunched, her hands gripped into tight
fists as she said, 'It is only parsnip wine.' And her head
began to wag now, and she put a hand to her mouth

and wiped the spittle from her lips before she went on,
'I'm not as black as I'm painted.'
The remark in itself was another surprise, and to this
he answered, 'Nobody is, Ma; nobody ever is.'
'Well, you're acting as if I am.'
'Well' - he paused - 'that's your own fault, Ma; you
haven't been very pleasant of late.'
'I'm pleasant to them that's pleasant to me.'
To this he had no answer, and she now began to
pick at the quilt with her finger and thumb, a nervous
movement, and her voice was low as she said, 'I've got
something to tell you; but it's got to be when--' She
motioned towards the table before adding in a mutter,
'It's got to be when we're by ourselves. Will you stay in
the morrow?'
'Yes; for as long as you wish, Ma.'
Her head nodding, she leant towards him, saying,
'Just a little drop of that wine; it's eased the pain' she
patted her chest - 'better than any pill, and it's been
bad today.'
She was indeed tipsy. He had the desire to laugh
at the thought that she could be nicer when she was
drunk than when she was sober.
Of a sudden, there came into his mind the picture of
a woman lifting her skirts up to her knees and dancing
when there had been no-one in the house but he and
Hal; and he could faintly recall Hal's yelling at the
woman and she boxing his ears. How old would he
have been then? Three? Four?
He backed a step away from her, saying 'Ma, you'll
have your share at Christmas; I think you've had enough
for one day, don't you?'
'What d'you mean, enough?' Her voice had changed,
her body had stopped its jerking, she was stiff again. 'I
had two drops in a mug.'

'Well, by the look of the bottle the drops were big
drops, Ma, so settle yourself.' And he turned quickly
and made for the ladder, her voice following him, the
words so muddled he couldn't make them out, other
than that he knew they were abusive.
Up in the loft he threw himself on his pallet and,
bringing a forearm across his eyes, he let out a long
slow breath. He was tired. He had lost two lambs
today, and he was afraid it was a sign of footrot.
If he cleared anything next year he'd put up some
windbreaks, because even on the lower ground it was
hellish for the lambs. Money. Why couldn't he bring
himself to take up Richard's offer? But no; that would
spoil things. He was so glad he was back; yet what was
it he had experienced when he saw him leading Jinnie
on his horse? As with many of his other emotions, he
would not dissect this one, for he couldn't possibly
think it touched on rage; never towards Richard. But
the feeling had passed when Richard condescendingly
sent her scudding away as he would any servant girl.
Servant girl. It was odd, but he himself never looked
upon her as a servant girl: rather, he saw her on an
equal footing with himself, and as someone he imagined
would be permanently in his life.

12

The moon was shining, lighting up half the room and
just touching the wall to the side of Rose's head. It had
moved a lot, she thought, since she had fallen asleep after
that last pain. Her head was aching; her mouth was dry,
and she needed a drink. It wasn't water she wanted, it
was another drink of that wine. Before, it had eased the
pain and she felt good after drinking it.
Bruce had said she was tipsy. That was nonsense;
you couldn't get tipsy on home-made wine. Well, not
drunk-tipsy. She looked towards the window again. It
was a nice night but frosty, and she was cold; cold inside,
cold all over. She must have a drink; but he had put the
bottle in the cupboard and she'd never manage to get
to the cupboard. Yet, why not? She'd got as far as the
table the other night, hadn't she?
She threw back the bedclothes, then sat on the edge
of the bed for some minutes before she began to pull
herself upright. If she could get to the table and into
the moonlight she would be all right.
With an effort, she reached the table, and leaned on
it, gasping for breath.
Minutes passed before she was able to pull herself
upright and edge round the side of the table until she
was opposite the cupboard. And now she turned her
back to the table and leant her bony buttocks against it,
her breathing coming in gasps. She looked towards the
ladder: she had better be careful or he would be down.

It would take four steps to reach the cupboard. After
another effort, she reached it, then slumped against it;
but now she had to step back to open it. More minutes
passed, and then the contents of the cupboard were
revealed by the moonlight, the bottle of wine gleaming
before her. She had to stretch her arm right out to reach
it and when she brought it down she clutched it to her
and was about to turn away when her eyes alighted on
the stottie cake.
After grabbing it, she found she couldn't turn around
without the assistance of one of her hands, and so she
brought the cake to her chest and pushed it behind the
bottle.
After some minutes she reached the table again, and
rested against it while looking towards the bed; and she
knew she couldn't cover that distance again, but there
within an arm's length the moon was touching the top of
the old basket chair. This she made for, sliding down into
it with hardly a sound, except for her heavy breathing.
She lay, her head back, her mouth open, her arm
all the while grasping the bottle and the cake to her.
Presently she relaxed and allowed the cake to slip on to
her lap as she slowly withdrew the cork from the bottle.
She put the neck to her mouth and made two audible
gulps at the wine, then sighed, tears streaming from
her eyes and which she made no effort to wipe away.
Why hadn't she thought of making wine out of parsnips?
Likely because she knew she was no hand at anything
like that; she wasn't another Dilly Stevens. She had
always been a Miss Clever Clouts, had Dilly Stevens;
and she had won prizes for her efforts at the fairs.
She again lifted the bottle to her mouth and took two
more gulps; but this time she didn't lie back: she placed
the bottle on the floor, then began to eat the stottie cake.
She was now lying relaxed in the chair, and feeling so

well. There was a lot to be said for parsnip wine. She no
longer had a pain or an ache anywhere. Strangely, she
was feeling young again; young enough to dance. She
felt sleepy. But she wasn't going to sleep, not so long as
there was anything left in that bottle. In for a penny in
for a pound. There'd be hell to pay tomorrow, of course.
Well, just let them start. She had got one on them,
hadn't she? Keep it for Christmas, he had said; and that
other skit saying that it had been given to her to share
around. Now that she was feeling better she'd get rid of
her, if it was the last thing she did. The bottle was again
to her mouth, but now it had to be tilted well up.
She was about to take another gulp when she gasped
and her left hand clutched at her chest. 'Oh! God. Oh!
God. Not that again,' she groaned. She had been all
right a minute ago. Fine, fine. 'Oh! God.'
Slowly the bottle slid from her hand to the floor. She
was used to these attacks: she had only to lie still and
they would go, even without a pill. But this pain was
different. She screwed up her face and brought her teeth
tight into her lower lip. She'd have to call for help. She'd
have to bring him down. What was happening to her?
She put her fingers up to her mouth; then through her
glazed vision she could see that her hand was covered
with blood. Her lungs. It was years since she'd bled.
It had been the heart that was out of sorts, just out of
sorts. Oh . . . Oh! There was a yelling in her head, but it
made no sound outside her lips, and although she tried
to call out, the words were strangled in her throat.
When she toppled forward it was a slow movement:
her body just seemed to fold up; and then she was lying
in a huddled heap on the clippie mat.
When the little clock on the mantelpiece struck twice,
she failed to hear it.

Jinnie was so cold she put her head under the clothes and
brought her knees up to her chin. She didn't want to get
up, even though the cock had crowed some minutes ago.
It had sounded far away: perhaps it hadn't crowed at all,
for it didn't always crow at the same time. Sometimes it
had her up half-an-hour before she need be. Oh, if only
she could go on sleeping; she'd soon get warm, curled
up like this.

When the cock crowed again she slowly brought her
head from under the clothes, yawned, shivered, then
grabbed at her stockings that had been laid across the
bottom of the pallet. One had fallen on to the floor and
she had to rise from under the cover of the hap and her
Sunday coat in order to retrieve it.
Back in the bed, she pulled on her stockings and her
elastic garters and her underclothing.
She did not pull on her bodice and her skirt until,
standing as upright as she could, she had shaken her
petticoats into place. Finally, she wrapped the woollen
shawl, a present from Miss Caplin, around her
shoulders, crossing it over her breasts before tucking
the ends into the top of her skirt.
She had accomplished her dressing in complete darkness;
but now she reached out towards a beam and,
taking up a box of matches, she lit the candle that
sat in a tin holder lying there.
When she reached the bottom of the steps she shuddered.
The place was like an ice-box. She hoped the fire
hadn't gone out.
She opened the door into the kitchen, turned towards
the fire, but then she was unable to prevent the high
scream escaping from her lips, for there, on the mat,
lay the missis. She couldn't see her face, only an arm
outstretched and clutching a piece of the stottie cake,
both covered in blood. A second scream that finished on

the yell, 'Mister Bruce!' brought Bruce's head peering
through the hatch; and the sight he looked down on
made him cry out, 'Oh God above!' Then he was
reaching back for his trousers.
Within seconds he was in the kitchen where, grabbing
the back of the basket chair, he flung it aside.
When he was kneeling beside the twisted form, there
was no need for him to appeal with: 'Come on, Ma!
Wake up,' as he knew straightaway that she was dead,
and had been for some time.
'Oh God! To go like that.' He looked up at Jinnie, and
his voice strangely quiet, he said, 'Go and get Max; I'll
need help to get her on to the bed.'
Jinnie remained standing as if she hadn't heard him
speak, one hand held tightly across her mouth to prevent
herself from being sick; and it wasn't until Bruce said
sharply, 'Did you hear what I said!' that she sprang
away . . .
She was unable to recall much that happened during
the next hour, except that Max had helped Bruce to
do what was necessary to lay out his mother; all she
had to do was to keep them supplied with bowls of hot
water, and then hand them clean sheets. Afterwards,
Max came down the room and told her to make some
porridge, which she thought was odd. But one thing
was clear: the woman on the bed would no longer pelt
her with orders, and her going would assuredly change
her life. Yes . . . yes, it would.

On his way to tell the doctor of his mother's death, which
he realised would come as no surprise to the man, he
called in at the Stevens's and told them the news. And
Mrs Stevens, knowing it was policy to speak well of the
dead, said, 'God rest her soul: she's had a long painful
road to travel, and now she can lie easy.'

Mr Stevens was more to the point: walking with Bruce
to the cart, he said, 'Well, lad, you're on your own
now, and not afore time. She was your mother, but
you can't get over the fact that she's been a heavy
sack on your back. Now you'll likely be able to get
some order into the place and tidy it up a bit. It used
to pay well at one time, that place. Oh yes, it did, in
your grandfather's time.' Then, as if the thought had just
struck him, he said, 'There's Hal. What if he turns up?
How will you view that? Have you thought about it?'
'Yes, Mr Stevens, I've thought about it and I know
how I would view it;' but he did not go on to explain
what he meant, leaving it to his tone to imply it ...
The doctor happened to be at breakfast, and so
Bruce was told to wait in the hall; and when the man
emerged wiping his mouth on a large white napkin and
asked abruptly, 'Well, what is it now at this time in the
morning?' Bruce stared at him and in much the same
tone as the doctor had used, he replied, 'I'm very sorry to
disturb you at your meal, but unfortunately my mother
has died.'
'Oh! When was this?'
'I don't know; I found her dead in bed.'
'Well' - the napkin was again rubbed across the mouth
- 'you've been expecting it, haven't you? In fact, in the
ordinary way, if she'd had to go about, she would have
been dead years ago. She's had it easy, you know,
compared with some women. I suppose that's entirely
thanks to you. Yes' - he nodded - 'I would say, thanks
only to you. Anyway, I'll be up as soon as I've finished
eating. There's no hurry. Your next caller'll be the
undertaker, I guess. Are you going to give her a big
splash, like your father's?'
Bruce's tone was grim as he answered, 'No, doctor,
I'm not going to give her a big splash.'
'Well . . . well' - the man was shaking his head now that's sensible: your father was sent off like one of his
betters and he had never done a decent day's work in
his life.'
Bruce did not make the expected reply to this, but
pulled on his cap, saying, 'Good-morning, doctor,' then
walked out ...

The undertaker said, 'You're not going to put her away
like her husband?'
'No; she is not going to be put away like her husband.
I've just told you that. I want a plain wood coffin and an
ordinary hearse.'
'Pallbearers?'
'No, thank you; my assistant and I and two friends' he was thinking of Mr Stevens and Roy - 'will do the
necessary once we reach the cemetery.'
The undertaker pursed his lips and ran his fingers
round the high collar of his jacket as he stared at the
young man. He was curious to know about his change
in fortune, for he had certainly spent on his father's last
journey, and so, in an offhand manner, he said, 'Well,
we'll have to see when we can fit it in.'
'I want it done on Tuesday.'
' On Tuesday? It's Christmas week and we're already...'
'I want it done on Tuesday. If you can't manage that
day, I can go to your opposite number who deals with the
workhouse. I understand he puts them away as decent
as possible. And what is more, I should like to know
your charges now, to see if I can meet them; unless,
that is, you'd like to be paid in kind with eggs, pork or
lamb.'
The outcome of that terse conversation was an agreement
that the hearse would be at the house at one
o'clock on Tuesday, the undertaker giving himself the

last word as he saw his unwelcome client out, 'weather
permitting.'
On his way back, Bruce called at the parsonage, only
to be told by the verger that the parson was on a visit
to The Hall, and so Bruce said, 'Will you please tell
the parson that my mother has died and I wish her to
be buried on Tuesday?'
'Oh, Tuesday! Tuesday? Oh no; we're up to the eyes
on Tuesday.'
Looking the man squarely in the face, Bruce said, 'I
have seen the undertaker and he will be at the house at
noon . . .'
"Tis Christmas week, and there's lots to be done: I
have the whole church to decorate, then there's the
children's do and Parson won't..."
'You tell Parson what I said. You always have help in
digging graves, don't you? Well, you won't have to dig
far for this one, because she'll be on top of her husband.'
'Still, it's got to be opened up.'
He nodded at the man now, and then said stiffly, 'Till
Tuesday.'
As Bruce went through the lychgate the verger
shouted, 'Parson'll have the last word,' and so he
turned again and called back, 'Yes, he will, and to
you if the coffin is left on his doorstep!'
As he urged the horse up towards the coach road he
thought it was a wonder that neither the undertaker nor
the verger had asked on the reason why he was insisting
on his mother being buried on Tuesday; and it was just
as well, because he would have had to say that beyond
Tuesday he would be unable to stand the stench of
her; it was bad enough now going in and out of the
kitchen and seeing her lying there.
They could no longer eat in the kitchen and he had
made arrangements with Max to move the table into

the scullery. Of course, the fire would have to be kept
going, for that was their only means of cooking and hot
water. He could not imagine how some people were
able to stand the corpse laid out in the coffin and
kept on the table for days so that visitors could pay
their last respects to the body, more often than not
already in a state of decomposition.
And poor Jinnie. She had been sick first thing this
morning and had been unable to swallow a mouthful
of porridge. Anyway, her tasks in the future would be
much . . . What was he thinking about? Jinnie will go.
She'll have to go; at least Miss Caplin will see to it.
Tomorrow's Sunday, her day for visiting.
Oh no. Oh no. But yes; they wouldn't let her stay with
a lone man out here in the wilds. If Miss Caplin didn't do
something about it the workhouse crowd would; she'd
been here only a matter of months, hardly a year yet.
But had they any claim on her now? She was fifteen.
He slumped in the seat. It seemed he had known her
for years. It was as if she had always been here, her
freshness wiping the dreariness of his life away. The
thought of that place without her was unbearable.
The day he had first led her over the plain to the house
she was like a young child. Now she was a young girl, and
something more. But the purity she had brought with
her as the child she still retained. Of course there was a
way out, but it took two to cover that way. She wasn't yet sixteen, in fact she wasn't much over fifteen. Was it
fair to tie a young spirit like hers to that stone cage?
With Max gone, he'd be alone up there just waiting
for Hal's return. God above! yes, Hal's return, and to
his farm. He jerked almost savagely at the reins.

Jinnie was sitting on a straight-backed chair, her head
bowed and her hands tightly gripped between her knees.

Miss Caplin was sitting opposite her, and the Miss
Duckworths one on each side of her.
Miss Caplin was saying, 'Don't you see, my dear, it
wouldn't be allowed? It... well, it would be considered
improper.'
'Very improper.'
'Oh yes, very improper.' The two lace-capped heads
were nodding in unison.
'You are fifteen, Jinnie, and if it came to the
guardians' knowledge; well, I don't know what the
rules are exactly in a case like this, but I think
that you might be considered to be still under their
jurisdiction until you are sixteen.'
Jinnie's head came up and her hands came from
between her knees and one accompanied the protest of
her voice as she wagged it towards Miss Caplin, saying,
'I won't go back, Miss Caplin; I won't! I'll never go
back there. Never! never! never!'
'All right; all right, my dear. That is the last thing
I would desire for you; and I shall make it my business
to get you a new place. And should they take up
the matter I will tell them you'll be my responsibility
and that you could stay here. Couldn't she?' and she
turned first to one and then to the other of the Miss
Duckworths, who again nodded in unison, saying, 'Of
course, yes. Yes; delighted. Oh yes, delighted. There's
a little room off. It-is very sweet and . . .'
'He'll be so alone.' Jinnie's voice was very low now.
Her eyes were blinking to keep the tears back. 'He's
lonely, and it'll be awful up there by himself with nobody
to cook or do for him.'
'He can always engage an older person. A married
woman, for instance, could go up each day. I understand
that was the arrangement before you arrived.'
'He couldn't engage anybody; he hasn't any money.'

'What?'
'I don't know how he'll get through the winter. I'm
not taking a wage, and neither is Max. It cost quite a
lot to bury his father; but now that he's got to bury his
mother too, I don't know what he'll do.'
There was silence in the room for a moment; and then
Miss Caplin rose to her feet, saying, 'Well, that doesn't
really change the matter at all; only that one is deeply
sorry for him and the predicament he finds himself in.
It's you we must be considering, dear. You see, if you
had parents they could decide whether or not to allow
you to stay alone with a man in that small cottage,
which has really only one room.'
'It hasn't; it's got the scullery, too, and that's quite
big; and I sleep above that. And Mister Bruce is nice
and he's good and he would look after me. I mean, he
wouldn't let anyone get at me.'
Miss Caplin closed her eyes for a moment: she wanted
to say, 'We're not afraid of who else might get at you,
my dear, it's what Mister Bruce himself might decide
to do when he has you there alone;' but what she
actually said was, 'Anyway, it will be all right for
the next few days . . . well, up to the New Year
when Max leaves. But afterwards you'll have to fall in
with the new arrangement, dear.'
An idea striking her, Jinnie bounced to her feet,
saying, 'Look; could I not go up every day and
come back here to sleep at night?'
'Oh no! my dear, not in the winter. Those hills to
climb and that long stretch, oh no! It's as much as you
can do now in the daylight; but it doesn't get light until
late, and then it gets dark so early. To do that twice a
day . . . No! dear. No; it's as much as a man would be
able to do.'
'I ... I could.'

