The Time of the Hunter's Moon

  “Everyone must have a stir,” said Violet mysteriously. “Otherwise…”

  She did not finish the sentence but the silence was more ominous than words could have been.

  Then there was the smell which seemed to pervade the house while the puddings bubbled away in the copper in the little laundry room and Teresa was there when Violet, with the long stick which was used for pulling out clothes, expertly stuck the end through the loops in the pudding cloths and triumphantly lifted them out while we all looked on in wonder. There was the all-important little taster—a small basin with just enough for four in it. We would taste that after dinner and give our unbiased verdict.

  It was wonderful to see Teresa’s delight in these small happenings, and her face was very serious when her portion of the taster was placed before her. We tasted—all eyes on Violet, the connoisseur of Christmas puddings.

  “A little too much cinnamon,” she said. “I guessed it.”

  “Nonsense,” said Aunt Patty. “It’s perfect.”

  “Could have been better.”

  “It’s the best pudding I ever tasted,” declared Teresa.

  “You didn’t taste last year’s,” said Violet.

  “Well, I can’t see anything wrong with it,” insisted Aunt Patty. “I only hope next year’s is half as good.”

  “So do I,” said Teresa.

  And there was a little silence which Aunt Patty quickly filled. Teresa had found a way into this house and she was welcome. I think both my aunt and Violet were gratified and delighted that she enjoyed being with us so much. But we had to admit that at any time she could be sent for by relations or even her parents.

  I hoped Teresa did not notice the pause and we went on with the inquest on the taster.

  Then there was the decorating. Aunt Patty had left this for us to do so that Teresa could share in it. We picked holly and ivy which was hung in the rooms and we made a wreath to hang on the door. We went carol singing with the church party and to Midnight Service on Christmas Eve after which we came back to hot soup at the kitchen table and when we had finished it Aunt Patty bustled us off to bed.

  “You’ll want to sleep late if you don’t get off to bed,” she said, “and that will shorten the great day.”

  In spite of our late night we were all up early on Christmas morning. The presents were lying under the tree and would be distributed after dinner, which would be eaten at one o’clock. Aunt Patty, Teresa and I went to church; Violet stayed behind to cook the goose. After service many of us congregated in the porch to wish each other a happy Christmas and then Aunt Patty, Teresa and I walked home across the fields humming “Come All Ye Faithful.”

  We all declared the goose was done to a turn except Violet, who insisted that it had been in the oven five minutes too long; the pudding lived up to the expectations established by the taster and the opening of presents began. Aunt Patty had woolen gloves for Teresa and Violet’s offering was a scarf to match. I had bought her brushes and paints because rather to our surprise she had begun to improve with her art. She was not as good as Eugenie Verringer, Eileen had said, but her progress was remarkable. We were touched because she had painted pictures for us all and had had them framed in Colby. There was a bowl of violets for Violet—very appropriate, we all declared; for Aunt Patty there was a garden scene with a girl seated on a chair, wearing an enormous hat which covered her face, which was a mercy, for I was sure that Teresa would never have managed anything so demanding; and for me a landscape with a house in the distance which looked a little like Colby Hall.

  In the afternoon Aunt Patty and Violet dozed while Teresa and I went for a walk skirting the woods where the pale wintry sunshine glinted through the bare branches of the trees and taking the path across the stubbly fields reveling in the smell of the damp earth and watching the jackdaws and rooks looking for food on the broken soil.

  We did not speak much but there was a contentment about us both.

  In the evening there were visitors. Aunt Patty had made many friends in the village and we played childish games like In the Manner of the Word and Animal, Vegetable and Mineral, refreshing ourselves with sandwiches and Violet’s parsnip and ginger wines.

  Then there was Boxing Day when the postman and dustman came for their Christmas boxes, solemnly presented in sealed envelopes with Merry Christmas written on them; and visiting the vicarage in the afternoon for muffins and tea and Christmas cake with icing on top.

  Violet, being a little gratified because the icing was a trifle hard, wondered whether she ought to tell the vicarage cook to put a drop—not much, mind you—of glycerin in it next year to soften it.

