Hell and High Water

  The words made no sense but Caleb answered that no, he was not off the Mary-Louise. And then he asked, “Sir, is this Tawpuddle?”

  The man looked at Caleb as though he was a simpleton. A terse “yes” was his only answer before he went back to his work. And so it was a passing fisherman – judging from the look and smell of him – whom he asked for directions to Norton Manor.

  The fisherman gave them in a straightforward manner with no sideways look, or sneer, for which Caleb was grateful, but his route now took him along the road and not the river as Pa had instructed. He felt immediately ill at ease and perhaps his childish superstitions were not so foolish after all, for, without the river to guide him, he managed to lose himself entirely.

  A spider’s web of lanes and paths were edged on either side by hedges so high and thick he could see nothing past them. After an hour of wandering he had lost all sense of direction. He didn’t know where the river was or the town, or how he was to find Norton Manor. He might as well have been walking in circles. His shoulders were rubbed raw, every muscle in his body screamed for rest. He must be so near now, and yet how was he ever to find the place?

  Despair was beginning to seep through him, but then he turned a corner and before him was an elaborate pair of wrought-iron gates. This must be the entrance to Norton Manor. Lifting the latch, passing through, he walked along a wide carriageway that led down into a valley. The trees on the hills had been whipped into strange contortions by the wind, yet as he went further he found that the valley was sheltered, the wind passing straight over from one side to the other. It was the perfect spot to build a house.

  And what a house it was!

  Vast. Opulent. A four-storey brick-built structure with two wings either side that stood with its back to him. It did not look up the valley, inland, towards the road to welcome guests, but faced down towards the river. Its full splendour could only be seen from the water.

  Caleb had stopped for a moment to admire the place when there was a sudden clatter of hooves. He swung around and saw, cantering towards him, a cobby bay gelding.

  Its rider was smartly dressed wearing a powdered wig beneath his hat, a finely tailored coat and polished leather boots. Though he had an air of authority Caleb decided he lacked the aristocratic bearing of a gentleman. And his horse was not showy enough. He must be a servant. An important one, certainly, but this was not the master of the house.

  “What’s your business here, boy?” the man demanded. A working man’s accent, thicker than those in Torcester, harder to understand. Contempt showed in every inch of his face. His whip was raised, ready to use if Caleb’s answer didn’t satisfy him. He kicked his horse on suddenly, and then swung it hard round so it stood dancing in front of Caleb, held in on a tight rein, but being spurred at the same time, jittery and ready to leap in any direction. If Caleb moved to one side or the other, the horse would knock him down.

  Reluctantly he said, “My name is Caleb Chappell.”

  “I didn’t ask your name. I asked your business.”

  “I’m looking for Anne Chappell. I believe she’s a maid here.”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “She’s my aunt.”

  “Aunt?” The man exploded in a loud guffaw. He looked Caleb slowly up and down. “Do you jest with me, boy?”

  “I do not. My father is her brother.”

  “And what happened to him? Die on you, did he? The pox, no doubt! Caught from the whore he got you on!”

  Caleb’s free hand balled into a fist. “My father lives still, sir.”

  “And has he cast you out? Disowned you?”

  “He has been transported.”

  “Transported?” That brought the man up short. His eyes narrowed. There was a sudden, intense interest that Caleb found unnerving. “His name?”

  “Joseph Chappell.”

  “Transported for what?”

  “Theft. He was wrongly accused.”

  Something strange happened then. For a second the man looked away, his brow furrowed as if making a shrewd calculation. Yet when he looked back at Caleb it was as if his face had been wiped clean. There was nothing but the sneer that curled his lips. “There is not a villain incarcerated or a thief transported but swears he is a wronged man. If that were so His Majesty would not be building so many gaols, would he boy?”

  “My father is an innocent man.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed. “Keep saying it, boy. There isn’t anyone but you who’ll ever believe it.”

  “Let me pass, sir.”