Ignoring this remark, Miss Caplin went on, 'You can
go back now, my dear, and tell him what I have said.
If he wishes to discuss it, then he must come straight
down because Mr Beaney's cart will be here to take me
to the train at three o'clock.'
'Yes, Miss Caplin.'
The day was solemn; it was damp and cold, a dead
day; and this was how she felt inside too as she made
her way back to the farm. She should be sweating,
for she was hurrying so much.
It seemed that Bruce had been waiting for her: there
he was, hurrying to meet her while she was still some
distance from the house.
'Cold?' he enquired briefly.
'Freezing. It's this damp.'
'Yes, it gets right through you. Well, what did she say?'
She had walked some steps with her head down,
before she muttered, 'I can only stay on until Max goes
in the New Year; and then I've got to go down and live
with the Miss Duckworths until I get a new place.'
He said nothing, but the chill inside him deepened.
Of a sudden, she stopped and, looking into his drawn
face, she said, 'Oh, Mister Bruce; I don't want to go;
I don't want to leave you; you'll be all alone.' Then
she made her characteristic, impatient movement of her
head, and her voice was loud as she said, 'I don't know
what they're all on about, I really don't, because you're
like a brother to me. You always have been from the time
you met me down there.' Now she was thumbing back
over the road she had come. 'You would never do me
any hurt, I know that, not like others. You're like Max;
you would look after me. I've tried to tell her but--' She
turned away now and began to walk on, and he hesitated
a moment before following her.
Look after her like Max did? Well, hadn't that been

his intention from the first, when he used to think of her
merely as a child; and she was little more now in many
ways, and yet... as old as the hills in others . . .
Max was waiting for them. His welcoming words
were, 'You see Miss CCCaplin?'
She nodded.
'Everything all ... all right?'
She shook her head before hurrying past him and
through the scullery door, and he, looking at Bruce,
asked, 'What the matter?'
'They are not going to allow her to stay here after you
go.'
'No? Wwwhy?'
Bruce now walked towards the barn, with Max close
by his side and his face showing concern as he waited
for the answer, which Bruce did not give until they
were inside the barn. There, turning to Max, he said
plainly, 'She'd be living alone with me. And that's not
to be thought of, is it? And this I can understand. Miss
Caplin is going to get her another job.'
Max stared at Bruce; then he said quietly, 'No life
a-a-alone, sp-sp-specially up here.'
'Oh, I'll get used to it. Don't worry your head now.'
Max turned and stood staring out through the open
barn door for some time, before he emitted loudly,
' Sol-sol-solution.'
'What did you say?'
Max turned quickly to Bruce, saying again, almost
shouting now, 'Sol-solution. I got it. I go down to Miss
Caplin n-n-now,' and he gently thumped at Brace's
chest, and said with assurance, 'Everything all ... all
right. You see. I go now.' And he made hastily for outside,
saying, ' Ch-ch-change my boots and cccoat.'
Bruce now ran after him and, pulling him to a standstill,
said, 'Look, Max; it's no good. Anyway, why all

the fuss? I'm used to being on my own; I'm a shepherd,
aren't I?'
Max stared at him for a moment before repeating
flatly, 'Going to change boots. M-m-must hurry . . .
else Miss C-C-Caplin gone.'
A few minutes later, Bruce and Jinnie watched Max
go into a lolloping run across the plain. Neither of them
spoke, not even when Jinnie turned and went into the
scullery, where, after closing the door, she stood for
a moment looking towards the stone steps, and they
seemed to remind her she must go up there and change
her clothes . . .
Having done so, she sat on the edge of her pallet,
her arms hugging her knees, rocking herself. It was a
dreadful place up here, and it was a dreadful place
downstairs, but the kitchen had become more so since
the attitude of the missis towards her had changed. She
couldn't help thinking it, but she was glad she was dead.
And yet, it was because she was dead that she herself
would now have to leave Mister Bruce.
She was brought from her musing by the sound of
a loud thumping on the door.
As she scrambled down the steps and opened the
kitchen door, it was to see the man who had driven
the parson to the farm some time ago; and he said to
her, 'Where's Mr Shaleman?'
'He's along there working in the barn.'
'Go and fetch him, then.'
'Wait a moment.' The parson spoke as he descended
from the trap. 'I'll see him myself.'
At the door of the barn, he called loudly, 'You there!
Mr Shaleman.'
Bruce appeared at the far end of the barn and called
back, 'Good-day, Parson. Have you come to see my
mother?' There was a surprised note in the question

and the answer he was given was sharp and brief: 'No!
I have not come to see your mother' - he could have
added, he had seen her once and that was enough 'the
dead are dead and should be left in peace; we don't
believe in wakes.'
'I wouldn't expect you to.' Bruce was now standing in
front of the parson as he added, 'Yet one never knows,
with your Church and Rome hand in glove.'
'Mr Shaleman, I have not interrupted a very busy
routine to make this journey to discuss theology with
you, about which I am sure you know nothing whatever,
but to remind you that I have been here before and it
must have been a matter of interest to you when my
verger was called into the cottage. Perhaps you are
not aware that it needs two signatures to make a will'
legal. Your mother made a will, verbally, that is--' He
now thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the
envelope, which he now handed to Bruce, saying, 'There
it is.'
Bruce took the envelope, but did not open it
immediately: he just looked at the parson and said,
'Well, I'm not surprised. I've been expecting something
like this. I think I know what's in it.'
'Oh, you do, do you? Well, then, in that case your
mother wasted her time, and mine also. And lastly, Mr
Shaleman, I would thank you not to leave impertinent
messages with my verger.' And on this the irate parson
turned and marched smartly back to the trap, leaving
Bruce with the envelope, his jaws clenched.
He did not open it until he had returned to the other
end of the barn and seated himself on a box; nor did he
put his thumb under the envelope to roughly open
it, but, taking a penknife from his pocket, he inserted it
in the flap and slowly cut it open.
He drew out the perforated sheet of paper and stared

at the words. Then his teeth clamped together as a wave
akin to shame swept through him: Why hadn't he taken
advantage years ago of Richard's offer? Because of his
damn silly pride, that's why. But what had he to be
proud about? Nothing in the world. He could have
learned much even from Max these past weeks or from
Jinnie these past months, but no ... no, he was too big
in the head; and so he'd have to go and ask her to read
it. Anyway, it was only Jinnie; she'd understand.
He met her coming towards him from the cottage,
and when she said, 'He didn't come in to see her,' he
made no comment but took her arm and led her back
to the barn. Handing her the letter, he asked, 'Will
you tell me what it says, Jinnie?'
Jinnie looked at the small squiggly handwriting; then
she began laboriously to read:

'I, Rose Ann Shaleman, of Toilet's Ridge Farm,
wish to leave the said farm and land and stock - '
She paused, and then went on,
' - to my . . . son, Bruce Arthur Shaleman.'

Jinnie now looked up into Brace's startled face and
smiled widely before finishing,

'Signed this 14th day of November 1871 in the
presence of--'

She again looked at Bruce, saying on a laugh, 'His
name's all squiggly, but I can make out the Reverend something, and then the verger's name.'
She laid the paper on her lap and, putting both hands
out to him, she said, 'It's yours! The farm's yours. A little

while ago, I thought, if Mister Hal comes back - oh, I
hoped he wouldn't - but if he did, the farm would be
his.' But seeing Bruce place a hand across his forehead,
she said, 'What is it? What's the matter?' His face had
almost blanched. 'Is . . . is it the shock?'
His hand dropped from his forehead and he said,
'Jinnie, she swore to me that she was going to leave it
to Hal. In any case, you know, Hal is the rightful heir,
and he could still claim it. You see, Jinnie, I am not Pug
Shaleman's son and the farm was handed down from his
family. But it isn't that which upsets me; it is because
she wanted to leave it to me and, as she said, she wasn't
as black as she was painted, and she was aware that I
would be thinking the worst of her.'
When his head drooped, she quickly put her arms
about his shoulders, and drawing his head into her small
breast, she stroked his hair, saying, 'Don't worry about
having hated her, because I've hated her as well. I know
she was ill but at times she asked for it. Oh yes, she asked
for it, so you shouldn't blame yourself. Come on. Come
on.' She lifted his head, and now she was cupping his
face in her hands, her bright eyes looking into his, and
she said, 'It's yours. Nobody can take it away; that is a
real will.' She pointed down to the box on which she
had laid the paper. 'And you know something? You
must keep it in a safe place, because if he was to come
back' - she straightened up and her own head drooped
- 'everything would be worse than it is now.'
He sat staring at her: she had laid his head on her
breast; she had held his face between her hands. She
wasn't a child any more, she was a young girl, older
than her years, but her very actions had proved that, if
nothing else, she looked upon him as a brother. She had
handled him in a way she objected to others handling her
... oh yes, indeed, she thought of him as her brother.

It was almost dark when Max returned to the farm.
A light was showing from the small window of the
scullery, and when he went in it was to see Jinnie, an
apron over her best coat - in fact, her only coat - and
a shoulder shawl covering her head and ears, standing
at a rough-made bench and pounding dough in a large
brown dish.
Since her mistress had died she had refused to work
in the kitchen. It was enough for her to hurry in to keep
the fire going, but on each flying visit she was freshly
conscious of the woman in the box on the wall-bed.
Whenever possible Bruce himself would do this chore,
although even he was reluctant to go into the kitchen.
'Wh-wh-where is Mister Bruce?' asked Max.
'He's along yon end, knocking up a kind of trestle
table instead of this,' she said, pointing to the rickety
bench.
'C-c-come on.' Max put out his long arm and tugged
her from the table, while she exclaimed, 'Wait a minute!
Wait a minute! Max. Look; I'm all covered in dough.'
He allowed her to wipe her hands before he again
tugged at her arm, when she said, 'What is it? What's
the matter?'
'W-w-wait. Not w-wasting two breaths. Cccome,'
and he hurried her out and along to the barn.
Bruce was working by the aid of an oil lamp. He
turned at their approach and, looking at Max he said
quickly and abruptly, 'Well?'
'Y-y-yes, well. All is well. Miss C-C-Caplin agrees.
S-s-says authorities have n-n-no juris . . . diction bbbig
word that, eh?' He grinned from one to the
other. 'Miss C-C-Caplin uses b-b-big words.'
'Well, for goodness sake! Max, spit it out. What did
Miss Caplin say?'

'I'm trying to t-t-tell you. She s-s-says, if I stay on
here, s-s-so can Jinnie.' And he pulled Jinnie towards
him and, gently touching her bright face, he said, 'As l-l-long I'm here, y-y-you can stay.'
'Hold on! Wait a minute.' Bruce was holding up his hand. 'What d'you mean, as long as you're here? You'll
soon be gone.'
'Not be g-g-gone. Miss Caplin, she write and tttell
them, I'm n-n-not going. Circumstances' - he grinned
widely now as he nodded his head to imply that that
was another big word - 'ch-ch-changed. So all is ...
v-v-very well.'
Bruce sat down on a box and he looked up at the big
fellow and, slowly shaking his head, said, 'You shouldn't
have done that. It was very good of you, more than good,
but you know how I'm placed: I can't offer you anything
like a wage until the spring, if then. It'll all depend on
the market. You're a fool, you know.'
The change in Max's countenance was evident to both
of them and after a moment he said, 'Don't c-c-call me
that, Mister Bruce, n-n-not even in fun.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, Max.' Bruce was standing in front of
him now, his hand on the big man's shoulder. 'It wasn't
meant that way; it was . . . well--' He moved his head
as if searching for a word, and it was Jinnie who put in,
'Endearment. Yes, Max, it was an endearment, because
nobody would ever put that word to you.'
'Oh yes, Jinnie, many put that word to me; fffool
and idiot.'
'Oh no. What can I say?' said Bruce, apologetically.
'Well, I know this and I would bet on it; you have
more sense and knowledge in your head than three
farmers I could name in the valley, not to mention
this one standing before you.'

Max turned away in evident embarrassment, muttering,
'Everything all r-r-right now, then. So l-l-let's get
on with s-s-some work.'
At this, Jinnie put out a hand and patted Bruce's arm,
and she smiled widely, her gesture confirming that, from
her point of view, everything would go well from now
on.13

'So you're going to do it?'
'Yes, May; I'm going to do it.' replied Richard.
'I'm glad.'
'Strangely, so am I.'
'And about your painting. Will you go wholeheartedly
for that, or into the office, as is being proposed?'
'Well, what do you think? I'd go mad sitting in an
office all day.'
'But you know what the doctor said about the lead in
the paint.'
'Yes I know, and I agree with him, and lead poisoning
is something to be taken very seriously. I had never
thought of it before - few painters do, I'm sure. I always
thought that when I felt rotten it was due to the aftermath
of the fever still hanging about me; and because
my heart seemed to be all right, that puzzled me.'
'Well, I always thought your water colours were
superior to your oils, anyway.'
'Did you?' He smiled at her gratefully, then said, 'But
there's something very relaxing, you know, in slapping
lumps of paint on canvas, and the beauty of it is you can
go over your work again and again, whereas with water
colours one splash and it's done. At least' - he nodded at
her now - 'this is what all the books tell you: get it down
first time clear, otherwise the result will be mud. Well,
a short time ago, you know the one I did of the early
morning in the forest with the deer coming through the

trees and a shaft of sunlight hitting them, I was trying
to get that early light mist effect. I didn't get it; and if I
went over it again once, I did so ten times, and you've
seen the result. You live and learn. Anyway, I'm off into
town now to do a bit of shopping.'
May had been sitting on a couch near the fire and she
stood up and, her voice changing, she said, 'You're not
going to stop off on your way and attend that funeral,
are you, Richard?'
He was half turned from her, and he didn't answer her
for a moment, and when he did he said, 'I've a damn
good mind to.'
'You'll only upset them if you do and everything
is going so smoothly. Anyway, you half promised last
night.'
'No, I didn't; I just didn't answer.' He now swung
round to her. 'Anyway, Bruce has been my friend for
years, so I should show some respect.'
May shook her head in a show of irritation, then said,
'All my life, at least, my adult life, I've heard the same
arguments between you and them, and I can see their
side of it, Richard. If they were prosperous farmers, there
would be something to be said for your side of it, but by
all accounts they're below ground level.'
'That's not his fault.'
'Well, you want things to go smoothly from now on,
don't you? They'll accept your position, I know, whether
you take up Papa Rowland's offer of a junior partnership
or take up your art seriously. I'm just pointing out that
they are falling over themselves to meet you halfway.
They are more than fond of you. And they are not
the only ones.' These last words prompted him to go
and put his arm around her shoulders and to kiss her,
saying, 'And that feeling's reciprocated twofold, May.'
Then, slightly embarrassed, they broke apart with her

saying in quite a motherly fashion, 'Get yourself away.
Get yourself away; but--' and the sudden appeal in her
voice caused him to hesitate as he reached the door-- 'do
be a good boy and keep the family peace. And remember
there's Lillian now, and she's no longer just Lillian. You
mustn't forget that. You know what I mean.'
His tone was clear and definite when he said, 'Yes, I
know what you mean, May.'

The morning following the funeral, Richard was riding
to the farm, when from a distance he could see some
activity outside the cottage. He drew his horse to a
momentary stop before going on again. To the three
people awaiting his arrival he called, 'Why the bonfire?'
which was giving off thick grey smoke from the flocks of
the bed tick and other pieces of bedding. 'You're making a clean sweep?'
'You could say that,' Bruce said, 'and not before time.
I think you'd better take the horse along to the shed next to Patsy's stable. They can talk to each other. That's if you're meaning to stay.'
'No; I'm sorry, Bruce; I've just called to bring these.'
He indicated the bags hanging over the saddle. 'If you
don't mind I'll take them along to the barn, and him
with me--' he patted his horse's neck. 'He doesn't like the cold either.' Then, as if just becoming aware of Max and Jinnie, he said, 'Hello! there.'
It was Max who said, 'M-m-morning, sir.'
Jinnie, who had been scrubbing a wooden chair, did not respond to his greeting, but she looked up and smiled at him, a smile which seemed to hold him still for a moment. Then jerking the horse forward, he said,
'Come on. Let's all go into the shelter.'
He dismounted just inside the barn and hooked the reins over a staple in the wall. Then, after taking the bags

from the saddle, he walked beside Bruce and Max to the
far end of the barn and dropped the bags on an upturned
box.
He was about to speak when his attention was caught
by Jinnie. She was standing apart. She did not appear her
usual chirpy self; her look was pensive; and the thought
flashed through his mind that she was beautiful; and it
wasn't a childish beauty either, or that of a young girl.
He had noticed before that her skin still retained its
creamy tint of youth; the wind up here had not seemed
to mar it, as work had her hands.
He now took a prettily wrapped parcel and handed it
to her, saying, 'Happy Christmas, Jinnie.'
Quickly, she glanced at Bruce as if for permission to
accept the present; then looking back at Richard she
took the parcel from him, saying, 'For me?'
'Yes--' and he looked about him, saying, 'there's no
other young lady here, is there, who could wear what's
inside that?'
Then not waiting for her thanks, he drew two more
parcels from the first bag and handed one to Bruce and
the other to Max.
Bruce muttered softly, 'Thank you, Richard;' but
Max, holding the parcel across both his hands and
smiling broadly, said, 'My thanks, s-s-sir. Fffirst
present I've had wr-wr-wrapped up ... in my life.'
'Well, don't keep it wrapped up,' Richard laughed
back at him, 'none of you,' he added. And amid laughter
each undid his parcel. It was Bruce who first exclaimed
and in admiration.
'Oh my! a real gansey.'
'Well, jersey or gansey,' cried Richard now, 'put it on
and see if it fits. If not, I can have it exchanged, so they
tell me.'
'If it doesn't fit,' said Bruce slowly, 'I'd want to

keep this just to feel it.' His hands stroked the soft
woollen garment. He'd had ganseys before, but not
like this one. They had been fisherman's ganseys, made
with coarse wool for rough wear.
All attention was now turned on Max, who was holding
a very fine thick tweed waistcoat at arm's length, for
such it looked at first glance; although it was a waistcoat
with a difference, because it had long, soft leather sleeves
and leather buttons to match.
'That was the largest in the shop, so I can't take
it back, Max, and ask for it to be exchanged. You'll
just have to lose some weight.'
Max had risen from the box on which he had been
sitting and, walking towards Richard, he put out a hand,
his other forearm pressing the waistcoat to him, and
almost with a break in his voice he said, 'S-s-sir, I
have never seen anything l-l-like it, and I thank you
m-m-most warmly.'
'Oh.' Richard, slightly embarrassed, laughed as he
said, 'It's only a waistcoat, but I liked the look of it,
as I did Bruce's guernsey.'
They now all turned and looked at Jinnie, and Bruce
exclaimed loudly, 'Haven't you opened it yet?'
'Yes; I've opened it, but I haven't taken it out of
the paper because you two were so busy admiring
yourselves.'
This was greeted with a burst of laughter, and Bruce
cried at her, 'Get on with it! you cheeky monkey. All
you want is attention . . . well, we're all attention now,
so get on with it.'
Slowly and in amazement she lifted up a fur hood
and held it in one hand while the other picked up a
pair of fur-lined gloves. She sat gazing down at them for
a moment before she lifted her eyes to Richard's. Her
lower lip was trembling but she was unable to speak.

It was a moment before Richard said, 'I had to guess
your size ... I mean, with the gloves.'
No-one spoke while she laid down the gloves and,
opening the hood, pulled it on over her head. It had
a fine, pink flannel lining which was continued as a tie
under her chin, although she didn't make it into a bow.
She picked up the gloves and drew them on her fingers.
They were tight at first, but she stroked her fingers in as
any lady might, and the three men sat watching her.
Her attire could have been regarded as grotesque: her
feet encased in ugly block-toed working boots, the long,
dull grey coat covered with the work-spattered apron,
while above it the face with cream-tinted skin enhanced
by the long dark lashes of the clear green eyes, all framed
in an expensive, brown-fur hood lined with pink flannel,
the hands, in the matching gloves, held up now, palm
upwards, as if for inspection by the audience.
As the hands dropped down to her lap and her head
slowly bowed, Max was talking in his mind - and with
no stammers - if only he had money; his child was so
beautiful.
Bruce's thoughts were revealing in that they held a
slight touch of resentment. Richard shouldn't have done
that. Such a present was so out of place for her. Just
look at her coat and boots. And if she had to have
anything in the way of clothing, he was the one who
should have provided them for her. Items of that quality
would put ideas into her head.
Looking up at Richard, Jinnie found she still couldn't
find any words, although her thoughts were running
wild. He was so kind, and he was beautiful; oh yes, so
beautiful. Ever since he had lifted her on to his horse
she had been unable to get him out of her mind. But
then her voice seemed to be forced from her by Bruce
saying, 'What's the matter with you? Have you lost your

tongue?' And she finally did speak as she continued to
look at Richard and said softly, 'Thank you. Thank you
so much. They are lovely . . . lovely.'
It was almost on the tip of Richard's tongue to say,
'And you're lovely too;' but instead, turning abruptly
from her, he picked up the other bag and said, 'Odds
and ends of Christmas fare for the table,' and handed
it to Bruce.
It was all Bruce could do to say, 'Thanks. Thanks.'
For some reason he couldn't quite fathom, this further
gift had intensified his resentment.
They were walking back towards the end of the barn
and Richard's horse, the while thanking him again for
his kindness, but, as perhaps could have been expected,
he did not discount their thanks by saying, 'Oh, it is
nothing,' but after taking the horse's reins from the
nail, he mounted the animal, then looked down on
them and, with a quizzical smile on his face, he said,
'I've had my own Christmas present, I am engaged to
be married to Miss Lillian Rowlands. The wedding is
to be next June. It hasn't been made public yet, but I'm
telling you because you are my friends.'
As he turned the horse and left the barn, Richard
waved aside the congratulations from the two men,
and he did not notice that Jinnie remained silent; but
Bruce did, as he also noticed the stricken look on her
face. And he thought, Dear God! she surely wouldn't
be so silly; not Jinnie. But then she was still a young
girl, and all young girls were silly.
He turned to Max and said, 'Well, that's no surprise.
It's been hanging fire for a long time. But I don't suppose
it will make all that difference to him; except, perhaps,
that both families will now have a stronger claim on
him, if that's possible ... It says something for being
independent, even if you do have a hungry belly.'

