The Wilding

  ‘Yes. Mr Robin Dymond’s nephew.’

  ‘Not blood-relation to the mistress. I see, Sir. I see.’

  ‘Well, thank Heaven for that,’ I was about to retort, but just then her smile burst out and it was one to make the angels rejoice in heaven. Evidently there was no love lost between her and Aunt Harriet. The girl seemed a simpleton; but if not, I had perhaps stumbled on the very person I was seeking: the Judas.

  * * *

  ‘Has Tamar been bothering you?’ my aunt asked that evening as we sat by the fire.

  ‘The maid? A little.’

  My aunt bent forward to poke at a log. ‘She’s no jewel, eh?’

  ‘She seems an unskilful servant.’

  ‘And so she is. She came to me when Robin was soiling his bedding. At my time of greatest need, the laundress went back to her family and then the nurse I’d hired for him did likewise. They needn’t show their faces here again.’

  ‘So you did it all yourself,’ I murmured, scarcely able to picture this.

  ‘For a while,’ she agreed. ‘I let it be known in the village that I would pay handsomely provided I got a girl with a willing heart, but none came forward. There was still preserving to do, brewing, work to be had in the fields. Who’d choose to mop up the vomit and flux of a dying man?’ She gazed into the embers. ‘Then Tamar came wandering through the village, a vagrant, and the vicar sent her to me. She was better off here than taking a whipping. She did it all without complaint, but –’ She shrugged.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Do you know these vagabonds, how they are? They’re not Christians. It seemed to me as if she’d got some hold over him, towards the end. I wonder did he give her money. He could never resist a young woman.’

  I felt a shock run through me. I am not sure how much of this arose from the thought of my uncle, in his disgusting condition, making up to the maid, and how much from his widow’s speaking so calmly of it.

  ‘From what you say,’ I remarked, ‘he was too ill for anything of the sort.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ my aunt replied. ‘But be she pure as the driven snow, she can’t stay here. I want a laundress who can turn out bands and frills.’

  ‘What’ll happen to Tamar?’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t wish her to be a vagrant again?’

  ‘What she does is no concern of mine. She might find a place in the village.’

  ‘There are people here wishing to hire a maid?’

  ‘Or something,’ my aunt said acidly, her face so bitter that for a moment she resembled the young woman she spoke of. The mad thought came to me that Tamar was Aunt Harriet’s illegitimate daughter. Mad, because everyone knew that Aunt Harriet was unable to bear children. She had tried for years, only to bring into the world a succession of little corpses; my own mother had presided at one of these gruesome childbeds, and had come home weeping. So Aunt Harriet had no heir, which was why the mothers of Tetton Green tried to engage her affections to their own offspring. Besides, when I looked at her again her face had cleared. Seen thus, she no more resembled Tamar than an apple does a thistle.

  4

  Of Wandering

  ‘You’d get on faster if Geoffrey sent some of the men to you,’ my aunt said.

  ‘No need to take them from their work,’ I replied. ‘What’s milled can lie there and concoct till the time comes to load it. There’s nothing more to do for now.’ Standing back, I wiped my hands and admired the dripping press.

  She sniffed. ‘I smell rot.’

  ‘All to the good, if it doesn’t go too far.’

  ‘Then watch it doesn’t. I don’t want my cider turning to vinegar.’

  ‘That can always happen, Aunt.’ I took up my coat and made for the door, only to find Aunt Harriet following along as if she meant to drag me back. ‘There’s no more to do,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll come back in time, never fear.’ And with the coat slung over my shoulder I crossed the yard and left by a little gate that opened onto the lane at the back of the house.

  It was my plan to walk a while in the wood and breathe its freshness; I had been indoors, hunched over the press and the vat, for too long. That autumn day was unusually bright and crisp; soon would come rain, and mud, and sitting with steaming legs before the fire, but for now I felt the need to move my limbs. When I was finished with the wood, I intended to go along the road and up to the green, and see these neighbours from whom I had to be stowed away in a back room.

