Stone Cradle (11 page)

That evening, William was seated next to me with his book, and Horace and his father were in the kitchen with their pipes. Henry was in disgrace for his absence earlier in the day and so had been given the entire list of evening duties to perform on his own, which would take him until well after dark. The dog, Eddy we called him, was asleep on the step. I was sitting right by the open door and was weaving a length of cotton in and out of a tear by a shoulder seam on one of Henry’s shirts. He did the least work but damaged his clothing most greatly, which was a thing I never fathomed.

Horace was brooding and silent, but that was more or less as normal.

When he had finished his pipe, Father rose. ‘I shall retire early,’ he said, to the room in general.

I put down my sewing. Father liked to take a cup of hot milk up to bed with him.

He lifted a hand, ‘No milk for me tonight. I am still bloated from supper.’

He was rising at three in the morning to go to visit another farmer at Chatteris Fen who had a disc harrow for sale. Believe it or not, Farmer Childer was still using a bush harrow in those days, so unwilling was he to pay hard cash for anything. The stubble we had, he should have invested in a disc harrow years before.

‘Shall I leave bread out or pack a breakfast for you, Father?’ I asked.

‘Pack it,’ he said. ‘I won’t eat before I set off.’

After he had gone upstairs, Horace, who had been staring gloomily ahead, looked at me and said. ‘You can make
me
some hot milk. I’d like some honey in it.’

I had just picked up my needle. ‘I’ll finish this seam if you don’t mind, Horace.’ I was tired and irritated by his strange behaviour and I suppose some of my annoyance must have showed in my voice. My thread had ended and I was raising the garment to bite it off the needle, otherwise I might have seen him rise and come towards me.

I looked up as he reached me. He raised one hand and struck me with the flat of it, soundly, across my face.

The room blurred and blackened. He did not knock me off my chair, not quite, but my head reeled as I righted myself.

William had jumped to his feet and let his book drop to the floor.

Horace was standing before me, panting, as if he had surprised himself by his action as much as he had surprised me. Then he looked round. I followed his gaze and saw my stepfather standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at us. I don’t believe there was ever any other occasion when I was grateful for his appearance.

We all waited for him to speak. He did not move, his gaze flicking from me to Horace, then back again. After a pause he said, ‘I have changed my mind. You may leave my breakfast out.’

He turned and went back upstairs.

We all remained motionless for a moment, listening to the creak of the stairs beneath Father’s heavy tread. Then I was unable to prevent myself exhaling in shock.

Horace was still standing in front of me, looking pleased with himself. His look said,
See, I am in charge now. Now do you understand?

I put down the sewing on the windowsill and rose from my seat, my legs trembling slightly. William was still standing next to us. I could not look at him. I turned and walked across the kitchen to the larder, where there was a full churn of milk.

Had I been thinking straight that evening, as I lay in bed turning the events of the day over in my mind, then I could have written
the rest of my life story right there and then. Horace’s slap had sealed my fate. But all I could do was stare at the blackness of the air above me, where I knew the ceiling was, and wonder if the roof was still up there, in the dark, for I no longer felt certain of anything.

It rained heavily overnight, as it had done most nights that month. Sun and rain: what every farmer wants. The next morning, I rose at dawn as usual, my head full of thoughts and clouded-feeling. I tiptoed downstairs. My stepfather had already left. I had put his breakfast out the night before – bread and a piece of cold mutton on his pewter plate in the larder, covered with a dampened cloth to prevent the bread from drying overnight. I checked to see if he had eaten it but he had not. I lowered the cloth gently, as if I had been peeping at a corpse.
I must be careful how I tread now,
I thought.

I was keen to be out of the house by the time the others rose. In winter, there are the fireplaces to be cleaned and laid first thing but without that to hold me up, I was able to slip out with my wicker basket, to go and look for eggs. The brothers often went out and did an hour or two around the farm before returning for breakfast, so I reckoned if I timed it right I would be able to avoid Horace until mid-morning.

