The Dandelion Seed (12 page)

He began to think of the fights he and his old man used to have. He had always lost, for Sam had the advantage over him just by sheer weight and evil temper. Chalky was not sorry he had run off but the years in the fleet and months in that hellish Spanish prison had made him long for a home, a place where he belonged. Yes, by God he would stand up to Sam now. And if by chance his father had died, well then, the inn would be his, for he had no other kin. With a look of sullen determination on his face, Chalky braced himself as he got up and limped along the final stretch of road.

Ten minutes later a heavy wagon lumbered up behind him with its huge wooden wheels grinding in and out the deep grooves made by similar carts which had travelled the road before it.

Chalky stepped to one side and hailed the carter, ‘Hi there! How far are you going?’ he called.

The carter stared down at the ragged figure from under his straw hat ‘What’s that to you, vagabond?’ He practically spat the words out.

‘Thought you might let me ride a bit of the way,’ replied Chalky. ‘My poor feet have given in on me, they have.’ He spoke in a cajoling manner, for he knew that the folk in the country were not too friendly to travellers.

The carter’s round weather-beaten face continued to look down at him in an unfriendly manner. ‘How do I know you won’t attack me and pinch me cart?’

‘Don’t trouble, then,’ said Chalky, his head hanging in woe. ‘Might as well die by the roadside for all anyone cares. But it’s no nice way to treat a soldier returning from the wars.’

‘Get up then,’ the carter said quickly. ‘Only going to Waltham. What’s all this about a war? I didn’t know we was having one.’ His moon face looked interested.

Once he was safely on the cart, and his back warmed by the large sacks of grain, Chalky told blood-thirsty stories of his adventures as a soldier of fortune. His tales were so vivid and full of interest that the carter listened as a boy to his tutor. Chalky possessed a fluent manner of speech which had got him out of many tight corners over the years.

In the next couple of hours Chalky enjoyed half of the carter’s supper of bread and cheese and had a good sup from his jug of cider. When they reached Waltham, they had covered eighteen of Chalky’s twenty miles, and on the edge of the forest, they parted with hearty farewells. Chalky was nearly home. Standing by the roadside again, he looked down the hill and, faintly in the distance, he could just see the tall tower of the church of St John. His mother was buried in that churchyard. Twenty-five years ago Chalky had been christened Frederick White in that very same church. It was odd to think that. Feeling a lot happier, he shuffled along on his uncomfortable feet getting nearer to his goal all the time. Soon he was crossing the familiar dilapidated wooden bridge which spanned the Lea and gazing at the little brook as it wound its way over the marsh. He was surprised by the feeling of nostalgia that swept over him, and he felt oddly content. Yes, he was glad to be home. Once back he would look for a clean homely wench; it would be nice to settle down, never to roam again. As the black-and-white towers of Brook House came into view, he wondered if old Sir Fulke Greville still owned it. He would never forget the whipping Sir Fulke had given him when he once caught him scrumping apples from the orchard . . . Chalky drew a deep breath; nearly there.

In the Duke’s Head, Betsy was busy. It had been market day and it had been hot and busy, for the carts rolling towards London had been passing ever since sunrise with the thirsty carters pulling in for a cool foaming jug of ale. She had been on the go all day and her face was flushed red and her hair untidy. But she still had a bright sunny smile on her face as she bade the customers welcome. Or most of them at least. When a weary, dirty creature came into the inn, her sweet smile was quickly replaced by a frown. ‘Go round the back door, beggar,’ she said sharply. ‘I will send you food and drink there.’

A sly grin was on Chalky’s face as he gazed with some surprise at this buxom blonde glaring at him over the long carved oak bar. He had been sure that the first thing he would see would be the big hulk of his father, but instead, here was this full-blown beauty telling him to go to the back door and calling him a beggar. Caution was not something that Chalky lacked, and he showed it now. He touched his forelock with an ingratiating bow. ‘Thank you, madam,’ he said. ‘You are very kind.’ And went to the back door as Betsy had directed.

Betsy was as good as her word. Within a couple of minutes, a tall young man came out with half a cold beef pie and a jug of ale for Chalky.

