In the months that passed — and winter began early that year — I noticed that my mother seemed particularly cast down after receiving letters from London, but she would not tell me if anything was wrong.
Christmas-tide approached and as I was returning from one of my walks with my mother or Sukey in the late afternoon we would meet bands of waits made up of local boys together with members of the church-orchestra carrying their instruments, all with Christmas green hung round them as they went from house to house (though never to ours) to solicit for candied fruit or small coins in return for their singing.
Late one morning a few days before Christmas I went into the kitchen, lured by the sweetly-pungent fragrance of cinnamon and ginger and cloves, and found Mrs Belflower grating spices and beating eggs as she made the Christmas pudding — not, of course, for that festival but for the following year. (In fact, we were destined for the first time in my life to eat that pudding without her.)
“Will you help me by stirring in the charms?” she asked, indicating the little pile of coins and tokens on the table.
“Very well,” I said rather unenthusiastically, for although in past years I had enjoyed this task, I now felt I that it was a little beneath me.
“Remember, you has to make a wish. But only one. And you mustn’t nivver tell it or it won’t come true.”
“Oh I remember all that. But I say, Mrs Belflower, will you finish telling me that story now?”
“Which one, my dear?”
“How the Mompessons stole the land from the Huffam family by deceit,” I said. When she looked a blank I added: “You remember, Jemmy Huffam cheated his own son, John, out of his inheritance.”
“Now I rec’lleck, my dear. But jist put me in mind, where had I got to?”
“Jemmy having to kill his father because he’s borrowed money from Old Nick.”
“Aye, now I mind. Well, when Jemmy arst for the money Old Nick said to him: ‘What have you got to pledge?’ And Jemmy answered: ‘Nought but my soul.’ And Nick said: ‘I’ll take that, but you’re still a young man and you might make me wait fifty year so you’ll have to promise more nor that a-fore I’ll lend you no money.’ Well, the long and the short of it was Old Nick told him ‘you must make a legal deed givin’ the estate to me and my heirs if so happen you don’t pay the money back.’ ”
“For his children would be Jemmy’s grandchildren anyway, wouldn’t they?”
“I daresay, my dear,” she replied rather absently. “(I’ll jist thicken it a little and then you might drop the fust coin in.) So Jemmy said: ‘I agree’. But then Old Nick said: ‘But you have a son, John, and if you try to keep him out of the estate he’ll have the law on his side. So we must draw up a contract between us that nothing can break.’ Well, he drew it up and Jemmy signed it with his own blood.”
“And then he murdered his father,” I cried, “by putting poison in his wine” (here I dropped in a worn six-pence) “and he died in agony.”
“Right enough. And his cries was heard all through that great house and even as far as ’Ougham.”
“Is that the house that is there now?” I asked quickly.
“The very one,” she said stirring steadily.
“Then it can’t have been!” I exclaimed in triumph. “For it wasn’t built then.”
“Why, I believe you’re right, my dear. There were an older house nearby which I don’t know what happened to it, and that’s where it were.” Undismayed, she went on comfortably: “Well, time passed and Jemmy kept up his evil ways, drinking and gambling and I don’t like to say what not. And one night he was playing dice with Sir Parceval Mumpsey. Now Sir Parceval …”
“But this can’t have been Sir Perceval!”
“And why not, my duck? (Put another o’ them charms in now.)”
“Because you said this was a long time ago and I know he’s still alive,” I said as I added to the mixture a badly bent George II guinea which was the finest of all the charms and was always found in my helping of the pudding.
“Then this must have been his father,” said Mrs Belflower imperturbably, “who was also called Sir Parceval. And he was very rich and owned thousands upon thousands of black slaves, and at his wedding in London the King and Queen come to see him married to one of the greatest ladies in the land, and hundreds of black slaves marched through the streets behind the bridal carriage which was all of gold. (I’m about ready for another charm. That old furrin coin with the lady’s head.) And so the night I was a-telling you on, he was playing Hazard with Jemmy ’Ougham and …”
“Hazard? What is that?”