  This problem occupied her all the way home. Should she or shouldn’t she? And we all took sides over this matter although I suppose none of us—except Violet—cared either way.

  But that was how it was. There was so much delight and pleasure in the simple things. I watched Teresa’s animated face and felt ashamed of myself. I had known so many Christmases like this but I had never really appreciated them before.

  The holidays were over and there was Aunt Patty waving goodbye on the platform, cherries bobbing on her hat, and Violet telling us that she was sure the sandwiches she had packed for the journey would be dry before we ate them.

  “See you at Easter time,” called Aunt Patty.

  “Hot cross bun time,” added Violet.

  I looked at Teresa. She was smiling, clearly looking forward to Easter and hot cross buns.

  ***

  That term seemed dull compared with the others. The first had been exciting because I was settling in and I had had my encounters with Jason Verringer. During the term leading up to Christmas I had been busy with rehearsals and so on. Now that was over and this term seemed like an anticlimax. For one thing Jason Verringer was still away. Fiona and Eugenie had naturally been at the Hall for Christmas and an elderly cousin and her husband had come to take charge of them. I gathered from Teresa that they had done very much as they liked and that the elderly cousins had quickly given up trying to exercise control.

  When I asked them how they had enjoyed Christmas, Eugenie had laughed and said with a rather malicious twinkle in her eyes: “It was quite interesting, Miss Grant!” and Fiona replied demurely: “We enjoyed it very much thank you.”

  Eugenie and I were in a state of what I called armed neutrality—and of course Charlotte Mackay was with her in this. They had never forgiven me for preventing their sharing a room and they would, I knew, discountenance me if they had the chance, but now they did seem to respect my authority and of course I held over them the threat of curtailing their riding if they did not behave well.

  It was different with Fiona. She was a docile girl, very pretty and easily led, and I was sure if left alone would not have looked for trouble. Teresa was my stalwart ally and the rest of the girls in my section were ordinary kind-hearted creatures who might be led astray by others but were quite ready, and really preferred, to be amenable. I think they were all a little impressed by the change in Teresa and I tried to imagine what descriptions she gave of Aunt Patty’s house. I suspected that she made a visit there sound like a trip to the Promised Land.

  However, I was becoming more and more aware that I had the special gift of winning the respect of my pupils without a great deal of effort, which is one of the primary needs of any who wish to teach.

  So the term went smoothly, too smoothly perhaps, and I, like Teresa, was looking forward to returning to Moldenbury.

  Halfway through January the snow came and it was difficult to keep the rooms warm in spite of big fires. The bitter north wind seemed to penetrate even the thick walls of the Abbey, and the ruins, white with snow, were fantastically beautiful—and even more uncanny in moonlight. The girls enjoyed it; they built rival snowmen, had snowballing battles and tobogganed down the slight incline above which the Abbey stood. The roads were treacherous and for over a week no vehicle could reach us. Daisy was, of course, prepared for such an emergency
and there was plenty of food, but the girls enjoyed feeling cut off and many of them were hoping that the icy conditions would continue. Some of the servants were saying that Devon had never known such weather and what was the world coming to?

  “Disaster,” commented Eileen Eccles. “When the temperature in Devonshire falls below freezing the world is coming to an end…or at least there is to be a return of the ice age. Some of them ought to be transported to the North of Scotland; then they would learn what winter is.”

  Before the end of the month the thaw set in, and I went into the town. Mrs. Baddicombe, the postmistress, detained me for a gossip as no one else was in the shop, which served groceries and many other things besides being a post office.

  Eileen had warned me that Mrs. Baddicombe was what she called “the town recorder” in as much as she knew all that was going on and her mission in life was to make sure that she spread the news throughout the community with as much speed as possible.

  She was a tall spare woman with dull opaque sort of eyes and a great deal of pepper-and-salt hair, which she wore piled high on her head with a frizzed fringe. She talked incessantly while she weighed parcels and handed out stamps or dealt with the commodities of the store.

