Winter’s Children (20 page)

‘My ma said these are the old ways, ancient as the hills, and nature has a cure for every ill. I’m sorry, mistress, if I’ve upset you … My ma says there’s nothing wrong in using nature’s forces to fight darkness and ignorance.’

‘Where is this ma of yours?’ Susannah said.

‘She’s passed over to where no harm can befall her again. I’ve missed her many a year but never forgot what she told me.’

‘It’s hard to let our loved ones go,’ Susannah sighed. ‘You will stay on with us?’ she found herself saying. ‘I could use you in my garden.’

‘Thank you, mistress, and I could teach you what I know, if it suits.’

‘I want no witchcraft in this house. The master would not approve of anything heathen.’ She could feel herself going hot and cold in case anyone should come and overhear such words. Yet she was intrigued. ‘But do tell me what your mother taught you about the seasons.’

‘There be things we do to help the crops grow, to heal wounds of body and heart … By the light of the sun, moon and stars, things handed down from one to another for the good of others … I can pass on only what I’ve been taught. I can go no further than that, but perhaps it’s time I took my leave.’ Agnes made for the gate. ‘The master might take the whip to me.’

‘Leave the master to me … If you help with my green patch, you can write down all the remedies for me to learn. I will find a room for you over the back yard.’

There was a pause and the girl bowed her head. ‘I don’t have any lettering …’

‘Tis no matter. I will teach you and you will teach me your cures. We will both learn. There is something in your words that speaks to me or we’d not be talking like this.’ Susannah was looking up, trying to sound brisk and in control. ‘I have lost my dearest child. All I wish is to know that he dwells safe, like your mother,’ she whispered, hesitating to voice her deepest yearnings.

‘Ma told me once that there are pathways to the dead so we may speak with them but it needs special powers. It be dangerous work and I was never to meddle,’ came Agnes’s guarded reply.

‘How do you learn that?’ Susannah asked.

‘I can tell you all I know of such ceremonies, how to cleanse this house of all that ails it. There is a right way and a wrong way to go about the task. That I do know. You will write this down?’

Susannah nodded. ‘It’s just like making new recipes.’

Agnes smiled and her face was transformed into sunshine. ‘If you say so, mistress, but all I have, I carry in my head. There are herbs and flowers, tools and a sharp eye, and moon time.’

‘Can I write down the instructions, step by step?’ There were so many questions bubbling up in her head like jam on the boil. She would feel safer if it was all written down.

‘My ma says, hide them away for they might bring trouble. There is a great fear of the old ways, of ancient rites and talking to the dead.’ Agnes shivered, grasping her shawl around her. The rain had long passed but the wind was rattling through the open gate.

‘Talking to the dead – is it possible to hear my child again?’

‘I don’t know about that, mistress … Ma said it be the unquiet soul who causes bother,’ Agnes answered. ‘To reach out and show them the way towards peace, to conjure up soothing dreams to tired souls, to calm the terror of their empty grave, is beyond me.’

Susannah felt her heart thumping with terror at the thought of such responsibility. Be careful what you wish for, she mused, for it may come true. ‘Come, time enough to talk more another day. I will find you lodgings.’

‘My ma says, “Life be but a journey, a circle from maiden through mother to old woman. We are but wheels turning with the seasons, ever forward into the light.”’

Susannah nodded suddenly full of hope. ‘Then you and I, Agnes, and others like us must work to bring light into darkness so that the light shines over our children and children’s children, however long it takes to learn the art. Your ma was a wise woman. A pity she isn’t here to guide us,’ Susannah sighed.

Agnes smiled. ‘But she lives, here in my heart. I hear her words in my head guiding me. She made me stay on here for this purpose.’

What words this girl came out with. Susannah didn’t know what to believe. But of one thing she was certain: with such a canny spirit around the kitchen door, no one would come to harm, though she must know her place and not take advantage of their secret. One step out of line and the Lee girl would be sent packing down the lane.

Agnes never did get herself up to the shanty town at the head of the Ribble. There was always some piece of the garden, some lesson, something to stop her going. Susannah was a hard taskmistress when it came to tidy dress and house-cleaning. She would brook no slackness of effort and little by little Agnes found her wandering ways changed by indoor living.