  “I will not. Anne Chappell isn’t at the manor. She married a sailor by the name of Edward Avery. You’ll find her in Fishpool.”

  “Fishpool? Where is that?”

  “Back to the gates. Turn right. Follow the road until the land runs out.” He waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “Get you gone. And don’t let me see you setting foot on Sir Robert’s land again.”

  “Road” was too grand a word, thought Caleb as he walked down a track so thickly hedged with stunted oaks that he could have touched the leaves either side if he’d stretched his arms out. But still, he was glad to be away from the horseman whose sudden helpfulness in giving directions had been even more disturbing than his contempt. And that look when Caleb had mentioned Pa’s transportation – did it mean something or was he imagining things? Seeing ogres and monsters again where there was only the river’s ebb and flow?

  Cresting the brow of the hill, Caleb stopped dead. The village of Fishpool lay below him but he did not even see it at first, for here the river met the sea. There were swathes of mud and marsh, a line of dunes, a beach and after that – dear God, so much water! A great stretch of blue and grey. A rocky island – a tiny dot in the centre of the bay. Beyond that water, water. More water. An endless expanse of it.

  Caleb and Pa had travelled far and wide but they’d always kept away from the coast. There was no telling when the damned fool king might start another war, Pa said, and able-bodied men would run the risk of being pressed into his navy. It was best to keep away from places where the press gangs might be working.

  The sheer vastness of the sea now reduced Caleb to the size of an ant. Less than an ant. He was nothing. Nothing! He knew the world to be round, but in that moment he could better believe the old tales: that the Earth was flat and if a man walked too far he would fall over the edge. He’d reached the world’s end and now teetered on the brink. One step more and he would fall into oblivion.

  For a minute or so all he could do was stand and look. But at last he tugged his eyes from the horizon and surveyed the land. There was Fishpool two hundred yards away. It was no more than a single street with a line of squat, ramshackle houses either side. There was a starkness to the scene that chilled him: no flowers tumbled together with vegetables in lush cottage gardens, there were no soft curves of thatch. Instead the roofs were of grey slate, and where there should have been roses and cabbages there were rickety wooden jetties, jutting into the river’s mouth. Boats were moored beside each one – not the stately, elegant vessels he had seen in Tawpuddle but small shabby things that seemed to struggle to stay afloat. The cargo of a tiny fishing boat had just now been unloaded onto a cart which started up the lane towards him. The horses came at a brisk trot, the driver unaware or unheeding of Caleb’s presence. There was not room for them to pass safely but the cart did not slow. Caleb clambered into the hedge to avoid being run down and as the cart bowled by him he noticed it was loaded not with fish, as he’d expected, but with bales of fine white linen. He registered its strangeness but only for a moment. He was almost at journey’s end. Climbing down from the hedge and brushing leaves and twigs from his coat, mouth dry, heart pounding, Caleb continued on his way.

  He had moved through Tawpuddle as though he was invisible. In Fishpool the opposite was true. The moment he set foot in the street folk stared at him, their looks harsh and hostile.

  Outside the tavern a line of men with sunburned faces
and salt-crusted hair leaned against the wall. They fell silent as they took in the sight of this dark-skinned stranger. Close by a group of women were clustered around the well, drawing water. They too ceased their chattering. Then the oldest of them demanded, “Who are you, boy?”

  “I am looking for Anne Avery.”

  “What’s she to you?”

  “She is my aunt.”

  A chorus of whoops and shrieks. “Lord above!” “Who’d have thought it?” “She got a darkie for a nephew?” “She never said!” “That’s the kind of thing you want to keep quiet!”

  And then one stepped in front of him and asked, “She know you’re coming?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No.”

  “That’ll be a fine surprise for her then!” They were cackling like gulls and Caleb’s skin crawled with discomfort. The temptation to turn and run was overwhelming. But he was so very tired! He could do nothing but stand there.

  The woman regarded him steadily. After a while she pointed down the street. “’Tis along there. You can tell her house from the air of gentility that wafts from its door.”