Rolly sat on the bench beside Chalky while he made short work of the food. ‘What’s wrong with your feet?’ he asked staring with the interest of a little boy at Chalky’s bound-up feet.

Chalky looked up and grunted at this big hefty fellow who towered over him as he ate. The size of him made him nervous.

Suddenly Rolly went hopping off around the yard on one leg, and then returned with a broad smile on his face as though he had done something clever.

‘He’s a bit gorn,’ though Chalky. ‘Poor devil, but I bet he ain’t half strong.’

Rolly began to pick up stones and hurl them at the road. ‘I can do tricks,’ he informed Chalky.

Within moments, Chalky’s astute mind had Rolly in focus; he was a big strong chap with the mind of a child. Chalky had heard of people like this but had never actually seen one. For a while he forgot his mission and started to amuse Rolly. He showed the lad a fascinating game in which a pebble was seen in one hand only to disappear and reappear in Rolly’s ear. To Rolly this was real magic. Then Chalky told him a long, highly coloured story of how he had once nearly been eaten by cannibals.

Rolly sat at Chalky’s feet with his eyes glowing eagerly as he listened to these tales of adventure.

The light had begun to fade when Betsy’s shrill voice rang from the entrance of the inn. ‘What the hell are you up to, Rolly? It’s closing time and you ain’t done a thing.’

Rolly scrambled hastily to his feet and in a shame-faced manner darted inside. Betsy came out into the yard and, with her arms akimbo stood over Chalky. ‘Ain’t it time you was on your way?’ she asked aggressively.

‘Me feets is a bit sore,’ replied Chalky softly. ‘I couldn’t bunk down in the stables tonight, could I?’

‘All right, but you hop it in the morning,’ said Betsy closing the door and making off towards her warm bed.

Chalky was soon huddled in the straw in the stable and wondering what to do next. What the devil had happened to old Sam? Now it seemed like the blonde was the mistress here. My, but she was a comely wench, and her brother daft but easily adaptable. He would hang around for a while, he decided. Someone would know where Sam was. So he pulled a sack over his head and settled down into the warm straw. ‘Welcome home, Chalky old chap,’ he muttered wryly to himself as he closed his eyes.

It was later as the night got cold and the dampness of the stable rose up around him that he realised he had company. A dappled old grey mare lay sleeping in the stall next door, scuffling and grunting in her sleep. He got up and found another sack to cover himself with and moved over nearer the wall. He did not fancy having his brains kicked out while he was asleep. Slightly warmer, he settled down until chinks of light came through the roof as dawn broke. The old mare rose and shook herself. It was only then that Chalky saw that he had another stable companion; sunk deep in the yellow straw behind the manger was an old man, with a long grey beard and long white locks. He was lying on his back with his mouth open, and he snored deeply. Chalky grinned. ‘Well, darn me, if it ain’t old Jem. I thought you’d be kicking up the daisies by now.’

The old man woke up with a start and looked very cross. ‘What’s to do?’ he muttered, sitting up and staring bleary-eyed at the intruder.

‘It’s me, you silly old fool,’ yelled Chalky. ‘It’s yer ol’ mate Chalky, Sam’s boy.’

The old man’s jaw dropped and he gaped. ‘Ain’t you dead?’ he asked uneasily.

‘Course I ain’t,’ snapped Chalky. ‘I’m still alive an’ kickin’, and so are you, by the looks of it.’

‘Only just, boy, only just,’ sighed old Jem. The pieces of straw sticking to his whiskers made him look like a scarecrow.

‘How comes you sleep with the horse, then?’ asked Chalky. ‘What’s wrong with the old shack what you lived in?’

‘It’s too cold for me old bones, lad, so I comes in here and snuggles up to old Nelly. She don’t mind. Come to think of it, she’s the only friend I’ve got left.’

‘Gawd, you must be ’bout ninety,’ Chalky’s pointed teeth showed as he grinned.

The old man foraged in the straw and brought out a leather bottle. He took a long swig at it, after which he seemed a bit brighter. ‘’Tis a wonder I ain’t dead of starvation since old Sam went. No one bothers with me,’ he muttered with a touch of pathetic self-pity. He beckoned Chalky to come closer, ‘Murderers, they are,’ he whispered. ‘Done old Sam in, they did. I hide, cause I ain’t goin’ to let ’em do me in, too.’