  I was not five minutes into the trees before I saw a woman ahead of me, decently clad in a white cap and plain dark gown, and hard put to it to prevent her clothes from tearing on the briars as she pushed her way through, for she was constantly having to untangle them. From time to time she stopped and glanced over her shoulder, but as she never turned right round, she did not see me; had she done so, she must have observed me at once. I judged by her motions that she was young, agile and perplexed: she moved like one that is doing wrong and knows it.

  My curiosity was tickled and I decided to follow her some of the way. I guessed, of course, what she was headed for and listened out for the approaching lover, but of him there was no sign; he seemed to be coming by another way. We hurried on quite far into the wood, where the sounds of the village shrank to nothing. More than once she almost fell: I could hear the gasps as she staggered on concealed roots or stones. It dawned on me that I was a fool, and that she might think me worse than a fool: if she found me following she would scream, bringing the man running and placing me in no very enviable position. I had indulged my whim quite long enough, and turned to retrace my steps. But when I did so, the path we had travelled seemed to branch off at once into three. Worse, I had no longer any idea of where the village lay. I paused, wondering if I should wait in hiding and follow her out again – if indeed she chose to come back in the same direction. Just as I realised I had no choice but to continue following, the woman slid sideways off the path, as if down a bank, and vanished.

  Cursing, I ran towards the place where I had last seen her. She had passed by an ash tree with a holly bush near it: I was now standing between the two. I stood very still and forced myself to breathe quietly. Birds trilled about me; the trees creaked as the wind stirred their tops; but the woman seemed to have passed into a world where sound was not. She was flesh and blood like myself: no matter how carefully she walked among the twigs and brambles she must needs make a noise, and yet …

  A cold air seemed to blow on me. I recalled certain tales of my childhood, stories of spirits that lured men into lonely places and there delivered them over to the Black Woodcutter, a ghostly figure who swung his axe three times in the air. The children of the village would chant:

  Off went the right arm,

  Off went the left –

  after which the Black Woodcutter would slice through the victim’s neck, throwing the severed head into a tree. My parents laughed at such tales; still, a man from the village claimed to have seen the Black Woodcutter, late one night, prowling near the churchyard.

  At that moment I smelt something comforting: smoke. The Black Woodcutter did not light fires, as far as I knew – the only trunks he was interested in were the human kind – and I looked about me for the familiar blue haze. But I could see nothing, and when another whiff came to me a few minutes later I realised from its flavour that this was the scent of an old fire, lingering among its ashes. The flames, wherever they had been, had been doused.

  I spent a few minutes poking about beside the path. There was no sign of habitation; a steep slope led down from where I stood into a vicious-looking thicket of brambles some thirty feet below. The way was plainly not that way, and I turned back.

  Now I had lost the woman there was nothing for it but to guess. I took the middle path and after some ten minutes’ walk began to hear noises from the road near the duck pond. Despite the fear I had felt a short while earlier, I was now very satisfied with my own powers, and it was with a cheerful heart that I emerged some way along the road from End House, and was able to s
ee it there among the rest.

  ‘Black Woodcutter, indeed,’ said Ito myself.

  * * *

  I was still not inclined to go back to my aunt and thought I would carry out the rest of my plan, namely to take a tour of Tetton Green. That it had once been prosperous could be seen by the make of the houses, but the Civil War had thoroughly lanced its swelling coffers: rings, goblets, furs and countless other comforts had disappeared onto wagons and into soldiers’ snapsacks. My father had told me about that time; he was already living at Spadboro, where things were much quieter, but Uncle Robin and Aunt Harriet were caught up in the thick of it all. To judge by Aunt Harriet’s style of living, however, they had suffered no lasting harm. That was perhaps because Tetton Green was occupied by the King’s forces and the Dymonds have always remained loyal to His Majesty.

