Blackened (14 page)

He goes silent for a moment. It seems as if he is deep in thought. Finally he reaches out and grasps my hands firmly in his, “Dear Lisbeth, fear not, Jojo and I shall see you safely to London. We shall help you find your brother and I shall assign Jojo the task of driving you back home.”

Close to tears, I open my mouth, close it, smile, “Thank you. I will not ask why you wish to help me, for I can see that kindness is what you do.”

He laughs, “You flatter me Lisbeth! I also do a great many other things that are not so good. Like this!”

Out of his cassock he draws a small whisky flask. With a wink, he gulps some then offers it to me. I hesitate, then take it from him and have a small sip. Begin to cough. The amber liquid burns but warms at the same time. The smoky flavour is odd but I feel I could grow to like it.

“My word! That is some kick!” I exclaim.

Reverend Pettigrew laughs again. I watch him, this preacher who is so full of unexpected surprises, as he slides back the window and bangs on the outside of the carriage, “Jojo! It is my turn to drive! Come, warm yourself with a spot of whisky and keep Lisbeth company.”

The carriage slows to a halt and, with a pat of my hand, Reverend Pettigrew jumps down. Moments later Jojo ducks inside and sits opposite me, making sure to avoid my eyes.

“Hello,” I say.

Jojo flicks his eyes in my direction and nods, but says nothing. He sips from the flask then offers me some. I have a little more, coughing again as the fiery liquid touches my throat.

“Thank you. How long have you known the Reverend?” I ask.

Jojo does not reply. I wait for him to respond, but instead of speaking to me he pulls out a piece of folded parchment from one pocket and a stick of charcoal from the other. He unfolds the parchment and begins to draw, looking up on occasion to stare sightlessly ahead.

“Jojo? How long have you known Reverend Pettigrew?”

Again, no answer.

I find it unsettling that he will not talk – perhaps he disapproves of me for some reason I know not. I observe him and do not detect hostility. His shoulders are relaxed, his body facing mine.

Soon I find I am drawn to the fine, controlled movements of his graceful fingers as they sweep and arc around the parchment. A slight smile tugs at his lips, but his forehead furrows with concentration. Watching him makes me want to draw. I peek at his work. From upside down I can discern the Reverend's face: balding head, crinkled eyes, jovial smile.

Jojo pauses, charcoal held against his lips, considering the portrait. He nods and slides the charcoal back into his pocket.

“May I see?” I cannot refrain from asking.

He looks up sharply as if he has forgotten my presence.

“Please?” I say gently.

He hesitates, looks quickly at me, hands the drawing over.

“This is exquisite work,” I murmur.

I know I could not do as well as this. Jojo must know his employer so well for he has captured every nuance from mere memory.

“You are a fine artist,” I say handing it back.

Jojo nods, eyes averted, and quickly folds and pockets the parchment.

He falls asleep shortly after, snoring softly, adding his own music to the music of the carriage as it bumps and rolls along.

I search his young, handsome face. He is a strange character, but I am curious to get to know him.

*

Dear Diary,

After a solid night's rest, I am restored. My energies are high. My head is focussed.

Jean-Bernard too slept well. Presently he sits opposite me. We travel in his carriage driven by his man Peter. We both are confident that we shall find her today.         Early this morn we went back to the church and spoke to Father Shepherd, the local priest of Grousehill. Shepherd informed us that the preacher whom we spoke with yesterday was a visitor only and that he left Grousehill last night, accompanied by a woman fitting Lisbeth's description. This was, of course, invaluable information, but I must admit that my blood boils when I picture this balding preacher with his smug smile and blatant lies. When I see him, I shall find it difficult to contain myself for he has made our hunt ten times the harder....but I suppose there is little sense to be found in stewing upon that now.

Shepherd also informed us that they go to a village not too far from Grousehill. Their lead is quite substantial, but we are making good progress. Peter just told us that if we do not stop, we shall reach our destination before midday.

I nearly forgot to mention that a fourth person joins us; as we were readying to leave, a man hurried over and asked if he could accompany us to Lower Bridgeton to see a friend of his who has not long to live. His face was so long that Jean-Bernard could not turn him away.

