A Dinner Of Herbs (56 page)

She saw what he termed a black dot.

That was a shepherd’s shelter, a very rude hut, and apparently Biddy was brought up

there and her

owner didn’t tell me she had a preference for her own house when I bought her. So every time I bring

her across the field and tie her up here to the wall or post, she is gone by morning. How she does it, I

don’t know, but once back near her own house she will give me her milk. But it’s quite a tramp down

there, especially if a gale is blowing. She’s like her namesake. I christened her Biddy after a remarkable

old Irish lady I met on the ship coming across to England: she’d walk the deck in storms, and had the

captain worried to death; he could do nothing with her, she was so stubborn. Mrs. Biddy O’Leary, they

called her. “ He laughed.

“We became good friends.... But not so the goat.”

“Have you thought of putting her on a chain?”

She was amazed at the expression on his face now. Gone was the laughter and his voice

seemed to lose

its drawl as he put in quickly, “Never a chain! No, never a chain. I’m against chains. Man or beast

should never be chained.”

“No.” Her voice was small.

“No, you’re right, quite right. Neither should be chained. I’m sorry I suggested it.”

His expression lightened a little.

“No, no. Your suggestion was understandable, and no doubt many would follow it.” He

turned from

her and pointed now to the pony galloping over the hill, saying, “If only she would show the same speed

when I’m on her back, we’d get some place.... Oh! Oh!” He had opened the gate and had

to step

quickly aside as Ranger made eagerly to get into the field, and Kate cried, “Steady!

Ranger. Steady!

Let me slip the reins. There. There. Go on!”

And Ranger went on.

They watched the two animals come to an abrupt stop, and their noses tentatively touched before they

were away again galloping like the wind, the smaller horse leading.

“Wonderful. Wonderful.”

Kate glanced at her companion. It was as if he had never seen horses cavorting before.

Then turning abruptly from the wall, he said simply, Coffee. “

He stood aside and she bent her head and entered the cottage. The room looked almost

starkly bare.

It was about twelve feet square and one wall was almost entirely taken up by the open

fireplace, with a

bricked-in part to the side piled high with logs. There was a small wooden table and a single chair in the

middle of the room, and on the wall to the left of the wood store was a row of three

shelves holding two

pans and odd pieces of rude crockery. And under the shelves and just about a foot from the floor was a

slatted rack on which were a number of books, about thirty in all, and writing materials.

The wall to the

right had a door in it which she guessed must lead into the byre.

He made no apology for the state of the dwelling, but said politely, “Please be seated.”

She noticed that his manner at times was most formal, by which she gauged that whatever part of

America he had come from, he must have been brought up in cultured surroundings,

which in a way was

surprising to her, for the impression that she held of the Americas was one of people

living rough, mostly

pioneers harassed by Indian tribes.

She sat down on the wooden chair and watched him now bring two mugs from the shelf,

then go to the

fire where a black coffee pot was standing in the hot ashes. She watched him pour out the liquid. It

looked deadly black. Then as he handed her the mug he said, “Would you like some

sugar?”

“If ... if you please.”

He now left the room and went into the byre; then he was back again proffering her a

bowl of brown

sugar, saying, “I rarely use it myself.”

She put a spoonful of the sugar into the coffee, stirred it before sipping at it, then knew a moment of

panic when she almost spat the contents out of her mouth. It was with one great effort that she

swallowed the liquid, but she could not stop herself from choking and coughing, so much so that she

splattered. When she felt his hand patting her on the back, she thought in despair, Dear, dear; it would

happen to me, wouldn’t it? She groped for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Then still coughing, but

less now, she gasped, “I’m sorry. Oh, I am sorry. I ... I seem to be saying that all the ...

the time.”

“Please, please, it was me. I’m a fool; no one but a madman would drink coffee like this.

Here, give it

to me.” He grabbed the mug from the table and, going to the open door, he threw the

contents out; then

came back to her, saying, “A drink of milk, goat’s milk? It will soothe your throat.”

When he offered her another mug, holding some milk this time, she drank it gratefully, while at the same

time telling herself that she had never been able to stand goat’s milk. There was always that smell about

it. Yet, it did ease her throat. And now she smiled at him weakly, saying, “You must have a very strong

stomach.”

“Yes, I must have.” He was laughing nervously now.

“A doctor once told me that such strong coffee is much more harmful than either whisky or rum, or

moonshine ... home-brewed stuff, you know.”

“I’ve no doubt about it.”

“I’ll promise you on your next visit I shall make you coffee fit for a lady.” His voice trailed away and

again they were staring silently at each other. On her next visit, he had said.

She noticed, too, the effect of his own words on himself, and now he murmured, “That is if you are this

way again. I mean, should you care to call in. I... I don’t see many visitors, in fact, no one except

Charles. Of course’—his head wagged a little now “ I’m out a great deal. “

“Yes, yes,” she said; “I understand from Charles that you have been studying the history of Langley, its

mill and its mine.... Have you seen the castle?”

“Oh, yes. What is left of it, of course What a pity it’s in ruins, although the original towers still stand,

which is amazing when you think how old it is. But... everything here is so old, isn’t it?

Everything has its feet deep in the ground going down to solid rock.

You can stretch the imagination but never see it changing. So different from my country.

“

“Do you miss your country?”

He seemed to consider for a moment, then said, “I’ll know when I get back later in the summer.”

Why should she experience an immediate sense of loss. It was ridiculous. It was some

seconds before

she said, “You arc returning home this year then?”