  She stepped aside as the villagers burst into yet more laughter. Caleb went on his way. Tears of exhaustion had begun to fill his eyes when he came to a group of children playing on the cobbles halfway down the street. Their games halted. They watched him, eyes wide, nudging each other.

  He was used to defending himself: there were times when no amount of wit could deflect a gibe and his fists had been the only solution. He stood a good head and shoulders above the tallest of these children, yet they were a dozen or more, and he was alone. A prickle of fear ran down his spine. He walked a little faster.

  Sure enough, as he passed them a stone stung his ear. Then another. Had the thrower been more skilled he might have been knocked out cold. He turned to face his attackers. A boy of maybe three or four years old poked his tongue out before bending down and picking up another stone. Caleb backed away. They advanced.

  Whether they would have hurt him he never knew because at that moment a woman looked out from her front door. He hoped she’d tell the children to be off, but she made no move to intervene.

  “Anne?” Caleb asked, hurrying towards her. “Anne Avery. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  The woman waved a dismissive hand at the pack of urchins. There was a collective sigh, and various cries of protest, but they returned to their games.

  “That house – there.” She pointed further along the road. “Right at the end.”

  She disappeared back inside before he even had a chance to thank her.

  A few more footsteps, that was all. Caleb took them slowly. Since he’d left Torcester the thought of a destination had been his only comfort. Now he’d nearly reached it he was filled with terror. If his aunt turned him away – where could he go then? The workhouse? With each step he prayed that Anne Avery would not close the door in his face.

  The last house in the village leaned a little as if straining towards the sea. It looked as if he’d only have to loosen a rope for it to set sail. The door stood open. He raised a hand to knock. Peering into the gloom, he saw a woman standing by the fire, stirring the pot that bubbled over it. She was small, fine-boned, porcelain-pale – dainty and delicate as a lark or a wren. And yet there was a likeness to Pa that made Caleb feel sure this was his aunt. He knocked, opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.

  For she turned and saw him.

  As her eyes met his they glazed, and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  4.

  The pot the woman had been stirring fell with her. Stew splashed into the flames and then spilled across slate slabs in a steaming, scalding flood. A drop or two must have hit the face of a baby girl sitting on the floor and she began to wail. Setting down Pa’s theatre, shrugging the sack of puppets from his back, Caleb hurried into the room and picked up the infant to comfort her but she screamed all the louder. Soon her shrieks brought the village children to the door and they crowded into the cottage, yelling accusations of murder and mischief, treading in the stew, slipping, falling, and knocking Caleb and the struggling baby sideways. For several moments all was noise and chaos.

  Then a voice sliced through the uproar. The accent was strong and it took Caleb a second to understand the words.

  “Out! Out – all of you. Get on. Now!”

  The whimpering baby wriggled so hard that Caleb set her back down on the floor and she crawled towards the woman standing framed in the doorway. Caleb saw only an outline at first, the light at her back making a flaming halo of her red hair. A shapely figure, full-bosomed, widehipped, narrow waisted, standing almost as tall as himself. She was a force to be reckoned with – as strong and sturdy as Anne Avery was dainty and delicate. If he was to be turned away, Caleb thought, she would be the one to do it.

  “I said get out!” On her command the village children left without another word. She stepped aside to let them through the door and it was only then that Caleb saw she must be his age or thereabouts. Her features were not so much pretty as striking: a square jaw, high cheekbones, a broad forehead. The baby was at her feet, arms up, wailing. Picking her from the floor, the young woman soothed, “Hush, Dorcas” and the little girl’s cries ceased.

  Turning her green eyes on Caleb she stared at him with an intensity that he found disturbing. “Who the Devil are you?”

  “My name is Caleb Chappell…”

  “Caleb Chappell?” she repeated. She seemed so shocked she almost dropped the baby. “Oh my Lord! Are you…?”

