The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (34 page)

'I never noticed.'

'Oh well, I can but ask. I never did like Fred and I used to show it like a fool, and I dare say there'll be a bit of humble pie to swallow; but I reckoned he might hire me ten or twelve acres. I don't know who else to ask.'

'What do you want it for?'

'I held on to my best beasts when we quitted, but it's been the devil's own job finding them pasture, everybody ploughing up on account of the corn prices. Four moves they've had in the last seven weeks. Maybe I was daft to try and keep them--but I had in mind that I might one day hire some land again, or find a bit cheap----' He laughed derisively.

'I got twenty acres--I mean nineteen, Danny, that I aim to sell. 'Tain't fenced, and 'tain't very good. Maybe you know it.' He described its position. 'I'd take a pound an acre for it.'

Danny stood still in the road. 'I could manage that! My God, Amos, that's wonderful!'

'Now there's no need to be taking the Lord's name in vain, Danny. You'd hev to fence it, and be quick. But Matt Ashpole'd do it for you, and cheap too if you'd let his old horse run along with your beasts.'

'That'd be wonderful,' Danny said.

'What is more,' said Amos, with growing eagerness, 'if you keep your beasts there all winter you'll want a shed. I'll help with your building if you'll help with mine.'

'Why, what are you building, Amos?'

'A chapel, of course! Thass worked out wonderful. Them that trust in the Lord shall never be confounded-- no truer word was ever writ.'

Nineteen pounds to spend on timber, and a far better site than the old one, stuck away there behind Shipton's barn. The new chapel would be very conspicuous; he'd have some big notices outside it so that those who could read could read out for those who could not edifying remarks such as 'THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH'; and on Sunday evenings when the men and boys gathered to lounge on the Stone Bridge and gossip and spit into the water the sound of the good hymns and prayers would rise up and reach them.

Danny was dreaming too. He'd heard about the wonderful things that were being done with drains up in the fens near Ely, and maybe he could drain his piece, grow better pasture, rear more beasts, somehow or other get back into farming again. They walked along for quite a distance without speaking again. Once Amos did open his mouth to say, 'All things work together for good for them that love God', and that he did not say the words aloud was in no sense due to doubt of their truth; it was because he remembered that this scheme was going to benefit Matt Ashpole and his horse, Danny Fuller and his bullocks----

Danny's nineteen-acre plot, now known by the name which it was to bear for many years--Cobbler's Corner-- was fenced by the end of May and his bullocks and Matt's horse installed. Matt, owning only limited human sight, had no idea that his original scheme for ensuring his horse a home had seemed to fail, had gone underground and then burrowed its way to open triumph again, so he regarded the whole transaction of the fencing and Danny's return as a piece of lucky business. He was quite willing, therefore, to hang about Baildon Market each Wednesday and Saturday and wait until the auctioneer's office closed and then give Danny a lift to Clevely, and on Saturday nights he also provided what he called a 'shake-down' so that Danny could stay over and spend Sunday with the bullocks. By late June the shed which was to shelter the beasts through the winter was under construction, and so was Amos's chapel; the two men helped one another with the planting of their corner posts and Matt helped with the hauling of the timber. There was marked amity.

On Wednesdays Danny had to walk back to Baildon after his evening's labour, and the exertion, stripping the flesh from his bones, brought out the marked resemblance to his father, causing Mrs Fuller to fret a little. Lethargic as she had become in other ways, she always stayed up on Wednesdays to serve him a late hot meal. One Wednesday, seeing him off to the market, she said, 'You'll be going to Clevely, I s'pose?' and then added one of her wistful remarks, 'I reckon that pink rose by the parlour window'll be all in bloom now. I planted that the year afore you was born.'

That evening Danny left off work while there was still light in the sky, crossed the highroad and entered Berry Lane. He intended to ask the new tenant of the house to allow him, as a favour, to gather half a dozen of the pink roses. To his surprise the house still stood empty, the garden thick with a summer's unchecked weeds, the nettles beginning to invade the little yard. The door of the byre that had been the kitchen was open and Danny could see the ill-fated manger and rack.

