Authors: Yelena Kopylova
she expose the top of her boots but also her bare
shins.
Charlie stood staring at her; and when her hand
dropped from her mouth he became aware that the swishing had stopped. He could also hear the crunching of his
father's feet on the path and the moaning of the boy he had left behind him.
As he moved towards her, Polly turned and came
towards him, her teeth tightly pressed into her lower
lip and her eyes full of tears. When they came
abreast neither of them spoke, nor did they move from
behind the hedge until the sound of MacFelPs
voice reached them from the yard; then going quickly on to the path, they bent one on each side of Ginger and
pulled him upwards.
"Don't cry, Ginger. Don't cry."
Ginger's head was deep on his chest and his body was
trembling, but once on his feet he tugged his arm
away from Charlie's and turned fully towards
Polly, and she, putting her arms around him,
murmured, "Come on down to the burn, the water'11
cool you."
Her arm still about him, she led him along the cinder
path down the slope, past the cottage that
MacFell had had renovated and furnished,
supposedly to let to the people who tramped the hills in the summer, and to the bank of the burn.
"Take your knickerbockers off."
"No, no!" The boy now grabbed at the top of
his short trousers.
"Go on, don't be silly. There's three of them
back home, I'm used to bare backsides."
When the boy still kept tight hold of his trousers,
she said, "All right I'll go but Charlie'll stay
with you, won't you, Charlie?"
It pointed to a strange relationship that the daughter
of the one time cowman could address the master's son in a way other than as young Master MacFell or
Mister Charlie, and that she was the only one connected with the farm, besides his parents and sister, who did
address him so.
"Yes, yes, Polly."
"I... I don't want to take "em off."
Ginger sniffed, then wiped his wet face with the back of his hand. "I'll . . . I'll just put me legs
in."
"All right, have it your own way. But wait a
tick till I take me boots off an" I'll
give you a hand down the bank."
With a speed that characterized all her movements,
Polly dropped on to the grass and rapidly
unlaced her boots, stood up again, shortened her
skirt by turning in the waistband several times, then,
her arm around Ginger once more, she helped him down the bank; and when their feet touched the ice-cold water
the contact forced her into momentary laughter.
Glancing up the bank at Charlie, she cried,
"It would freeze mutton," and almost in the same breath she went on, "come on, a bit further,
Ginger, get it over your knees. And here, let me
get the grit off your hands."
As if she were attending to a child, and not to a boy almost two years her senior, she gently flapped the
water over his grit-studded palms, saying as she
did so, "They're not bleedin' much, it's your knees that are the worse. . . . There, is that better? It
gets warm after you've been in a minute. Feel
better, eh?" She lowered her head and, turning it
to the side, looked into his face, and he nodded at
her and said, "Aye, Polly."
A few minutes later she helped him up the
bank, although he now seemed able to walk unaided, and
when he sat down on the grass she sat close beside
him; then, her round, plump face straight, her
wide full lips pressed tight, she stared
up at Charlie for a moment before saying, "You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to take your da and kick him
from here to hell along a road all made of
cinders."
Looking down into the angry green eyes, Charlie
was prompted to say, "And I'd like to help you do it,"
but all he did was to turn his gaze away towards the
burn, until she
TCP 3
said, "I don't blame you; you know I don't,
Charlie ... Sit down, man."
As if he, too, were obeying the order from an
older person, Charlie, like Ginger, did as she
bade him and sat down, and as he watched her dabbing
at Ginger's knees with the inside of her print skirt
he wished, and in all sincerity, it had been he himself who had suffered the cinder path this morning, just so he could be the recipient of her attentions.
He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't
loved Polly Benton. He was three years old
when big Polly first brought her into the kitchen and
dumped her in a clothes basket to the side of the
fire while she got on with the business of helping
Fanny Dimple. He had stood fascinated
by big Polly's knee as she bared her
equally big breast to the infant. He had grown up
with young Polly, close yet separated. At times
when the master was absent they had played together openly; when he was present they had continued to play, but
secretly; and always in their play she had been the
leader and he the willing follower.
When, four years ago, his father had taken it
into his head to send him to the boarding school in
Newcastle, the only one he had really been
sorry to leave was young Polly;
he hadn't been sorry to leave his mother, although he
loved her and pitied her, but her need of him drained
him and he was glad to get away from it. As holidays
approached it was only the thought that he would see
Polly again that compensated him for the irritations that lay ahead in the house.
"You'd better get back if you don't want
another dose."
They all turned and looked upwards and towards
Polly's elder brother, Arthur,
Arthur was fifteen years old. He was stockily
built with dark hair and a ruddy cornplexion.
He looked strong, dour, aggressive, and he was
all three.
"Get up out of that, our Polly, and stop
rnolly-coddlin' him; he'll get worse than that
afore he's finished."
"Aw, you! our Arthur! you want a taste of it
to know what it feels like."
"I've had me share. But not any more"- his chin jerked upwards defiantly-"he stops when you can
look him in the eye."
It was as if the latter part of his remark had been
addressed to Charlie, who had risen to his feet, and
again Charlie would like to have endorsed the sentiment by saying,
"You're right there," for as yet his father had never flayed anyone over fifteen. Instead, he watched
Arthur Benton push the small redheaded boy forward
with a thrust of his hand, saying, "Go on, bring some hay down. If you fall it'll be softer on your arse.
An' you"-he now turned to Polly-"get back to the house. You shouldn't be over here anyway."
