The Forbidden Path Read online

  ‘Next time you go over the fields to get here’ll be the first!’ Levi said, unimpressed by the young-mistress act, then he nodded in the direction of the main village street, adding, ‘and if you’m looking for a rumpus, seems you’re about to get it.’

  The toss of her hair stopped midway as she recognised the horse and rider coming towards them. ‘My father …’ she began glancing at Cato, who raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘What’s he doing here?’ she demanded of Levi, who gave a short laugh.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered, ‘but by the look on his face it’s bad news for somebody.’

  Belle had once heard her father described as a handsome opportunist. It suited him, she thought, with his dark eyes, and dark hair only just beginning to be touched by grey at the temples. The clean lines of his high cheek-bones and brow had the fineness of a classical sculpture. He had a habit too of perfect stillness, before an outburst of anger or the issuing of orders, so that those closest to him fell into a way of paying the greatest attention to him when he was at his most still and most quiet.

  For all his tight-lipped smile and nod of acknowledgement to her, she sensed his tension and knew, even as he addressed Levi, that it was the men he was not looking at who were the main object of his anger and the reason for his unscheduled ride to the village.

  ‘Levi?’ The dismal shake of the old farmhand’s head confirmed what Sam Greenaugh obviously suspected, that once again Levi had gibbed at venturing into the backroom of the chemist’s shop, where traditionally the blind was pulled down and the door bolted before a tooth was extracted.

  Sam gave him a look of disapproval, but there were other more urgent matters on his mind than Levi taking yet another working morning off and still not ridding himself of the aching tooth. Without speaking again, he instructed his black mare gently with a movement of his knee, and went to inspect the other engines. Belle, Cato and Levi automatically followed him. The front engine seemed to provide him with the meagre proof he needed. He waved his riding crop officiously in the direction of small snags of leaves and twigs caught behind the lamp bracket and some of the boiler rivets.

  ‘You’re interested in steam-engines?’ The question came from the stocky, big-shouldered man who jumped down to the road from the front machine. His clothing and all that could be seen of his face, hands and arms were black from his work, but he had the assurance of a successful self-made man in his stance, and the hard look of a businessman in his eye, as he stood wiping his hands on an oily cloth.

  ‘I’m interested in this one,’ Sam replied, indicating the leaves. ‘This one has been used to try to force a way along my path, has ruined one of my hedges and allowed my stock to stray.’

  ‘Our map of the area shows a double line marked as a bridle-way, giving access to a driveway to my land. If we’ve done damage to anything that is yours, then I’ll have my men put it right. The name’s Joe Abbott, moving into Glebe Farm.’

  It was a moment of decision, a taking-up of attitudes. Belle watched her father closely, then glanced at Cato Abbott’s father. They were like two powerful dogs, strange to each other, yet realising their territories adjoined and they were probably going to have to live each with the other — unless one was powerful or savage enough to frighten the other away.

  Joe looked down at his hand. ‘I’m. not in a state to offer to shake hands,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ The word came too abruptly, making Sam’s agreement a near insult. ‘And perhaps if we each respect the other’s property matters can rest there.’

  ‘Rest there,’ Joe Abbott was quick to take up the ambiguity, ‘what do you mean by that?’

  ‘There is a law of trespass …’

  ‘Ah! I see the way the wind blows around here,’ Joe interrupted. ‘Strangers not welcome … well, amen to that, but don’t try to tell me that a bridle-way is private land.’

  ‘We’re not against anyone who comes here,’ Sam said stiffly, ‘but we object to people moving in and despoiling things that have existed peaceably for generations. Rights lapse when they’re not used for many years.’

  ‘This one’s not lapsed then, governor,’ called one of the group of Joe’s men who had drawn nearer to hear the exchange, and Belle’s heart gave a little twist of apprehension as the man indicated her. ‘That lass there has just said she walks it regular to the village.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ Joe Abbott said. ‘That lass seems to settle the point, then.’