He pushed his way to the front of the house and gathered a big bunch of the sweet pink roses and then walked rapidly through the dusk towards Baildon. But on the Waste he stopped and had a word with Matt Ashpole, who would know, if anyone did, why the house was standing empty. Matt knew. The tenant who had hired the holding was building a new house.

'The land, you see, Danny, when they shuffled it about, was all in a piece down by the Lower Road, so he reckoned it best to live there. He's a warmish chap. Grigg his name is--son to old Grigg, the biggest butcher in Bywater, so he could afford to build like. Come in, boy. Hev a bit of a set down and a sup of my brew. I've took to making me own in these hard times. Ain't got it right yet, but it's a drink.'

'No, thanks,' Danny said. 'I reckon...No, too late tonight. Mother will sit up and she'd fret. On the other hand, if I wait till Saturday somebody might go and snap it up----'

'Whass bothering you, boy?'

'That house. I'd like to see Mr Hadstock.'

'About hiring it again, you mean? Well, I wouldn't go rapping him up about that this time of night, might make him rorty. Tell you what, Danny, if you like I'll hev a word with him tomorrer morning. I got a errand up at the Manor 'smatter of fact. He ain't a bad chap in hisself --apart from owd Seizer, I mean. I'll put in a word for you, and let you know Saturday.'

Hadstock, who had always considered the Fuller family ill done by, promised Matt that he would do what he could to arrange the tenancy, and that evening spoke to Linda about the matter. Matt had told a glib story: there was Mrs Fuller, he said, 'peaking and pining away, fretting for her owd home' and there was Danny 'killing hisself running backwards and forrards'. Linda said it would be very nice for Mrs Fuller to come back to Clevely. 'I never did understand that business,' she said. 'In all other matters my husband went dead against old Sir Charles's arrangements, but he confirmed the Fullers' notice to quit. I thought it strange at the time. And of course he may object to their return.'

'I wonder,' Hadstock said. 'Five pounds rent is better than having the place empty until it rots. There've been no other applicants. And I hear that old Wellman is now intending to build a new house in the middle of his holding. Others will too, as they can afford it. There won't be much demand for houses without land. I wonder...'

'I think we're both thinking of the same thing,' Linda said, smiling. 'Just to write and say a suitable tenant has offered to rent the house----'

'That was in my mind,' said Hadstock, returning the smile.

'Let's try it,' Linda said. There are relationships in which such a humble, harmless piece of connivance is more significant than a passionate embrace; their was one such.

Richard did not even trouble to reply to the letter which informed him that a tenant for a five-pound-a-year property had been found. Why should he? Why should he keep a bailiff if not to attend to just such trivialities? Besides, he had other things to think about. He was discovering how right Alec had been when he said that consistent good luck could be embarrassing and in the end tedious. He ignored the unpopularity which resulted, for his touchy temper and perverse behaviour had rendered him unpopular before his luck changed; the trouble now was to find a game. At Angelina's the tables were either filled against him or the players, after a game

or two, made excuses and drifted away. He had to seek new places, find strangers to play with; and although he gloated over his winnings he found gambling boring nowadays. The very spirit of the game wilted when you knew, before you turned it over, that the card you had drawn would be the very one you wanted.

In Baildon Mrs Fuller returned to life as soon as a return to Clevely came under discussion. She took out the quilt with the true-lovers'-knot pattern which she had made for Damask and never been able to bring herself to give to Sally and draped it over a screen at the back of the little shop. Every customer who entered for a twopenny pie or a pennyworth of gingerbread adored it; many asked if it was for sale. 'I dunno,' said Mrs Fuller. 'I made it special; thass not a pattern you see every day. I hung it there to brighten the place like.' Soon people were asking, 'S'pose it was for sale, what would you be asking for it?'

'Oh, I'd want five pounds for that one.' said Mrs Fuller.

Five pounds for a quilt! Over the teacups women asked one another, had such a price ever been heard of? But of course it was a very unusual pattern, and all silk, not a bit of cotton stuff in it. Finally Mrs Thurlow Lamb, assiduously visiting a sick friend of slightly superior social status, saw one of Mrs Fuller's quilts, ten years old, but as good as new, on the sick-bed; and next day she went to the shop in the Friargate and bought the true-lovers' knots.