"You mind your own interferences, our Arthur. And
don't think you'll order me about "cos you
won't."
Polly was now pulling on her boots, the laces
of which passed through only half the holes, and when she rose to her feet the tops of the boots spread out like
wings from her shin bones. be "Pull your skirt
down."
"Shut up! An" you go to the devil. I'll
leave it up if I want to leave it up. I'll
put it round me neck if I feel so inclined."
As she finished she looked at Charlie and laughed;
then with a toss of her head she walked away from them, and they both watched her go, not in the direction by which they had come but along by the burn which would bring her out below the cottages.
"Eeh!" Arthur jerked his head to the side. "She gets cheekier every day." And there was definite pride in the remark, which caused
Charlie to smile at him and say quietly,
"She's Polly."
"Aye, you've said somethin" there, she's Polly all right."
They turned together now and walked across the grass and on to the cinder path, and the exchanges between them were again unusual in that they were as between equals.
"You going for a ride s'aftemoon?" asked
Arthur.
"Yes, I'm to go over to Chaprnans'."
Charlie did not say, "I'm going over
to Chapmans' was but "I'm to go over
to Chaprnans3."
"Is the boss thinkin' of buying the mare?"
"No, no, it isn't about that; I'm to take an
invitation for them to come to supper on Saturday
night."
"O . . . h! O . . . h! It's like that,
is it? Supper Saturda' night. You'll have
to watch yourself." He jerked his head towards Charlie, and Charlie, looking at him with a blank countenance,
said, "What do you mean, watch yourself?"
"Why, Miss Victoria."
"Aim Victoria!" Charlie's brows drew
together.
"Lor'!" Arthur was grinning. "If I was
lookin' like you at this minute an' somebody
said I looked gormless they'd be right. 'Twas as
I said, you'd better look out for Miss
Victoria. Old Chapman would like nothin' better
than to see the lands joined; an' the boss, well,
let's face it, the Chapmans are the cream of the
milk round here, an' the boss is all for the cream
off the milk."
Charlie brought himself to a sudden stop. He looked
at Arthur for a moment; then, his head going back on
his shoulders, he let out a laugh. It was a loud
laugh, a long rollicking laugh, a sound that was
rarely heard around the farm. It even startled
Arthur into protest. Casting his glance towards the
back of the byres to where the alleyway ran into the
yard, he said, "Stop it, man! What's got
into you? There's nowt funny about that. Aw, give
over. Stop it!"
Slowly Charlie's laughter subsided, and,
taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped each
cheekbone; then, his face still lit with laughter, he
looked at Arthur and said, "Victoria . . .
she's eighteen," it was as if he were speaking of someone as old as his mother. "The things you get into your head, Arthur. Anyway, if I was her age what would a
high-stepper like Miss Victoria want with me?
I'm tongue-tied when I meet her; it's as if
we spoke different languages. She goes
to balls in Hexham and Newcastle, she's been
to London; she's left school, and I'm still there,
and likely to be for years; and what's more, she's mad
on horses and hunting and can talk of nothing else.
Now if I was bringing up that subject with her I'd
put rny foot in it right away by saying her tastes
are a contradiction for she's supposed to love
horses, yet she takes them over fences that could
rip their bellies open. Moreover, I don't
think she's read anything but a lady's
journal in her life. As for reading poetry, she
would laugh herself sick if I mentioned it, even young
Nellie is better informed than she is."
"Well, who wouldn't? Poetry isn't for men."
"Oh, now who's being gormless, Arthur?"
Charlie waved his hand before his face as if shooing
away a fly. "It's men who write the poetry."
"Aw, no, I don't agree with you there, for
they're not what you'd call real men, just those fancy
half-buggers."
"Don't be silly. What about Wordsworth? Is
he a ... ?"
Charlie couldn't bring himself to repeat Arthur's
phrase but substituted the word
"effeminate" which part of his mind told him was hitting Arthur below the belt; he knew Arthur would show no
offence at being put down in this way, for he liked
to talk, and to get him talking too. And it was odd,
but he could talk to Arthur, and Arthur's pet
response, "I don't agree with you," always
pointed to the fact that he was enjoying the talk, having a crack as he called it. He was aware that Arthur
was very ignorant and was likely to remain so, for he was too bigoted to learn. Yet he liked Arthur.
He liked all the Bentons. Yes, he
liked all the Bentons.
Arthur was now saying, "Wordsworth is different,
anybody who lives among the hills is different.
I'm talking about the fancy blokes up in
Newcastle an' London."
Charlie blinked rapidly, swallowed, but made
no further comment except to repeat to himself,
Newcastle and London. They imagined everything
bad happened in Newcastle or London and that
all the rich people, too, were in these places. They
took no account of the vast space all about them which was dotted with manors and huge country houses. To people like Arthur, Newcastle and London were the places where
odd people lived and bad things happened; the
bad things, the unnatural things that took place
among themselves they laid down to nature.
He himself hadn't travelled further than
Newcastle but he knew that one day he would break
away and see the world, and stop to listen, listen to people talking. He would love to listen to people who could really talk about things besides farming and horses and . . . the other thing. . . But then the other thing wasn't very often talked about, it was simply done in the hay field,
or behind the barn, or in the copse along by the burn.
It hadn't happened much lately, but then the
harvest was over. It was at its worst, or at its
best-it was how you looked at it-when the hands came
over from Chapmans to help out, to beat the weather or
to clear a harvest. The other thing had been troubling
him a lot of late and it was always mixed up in his