A Traveller in Time (6 page)

Aunt Tissie got out an accordion and he took it in his work-brown hands and I watched his fingers as they moved tenderly over the little white keys.

“What shall I play ye?” he asked. Then he conjured many an old air out of the instrument, and somehow they fitted in with the farm kitchen. As I looked round I could fancy the grandfather clock was staring at him with its engraved brass face, listening to the music, and the high dresser, and the great oak table, and the carved spice cupboard, with all its little drawers, each was hearkening. And others listened also, I could swear, dim figures I saw in the corners, shadows out of reach of the lamplight, coming from somewhere to listen to the old man.

Jess was working in his corner, never speaking, cleaning the harness, brushing and polishing the little brass ornaments and bells, fixing buckles and straps, doing something to halters and head-stalls, unconscious of the moving, flitting shades which passed before him. I kept in the lamplight, away from those pointed shadows, close to my aunt, and the music came dancing up to me, beckoning me to the darkness.

Then came bedtime, and we all went upstairs, I with some misgivings as I opened our bedroom door. I didn't want to see those ladies, but they were not there, the room was our own with its low rafters, its quiet beds with the little flowery valances under which Alison peered to see if a hen were brooding there.

All was safe, and we dived into the billowy mass of the feather-beds and crept down to the warmth to lie for a few minutes to watch the moon which stared through the open casement at us, to listen to rustles and murmurs of the trees outside, to hear the owl hoot as he flew over the church tower. From down below came the sweet tones of Uncle Barnabas's accordion, and another music like a flute was mingled with it. I put my head on the cold linen and buried my face in its fragrance. I dragged the blankets tightly round my shoulders, and shut out all the world.

Uncle Barnabas had a favourite seat where one could always find him. It was under a great oak in the croft, near enough to the farm for him to see all that went on, but leaving him free of the bustle and business if he wished to be quiet. He sat there in the evenings, watching the moon rise above the woods, listening to the call of owls and the rustles of nocturnal creatures. He went there when work was done, taking his rest away from us all. Sometimes I joined him, for he didn't mind my company; I could be part of the land and forget myself as he did. There we sat, my hand clasping his great warm fingers, as we waited to see the moon shadows and the starlight. Behind us in the house was the joyful preparation of supper, with Alison singing and Ian teasing. From where we sat we could see the glow in the kitchen, and the figures moving in the fire-light, and it used to amuse us to watch them, unconscious of our gaze.

“They dunno know we sees 'em,” whispered Uncle Barny so softly I could scarcely hear, silent as if he didn't want to disturb the shadows round us, and a hedgehog passed us by and a rat slipped through the undergrowth.

As I sat there one evening listening to the swallows which were darting in and out of the barn, for it was early and light had not faded, I was conscious of much movement and excitement in the great farm kitchen. People walked in and out of the firelight, and came to the porch, strangers whom I did not know, women wearing full, gathered skirts, and wide aprons, and little ruffly collars, men in padded breeches and leather jackets and hunting boots. Some had bare legs and short, ragged leather trousers, and their hair was wild and tousled. They carried shining dishes and wooden bowls and leather jugs; they stooped over the fire and one lighted a slip of wood and carried the flame to candles fastened to the wall. Then I saw them more clearly, their rosy faces and brown hands and rough, uncut hair. They pushed and joked, or so I imagined, for I could not hear a sound. Through a bedroom window I espied another face, a boy older than I, with fair hair and keen, blue eyes. His face was eager and gay, and he looked at the oak-tree where I sat invisible to him. He took a bow from the room behind him and fitted an arrow and shot at the tree's trunk, so that I winced and drew aside.

“Who are they?” I asked Uncle Barny. “Who are those people and that boy?”

“Uncle Barny,” I cried, striving to make myself heard, but there was no sound except for my beating heart. “Uncle Barny! Who are they? What are they doing there?” I asked again, and the words were like rain falling from the clouds or mists coming over the fields, making a pattern.

