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Authors: Audrey Howard
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box marked Abbott . . . yes, yes . . . and when her bald question finally penetrated his tangled mind which, it seemed, had been thrown into some confusion by her appearance, his expression was startled.
“ Why?" he repeated.
“ Yes. What does this mean?" indicating the newspaper cutting which the clerk had returned to her as though afraid he might be contaminated by its continued presence between his fingers .
Mr Hancock had the correct papers before him now which he studied through the thick-lensed spectacles on the end of his nose.
“ Aah, yes, of course, it's about the farm," eyeing her abundant hair which, though she had done her best with it, was cascading in a rippling mass over the weary, straining cloth of her elderly bodice.
“ The . . . the farm? Browhead?"
“ Indeed. What else?"
“ But . . ."
“ Now that your mother and father are dead . . . ”
The rest of his words faded away as she entered the dizzy, echoing tunnel which was long and black and shocking and when she came out of it at the other end Mr Hancock was talking of legal matters which, he said, were apparently in order and all that was needed was for her to. . .
“ My . . . my parents are both dead?"
“ Indeed, that is what I said."
“ When?"
“ Oh, it must be twelve months since . . . ”
She scarcely remembered leaving his office, nor the few shillings which Mr Hancock — kindly now — pressed into her hand for her railway fare to Penrith, nor much of the journey either, and it was not until the man spoke to her that she came out of her shocked state .
She was arranging the child's clothing when he first noticed her, twitching its little bonnet more closely about its face, stuffing tendrils of bright copper hair beneath the brim, re-tying the scarf which already fitted snugly about its neck, but doing it so fiercely the child was pulled this way and that like a puppet on strings. She — he had decided the child was female — didn't seem to mind, accustomed to rough handling, he supposed, perhaps knowing no other. She stood patiently, submitting to being turned about for the woman's critical inspection; to a general smoothing down of the drab, ankle-length skirt; to a forceful tug at the equally drab shawl which was crossed over her narrow chest and tied at her back, the last ministration nearly taking her from her small feet. Then, bringing a glowing smile to the child's face, the woman knelt down and planted a hearty kiss on her upturned cheek. The gesture was so spontaneous, so full of irrepressible and loving warmth the man felt his own lips twitch in a smile .
It was a scene with which he was very familiar though not one he had experienced for twenty years. His own mother had treated him thus before he set off on his short-legged fell pony across his father's land which lay up beyond the splendour of Dash Falls. From there he had dropped down the packhorse route which skirted Lonscale Fell to Latrigg and on to Keswick where he had attended the grammar school.
“ Now then, Reed Macauley," she would say in her broad-vowelled but rhythmic Cumberland dialect. She always called him by his full name when she wanted to impress upon him the importance of what she was about to utter. "Now then, Reed Macauley, mind tha' keeps tha' scarf tight round tha' neck. There's a fair bottom wind blowing' down t'valley an' I'll not have thi' tek cold for the want of a bit o' sense. ”
As if he would, her expression said. Her son! He'd never had a cold in his life, no, nor any of the childish ailments which afflicted other weaker boys, but she had to have her say nevertheless, for it was only in this way that she could demonstrate her deep and abiding love for him. He was the apple of her eye, the darling of her heart, the centre of her universe but if her life had depended on it she could not have told him so. Instead she would fuss about him, her work-worn hands at his neck fixing his scarf to her own satisfaction beneath his chin.
“ Why?" he repeated.
“ Yes. What does this mean?" indicating the newspaper cutting which the clerk had returned to her as though afraid he might be contaminated by its continued presence between his fingers .
Mr Hancock had the correct papers before him now which he studied through the thick-lensed spectacles on the end of his nose.
“ Aah, yes, of course, it's about the farm," eyeing her abundant hair which, though she had done her best with it, was cascading in a rippling mass over the weary, straining cloth of her elderly bodice.
“ The . . . the farm? Browhead?"
“ Indeed. What else?"
“ But . . ."
“ Now that your mother and father are dead . . . ”
The rest of his words faded away as she entered the dizzy, echoing tunnel which was long and black and shocking and when she came out of it at the other end Mr Hancock was talking of legal matters which, he said, were apparently in order and all that was needed was for her to. . .
“ My . . . my parents are both dead?"
“ Indeed, that is what I said."
“ When?"
“ Oh, it must be twelve months since . . . ”
She scarcely remembered leaving his office, nor the few shillings which Mr Hancock — kindly now — pressed into her hand for her railway fare to Penrith, nor much of the journey either, and it was not until the man spoke to her that she came out of her shocked state .
She was arranging the child's clothing when he first noticed her, twitching its little bonnet more closely about its face, stuffing tendrils of bright copper hair beneath the brim, re-tying the scarf which already fitted snugly about its neck, but doing it so fiercely the child was pulled this way and that like a puppet on strings. She — he had decided the child was female — didn't seem to mind, accustomed to rough handling, he supposed, perhaps knowing no other. She stood patiently, submitting to being turned about for the woman's critical inspection; to a general smoothing down of the drab, ankle-length skirt; to a forceful tug at the equally drab shawl which was crossed over her narrow chest and tied at her back, the last ministration nearly taking her from her small feet. Then, bringing a glowing smile to the child's face, the woman knelt down and planted a hearty kiss on her upturned cheek. The gesture was so spontaneous, so full of irrepressible and loving warmth the man felt his own lips twitch in a smile .
It was a scene with which he was very familiar though not one he had experienced for twenty years. His own mother had treated him thus before he set off on his short-legged fell pony across his father's land which lay up beyond the splendour of Dash Falls. From there he had dropped down the packhorse route which skirted Lonscale Fell to Latrigg and on to Keswick where he had attended the grammar school.
“ Now then, Reed Macauley," she would say in her broad-vowelled but rhythmic Cumberland dialect. She always called him by his full name when she wanted to impress upon him the importance of what she was about to utter. "Now then, Reed Macauley, mind tha' keeps tha' scarf tight round tha' neck. There's a fair bottom wind blowing' down t'valley an' I'll not have thi' tek cold for the want of a bit o' sense. ”
As if he would, her expression said. Her son! He'd never had a cold in his life, no, nor any of the childish ailments which afflicted other weaker boys, but she had to have her say nevertheless, for it was only in this way that she could demonstrate her deep and abiding love for him. He was the apple of her eye, the darling of her heart, the centre of her universe but if her life had depended on it she could not have told him so. Instead she would fuss about him, her work-worn hands at his neck fixing his scarf to her own satisfaction beneath his chin.
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