‘How did you get on?’ Jill asked Kate as she came in from the dairy. Kate had blown into the kitchen like any typical young person, swinging the stable door wide and letting it bang behind her. It pleased Jill that she was displaying such new verve and that her shyness was easing away.
Kate proudly placed on the table a round pat of butter, in its distinctive pale yellow Ford Farm greaseproof wrapper stamped with a buttercup design. ‘I made this all by myself. Mrs Em said I’m getting better every day, that I’m a natural and an asset. I’ll put it in the refrigerator.’
Each of them had the habit of looking the other over to make sure she was well. Kate had come quickly to Jill on two occasions when she’d been overcome with grief and had needed a pair of comforting arms. She made sure Jill was eating enough, getting plenty of fresh air and not overtaxing herself. ‘Oh, you’ve put your walking shoes on,’ Kate said. ‘A stroll will do you good, Jill. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes. I feel ready for my first outing. Mrs Em and I are going to the schoolhouse for the first meeting about the village play.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to be dragged into acting.’ Kate hunched up, on the defensive. She avoided anything that might draw attention to her out-of-true legs and her ugliness. She still thought of herself as ugly, believing her family’s unvarying description of her. They’d implied she was stupid and she was sure others thought the same. She couldn’t bear to be on show and have people whispering about her.
Jill was quick to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, my love. I wouldn’t ever let anyone try to badger you into doing anything you don’t want to. I’ve got no intention of acting on stage either. I thought we could volunteer to make the tea for the rehearsals and take charge of the refreshment on the night of the performance. Just come for the walk and to listen. It will give you the chance to see some more of Hennaford and meet a few people. Please don’t back out, Kate. I do still need your support.’ She was using a little emotional bribery but she really did need Kate to be there, her presence was helping her work through her grief. When she’d collapsed in anguish having come across the few rows of white knitting she’d started for a baby’s matinee jacket, Kate’s immediate care had acted like a balm. Now she was knitting a bolero cardigan for Kate to wear with her summer dresses.
Kate’s fears fell away. Jill had that effect on her. She felt shielded from the nasty things in life, and that she was wanted, and utterly snug. She belonged somewhere where her company was actually sought. She had a proper home. She could say to herself that Ford Farm was home to her without a scrap of feeling she was presumptuous or wrong. ‘I’ll do anything for you, Jill. I’ll slip up and get changed.’
‘Good girl.’
Jill set off down the hill towards the ford with Kate and Emilia protectively on either side. Kate trailed her fingers over stalks of long grass and the crowns of lacy cow parsley, yellow coltsfoot and creeping cinquefoil that crowded the hedgerows. More than a month had passed since Elena Killigrew had first mentioned the play, and Kate was falling in with Hennaford’s meandering rhythm. Humming softly, she listened as Jill and Mrs Em mulled over last year’s play. It hadn’t been much of a success owing to the freezing harsh winter before it. No one had shown much heart for it. Like the rest of the country at the year’s start, Cornwall had suffered greatly and come to a total standstill during what was known as the Big Freeze.
Kate remembered that terrible time when all movement had been perilous, when water had iced up in the pump and even in the buckets already drawn indoors. Villages had been cut off for days in the snow blizzards, milk had frozen on doorsteps, meat and bread had been almost impossible to come by. Electricity had been cut for several hours a day. If people couldn’t get to work, like her father and brothers, they didn’t get paid. Kate had shivered throughout the day and night, forced to sit outside the reach of the wood fire in the slab and denied an extra cover for her bed. She had got chilblains on her hands and feet, cracked skin and lips, but not a jot of sympathy. There had been many accidents resulting in broken bones.
Worst of all had been the disappearance of a child who had slipped out of her bed to play in the snow. A frantic search for her had failed, and it was only after the thaw, which had wreaked more havoc with flood waters and burst pipes, that she was discovered beside the next door neighbour’s shed, having been buried and frozen by a fall of snow from the roof. Kate recalled her mother talking about poor little Millie Weeks. ‘Serves her parents right. They couldn’t have been looking after the maid properly and that’s what they got.’ Kate shivered to recall the cruel words, at the thought of freezing to death like Millie. Although she was safe, memories of her family were beginning to plague her with inexplicable moments of dread, as if something had happened to her but she didn’t quite know what. Thank God, she was far away from them. She pushed her family out of her mind, hoping to keep them out.
