Bitter Inheritance (2 page)

To pay the rent, Sally would have to dip into the family savings. Thursday evening was the time for the Penny Bank to open in Thorpe. Hastily washing her face and putting on a clean dress, Sally flew up the street to the Reading Room where the banking session was held.

The bank was opened each week by John Pickering, a serious, kindly man who was the unofficial village leader. Villagers could organize their savings without needing to go to Ripon and they knew their money was safe. The Yorkshire Penny Bank had
imposing buildings in the big towns and John Pickering was himself rather monumental, thought Sally, just as a banker should be.

‘Mr Pickering, I don’t know where Father’s bank book is. But could you – could you let me have some money out of the account to pay the rent? I do know it’s a joint account, him and me.’ Sally pushed back a stray red curl.

‘Surely your father told you all about the financial affairs of the farm? And where the records are kept?’ Mr Pickering sounded alarmed. Concerned grey eyes looked into hers.

‘Well, no. We never talked much about money. I think he didn’t want me to worry.’ A tear splashed onto Sally’s hands. ‘The only thing I know is that he’d put everything in both our names when I turned twenty-one.’

There was a pause and the banker looked out of the window. Then he sighed and opened a ledger. He ruffled through the pages. ‘I hate to have to tell you this, my dear, but there’s no money left in your account – just a few pence, to keep it open.’ He looked up.

Sally sat absolutely still with shock.

‘But surely this won’t be the only money in the family. I know Robert talked about saving up to buy back the farm one day.’ Mr Pickering spoke deliberately, slowly, perhaps giving her time to recover.

The girl fought the rising panic. No money! ‘And where do you think it might be? Another bank, perhaps? Father used to bank in town as well.’

‘He never told me. I think you’d better go home and look through all your father’s papers and you might find out. You see, Sally, the Penny Bank account was only used for saving up spare money from selling eggs or cheese. It couldn’t have been his main account. Your solicitor will probably know something about it. Have you no money in the house?’ Most farmers kept a ‘bob or two’ under the mattress for emergencies. Sally knew all about that and she also knew where it had gone.

‘I used it all to pay for the funeral. And the headstone.’
ROBERT MASON, 1841-1894, OF BADGER’S GILL, AND HIS BELOVED WIFE, LOUISA, 1845-1892
. A simple headstone was all she’d been able to
afford. Another tear rolled down her cheek. It was all too raw, too savage for the girl, thinking of the earth over their grave. This time there was no bright side to look upon.

John Pickering’s sympathy showed in his face as he closed the ledger. ‘You could ask your Uncle Samuel – he could know something about your father’s affairs. I think he’d be a good person to advise you.’

Sally realized that she didn’t want anybody to know about the embarrassing shortage of money. But she should visit Uncle Samuel and Aunt Bertha. Her uncle would be grieving for his brother and would surely be sympathetic.

‘Thank you, Mr Pickering, I’ll see Uncle Samuel. Don’t worry about me, the farm is going well. Soon be selling the lambs. Goodnight.’

Sally went slowly back down the village street, much more slowly than she’d gone up it earlier. Badger’s Gill was the last house on the Ripon road, facing the village with its prim front windows but open to the rolling countryside at the back. Sniffing the scent of roses from the village gardens, Sally tried to put the thought of the rent out of her mind. Masons were not very good with money; they were not very interested in it. But unfortunately she would now need to take a keen interest in it … how did one do it? She thought about the lamb crop. They could be sold before the end of the year, but not yet.

‘Hello, Sally, are you going to pass by without a word? Come in and have a bite of supper with us!’ came a strong, cheerful voice, from a village garden.

Sally looked up. ‘Sorry, Martha, I didn’t see you.’ She crossed the dusty village road. Martha, plump and comfortable in a white apron, opened the little gate into her garden, which was crowded with summer flowers.

‘Come on in, now. George has just lit the lamp. George, here’s Sally, you were just wondering how she was getting on.’