Chalky looked at old Jem and wondered if he was rambling. He was indeed very old. He had been old even when Chalky had been a boy and had helped him tend the horses. Still, you never know, he thought, he might know something. He leaped over the stall and sat down in the straw beside Jem. ‘Where did you say me old man’s gorn?’ he asked.

‘Hell, I reckon,’ Old Jem muttered. ‘Never wus no good, he weren’t. The devil’s got ’im for sure.’

‘You mean he’s dead?’

‘Dead as a doornail. Took ’im out in a barrow, they did. I was layin’ in ’ere wi’ old Nelly and I saw ’em, I did.’

‘You mean the woman? Was she his wife?’

‘Nope, she were a bloody streetwalker,’ snarled old Jem.

‘What about the big fellow? Who is he?’

‘Supposed to be ’er brother. But I wonders about that, I do.’ Jem nodded his old head up and down. ‘Barmy, he is. Could kill yer wi’ one blow, so yer won’t catch me in there,’ he muttered, taking hefty swigs from his leather bottle as he talked.

‘Come on, old Jem, I’ll help you get home,’ said Chalky, pulling him to his feet. He did not know whether to believe the old devil or not. Jem always did have an evil tongue.

Together they walked down the alley, with Chalky helping old Jem who was a bit tottery on his legs and was mumbling and grumbling all the time. When they reached the door of the dilapidated little shack that Jem called home, Chalky let go of his arm and slapped him on the back. ‘I’ll come back and see you, Jem,’ Chalky promised as he left.

He walked back towards the inn lost in thought. He was both alarmed and intrigued by what he had heard and his mean little eyes glistened under their bushy brows. If it was true that these people had done in his father then they were diddling him out of his rightful inheritance. And this put a completely different light on the matter. No one did old Chalky down and got away with it. This new information needed careful thinking about.

When he collected his bag from the stable it was getting brighter outside; daylight lit up the grey cobbled yard, in the centre of which was still the old pump. That pump! He remembered how his father had held him head down under the icy cold water as a form of punishment. And now, it seemed that Sam was dead. That fact did not matter to Chalky, there was no love lost there, but after all, he was Sam’s legitimate son and heir, and what was Sam’s should be his. He washed himself briskly under the pump and put on his remaining clean vest. Then, hoping that he looked nice, he went round to the back door of the inn and gave a gentle tap on the door.

Betsy appeared looking as though she had just tumbled out of bed. Her hair was in rag crackers and she was wearing a grubby nightgown bursting open at the neck.

Chalky’s small eyes squinted straight down at the heavy white bosom which threatened to overflow the opening.

‘What the hell do you want?’ shouted Betsy, pulling her nightgown together.

‘I wondered if I might repay you for your kindness by doing a few odd jobs before I go on my way,’ Chalky suggested.

Betsy blinked and looked suspiciously at him. He did look a bit cleaner this morning, she had to admit. Well, he might as well help since that lazy fool Rolly was not up yet.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can get some wood, light the fire and sweep the entrance. Then I’ll give you some breakfast.’

Very humbly, Chalky did his chores with his ears and eyes busy all the time. Once the inn was clean and ready to open, and they had eaten, he picked up his little bag and said pleasantly: ‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’

The harassed Betsy was rolling a big barrel of ale about in the cellar, and she called to him: ‘Here, give us a hand with this, will you? Now that damned boy has gone off to the river.’

Chalky had fashioned a little fishing net for Rolly from a piece of wire and bit of sacking, and now Rolly had gone off with it, galloping off over the fields like a child with a new toy. Chalky had watched him go out of sight and then went to find Betsy in the dimness of the beer cellar. Together they pushed the heavy barrel into its position, and then Betsy stood panting from the exertion, pushing her fair curls back from her face.

Chalky edged closer until his body was level with hers, and eyes glittered as he eyed her rounded curves. ‘You’re a fine strong woman,’ he stated, placing his hand on her fat fair arm.

‘Got to be, ain’t I.’ Betsy was panting for breath but looking with interest at this lithe little man.