“Yes. Oh ... yes ... well’—he jerked his head to the side “ I say I am, but it all depends. “

His voice

faded away like the echo of a note and for a moment she thought that she had detected a lost lonely

quality in his expression. On an impulse she said, “ Would you like to come down and

meet my family

sometime? They would be delighted to have you. My brothers particularly would like to

hear about

America. And you would find my father a source of information about this part of the

world. You see,

he once worked in the smelting mills. “

To her surprise he now turned from her and walked to the open door and stood looking

out for some

seconds before he said, “I’m... I’m not a very good mixer. I don’t seek company as a

rule.”

She stared at him. His back looked long and thin and his black hair appeared like a large fur cap on his

head. He had said he wasn’t a very good mixer. She’d imagined he would be just the

opposite, for his

way of talking and his manner were both free and easy.

He surprised her further now by going to the side of the fire and rolling a large round log towards the

table, seating himself on it, then looking up at her and saying, “Tell me about your

family. I’d like to hear

about them.”

There was a long pause before she answered, and then her voice was tentative as she said,

“Well, there

is my mother and father, and I have six brothers and sisters. The twins are the eldest, John and Tom,

then comes Maggie. She was the one in the hotel dining-room that day.”

She nodded at him, and he inclined his head in understanding.

“Then there is Florrie, the one that caused the rumpus.” Again she smiled at him and he answered her in

the same way.

“After Florrie comes Hugh. He is training to be a lawyer. He spends most of his time in Newcastle.

He has rooms there. Gabriel is the youngest. He is eighteen. There were two others. Peg and Walter.

“ Her voice dropped.

“They died with the typhus, in forty-one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I am, I am sorry.”

“Well’—she lifted her shoulders ‘that’s the family. I mustn’t forget Annie Gordon. She has lived with us

at least all my life. She is like one of the family. We have no servants as we girls and my mother run the

house and the dairy, and at times help outside, but most of the work outdoors is done by my father and

three of my brothers. I said we had no servants, but Terry is a farm worker. He’s been with us for years

too, in fact since he was ten.”

“Have ... have you always lived on that farm?”

“Oh, no, no. As I said, my father first of all worked in the smelt mills; then he had a little money left him

and he bought a small farm.

That was the beginning. He moved to two others after that, until ten years ago we came to Moor Vale.

“

“Life sounds very smooth and uneventful for all the family.”

His eyes were hard on her now as if there were a question in his words and he was

anxious to know the

answer. And she gave it to him, saying;

“Oh, there you are wrong. There have been many tragedies in the family, some that have made local

history. Perhaps in your journeying you have heard of them.”

There seemed another long pause before he answered her.

“Yes, yes, one or two things,” he said.

“Some men were murdered and... and the culprit hanged himself, or some such tale.”

“He was only one of the culprits.”

“But it was a grim business and such are best forgotten.”

“Unless’—she smiled ‘it is going to add flavour to your story.”

“I... I’m not writing a story. I am not an author.”

“No?” There was a note of surprise in her voice.

“No. I... I came over to England on a sightseeing tour and was rather well, the word is fascinated by

your part of the country, and there is so much folklore here that I decided to make notes on it. If Sir

Walter Scott were alive he would have nothing to fear from me, nor would Mr. Walpole

or Miss Maria

Edgeworth. Have you read any of her tales of Irish life?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“They are well worth reading. Her descriptions are very poignant and clear.”

“I must look out for her work when I next go into Hexham. There is a good bookshop

there, you

know.”

“Oh, you needn’t go that far; I can lend you the very one.” He went to the rack and,

taking from it a

book, he handed it to her, saying, “You don’t even need to return it, I’m finished with it.”

She took these words not only as a prelude to dismissal but also as an indication that he did not wish his

peace to be disturbed again; but such thoughts were scattered by his adding, “If you’re riding-this way

again, you’ll be able to give me your opinion of the work. It’s good to hear other people’s opinions.

One gets very biased about one’s likes and dislikes. Don’t you find it so?”

“Yes, yes, especially in the country. An idea, however wrong, is often passed down from family to

family. Father has found that out in the treatment of cattle, and Mother too.”

“Your mother deals with the cattle?”

“Yes, in a way, because she is very good with herbal remedies for animal ills, and for humans too.” She

smiled broadly now.

“People come from far and near at times for her poultices and potions.”

“How interesting.”

She said no more, but as she looked at him she became disconcerted by the expression in his eyes, for

they did not so much seem to be looking at her as through her. Nevertheless, she found that she liked

looking at him, he had such an interesting face. His skin was not ruddy like those of the boys; in fact,

there was no colour in it, being of an overall matt brownish tinge, the same as covered one’s arms in the

summer.

She wondered what age he could be. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? But he could be older,

for he gave off

an air of maturity. She wondered too about his own people, but didn’t like to enquire. She rose from

the chair, saying, “Well, I must not intrude on your hospitality any longer.”

She was surprised now to see his head go back and his mouth open wide as he laughed a

deep hearty

laugh. She didn’t think she had said anything amusing, but he explained his reaction to her words when,

bringing his head down slightly towards her, he said, “Forgive me, but you sounded as if you had been

entertained in a drawing—room.”

“Did I?” She tried to suppress a smile, for she felt she should appear what, a little

grieved?

“Yes’—he nodded at her ‘your tone was so polite, so gracious, and all wasted on a place like this.” He

wagged his hand from side to side. Then becoming serious, he looked round the room as

if never having

seen it before and he said, “It is sparse, isn’t it?

Almost a hovel. “