He felt himself almost pushed aside as Jinnie passed
him and hurried out on her way to the cottage.
From the first time she had seen him and had experienced
that strange pain in the middle of her chest,
she had known that what had entered her head was bin a crazy idea. She might not have seen him for
weeks or months, but the very sight of him would revive
the feeling, bringing it out from its night-time hidden
chamber, when the fancy and fantasy would take on a
kind of reality. But the reality had today been given real
life when he had presented her with this wonderful gift,
because for a moment she had imagined that no man
would give such a present to a girl he saw only as a
maid. He was a gentleman, but with a difference: had
he not already made a friend of Bruce, and Bruce was
not a gentleman? And so, why not also make a friend
or more of her?
In that fleeting moment it had appeared feasible;
whereas now all she could think was, she wanted to die;
and immediately she asked herself why she was staying
on at this place, because it was awful. One thing was
sure: she would not wear his hood and gloves, ever.

PART TWO

It was now July 1872 and a great deal had happened since
Christmas, on this hill as well as in the valley. Here, at
the farm, alterations to the buildings were immediately
noticeable.
In the farmhouse itself, the recess that had held
the bed had been extended to make a room as large
as the kitchen. It had its own fireplace on the far
wall, as well as a loft above, in which a person of
normal height could stand up.
The pig-swill room remained as it was, as did the
sty and the barn, although around the corner were
two new cow-byres and beyond, a stone building had
been converted into a dairy. But these changes seemed
insignificant when, on entering the cottage, one found
oneself in what was really a thirty-foot room, with a
fire and a cooking oven in the kitchen area and with
an open fire at the far end, with the whole of the floor
space covered either in rope or cocoa matting. The stone
walls had been plastered and lime-washed and the two
windows, the larger of which was in the extension, both
sported brightly patterned cotton curtains. The room
was sparsely furnished, but nevertheless there were
signs of comfort in the newer part with two worn,
chintz-covered armchairs and a backless settle seat
placed against the fireside wall. This was four feet
long and had a thick, comfortable pad on it. This too
was chintz-covered but gave evidence of much wear,

being patched at the corners. It had at one time graced
another farmhouse kitchen, as had the other odds and
ends. But odds and ends or not, they could not at this
time have brought more delight to Jinnie had they been
pieces worthy of the name of antique.
The sleeping arrangements, too, had been altered.
The loft above the new room took two pallet beds
comfortably, and was shared by Bruce and Max,
although Max could not stand up straight in any
part of it. However, this did not deter him from
appreciating his new quarters.
As for Bruce, he was glad to have Max's company at
night, for he had grown very fond of the big fella.
What was strange, although Bruce never referred to
it, in case by doing so he should check the flow, was
that Max's stammering and incoherence was now hardly
noticeable. Perhaps it was because the man was happy.
But in spite of the apparent well-being of the farm,
money was still very tight. And yet Bruce would have
been content but for one concern. And the name of that
was Hal.
For months now he had tried to prepare himself for
his brother's return. Moreover, one thing was sure:
whatever had happened to him on his voyages would
not have lessened his hatred of either Max or Jinnie.
Then, there would be the question of the real ownership
of the farm, for no matter what his mother might have
wished, or indeed expressed, Bruce felt that Hal could
legally claim ownership. And the worry had really come
to the front and taken on the shape of fear when, two
days before, he had heard through Peter Locke that The
Admiral was due in.
Although he had no assurance that Hal was still on
this particular boat, nevertheless there was the possibility
that he might be, and that once it touched harbour he

would make straight for the farm. And so he had thought
it wise to put Jinnie and Max in the picture. If things
did come to a head, Jinnie could go down to the Miss
Duckworths. As for Max, he had already earned himself
the name of an excellent handyman, and could easily
obtain temporary work elsewhere . . .
He had been up in the hills for most of the day, and
being back in form, he was now blithely running with
the dog, his dread almost forgotten in these moments
of exhilaration. But, on seeing two figures making their
way down from the road to the pond, his dread was
overshadowed by a feeling of anger.
What the hell does he think he's up to! And she, the
little bitch, must know what she's doing. I'll have to
come into the open with her. I will! he thought.
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.
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.'
'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.
They had just taken your papa's cart and horse away,
but God gave you to me then.'
'Oh! Max. Max.' She was sobbing openly in his arms.
'Oh! Max; Max, I'll never leave you. Wherever I go
they'll have to find a place for you.'
His face now straight, he said, 'And leave him alone
here? No, no; he's my friend. He's been very gggood
to me. If you go into service it must be on your own.'
Noticing Bruce descending the steps from the loft,
Jinnie drew away from Max's hold, quickly wiped her
eyes with her apron, then attended to the making of the tea.
Although the clothes that Bruce was now wearing
were well-worn, the tweed jacket almost threadbare at
the elbows, he still looked a very presentable young
man. His body was lithe, his head was well set on his

shoulders, and his clean-shaven face, if not handsome,
was pleasantly featured; and all was not lost upon Jinnie
as she glanced at him, and she wished, really wished,
from the bottom of her heart that she could have loved
him with the love that he deserved, for she owed him
so much.
Bruce drank the tea, wiped his mouth on the pad of
his thumb, pulled on his cap, then as casually as he
could, he said, 'Well, I'm off.' And at this Max said,
'I'll be walking on c-c-cinders until you come back.'
But Jinnie said nothing. She only hoped that some
good fortune would come his way and compensate him,
if love could be compensated.

Bruce sat in the office of Walters, Claire and Fowler,
Solicitors. It was a well-upholstered office, all the chairs
being covered in either leather or hide, and the desk,
behind which sat either Mr Walters, Mr Claire or Mr
Fowler, was very deep and wide. It too had a leather
top.
'Your name is . . .?'
The thin man with the grey hair leant forward across
the desk towards Bruce, and Bruce replied, 'Bruce
Shaleman.'
'Yes, Mr Bruce Shaleman, I'm Mr Claire and I'm
very pleased that you have called. But may I ask if you
have anything that can prove your identity?'
Bruce's answer was terse as he replied, 'None whatever;
only that's my name and I received a letter from
you asking if I was Mr Harold Shaleman's brother. You
had our address, although not the full one: it is Toilet's
Ridge Farm, The New Coach Road, Whitfield.'
'Would that be Hexham way?'
'No, sir; quite a way beyond and beyond Haydon
Bridge and Langley. Catton and Allendale are one way,

Whitfield t'other. Above that. Yes, way above Whitfield.
Do you know that part, sir?'
Mr Claire cleared his throat and said, 'I have been
almost as far. Yes, as far as Catton. That is the terminus
of the train, isn't it?'
'Yes, sir. Just beyond.'
'Have you anyone who could vouch for your identity?'
'Yes. Oh yes; a man of substance, too, Mr Richard
BaxtonPowell.'
'Oh, you know the BaxtonPowells?'
'As I've said, I'm well acquainted with the son,
Richard, sir.'
'Oh. Oh, well; they have offices in the city, so we
could soon verify that, couldn't we?'
It was a moment before Bruce answered, 'Yes, sir; you
could, and the sooner the better, I would say.'
The grey-haired man now glanced towards his partner
who was sitting at the end of the table writing, and
he said, 'Do you think we could go ahead now, Mr
Fowler?' And Mr Fowler, raising his head for the first
time, looked straight at Bruce and muttered something
that could have been, 'Yes, Mr Claire, of course;' then
continued with his writing.
Mr Claire was addressing Bruce again, saying, 'It is
a most strange story. I am sure you don't know as yet
that your brother died at sea.'
'No; no, I didn't, sir. When was this?' Mr Claire
again looked at Mr Fowler, and without raising his
head Mr Fowler said, 'Off the Island of Jamaica, on
May the second of this year, 1872, and he was buried
at sea.'
Bruce's attention was all on the man at the end of
the desk now. He seemed a queer fellow. All the time
he was talking, he was continuing to write rapidly. This
was what solicitors did, he supposed.

Mr Claire brought Bruce's attention to him again,
saying, 'Well, Mr Shaleman, I will put it to you as
plainly and as shortly as possible. For the full details
you must see Captain Thomas Stoke, Master of The
Admiral. He knows quite a bit about the matter; but
the First Officer, Mr Carter, will take you deeper into
your brother's life and his business. It is a very strange
business, but it has netted you, Mr Shaleman, what to
my mind is a small, though not so small, fortune.'
Bruce said nothing: he just stared across the desk at
the man and waited.
'Before the boat left the last port of call, your brother
put into the Captain's care a box containing five hundred
pounds and valuables; jewellery, in fact. The Captain
and his First Officer brought the box to me and asked
for our advice. I suggested it be opened here in the
presence of witnesses and when the contents were
revealed, I suggested the money be banked at Lloyds,
and the valuables left in the safe here for the present
until we ascertained their value. Now, if I may suggest
to you, I would go to where The Admiral is berthed
and if the Captain and the First Officer are at liberty,
I would invite them to a meal, and there I am sure you
will get the whole story. Then, perhaps this afternoon,
you will do me the honour of returning here at three
o'clock, at which time I will take you and introduce
you to the Lloyds Bank manager and also ask for a
valuer to be there to give you an idea, even a rough
idea, of what you can expect from the four pieces of
jewellery that are deposited over there--' His hand
pointed to the safe in the far wall.
Bruce made no murmur of reply. Five hundred
pounds and jewellery. From where, in God's name!
could Hal have got five hundred pounds honestly?
And jewellery. Jewellery! He must have been robbing

somebody. And yet this man was telling him to
take these two gentlemen, a Captain and his First
Officer, out to a meal and all he had on him was
one pound three and sixpence.
As if the man at the end of the table had been reading
his mind, he raised his head for a moment, stopped the
movement of his pen, looked at his partner and said
one word, 'Advance;' then he resumed his business,
and Mr Claire said cheerfully, 'Oh yes; yes. You will
be needing an advance, Mr Shaleman. Let me see,
would ten pounds be in order?'
' Yes, sir. Thank you; that would be in order.' How was
it he was able to answer so calmly? His voice certainly
wasn't conveying his thoughts, which were in a racing
jumble. He now watched Mr Claire bend to the side,
open a drawer and take from it a box which he placed
on the desk. From the box he extracted a chamois
leather bag and, pushing it across the table towards
Bruce, he said, 'I think you'll find the required sum
in there.'
'Thank you, sir.' Bruce put the bag into his pocket;
then, pushing his chair back, he stood up and his voice
still not sounding like his own, said, 'Until three o'clock,
then.'
Mr Claire now half rose from his chair and rang a
bell on his desk, and when a door opened he said, 'Will
you see Mr Shaleman out, Williams?' The clerk did not
answer but inclined his head towards Bruce. However,
when the door had closed on them, Mr Claire turned to
his partner and said, 'Well, what do you think?' and the
mutter came back, 'Honest, poor and half-fed. Could
pass if he was dressed in a decent rig.' Then, looking
towards the wall in which he had indicated the safe, Mr
Claire said, ' I wonder how that fellow came across that
little lot in there. I wouldn't like to guess at its worth.'

'Yes, sir, I do. It would be helpful because I can't
imagine my brother having that amount of money at
any time.'
'He never played cards with you at all?' It was the First
Officer speaking to Bruce who shook his head and said,
'No; we lived on a farm up in the hills; we never had
much time for card playing.'
'Well . . . well, where do we start?' said the Captain.
'Really, we should have the Second Mate here, but he
has already gone on before us to Scotland; we sail for
the Clyde tonight, you know. We're picking up our
next cargo from there. But the Second Mate could
have put you in the picture much better than either
of us. As it is, I think I'll leave it to Mr Carter here
to tell you what he knows; and I think he'd better start
at the beginning.'
The First Officer now cleared his throat as if about to
make a speech, and then he said, 'Well, Mr Shaleman,
you know your brother's character and temperament
better than anybody, I should say; and if you were
truthful you might add he wasn't an easy fellow to get
along with.'
'You're right there, sir.'
'Well, now that's out of the way, I can say he had
a pretty rough time when he first came aboard this
ship. You see, we are very proud of our crew, most of
them having been with us for years, some even from
boys. I am just putting you in the picture that when
your brother came aboard he was for using both his
fists and his tongue, and neither of them was a match
for those of some of the crew; and so going out to
the Indies was rather a rough passage for him, with
one exception. We had a man aboard who was a bit
of a magician. Oh, that's wrong, Captain, my saying
Samson was a bit of a magician, he was a magician.The Captain here had picked him up from one of the
Islands four years previously. He was a good worker but
he was a better entertainer; he could do anything with
cards . . . and rats. He could be in his bare pelt up
to here' - the First Officer now put his hand around his waist - 'and his breeks would just reach his knees,
he would never touch them but he'd bring a rat from
behind his back and tweek its whiskers. To say that he
was feared is putting it mildly: sailors don't usually like
weird or odd individuals, so he hadn't any friends on
board, a lot of admirers you could say, but no friends;
until your brother appeared, that is. Your brother did
not seem to be afraid of him and all the hocuspocus
he got up to. You could say now that he cultivated
him in order to learn his tricks, and the tricks he did
learn best were those that can be achieved with a pack
of cards, because Samson - that's the nickname the men
gave our odd man - could win every hand he played,
without anyone being able to detect a cheating move.
We've sat in, haven't we, Captain?' He looked at his
superior, and the Captain nodded, saying, 'Yes; many
a time.'
'Anyway, it didn't make the men like your brother
any better when he became a mate of Samson. When
we reached some of the islands the Captain did not
allow any of the crew to go ashore. The women were
rotten, as was the food and drink in some of these
places, but there was one particular town where leave
was always granted. There were many whites there,
mostly settlers on the outskirts, but the town itself was
run by half-breeds, and there were three main gambling
saloons. But, as Samson said, he never allowed himself
to win more than ten of the island's golden coins in any
one game, an insurance for getting out alive. But ten of
these coins apparently were not enough to satisfy your

brother. And although he was your brother I must say
that he was like a ferret in his actions. He managed to
unearth the fact that some private gambling games went
on outside the town, and for pretty high stakes; and that
the planters would sometimes play all night. Then, one
day, a strange thing happened: Samson jumped ship
when we were berthing at one of the islands. He had
given no reason to anyone that he was going, except
that on the day prior to his disappearance he told one of
the stokers, 'Hal man unlucky,' which the stoker found
very strange, because everybody knew they were mates.
In any case, you don't talk about being unlucky aboard
any ship. Once a man gets known as a jinx, there's
trouble all round.
'Anyway, when we next made a port where the men
could go ashore - quite a civilised place, really, even
though the town itself was run by half-breeds - your
brother went on shore leave by himself. No-one ever
went out of his way to seek his company, and on this
particular night, when he returned about two in the
morning, one of the men, being awake, noticed that
he seemed very pleased with himself. By the way, you
knew, of course, that he kept his head shaved, didn't
you?' He looked towards Bruce, and Bruce nodded at
him, saying, 'Yes. Yes. Almost bald.'
'He was very touchy about it when he first came
aboard and resented being called Baldy. That was the
start of his bashing period, I think. Anyway, two days
before we left port he was out again late at night; in
fact, it was about four in the morning when he returned.
He was carrying this small steel box; and early the
next morning he came to the Captain here, didn't he,
Captain? in this very cabin. I was here at the time, as
was the Second Mate. We were doing much as we are
doing now - going over our course - and he asked if

the Captain would keep the box in his safe and if he
could tell him how to get a sum of money forwarded
to Newcastle. The Captain suggested that since they
were preparing for a home run, it would be quicker
to take it with him. At first, he didn't seem to take to
this idea, but I pointed out to him that with the kind
of banking arrangements to be found in the islands,
it might be a long time before he saw his money. At
the time I did not add "if ever". Consequently the
Captain persuaded him to leave the money with the
box. Your brother then left the cabin and returned with
the steel box in which he said he had placed money and
property. And being of a deceitful mind himself, and
believing that everyone else was of the same nature, he
had sealed the box with red wax in a number of places,
with the key hanging from a piece of string attached to
it.'
The Captain himself now took over the story: 'I detected
a great bitterness in your brother,' he said. 'From
when he first came aboard it was as if he was fighting
something or someone, and on the day he brought the
box and I asked him what he intended to do with
the money when he got back home, he said, "I've got
what you would call a mission to perform, Captain.
Oh yes, I've got what you would call a mission to
perform." Now, I have repeated the words as he said
them. And he went on, "If you've got money you can
bring things about." I recall there seemed to be an
implied threat in the words; I felt he had it in for
someone and he was going to make them pay. Am I
right?'
'Yes, sir. Yes, you are right."
'Well,' the Captain now turned to his officer and said,
'Carry on and give Mr Shaleman the rest. There's not
much more to tell.'
So the First Officer took up the tale again, saying,
'We didn't know till later that after coming aboard
with his spoils that night he was sick, and two or three
times more before we sailed, and that during that time
he never left the boat. We were two days out when
he went down with a fever. We haven't a doctor on
board, but our Second Mate is very knowledgeable
with herbs and such, and he has books on different
diseases. From these he could find nothing, but his
own opinion was that the man had been poisoned.
And poisoning wasn't anything new in the islands. To
confirm this he found a mark like a puncture on your
brother's body. Death comes in many strange ways in
the islands, and here was a sailor who was winning too
much money and they couldn't prove he was cheating.
It is now evident, of course, that he must have been in
a position to play for high stakes to win whatever was
in the box. Or else, as has happened to many a man, he
would have found himself trussed up and thrown into
a stinking hole to die there slowly. It has been known
in those parts. Anyway, his ills were short for within
five days of his acquiring the fortune we buried him at
sea.'
There was a pause during which Bruce thought, Dear
God! What a way to go! But then, if he hadn't been
poisoned when he was, he could have seen to it that
Max and Jinnie were taken care of, as he had promised.
He wouldn't have needed to go further than Newcastle
Quay to find somebody to do his dirty work, especially
if it promised to pay well.
'Now, the box,' the Captain was saying. 'I was of two
minds what to do with it: either hand it over to the
shipping company or to the police. But then I thought
of the solicitors Walters, Claire and Fowler. I knew them
as being very good at straightening out sticky matters.