“Uncle Barny!” I made a desperate effort, and clutched his arm and a cry broke from my throat, a queer strangled noise.

“Hello! Have you been asleep, Penelope? Poor little wench. You've had a nightmare!” said he gently stroking my arm.

My voice had come back, and I asked, choking with the effort: “Who are those people?”

Uncle Barnabas slowly turned his huge body and followed my trembling finger. Even as I pointed the lights dimmed, the serving men and women faded away, and there stood my Aunt Tissie with her copper kettle and Alison in her little apron, and Jess piling logs on the fire.

“Only your Aunt Cicely Anne and Alison! You've been dreaming,” said Uncle Barny again. I kept close to him and when he rose to return for supper, I went too. Everything was as usual, and there was a welcoming creak of chairs and crackle of the fire as we went into the kitchen and sat down to the table.

The surprise which Aunt Tissie had promised us arrived one morning soon after this. There was a clatter of hooves in the lane, and a young man rode up the drive on a chestnut pony.

“Here her is, Mester Taberner,” said he leaping down, and he led the pony to the barn door. “Here her is. I couldn't get with her afore, because they're thrutched with work at Bramble.”

“How do you like her, Penelope?” asked Uncle Barnabas.

“She's glorious,” I cried, patting the arched neck. “Whose is she? Is she yours?”

“I've hired her from Bramble Hall for a bit, for you three to ride,” said Uncle Barny. “It will do you good to learn to manage her. She's good-tempered, for I bred her myself.”

The pony nuzzled at his pocket and gave a whinny of recognition. “Aye,” he continued, “she's been inside Thackers afore this. Saw the door open and walked in, and helped yourself to a cake, didn't you, Betty?”

The pony whinnied and stamped her hoof, and the young man grinned.

We thanked Uncle Barny, bewildered by the good fortune, for we had always wanted a pony to ride. We once had lessons in London, when father was able to spare a little money, but we had never been on a horse outside the riding school.

Then Aunt Tissie came out with sugar and bread. “Betty, you beauty,” she cried, flinging her arms round the pony and kissing its soft nose. “Welcome home to your old stable, my pet.”

“Ian must look after her, groom her, fettle her, and you must take turns in riding,” said Uncle Barnabas, and he gave us a lesson in management, and showed us where to hang the saddle. Ian mounted at once and trotted round the yard and out to the field. I raced upstairs to change my apron and tunic. I flung open the door, and I fell headlong down a flight of stairs. I had dropped into the corridor where I had seen the servants pass with their jugs and tankards. For some time I lay half-stunned with surprise, but unhurt, for I had fallen silently like a feather floating to the floor. I looked round at the door, but it had disappeared; I stared at the low whitewashed ceiling and the carved doorways, and I listened to the beating of my heart which was the only sound. Then life seemed to come to the world, distant shouts of men, the jingle of harness, and the lowing of cattle. A cock crew as if to wake the dead, and I sat up trying to remember...remember....

“Grammercy! What's this ado?” cried a shrill voice, and a young woman came round the corner and stood with arms akimbo looking at me. “What do ye here, wench? Ye've no occasion to come up here? I'll lay ye are peering into what doesn't concern ye. So get ye down to the kitchen. What are ye doing? Has my lady sent ye for 'owt? Who are ye?”

“Who are ye?” I echoed, struggling to my feet dazed and confused, and even my own voice sounded hollow and remote to my ears.

The young woman flared up angrily and shook a warning finger at me. Her clumsy body bent toward me and she muttered half under her breath: “Don't ye be impertinent! Don't ye dare mock me!” but I had no intention of mocking. I had used her words to recover my wits, which had forsaken me completely.

