Haggard (12 page)

Haggard decided he could not be referring to the gallows, fortunately vacant, which loomed beside his window. The berlin had halted on a shallow hill, and below him the valley was delineated. The road led down and through a small village, rather remin
iscent of the bookkeepers’
village on Haggard's, save that there was more than one street, and the houses were not quite so orderly and by no means similar in size or shape; vines grew up the walls, smoke drifted from the chimneys, and at the far end waited an inn, fronting on to the village green beyond which there was a sizeable pond, the home, it appeared, of a flock of ducks.

Behind the village, to either side, there was open pasture, grazed by sheep, and at a distance of perhaps a half a mile, reached by a winding lane between the gravestones, was the grey stone church; close by were the vicarage and then the village school.

'Old, that is,' Cummings said, indicating the church. 'Twelfth century. There are some houses in the village date back that far too.'

'And the manor,' Emma said. 'Do you like the look of it, Mr. Haggard?'

The somewhat rambling building
w
as
in the far distance, and the afternoon was well advanced. 'I shall reserve judgement until we get closer. I was told there are coal mines.'

'In those hills beyond the manor house, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings said. 'Oh, a goodly return is to be obtained from them.'

'But no farms?'

'Seven farms, sir. Also beyond the hills, but all paying rent to the manor, to be sure.'

'Then what do the people of the village work at?'

'Why, sir, they are mainly miners. But there's a deal of home work, as well. They spin cotton in those cottages. Or they did before the American colonies revolted. But the cotton trade is picking up again, sir. You've a prosperous community down there, Mr. Haggard. No backslidings on the rent roll. I'll promise you that.'

There's no water.'

'Indeed there is, sir. The Derleth River comes down from the hills over there, and runs hard by the Manor House. Good fishing, too. You'll not see it from here. But it traverses your park.'

Then let's to it,' Haggard said, and rubbed Roger's head.

The cavalcade, for there were two other carriages behind, containing the slaves and the baggage, rumbled down the hill and along the main street. Doors and windows opened, people looked out to oversee the arrival of their new squire. Many waved, and Emma waved enthusiastically back.

'Do you recognise any of them?' Haggard asked.

'One or two. But they'll not know me.' She was wearing her new deep crimson pelisse, lined with ermine, and a matching velvet hat.

Haggard watched the Manor House approaching. It formed one arm of a U-shaped series of buildings, outhouses, stables. It was three storeys high, with somewhat small windows and a sloping roof. Unpainted, the stone was weathered a deep green where it could be seen beneath the ever-present ivy.

Waiting in the courtyard were a score of people. But he had anticipated this, after his London experience. And at least here, he reflected as he climbed
down, there was no Hardy and no
Mistress Broughton. The butler was a very old fellow, who found it hard to stand straight.

'Welcome to you, Mr. Haggard, sir,' he said. 'Pretty is the name.'

'Good evening to you. Pretty.'

'John MacGuinness, at your service, Mr. Haggard.' This was a big, bluff fellow with a red face.'

'Mr. MacGuinness is your bailiff, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings explained. 'Anything you desire, just mention it to him.'

'Oh, aye, Mr. Haggard, anything you desire.'

Haggard nodded, walked down the row of gamekeepers and grooms and yardboys and footmen and women. Once again all the housemaids were young girls, all white, and one at least definitely pretty. And if they were not slaves, they were most definitely his servants, and as they lived in his village, his tenants as well. He was aware of a most peculiar sensation, which he could not identify.

And was distracted by a shout behind him. 'Tom Pretty. Well, glory be. I'd have thought you dead by now.'

Haggard turned, watched Emma embracing the butler, who was blinking at her uncertainly. 'Miss
...
not Emmy Dearborn?'

'The same. Tom. The same.'

'But . . .'He scratched his head and displaced his wig. 'We heard . . .'He glanced at Haggard. 'What did you hear. Pretty?'

That . . . well, sir, that she'd been sent overseas.' 'Which is where I have come from, Pretty. Shall we go inside, Emma?'

She flushed. 'Of course, Mr. Haggard,' hurried in front of him into the somewhat low hallway.

Haggard sniffed as he climbed the stairs. 'Damp.'

'Aye, well, 'tis an old building,' MacGuinness explained. 'But we've a fire in here.' He opened the door to the winter parlour, which was certainly cosy enough.

Haggard nodded. 'You've made arrangements for my people?'

‘I
ndeed, sir, their rooms are all prepared. Will you come upstairs?'

He climbed the next flight, and Haggard waited for Emma to precede him.
‘I
'm sorry, Mr. Haggard,' she whispered. Truly I am. It was just that, well, I knew him as a girl.'

There'll be many people here you knew as a girl,' Haggard pointed out. 'But you'll bear in mind that you have risen above them.'

'Of course, Mr. Haggard.' She paused on the landing, blew her nose. 'This house is just as I remember it.'

MacGuinness had opened the door of the main bedroom. Here too a fire blazed in the grate, but nothing could expel the lingering smell of damp.

This house, Mr. MacGuinness, is a recipe for rheumatism,' Haggard said.

Tis a damp neighbourhood, sir, what with the river and the canal. But no one ever died of rheumatism.' His attempted smile died as he saw Haggard was not amused.

There's a housekeeper?'

'Oh, indeed, sir. Margaret. Come along, girl.'