“ ’Tis a game at dice, as I understand.”
“But what does it mean?” dropping the charm into the bowl and closing my eyes briefly to make a wish — a wish that is only now close to coming true.
“Mean? Why, should it mean anything? ’Tis only a name and names don’t mean nought. So like I say, he gambled with Sir Parceval that night but fortin and the bones ran cross and he lost all he owned. At last he had nothing left to wager except the estate. And although he knowed it wasn’t rightly his to risk since he hadn’t paid back all that money, he staked it on a single throw. And Sir Parceval throwed a five and that meant Jemmy had to throw a five too. But he throwed crabs instead and so he lost.”
“Crabs?”
“That’s what they call it when you throw a bad cast. And so Jemmy gived up the estate to him. And that’s why the Mumpseys took the crab for their device, and them five flowers, too, which were the ’Oughams’ badge. And now Sir Parceval started to build hisself that fine new house at ’Ougham with I don’t know how many great ball-rooms and staircases and state rooms. And he had it laid out so that the main block and the wings were like the five dots on the face of a die: one at each corner and one in the middle.”
“But it isn’t that shape at all!” Remembering that no-one was to know that Sukey had taken me there, I added lamely: “I mean, so I’ve been told.”
“Why, he only built the middle and the front two wings on account of he ran out of money hisself, for all his great wealth. Though not before he had pulled down most of the old village to lay out the park for miles all around it. Now, Old Nick was very angry with Jemmy and they say he frighted him to death. And because Jemmy could not pay him back the fifty thousand pound …”
“You said thirty before.”
“Well, it had mounted and mounted till it was fifty now. However that may be, he took the promise that Jemmy had signed and went to the Lord High Chancellor with it, and tried to make him force the Mumpseys to give up the estate.”
“In favour of his wife, Sophy, and her children, since she was Jemmy’s daughter?”
“In course. (You have minded well, Master Johnnie.) But them Mumpseys wouldn’t give way for they said they had won it fairly, and the argyfying went on and on and they say it has gone on to this very day.”
“But didn’t John have a better claim than the Mompessons?”
“Why, I’d nigh on forgotten about him. You’re quite right, Master Johnnie. And what happened was this. Sir Parceval had a beautiful daughter called Lady Liddy and John met her and they fell in love.”
I sighed, for the story had just been reaching its most crucial point. “I know,” I said quickly. “After a lot of silly misunderstandings they eloped and were married. Now tell me about John’s claim and why he didn’t get the estate back.”
“Aren’t you the ’cute one,” Mrs Belflower answered cheerfully and carried on stirring the pudding for a few moments before saying: “They ’loped right enough but whether they were married you must wait and hear. But before they ’loped, Lady Liddy come to John and told him how her father boasted that he had cheated Jemmy.”
“I know!” I cried. “He had played with cogged dice!”
“That’s right. And what’s more, she gived him a signed confession she had got from her father saying as it was true. And then they ’loped up to ’Ougham.”
“But why did the
y do that?” I asked in surprise.
“Why? On account of lovers allus ’loped in them days. But Sir Parceval follered ’em up and he and John fought a duel in a square of four trees before the Old Hall where there was a statue in the middle. And Lady Liddy looked out from the window and she hoped and prayed that no harm might befall either one of them, but that John might win. And so it happened, for John disarmed Sir Parceval and had him at his mercy. But just at that minute Lady Liddy saw the statue come to life and it was no statue at all but a stranger all in black. And before she could cry out to warn her lover, the stranger come up behind John and stabbed him in the back.”
“What? He was killed?”
“Indeed he was,” she said, stirring vigorously and smiling with maddening complacency.
“But are you sure he didn’t marry Lady Liddy and have children?”
“Quite sure, and she nivver married nobody for she went mad of grief, poor soul.”