“Haste down to the kitchen to Dame Cicely. The mistress is waiting for her posset,” said she more quietly, and she pointed down the passage. I went meekly past the closed doors with the carved lintels to a stone stairway up which a young and pretty servant-girl was coming. Her round face was tanned and freckled and her little snub nose and ripe, red lips were beaded with moisture. She wore a full blue skirt kilted out of the way, and her small, brown feet were bare. A bonnet of lawn covered her ruddy hair, and she tossed her head to shake back a curl. In her hands she carried a besom made of birch twigs and a mop and a wooden bucket of hot water. She looked up and saw me, and she stopped dead, staring at me with her wide, brown eyes startled like a deer.

“Who art thou, mistress?” she asked, and she puckered her red lips and spoke with a broad accent which was homely and welcoming to me. “Dost want Dame Cicely Taberner?”

“Yes please,” I faltered. “Miss Cicely Taberner I want.”

“She's down in the kitchen making the bread.” The girl spoke slowly, and she put down her bucket in the corner and accompanied me with many a backward glance at my dress and surreptitious peep at my face, along the stone passage to the room I knew so well. There was the same big oak table in the middle of the floor and the same spice cupboard with its multitude of little drawers against the wall. The bare, scrubbed boards of the table were heaped with a medley of things—wild ducks, in their soft feathers, pigs' white pettitoes, bleached for cooking, a wide basket of apples, wooden and earthenware bowls and an enormous rolling-pin like a truncheon. Strange smells came drifting through the air, pungent odours of spices and meats and smoke from the fire, and strange people were standing about on the flagged floor where green rushes were strewn. A great fire burned in the open hearth and round it were saucepans of brass and iron simmering in the edges of the flames and sending out the heavy odours which pervaded the room and made me feel giddy as I stood in the doorway surveying the scene. The stove with its ovens and hobs was no longer there, but hanging from the iron ratchet which Aunt used for her pig-food kettle was a large cauldron with meat simmering, and curls of blue vapour rising among the flames. On the floor in front of the blazing logs was a spit with a humpbacked boy turning the handle and watching the roasting fowls drop their fat into a dish below. He stared at me, unsmiling, his green eyes bright in the firelight, his rough mop of black hair glittering round his small, pointed face. Then he went on with his work, but his gaze never left me and I felt discomfort under that inimical stare.

I saw a woman who was surely my Aunt Tissie, grown taller, stouter, younger, and more comely, but with the same broad good-tempered face, and the same hooked nose and rounded cheeks. Her lips were parted, and her forehead wet with sweat. She was kneading the bread in a great wooden trough like the horses' manger and her plump arms were deep in the folds of the dough. A young girl was cracking and beating eggs in an earthenware bowl and tossing the shells to a corner of the room where a vast heap lay like foam. Another woman was stirring custard in a brass-pan, chattering all the time. On a rack above their heads hung a hundred or more oaten cakes, big as dinner-plates, drying in the fire's heat, and a barrel of meal stood on the floor with a wooden jug beside it.

The serving-girl pushed me gently forward as I lingered in the doorway, and my aunt looked up from her kneading-trough.

“Lord 'a Mercy on us! Who's this?” she cried, and for a moment her cheeks paled, and the pupils of her blue eyes dilated, but her voice was deep and rich as ever, with the burr in it which always made me feel warm and happy.

“It's me! It's Penelope, Aunt Tissie,” I cried, running forward quickly, and my heart rejoiced to see my beloved aunt. The others stared open-mouthed, but Aunt Tissie carefully removed the clinging dough from her arms and dipped her fingers in the flour-barrel to dry them. She came slowly across the room to me, for I had hesitated half-way across the floor, bewildered by the strangeness that assailed my eyes and nostrils. I stood mute, like a little wild creature, wrinkling my nose at the smells of humanity which were unlike those I knew.

Aunt Tissie put her hands on my shoulders, and tilted my chin to the light. Her puzzled blue eyes gazed into mine, her fingers caressed my cheek-bones and her thumbs poked my dimples.

“Who art thou, little wench?” she asked quietly, softly. “Thou call'st me Aunt, niece Penelope? Art thou a niece of mine? What's thy name?”