This man's name is Richard Cordwell. He is perhaps ten years older than I with a peculiar amount of hair. He speaks little, which is a blessing for us as we do not want to be pestered with questions concerning our journey.

The mist is clearing a little and I can see acres of barren land. Winter has blighted the landscape. It is perhaps the harshest February in all my life, but if I can capture Lisbeth, the day shall not seem so dreary.

C.C

C
HAPTER 15
O
LD
F
IRSDEN

We arrive just as Old Firsden wakes. The church bells ring for eight o'clock. Chickens peck at the damp ground. Children skip around their front yards. A black cat freezes on top of a fence to stare at us as an elderly man tips his cap at me and strolls by accompanied by a three-legged collie. Candlelight glows in the sills of the small stone houses. The aroma of warm bread drifts out of a shop called Hopkins Bakery. My senses wake up. Reverend Pettigrew winks at me, “Breakfast?”

I nod eagerly and we walk over to the bakery. Jojo does not come for he is busy feeding Adam and Eve.

There is a red post box. I run over to post my letter to Mama. Relief explodes in my chest as I let the letter drop from my fingers.           

I re-join the good Reverend at Hopkins Bakery.

A short, round woman with curly grey hair and rosy cheeks bustles over, “Ah! The good Reverend Pettigrew joins our fair village once again! I knew you were coming soon but I must admit I did not recall the exact date. Well welcome! Welcome! Please, join us for a spot of freshly baked sesame seed bread, butter and jam. And who is this beautiful lady? And where may I ask is Jojo? Goodness, it is so good to see you again Reverend! Come, sit down, sit down! Join us! There is so much to catch up on! And what time will you be preaching today? I – and I know my Toddy – simply cannot wait to hear what inspirational things you have to teach us today! My oh my, how long has it been? It truly has been too long – not that I am ungrateful, because I know you are busy and I would not for the world wish to suggest that you should try to visit us more often. But I did indeed think Old Firsden was buzzing with some kind of excitement and now I know why. How could I have ever forgotten? Oh dear – my mind is not what it used to be. Please, dear lady, you sit here beside me. Now I shall go and fetch Toddy – he is out in the back finishing off old Mr Tilney's shoes. I will be back in two shakes! Please, Reverend, help yourself to some tea and make yourselves at home. And please invite Jojo in too.”

Reverend Pettigrew laughs heartily as she waddles off to fetch Toddy, who I assume is her husband.

“What a friendly soul,” I say.

“Indeed,” chuckles the Reverend, pouring us some tea, “the kindest, most generous of couples are Todd and Mary. But it is always a struggle to get a word in edgeways when Mary is around!”

He excuses himself and leaves to get Jojo.

I take the opportunity to look about the place. Peach walls hung with framed paintings of kittens. A wooden counter lined with sandwiches, scones and tea cakes. A vase of yellow crocuses atop a round table. A wooden sign in the shape of a heart which reads: 'Kiss the Cook'.

I breathe in the deliciousness of bread straight out of the oven. The black cat from before appears out of nowhere and slinks towards my ankles. It weaves between my feet purring. For some reason I am reminded of Jean-Bernard and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo enter the bakery and the cat darts behind the wooden counter. Mary enters holding a tray stacked high with bread, butter, jam, cutlery and plates. She is followed by an old man even shorter than her who is just as round and jolly, but completely blind.

Mary places the tray on the table, “Help yourselves luvvies! I must say this is my finest batch of loaves yet, so you luvvies are exceedingly lucky to be sampling them. However, this also means the bread has not yet been taste tested so hopefully I will not be giving you all bread belly! Oh yes, luvvy, you may think I am a tad gone in the head but, honest to the fine Lord above, there is such a thing as bread belly, oh yes indeed, is there not Toddy? Indeed, goodness, how many years ago was it? Oh yes, five years ago I think it was, or maybe six, a couple came from a village over yonder way and tried my first batch of sesame seed bread and my oh my I felt awful guilty because the very next day they were vomiting all over the place – in the bushes, in the graveyard, over the neighbour’s fences…dear me, it was not a pretty sight, no indeed, it was not a pretty sight…”

As she talks, she helps Todd to sit down then sets about the task of buttering everyone's bread for them.