  “Oh, Miss Grant, it be nice to see ’ee. How have ’ee been getting on at the school during this terrible weather? I said to Jim (Jim was her husband who sometimes helped in the shop and was noted for his somewhat taciturn silences. ‘His refuge against that flow of talk,’ said Eileen) weather be terrible. I didn’t see a soul in the shop for days.”

  I said we had managed but Miss Hetherington would like the goods sent up as soon as possible and I had an order for her.

  “Jim will bring ’em up as soon as he can. There’s everybody wanting things now. Fair run out they had. Who’d have thought we’d have such weather here in Devon. It’s the worst for fifty years they’m telling me. Her from Rooks’ Rest have sent up this morning. She don’t come herself…oh no…too grand. Sends that London woman. Never could abide her. Looks like she’s laughing at you all the time. That’s London, I suppose. Thinks she’s smarter than we be. Oh no, Madam hardly ever comes in herself. Why you’d think she was my lady already.”

  “Oh…you mean Mrs. Martindale.”

  “That’s her.” Mrs. Baddicombe leaned forward and lowered her voice, “I reckon we’ll have her up at the Hall soon. H’m…well, least said soonest mended. Her ladyship now, she was a lovely lady. Never saw much of her lately…but to go like that…and her in Rooks’ Rest, his house…all at the disposal of Madam if you please. And there is she having the baby and all that. I reckon it’s real disgraceful. Of course, you know they’ve got the Devil in them.”

  I ought not to be listening. It would be more dignified to make my excuses and yet, to tell the truth, I found the opportunity to discover something irresistible.

  “Well, you’ve not been here long, Miss Grant, and you’re up at that school and that Miss Hetherington, she be a fine lady, places her order regular and there’s no question about paying…That’s what I like. Not that Hall bills ain’t paid. I wouldn’t say that—but the goings-on! They’ve always been a wild lot…got the Devil in them. Well, he’s gone away to make a respectable delay. Couldn’t marry her right away, could he? Even he has to wait a year for decency’s sake. I reckon come Easter we’ll have the church bells ringing for them. A wedding when the last time they was tolling for a funeral.”

  “Well, Mrs. Baddicombe. I’d better be going…”

  It was a feeble attempt and Mrs. Baddicombe was not easily dismissed.

  She leaned further over the counter.

  “And how did her ladyship die? Well, it happened nice and convenient, didn’t it? Madam has the little bastard and her ladyship takes her dose of laudanum. But this be Verringer land and there’s no gainsaying that. The things that goes on…and them two young ladies up at the school. Miss Eugenie’s got a lot of Verringer in her. But I reckon there’ll be trouble when he marries her. There’s so much people will stand and no more. I reckon they ought to take another look at her ladyship.”

  Someone had come into the shop and Mrs. Baddicombe started back.

  It was Miss Barston who wanted stamps and sewing cottons.

  I waited while she was served, said goodbye to Mrs. Baddicombe and Miss Barston and I came out of the shop together.

  “That woman is a pernicious gossip,” said Miss Barston. “I always discourage her when she starts on me.”

  I was a little ashamed. I should have done the same, but I was very eager to learn all I could about Jason Verringer and Marcia Martindale.

  After the snow the weather turned mild and almost springlike. I met Marcia Martindale in the town. She stood talking for a little while and told me how wretched she had been snowed up, and reproached me for not coming to see her. I made an appointment to call the following Wednesday if no sudden duties were imposed on me.

  I rode over. It was a dampish day with a reluctant sun glinting out now and then through the clouds. I glanced up at nests in the elms and passed under the porch with the golden jasmine trailing over it and rang the bell.

  It was opened by Maisie, who said: “Come in, Miss Grant. We’re expecting you.”

  Marcia Martindale rose to greet me; she was dressed in black, soft and clinging; she had a magnificent figure; and about her neck was a heavy golden chain; and she wore gold bracelets, three on each wrist.

  She looked like a character from a play but I could not think which. She took both my hands in hers. “Miss Grant, how good of you to call.”