  ‘It settles nothing,’ Sam snapped. ‘That “lass”’ – he insultingly made his voice broader to mimic Joe’s tone- ‘as you call her, is my daughter, and never walks that way into the village. It is impassable — and has been for generations.’ ‘She says she takes to the fields in those parts,’ the same workman interposed with obvious satisfaction at being able to stoke up this novel disagreement.

  ‘You don’t mean she trespasses on my land!’ It was Joe’s turn now to borrow word and tone from Sam Greenaugh.

  Belle’s apprehension turned to awed amusement. Mockery was something her father could not tolerate, and, so particular about his own appearance, she knew how he would resent having to converse with this deeply grimy man, backed by his motley-looking crew of workmen. She was well aware, too, that quite a few of the assembled villagers would not be averse to seeing the ever immaculate Sam Greenaugh (who had risen from the rank of hired orphan labourer) taken down a peg or two.

  ‘The girl imagines all sorts of things, you need set no store by that!’

  Belle drew in a sharp, audible breath, stung under the realisation that her father had not only as good as called her a liar in front of this young man who attracted her so strongly, and all these strangers, but he had made her look like some sort of idiot daughter no one should pay any regard to. The fact that her statement wasn’t true was, she felt, beside the point. Her father had never put her down in front of anyone before. She glanced at Cato Abbott, who looked both puzzled and surprised, but half smiled at her. She was unsure whether or not she caught a hint of pity in his smile?

  She vowed then and there to take the first opportunity to correct his opinion of her, and to make her father sorry he had showed her up. If she had not walked the path before, she certainly would now.

  ‘What the girl said’ll do for me.’ Joe Abbott was not going to let this advantage go. ‘Legally, I reckon it settles the way as still used and open.’ He paused, as if still making a try to bring in an element of friendly cooperation. ‘As soon as we’re settled in, I shall see to it that a proper work-manlike job is made of clearing the path, and any damage to your hedge will be restaked and fenced first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll mend my own fences, and I’ll thank you to keep away from my boundaries.’

  ‘They’re my boundaries too.’ Joe paused to give full effect to his words, then added, ‘and that bridle-path may be no use to you, but it’ll give me a good quick access to my property with my machines — and I intend to use it!’ He took a step forward in a kind of symbolic gesture of determination.

  Sam’s mare, already made restless by the steam-engines and the press of interested people, was startled by this more definite movement towards her, and swung round nervously. Sam, as if equally determined not to be seen to veer from the line being toed, pulled sharply on one rein to bring his mount back again to face the man he opposed. The mare’s shoulder came hard up against Joe Abbott’s chest, and sent him reeling back on to the engine.

  There was a concerted roar of protest from the Abbott men, and one leapt forward, grasping the mare’s reins, gripping them tightly under the chin and trying to force the animal backwards, away from his employer, who had fallen dangerously close to the dancing hooves. ‘Mind her back legs,’ Levi shouted, knowing the animal’s propensity to kick out if anyone tried to back her up too suddenly. He came forward quickly to try to take over, but not soon enough. The horse unleashed a kick that seemed likely to have taken Belle’s head off, if Cato had not seen her danger. He snatched her
from the range of the hooves, which passed with mutilating force within inches of her face. Levi’s outstretched hand just failed to reach the reins in time, and the mare, bit between its teeth, span round and galloped the length of the village street, children and grown-ups scattering like chaff before a winnow.

  Joe was back on his feet again, swearing but unhurt, and Cato stood holding Belle’s arm as they watched her father struggling to bring the mare back to order. Once away from the crowd of people, the animal soon became more malleable under Sam’s masterful hand.

  ‘Reckon we’d best make a move, Miss Belle,’ Levi said, leading the way.

  ‘Aye, and keep well away from that bridle-path,’ called the man who had intervened with the information about Belle walking the path. Belle saw Levi bristle like a little old terrier and turn sharply back.