Soon the three of them were sitting round the table, with ham, cheese and pickles and hot, strong cups of tea. Sally began to feel hungry and remembered that she hadn’t eaten since midday. The lamp cast a warm circle of light round them and as she looked at the kind faces, her feeling of loneliness receded.

George and Martha Dawson were of her parents’ generation and she’d known them all her life. Sally’s father had often called George ‘medieval’ because of his old-fashioned ways. He was tall and rangy, but beginning to bend a little with age and from lifting heavy weights. Sally had always liked his kind eyes, hidden under his pulled-down cap. George’s farm was a few scattered fields on the outskirts of the village, where he kept sheep, and grew a few carrots or cabbages to sell.

As she ate Sally could feel the couple’s concern for her, but they asked no questions. Martha smiled when she heard of the sheep shearing. ‘George would have done it for you, love!’

‘Aye, lass. I’ll shear the rest for you next week.’ However much she protested, Sally had to give in. ‘That’s what neighbours are for,’ he said quietly, lighting his pipe.

These kind people would want to lend her money if they knew she had none. It was most important that they shouldn’t know. They described themselves as comfortable, but they would have little to spare. The winters were long at Thorpe, with little chance for selling produce, and anything they could save in summer would be needed for the dark months when the wind whipped in from the North Sea and nothing grew in the fields until spring.

Looking up from her plate Sally saw that Martha was watching her closely over her glasses in a motherly sort of way. ‘Not much money coming in lately, I expect,’ the older woman now ventured almost diffidently. She smoothed the white apron. ‘But I was thinking you’ll have some milk to spare, very soon. Those calves’ll be big enough to live on grass any day now.’

Sally blushed at the forbidden mention of money, but then she smiled. ‘That’s a good thought, Martha. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t think of weaning the calves. But if they’re not to feed I can go back to making butter, maybe.’

‘You’ve kept up the cheese-making, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, there’s been enough milk to make cheese twice a week.’ Sally thought proudly of the Wensleydale cheeses in her little storeroom, quietly maturing, all laced into their calico covers and waiting for the factor to call in the autumn to buy them. But until then they would not earn any money. ‘I might make a bit of butter and take it to Ripon market next week.’ How many pounds of
butter would pay the rent?

Martha beamed. ‘You used to make grand butter, lass, I’m sure folks will fall over themselves to buy it. Now, if you’re taking the pony and trap down next Thursday, can I have a ride with you? I could help you with the baskets maybe.’

Sally’s heart lightened a little as she thought of selling butter. High Side butter from the villages on the moorland side of Ripon was thought to be far better than that produced by the fat cattle of the valley. ‘We’ll be a couple of real High-Siders, striding through town with our big baskets! Are you sure you want to be seen with me?’ Sally’s laugh was almost cheerful, and it made George smile.

‘There’s worse things than being a High-Sider! Nowt to be ashamed of. But you’ll nearly have forgotten, it’s a long while since butter was made at Badger’s Gill.’ George shook his silver head.

It was true. Sally couldn’t remember the last time she’d made butter, but it would have been before her father had such difficulty in breathing that he’d had to leave most of the farm work to his daughter. After that there had been no time for making butter. Maybe that was why there was no money in the bank.

‘I’ll need to set the cream to rise, I’d better be off,’ said Sally once supper was over, feeling tired after the ups and downs of the day.

‘Don’t forget the butter stamp. Your Ma had a good one for the tops of the bricks. A badger, it was, for Badger’s Gill … Your father carved it for her when they were first married.’

Sally promised she would find the stamp and all her bricks would carry the badger trademark. It was a small link with her parents and a nice idea.

‘And when they taste how good it is they’ll come back for more. The badger will remind them who you are,’ said Martha, evidently afraid that the Masons were not quite business-minded enough, but Sally was quite grateful for the advice. She had a week to skim off the cream, let it mature and make it into butter, before the market next Thursday.

