All the dear faces (53 page)

Sally Garnett came regularly, her Aggie at her enormous breast, the rest of her brood trailing behind her in a long quarrelsome line, braving Bert's displeasure and sporting the evidence of it about her sad, good-natured face. She had been pregnant again but had miscarried –thankfully, she said to Phoebe who knew nothing of such things, her tired body unable, for the sixth time in as many years, to carry its burden. She drank Annie's tea, constantly flying out to the yard to prevent Sammy from chasing the hens, the pig, the offended Dandy, his brothers and sisters, separating Jamie and Emma who, having their father's belligerent, crafty nature, fought with one another unmercifully. She addressed kind, embarrassed words to Annie who nodded politely then, without a word, would walk out of the room and through the yard and the noisy children, going up and over the slope of the hill in the direction of the burned heather where her child had died.

“
Ah'll 'ave to go after 'er, Sally," Phoebe had said, suddenly frantic, leaving the open-mouthed Sally to fend for herself
.

The dogs were up on the fells with Natty, checking on the ewes whose lambs would be dropping any day. When Phoebe caught up with Annie she was standing, tall, thin, gaunt in her black dress in which, for the first time, the folk about the parish of Bassenthwaite approved of her,her eyes with that awful inward-looking expression which frightened Phoebe. She herself was deep in sorrow, badly damaged by her grieving for the child she had loved, but she was appalled by the suffering of that child's mother. Annie's despair was savage at times. She turned on them, on Natty and Phoebe, when they spoke of some ordinary thing about the farm, her eyes hollow, living, breathing, but dead inside. Though it was spring now and the snows had gone, the year had plunged into a cold, wet drizzle of rain which swept across the fells and lingered in the dales whilst all the living creatures huddled beneath tree and wall and hedge to escape its misery. It was as though the world about her mourned with Annie, keeping out of sight, birds and sheep, rabbits and all the small, wild creatures which normally squeaked and rustled in the undergrowth as she passed by
.

She took to walking the fells wearing the long hooded cloak which had been her mother's, going up behind the farmhouse, turning on Phoebe with a tinge of madness in her hot-glowing eyes, sending her back, glaring, teeth bared, saying she would be alone and if Phoebe followed she would hurt her badly. She walked and climbed long, solitary miles, without, it seemed, the least purpose, or even direction, exhausting herself, punishing herself for surely Cat's horrible death must be the fault of wicked Annie Abbott? She was never alone, though she did not see Reed Macauley as he protected her, warned by a message from Phoebe, through Natty, and when she came home, her cloak so heavy with rain water she could barely stand, she would let Phoebe put her to bed where she slept like one dead
.

She turned her head now to look at Phoebe and for the first time since Cat's death there was a light of reality, of sense and understanding in her eyes. Natty held his breath. They'd known, of course they had, but now it seemed Phoebe was to confirm it. He waited to see what Annie would do.

“
What?"

“
He made me promise ah'd not tell."

“
I don't . . . understand.
”

It was the first interest she had shown in anything for six weeks.

“
'e said e'd . . . 'urt Cat if ah was to say owt." "Hurt. . .

“
Aye, but now . . . well . . .
”

There was a deep and terrible silence, so deep and terrible the dogs at once began to turn restlessly, sensing something they did not like, and
Blackie
whimpered. Natty stood up and very carefully leaned the half-finished crook against the table. It was dark beyond the window and the wind flung a handful of rain against it and blew a drift of smoke down the blackened chimney. The fire danced a merry jig, bright, cheerful and uncaring of the human conflict which was contained within the walls it warmed, and over it, hanging from the randle crook which was attached to the fire crane, the iron kail-pot bubbled with its burden of stew which was to be their dinner. On the square iron bakstone a row of oatcakes, baked earlier by Phoebe, were being kept warm. She would spread them with butter and some of the blackberry-and-apple jam she had made last backend, hoping to tempt Annie's laggard appetite.

“
You are telling me that it really was Bert Garnett who . . . beat you? That he threatened my child . . . that you kept quiet . . . ?"

“
I were afraid, lass, of what he would do to Cat." "You need not have bothered, it seems."

“
Annie . . . don't."

“
She is dead anyway."

“
Aye."

“
And he goes scot free?"

“
It weren't him what . . . killed 'er."

“
I know that, Phoebe, but by God, he shall be punished just the same. If I'd a gun I'd shoot him but I haven't so . . so . . ." She stood up slowly. Her face was thoughtful and she plucked at her lip. Her eyes were alive and burning in her white face and in them was her hatred, not only of life and the fate which had stolen the only thing of value she had, her child, but of Bert Garnett who had threatenedher. He would pay for what he had done to Phoebe and for the damage to their home. She felt alive, powerful, rejoicing in the hot blood which ran through her veins where, for the past six weeks sluggish ice water had flowed. She had a purpose, a reason to breathe and she gloried in it
.

Wrenching open the kitchen door before Phoebe and Natty could collect their thoughts, let alone arrange them into stopping her, she ran out into the dark. The rain flew in, patterning the stone floor and the dogs milled about apprehensively. She was across the yard before Natty and Phoebe were across the threshwood and when she came out of the cow shed she carried the horsewhip her father had used to flick in the air over the back of the horse he had once owned to pull his plough
.