  Before she could finish her question the woman on the floor – ivory-faced, her hair dripping with stew – spoke for the first time.

  “Letty, Caleb is my nephew.” Her voice was soft but clear – well bred, not unlike Pa’s, at odds with the squalid setting. There was a note of panic in it, Caleb thought. But she knew his name. She didn’t deny he was her relation. That alone was a huge relief.

  She pulled herself into a sitting position but remained on the floor. “You are Joseph’s son, are you not?”

  “I am. And you are my aunt, I believe. Anne. Anne Avery?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes darted towards the young woman, who gave the smallest of nods. Some unspoken message had passed between them. But there were no questions. No doubts. They both accepted him without a murmur. Yet why did the redhead stare at him so? It was almost like a challenge.

  Caleb regarded her for a moment. And then he threw her words back at her. “And who the Devil are you?”

  He thought he caught a flicker of amusement pass across her face but before she could reply his aunt intervened, “Letty is Edward’s – my husband’s – daughter. My stepdaughter. He is away at sea just now. Letty’s mother died when she was just a baby.” She looked towards the door. “Where is Joseph? Is he with you?”

  “No… I am alone.”

  Anne Avery struggled to her feet, giving a small cry of pain as she did so.

  “Are you hurt?” Caleb asked. “Have you been scalded? Should I fetch water?”

  She hadn’t noticed the fallen pot and when she did so she let out another cry. “It is spoiled! What are we to do?” She set it to rights and began to scrape what she could from the floor but Letty made no move to help. Indeed, Letty had not yet taken her eyes from Caleb’s face. She stood transfixed.

  What was this? Had she never seen a man who looked like him before? Here – at the world’s end – maybe not. He knew too well where that kind of curiosity led. Any moment now she’d grab him by the hand and rub his skin to see if his colour would come off. She’d ruffle his hair and pinch his arse and make some poor joke about shearing sheep. But no … she stayed silent. Was that contempt in her eyes or not? And why did she thrust her jaw out like that? She looked angry. Dear God, did she think this mess was his doing? Did she imagine he’d walked in and deliberately poured good food upon the floor? That he’d invited the children to tread their filthy, muddy feet through it? He bridled but said nothing. If she didn
’t speak, then neither would he. Better to help his aunt salvage what food she could than ask Letty why the hell she was staring at him like that. He knelt down and began to clear up the mess.

  When what was left of the spoiled stew was set in bowls upon the table Anne invited Caleb to sit and eat. She was awkward. Embarrassed. There was a mild gentleness to her that he found both appealing and discomfiting. Perched beside her on a small stool at a small table in a tiny room his hands felt clumsy as butter paddles at the end of arms that had grown suddenly overlong. He seemed too large, too rough, too ill-bred, too masculine for this household. He was unused to the company of women – his manners were those of the road. The inn. The tavern. He felt uncouth. Vulgar. But oh God, he was hungry. He started to shovel spoonfuls of stew into his mouth. But then Anne asked again about Joseph.

  “Where is he? Why is he not with you?”

  Laying down his spoon, Caleb chose his words with care. When he finished, Letty’s mouth opened as if she was about to speak, but then she looked at Anne and appeared to think better of it.

  Anne didn’t notice. She was so distressed by the disaster that had befallen her brother that Caleb feared she might faint once more, but instead she started weeping. “Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways. How could he allow this to happen to such a good man?”

  There was no answer that Caleb could give and so he said nothing, but her question had answered an unspoken one of his: Pa and Anne had not quarrelled. She did not hate Pa. And here was Caleb eating at her table. What on earth had caused their long estrangement?

  His aunt asked, “He told you to come to me?”

  “He said you would help me. He said you must.”

  Anne stared into her bowl. She gave a slight nod of the head but her shoulders sagged as if a great burden had been placed upon them. She looked ill-equipped to carry it, Caleb thought, and his heart sank.

  Letty spoke. “What did he do then, your Pa? I mean, how’d he pay his way? Make a living?”