“And who was it who killed him?”
“Why, nobody knows. But sartin it is that an old man is seed around ’Ougham to this very day. Clad all in black he is and with a face like death. And folks say that ’tis Old Nick hisself. Though others say ’tis the old father who was murdered. And others again say ’tis Jemmy himself who forfeited his soul and cannot leave this world. However that may be, ever since then the curse of Chancery has laid upon the Mumpseys for they have never prospered and that’s why the great house lies empty and the lands are undrained and the walls broke down and the farms untenanted.”
As she spoke I shivered and recalled the old man who had so alarmed my mother.
“There, I reckon that’s about done. Will you pass me that dish?”
And yet, I recalled as I handed it to her, his carriage had borne the crab and five roses so he must be a Mompesson. But this was a silly thought for he was not a ghost, and, anyway, I had doubts about the truth of large parts of this story — particularly the bit about John having been killed without leaving any descendants. For I was certain I was a descendant of the Huffam family.
CHAPTER 8
Apart from the wind, it was good walking weather that afternoon when Sukey and I set out, for the ground was frozen hard under a light sprinkling of snow and the muddy ruts of the High-street rang beneath our feet. We had decided to take the lane towards Over-Leigh, but Sukey wanted to call on her mother beforehand and that meant going through the village and then retracing our steps.
She shivered under her thin red cloak: “This easterly is a lazy wind: it goes through ye instead of round ye.”
“You are silly not to have worn something warmer,” I said.
In my good thick merino top-coat I didn’t mind the cold and I knew that when I got home Mrs Belflower would have a spicy plum-cake and a dozen Christmas-pies smoking from the oven. The high-day was very close now and many of the cottage-doors were dressed with holly and hulver branches and in the windows were the tall waxen candles standing ready to be lighted.
As we approached the church Sukey said: “We’ll cross over just here, Master Johnnie, for I don’t like to go too near the burying-ground at this time of the year.”
“Whyever not?” I asked.
“Don’t you know what day it is today?” she exclaimed, turning to me round-eyed with alarm. “ ’Tis the Eve of St. Thomas!”
“What does that mean, Sukey?”
“It’s when the fetches walks.”
“What is a fetch?”
“Why, don’t you know nought?” she said. “That’s the day when the ghosts of the dead rise up and come to seek the living as will die during the coming twelvemonth.” I shivered and clasped her hand. “If you see one of ’em,” she went on, “it means you or someone near you is going to die.”
We quickened our pace and hurried past the graveyard without daring to look. A few yards further on we came to the Rose and Crab, outside which I was surprised to see a smart chaise and horses standing.
“Why Amos,” said Sukey suddenly, addressing a boy of about my age. I had not noticed him for he was standing almost hidden between the two horses and holding their bridles. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Genel’man axed me to hold the horses a piece while he went to find the clerk,” the boy answered.
“Who was it?” she enquired.
“I dunno. An outcomeling. Said he’d give me a penny.”
“Well mind you bring it home,” said Sukey. “And you might find something nice if you make haste.”
“I’ve to fetch the kindling from the Common fust,” rejoined the boy. “Tell mither I shall be late with it on account of this.”
“I will,” said his sister and we resumed our progress. When we reached the cottage Sukey looked at me doubtfully and said: “It’s too cold for you to stand there today. You’d best come in.”
“If you’re worried about those boys, I’m not afraid of them. If they bother me again I’ll clod stones back at them.”
“No, Master Johnnie,” Sukey insisted; “you’ll have to come in. I should never be forgived if you ketcht a cold standing there.”
She lifted aside the door which was unhinged and I followed her in through the low entry. For some moments I could see nothing because of the gloom, and when I drew breath I was nearly stifled by a mixture of acrid smoke and a fetid animal-like stench. I felt sticky hands clasping my own and warm bodies pressing against me, and just as fear began to well up inside me, my eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to discern that my assailants were no more than a crowd of small, half-naked children. They were pressing round me and Sukey and reaching into her pockets as she smilingly pushed them away. The near-darkness was because the cottage’s two tiny windows — mere holes in the cracked and ancient stud-work — were blocked with rags, and because the smoke from the hearth where cakes of dried dung were smouldering was billowing back into the living-space.