'Well, now you know them. And they have been fortunate
in tracing you, because your brother left his correct
address when he signed on. And this doesn't always
happen, you know, when a man doesn't want to leave
a half-pay note to some lady. And Mr Claire told me
it didn't take much investigation after that to discover
that your parents had both died whilst your brother was
at sea, and that you were the only known relative.
'Now the time's getting on. Have you to go back to
see Mr Claire?'
'Yes, at three o'clock. But about the meal . . .'
'Well, perhaps we just have time to push in a bite.'

It was exactly three o'clock when Bruce was shown into
the solicitors' office accompanied by the Captain and
the First Officer, and what struck him immediately was
that Mr Fowler was still seated in the same place, and
still writing. It was as if he had never moved.
After some pleasantries were exchanged between the
Captain and Mr Claire the box was brought from the
safe and placed on the desk. It was small, not more than
six by five inches and apparently made of steel.
Bruce uttered no word until the box was opened and
the four pieces of jewellery displayed on the desk, and
then all he could say was, 'Oh my!'
And Mr Claire repeated the words, then he added,
'Their brilliance is startling, isn't it? They must have
been intended for a lady with a very delicate hand, because
the rings aren't all that large, nor is the bangle.'
At that moment there was a tap on the door, then it
opened and the clerk announced, 'Mr Stoneford.'
'Ah! Good-day to you, Mr Claire,' cried the
newcomer.
'And good-day to you, Mr Stoneford. We have the
display all ready for you.'

The visitor said nothing, but nodded to the Captain
and the First Officer, then with a smile on his face,
he turned towards Mr Fowler, saying jovially, 'That
law book not finished yet? My! my!' and at this Mr
Fowler raised his head and said, 'Never will be if I'm
interrupted with such trite remarks.'
'Never changes, does he, Mr Claire?' His hand went
out to the jewellery and he said, 'What have we here?
My! my! Two rings, a bangle and a necklace all to
match. Why, if they're as good as they appear to be,
somebody is going to be warm for the rest of his days.
Now who, may I ask, is that?'
It was the Captain who now put in quickly, 'Mr
Shaleman here,' indicating Bruce, 'is the heir to these
articles. They were left by his brother.'
'Oh. His brother? Was his brother a sailor?'
'Yes. Yes, he was a sailor.'
'Well, well! That speaks for itself. And you want me
to look them over?'
'Yes, of course, man. And not so much palaver.' Mr
Claire's voice was terse.
Mr Stoneford now took from his pocket a jeweller's
glass; and the first piece he took up was a ring.
There was silence in the room as they watched him
examine one piece after another. Even Mr Fowler's eyes
were on him as they waited for his verdict, and when it
came there was a concerted gasp as, looking at Bruce,
he exclaimed his opinion in one word: 'Fakes.'
At first Bruce didn't take this in; well, not as quickly
as both Mr Claire and Mr Fowler; and it was Mr Fowler
who said, 'Never! Never! Stoneford. They're set in gold.
Don't tell me otherwise; I know gold.'
Now Mr Stoneford's whole manner changed, and
his voice had an angry note to it as he barked at Mr
Fowler, 'I am telling you, and I'm not charging for

telling you, either. Take them to someone else: Gibson
or Rowe. They'll give you a fair answer. But if they
say the same as me, then I think it would be only
fair of you to bring the deal back to me. Of course,
you could ask them what they would offer. I wouldn't
mind that. They'll likely offer you only the price of the
gold settings, which really are beautiful in themselves.
But I think they might still command a good price as
they are, because the glass has been expertly cut. I'd
like to bet that whoever owned them thought they were
genuine enough. But at some time or other the stones
have been replaced: glass, however well cut, would not
originally have been put into settings like these.'
He now thrust the bangle towards Mr Fowler, saying,
'You think you know a bit about jewellery, don't you?
You always have done. But what you recognised in this
lot was the old settings.'
The man's voice changed as, turning to Bruce, he
said almost sadly, 'I'm sorry. I wish it could have been
otherwise. But at the end of the day you still won't be
out of pocket.'
'Well, what you never had, sir, you never miss,' Bruce
said.
The man smiled back at him and said, 'Well, that's
the way to look at it. Whatever you get for the pieces
will depend on whether or not you are short of cash
at the moment. Imitations sold in a group like this
could fetch . . . well, a hundred and twenty-five to
a hundred and thirty pounds.'
'Oh my God!' burst out Mr Fowler.
'You choking, Mister Fowler?'
'Yes, I'm choking, Stoneford. You giving a lie to your
profession ... a hundred and twenty-five to a hundred
and thirty pounds indeed! I suggest that, having given us
your evaluation, you leave the matter in abeyance for a

time, and we will come back to you.' He now addressed
his partner: 'Yes?' and, as if he were but a junior clerk,
Mr Claire repeated, 'Yes, Mr Fowler . . . Yes.'
Mr Stoneford's anger was concealed by a tight smile
and the thin tone of his voice as, looking from one to
the other of the partners, he said, 'I am quite used to
your courteous manner in our dealings, and also matters
being left in abeyance, only for you to call in the old firm
again, and so I shall await your pleasure, gentlemen.'
And he now turned towards Bruce and, the smile still
on his face, he said, 'Goodbye for the present ... I
almost said "sailor", but that was your brother, wasn't
it? I am sure we shall be meeting again shortly,' and on
this and ignoring both the Captain and his First Officer,
he walked smartly from the room, leaving an uneasy
silence, which was eventually broken by the Captain
who, replacing his cap and straightening his jacket, said
in a brisk tone, 'Well, I think our part in this business
is over, don't you, Mr Claire?'
After clearing his throat, the solicitor said, 'Ah, yes.
And I thank you. I am sure Mr Shaleman is very obliged
too.'
'I am indeed. I am indeed,' Bruce put in hastily, and
he held out his hand to one after the other of the men,
and with no further ado they left the room.
For a moment, Bruce stood staring at the door; then
quickly turning to Mr Claire, he said,' Could I have fifty
pounds, please?'
'Fifty!' exclaimed Mr Claire, and he too glanced towards
the door before adding, 'You wish to compensate
them with fifty?'
Before Bruce could answer, Mr Fowler, head up now,
said, 'Yes, fifty, Mr Claire. I think they've earned it. Mr
Shaleman, I would say, is lucky that his brother was on
that particular boat, and not on some that we know.'

Bruce almost grabbed the wash-leather bag Mr Claire
had taken from the bottom of the box saying, 'You'll find
fifty in there,' and without even thanking the solicitors,
was out of the door and into the street, just in time
to see the two nautical figures disappearing around the corner.
After sprinting down the street and calling the Captain's
name, he brought them to a halt. Pushing the bag
into the Captain's hand, he gasped, 'Fifty pounds there!
Share it, please.'
Both the Captain and his First Officer, smiling now,
said in unison, 'That is indeed kind of you.'
'No; it isn't, not at all. I'm no fool, because I realise
that in another ship and under similar conditions, I
would never have seen a penny of this money.' '
It was the First Officer who answered, 'Well, I must
admit, you're right there: if the Captain had not been a
God-fearing man, it would have been split long before
now.'
Again they were shaking hands . . .
Back in the solicitor's office, Bruce found Mr Claire
dressed for the street. The solicitor said briskly, 'Well,
let us go to the bank, Mr Shaleman, with the money.
The trinkets will remain in safe keeping here, if you are
agreeable.'
'Yes; yes, Mr Claire. I leave things entirely in your
hands.'

The lamp was lit, the fire at the far end of the room
burned brightly. Bruce was sitting in the armchair to
one side of it and Max and Jinnie on the couch at the
other.
Since arriving home, he had talked more than ever
he had done at any one time before. He had related to
them everything he had experienced and, as in a story,

he had kept news of the contents of the box to the last,
when their amazement was no less than his.
Max was the first to react. Standing now, he said,
'Money good for you, Bruce, but best thing him dead.'
And he put his hand out to Jinnie, and she endorsed
his words by saying, 'Oh yes; yes, by far; although--'
she looked hard at Bruce - 'I'm glad for you; yes, I
am.'
Max's head was bobbing now in an effort to bring
out something important, and what he eventually said
was, 'He would have been m-m-mad when he found
out he had risked his life for fakes, and he must have
risked his life time and again to g-g-gather up all that
money. No wonder he was p-p-poisoned. But thanks be
to G-G-God he was.'
Again, in his mind, Bruce heartily agreed with this
statement; then aloud, he said, 'And now for tomorrow:
we're all going into the city and have a day out; all kinds
of a day.' He looked from Max's smiling face to Jinnie's
straight countenance as she said, 'No, thanks, Bruce,
if you don't mind; I won't go. You two go on your
own.'
'We're not going on our own.'
'Well, under the circumstances I can't come with you,
Bruce.' She rose to her feet, and her voice rose too as she
said, 'The situation has changed, hasn't it? I'll be leaving
here shortly.'
'No, you won't!' Bruce too was on his feet. 'You're
not going to leave here: we can't do without you. Forget
all I said; I was mad. She can't go, can she, Max?'
'No. N-n-no, she not leave. You not go, Jinnie,' saying
which, he pulled her down on to die couch again beside
him; then holding her close for a moment, he said,
'Bygones be bygones. We be happy here, at least a
little longer. Time'll tell . . . what'll happen.'

Abruptly she stood up and, nodding from one to the
other saying, 'Good night,' she went hurriedly from the
room, only to be followed immediately by Max.
She was washing her hands at the sink when he went
up to her, saying, 'You leave, Jinnie, I not go with you.
I stay with Bruce. He's a lost man. Lonely, deep-inside
lonely. You and me in another place have company; he
has no-one; and he's a good man, better than most.'
He now wagged a finger in her face as he said, 'If he
hadn't. .. been good man you would have been touched
before now. You understand me?'
Yes, she understood him and all he was saying. 'Leave
it for a day or so, Max, please,' she now whispered.
'Seeing that you know so much, you might as well
know that it isn't only Bruce I'm trying to avoid; I
must get away from . . .' Before she could go on Max's
head was bobbing again as he said, 'That one will be
no good for you ever . . . ever. If he weren't to be
married, he would not marry you.'
Her face stretched and she wanted to bark at him, 'He
would! I'm sure he would. Oh yes, I'm sure he would,'
but all she could say was, 'Leave it, please. Leave it,'
and she pushed him gently away, and stood, her back
to him, her hands in the sink, until he had gone; then
she continued to wash her hands, in her mind repeating
die words, 'Oh, he would. Yes, he would.'

The next morning, Jinnie's excuse for not going into
Newcastle would have sounded plausible to anyone;
and so it did to Bruce: she hadn't any proper clothes
in which to visit a city: her boots were cobbled, and just
look at her coat and her hat. And they both examined
the coat that she was holding out to them, then down at
her feet, and it was Max who said, 'Right. She's right;'
and Bruce, after a long moment of staring at her, said

quietly, 'I just wanted you to share all I have with both
of you; but as you say, you're right. I can tell you now,
though,' and his voice rose, 'today is the last time you'll
wear that coat, or those boots, because I'll bring back a
rig-out for you. Oh, I can guess your size. I should be
able to--' there was a pause before he ended, 'I've looked
at you long enough.' Then abruptly he turned and went
out, leaving Max to ask her softly, 'You'll be all right?'
'Oh yes, Max, yes. And there's nothing really left to
do. I'll take a chair and sit outside. That'll be a change.'
'Yes, yes; or go down to the pool and paddle your
feet.'
'Yes. Yes, I could do that. That's a good suggestion.
Now get yourself away and' - Jinnie's voice dropped 'enjoy
yourself, and,' she added in a softer tone still, 'see
that Bruce does too. I'm sorry for all that's happened.'
Then Max was bending down to her: 'You'll not think
of leaving any more?' he asked her anxiously.
'No; perhaps not. Perhaps not.'
'Oh, good, good. Then we are back where we wwere,
eh?'
'Nearly.'
'His voice sober now, he repeated, 'Nearly;' then he
too left her.
Picking up her coat from the back of a chair, Jinnie
went into the scullery and hung it on the back of the
door; then she returned to the kitchen to stand by
the table and ask herself what she should do. It was
nine o'clock in the morning. She had been up since six;
she had done the necessary chores. She had finished the
washing yesterday, and because of the heat the clothes
had dried almost as soon as she hung them out. There
was a little ironing to be done, shirts and such but she
told herself she would leave that till the cool of the
evening, because already the day was promising to be

as hot as it had been yesterday. She could wash her
hair. Yes that was an idea. She put her hands up to
the coil on the back of her head where the shorter plait
was twisted into the larger one. She would walk down
to the pool and do it there. In spite of the heat there
should still be enough water running.
She sighed now as she thought how wonderful it
would be if she could wash herself all over; but that
being out of the question she would give herself a wash
down in the cold water from the pump.
The bathing over, she put on a clean shift and only
one cotton petticoat; and then she donned her thin print
dress that had been washed and ironed so many times
the pattern had almost disappeared . . .
She stood in the open doorway, gazing over the open
land already shimmering in the heat, and she realized
that it was the first time she had been left alone since she
arrived here. It was a strange feeling. She missed them.
Oh yes, she missed them both, and this prompted her
to ask herself what she was really going to do about
leaving, only to scorn herself for being a hypocrite:
she had known from the first that if she were to leave
and go into service elsewhere, she would likely never
see Richard again, and that thought was unbearable.
She wished he had got married when it was originally
planned; but the last she had heard was that he was
going to Paris with his sister.
At times she wondered if he knew how she felt about
him, for surely the deep pain in her own heart would
be expressed in her eyes, although she always managed
to smile and be bright when they met. Oh! She flung
herself about. Why was she standing here . . .?
She was disappointed to find that the water in the
pool had sunk much lower than she had thought, but
it was still deep enough to rinse her hair in it.

First, she took off her boots and stockings and, sitting
on the bank, she dangled her feet in the water, experiencing
the delight of the cold water running through
her toes.
Leaning back on her hands, she gazed about her. It
was a wonderful day. She only wished she could feel
happy, really happy.
After a while, she pulled up her feet out of the water
and set about washing her hair. Lying on the bank, as
she always did, she leaned over and swished her hair
back and forward in the water.
Perhaps it was because the towel was over her ears,
as was her hair, that she didn't hear the footsteps, but
when the voice said, 'Don't move,' her body actually
bounced on the grass, then her hands became still on
her head, the towel dangling over her face.
'Just stay like that.' The voice now was coming from
the side; then it was right in front of her and saying, 'Lift
the towel from your face, Jinnie, but keep your hands
there.'
Slowly, she did as the voice requested; and then she
was staring directly at him.
He had a notebook in his hand and he was drawing
swiftly in it. She remained still, feasting her eyes upon
him. He was so good to look at. So clean-looking, and
she could pick up the smell of him from this distance.
Her heart began to ache again. She watched him turn
a page of the notebook, then listened to him say, 'Drop
your head slightly to the left side, my dear.'
Did he know he had called her 'my dear'?
She was perched in an uncomfortable position with
half her wet hair dangling down the side of her face and
her body was stiffening, so that she felt she was going
to topple, and so she did, exclaiming, ' Oh, I'm sorry; I
was getting the cramp in my side.'

'It's all right. It's all right.' And he did a few more
strokes before closing the notebook and putting it in his
pocket.
'I'm sorry if I disturbed you,' he said, 'but I went
up to the farm. There was no-one there. I stabled the horse and I thought there was just the chance you might
be here. Oh, please! don't get up. Don't get up, I'll sit
down.'
As he sat down on the grass beside her, she made a
frantic effort to plait her wet hair, and he remarked on
this, saying, 'It's still wet. Why don't you dry it?'
Then turning to the side, he picked up the dry towel
from the ground, saying, 'Here's a dry one. Look; let
me do it.'
When he knelt behind her and she could feel his
hands gathering up her hair, she felt faint, but the
common-sense voice from deep within her said, Take
a hold of yourself. It is nothing just drying your hair,
'tis nothing. But it was something: Mister Richard was
drying her hair; and it could only happen in this isolated
place. Would he have done it if either Bruce of Max were
here? No; no, of course he wouldn't. Nor would they.
She remained silent; and after a while when he said,
'How's that?' she put her hand round the back and felt
her hair, saying, 'I'll . . . I'll plait it now.'
'No; no, leave it loose; the sun will dry it. It's still
damp.'
He was now sitting by her side and he asked, 'Why
are you down here by yourself? Where are the others?'
'They've gone into Newcastle.'
'Newcastle? Bruce and Max together?'
'Yes; Bruce and Max together.' And she had enough spirit to say, 'Is there anything very strange about that?'
'Yes; yes, there is. I've never known them both be
away from the farm at the same time.'

'Well, apparently things have changed. You won't
know about it yet, but Bruce will tell you. Hal - you
know . . . the brother - he died at sea and' - she paused;
should she tell him about the money that had been put
into the bank? No, no. Instead she said, 'Apparently he
had some wages coming and they told Bruce to collect
them, and now he's gone in to spend them.' She smiled
as she added,' Something new for Bruce, for he never has
anything over to spend on himself or on anyone else.'
'No. No, I know that. And he won't take presents.
But oh, I'm so glad he's had a windfall. I bet he'll
bring something back for you.' He was smiling broadly
at her, his face not a foot away.
She managed to smile back at him and say, 'I shouldn't
be a bit surprised; he's very kind, is Bruce.'
'Yes; yes, he's very kind.' He turned from her now
and, drawing his knees up, he put his arms about them
and joined his hands together.
She looked at the hands: they were long and slender
and beautifully shaped. His trouser legs were hitched up,
showing his socks above the tops of his highly polished
brown boots. The tops of his socks, which appeared to
be made of silk, fell into folds.
She was startled when he said, 'Are you looking at my
big feet and comparing them with your dainty ones?'
For a moment she wanted to draw her feet up under
her dress: dainty feet that had known only the roughest
of stockings, clogs and old boots during their existence.
Suddenly he was by her side, his knees touching hers as
he said, 'Have you been paddling?'
'Yes. Well, dangling my feet in.'
'Then that's what I'll do too, we'll dangle our
feet together,' and before she could protest, he had
unloosened the laces, pulled off his boots and then his
socks and exposed his very white feet. Then taking her

hand, he made as though to pull her to her feet, but
when she resisted he said, 'Why not? Look; no-one
can see us down here; we are as secret as if we were
in fairyland among the pixies. Come on; a chance like
this doesn't happen every day.'
To, it didn't happen every day, and she doubted if it
would ever happen again, so she allowed herself to be
pulled up, and did not resist when he took her hand and
drew her towards the bank; and there he sat down. And
when his feet splashed the water into spray, hers joined
his, and their laughter mingled.

Later, she could not recall how long they sat splashing
their feet like two children; she only knew that when
they moved away from the pool, he insisted on drying
her feet; and during the process they fell into a silence
until, as she went to put on her stockings, he said, 'No;
leave them be. And let's move into the shade over
there; the sun is getting very hot here.' He gathered
up his boots and socks and she carried her boots and
stockings and the towels, and together they walked into
the deep shadow of the copse.
There it was cool and, looking round at the foliage,
he said, 'Isn't it beautiful? It's like Arcadia,' and putting
out his hand, he now gently stroked her cheek,
saying, 'You don't know anything about Arcadia, do
you, Jinnie?' and she answered, 'No; it's a new word
to me.'
'And you like words. Max says you're always learning
new words. What do you get from them, Jinnie?'
She looked down through the cool green light to where
their feet were close together and still, and quietly she
said, 'The difference in people.'
He stared at her for a moment, the expression on
his face puzzled; and then he said, 'Yes. Yes, words

make out the difference in people and separate the
classes. Is that what you mean?'
She wasn't quite sure about the bit of separating
classes, she only knew that how people spoke pointed
to how they lived; and yes, she supposed that did put
them into different classes.
She did not resist him when he caught hold of her
hand and drew himself closer, while murmuring, 'I
doubt if we'll ever sit like this again, Jinnie.'
She was gazing into his eyes and he into hers.
'It's only once in a lifetime one touches on wonder and
the spell of love. You understand what I mean, Jinnie?'
Yes. Yes, she understood what he meant, but for the
life of her she couldn't give him an answer.
'I am to be married very shortly, you know that?'
Still she couldn't answer, but she made the slightest
movement with her head and he went on,' I've been torn
asunder lately with my feelings: I ... I know I must be
married, for everyone's sake, yet I can't get you out of
my mind. I've ... I've always had a feeling for you,
Jinnie; but recently this has grown and at times has
become unbearable when I've seen you and couldn't
touch you, couldn't be near you. I had to joke with your
two guardians, when all the time I just wanted to talk to
you.'
'If you weren't promised in marriage and bound to
marry, would you have married me?'
He was so taken aback by the cool question that he
dropped her hand for a moment and, sitting back on his
knees, stared at her for some seconds before, mumbling,
he said, 'Why .. . why, of course, Jinnie. Yes, yes.' Then
with more emphasis, 'Yes, of course I would.'
She refused to question the icy dart that pierced her
chest during that second of hesitation, his hooded gaze,
and then his mumbling ... he who spoke so perfectly.