They reached the ford. Just an inch or two of water trickled across the road over its stony bed. An old man with a lavish white beard and crooked walking stick, accompanied by a little white terrier with one black paw, was weaving a stiff path up to the other side. Gaily wagging its thin tail, the dog shot through the water and ran up to Kate. Laughing, she stooped to pat and stroke it. Emilia led the way over the wide slab of granite that acted as a bridge, lying tight against the hedge. She knew Andy Trevean wouldn’t go any further than here on his daily constitutional. ‘Patch, get back here!’ He waited until the three women and the dog were on his side of the ford, his wrinkled face in its usual, decidedly grumpy state. He was never inclined to speak first.
‘Good morning, Mr Trevean,’ Emilia said brightly. There was no one as grouchy hereabouts as Andy Trevean but no one really minded. It was just his way, people said, he was a nice old boy underneath it all. And occasionally he did show a friendlier side.
‘Mornin’ to ’ee, Missus Bosweld. Good to see ’ee up and about, Missus Harvey. I was mighty sad to hear about your loss.’ He stared at Kate from yellowing eyes. ‘Hello, maid. You’re young Kate Viant, aren’t you? I must say you’re looking a sight better than the last time I spied ’ee. Well, I won’t say much about your late grandmother, mustn’t speak ill of the dead, even though she had a tongue like a viper and a heart as dark as a coal house. A relative of yours was lurking round here backalong, one of your brothers what left you behind, I reckon. Didn’t like the look of him at all. Drawing water, I was, when he crept up t’me asking if I knew where you was. Didn’t tell him nothing mind, thought you wouldn’t want him to know where you were. Hope I did the right thing.’
Kate went rigid. It had probably been Sidney. Was he seeking her out to demand she go back to do the housework, or for some other horrible reason? Or was it Tony? He was a little kinder than the rest. He might have sneaked away to inquire if she had set herself up somewhere and was well. That was unlikely. Tony was lazy, weak-willed and too afraid of their mother for such a venture. ‘You did the right thing, Mr Trevean.’ She tried not to show how this unnerved her. She couldn’t bear the thought of being dragged away from Ford Farm, from Jill and Tom and all the others there. ‘I’m really happy where I am.’
‘Don’t ’ee go worrying, maid. No one round here’s going to let anyone make trouble for ’ee. Here, my handsome.’ Mr Trevean put his gnarled brown-spotted hand into his overcoat pocket and after a bit of rooting about pulled out a silver shilling. ‘This is for you. Spend it on what you like, and God bless ’ee.’
‘Thank you, Mr Trevean.’ Kate accepted the gift with a bright smile. After the anxiety of learning that Sidney had been looking for her she was delighted.
‘Mr Trevean was right,’ Jill said as they carried on, taking the left fork for the village where the lane branched. ‘No one will allow your family to hurt you again, Kate.’ She exchanged a dry look with Emilia. Both were troubled to hear that a Viant had reappeared asking about Kate.
‘Will there be many people there? At the schoolhouse?’ Kate asked, increasingly apprehensive now they had turned into the village, had passed the shops and were climbing up the hill on top of which rested the school. There was a large chapel window in the side of the squat stone building. Its top panes were open and the sound of children singing ‘I’ll give you one-o’ floated out on the mild air. She wasn’t used to mixing with crowds and she tended to feel trapped in a confined space where she had to stay for an uncertain length of time, where others could get a good look at her ugly shoes and wonder what her feet were like. She always avoided seeing her slightly withered lower right leg. She never glanced in a mirror when her feet were bare in fear of seeing her lopsided balance. She wished she hadn’t come, wanted to be back at the farm, playing with Paul or chatting with Mr Perry. Allowing Miss Rothwell to do a painting of her would be preferable to this. Or even finding herself alone with Mr Jonny and feeling painfully overwhelmed by everything about him.
Sensing her disquiet, Jill and Emilia linked their arms round her. Emilia said, ‘There will only be Elena Killigrew and Mrs Patterson, the headmaster’s wife. Mrs Patterson knows all about the play her husband has written. We’ll just be sharing notes about who has signed up to do what and when. Will you feel comfortable with that, my love?’
‘I think so,’ Kate murmured. It didn’t seem too bad knowing there wouldn’t be a crush of strangers, some of whom might be overbearing, or nosy about her.