Once the eggs were collected and the goat had been milked, I was a little stuck. I knew I should really return to the farmhouse and get on with my chores there but I could not bear it just yet, so I racked my brains for an excuse to go over to the Travellers’ camp. It came to me quick enough. I owed Mrs Boswell four shillings. I had not had the right change on me when I saw her the night before and had said I would knock it off the following week’s rent. She had seemed happy enough with the arrangement but, I thought, I could always pretend I was passing that way this morning and thought I would drop by. Perhaps I would go past the
green and gold wagon on my way. I wondered how early the smiling young man liked to rise.

I grimaced as I set off, thinking that in my haste to put the eggs and goat’s milk in the larder, find four shillings and get out of the farmhouse, I had not even brushed my hair – my wretched hair. As I walked, I pinched my cheeks to bring some colour to them.

The field they used as the campsite got muddy very quickly, as you may imagine, for the soil was already broken up so well that even in summer a light rain could make it boggy in an hour or two. When I walked over from the farmhouse, I always tucked my skirt into my waistband to stop it getting dirty, but that hitched it rather high and showed an unseemly amount of petticoat. As soon as I was near enough that anyone might see me, I would pull the folds of my skirt out from the waistband and hold it up, but not too much, as I picked my way towards the wagons.

It was still early but as I approached I saw the camp was up. Some of the older women were tending fires, as usual. I supposed the younger women and the men had already gone over to the orchards for the day. I wondered whether William would remember to check that the Orchard Manager had showed up. We had a man come from Rampton to weigh and grade the fruit but he drank and was unreliable. It was William’s job to go over each morning and make sure he was there.

The green and gold wagon was shuttered and no one was about. I felt both disappointed and relieved. I wanted to see the young man again but did not feel at my best that morning.

A little separate from the camp was a group of five caravans that all belonged to the same family, a large group with many children, always nicely dressed. I gathered that they were perhaps a leading family in some way by the way I saw the other Travellers speak to them. The woman in charge was large and
fair skinned. She always plaited her hair with ribbon and wore long earrings and many bangles. When I first visited her, I could not stop myself from staring beyond her into her wagon, for you have never seen so much fine china and engraved glass as was in their home. I could not imagine how even a pair of geldings could pull their wagon with all the grandeur it contained. How she managed to keep it all, and herself and her children, so smart and tidy with a life on the road is a thing I have never been able to fathom.

The family was down in my book as Boswell. Most of the others on the site called themselves Smith or Price, although I had learned that names were a somewhat fluid concept in the encampment and I never set much store by what they told me. I liked Mrs Boswell, and realised as I approached her wagon that I was hoping she would be there and the others not around. She usually offered me a cup of tea, although it had taken me a couple of visits before I got over my shyness enough to accept it. She offered it as though she meant it, as though she was truly concerned that I might need one. She would never take a cup with me but sit and watch me with great care while I sipped my own. She liked to ask me questions, showing a great interest in the life of the farmhouse and in the domestic habits of our family. She seemed to think there was something strange about the way we lived. For instance, I once told her about how one of my morning tasks was to go from room to room and empty everybody’s washing bowl. She looked most shocked and said, ‘You mean you take the men’s washing water that they have put their hands in and just tip it outside the back door?’

‘I usually water the parsley with it,’ I replied.

She explained to me that each member of her family had their own washing bowl, which was never used for any other purpose. Everyone disposed of their own water with the utmost care, for it was like getting rid of a little part of yourself, and to allow
someone else to just tip it away was like scattering your secrets. When she told me this, she was most hesitant. I had to encourage her with looks. ‘And the idea that you should put your dirty water on something that might be
eaten
…’ Her voice had become a whisper and she was unable to finish the sentence, as if we were discussing something too foul for words.

That morning, I found myself hoping hard she would offer me tea, so we could have one of our little chats. I would talk to her about almost anything, I thought, as long as I could sit down for a while and not go back to the farmhouse.

She was there all right, boiling water and chiding one of her children, but I saw as I approached that she was busy and would not be inclined to indulge my unexpected visit.