  ‘And who’s the man giving out his orders? Let’s know his name!’ Levi demanded. ‘I’ve no truck with anyone who hides behind his fellows.’

  ‘Mordichi Evans, at y’service.’ A tall, rib-thin man whose nose stood out raw and sharp above a long but sparse grey beard stepped forward. ‘And we’re not used to folk who can’t discipline their women, four-legged or two!’

  His remarks brought a gale of laughter, in which only Levi, Belle and Cato Abbott did not join. She saw a look of anger cross Cato’s face as Mordichi Evans made a further remark to those near him, which brought more intimate and coarser laughter from those who heard. As if to separate himself from the man’s remarks, he touched her arm again, and said, ‘We shall undoubtedly be working on the path tomorrow.’

  She glanced up at him, and as their eyes met she knew that at least a suggestion of an assignation had been made. It would be an appointment dear to her heart, for it was spiced with the danger of her father’s disapproval and the opportunity to get her own back.

  When eventually she parted with Levi’s company and passed through the farmyard, she was only vaguely aware of her father’s new young labourer as he stood steeling himself to undergo the contemptuous teasing of the young mistress.

  2

  Belle breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her father ride purposefully straight through the farmyard, to be followed in a short time by Levi driving one of the smaller farm carts with the new boy perched on a load of hedging stakes. The inquest on her behaviour in the village was obviously being delayed until after the fence was repaired.

  Not that she didn’t respect her father - at least as her equal in manipulating their world to their own ends — and she loved him, she supposed, as she loved herself. She was only too pleased to share with him things she knew he would delight in (and had invented much of her school prowess for his satisfaction), but obviously Cato Abbott was not going to be one of those. She was pleased to have this moment’s solitude to indulge in quiet speculation about their new neighbours.

  There had been brief friendships before, with boys met secretly in the city square - which gave cover between the strictly segregated girls’ and boys’ schools - but though she could never deny a desire, neither could she feign an interest, and the flirtations lasted weeks rather than months. Never had a first meeting with any boy excited her as Cato Abbott had done. Not that Cato was a boy. He must be twenty-three, four, or even five. She half grimaced, half shuddered, as goose-pimples pricked her skin, feeling the same excitement as when he had jumped down from his steam-engine - so close to her she had lost her breath.

  She stood leaning over the kitchen table, idly picking up the brass scale weights, and balancing them one against the other on scale pan and platform, speculating on the opportunities to meet Cato: the village … but the path and the fields would be better. She put her hand over the place where he had caught her arm in pulling her out of the path of the mare’s vicious back-kick. She was almost surprised there was not some indelible proof of his hand; there certainly was in her mind. It was a kind of elation which made her see her surroundings with new eyes. Colours were brighter, deeper; the kitchen range wore a brighter sheen of black-lead and a bowl of orange marigolds glowed at her from the windowsill. She was just taking a deep, self-satisfied breath when her mother’s voice startled her. ‘What are you dreaming about?’

  Belle was suddenly aware that she had been observed for some moments and laughed self-consciously, for, close to her father in temperament, she knew her mother sometimes ‘saw through’ her with uncomfortable accuracy. ‘Just thinking,’ she answered, sniffing disparagingly at the image her mother always created of the typical farmer’s wife. Swathed in a coatlike gingery-brown overall, she gave an impression that she was always with bucket. Her daughter wished she would take pains to look more like the lady of the house, but Mabel said she was satisfied to look what she was: the daughter, and granddaughter, of country people who had prospered by hard work and frugality. Belle privately thought her father’s method of advancement was preferable.

  ‘Think on the baking to be done. You can weigh-up for me,’ Mabel said, then seemed to pause to study the glow on her daughter’s face and asked, ‘Who have you seen in the village?’

  ‘In the village …’

  ‘Well, as we used to ask when boys and girls arranged to meet at the village pump, “who’s been filling your buckets?”’