  I was struck by the peculiar appearance of the Guild Hall. The windows were in the new elegant style, good in itself but out of tune with the rest of the building. I remember that I remarked on this to an old man passing by; he told me that they had been smashed during the war and not replaced for some years afterwards. Folk had scarcely enough to feed themselves, let alone replace windows, and as a result rain and wind had been let to play the devil with the interior, though all was now made snug again. I said it was a shame, and Cromwell the Dictator had the sufferings of an entire nation to answer for. He said it was not the rebels that did it. I said it came to the same thing, since the rebels must bear the blame for the war. Then I made the round of the houses, walked down to the duck pond and traced the stream uphill until I arrived back at my aunt’s house.

  Crossing the yard, I heard a movement inside the shed where my press was. Aunt Harriet had gone against my wishes and put someone to meddle with my work. I walked smartly up and flung open the door, crying, ‘Come out of there.’

  Tamar was within, laughing and holding a hand to her heart. ‘You did give me a fright!’ said she.

  ‘What are you doing in here? I said nobody was to touch it.’

  ‘I haven’t touched it, Sir. Look, I’m nowhere near.’

  I could not deny that she was seated some yards off, on a heap of sacks. Trying not to look as foolish as I felt, I checked the press. All was as it should be, and the vat brimming with liquid gold.

  Tamar said, ‘I came to ask if you’d give me a dish of murc.’

  ‘Isn’t that something you should ask my aunt?’

  The girl looked crestfallen.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘what do you want murc for?’

  ‘To give to someone. The mistress won’t notice, will she? It’s nothing to her.’

  She was asking me because Aunt Harriet was sure to refuse. I hesitated. It was true that my aunt wouldn’t miss it, unless of course she had sent the girl to test my honesty. Then I remembered that Tamar was a vagrant, without a friend in the world. It seemed harsh t refuse her something so trifling. Besides, if this girl had secrets to sell, a dish or two of crushed apple given now might repay me a thousandfold later on.

  ‘Who wants it?’ I asked.

  ‘An old woman. A bit of that, stewed up, might move her bowels.’

  I laughed. ‘She’ll need plenty of honey to go with it! These are like crab apples. You were going to take it, weren’t you?’

  ‘No, Sir. What would I put it in? I haven’t a bowl or anything.’

  I thought a bowl might be concealed beneath her skirts, but I could hardly ask to see there; besides, being suddenly afflicted with a picture of her waddling off, a bowl of murc wedged between her thighs, I struggled in vain against laughter and having started, went on until the tears came in my eyes.

  ‘Are you well, Sir?’

  ‘If you fetch a bowl, I’ll give you some,’ I said, able to speak at last and waving away her thanks. ‘This old woman lives in the village, does she?’

  ‘She’ll pray every night for you, Sir, and if – if –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The logs, Sir, the ones they give you. If you could let us have one.’

  ‘But there are trees all about here!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you make yourself a woodpile?’

  ‘We’ve neither axe nor saw.’

  ‘And you haven’t a neighbour to borrow from? Or to cut wood for you?’

  ‘Nobody that’s willing, Sir.’

  ‘Couldn’t Geoffrey lend you his?’

  She shook her head. ‘He says I won’t bring ’em back. We use the smallest pieces of wood, Sir, but they soon burn through.’

  I gazed at her. By dint of a few questions I had learnt more than Aunt Harriet had discovered in weeks: that Tamar was not a solitary vagrant but part of a ‘we’, a household, and that this household had an old woman in it; also that nobody in the village would help them to a fire. No wonder this girl was so hard and spare and fox-like: she led a fox’s life. Her words might be humble but her eyes, gazing back at me, were not as respectful as a servant’s should be. I was even, for an instant, a little nervous of her.

  ‘I understood from my aunt that you ‘lived in’ here,’ I said.

  ‘I do, Sir, for now. But I help out at home when I can.’

  ‘Fetch the bowl, then.’

  She did not wait to be told twice and was soon back with a wooden dish which I filled to the brim with pulped apple. ‘Remember to sweeten it well,’ I warned her. ‘Otherwise your old woman won’t be able to eat it.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that, Sir.’