But in a low and tender voice, she said, 'That's all I
wanted to know, because I've always loved you, Richard.
Since the very first moment I saw you I think I've loved
you. Yet I've known in my heart it was just like a fairytale,
just like this.' But then spreading out her hand, she
added quickly, 'No, not like this because this is real; my
dreams weren't, and I knew that they never could be. I
... I know you must marry. I've always known it, and
I've accepted it, but I just wondered if you hadn't been
bound to anyone would you have stooped to me.'
'Stooped to you!' He was now gripping both her hands
and pulling her close. 'Jinnie. Jinnie, never say that about
yourself. No-one . . . no-one would ever need to stoop
to you, you're so beautiful, so attractive in all ways:
those dreadful clothes, your ugly boots, all these rough
things that you've always worn every time I've seen you,
couldn't hide your beauty, or cover your appeal, and
wherever I am, whomsoever I'm with, your appeal will
stay with me.'
Her hands went up to his face now and cupped it,
and her lips trembled as she said, 'That's all I wanted
to hear.'
When he drew in a long shuddering breath and put
his arms around her she allowed her body to fall against
his. Then they were lying on their sides.
When their faces were almost touching she felt him
stiffen, and when he said, 'I ... I should go. I must
go,' she kept her arms about him and murmured, 'I
want something of you to remember, and once you're
married you . . . you must never come up here again,
for my sake, even if it means breaking your friendship
with Bruce. Yes, it would be better all round if you did
that.'
'Oh, my dear; you're so wise; yet you're not even
seventeen. You've always been much older man your

years. Oh, if only things could be different. Oh, Jinnie.
Jinnie. Jinnie.'
When his lips fell on hers, they did not make her feel
ecstatically happy, but rather she experienced a feeling
of satisfaction, as if something she had waited for and
dreamed of had at last come to pass . . .

The sun was spangling the shadows when at last he
drew her up from the ground and they held each other,
swaying as if slightly intoxicated, as no doubt they both
were. Her hair had fallen in a tangled mass on one of his
shoulders, her face was rosy, her eyes bright. She brought
her head forward and kissed him on the lips and said,
'Till my very dying day I'll remember this morning.'
'As will I, my dear, my dear, dear one. Oh' - he
was clasping her to him again - 'you're so lovely and
so understanding. That is it, so understanding about
this whole tangled matter. I don't think there's another
young woman in the world of any class who would see
things as you see them.'
There was that stab again to mar the wonder of the
past ecstasy ... a mention of class. It was because of
class that this would perhaps be the only time in their
I lives they would come together.
As his hand stroked her neck yet again she said, 'I
... I must go, really I must. I have chores to see to'
- she had stressed the word chores -- 'and I'm not
sure what time they'll be back.'
'Oh yes; they . . . they--' He relinquished his hold
on her and, sitting down again on the grass, he quickly
pulled on his socks and boots; then turning from her,
he straightened his clothes, dusting down his waistcoat,
then his coat and trousers. She too had donned her
stockings and boots, and when slowly she walked from
the copse and into the harsh sunlight he drew her back

into the shade, saying, 'Don't come with me; I want to
remember you here; always to remember you here.'
He leant forward and once again they embraced, and
now she said, 'Goodbye, Richard;' and after a moment's
pause, he said,' Goodbye, Jinnie, my dear, dear beloved
Jinnie. Goodbye.' Then he turned from her and hurried
towards the narrow road that led to the farm.
She stood watching him until he was out of sight;
then she returned to the copse and lay down on the
ground where they had lain together and where she
had given herself wholeheartedly to him; no reticence,
no shyness until now, as she recalled what had taken
place and wondered if she really was just sixteen. Did
all girls feel as she did at this age? How were you
supposed to feel at sixteen? Surely not as she was feeling
now: like someone full of knowledge, strange knowledge,
for she had to ask herself, how had she known
how to make love with a man?

With the high winds and cold driving rains, summer
seemed but a memory.
Bruce had brought up an extra ton of coal and also
a load of wood so that the two fires could be kept on
day and night. He found pleasure in being able to buy
extra comforts for the house, almost as much, in fact,
as when he bought odd things for Jinnie. But he still
retained the vivid memory of the disappointment he
had experienced the evening he and Max had returned
from Newcastle, parcel-ladened.
He had stood by the table urging Jinnie to unwrap
the packages, only to be dumbfounded, first by her
hesitation, then by her lack of any appreciation as she
unveiled the contents of one parcel after another. And
when, finally she lifted up a pair of soft, black-leather
shoes, and a cry escaped her, he and Max stood in
blank amazement as they watched her fling the shoes
along the table, and after them the lovely pink-velvet
dress and the green-milton cloth coat with matching felt
hat, and all the other bits and pieces of fancy aprons,
cotton dresses, and such, before flinging herself round
to drop into a chair; and the cries that escaped from her
were like those from an animal.
Bruce had taken her by the shoulders and shaken
her, crying, 'Stop it! girl. Stop it! What's come over
you?' But when the sounds became even louder and
more unearthly, Max pushed him roughly aside and



his large hand with no light slap went across her face,
sending her head wagging, causing Bruce to protest,
'My God! man. No; don't do that; you'll break her
neck.'
'Only way, hysthysterical.'
And apparently it was the only way, for her voice
stopped its high wailing and dropped into sobbing. She
then lay back gasping for air, and when Bruce stood
looking down at her, shaking his head and saying, 'Well,
that's the last time we'll surprise her like this,' Max said,
'Under-understandable: never had decent rags in her
life.'
'Yes; yes, that's it,' Bruce agreed, 'yes, I suppose you
are right.'
'We should have thought of that.'
He recalled that she had stayed in bed the following
day, lying like someone sick; and in a way she had
behaved like someone sick ever since.
Later, she had thanked Bruce for the beautiful clothes
and for his kindness to her; but apparently they brought
her no real joy, for there remained that same sadness in
her, and he was pained by the knowledge that he knew
what was causing it.
And now the day had arrived. It was pouring from
the heavens and there was a wedding in Hexham Abbey,
and her pain was at its height.
Neither Max nor Bruce had mentioned the wedding,
nor had they questioned the fact that for months now
Richard hadn't put in an appearance at the farm; but
then it was known he had again been to France and
had returned only a week or so ago. It would seem
that all the preparations for the wedding had been left
to his family, although Lillian's mother had surprisingly
got over her bereavement malaise and was once more
visiting, so Mrs Stevens had informed Bruce.

She was a little busybody, was Mrs Stevens, but then
busybodies had their uses, for he would have known very
little about the goings-on in the villages and thereabouts
if it wasn't for her, because on market days he would
journey either to Allendale or Hexham simply to sell his
goods, returning as quickly as possible. He had never
yet accepted an invitation to go and spend some of his
hard-earned money in any of the bars.
He wondered if Jinnie knew what was to happen
this day. Very likely she did, because she took Mrs
Stevens her eggs, and Mrs Stevens would keep her
there for long periods because she liked her visitor,
who was such a good listener.
Of course, Bruce had been quizzed about his windfall:
poor Hal to go like that and to be buried at sea; but then
one man's misfortune was another's good luck. It was
understood he had picked up Hal's full-pay note, as he
hadn't left the half-pay to anyone. He was a mean fellow,
was Hal, except when paying for his bodily needs.
But Bruce was another mean one, wasn't he? He had
never been known to stand anybody a pint, not even
himself, and market days were a thirsty business.
So the gossip had gone on, and today its main subject
would undoubtedly be the wedding, for anyone who was
anyone in the county would be there.

For the last four nights, after going up to her pallet bed
under the roof, Jinnie had sat for an hour on end rocking
herself. Her periods had always been regular, so after
missing a period, she knew what had happened. She
had managed to hide her morning sickness from both
men, but the period of hiding would soon be over, for the
result of that glorious moment was already in evidence,
and there was a fear on her, not about having a child,
but about the reactions of both Bruce and Max towards

Richard. When Hal had hurt her, Max's reaction had
stopped short of killing him, but she dreaded to think
what he, and Bruce too, might do to Richard. There
was a new pain inside her when she thought of Bruce.
He had been so kind; he was still kind. Each day he
seemed to be more thoughtful of her. He never went
into Hexham but he brought her back some little item
that would add to her pleasure in the house, for he knew
that now she was taking a pride in it. But what she feared
most from him was his scorn.
She knew through Mrs Stevens that today was the
great day; and not before time, she had said, for one
obstacle or another had delayed that marriage. Of
course, Mrs Stevens had put in slyly, it seemed strange
that Bruce had not received an invitation, even if it was
only to the Abbey, because they had been such pals,
hadn't they? Very strange pals, too, because it wasn't
often two different classes met as they had.
Sometimes, Jinnie wondered if she really liked Mrs
Stevens.
She heard the scullery door being opened; then the
clatter of big boots told her that Max was entering the
kitchen. He had to push the door open with his back
for his arms were full of logs, and as he passed her on
his way to the fire at the far end of the room he said,
'It's s-set in again. Did you ever see such weather?
I hope Bruce didn't go very f-far up there the day;
but likely he did because of the f-foot rot. It's only
affected two, but it can spread. That smells nice,' he
added.
'It's just hot pot and dumplings.'
'D-do me,' he said, moving towards the table, where
he watched her mixing some flour and fruit in a bowl,
and he asked, 'What's th-that for?'
'A plum-duff.'

' Oh, plum-duff. I love plum-duff. Plenty of currants
in it, though.'
'Well, there's plenty of currants in this one,' she
said, smiling at him across the table; then she added,
'There's a cup of tea if you'd like it.'
'When d-did I refuse tea, eh?'
She poured him out a mug of tea, and he pulled a chair
out from under the table and sat down. As he sipped it he
watched as she placed the pudding into a cloth and tied
the ends, and quietly he said, 'Don't be sad, Jinnie.'
She blinked her eyes rapidly, pressed her lips together
tightly and slowly shook her head before she said, 'What
makes you think I'm sad?'
'Well, I know you, don't I? I know you better than
you know yourself. Know lots of you . . . about you.'
When she lowered her head and he saw her hands
grip the edge of the table, he rose quickly to his feet
and went round to her side, murmuring, ' Oh, me dear.
Me dear. Don't cry. I know 'tis a special day for some
and a heartbreak d-d-day for others. I know, but l-llook
at me.' He thrust a hand under her chin and brought
her swimming eyes on to his face as he said, 'One day
you'll be happy, very happy. I know. You still a girl, full
of fffancy.'
'No, Max,' she interrupted him; but he put in quickly,
'Y-y-yes, Max; and Max is telling you you've g-g-got to
grow yet, both in your body and your mind. We live and
learn. I learn y-y-years ago over Miss Caplin.'
'Miss Caplin?' Her eyelids blinked now. 'Why Miss
Caplin?'
'Huh!' He tossed his large head to the side and again
he emitted, 'Huh! You think I not capable of falling in l-llove?'
She wanted to laugh: Max and Miss Caplin? Miss
Caplin must be nearly twenty years older than Max.

'When I young boy, all limbs' - he now jerked his
arms and legs - 'g-gangly they call it, she was good
to me. And she was beautiful. M-m-my love for her
was hopeless. She could have been my mmmother,
but she was pretty and kind and I l-l-loved her. I still
do, although in a different way. I said before, you know,
Jinnie, there be all kinds of love. I l-l-love you. Oh
yes, I l-l-love you, but in a different way from that
which I l-l-love Miss Caplin.'
Slowly now she dusted her hands one against the other
over the pastry board; then turning to him, she put her
arms around his neck, and she kissed him on the cheek,
saying softly, 'And I love you too. You have been my
father, as Bruce is my brother.'
'Ho, ho! Oh, yes; I be your father. Could be your
father, yes, yes; but Bruce no brother. Oh no, Bruce
no brother. Get into your head' - he now stabbed his
finger against her brow - 'Bruce is a man, and a good
man, but he is n-n-not your brother.' He turned sharply
from her, saying, 'There he is now,' and made quickly
for the door into the scullery room, while she took up
the pudding from the table and dropped it into the pan
of water boiling on the hob, before pulling it aside to
make room for the kettle; and she was brewing a fresh
cup of tea when Bruce entered the kitchen.
His face was red, as were his hands, which he chaffed
together as he said, 'I don't know when it's going to stop;
it thinks it's winter.'
'You're cold.'
'Frozen. I don't think I have any skin left on my face.'
He rubbed his cheeks, and when he saw her mashing the
tea he said, 'Oh, I'll be glad of three pints of that. Next
time I go up there I'm taking a can with me. It might only
be luke-warm when I get at it, but it'll be something.'
'That's an idea.'

When after a moment he said, 'How d'you feel? How
have you been?' she turned sharply and looked at him
and asked, 'What d'you mean? I'm the same as when you left this morning.'
'Oh, Jinnie' - he dropped his head - 'let's come into the open. You know what day it is as well as I do. Let's face it: it's over and done with, he's married.
The fairy-tale's finished.'
'Oh you! Don't you start on me, please!'
'Oh.' He moved from the fire to go quickly towards
her, saying, 'Oh lass; I didn't want to start on you, I
just want you to feel I'm with you. I know how you
feel because I know how I feel.'
Her head was bent as she muttered, 'Oh, don't. Don't
talk so, not tonight, Bruce, please.'
'All right. All right. Here's your guardian angel coming
back. He'll knock my block off if he thinks I've made you
cry. Come on. Come on. Smile. Please try. We'll both
try, eh?'
But instead of trying she said a strange thing. Looking
him squarely in the face she said, 'You're too good to be
true, Bruce, you know that? You're too good to be true.'
The? too good to be true!'
'Yes. Yes, you. Your consideration hurts me, it does
really.'
At this moment the door opened and Max, ignoring
what he surmised had been going on, said,' Do you know
there's p-p-plum-duff the night?'
'Plum-duff? Oh, I'm partial to plum-duff; but I'm
more partial to three pints of tea first.' And at this, Jinnie
poured out two large mugs of tea and handed them both
to Bruce, managing to smile as she said, 'These are equal
to three pints,' at which Bruce laughed.
At the beginning, she had managed to keep her sickness
from the men; in any case, when it stopped after a

few weeks, it had seemed it might be of short duration;
but during this past month she had, at times, felt sick and
not a little ill. Only this morning she had been up at five
and had managed to get the bout over in the scullery.
This done, she had returned to her bed because, these da;*, she did not rise before six.
It should happen that Bruce slept in this morning and
did not arrive in the kitchen until a quarter past six,
being somewhat surprised not to find the fire glowing
and the porridge on the boil.
When, a few minutes later he was joined by Max, he
remarked, 'She's not up. We've all slept in, I think.'
'Oh, then I l-l-let her lie. I'll s-s-see to the porridge.'
And he laughed gently as he said, 'It would be fffunny
if we took her breakfast up to bed.'
'It would that,' said Bruce. 'And she'd likely die of
shock.'
But some time later, after they had both washed in the
scullery and had their breakfasts, Max said somewhat
anxiously, 'Do you think I'd better look in on her?
She's never slept in for this long.' Bruce replied, 'I
was thinking the same,' only to add in a horrified tone,
'Good God! She wouldn't have done anything silly,
would she?'
Almost as one now, they were in the scullery, there
to be brought to a halt by the sight of her at the head of
the steps, from where she muttered down to them, 'I'm
sorry. I slept in.'
Neither gave her an answer; they were staring at
her clothes: she was wearing a blouse with the bodice
tucked into her skirt, and it was on her waistline that
their eyes were concentrated.
Up till then her body had appeared to them to be
as flat as a pancake; but here now, beneath the tight
waistline, was an evident bulge. It was there one minute

and gone the next, for she had flung her strapped apron
over her head and was rapidly fastening it at the back.
She had completed the process before she came down
the steps and, without looking at them, had walked
past them and into the kitchen.
Neither of them had moved, but their gaze was linked
by a knowledge that they didn't want to believe, made
evident by Max grabbing his coat from the back of the
scullery door and rushing out of the far door and into the
morning, leaving Bruce standing there looking stunned.
Then, as if he too were in a great hurry, he dashed into
the kitchen, snatched his coat and hat from the back of
the door and went out that way as if he were not aware
of her presence.
When Jinnie heard him calling the dog, she dropped
into a chair and wondered how long it would be before
the avalanche hit her . . .