Reverend Pettigrew is right; Mary can speak for England. But I find it entertaining to listen to her quick happy voice and all the laughter that comes with it.

The breakfast is wonderful. Warm soft bread dripping with melted butter and sweet jam. I am quite transported into another world for a while, a world that is free of cares, a world where I can smile and laugh and be almost at peace.

Though Todd is sightless, he is clearly happy. Such is their love for one another that they are content with life. Reverend Pettigrew says a word here and there, but is happy to let Mary have her say, and, though Jojo remains silent, he appears bright also.

By the time we finish breakfast, two hours have passed. Mary grabs us each in turn and hugs us tightly, “Please do come again – oh yes, you must come for supper this afternoon after you preach Reverend and I will not take no for an answer, and we shall dine better than ever before because good Mr Tilney, in one of his infamous gestures of good will, brought round to us this very morning at the crack of the dawn, a glorious fat chicken all plucked and headless for us to eat this very night, and so you must join us. Is that a yes? Oh, splendid – I shall set about preparing the stuffing this very second! Oh yes I shall!”

The good Reverend and I thank them both and the three of us leave the bakery. I feel a little sad to say farewell, but as we are to dine with them later when Reverend Pettigrew has finished his sermon, I have that to look forward to.

Jojo sets about brushing down the horses.

“I need to read over my notes,” says Reverend, “will you be happy by yourself for an hour or so? My sermon shall begin at half past eleven.”

“Of course,” I say, “I shall take a walk around the village. It is so pretty here. I think I will enjoy the views.”

Fortunately the day has brightened and though damp, it is no longer bitterly cold. The sun hovers behind feathery cloud. Every now and then it beams through and I feel its warmth on my face.

I walk up through the village passing the church on my left, a small stone affair fashioned out of grey blocks. This village is larger than Grousehill with a somewhat friendlier atmosphere. On occasion someone crosses my path and bids me good day with a nod or a kind word. I return the gesture, feeling goodness settling inside me.

I reach a green square of land which boasts a small play park. Two swings made out of rope and wooden boards dangle from the sturdy branch of an oak tree. There is also  a wooden roundabout painted red and a wooden slide painted blue. I sit down on a bench, read the engraving: In loving memory of Father Hugh Blackburn. Two little boys chase a football around the green. I smile as I watch them play. They are identical twins with light brown hair and pale skin. Eddie's face jumps into my mind.

Eddie. Dear little Eddie. He is smiling, telling me about the mud pie he just made in the garden. He is younger – about three years old. Mud lathers his cheeks, hands and arms. I am filled with motherly love for him, as I always have been. I reach out, try to pull him into my arms but touch nothing. He has gone.

I shake my head, refocus on the present. What a strange vision. My mouth is dry, my heart hurting as if bruised after a sudden blow. I unclench my fists and watch the twin boys at their game. They are laughing and having fun, just as boys their age should be. I think again of Eddie, my innocent little brother, trapped in a boarding school without a friend in the world. Lost to me. Lost to Mama. I cannot bear it.

I swiftly stand and stride back towards the carriage. There is only one thing on my mind: reaching London. The church bells ring the hour: eleven o'clock.

*

Dear Diary,

We arrive in under the hour.

Jean-Bernard's legs will not cease their constant jigging. Neither will mine for that matter. We are both eager to put an end to this ridiculous chase.

Once we have her, I shall see to it that she can never escape again. Even if I have to put her in shackles, I shall make sure she accompanies Jean-Bernard and gives that life a chance.

Indeed, Jean-Bernard continues to remind me of the benefits that he can offer her and I am, at last, convinced that this is the only answer. I trust him. He is the only friend I have left in the world. Nothing in me doubts his intentions. I am certain of his character. He is a good, kind, honest, passionate man. He will do his best for her, given the circumstances.