The wind blew more fiercely, lashing the tree at the side of the farmhouse, and the air began to shriek with its strength. Annie was wet through in a minute and in the yard she stood, teeth bared, madness in her, fighting at her pain with anything she had to hand. At last, at last she had something to do, something which would shut out that whispering voice inside her head which asked her over and over again where Cat was and how had Annie Abbott lost her? The future was too awful to contemplate now. There was no hope, no relief, no comfort, not even from Reed whose silent presence she had been aware of on the periphery of her demented mind all the while they .. . tended to Cat. But she wanted none of him, nor his love. She wanted the lashing rain and wind to drench her soul and her crippled spirit and at the end of it she wanted to wrap her father's whip about the body of Bert Garnett, to slice into his flesh, as her pain sliced into hers. For what he had done to Phoebe. For what he had threatened to do to Cat.

“
Oh, Jesus . . . oh, sweet Jesus . . ." Phoebe babbled. "What have I done? Stop her, Natty . . . stop her . . ." but Annie would not be stopped by such an insignificant little man as Natty Varty. Strong as he was, she was stronger in her insane rage. Contemptuously she threw
him aside, and Phoebe too, striding off along the track which led to Upfell. It was dark and the rain made the path slippery but she went on, the whip trailing behind her, and behind it stumbled Natty whilst in the yard Phoebe wept, sinking to her knees defeated, to the muddy cobbles. Even the gentle hand which lifted her did not startle her, nor did she seem surprised to see him there, for had he not always been there when he was most needed?

“
Which way?" he asked.

“
Upfell. She's going to kill Bert Garnett, I know she
is.
”

She was in the Upfell kitchen when he got there. Natty was at her back doing his best to stop her but the old man stepped aside unhesitatingly to let the newcomer reach her. Bert Garnett had a stripe of running blood across his face where the whip had caught him and in front of him, where he had pulled her, was his terrified wife, her bodice open, the baby pressed against her huge, pendulous breast.

“
Get out of my way, Sally," Annie was saying, for even in her demented state something stopped her from aiming the devastating lash at the woman and child.

“
Annie . . . for God's sake . . . stop it . . ."

“
Get out of my house, tha' bitch . . . Ah'll have thi' in gaol for this . . . see what tha's done to me face. Tha're mad, they said tha' was off tha' head an ... "

“
Annie . . . please, Annie, the bairns . . ." for in the corner of the squalid kitchen the four children huddled and wept
.

The man put his hands on Annie's shoulders, strong, soothing, gentle, and his voice settled over her, as familiar as the sound of the beck above the farm, warm with his love. She knew at once who he was and the whip which was flicking like a snake about the floor, looking for an opening with which to get at Bert Garnett, dropped slowly, limply
.

She turned then and looked into his face.

“
Charlie . . . oh, Charlie is it really you?" She was dazed and beginning to tremble.

“
Aye, I've come to bring you home, darling. You've been a long time gone and they miss you.
”

His arms were there to hold her as she fell into them. Neither saw the expression on Bert Garnett's face as they left, nor heard the low, vicious words he spoke, only his wife, and she didn't count
.

*

"I read of it in the Carlisle Patriot, the day before yesterday. I came at once. It was an old newspaper, one the landlady where I lodge was going to use for kindling for my fire. I might have missed it . . ." He bent his head, his chin on his chest, as he remembered the wild shock and grief as the name Abbott had sprung out at him. He had read the account of Cat's death with disbelief, not willing to trust the newspaper, for how could the bright and lovely child of Annie Abbott be dead, but he said nothing of this to the woman who leaned in his arms on the settle. She had wept wild, passionate, relieving tears she had not been able to shed before, and he had wept with her. They held on to one another, sharing, drowning, together in their sorrow for the child who had been Catriona Abbott. Annie was like a wildly shaking vine, clinging to the support of a strong and steadfast tree. One which would never allow her to fall but would be there always with its roots sturdily buried in the solid earth. Charlie Lucas who smiled and teased his way through life like a whimsical summer breeze, like a drifting summer cloud, held her strongly, sustained her tenderly and would continue to do so for as long as she needed him. She talked to him as she had talked to no one, not even Phoebe, of that day. Of her guilt and conviction that she was to blame. She should have listened to Natty, made the line of fire shorter, more controllable. Hired more men to help them but in her obsession with money, with the need to save it, to put it back into the farm, to he successful, to show them that the woman from Browhead could be as good a farmer as any in the dales, she had sacrificed her child. Her own pride had caused Cat's death .. .

“
No, no, darling, it was an accident. You can't blame
yourself. All these years I've seen you work yourself into the ground. From the moment the dawn came you were on your feet, working on the farm until the light failed and then, when other women were off to their bed, you would take up your spinning, or weaving, making swills or rush-lights and you did it not just for your own pride, as you call it, but to make a life for Cat, for Phoebe, for yourself. And if you were proud of what you achieved, what of it? You had reason to be proud. Look what your labour has provided. Look how far you have come. You have a working, profitable farm, small but making its way, paying for itself, feeding four mouths . . "

“
Four mouths, Charlie . . ."

“
Sweet Jesus, how could I I. . ."

“
It's . . . all right, Charlie. I do it myself. I see her everywhere. Wait for her as though she is just . . . beyond the door and will come through it in a minute. Four of us. . ."

“
There will be four again, if you will allow it." "You mean . . . ?"

“
I am home, Annie."

“
For good?"

“
Yes . . .
”

She began to mend from that moment. Would she ever be completely whole again? That was for time to reveal, but though Charlie had not yet regained that wry, lively way he had with him, that self-mocking humour which was so endearing, it seemed his presence gave them all, Natty, Phoebe, Annie, those who had seen what Charlie Lucas had not, a strange peace. They talked, the three of them, far into the night, while in the background, whittling on his shepherd's crook, Natty listened, saying nothing, wondering how Mr Macauley would take the return of this chap into the life of the woman he had, so to speak, put into Natty's care. It was almost a year, it seemed from what they said, since Charlie Lucas had gone.