You have to eat to live, my girl. How about that? Walking home through the long June twilight, Sally realized that there would be no money to buy food for herself, for quite a while. Maybe Martha had already thought of that, and this was why she’d invited her to a meal and watched her eat. Like the other farmers, the Masons had usually bought their groceries on market day, using the money they earned from eggs, butter and other produce of the farm. Rabbits, too, if they could snare them. Ripon folk liked a fresh rabbit. But there had been no visits to the market for some time, either to earn money or to spend it.

After the funeral there had been little food left in the house. The whole village had been there and most of them had come to the tea afterwards. Robert Mason had been well-liked and everybody, while lamenting his passing, had enjoyed his funeral – a real community event.

Sally thought about her stores. The hams, cured last autumn, had been baked and eaten. The flour bin was nearly empty, but there could be some oats in the granary, she thought. The garden vegetables were coming along nicely but only the gooseberries were ready. That left milk and eggs; the cheese should really be kept for sale. Since the funeral there had been so little time that Sally hadn’t worried about proper meals, or buying in more food. Not until now. Although she could clearly remember the time before the farm was sold, when there was little to eat in the house, Sally had never needed to think about where the next penny was coming from. Her father had handled the money in both their names. ‘R. and S. Mason, Badger’s Gill’ was a respected family
concern with good credit anywhere in Ripon. But that was when they were selling plenty of cheese and butter. Tonight she’d discovered that their savings had gone, or had been stored elsewhere. Well, she’d better make some more! It was summer, the cows were milking well, so there was a bright side if you looked for it … hard.

Turning in at the gate, Sally decided to take a last look at the sheep before going to bed. It was almost dark enough to visit the badgers, so first she went down into the bottom of the gill. The Masons had always been interested in the badgers and her father had loved to watch the young cubs playing at this time of the year. In a way, Sally thought, the Masons guarded the badgers, checking on them from time to time. They’d been there before the Masons came, maybe for thousands of years, but they were at risk from cruel men. Although the sport of badger baiting had been illegal for almost half a century, there were still sessions held in secret at country inns, and so badgers were in demand. Dogs were set on them and bets were laid as to how many dogs would be killed before the badger died. It was barbaric, but it still went on. The Masons had seldom mentioned the animals to anyone else, wanting to keep their home a secret, but the farm name, Badger’s Gill, gave them away.

Their habits varied, probably as a protective device. Badgers were unpredictable creatures and tonight, no young cubs were about; the place was eerily quiet. In the silence Sally stood quite still. She could hear the distant hoot of an owl and a dog barking. Her old dog, Moll, up in the farmyard. Something was wrong … and then she heard a creak. It was the creak of a swinging gate and Sally knew what it meant. She ran to the top of the bank and saw the gate swinging open into the green lane. The sheep had gone! With a sinking heart, Sally wondered what kind of trouble the flock was in this time. A few months ago they’d found a hole in the hedge, scrambled through and gone off to eat in the village gardens. Sally had needed to apologize to a few irate gardeners and give them plants from her own garden. She blushed to think of it.

Where were the sheep this time? The worst thing of all was the open gate. It had been deliberately opened by a human – no sheep, however determined, could open that gate.

Mist crept up from the river as dawn broke, curling through the oak trees in Hack Fall, moving up Badger’s Gill and touching Sally with its cold fingers as she strode down the bank. After a nearly sleepless night worrying about the sheep – and the unknown enemy – Sally was rounding up the cows for milking. You had to trust people in the country. You had to believe that they wouldn’t steal stock or let them out. Most folks would put animals back in their field if they saw them on the road. But whatever else happened, even if the sky fell down, the cows had to be milked every morning and every night. It was an imperative that shaped the day, that had always called farmers from village events, and it came before and after a day’s holiday or even a funeral.

The missing sheep were weighing on Sally’s mind and she rushed through the milking as fast as she could. But peering out of the cowshed door she could see that the mist was thickening into a fog. It was hard to find sheep in a fog; they merged into the background too easily.

With the milking over, the girl munched a piece of bread and cheese – no time to make a cup of tea – and threw on an old shawl. Catching sight of herself in the mirror she grinned at the image of the slight figure swathed in grey, with the red hair hidden. Suitably anonymous, although everybody in Thorpe knew the sheep only too well.