The weather had changed again. Although it was still
very cold, it was a calm autumn morning. The sky was
a clear blue, with no tufted white clouds spun across
it; the grass had stopped its urgent upward striving;
it was as if its growth had slowed down to meet the
stillness; and the only noise from the pigsty was the
slop of the food in the trough.
Bruce had intended to make straight for the hills,
where he might find comfort to ease the turmoil raging
in him. But he realised that he must first talk this thing
out with Max.
Max was seated on a stool in the cowshed, his head
leaning against the side of the cow, his large hands
gently directing the jets of milk into a pail. Only when
he was aware that Bruce was standing beside him did
he turn his head, but he did not speak; instead, he
continued to relieve the cow until he had emptied its

udder. Then with a damp cloth he wiped the udders,
before rising and, moving the stool with the toe of his
boot to one side, he picked up the pail. As he passed
Bruce he said, 'Come into the dairy.'
A few minutes later they were facing each other, and
it "was Max who asked the first question with a single
word, 'Well?'
'I can't believe it. I won't believe it; but it's--' Bruce
swallowed and gulped before ending, 'it's been staring
us in the face for weeks now, her being off colour.'
'Yes, it's been staring us in the ffface.'
Bruce now turned and beat a doubled fist against the
wall and ground out, 'If he was here I would kill him. I
would. I would.'
'Best he's not here, else I would have k-killed him
first. But then, thinking back, he's not all to blame.'
'What do you mean, he's not to blame?'
'Well, n-n-not fully. She was ripe; she was ready.'
Bruce's tone was high now as he exclaimed, 'It must
have been just before he married. We are in October.
He was going to be married, and he takes her. He'd
managed to hold out so long, why not a little longer?'
' Well, maybe, b-b-but she's older than her years. She's
been with animals for long time, so she knew.'
'How can you say that, Max, when you care for her
so much?'
'I can say it, Bruce, because I know her. From seven
years old I know her. And she's warm inside, wants to
give,'
'Wants to give, be damned. Yet, my God! I could go
in there now and punch her silly.' And he flung about
again and punched the wall, spitting out the words:
'In the main, as you know, Max, life is dirty, mucky,
rotten, but here and there you find something shining
on the muck heap, something that somebody's thrown

away. That's how I used to see her, somebody who had
been thrown away. But I saw her as a shining piece
of purity, outspoken, wouldn't be handled.' Suddenly
he snatched off his cap and flung it down the narrow
room saying, 'Wouldn't be handled! She hated being
handled! Look at the night when she first came here
and she went for my father; look what happened with
Hal because she was handled: you were on the point
of murdering Hal for what he had done. No; no, she
wouldn't be handled; she would fight anyone who dared
to handle her in that way; but she won't have left any
mark on him for handling her, I bet!'
Of a sudden, it was as if all the fight, all the blood
had drained from him. He leaned back against the
stone wall, and so white and limp did he appear that
Max went to him quickly and, putting an arm around
his shoulder, drew him from the wall and thrust him
on to the stool. Then he took a scoopful of milk from
the basin standing on the shelf and said to Bruce, 'Drink
that. I know how you f-f-feel. I'm s-s-sick to the heart of
me at this minute.'
Bruce sat staring ahead of him for some time before
he said, 'What are we going to do?'
'Think it will be better to l-l-leave first move to her. It
won't be long. I feel she's back there waiting for us. But l-l-look at it this way: she's going to have a child and it
will be born here ... I hope.'
'Maybe, Max. Oh, just maybe. It's just come to mind
who'll be given the name of fathering her fly-blow; who
else but me? She won't give him away. Now have you
thought about that? Be damned if I'm going to take it.'
'Yes, I have. Everybody will c-c-come to it that it's
you.'
Max leant his back against the marble slab, folded
his arms and stared up to the bare roof that showedthe underside of the tiles, and as if he were asking for
an answer from them he said, 'Well, who else cccould
be named? There's only young Roy.' He now looked
down at Bruce, adding, 'And you can 'magine what Mrs
Stevens w-w-would say to that.' Then shaking his head,
he added as an afterthought, ' 'Tis great pity it wasn't
Roy, because Mrs Stevens w-w-would have had them
into church before they knew wh-wh-what had kicked
them.'
'You know what?' Bruce had got to his feet. 'I've been
a bloody fool: I could have put her in the family way
time and again, the way I was feeling, but this "brother"
business of hers put a check on me more than ten parents
could have done, for she would have looked upon it as
what they call incest; and that, let me tell you, if you're
not already aware of it, goes on all around us all the time.
The church covers up a multitude of sins, and when one hears of men like Isaac Tuftacre going round with the
plate on Sunday, well, I could vomit: he lives with his
sister up on the top, but they've got a lodger as a cover.
But it's public knowledge. So, Max' - his voice dropped
a tone now - 'you can see how I react to the "brother"
bit, can't you? I can understand her looking upon you as
a father, but me as a brother . . . well, truth to tell, that
annoyed me from the first time she mentioned it, 'cos
if there was ever a barrier needed to be erected between
us she did it with that word "brother".' Now his voice
rose again: 'It's kept her safe, safe from me. I can tell
you that. Father of her child indeed!' The last words
were full of bitterness. 'If anybody should be father of
her child it should be me, 'cos before you came, Max,
I looked after her. Before her head became full of him,
time and again I could have taken her.'
'You didn't, Bruce, and I very much doubt if you
would have, she was too y-young in all ways.'

'Yes, yes. Well, she's learnt since, hasn't she? What
are we going to do?' There was a note of appeal in the
words, and Max said, 'As I s-s-said, l-leave it, let her
come into the open, let her be f-f-first to speak of it.'

They had to wait till suppertime. After placing a bowl
of stew in front of each of them, she stood gripping the
back of a chair and, looking from one to the other,
she burst out, 'All right! So you know: I'm going to
have a bairn. And before you say anything else' - her
voice had risen now - 'I'm not sorry. D'you hear?'
She stared from one to the other, holding their gaze,
and she repeated, 'I'm not sorry. I wanted something
of him, and I got it. Don't blame him: I want this
child and I'm going to have it; whether it's here or in
the workhouse, I'm having it. The young girls in the
workhouse who came in like this would take doses of
white mixture every day, line up for it, so as to skite
the child out of them. Well, I don't want to skite it out
of me, and I'm not taking any medicine or any advice
on what to do; I'm having a child, and it's up to you'
- she was addressing Bruce pointedly - 'whether I stay
here or not.'
Both men were slightly astounded, not only by her
manner but at the words she used, such as 'skiting the
child out of her'; these were common words used by the
lowest of the low. She would have heard them often
enough in the workhouse, but she had been out of the
workhouse for some time now. She had left when she
was fourteen, and she was now sixteen, and although
she hadn't listened to any fine talk, there had been no
coarse language to hurt her ears; perhaps a plain 'damn',
or 'bloody' at times, but to stand there yelling at them
about skiting the child out of her! If anything had taken
the wind out of their sails, that had.

Bruce was for walking out. He pushed back his chair,
half rose, but then resumed his seat and said, 'There'll
be questions asked as to who is the father of your child.
Do you intend to name him?'
For a moment she was stumped: she wetted her lips,
her eyelids blinked, then she said, 'No, I don't. And if
anyone did name him I would deny it.'
'Then, who, may I ask, is going to have the honour
of being its father?'
She stared at him, then at Max, whose eyes were hard
on her; then she turned back to Bruce and said, 'They'll
likely name you, but I'll deny that an' all.'
'Then that only leaves Max here.' Bruce stretched out
a palm towards Max, and at this she cried vehemently,
'Don't be nasty, you! Don't be nasty!'
'Don't be nasty, you say, don't be nasty, when I'm
getting the honour of giving you a bairn, because there's
nobody up here in line for your suitor, is there? Are you
going to try to hang it on Roy?'
Her face hardened now, and her voice too, as she
said, 'Don't try to be funny. I have never given Roy
any encouragement, ever . . . ever!'
'Well, that comes back to me then, doesn't it?' Bruce
was yelling at her now. 'And let me tell you, miss, that
I'm not going to take that honour. I haven't earned it,
have I? So if anybody asks me who the father is I'll tell
them to go down to the house and ask for Mr Richard
BaxtonPowell.'
They both watched as her body jerked now and,
leaning for support against the chair, she muttered,
'You wouldn't do that?'
'Oh, but yes, I would, because, don't forget, long
before he became your suitor he was my friend. He
sought my friendship, not I his, and what does he do?
He knows well how I feel about you but he still takes you

like any of the other cheap cows he's been acquainted
with. And that's what you've made yourself into: a cheap
cow. He would never have married you. What I mean to
do, Miss Howlett, is exactly what I've already said; you
once name me, or let my name be mentioned without
contradiction, and I go down to that house and blow
the roof off it with my news that their son will soon be
a father and have a bastard son or daughter!'
She was still gripping the chair, but her body was
rocking slightly as she said, 'You do that, you do that and
I walk out of here and I go back into the workhouse. Oh,
gladly; yes, I go back into the workhouse.' And at that
she turned from them both and went into the scullery.
During all this Max had not said one word, but
had sat there with his head bent.

'I tell you she's pregnant, three months gone, if a day;
in fact, she brazenly owned up to it. I couldn't help but
keep my eyes on the right button of that old coat she
wears. It was just a slight bulge, but I kept saying to
myself, no; no; no; and she saw where my eyes were.
And then as brazen as brass, and as cool as a cucumber
she said, "Yes, Mrs Stevens, I'm going to have a baby."
Just like that. You could have knocked me down with
a feather, I could have fallen to the floor; well, to tell
you the truth I flopped on that chair. There she stood,
that young piece, and butter wouldn't have melted in
her mouth before, would it?'
'Eeh! my!' The farmer pushed his cap further back
on his head. 'Can't believe it. Yet at the same time' his
tone changed - 'what d'you expect? She's been up
there with Bruce all this time, and she's no girl; she's
got a woman's figure on her, and she's only . . . what is
she, sixteen? Well, anyway she was ready for it, I would
say, and he's kept his hands at bay all this time. I've
wondered about it, mind, I have; I've wondered about
it because he seemed to care for her.'
"Tisn't him.'
'What d'you say, woman?'
'I said, 'tisn't him; at least, that's what she says, and
so emphatically that I can't help but believe her. I said
to her, "When's Bruce and you going to be married?"
and in that quiet, sort of different voice of hers, she


said, "I'm not going to be married, Mrs Stevens; and
Bruce isn't the father."'
'Holy cows' udders! She said that?' The farmer's voice
was high. 'Then who is it? 'Tisn't the big fellow. Oh
no; he acts as her father. And he's a good bloke, that.
Who then? . . . No ... oh no!' He put out his hand to
her as if in protest, 'Our Roy?'
She almost sprang from her chair and with a doubled
fist she pushed him in the chest, saying, 'Don't talk so
bloody soft! Our Roy . . . when would he ... I mean
. . . well, she wouldn't go to the barn-dance with him,
she wouldn't go out with him, and he isn't the kind of
fellow to force himself on a lass, now is he? Fancy! you
saying that!'
'Well, woman' - he looked down at his wife - 'tell
me who else there is in this neighbourhood that goes
up there. There's only Mister Richard, and she would
as soon be taken down by him as by God.'
Mrs Stevens again sat down on the chair, her elbows
on the table, her cheek resting on her knuckles, and
looking at her husband, she said, 'I don't care what she
says, it must be Bruce; it's got to be.'
'Aye. Aye, I think with you, it has got to be; but the
question is, why is she denying it?'
They both turned and looked towards the kitchen
door that led into the boot-room. After a slight clatter
the door opened and their son appeared.
'Dad,' he said, 'Maisie is right off colour; she's almost
dry. I think we'd better get Mr Abner to come up to see her.' He looked from one to the other and said,
'What's up? What's the matter?'
'We've had a shock,' Mrs Stevens said; and both she and her husband were immediately amazed when their son said, 'Aye, I suppose you would have, seeing who your visitor was.'
His mother was on her feet now, her two hands close
joined on her ample breasts, and she muttered low in
her throat, 'Oh, our Roy, you didn't . . . you haven't,
have you?'
'No!' The shout Roy gave not only made her jump,
it also jerked the big frame of his father. 'No! I didn't;
and no! I haven't, but I wish to God I had. I wish it had
been me. D'you hear that, both of you? And if I'd had the
chance it would've been, 'cos I've been seeking her for
years . . . well, since she's grown up.'
'How did you know, lad?' His father's voice was
soothing.
'Because, Dad, I put two and two together; she hasn't
been down here for some weeks, has she? and I happened
to glimpse her once when I went up there for
the eggs. Max saw to me. She was in the house and
didn't come out, at least only to the clothes' line to
whip something off it; and I saw her.'
Mrs Stevens sat silently now, gazing at her son. This
was the reason he had been odd of late, hardly opening
his mouth. She had thought he was sickening for
something; but thank God it wasn't him. Oh yes, thank
God, because after all, what was she? A tinker's lass, and they are akin to gypsies. 'And she says it isn't Brace's?'
'Yes; that's what she says.'
'Why? How d'you know, lad?'
Roy looked at his father. 'I talked to her,' he said.
'About her condition?' There was a touch of disbelief
in his father's voice, and he went on, 'Did she bring it
up?'
'No, Dad; I brought it up.'
They both looked at their son as if they were seeing
him for the first time, but they were shocked further,
absolutely shocked, when he said, 'I asked her to marry
me; but she's not going to marry anybody, she said.'


'You what!' His mother's voice was a high squeak,
and Roy's, when he answered her, was quite low and
calm as he said, 'I asked her to marry me, Mam,' and
she could hardly get the words out: 'And where do you
think you would bring her, that piece?'
He looked from his mother to his father, then back
to her, saying, 'Well, if you wouldn't have had us here
there's plenty of jobs we could have got together. She's
used to hard work and so am I: I've been well trained.'
He was nodding towards his father now. 'And I wouldn't
get any lower wages wherever I went, would I, Dad?
because as you said, the farm is going to be mine one
day and that's what I've got to work for, a meagre wage.
Well, there now, you have it.'
'What's gone wrong with you?' His mother's voice had
an appeal in it and it was evident she was almost on the
verge of tears. 'You've changed. Yes, you have.'
'Perhaps, I have, Mam: I've grown; I'm nineteen,
kicking twenty.'
His father now quietly put in a question: 'You mean
to say, lad, that you would take her on? Knowing it
wasn't yours, you'd marry her?'
The boy's answer was as quiet as before: 'Yes, Dad,
I'd do that knowing it wasn't mine.'
'And what d'you think Bruce would have to say about
that?'
'I don't know, Dad, what he'd have to say, but the
only thing I know is that she swears it isn't his.'
'Well, whose is it then? Do you know?'
'No more than you at the moment;' but he could have
said, Yes, Dad; I'm almost sure it's the pampered Mr Richard Baxton-Powell's, he who's never done a day's
work in his life except dabble with a bit of paint, all
because he's supposed to have recurrences of the fever.
Recurrences of bloody laziness is how I see it. I've been

made bloody sick at times with your pandering to the
Baxton-Powells and the Rowlands just because they're
your best customers. I could almost name the day he
gave it to her. You would tell me, as Mam would too,
to keep me mouth shut, and you would remind me again
that they're our best customers.
Roy turned slowly about and went back into the boot
room, and after seating himself on a form and pulling on
his boots again, he sat with his hands dangling between
his knees for a moment, the while saying to himself, Yes,
I could practically name the day when I went up there
and I saw his horse in the stable, and I waited and waited,
but neither she nor he came back. If it's born at the end
of April, that'll put the stamp on it, and there he is roving
the world. Touring they call it, touring. I wonder, while
he's taking his new bride, if he remembers whoring with
a bit of a lass who had likely become fascinated by his
looks and his grand manner . . . Lasses are like that.
When the door banged his mother and father looked
at each other. They hadn't exchanged a word whilst
waiting for him to leave the boot-room; and then Dilly
Stevens looked at her husband while the tears ran down
her face, and she said, 'I feel that we've lost him, and all
through that dirty little trollop.'
Mr Stevens didn't contradict her, but he put his hand
on her shoulder and patted it as he said, 'Things'll work
out; they've got to. But, Dilly, listen to me: if the worst
comes to the worst and she decides to change her mind
and take him, they would have to come here, because
I can't lose him. He's me only son and . . . and I'm
rare fond of him.' There was a break in his voice now
as he added, 'You liked the lass. You once said as much
that you wished you had a daughter like her. Well, she's
slipped up somewhere. You've got to try to get over that,
because whatever happens, we mustn't lose Roy.'

There had arisen on the farm a kind of mutual understanding:
each got on with his own tasks. They would
sit down to meals together, when the two men would
usually discuss the stock: how many gimmers they could
expect to be lambing for the first time come April next;
with luck, a hundred or more, provided the winter was
kind and there was little foot rot or wet mouth. Only
good thing about wet mouth was that it didn't spread
like foot rot, but then, it could kill an animal off quite
easily.
And Jinnie just listened. She was knowledgeable
now about all they were saying; at one time she
had imagined their reference to hogs was to pigs,
whereas it was referring to lambs more than a year
old; and when they were speaking of wethers, it had
nothing to do with the climate.
Max was now asking how many sheep Bruce intended
to take down to the market next week, and he answered,
'Oh, twenty, at the most; we'll keep the bulk for nearer
Christmas when, hopefully, the prices will be higher.'
Max was laughing now as he said, 'I was thinking
about P-P-Peter Locke when we were shearing in June,
remember? He t-t-told me some tales. Funny one about
a farmer over C-C-Corbridge way, who was supposed
to get m-m-mortallious the night before market and
regularly beat up his wife. He only ever drank at market
times, but on market day itself he would stay as sober
as a judge so that he could bring his m-m-money home
intact. Nobody ever saw him drunk on mmmarket
day.'
Bruce laughed and said, 'Yes, I've heard that one
before. And he comes out with funnier ones still.' He looked across the table at Jinnie and said, 'This is
a nice pudding. Is it a new recipe?'
'Not by me; I got it off a piece of old wrapping
paper. Some newspapers have a Ladies' Corner. There's
some more if you would like it.'
'Oh yes, please,' and Bruce handed her his plate on
which she spooned a piece of light sponge covered in
jam; and she said to Max, 'What about you?'
'Now w-w-why bother asking me; one plateful is like
an apple to a horse.'
She smiled as she replenished his plate; then she sat
down to finish her own portion, and with her eyes on
it she addressed herself to Bruce, saying, 'When you're
next in Hexham would you be getting me a cookery
book? There's a little shop there that sells them.'
'Cookery book?' He stopped eating. 'Yes. Yes, of
course. But. . .'he was about to add, But your cooking
satisfies us ... me. I never knew what it was to have
a meal like this until you came on the scene; but that
would have sounded as if he were condoning all she
had done, and his mind was far from condoning the
fact that her belly was swelling daily. And yet he never
consciously looked at it, but kept his eyes on her face,
and to do that was painful enough, for there was a hurt
in him so deep he thought it would be with him for ever.
If he could have put it into plain words he would have
said he felt despised. A woman might have used the word
'spurned' to express the same feeling, and of course he
had been spurned. And yet, on the other hand, she had
never promised him anything, had she, so how could he
feel spurned? In his world, if a man in his position left
a girl in the lurch, it would be said that she had been
chucked. But he had never been close enough to Jinnie
in that way to be thought of as having been chucked.
Yet, as near as he had been, the effect was the same.

It was the following week, and Bruce and Max had
returned from market after a good day of selling.
Here and there Bruce had received some hard looks I
and once or twice a sly smile, but he had ignored them.
He'd had little to say to anyone except when dealing over
the price for his sheep. He had bought the cookery book
Jinnie wanted. It had cost sixpence and the woman had
smiled and said, 'Taking it up as a pastime?' to which he had answered in the same vein, saying, 'Something
like that.'
As they had driven home, sitting side by side on the
high front seat of the cart, he and Max had hardly
exchanged a word until the farm came in sight, when
Bruce had muttered, 'Heard anything?' and to this Max
had answered, 'S-s-same as you, I suppose. He's bbback
but then he was bound to come, since her mother
died.'
They had passed the cottage door and reached the
stables and had drawn the horse and cart to a stop,
before Max spoke again: 'W-w-whatever we decide to
do about him, mind, is going to affect her.'
'He's not getting off with it.' Bruce pulled another
bale towards him, and actually throwing it against the I
barn wall, he growled, 'I'm having it out with him one way or another.'
'One way or t'other,' Max agreed. 'Yes, one way or t'other. Me, I still f-f-feel like throttling him; but)
that would get us nowhere, except perhaps into jjjail. And what we've got to remember now is that with

what's c-c-coming, more than ever n-n-now she'll need
protection, if she's n-n-not going to land b-b-back where
she c-c-came from.'
'Let's sleep on it,' said Bruce. 'But I mean to confront
him, by God! I do that.'