She had followed them up the stairs, and Haggard saw to his surprise that she was the pretty one. Indeed, now he could look closer, he could see that she was somewhat older than the other girls, although clearly still in her early twenties. She was tall and solidly built, with a mass of curly dark hair, at present carefully pinned beneath her cap, but yet attempting to escape in every direction. Her features were regular, and dominated by her large brown eyes. Now she gave a brief curtsey.

'Margaret, is it?' Haggard said. 'You'll have fires on, day and night in the bedrooms.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Show me,' Emma decided.

'Yes . . . mum,' Margaret agreed. The two women left the room, but did not close the door behind them. Haggard heard Margaret's voice . . . 'Are you really Emmy Dearborn? Well, what a . . .' They were beyond earshot."

'Well, sir,' MacGuinness said. 'I hope you are satisfied?'

'Hum,' Haggard said. 'You'll stay to dine.'

Thank you, sir.'

'And tomorrow you can show me the coal mines.'

Haggard stood on the raised platform and gazed at the entrance to the
mini
-shaft. It was a dull day with a smattering of drizzle in the air; his tricorne was pulled low over his forehead and his cloak was gathered tightly around his shoulders. But the entire scene would have been gloomy even had the sun been shining, he thought. The greenness of the hills behind, and they were far more green than in Barbados, was quite offset by the huge mound of slag on the far side of the pit itself, by the discolouration of the grass, and even of the water; the canal which ran straight as a rule into the distance was muddy brown in colour.

And even these evidences of the contamination caused by the coal were pleasant to look upon compared with the yawning black pit in front of him.

'Men work down there?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard,' said the manager. 'Well, we employ all sorts. Men to do the hard work, you understand. But we have the kiddies doing the drawing.'

'Kiddies?'

'Well, they're small see, and able to get through the passages easier than grown men, who have to crawl. And we don't have to pay them no more than a quarter of a man's wage. They'll be up, now.'

A bell sounded, and the office staff were issuing from the building to his left, pulling on cloaks and hats.

'Friday, you see Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness explained. 'We only work half day on Friday.'

Haggard watched the entrance to the shaft. The men came up first. It was hard to decide they weren't Negroes, stripped to the waist, with coal dust clinging to their sweating skins. But they were
not
Negroes; each splash of rain revealed a trace of pink flesh beneath. And they were not slaves, although their backs were in many cases permanently bent, and they blinked at the daylight as if half blind. But then, what was he to make of the children who straggled behind, and to his horror he saw that these were girls as well as boys; indeed, there were more girls than boys. And these were naked, plastered, like the men, in coal dust, long golden hair stuck to their shoulders and streaked with black. Most of the children were clearly very young, but several were well past puberty, and apparently cared little for that; if they immediately sought threadbare cloaks to wrap around themselves it was because of the rain, not the watching men. In Barbados every field slave had worn at least a pair of drawers.

'Now wait a moment and listen to me,' MacGuinness shouted.

Heads turned, disinterestedly.

This here is the new owner, Mr. John Haggard, of Barbados.' They touched their hats or their foreheads. 'I don't have to speak with them, do I?' Haggard asked, suddenly nervous for the first time in years.

'No, sir, you do not. But it does them good to see the owner, once in a while.' MacGuinness raised hi
s voice again. That will be all
good people. Mr. Haggard is very pleased with you.'

They touched their foreheads again and shambled off. Some of the children broke into a run, and began to laugh and play, bare feet splashing through the icy puddles. Haggard shivered.

They seem jolly enough.'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard, especially on a Friday afternoon.'

'But
..."
He chose his words wi
th care. 'Do they not suffer? I
was thinking of the girls . . .
and the boys, of course. Naked, down there.'

'Well, sir. coal dust is not the healthiest of beverages, to be sure. We've a high incidence of lung complaints here in Derleth.' He dropped his voice and gave a portentous wink. 'There's a saying you can have any girl in the village by offering her a domestic post at the manor instead of sending her down the mine.' He sighed, as once again his attempt at humour seemed to have missed its target. 'You'd like to go down the shaft, sir?"

'Down there? Good heavens, no.' Haggard walked to the edge of the canal, studied the empty barges; the horses had been removed from the traces for the weekend. 'Where do these go?'

This branch canal joins the main one three miles off. Mr. Haggard. Then it's on to the north west. Liverpool and Manchester.'

'And there is truly a demand for coal on this scale?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard. Especially with winter coming on. Living in cities, sir, you'll understand, there is not sufficient wood to keep the fires burning. People must have coal, sir.'

Haggard nodded, returned to his horse, mounted, walked it up the slope to the cut through the hills. Here he paused, watched the miners and the children ahead of him, trooping along the road past the manor house and towards the village. He had no desire to overtake them.

'Anywhere else you'd like to visit, Mr. Haggard? The village?' is it customary?'

'Only on special occasions, sir, like the church fete. But you'd always be welcome at the inn, sir. You'd be buying.' 'Yes,' Haggard said. 'Maybe Sunday.' 'Now there is a happy thought, sir. After service.' 'Service?'

'Morning service, sir.'

'Hum,' Haggard said, and walked his horse down the slope. Water ga
thered on the brim of his tricorn
e and dripped past his nose. In Barbados it either rained, angrily and violently, for several hours, and then stopped altogether, or the sun shone from a cloudless sky. He had never known anything like this perpetual drip; it had begun the previous evening, and it had not once ceased. 'Who are the electors of this borough?'

'Ah, well, sir, there's Parson Litteridge, and there's Hatchard the publican, and there's the farmers, and Coleman the merchant and Plaidy the blacksmith, and Johnson the schoolmaster, and well, sir, there's me. Fourteen in all.'