  My aunt could be heard calling from the house. Tamar curtseyed and was gone.

  5

  On the Natural Deceitfulness of Women

  Dearest son – my mother had written – God be praised that you can render your aunt service at such a time. That is all to the good. But I would wish you to come away directly she no longer needs you. Your father is sad and lumpish and talks often of your return, and we have our own cider to make.

  We therefore look for you at the end of this week, no later. Pray give our regards to your aunt and ask her if we may help her in any way.

  Your loving Mother.

  In fact her letter was not so well expressed or neatly written as I have set it down here and took me some time to puzzle out. Of my parents, my father was much the better scholar and I wondered why he, rather than Mother, had not taken up the pen. I was pleased, however, at the words Mother had chosen, for her letter came to me already opened; it was a kind of triumph that Aunt Harriet, spying into it, had found nothing but kindness. Love for my mother and father swelled in my breast, the more tenderly in that I was about to disappoint them: I would return home only when I had done what I came here to do, and that would take longer than a week. Had they really needed me to make the cider, I would have returned; but I knew Father could do it all by himself.

  Leaving the letter in my chamber, I made my way downstairs. My aunt was standing near a window at the bottom of the staircase, examining some silks a merchant had sent to her, and holding them under the light; she looked up on hearing my approach. As she did so, her glance fell on the window, which gave onto the front of the house. I saw her body stiffen. She put down her silks, calling, ‘Geoffrey! Geoffrey!’

  Curious, I went to the window. All I could see was a beggar-woman, her shoulders bent and her head concealed in a clout, standing outside in the lane. She did not seem to be looking at our house more than any other, but I guessed she had glimpsed my face at the window, for she started to hobble away. The next minute, Geoffrey rushed past me and out of the front door, holding a stick. The beggar moved off, but not before he had fetched her a swingeing blow across the shoulders. I had heard my aunt calling, ‘Geoffrey! Geoffrey!’ before, but this was the first time I had seen him; he was a big man and as he entered again, panting after the sudden call to arms, I felt sorry for the woman he had driven away.

  ‘She’s gone, Mistress.’

  ‘She’s forever hanging round,’ said my aunt to me.‘In league with robbers, most likely. Any time you see her, Jonathan, tell Geoffrey
at once.’

  I turned back to the window just in time to see what nobody else saw: Tamar standing outside, staring after the beggar. She must have run around the side of the house. As she turned back towards me her fists were clenched and her face more bitter than I had yet seen it.

  ‘Does Tamar chase her away, too?’ I asked when the girl was safely out of sight.

  My aunt looked surprised. ‘It’s Geoffrey’s job. Tamar hasn’t time to chase after witches.’

  ‘Witches, aunt? Is she really a witch?’

  ‘Who knows?’ my aunt responded irritably. ‘Whatever she is, she’s not welcome here.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘You know beggars. They drift with the wind. You may go, Geoffrey.’

  She settled back to examining her silks.

  * * *

  I was now getting to know something of the servants kept about the house. There were six in all. Besides clearing tables and laundering clothes, Tamar helped in the stillroom when the mistress wished to make cures, perfumes and so on. Geoffrey Barnes, whom I had seen in action against the beggar, seemed to combine the tasks of a steward and an over-gardener. With the help of hirelings from the village he managed the heavy work about my aunt’s property and also went with her to market, lest she should meet with annoyance there; he was so trusted by Aunt Harriet that during busy times he was permitted to hire on his own authority. Geoffrey’s wife, Rose, did all the cooking and preserving of edibles; between her and Tamar there existed an uneasy truce. Anne James wiped furniture, swept floors and beat hangings; there was also a lady’s maid called Hannah Reele who was rarely seen outside my aunt’s chamber. Lastly there was a dwarf hunchback who looked after the stable and who was known simply as Paulie, like a child, perhaps on account of his short stature. Paulie had once been married, and had a young son who did not take after his father but was of the usual size. Mostly the dwarf preferred his own company, or that of the horses; it was said he had been melancholy ever since the death of his wife.