They were to know of Richard's reaction the following
day. Jinnie had been to the barn to take a can
of tea and two mugs for Bruce and Max, who were
busily constructing slatted crates to house a number of
young pullets that were destined for the Hexham weekly
market. Emerging from the barn, she was about to put
her head down against the wind when, in the distance,
she spotted the horse and rider, and knowing that she
would not make the cottage door before he would come
abreast of it, she dashed into the stable, next to the barn,
and there she stood behind the door, pressed against the
wall.
She did not know whether or not he had seen her,
but even if he were to look in the stable he wouldn't
see her behind the door; but he would hear them in
the barn and so would make for there. Dear God.
She had her hands tight to her throat now. He had
promised; he had said he would never come up here
again. Mrs Stevens, in her chatter, had passed on the
rumour that he was intending to reside permanently
in France, where he had a painting studio, and this
had upset his wife's mother and caused her to take to
her bed again, permanently this time, for she had died,
and that must have been what had brought them back.
How long had he been gone?
She turned her face to the rough wall and her fingers
clawed at it as she prayed: Don't let them do anything
to him. Please God, don't let them hurt him.
And when she heard Bruce's voice yell, 'What the hell

do you want here!' she closed her eyes tight and again
she prayed.
Beyond the wall, in the barn, Richard was staring back
at the two men who were glaring at him, and his voice
had a surprised yet disdainful note in it as he said, 'What
do you mean, what the hell do I want here? I could say,
what the hell did I ever want here?'
'Yes, you could that. You could that.'
'What's wrong?' He looked towards Max for enlightenment,
and Max growled, 'You shouldn't be stststanding
there asking me that, because let me tttell
you, the very sight of you m-m-makes my hands itch
to get at you.'
Richard actually took two steps backwards; then, his
head drooping for a moment, he shook it before raising
it sharply again, saying, 'Oh, she told you what
happened then, did she? Well, it takes two to make a
pact, you know, of any kind.'
As Bruce made a quick movement forward, Max
gripped his arm and jerked him back, saying, 'He's
n-n-not worth your spit, Bruce.'
Glaring at his one-time friend, Bruce said, 'No, she didn't tell us of any pact, but her belly has.'
'Her . . . her what? Oh no! Oh no!' They watched
him cover his eyes with his hand, then drawing it slowly
down his face as he murmured, 'Oh! no. Well, after that
I can understand how you both feel. But I assure you it
had not been my intention to take her; it just happened.
And believe me, I did not force her. I know it must sound
foolish, but I never thought of the consequences.'
'No, you didn't; you just had your bit of fun and
then . . .'
'I didn't have my bit of fun, as you call it; and I can
tell you this, she was more ready for it than I was. Oh
yes, yes, she was. As I said, it takes two to make a pact

and I would never have forced myself on her, never;
but to put it bluntly, she was waiting for it, waiting
for me to go ahead. Oh yes, she was. And don't come
that with me, Bruce, because if there's any punching
to do, I can do my share of it.'
When Bruce did not immediately come back at him,
he said, in an airy sort of way, 'Look; she knew what
she was doing because she talked about class. Yes,
she did. She was aware we are poles apart. She was
very sensible, always very sensible. We talked about
my coming marriage. She said she was quite aware of
it but that she . . . well, she was more than fond of me
- and yes, I was of her - and she knew nothing would
ever come of it. Even if I hadn't already been engaged
to be married she was aware that I couldn't have married
her. In fact, if I remember rightly, she asked me if I
would have married her if I wasn't engaged; and well,
what could I say but yes, just to please her? You know
yourself, Bruce, you and I had discussed class and all
the intricacies of it, and you also know that I have
fought it so as to remain your friend, and I might tell
you that that's caused hell in my home many a time.
And you're a man; just imagine the reaction if I had
mentioned her at home, I ask you.'
'You better not ask me anything further,' retorted
Bruce, 'but I'm going to tell you something. It was
always drilled into me that I saved your life once, but I
tell you this now; I'm not going to save your reputation.
I've been named as the father, but I'm not going to pay
for a pleasure that I've never had, so what are you going
to do about it? She's going to have your child. Who's
going to bring it up, see to its education, because you'd
like it to be educated, wouldn't you?'
In the ensuing silence and in the dim light of the
barn, Bruce and Max watched the figure before themblanch and they watched him put his hand out towards
a stanchion as if for support, and when he muttered,
'Don't. . . don't do this to me, Bruce, for what has been
between us, please! I... I will see to it, I mean, maintain
it. I can make private arrangements; but don't, please upset my whole life. I ... I am now happily married.
My wife is young and . . . well, you know, you've seen I
her. Please, I beg of you. I definitely promise you the
child will be well provided for in any way Jinnie wishes.
I'll do anything as long as you don't break up my life
and that of my family. Oh yes, that of my family. As
you know I've depended upon them for everything, but
with the death of my mother-in-law, I no longer need
assistance from my own parents. There is money for
me to use, and I'll use it. I promise you. I will use it
in whatever way Jinnie wishes.'
It was Max who noticed her first; then Bruce; and
only when their heads moved to the side and they stared
towards the barn opening did Richard swing round; and
there he saw Jinnie.
She was wearing her old grey coat and it didn't hide
the bulge beneath her waist, and his eyes were drawn to
it. He stepped sidewards and leaned against the post,
and he bowed his head and was about to say something,
when her voice came at him, so cool and calm it sent a
shiver through them all. What she said was, 'Thank you,
Mr Baxton-Powell; but believe me when I say I have no
intention of accepting support from you for the half hour
of fun we had together on a very hot morning. Things
happen in the heat that one wouldn't dream about in
colder weather. Don't you agree?'
He had straightened up and was staring at her. She
was taller. She was filling out naturally, and she was
different. This wasn't the Jinnie that had brought him
such joy that morning; this could be a woman of the

world of his own class taking the situation in hand,
and this irritated him. He wanted to come back at
her, saying, 'Don't try to play the lady, it doesn't suit
you,' but this wouldn't have been true: she was playing
the lady, and it did suit her. But he didn't like her in
this part. That she could play such a part brought a
sudden fear to him: she had the power to ruin his
life, his marriage. And he had found that he was liking
marriage; likely because he realised that he loved Lillian.
This girl who had been so gentle, so frail in his arms,
so wonderful in loving, he now saw almost as a vixen.
And she was speaking again:
'As for the exposure that you fear,' she was saying,
'Bruce knows how I feel about that, so your fears can
be allayed in that quarter so long as you--' she stopped
and, her head thrusting forward, she ground out, 'keep
out of my sight and never again interfere with me or
mine.' And she repeated, 'Interfere in any way, you
understand?' Then she walked past him to Max and
Bruce, still standing close together and, bowing her
head, she said, 'Tell him to leave.'
Bruce put his hand on her trembling shoulder and,
looking over her head, he said to his one-time friend,
'You heard. And for my part and for your safety, don't
show yourself up here ever again.'
Never before in his life had Richard BaxtonPowell
felt like a whipped terrier. Although he kept his back
straight and his walk firm, he was actually shaking like
a leaf when he mounted his horse; and not until he was
well clear of the farm and downhill in a shaded lane did
he dismount.
Looping the reins of his horse over a branch, he sat
on a fallen tree and dropped his head into his hands:
Just what had made him go up there? Although he had
promised her he would never again do so, he really

I

had expected her to be pleased to see him. Had he
imagined he'd be able to take her on the side once
more? Yes, he had, because he could not dismiss the
fascination she'd had for him. But it wasn't to be classed
in the same light as the love he now knew he had for
Lillian. He had also lost his friend and there was a
deep sadness in him about that, for he had nothing
in common with any men of his age or older that he
knew, not in this country, anyway.
He rose from the log, took the reins from the branch,
mounted and told himself grimly that he could not
under any circumstances settle here now.

They had gone into the house, she walking between
them with her head down and her lips trembling but
her eyes dry. She had heard every word that had been
said. First of all, she had feared for his safety at their
hands, but then, after he had spoken his thoughts of
how he must have always considered her, as someone
very far below him, even below the servant class in his
own home, as a silly girl mostly wearing a coarse apron
and clogs or boots and an old grey coat, she was not only
surprised and hurt to the core, but also furiously angry.
But surmounting all was a feeling of humiliation.
Sitting at the table, her head bowed, there reverberated
through her mind the word 'Arcadia', and
it brought back the memory of his love-making, at a
time when he had seemed like a prince and had made
her feel that she was indeed a princess. She could not
believe that the man she had just heard speaking could
be one and the same as the ardent lover of that morning
. . . that morning, that time he had said was so beautiful
it could not possibly happen again.
But now, both hate and love had emptied themselves
from her. She was feeling utterly degraded and dirty.

Oh yes, dirty; and she said it aloud, shaking her head
from side to side, 'I feel dirty, dirty, dirty.'
'Don't talk like that.' Bruce put his hand on her
shoulder. 'You made a mistake in thinking he was
someone he wasn't: a young god, because of his
look and his voice. I, too, in a way loved him for
his looks and voice, but as Max said, he isn't worth
a spit. You have lost what you thought was love and I
have lost a long-time friend.'
She now raised her head and looked up at him and,
her voice breaking, she said, 'I'm . . . I'm sorry, Bruce.
I'm sorry for everything. Oh yes, I am. I've been stupid.
I am stupid, and ignorant. I only know I've got what
I deserved and that I'll have to carry the shame to the
grave, as do all those who go my way through ignorance
and stupidity and silly dreams.'
'You'll carry nothing to the grave, girl; you have both
of us. Your child will be born here and you'll have
everything that money can buy. We're no longer short.
And there'll be still more if I am to go by the letter I
received last week from Mr Claire. As you know I have
to go into Newcastle on Wednesday. And so your baby
will be born in comfort, and we'll be a family.'
'That we will,' agreed Max. 'Indeed we will. Bbbut
now you go up and put your head down for a while;
have a little rest.'
At this she rose quickly from the chair, and stood for
a moment taking in a deep breath before she said, 'No.
No; I'll do some baking. That's the best thing.' Then
turning to Bruce, she smiled weakly as she said, 'I'll try
some of those recipes in that book.'
'Aye. Yes, do that. That will be nice.'
Bruce turned and made for the door now, beckoning
Max to follow him; and when they were outside he said,
'She must have heard every word to go on the way she

did, but I'd say it's brought her to her senses. What do you think?'
'As you s-s-say, yes. There wasn't much lost l-llove in all she said to him, but more like pain. Aye, yes, pain. You know something, Bruce?'
'No.'
'She should have a bed, proper bed when the child
c-c-comes. She needs a bed.'
'But where are we going to put a bed? She won't have
it in that room, now she's got it so nicely titivated.'
'Well, you c-c-can't see her bringing a child into the
world under that r-r-roof, can you?'
Bruce said nothing for a time, but then asked, 'What's
brewing in that mind of yours?'
'Another room built on to back towards the pathway,
and a n-n-nice big window. Proper built this time, with
fireplace.'
'Well, we didn't make a bad job of the other one, did
we?'
'Rough walls plastered,' Max went on.
Bruce nodded and said, 'Yes, she will need a bed.
Good idea. That's what we'll do. But I think we'd
better have a little help, at least for the plastering, roof
and windows.'
Max stopped and, a bright smile lighting up his face,
he said, 'Wood floor and c-c-carpet on, and proper
furniture, and l-l-looking glass,' and he went into a
grotesque pose of admiring himself, at which they both
burst out laughing.
The laughter came to Jinnie in the kitchen as she
prepared for the baking session. Her hands became
still on the table, and when her head began to droop
she knew she was about to cry, until she heard a stern
voice within her saying, 'No more of it,' and as her handsbecame busy once again she had the strange feeling that
time had slipped back and that she was the girl she had
been during that first year in this cottage, full of gratitude
to the nice man called Bruce; and being that girl, she
could now face Miss Caplin.

Jinnie was seven months pregnant and feeling very well.
She couldn't describe herself as happy but content, yes.
Everything in the house was running smoothly. At night
she was sleeping in a bed on a flock mattress and in
between sheets and two pillows, their ticks covered with
cases of white linen. The hap on the bed was made of
a primrose print, but what was more astounding, she
could step out on to a blue carpet that almost covered
the entire floor. In the scullery there was a large tin
bath hanging on the wall and on a side bench was an
innovation, a real godsend; a wringer with two narrow
rollers. It wasn't very wide but it pressed out most of
the water from the wet clothes.
Life was good, except on those nights when sleep
evaded her and the feeling of being degraded and worthless
drove her mind into the depths.
Outside, too, the farm was prospering for not only
did they now have two cows but twice the number of
pigs and chickens, which had meant the building of
new sties and runs. And what was more, Bruce wore
a new tweed suit when he attended the main markets.
This alone would have caused comment in the valley;
but the building of another room for, as some referred
to her, that young slut up there, and it being furnished
with a van-load of new pieces had caused the tongues
to wag unceasing about the size of Hal Shaleman's back
pay. There was something fishy there, if you asked them.It was very evident who had fathered that one's bairn,
but why wasn't he marrying her?
At the same time, the nearby countryside was murmuring
words of sympathy to Richard's young bride,
who had lost her baby and was still very ill, having
under-gone an operation when she miscarried, the result
of which was she would never bear another child. Such
a tragedy, for they had been so happy. And why did it
have to happen to the likes of her when that tinker's girl
up there, her belly sticking out a mile, so it was said, was
as healthy as only those of her tribe could be. What had
happened lately to that young bride was surely enough
to drive her out of her mind.

And so thought May Baxton-Powell. She said so to her
brother: 'Something will have to be done with her,
Richard. I think Father should get another man in to
see to her, a specialist from Newcastle, because there
must be other women who react in the same way after
what she has gone through.'
He remained silent where he sat at the other side of the
breakfast table. His parents had left the breakfast-room,
his father to his study, his mother to her room at the
far end of the house, and for which she was thankful,
for she was weary with trying to pacify the girl, as she
now thought of her daughter-in-law. It had been a great
sorrow for them all when Lillian had lost the child,
and she had told her that they were all suffering, but
that one must face the trials that God put on one's
shoulders, and that if you prayed fervently to Him, He
always gave you the strength to bear whatever burden
you were carrying.
She had been very disappointed at the way her
daughter-in-law had reacted to this tragedy: she would
not listen to reason; all one could get out of her was that

she wanted her baby. It was really a stupid way to go on, when she had been made fully aware that she could
neither have her baby nor have another. She herself had
explained all this to her and what had been the response?
Oh, hysteria, dreadful hysteria, so much so that she did
not go and visit her for a number of days, but left her to
the nurses. The stupidity of it was that the girl seemed
to be blaming her for her loss. Even now the only one
she would put up with for any time was May. May
seemed to have a calming effect on her. Well, she was
glad somebody did because she was becoming tired of
the whole business. It seemed to her that the girl was
really losing her mind, yet Dr Beattie spoke of it as a
natural reaction, assuring them she would come out of
it, and telling them he had suggested adopting . . .
In the dining-room May was saying, 'How do you feel
about adoption?'
The adoption idea had been sprung upon Richard
yesterday, and his first thought had been: Oh no, he
couldn't see himself playing father to somebody else's
brat. No; what he wanted to do was get her away out
of the Bible-chanting, sanctimonious atmosphere and
to the open free-living air of Paris, or anywhere else,
for that matter.
It was as he had lain awake in the early hours of this
morning that an idea had come to him. But straightaway
he had pooh-poohed it as an impossibility, because it
would entail the disclosure of his escapade, and he could
just imagine his parents' reaction to that. But now it
was being revived by May's bringing up the matter of
adoption again.
And when she repeated, 'I said how do you feel about
adoption?' he looked across at her and said, 'I've been
thinking about it a lot, May, and it could be the answer.
Yet there are others to be considered.' He now rose

quickly from his chair and walked across the room to
the serving hatch, and pulled the door back quickly as if
aiming to surprise someone standing on the other side.
Although the hatch did not open directly into the
kitchen, there was a passage and opposite was the kitchen
door.
There was no-one standing beyond the hatch,
although Eliza Fenwick, the second housemaid was
coming through the doorway from the kitchen and
she said hastily, 'Were you wantin' somethin', Mister
Richard?' and he replied tartly, 'No. No, nothing,'
and with that, he closed the hatch none too gently
before going back to the table to stand near May's
chair and say, 'There is a way out. I have something
to tell you. If I ... we go the right way about
it I can adopt my own child.'
May had twisted around on the seat of the chair and
she now stared up at him. Then with the flat of her hand
she pushed him further away so that she could rise to her
feet, and what she said now was, 'You could adopt your
own child!'
'Sh! Sh! No need to shout it out.'
'Well, I ask you, Richard.' Her voice was low now.
'You spring a thing like that on me; your own child.
Who is . . .? Where is your own child?'
He drew in a long breath and said, 'It isn't born yet;
she must be seven months' pregnant.'
'Who, in the name of God! is seven months'
pregnant?'
'Sh! woman. I've told you, keep your voice down.
These walls have ears and you don't want to bring them
down about my head, do you?'
'Well, Richard, all I can say is, the house'll come
down about your head if what you're saying is true: that
someone's seven months' pregnant and she's carrying

your child. Who is it?' She paused. 'Oh, my God!' She
put a hand over her mouth. 'Not . . . not that girl
up there, not that gypsy piece?'
'She's not a gypsy piece; but that's beside the point;
it was a moment of madness.'
'A moment of madness,' she repeated. 'I can see now
what drew you up those hills ... that little slut. And after
promising Mother and Father to be more circumspect!'
He sighed deeply and said, 'I'm listening to a woman's
point of view, I know. Well, be she gypsy or whatever,
at least to me she was a very beautiful and attractive
girl; and don't forget that my wedding had been
postponed again, so what with one thing or another
I was frustrated.'
Her voice was loud again as she said, 'You were
frustrated! We all get frustrated. I am frustrated, but
I don't go and give myself to some farm labourer as
you stooped to the lowest possible grade of girl . . .
woman. She wasn't even a decent servant!' 'Will you, for God's sake, May, keep your voice down!'
'Well, if you wish me to keep my voice down, you

I should've taken me out into the wilds to make this
shocking revelation, because I cannot believe it; and
if she's seven months' gone this must have happened just a month or so before you were married.'
'Yes. Yes, May, it did; and it was the outcome of...
as I said, frustration.'
Of a sudden she sat down again and, placing her hands
flat on the table, she looked at him; and more to herself
than to him she said, 'The things that happen in this
house, and are likely to go on happening if you carry
out your plan. Now what do you propose to do?'
'She'll be having my child, and as its father I'll have a
claim to it. I'll go up there and put it to her ... to them,
because the other two up there are acting like her jailers.'

*

'And
if you get it, do you think Lillian will accept
it?'
'Yes, after I've explained it to her, I'm sure she will.
At the moment she wants a child, any child.'
'Well, you've got that cut and dried in your mind, but
from a woman's point of view, I think you'll be in for
a rough time. But then, myself, I'm not so concerned
about Lillian's reaction - wives have to obey - but have
you thought about the parents? This will break them.
The Church and respectability is their lifeline.'
He walked towards the fireplace, shaking his head and
saying, 'Don't I know it! Respectability and the Church.
I have to ask myself, what have I done to deserve all
this?'
She was on her feet again and, moving towards him
she hissed,' Oh, don't you come that, Richard BaxtonPowell.
You sound just like Father. You know what
you've done to deserve all this. It's all of your own
making, because nobody was so well looked after and
pampered, and given so many chances, as were you.
As I've said before, and I'll say again, you've never
earned a penny in your life. You haven't even sold a
picture to provide for your paints. Everything has come
from Father.' Her voice dropping now, she went on, 'At times he is not all I would desire as a parent, but
he has stood by you and supported you. I tell you one
thing, whatever happens up there in those hills must
be kept absolutely secret, because were it to leak out
it would kill them both. They couldn't live under that
disgrace, that slut and you, their son.'
'Well, May' - his voice was flat now - 'when they do
know, I don't think they could take a stronger attitude
than you're taking now towards me. I want support at
this time, not criticism, and nobody knows better than
I do just what I owe them. But let me tell you, I've had

I

to pay for what I owe them by being this dutiful son.
That's on the surface, because underneath I don't feel
anything like dutiful. And one more thing, and it is true,
I am more suited to the life in Paris than I have been
here, or ever will be, married or not, and if I get my
way, and I will, Lillian is going back with me as soon
as possible, once this other business is settled.'
'Settled, you say?' Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows
arched. 'Do you think they're going to welcome your
bastard child, no matter what, or how you will persuade
Lillian to accept it? They'll both die if they know you've
had anything to do with it. Adoption, yes, all right; but
you must not let them know it is yours. Do you realise
that?'
'Yes. Yes, perhaps. I had thought to clear the air
and tell them everything. But you're right: it will be
better to put it over merely as an adoption to pacify
Lillian.' His face suddenly brightened. 'It could be the
same with her: I needn't tell her the facts, need I?' He
closed his eyes and took in a deep breath and said,
'Thank God.' Then he touched her face gently, saying,
'What would I do without you, May? You've always
straightened things out for me.'
Her colour rose; and then she said softly, 'Oh,
Richard. Richard. I care for you. I've only ever had
you to worry about ... or love.'