Where had those wicked sheep gone? Sally didn’t blame Mary and Lavinia so much as the person who let them out, and she shivered when she thought of the ill-will behind the action. What had she done to earn such treatment?

A quick survey of the gardens on Thorpe’s main street revealed nothing; not a petal out of place, thank goodness. Prudence had a fondness for roses and if she got the chance she led the flock straight to Mrs Bentley’s garden at the vicarage.

Sally remembered how last year the sheep had adventured along the green lane. Gertrude had led that day and they’d gone carefully round the backs of the houses, crossed the road to Masham and ended up on Nutwith Common. The Motley Flock, as her father had called them, liked variety in their lives.

With some tempting grain in her bucket Sally set off at a trot, slowing down to a more ladylike walk when she saw anyone coming. There were few folks about in the foggy morning but she heard the rumble of a cart halfway along the street.

‘Robin, the sheep are out again!’ Sally’s cheeks were just a little pink and she was breathing a little faster. ‘You haven’t seen them, have you?’ She felt conscious of the old shawl and her farm boots and the dowdy impression she gave. It would have been better to appear cool and collected. She would like to impress Robin Scott.

Robin laughed and shook his curly brown head. ‘Not again! How clever of them. No, I haven’t seen them, unfortunately. Wish I could help you, lass, but I’ve got an urgent job to do this morning. Tell you what, though, I’ll keep an eye out. I’ll let you know if I spot them.’

‘Thanks.’ Sally couldn’t keep the dejection out of her voice and Robin must have noticed it. It would have been good to have Robin’s help.

‘I nearly forgot, Ma says you should come to supper on Sunday. It’ll be lonely for you at Badger’s Gill all on your own. I’ll tell her you’ll be there, then!’ He shook the reins and the carthorse lumbered off.

Sally watched him disappear into the fog and sighed. She should have got over Robin by now. They’d played together when they were small and Sally had hoped they could be more than friends. Gradually her feelings for him had deepened as she grew up, but Robin, jolly light-hearted lad that he was, had never even hinted at romance. And after years of waiting Sally had slowly realized that he probably never would. To him, she was like a sister. Robin’s mother was aware of the whole situation and Sally thought she must sympathize a little. She often invited Sally to join them and Robin was still good company, still her friend, but somehow detached.

As she plodded up the road Sally saw Robin’s image in front of her, the flash of a smile in a thin brown face, the dancing light in his eyes behind his glasses. Robin Scott was one of those who were born lucky, apart from poor eyesight. The Scotts owned three or four farms and Robin’s enthusiasm had led them into modern farming methods. They ran the farms as a business and the
Masons had sometimes envied their success. Robin was just a year older than Sally and she wondered sometimes whether he would ever fall in love. It was almost time for him to get married and take over one of the family farms, but he never talked of the future.

There was something on the road. Sally reluctantly jerked her thoughts away from Robin, back to the task in hand. There was the imprint of a cloven hoof in the soft earth at the side of the road and here were some more. Sheep had passed this way recently. It would be very hard to find the sheep on the common in fog, but better for them to be there than nibbling away at gardens or farm crops.

Halfway up the hill there was a farm gate and the sheep had milled around there for a while and then gone in. Sally followed their tracks all the way up to Camp Hill Farm, shivering at the thought of what she would find. There was a new tenant at this farm, an unknown quantity. Collecting a bunch of strays would be the worst possible way to meet a new neighbour. Sally imagined the scene. ‘Good morning, Mr Farmer, how nice to meet you, I’ve just come to pick up my sheep. So sorry they’ve trampled your young corn, I hope it will grow again soon.’ She would avoid the farmer if at all possible.