‘You’ve got us, remember.’ Jill gave her a little squeeze.
An hour and a half later, Kate was back home. While Jill put her feet up with the latest Woman’s Weekly, she went up to her room. Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror smiled back at her and she wasn’t a bit surprised because she was basking in a sense of achievement. She had enjoyed the time in Mrs Hilary Patterson’s front room. It had small windows and was dark, but Mrs Patterson, a bubbly young mother and a bit scatty, had furniture that was lightweight and simple and chintzy. Coffee had been served straight from the kitchen in vivid-coloured mugs. In sandals and socks and a ‘make-do-and-mend’ skirt made up of two old garments in breezy colours, her dark hair tumbling carelessly about her neck, Mrs Patterson had giggled a lot. Kate learned afterwards from Mrs Em that the pupils liked Mr Patterson’s firm, encouraging form of teaching.
‘My headmaster was a tyrant. He terrorized me,’ Kate had said. He’d also ridiculed her over her crippled leg and stressed she would never do well in life. That didn’t matter now. She couldn’t have done better for herself and she was accepted just as she was. From her time in the schoolhouse she had realized she was able to mix with others and to offer her opinion, as Mrs Patterson had heartily roused her to do. She had actually made a suggestion. The organizers had said they wanted the play to be uplifting after last year’s so-so event and Kate had piped up, ‘There could be community singing at the end of the evening. Most people enjoy a good sing-song.’
‘What an absolutely spiffing idea!’ Hilary Patterson had clapped her hands, making the many bangles on both wrists jangle, music in themselves.
The meeting had been a success and no one could take that away from her. It had been a good day. She had met kind old Mr Trevean. She would put the shilling in her post office savings account. She liked going to the shop. Miss Grigg was friendly and easy to chat to. Suddenly her mood plummeted. She tried to prevent it but the blight that stole her joy held sway. Her mind refused to block out Sidney’s reappearance in Hennaford. Why had he wanted to see her? Not because he or her parents were feeling guilty about deserting her, that was certain. They had exiled her. Why couldn’t it be left at that?
Her eyes were drawn to the wardrobe. In there, up on the shelf, was the shoe box Sidney had thrust into her arms. Could there be something in there that was wanted? She got up on the chair and pulled the box out, then sitting on the bed she prised off the lid. A musty smell filled her nostrils, making her cough and shy away. Nothing of value seemed to be in it; just a lot of old papers, gone rusty-coloured at the edges. Lifting the top half she discovered family certificates, payment receipts, letters in envelopes, old rent cards for the cottage, postcards and sepia photographs. A man of about fifty with a walrus moustache stared back gravely at her from one photo, her grandfather. She couldn’t remember him, he’d died when she was an infant; his name was on the back of his likeness. Older photos showed forbidding Victorian forebears posing in studios. Her mother would want these, she supposed, and the birth, marriage and death certificates. And some old Army medals. This must explain what Sidney was after. She sighed with relief that it wasn’t her that the family wanted back.
Out of curiosity to learn something about her grandfather, Hubert Moses, she read a letter addressed to him. It surprised her to find it was a love letter from her grandmother during their courting days. It wasn’t very loving or the remotest bit sentimental, but Kate would never have believed the miserable old woman capable of such emotions. She detected bossiness in the tone of the square-shaped words. Hubert would have definitely been henpecked. Like mother, like daughter, she thought grimly about her grandmother and mother.
While taking out the rest of the contents she was pondering what to do with the shoe box. Keep it hidden away as part of her past or wrap it up and post it to Tregony to break the last connection with her mean family? The final item was a large brown envelope. She pressed her fingers around it, trying to guess its contents. More of the same, it seemed. She shook out its secret on the bedspread.
‘Phew!’ She clapped her hands over her mouth to forestall a cry of exclamation. Money. Lots of it. All in ten-shilling and one-pound notes. Now she had the full truth. Her mother must have suspected her grandmother had hoarded away savings and guessed they were in the box. She must have been livid with Sidney for giving it away and had sent him to get it back.
‘Well, I won’t make it easy for you, Mother,’ she told the carping image of the sour woman inside her head. There had been some old blank paper and envelopes festering in the shoe box. She’d write her mother a letter. One she never intended to post.