7

Jinnie had received the letter yesterday morning. Peter
Locke had picked it up from the postman and delivered
it to her at the door, and she had disappointed him by
not opening it on the spot. Only once before had she
seen her name written on an envelope, and this one
plainly read 'Miss J. Howlett', with the address of the
farm underneath.
After reading it she had called Bruce and Max into the
kitchen and to them she said, 'I've received this letter
from him.' There was no need to explain who 'him' was.
'He wants to come and see me on some special business.
He has named the day as tomorrow at eleven o'clock in
the morning. He says he wishes it to be private; but I'll
see him only if both of you are present.'
'What d'you think he might want?'
None of them had any idea at that moment, but
during the hours that followed their minds jumped from
one thing to another, all seemingly impossible.
During the past week a number of events had
occurred, all portending good. The main one had
taken place yesterday when, for the last time, Bruce
had been summoned to the solicitors' office. On his
previous visit, weeks earlier, the suggestion was put to
him that they sell the pieces of jewellery separately, that
they had a London client interested in the bracelet, and
that he had offered a realistic price. To this he had said,
'Yes, go ahead. Do what you think is best.' And yesterday

he had again sat at one side of the desk and looked from
Mr Claire to Mr Fowler, who actually had his head up
and a satisfied smile on his face as he said, 'It was proved
once again in our business that it is never wise to rush
things, because if you do you are likely to rush past the
doors that fate and opportunity open for you.'
Mr Claire had nodded his agreement and, addressing
Bruce, he had said, 'The rings and the necklace were also disposed of separately.' Then, tapping the butt end
of his pen on a sheet of paper covered in figures, and his
voice assuming its business-like tone, he said, 'You will
be aware that because of the nature of these deals, there
was a good deal of toing and froing in person, including
two journeys to London made by Mr Fowler.'
He now lifted his head and, looking directly at Bruce,
he said quietly, 'It is wiser to do this kind of business
in person than through statements on paper. And so,
although our expenses have been high, they do reflect
how we managed to obtain realistic prices. I am sure,
when you know the result, you will be as happy with it
as we are.'
Mr Claire now lifted up the paper from his desk. 'I will
put it like this,' he said, giving a tight little smile: 'Your
share in the proceedings amounts to seven hundred and
sixty-five pounds, ten shillings.'
When he stressed the ten shillings, Bruce had the
strongest desire to burst out laughing. And when his
eyes filled with water, he didn't know whether or not
its cause was through laughter or tears.
Both men were now regarding Bruce with expressions
most kindly, and it was Mr Fowler who uttered the one
word: 'Satisfied?'
'Oh, sir, I don't know what to say, except that I
am so grateful. This will set me up for life. I shall
be able to build up a decent farm: get a good herd


and buildings. Quite candidly, I cannot believe it has
happened to me, and especially through my brother.
And I must confess that, at times, my conscience has
pricked me when I wondered just how he came across
all that money and the jewels. In the ordinary way, he
would have had to gamble a lot.'
'Oh--' Mr Fowler was again flapping his hand 'don't
let that worry you for a moment; it happens
all the time. We've been in business a long time, and
we know it's better not to ask too many questions,
because rarely do you get a truthful answer. But your
case has been quite an exception.' He looked towards his
partner, who, in turn, nodded vigorously in agreement,
before turning to Bruce and saying, 'You had nothing
to hide, and that was unusual.'
Bruce's last memory of this event was of himself
shaking, first, Mr Fowler's hand, and then Mr Claire's,
and when he went to repeat the process, they both led
him to the outer door, laughing as they ushered him
out.
Yesterday had been a wonderful day, but what would
today hold? they wondered.
So here they were seated in the long room and awaiting
Richard's arrival.
Max was tidily dressed and Bruce looked more than
tidy, as he was wearing his tweed suit and a collar and
tie. Not, on this occasion, the string tie that he wore
with his field clothes, but a proper one that went under
the collar.
Jinnie wore a flowered print dress, which was waistless
and hung, slack, down to the top of her house shoes
made of soft leather. She was carrying the child high
under her breasts, but the bulge did not seem to detract
from her height: she appeared even taller than usual. Her
hair was arranged up on the top of her head in a soft coil,
rather than the usual plait. At this moment she appeared
like a woman in her twenties, for there was a maturity
about her, suggested not only by the bulk of her body
but more so by the expression on her face and by her
carriage.
As Bruce looked at her admiringly he wished that he
had kept some of the jewellery so that she could have
worn the bangle or the necklace just to show him.
He glanced at the clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece.
Ten minutes to eleven. He leant forward and,
lifting a log from the wicker basket to the side of the
fireplace, he threw it to the back of the blazing fire,
sending wings of sparks up the broad chimney. It was
as he straightened up that Max said quietly, 'There he
is outside. W-w-will I go and take the horse?'
'No; no, sit where you are; let him tether it himself,
he might need to leave quickly.' He had glanced at
Jinnie as he said this, but she made no response. And
when she was about to rise, he said, 'Sit where you
are, I'll open the door to him.' .
When the rap came Bruce remained seated until it was
repeated; then he got up, walked slowly down the room,
opened the door and stared at his one-time friend, who
said stiffly, 'I have called to speak with Miss Howlett.'
'Yes, I'm aware of that. Come in.'
On entering the room, Richard looked to where Jinnie
was sitting in a straight-backed chair and, seeing Max
standing to her side, he addressed him pointedly: 'This
was to be a private meeting between . . . well, Jinnie and
me.'
Jinnie pulled herself round in the chair now, saying
stiffly, 'Whatever you have to say to me can be said in
front of my family.'
He now walked smartly up the room towards her,
and confronting her, he said, 'This matter I wish todiscuss has nothing to do with your so-called family;
it concerns only you and me.'
'That is the way you may see it, Mr BaxtonPowell,
but as I see it, anything you may wish to say to me
must be said in front of them.'
He now turned and looked at Bruce, then from Bruce
to the big fellow. It would be impossible, he told himself,
to bring up the matter before them, and he voiced this:
'I can't discuss anything in front of them; it rests solely
between us.'
Her voice changed as she cried now, 'Nothing rests
solely between us. Get that into your head, Mr BaxtonPowell.
Nothing, nothing.'
Her tone, her manner, the whole set-up angered him,
and raising his voice, he cried, 'You are carrying my
child! That concerns me. It is my child and I have some
say in the matter, a great deal of say in the matter. I wish
to give it a name and I can only do this if I adopt it.'
Following this statement, there was a dead silence in
the room, although the exchange of glances between
Bruce, Max and Jinnie spoke volumes for their feelings.
But it was Richard who spoke again, saying, 'You look
surprised, but it is only right that I should do something
in this matter; take on the responsibility.'
He was about to go on when he was interrupted by a
laugh. It was a high, weird sound issuing from Jinnie's
lips and the bulge of her body shook with it, and what
she said, and to Bruce, was, 'The subtlety of it. That's
the word, isn't it? It's a big word that, subtlety, isn't
it, Bruce? Well, you've just heard somebody murdering
that word: his wife's had a miscarriage and, as common
gossip has it, she will not be able to bear another child;
so I ask you, what does would-be papa do? He recalls a
morning he had a bit of a romp with the slut up the hill;
and she's carrying fine. And all he has to do is to tellher he is willing to relieve her of it.' And she returned her attention to Richard and in a mocking tone she
said, 'Oh! Mr Baxton-Powell. Do you know what I'd do before I'd let you have my child? I'd drown it, and
take the consequences!' And so vehement was her tone
that it prompted Richard to come back to her with, 'I can
take the matter to law and I shall do. You are carrying
my child and I intend to lay claim to it whether you like *
it or not.' He now leaned towards her and emphasised
'Do you hear me? I want that child, my child, and I'm determined to have it by fair means or foul, and a court
will surely judge which house is preferable for the raising
of my son ... or daughter. And get it into your head:
neither you nor anyone else will stop me.'
So much in earnest was he that the three of them
suddenly realised that the law was always on the side
of the gentry. What chance would she have of standing
up against him in court? She had, after all, given herself
freely to him.
He was saying, 'Now, there you have it. I'll give you
a week to think it over before I take pro--' He hadn't
finished saying the word before he felt himself being
lifted bodily by an arm under his chin and then thrust
against the wall, and hearing Jinnie crying, 'No! No!
Max. Don't!'
When Bruce sprang forward, he was swiped viciously
aside by Max's boot, and Max, his face almost touching
Richard's, growled into it, 'l-l-listen carefully. I
c-c-could k-k-kill you this minute. But I'll l-l-leave it;
but sh-sh-should you t-t-take any steps to c-c-carry out
your threat, I will d-d-do for you.'
Richard's face had blanched as he listened to the voice
stammering at him. He realised the man meant what
he said. He was almost choking now and instinctive
reaction made him thrust his knee into Max's groin,

causing the big man to stagger back, one hand holding
himself; but the other, doubled into a fist, now
went straight into Richard's face, and Jinnie screamed,
'Enough! Enough! Stop it! Max. Please. Please, for me,
stop it!'
Max swung round and leaned over the back of the
high winged chair, the sweat running down his face.
Bruce now limped down the room and opened the door,
crying, 'You'd better get going while the going's good.'
But Jinnie's voice broke in, crying, 'Not for a minute,
Bruce; I have something more to say.'
She was looking directly at Richard now, who was
standing holding his face, and she said, 'You'd better
know now before you take court proceedings, that it
isn't your child I am carrying, Mr Baxton-Powell,' and
the words were calmly spoken. 'You see, if I remember
correctly, at that time you seemed to find me well
practised, aware that I made everything so easy for
you - no crying or hysterics. It's a wonder you didn't
twig.' And noticing the expression on his half-covered
face, she added, 'You weren't the first, as you ought to
have realised.'
There was a smothered gasp from Max and Bruce as
they stared at her, although neither made any comment,
for Richard was saying, 'I don't believe it, not a word of
it. I was the first with you, and I know it.'
'You might think so. But there are many ways to
deceive a man. I was never really the sweet, ignorant
little girl you took me for. Anyway, there it is.'
'I still don't believe you.'
Now her voice rose and she said, 'Doesn't matter, but
I'll swear every word of it in court, and as we're being
married shortly.' she now turned and glanced at Bruce
before looking back to Richard and continuing, 'so that
his child can have a name, you carry out your threat

and take it to court and, I tell you, as I'm standing
here looking at you and despising you for the weak
creature you are, I will stand up in that court and
describe the details of the events, believe me I will
just as they occurred on both occasions: I was taken
by surprise in the first place with Bruce here, who had
held back for so long, but I wasn't with you. Oh no, I
meant to taste you, and I did.'
As if of one accord the three men cast their gaze
downwards. Not one of them could believe he was
listening to the Jinnie he thought he knew. This girl
who was speaking did indeed sound like a town slut. Had
they not known her since she came into this house a waif
and expressing moral indignation at being handled?
They could have no idea of the turmoil that was
raging inside her at this moment, and when the man
she had loved, even adored, stared back at her with
curled lip and said, 'I am the simple one. I see that
now. And you are as you have been depicted for a
long time: just a tinker's girl. You know now what
I hope? I hope that you are speaking the truth and
that you are carrying no part of me inside you, for I
wouldn't want my breeding tinged with the creature I
see before me now. Yes, indeed, I've been the foolish
and blind one.' And with this, he bent and picked up
his soft riding hat from where it had fallen to the floor.
When he made his way towards the door, Bruce did
not bar his way, nor was a glance exchanged between
them.
The only sound in the room was the hissing and
cracking of the logs on the fire; but Max was staring at Bruce and when he did speak he said the same word
twice, though as a question, 'No? No?' and Bruce almost
screamed back at him, 'No! No! You shouldn't have to
be told that. She's lying.' Then rounding on Jinnie, he

said, 'Why did you have to come out with that? And in
that fashion.'
'For the simple reason I know him better than you,
despite all your years of friendship,' she cried, her voice
bitter now.' He's desperate. His wife will never be able to
give him a child, so I was his last chance. And whatever
happened, he would have continued to think of it as his,
as his own. Yes, Bruce, surprisingly, I know him better
than you do. And in court, you know, everyone would
have been on his side: there would be his poor wife who
could not bear any more children, which would have
brought him added support. In fact, everyone would
have been on his side. I was the slut up in the hills and
a product of the workhouse.'
When Bruce dropped into the armchair, she said
to him, 'You needn't worry on one score: we'll hear
no more from him. On the second, I don't think you
need to let that worry you either.'
He passed no remark on this cryptic comment, but,
bending down, pulled up his trouser leg and turned
back the top of his stocking to reveal blood oozing
from a number of grazes on his shin, then looked at
Max, saying, 'You never do things by halves, do you?'
'Don't roll the black stocking back on that,' Jinnie
said; 'it could be poisoned,' and to Max she said, 'Bring
a dish of water, will you, and a soap and flannel.'
Without uttering a word, Max shambled down the
room and into the scullery. On this, Jinnie dropped to her
knees in front of Bruce and pushed his trouser leg further
over his knee, saying, 'Keep it clear of the scratches.'
Then, without pausing, she added, 'You never thought
I had it in me, did you? Well, you're not the only one, I
never thought I had it in me either. I think it must have
come from my tinker's breeding, as he said, don't you?'
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. 'Anyway,

I'm glad that I've got that in me, because it's help
me to ask if you will marry me, Bruce.
*
His injured leg jerked so quickly it almost hit he
bulge, and he had to put out a hand to stop her from
tumbling backwards.
' Oh! Jinnie. Jinnie.' He was on his feet now, his trouser
leg dropping to his ankle again. 'You really mean that
don't you?'
'I really mean it.'
He drew his head back from her face now, saying,
'What about the brother bit?'
'Oh, I lost him some time ago.'
'You did?'
'Yes, Bruce; yes, I did. I wouldn't have been able
to come out into the open and say what I've just said
before this morning's events, for, at the time, I felt I was
fighting for my life and for the life within me, and for the
life lived with you and Max in this house. It seemed to
me that these were all at stake.'
His arms were about her now and he said, 'Well, thank
God for this morning,' and bending forward he gently
put his lips on hers, just gently. She did not return the
kiss but her gaze was soft on him.
When Max came back into the room, carrying the
dish, Bruce greeted him loudly with, 'You know what
the latest is? She's asked me to marry her.'
Max stopped, and the water jerked in the dish. Then, a
wide smile lightening his face, he said, 'All by herself?'
'All by herself, Max, all by herself; but I don't know
whether or not I'll go through with it.'
At this Max put the dish on the rug and said, 'No.
You're r-r-right. It needs ccconsideration.'

Where did the rumour start? With Eliza Fenwick? or
peter Locke?
During the course of enjoying some gossip, Peter had
told Mrs Stevens that he had met young Mister Richard
coming away from the farm up there. He was on his
horse, but it was evident that he had been in a fight,
for his face was scarlet and one eye was half-closed. He
had passed him as if he weren't there. And he had said
to Mrs Stevens, 'Now I ask you, why should anybody up
there want to give him a black eye? And there's a funny
tale going round; though of course you shouldn't believe
all you hear. But it comes from the horse's mouth, so to
speak: Eliza Fenwick. Second housemaid, she is, at the
Baxton-Powells. Well, she is supposed to have told the
cook what she heard in the dining-room through the let bits
and pieces of it - but you know what these lasses are.
Cook warned her to keep her mouth shut but, you know,
the cook is cousin to Mary Fitzsimmons up in The Hall,
so you needn't ask how Mary Fitzsimmons got to know
about that, and then the family rumpus that took place
some time later in the drawing-room. But it's not up to
me to repeat what's being said. It'll come to light soon
enough.' And at that, the tantalising man had walked out of Mrs Stevens's kitchen.

Jinnie's child was born on the first day of May 1873,
less than three months before her seventeenth birthday.
Mrs Stevens weighed it on the kitchen scales and found
it to be seven pounds ten ounces which, she said, was
quite big for a girl, and she called up the room to Peg
Carter, the midwife from Allendale, 'Not bad, seven
pounds ten ounces, and it a girl.'
'That's the second time you've given me her weight.
Are there twins, and I missed one?'
The large-breasted midwife laughed down on Jinnie
and she, although weary from intermittent straining over
the past ten hours, smiled back at her, saying, 'One was
enough.'
'Yes, me dear. Yes, me dear; one's enough for anybody.
Now, just rest there. I'll have you all fixed up
in two shakes of a lamb's tail, and then I'll let them in. As I said to them a minute back, they're nearly
as interested in you and it as they would be in a pig
with a good litter. Now you just drop off and have a
nap.'
'I don't feel sleepy, Mrs Carter; not that way sleepy,
if you know what I mean.'
'Yes, I know what you mean, so let's get you all
right for the presentation. Blow your nose, and I'll
see there's no cabbage between your teeth. Have
you ever noticed, me dear, that people always leave

cabbage between their teeth? You can always tell what
vegetable they've had for their meal; there's always a
bit of green stuff sticking out.'
She was a very funny woman, was Mrs Carter, but so
land. They were all kind. Jinnie had been amazed at the
kindness of everybody during these past two months. It
had been as if she had suddenly turned into someone
else. But then, perhaps she had, because she was no
longer the little scullion up on the hill, or that tall young
lass who could turn her hand to anything; she was Mrs
Bruce Shaleman. But even before that, before they were
married in that office in Newcastle, with Miss Caplin
and her aunts and the two nice solicitor men, and Max
acting as her father, and the lovely dinner they'd had
after; and oh yes, the open carriage drives they'd all
had to and from the station at Hexham, the whole day
had been out of this world. At one time, she had almost
cried when the two old solicitor men had kissed her
hand. But before that day she had already changed.
Was it from the time Richard scooted off to France
with his wife? Yes, perhaps. How the truth had got
around she didn't know, but it seemed that everyone
was seeing her in a different light because she had
kept her mouth shut about him. However, to her mind
now, it was all a sad affair, for his people had also
gone to France on what had been an extended holiday.
Only three servants were left behind to look after the
house. At times she felt very guilty, because the whole
family seemed to have been broken up through her
and that one glorious mistake. No matter what she
thought or how she tried to forget it, that morning
would live in her memory for ever. Yet she had managed
to make him believe that he hadn't been the first. He had been the first, though, and here she was with his child.

And though she was married to Bruce, he was still the
first; indeed, so far, the only one. But Bruce was good,
more than good; in fact, he hadn't made any demands
upon her at all. He had said he wouldn't do so until she
was ready. He was good, and yes, she felt love for him,
not with the ecstasy of that hot summer morning, but
nevertheless she knew it was love she felt for him.
She heard Mrs Stevens crowing a tune to the baby. She
had become a good friend, had Mrs Stevens, although
she was gossipy. She had amazed her some time ago by
telling her that Roy had known who the father was all the
time; in fact, from the very morning when he had come
up and found Mr Richard's horse in the stable. But he
had kept his mouth shut. He was a nice boy, was Roy.
There were a lot of nice people in the world, and a lot of
nasty ones too, like Hal Shaleman. Oh, she was glad he
was dead. And look what his death had brought them:
a fortune. Life was very strange. Here she was, not yet
seventeen, and the mother of a baby . . .
She wasn't aware of falling asleep: It must have been
after she had held her daughter to her breast for the first
time. She couldn't recall being visited either by Bruce
or Max; she could only recall someone taking the baby
away, before she dropped into oblivion.
But now she was awake, and there was a face hanging
over her.
'Hello, there.'
'Hello.'
'How're you feeling?'
'Sleepy still, but fine. Have you seen her?' The question
was tentative, and Bruce answered straightaway,
'Of course; and she's a bonny piece, and lusty with
it.'
She looked up into his eyes, and softly she said, 'The
next one will be yours, Bruce; and the next, and the

next, I hope,' and with that she put up her hands, one
each side of his head and pulled it down to her, then
pressed her lips tightly on his.

The mounting joy within him assured him that the
brother was dead, quite dead, and that soon he would
come into his own.


THE END