Skirting the farmhouse and buildings warily, Sally made her way up the hill and memories flooded her mind, so that for a while she forgot about her troubles. Up here on a clear day you could see across a wide sweep of farmland, over to the east from the ridge of the High Side. But at present she could see nothing but the rectangular shape of the Roman camp, looming at the top of the hill. Sally had loved to come up here with her mother and hear about how the Roman soldiers built a small fort so that they could watch out on all sides. Only the stones of the outer walls now marked the place, but inside the walls was a sheltered hollow where the grass was green. The Romans out of the history books had actually been here and Sally had tried to imagine their lives at Thorpe, far from their homes in the sunny south.

Camp Hill was a nice little place for tired sheep to rest up and Sally had a feeling she would find them there. She peered down into the hollow. Of course, there were Prudence, Lavinia and the rest, all sitting comfortably chewing the cud with innocent faces,
their lambs at their sides. They looked up at her with composure.

At the far side of the bank that had once been the wall of the camp, a tall figure stood watching over them. The figure came and went through the mist like a dream. Head up, shoulders back, with short hair and a stern profile. For a fleeting moment, Sally imagined a Roman soldier stood there, unreal, a phantom from long ago. Just as she’d always imagined one to be.

Tired and hungry as she was, Sally laughed at herself for the thought. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts – don’t be daft!’ She drew the shawl closer round her, shivering in the cold air.

The Roman turned his head and saw Sally through the fog. The figure changed instantly into a real young man, and an irate one. ‘GET THOSE SHEEP OFF THIS LAND!’

Well, that’s a farmer! A ghost wouldn’t yell like that, what a relief, Sally thought as she braced herself to deal with this new problem. What if she denied all knowledge of the flock? A slight breeze shook the leaves of an overhanging oak tree and suddenly the fog began to roll away. A misty sun shone through and as Sally stood and trembled, the grand vista appeared at her feet, over to the Vale of Mowbray and beyond. It was a miraculous moment.

In the morning light Sally stood, exposed in her old shawl – a slim young woman. The man’s jaw dropped. ‘Sorry, miss! I couldn’t see in the fog.’ But the dark face still looked stern. ‘Where’s the shepherd?’

‘What shepherd?’ Sally tried to look vacant, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about.

The man pointed to the Motley Flock. ‘These sheep are strays and I assume you know something about them. What about it, Bo-Peep?’ His voice held an ironic tone.

It was time to create a diversion and the mist had parted just in time to enlarge their world. ‘What a beautiful morning!’ Sally said as she turned her face to the east, to the sunshine and the view of the valley. ‘I used to come up here when I was a child … and, do you know, for a moment I thought you were a Roman soldier!’

It worked. The man laughed, jumped down lightly from the bank and came to stand beside her. ‘Marcus, at your service. Ninth Legion! No doubt you’re Bo-Peep from the nursery rhyme?’

He was an attractive man when he stopped scowling. And he
seemed to know about the Romans. Well, at least he’d forgotten the bad temper; Sally hated to be shouted at. She smiled vaguely. No good admitting she was a Bo-Peep.

‘That’s what the fog does for you! I thought you were a shepherd at first. And I’d like to find the owner of these strays. It’s not good enough, letting them wander like this.’

Sally kept quiet and looked attentive. Don’t mention sheep, don’t look at them…. She was willing the man to go away.

The Roman relaxed a little. ‘I’ve wondered myself about what went on up here, two thousand years ago. It was probably a summer camp – too cold up here in the winter, I should have thought.’

‘That’s what we’ve always thought. But there was a big Roman town over there, of course.’ Sally pointed to the valley in the direction of Boroughbridge. ‘My mother said this was probably a lookout for them.’

‘You’re very well informed, Bo-Peep!’ The tone was still slightly ironic, but the man gave her a friendly look.

They looked together over the summer landscape, at the varied patchwork of fields and woods, rising in the blue distance to the Cleveland Hills. Near at hand the last shreds of mist were dissolving in the sun. Sally stole a look at him. The man spoke well, although he was dressed in plain riding clothes and boots. He looked to be in his late twenties; tough, but there was a hint of humour in the firm mouth. What would he think of a dowdy little female that couldn’t control her sheep?