'So there you are, you can get a horse, Danny; stabling 'on't cost nothing back home, and you can ride in and out so long as you hev to--and that'll on't be till we get on our feet again. Give me back my dairy and my fowls,' said Mrs Fuller, 'and we'll be on the mend again in no time. We'll live close for a bit and sell the best.' She made that concession to fate, thinking of Steve's mother as she did so. 'But not for long,' she added stoutly. 'I'll manage.'

Just before the move Danny took two days' holiday and went to Clevely, where, aided by Matt Ashpole, Spitty Palfrey, Shad Jarvey and one of the Gardiner boys, he whitewashed the house inside and out, and moved the rack and the manger into the now almost completed bullock shed on Cobbler's Corner. He noticed how easy it was to get people to work nowadays--the mere smell of a job brought all the Waste-dwellers running. Oh, if only he could lay hands on some more land, arable land, any land----

By evening of the moving day Fuller's was, in all but one respect, itself again. The black dresser was back in its rightful place in the kitchen and the firelight was red on the sides of the pewter mugs which Mrs Fuller had set Sally to polish. Mrs Fuller was frying a pan of eggs and bacon, standing to do so within inches of the spot where Steve's body had hung from the turnip rack. That fact, as fact, she did not bear in mind, but other memories of Steve were there, newly poignant on account of the surroundings, so that her pleasure was dimmed and soured. Deliberately she turned away from them, scowling at the bought eggs as she turned them in the pan. The bacon she had cured herself last summer, taken into Baildon and brought back again; that was all right, but bought eggs at Fuller's! She thought of fowls clucking around the back door, of brown eggs warm from the nest; she thought of bright yellow butter and pale-yellow cheese. And she thought again of Steve, poor man, poor man; still, she'd done her best for him, dead and alive, and fretting did nobody any good, it'd just weaken her for the long pull and the strong pull which lay ahead if they were to make a success of this new venture. Deliberately she left Steve to his rest and faced her labour. She'd manage----

In June, Mr Turnbull came to bring Miss Parsons her quarterly allowance, as usual. It was his fourth visit since Miss Greenway had been installed as companion and he had ceased to wonder at the improved appearance of the place and its owner. Miss Parsons was indeed becoming quite plump and placid. Today she was making what looked like a bead purse--the girl was skilful in contriving little peaceful occupations for her; she seemed always to be busy with something nowadays.

As usual, he chatted a little; handed over the money and watched Miss Greenway put it in a drawer and fetch the ink and the quill-stand. Miss Parsons signed the receipt with her usual flourish, though she muttered something about signing things being dangerous. She then resumed the beadwork.

'Oh dear,' Damask said, 'I'm afraid she has forgotten again. For the last three weeks she has been worrying about something and wanting me to send for you, but I knew you would be coming. May I offer you a glass of wine?'

'That would be very kind.' A decanter and three fluted glasses stood on a table behind the chair in which Miss Parsons sat, and as she went towards it Damask paused and said, as though to an earnest child, 'You are making it pretty.' The old lady looked up and smiled in a pleased way and the girl just touched her shoulder, an affectionate, approving pat. It was a pleasing little scene and the old lawyer smiled and then sighed. He could remember a very self-assured, domineering Amelia Caroline Parsons, and he thought it was sad the way age altered people, even their personalities. His own seventieth birthday was in sight! Still, of course, a man, a trained mind, disciplined to a profession ...

He let the thought fall as Damask handed him, very prettily, one of the fluted glasses, and at the same moment, as though to underline his mental comment about Miss Parsons' earlier self, the old lady said with much of her former vigour and decisiveness: 'I wish to make my will!'

Carrying the wineglass, he moved to a chair and sat down near her. 'You made a will, you know. Five years ago...yes, just five years.'

'Then I wish to make another.' That put Mr Turnbull in a quandary. He could hardly look an old, respected client in the face and say what was in his mind--'Madam, you made a will when you were competent to do so; you are not now so competent.' Instead he sipped his wine and murmured, 'A most excellent Madeira,' and in the moment so gained framed the next sentence. 'Five years is not long. With so recent a will I would hardly advise any changes.'

The girl handed Miss Parsons her glass of wine and said soothingly, 'There, you see, you had made one. So there's nothing to worry about.'