“Away with you,” protested Sukey, seizing a small child and pulling its fingers from my coat. “Leave the young genel’man alone.”
“Where is it, Sukey?” the children were crying. “What have you brung us? Is it in here?”
“In a minute,” she said, glancing towards me. “Now give us room to move.”
She took my arm and guided me towards the hearth. At that moment an old woman, whom I had not noticed before, came hobbling forward.
“This is Master Johnnie,” said Sukey. “Sit with him while I ’tend to the little ’uns.”
The old woman gave a smile which revealed that she had only three teeth in her head, and, seizing my hand, steered me towards the single piece of furniture I could see which was a battered old chair before the hearth: “Bless you, young master,” she said; “and your sweet mother, who has been the saving of me and mine many and many a time. Sit ye down by the fire for ’tis a mortal cold day.”
I did so and was now able to look around me. The cottage consisted of a single chamber about the size of our sitting-room and had a floor of beaten mud with a gutter running down it. There was no ceiling so that above our heads stood the naked beams — on which there were fowls roosting — and above them the hanging, cobwebbed thatch.
The old woman stood beside me still smiling and nodding as she spoke: “I’m sorry the fire’s no better. Amos has gone for wood on the Common.”
“We met him and he said he’d be late back,” Sukey said. “He was holding a genel’man’s horses outside the inn.”
As she spoke I saw her pull something from her pocket, divide it up and then hand it out to her younger brothers and sisters who seized it greedily. Seeing my gaze upon her she coloured slightly and looked away.
“Will you take a cup o’ milk, young master?” the old woman asked. “ ’Tis our own cow’s as we grazes on the Common.”
I shook my head, trying to keep my mouth closed as much as possible.
“Keep a piece for Harry, mither,” Sukey said, pressing something into her hand.
So this was her mother! I had taken her for the great-a
unt.
“Will you not stay for your aunt’s coming?” the old woman asked.
“No, for Master Johnnie and I should be on our way now,” Sukey said, to my relief.
I got up and, having taken my leave of Sukey’s mother with unceremonious speed, made for the door. As I passed one particularly grubby child I noticed that she was holding in her hand something that looked exactly like a piece of the almond-cake my mother and I had had for our tea the day before and had left half-eaten.
Once outside, I turned my face to the cold wind and breathed in, letting the air rasp in my throat and lungs.
CHAPTER 9
We walked between hedges that were bright with hawthorn berries and saw periwinkles and the starry blue flowers of the myrtle peeping out from the light dusting of snow, although we sought in vain for early snow-drops. As we went along I thought about what I had just seen. It was very wrong to steal. I looked at Sukey who was more silent than usual. But then there were so many mouths to feed.
“How many brothers and sisters have you, Sukey?”
“Seven,” she answered.
That seemed a very large number.
“And shall there be any more, do you think?”
She turned her large eyes towards me: “My dad’s been gone five years, Master Johnnie.”
Silence fell again as I pondered this.
We walked as far as Offland, a little hamlet beyond Over-Leigh, and on the way back we were so cold that we had to blow into our clasped hands to keep our fingers from going numb. And so, as we approached the village, I suggested daringly: “Why don’t we take the short way?”
“The short way?” Sukey’s eyes grew round as she guessed my meaning.
There was an overgrown path through the graveyard which we quite often used in the summer. To take that way on a warm sunny afternoon was one thing, but to do so late on a cold winter’s evening — and St. Thomas’s Eve moreover! — was quite another.
However, Sukey hesitated for only a moment: “Why, we shall!” she exclaimed. “I ain’t a-feared.”