  Belle tossed back her hair and tutted, ‘I think that’s a common thing to say.’

  ‘It’s a common thing to do, too. There’s a lot of it goes on, so you be careful, my girl. Don’t want your father going on about anything else, I can’t stand argument and ill-feeling. Plenty of time for boys in a year or two.’

  ‘I didn’t see any boy in the village,’ Belle said, and felt complete veracity in the statement. ‘What made you think I did?’

  ‘You have a look about you,’ her mother answered matter-of-factly, and pointedly heaved the large enamel flour bin on to the table.

  Belle weighed and kneaded the bread dough, but thought of little other than the following day, and the opportunity it might give to encounter Cato Abbott again.

  The evening was an ordeal. Her father seemed savagely silent, and her mother obviously knew nothing of either the Abbotts or the encounter. Every moment Belle expected the storm to break over her head, for she continually looked up to find her father’s gaze on her. He seemed to both see her, and yet to look beyond her.

  In Belle’s curious amber-coloured eyes, so like a watchful but wary kitten, Sam saw trouble. His daughter was not a fool, did not cross him unnecessarily, knew which side her bread was buttered. So, he pondered, why had she made the foolish statement about walking the path? He feared that in the glance he had intercepted between the tall young man and his daughter, he had caught the glimmering of an answer.

  His daughter was growing up. In the past he had gratified her appetite for novelty and excitement whenever he could, particularly when she came home glowing with accounts of her progress at school. She was, he realised, unlikely to be satisfied with parental treats and outings much longer and was daily becoming a living symbol of all he secretly wished to express, a manifestation of all his repressed sensuality. It was a constant amazement that by his plain, prosaic wife he had achieved this girl. From under lowered eyelids he watched her as she sat curled in the Windsor armchair, legs tucked under her and skirts wrapped around them, and felt stirred too deeply for comfort.

  In turn she looked across at him, unsure but ready to placate, a half smile hovering. He pursed his mouth so the corners should not lift, and she went back to the book balanced on her knees. Mabel vowed the girl had a steel core in spite of her slightness, the feyness that seemed almost overweighted by a mass of tawny hair. He supposed that she was at the height of her girlish beauty. Her maturity was for the future, perhaps to be even more beautiful in some eyes, but not a father’s.

  He recalled how close she had posed next to the tall, engine-black young man. The pale green of her dress somehow now representing the green of his boundary, destroyed, and the oily blackness of the man became the symbol of the power t
hat had so quickly laid all to waste. He could, he reflected, repair his hedge, but … he stopped the line of those dire thoughts quickly.

  But he did admit to himself that since they had lost their son Harry in the war, he had become even more possessive about his daughter, and more demanding of the future on her behalf. He recognised, too, that really he had indulged her, ever since the day she had frightened the midwife by arriving in the world with such energy - the woman had crossed herself before starting to deal with the squirming scrap of flesh. ‘Just as if she’d been born straight on to a hot stove-top,’ she had muttered.

  Sam had been secretly pleased at the sensation his second child’s arrival caused, had delighted in her ever since. He had held up her spirit and energy as an example to their more down-to-earth son, until the boy quietly volunteered for the army, went in the second draft of men sent to the Dardanelles and was killed on that far Turkish shore within three months of leaving the farm. Such thoughts were an intimate and often-repeated torture to him, though his wife, able to weep and grieve, thought him heartless and angry at their loss. He had walked many lonely, hard miles envying her the ability to sob away her heartache. His cries were silent amid the dark gothic interweaving of great woodland trees, and five years later his healing had not begun.

  Belle felt distinctly uneasy as her father moved restlessly about in his chair, as if either his thoughts disagreed with him, or he was preparing to make one of his verbal assaults, and there was no pretending that she was not due for one.

  ‘Can I take your magazine to bed with me?’ she asked, rising with it already in her hand.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Mabel agreed, pulling her mending mushroom from a sock, ‘but don’t crease it all up!’