  “I reckon my lady needs a bit of cheering up,” said Maisie grinning at me. “She’s in mourning today.”

  “Mourning?” I said and my heart beat with fear. I thought something had happened to Jason Verringer. “For er…”

  Maisie winked. “For the past,” she said.

  “Oh, Maisie, you are a fool,” said Marcia. “Get off with you and tell Mrs. Gittings to bring us tea.”

  “She’s doing that,” said Maisie. “She heard Miss Grant come.”

  “Do sit down, Miss Grant. I am sorry you find me in this sad state. It is an anniversary.”

  “Oh dear, would you rather I went and came another time?”

  “Oh no no. It is so cheering to have you. I hate being shut in, which is what happened with all that snow. I was nostalgic for London. It is rather quiet here, all this waiting.”

  I replied that the snow had been restricting but that the girls had enjoyed it.

  She sighed. “It is five years ago that it happened.”

  “Oh?”

  “A great tragedy. I’ll tell you about it…after they’ve brought the tea.”

  “How is the little girl?”

  She looked rather vague. “Oh…Miranda. She is well, Mrs. Gittings is so good with her.”

  “I thought she was. I’ve seen them once or twice in the lanes. She took her away for Christmas, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. I was in London. I had to have Maisie with me. One needs a maid. And for all her faults Maisie is very good with hair and clothes. She’s devoted to me though sometimes you wouldn’t think it. And Mrs. Gittings just loves having Miranda. She takes her to some relations on Dartmoor. She says the moorland air is good for the child.”

  “I am sure it is.”

  “Ah, here is the tea.”

  Mrs. Gittings wheeled the trolley as she had on an earlier occasion, nodded to me and I asked if she were well and had enjoyed Christmas.

  “It was wonderful,” she said. “Miranda loved it and you should have seen my sister. She loves little ones. Always asking when we’re coming again.”

  “I have promised Mrs. Gittings that she shall take Miranda soon,” said Marcia.

  Mrs. Gittings smiled and went out.

  “Such a good soul,” said Marcia. “I can trust her absolutely with Miranda.”

  She poured the tea and said: “Well, you have discovered me in the midst of my mourning. I am sorry if I am a
little depressing. It was so tragic.”

  “Yes?”

  “Five years today when I said goodbye to Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Jack Martindale.”

  “Was he your…?”

  “My husband. We were so young…very, very young…striving then, both of us. I had had my successes. It was in East Lynne that we met. He was Archibald to my Isabel. Young love is rather beautiful, don’t you think, Miss Grant?”

  “I cannot speak from experience, but I expect it is.”

  “Oh, you must be a late starter.”

  “I probably am.”

  “Well, my dear, be thankful for that. When one is young one can be so impulsive. But between Jack and me it was right from the very beginning. We were married. I was just seventeen. It was idyllic. We played many roles together. We brought something to our parts. Everyone said so. But then I began to surpass him. Jack loved me passionately but he was a little hurt. You see I was the one the audiences came for. Without me he could not draw audiences at all.”

  She rose and stood with her back to the window, her arms across her breasts. She looked very dramatic.

  “So he went away. I didn’t try to stop him. I knew he had to make his own way. There was this chance to go to America. It was for him alone. Some manager had seen him…”

  “And he didn’t want you too?”

  She looked at me coldly. “It was a male lead he was searching for.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You wouldn’t understand about the theatre, Miss Grant.” She was still rather cold. “However, Jack went.” She stood for a moment tense. It was like the end of the act when the curtain is about to fall and the time has come to deliver the last telling line.

  “The ship was struck by an iceberg…three days out from Liverpool.”

  She dropped her hands and walked to the tea trolley.

  “It’s a very sad story,” I said, stirring my tea.

  “Miss Grant, you can have no idea. How could you…living as you do so quietly…teaching…You can’t imagine how an artist feels…shut up here…after such a tragedy.”

  “I can very well imagine how anyone would feel after such a tragedy. One does not necessarily have to be an artist to feel grief.”