At harvest home and Christmas she performed the old ceremonies in honour of her ma and sometimes Susannah looked on briefly and then disappeared, but Jacob, once recovered, treated her as he did all the dairy maids – with distant politeness. He had thanked her for saving his life but nothing more.

Her heart saddened when it came to Midsummer Eve once more. She climbed to the hilltop, to the ancient wall she sensed was a sacred place in times gone by. She carried a sack of kindling, making a ring of stones to fix her fire. Round her loosened hair she wore a garland of flowers but nothing else to hide her body from the moon. She circled the stones and struck the tinder to set the fire ablaze. She said the old words. In her hand she held a lock of Jacob’s hair, strands she’d cut with a knife when tending his wounds. It was all she had to secure him for herself.

‘Oh Ma, I’m trying my best but nothing is working. What am I doing wrong?’ she cried, throwing the hair onto the fire in desperation, trying to dance sun-wise as she was taught.

What’s that fire on the tops? Jacob was walking the fields in the half-light when he saw the flickering flames. You could see a candle burning for miles on a clear night, and he feared the worst. It had a been hot June and the grass was as tinder in parts … He must find a fire brush and stamp it out before it set the whole moor alight.

He tore up the fellside cursing, his leg still stiff and aching from last year’s accident. Hot and sticky from a day’s labour, he was in no mood for smoke and destruction, but when he drew closer he saw a figure dancing in shadow, the lithe body of a young girl. Was he dreaming? Who was she? Was it the White Lady of Wintergill up to her old tricks, tempting him over the edge of the rocks with her wiles?

He hung back, hiding behind a rock, ashamed of his arousal. He’d never seen a naked woman before, and one dancing like a savage. She looked so beautiful as she sang up to the dark sky. Why was she up here at this hour?

It had to be some apparition, and yet he recognised something in her voice and smiled with relief … Who’d have thought it! It was little Agnes, his mother’s helper … So this was her game.

Should he storm up and demand an explanation and tell her how dangerous it was to bring fire onto a dry moor, or should he stay and watch?

That would be cruel. Whatever she was doing, she was doing it in private for a purpose and Mother spoke highly of her work. His presence would give her such a fright and shaming, so he tiptoed back grinning at the vision of her loveliness in all its glory.

By heck, she’d filled his breeches and no mistake … He’d never really noticed her in that way before. It was little Agnes who’d dressed his wounds and made him comfortable. She’d got his mother smiling again and sorted the cow with the swollen udder. She might be a witch but she was handy round the house. She would warm his bed and all … Who needed some prim farmer’s daughter when he could have a home-grown wife who knew the chores and a few other tricks besides? Jacob could do far worse …

Agnes couldn’t believe the change in Jake that summer. He sought her out on any excuse, blushing when he spoke and made his intentions plain. The household waited for a furious uproar from his parents but none came. How could a Snowden go courting a field girl and a gypsy? Agnes smiled and thanked her mother for giving her the secret knowledge to bring him to her side.

On the eve of their wedding, when the house had finally retired, Susannah knocked on her door, bringing the bride a pretty veil of Brussels lace that had once belonged to her mother. She sat down at the end of the bed, and Agnes saw the deep frown lines that made a ditch in her forehead were smoothed over.

‘He came to me last night … my dear little boy,’ she whispered. ‘I drank the yarrow tea with the rosemary as I have on many a night but this time I dreamed such a dream. It was as if he was there by my side, smiling. I felt his hand in mine. Then he was on this tall sailing ship, waving from the deck, and I saw it slip slowly down the river until it was a speck on the horizon. I woke up with tears running down my face, not of sadness but of peace. He was saying goodbye and I know he is safe out there waiting for me when my turn comes … How can I thank you?’

Agnes bowed her head. ‘You already have. You took me in and made me welcome when many another would have shown me the door. You taught me my letters and numbers and much more besides. I should be thanking you.’

‘You will take care of my son … and those that follow after. You know what I am saying.’

‘No one will harm my bairns … be sure of that or they will have me to reckon with.’