I stopped in front of her, feeling foolish. ‘Mrs Boswell,’ I said, reaching into my apron pocket, ‘I was passing and thought I should return your change to you. I am sorry I did not have it on me last night.’

She looked a little puzzled and said, ‘You did not need to come this way for that. Friday would have been fine to settle up, Miss Rose.’ We had agreed as much the night before.

I wondered if there was an implied insult in my returning the money early, as if I thought she might be in need of it. ‘I was passing,’ I repeated, which was a silly thing to say when the encampment was stuck out in the field and not on the way to anywhere.

I handed her the money, then said hopefully, ‘Well, I won’t keep you …’

She did not take the hint. She dropped the coins into her apron pocket and looked back at her child.

I was sorry I had come. I turned to go.

She said, ‘Miss Rose.’

I turned back. She was regarding me in a kindly fashion. ‘You need a porte-jupe, do you, Miss Rose. The bottom of your skirt is
muddy. Are you telling me a fine young lady such as yourself does not have a whole drawer of them?’

I had not the faintest idea what she was talking about.

‘A porte-jupe, a skirt grip.’ She glanced down at her own skirts, that were held elegantly in place by a series of grips attached to long ribbons which hung from her waistband, lifting her skirt slightly at pretty intervals so it was clear of the mud. The front ones were invisible beneath her long apron.

Well, of course I knew what a skirt grip was, although I had never heard it called by such a fancy name.

I knew it was overly familiar of her to comment on my dress but I was in need of sympathy that morning and could not help myself from saying, ‘I live with four farm-working men, Mrs Boswell.’ She knew my mother had passed on. ‘I am afraid the feminine aspects of life are not really catered for in our household.’ At this, and with current events to the front of my mind, I felt tears come to my eyes and I bit my lip.

She turned away without comment. I felt rebuked and trudged slowly back to the farmhouse, awash with self-pity.

Horace, William and Henry returned to the farmhouse mid-morning for their breakfast. I had made eggs with dill and parsley, a favourite of theirs. I served it in silence, allowing myself a moment of grim satisfaction at the thought of how – according to Mrs Boswell’s philosophy – I was giving them herbs coated in their own filth.

They didn’t talk between themselves and none of them spoke to me. The four of us didn’t even look each other. I realised that, despite the strange events of the previous evening, our day would continue as normal – silent, weighted with routine, and I felt as though my life was like a huge eiderdown smothering me, as if I could hardly breathe or move.

They left. I stacked their plates at the table. As I was walking to
the scullery holding them, I stopped in the middle of the room and just stood there for a minute, looking at nothing, just breathing. I closed my eyes.

The following day was a Sunday. We did not even attend church in that household, so removed were we from the outside world. Cows still had to be milked and vegetables dug, earth turned, sows and piglets fed. With a harvest in progress the men were busy all day and my own duties trebled. I forked over the stinking straw in the pig’s pen with renewed vigour that morning, turning and turning the damp, blackened straw, staring at our vicious sow with hatred. She made no move to nip me. My misery had made me invincible.

Monday came, and Tuesday – the week progressed, and I realised that the only thing keeping me on my feet was the thought of Friday teatime, when I would go to the Traveller camp and collect the rent. I needed his smile. I needed it more than bread or salt. I dreamed of his smile all day long. I thought of it so often I felt I was wearing out the image in my head and it was becoming bled of colour, faded.

It was only as I walked towards the camp on Friday afternoon that it occurred to me that I was, perhaps … deluded. I had not exchanged so much as one word with the young man with the crinkly eyes. A smile, a look – small stuff to hold on to. Was I going mad, in my unhappiness, to wonder if he had been thinking of me that week, as I had been thinking of him? Foolish girl, I chided myself, as I strode over. He probably looks at a hundred girls a day – you’ve seen yourself how that camp is full of slim, pretty things with plaited hair. What makes you think he’ll have thought of you, a big hulking farm girl with red frizz on your head? That hair alone is an embarrassment.