‘I thought as much,’ Susannah smiled. ‘Now get some rest. Tomorrow you’ll be taking up a new position at Wintergill and I’ll be glad to put my feet up in the upstairs parlour for a change. Neither of us was bred for this farming life, but I reckon we both are up to the job in our different ways, don’t you? Love evens everything out in the end.’

1874

 

On Christmas morning the wind carried the church bells high across the valley to the tops but Jacob woke at dawn with excitement long before their peals filled the air with promise. This was the day when it would all begin, when all his planning would come to fruition.

Ever since he’d attended the penny readings at the navvy camp, he’d been bewitched by Mr Dickens’s serials of
Pickwick Papers
and
A Christmas Carol.
He was determined to make this day special for the miners, diggers, workmen and their families, who were straddled across the hillsides close to the farm. It must not be just another boozy blowout when everyone got roaring drunk, ending up in terrible fisticuffs with bloodied noses.

This day was sacred, not only because it was the Lord’s and his baby daughter, Mary’s, first birthday, or because it was a dedicated day when folks could wear their best clothes, stovepipe hats, tweed jackets, rustle in silken dresses, and show off new kid gloves in church, but because they must show goodwill to all men, rich and poor, rough or comfortable. It should be a day when the smell of roasting birds and spiced breads, puddings and fancy trifles should reign all over the house-place, a day when they could worship the Lord whatever day of the week it was. The mill gates were shut, the shops shuttered in town, and he hoped the Midland Railway would silence its engines in honour of the season.

Preparations had begun earlier in the year with the fattening up of their best shorthorn for the Christmas stock show. He could never hope to rival the Reverend Mr Carr’s famous Craven heifer, which weighed in at over a ton, but Jacob’s beast was prepared for the show, preened and pampered, dusted and her hoofs polished to a finish. Then after the parade, with a fine rosette on her horn, he commissioned a proper photograph of the successful day. In fact, he was so proud of this creature he asked the local artist to make her likeness for him to frame.

Agnes had been on at him to replace the picture on the mantelpiece, the one his late mother had been so proud of. She thought it a poor affair, lacking in colour, and he tried to explain it was only a sketch by a famous artist but she’d have none of it and said they could do better than a few charcoal scribbles, so he decided to put the beast in the foreground of Wintergill House as a surprise present for his wife.

He tried to make sure all his servants and Agnes’s dairy maids were given time to visit their parents down in the village. He saw to it that the navvies, camped close to the track, got some time to celebrate too although some of the navvy families living further out would be left to their own devices.

Christmas Day was always set aside for visiting and feasting, but it must begin with worship, and the bells would ring out to remind the parish to gather in celebration. In Wintergill you were either church or chapel, Anglican or Methodist; black or white, sheep or goat. There were no half measures when it came to allegiance. Few changed sides once baptised into their specific corner, but the navvy camps strung along the new rail track were another country, a jungle of heathens and wild fighting men. They didn’t care what label the preachers went by, so long as they dolled out comforts, sat with the dying men to the end, and their children got some schooling.

Everyone should have some Christmas cheer, Jacob thought, before they drank away precious wages, leaving their family without. What the navvies needed was something to brighten this special day: a procession of witness on Christmas morning, something to wake the world to the birth of Christ. His idea grew from a tiny mustard seed to a mighty tree of conviction over the months and now they would spring their surprise this very morning.

He chivvied his own household to dress early, crack the ice on the wash bowl, stir the lazy from their beds with the best porridge oats, dressing warmly for the cold, and get the carts saddled up for the journey up to the nearest camp.

‘Do I have to go?’ yawned Agnes, reluctant to budge from her feather counterpane. ‘There’s so much to be doing on Christmas morn if we are going to eat before dusk.’

Jacob would have loved to indulge his wife but she must set an example for once. Lately she was a sluggard about her attendance in the chapel. He asked no questions when she claimed to have the headache or sickness. He knew she was the fittest horse in his stable, walking out in all weathers on her strange expeditions, but he said nothing.

‘Rise and shine, beloved. We’ll stir the hearts of Wintergill camp with our praises today and I need you by my side. The chores can wait this merry morn,’ he said. ‘Besides, I have a special surprise for you in the hall; something to give you and young Mary a deal of joy on your walks.’

‘What is it?’ Agnes smiled, coiling her black and white hair into a twist around her head.

He loved to watch her at her dressing, all that lace and ruffles, the tinctures of musk roses on her piebald skin. There were some in the chapel who thought her flighty in her choice of bright colours, her flamboyant cloak, her hats and parasols. She did not look like a country farmer’s wife, and that was one of the joys of his marriage: he never knew what she would do next, what enthusiasm would overtake her. She’d borne him sons, Tom, Joseph and Will, and now there was little Mary to add to their joy. Much to his surprise his own mother became her ally and the two of them took care to keep the walled patch of garden full of hedgerow medicines. He did not agree with some of her strange rituals but he put it down to finding cures for woman’s complaints and didn’t pursue the matter.

Agnes sped down the stairs to find her present and stared at the gift, shaking her head puzzled. It was a little truck with spoked wheels and a padded seat for a small child to sit on, covered with a sturdy canopy.

‘Do you like it? I had it copied from the
Illustrated News.
The Queen herself couldn’t have one better … Mary can sit in style and you can push her on your walks.’

Agnes smiled. ‘It’s … grand, Jake. We can take longer hikes along the footpaths. It would be good for carrying greenery and plants for the garden.’

‘Whatever you like. Merry Christmas! You’ll be the first in the dale to have a baby carriage,’ he laughed, relieved she liked his unusual idea.

‘I shall walk down to the camp with it later, if you don’t mind. There’s much to do this morning if we are to dine on time this afternoon.’

His party set off in the darkness, a line of carts plodding along the track as the dawn light was breaking; streaks of lemony, mauve stripes heralding some settled weather, for a change. By the time they reached the navvy camp, the fires were choking the air, the cocks were crowing and chickens darting amongst the wooden huts. None was stirring behind the wooden doors but the fierce barking of the dogs huddled in the lee of the houses sounded a warning. There were a few stalwarts huffing and puffing, stamping their boots: the mission faithfuls wrapped against the cold with shawls around their heads; men in hobnail boots and flat caps holding baskets of hymn sheets, children already playing tag across the muddy tracks lining the makeshift street.

The last to arrive, of course, was Mr Jagger, the site manager, in his stovepipe hat and best frock coat. It was nearly eight o’clock before the most important arrival showed his face out of the door sheepishly. The Fothergill brothers flourished their instruments – trumpet and drum. They were going to lead the proceedings.

‘Are we all here?’ Jacob did his head count. It was going to be a poor show from the village chapel.

‘Hurry up, I’m starving,’ muttered someone from the ranks. ‘What’s the first hymn?’

‘“God rest ye merry, gentlemen”?’ shouted one wag at the head of the procession.

‘Gentlemen, my foot,’ laughed another. ‘I don’t see why us have to wake that lot up. There’ll be a riot! You want something cheerful to get this lot out of bed.’

‘I know summat cheerful,’ said the trumpeter, smiling, and he turned to the drummer with a wink. There was a drum roll, a tuning up of the trumpet spit, and they were off to the tune of ‘Wassail, wassail all over the town’.

‘That’s not the sort of carol I had in mind,’ Jacob whispered to his father. ‘They can’t start drinking already.’

‘Don’t be such a sobersides,’ said Joss. ‘Do it this way or not at all. Christmas isn’t all church and praying. It’s the light in the darkness, a bit of cheer in the depth of winter, dancing and fires to stave off the bleak. No one wants sermons but food and dancing. Besides you catch more flies with honey … Come on and lighten your step. “Here we come a-wassailing Among the leaves so green …"’

Slowly valances twitched, a few heads appeared at doors and windows, curious about the racket.

‘Happy Christmas! He is born!’ Jacob shouted to anyone who appeared looking puzzled by the noise.

Finally they assembled outside the stone bothy with the sod roof, the drinking den where fights flared up each Saturday night. For once it was empty and silent and the cart drew up with a trestle table and baskets of Christmas food, which Jacob had gathered in over the last few days from the village and farmers. It had been a struggle to get them to give to the navvy mission. Village and camp didn’t mix much, and the coming of the new railway line was seen as a mixed blessing.

Children gathered round, eyeing the food with interest. ‘Who needs John Barleycorn to lift the spirits on such a day?’ shouted the railway mission parson.

They managed one carol and a prayer before the children started to make a grab for the buns and pies.

‘Suffer the little children …’ whispered the manager with a sigh and a wink.

Jacob was standing outside the wooden hut looking around the camp in the murk of the morning wondering how he could brighten the lives of these workers, when the idea of a community choral concert came to him. Perhaps next year he could organise a mission choir with extra singers, an augmented band that would join villagers and navvies together in one big blast of Christmas music. Why wait until Christmas, though? His head was ringing with ideas as the crowds pushed into the little hall, devouring his pies and spiced cakes, biscuits and buns.

Food’s a great leveller, he mused. It hadn’t quite been Christmas in Dingley Dell but it was a start and better than a punch on the nose.

It was hard pushing this new contraption along the footpaths. Will and Jo wanted to have a ride too and Mary needed tying into the seat as she was still a little small for the chair. It was sturdy enough to cope with the bumpy metalled track down to the camp but first they must push it uphill past the boundary wall to the wonderful view down the valley.

Agnes loved this place. It was here she had first danced at midsummer, and it was here that Jake had asked her to be his wife. It would be good to sit and rest awhile before the downhill trek to the navvy camp. She was happy to let Jake and his father conduct their services without her having to tag along.

It had been a sad year when Susannah took sick and passed away quickly. Joss had aged, bereft of his beloved, but Agnes knew that she was at peace. They had named their son, Will after his lost uncle.

She ought not to be dawdling on such a busy morning but she felt in a playful mood, and Will and Jo had hoops and stick they were determined to whip along. ‘Look at me, I can do it!’ Jo shouted, and Agnes parked the carriage to give him chase while Mary looked on. It was only a gentle slope and her eyes were only turned for a second, but she felt a stab of fear in her chest. She was not alone; someone was spying on them from over the wall.

‘Come out, whoever you are, and show yourself!’ she yelled. The boys stopped their game and shot back to her side, hiding themselves in her cloak, sensing her fear. ‘I know you’re there. You don’t scare me.’ It was probably a drunken navvy sleeping off his booze but they could turn nasty.

She heard herself chanting the old prayers of protection under her breath. You mustn’t feel fear … Make a shield … stand firm. She heard her ma’s voice in her ear. Go to the bairn … She started to run towards the carriage as she watched it begin to roll gently down the slope, gathering speed … She flew like the wind after it, heart racing with fury. There was no wind, not a breath of breeze. It was as if an invisible hand was pushing her baby down towards the stonewall and certain death.

‘Stop, in the name of Christ and all the Angels! Let my baby go! I will curse you to the end of time if you harm my child!’ She was screaming and running, knowing every second was bringing Mary closer to the rocks and destruction. ‘Hold her back. You don’t belong here … go back where you belong … to your own time … I know who you are … Go home. Don’t harm what isn’t yours … I will not let you take what is mine!’

She was helpless, watching as, as if in slow motion, the cart reached the barrier, the ancient wall held firm against the force and the cart collided into it. Mary slid from her moorings, rolling over and over like a ball, landing on the grassy mound.

Agnes screamed a scream that pierced the air with anguish and dread, not daring to look, but then she heard her baby howl in shock and fear, and she raced across, fearing the worst. Mary looked up with surprise, covered in bits of straw and grass: her landing had been cushioned by all the padded layers of clothing – gaiters and leggings, a thick coat with fur trim, and a thick bonnet. They had protected her fall.

Will and Jo were howling and Agnes was howling, and Mary added to their noise. Agnes hugged her child to her chest, feeling her for any injury, but there was none to see.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she prayed. She’d won this battle of wills. The spirit had fled. The wall had stopped the cart, chipped a few corners, dented the paintwork, but no matter. What mattered most was wrapped close to her chest and holding her hand. She was shaking, exhausted but elated. She would make sure that tormented soul never got a chance to try another trick.

You must write it all down, she thought. Susannah was right. She must protect future Snowdens from such dangers. Mary, Tom, Joseph and Will were safe, but what about children to come?