River Daughter. Jane Hardstaff

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it fit you?’

      ‘It does, Pa,’ said Moss, ‘It’s the most beautiful dress.’

      She wrapped her skinny arms tight around him. Pa had worked so hard to build this life for them. How could she possibly think something was missing?

      ‘Pa,’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Do you sometimes think of her?’

      Pa loosened Moss’s hug so he could look into her face.

      ‘Your mother?’

      Moss nodded.

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘Does she seem far away?’

      ‘Well, yes and no. Sometimes I think I can still hear her.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Not actual words. It’s more . . . the feel of her voice. Outside. In the grass, or blown by the wind.’

      ‘And do you . . . do you ever, see her?’

      Pa’s gaze went through Moss, to that distant place only he could reach. ‘Perhaps just a trace. It’s been so long.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think your old Pa’s a little crazy?’

      ‘No, Pa.’ She hugged him tight. ‘I really don’t.’

      Outside, there was a clatter of hooves. A ruddy-cheeked man poked his head into the forge.

      ‘Mornin, Samuel!’

      ‘Morning, Farmer Bailey,’ said Pa. ‘Got Big Sal with you? Tie her to the post. I’ll be right out.’

      As Moss left the forge, Pa and Farmer Bailey were deep in talk of horses and Big Sal and how fine a friend she was to Farmer Bailey, who would be sorry to lose her when the time came.

      Moss hopped over the fence and waded through the long meadow grass. Salter would be well into the woods by now, checking his traps. Thank goodness for rabbits, she thought, for there was precious little meat. Here in the village, the sheep were for wool or milk and the pigs went to market. She hadn’t seen a ham since Twelfth Night. What a ham it had been, though. On Mrs Bailey’s kitchen table, glistening with honey and pocked with cloves. And Mrs Bailey must have seen her face pop, because she’d sent a good piece round to Pa the next day. They’d eaten it that evening, savouring every morsel of that sweet, spiced meat. But mostly they lived on stew made from the vegetables that Moss grew, fish from the river and bread bought with Pa’s earnings. And the rabbits.

      It was poaching of course. The woods belonged to Sir John, and although Salter said the gamekeepers were as dozy as a cow in a hot field, he risked a chopped hand if he was caught. Nevertheless, he’d become bold and somehow he always seemed to be one step ahead. He lured the rabbits with cabbage leaves and turnips. He never set his traps in the same place. He was crafty and quiet. Neither the keepers nor the rabbits stood a chance.

      By the treeline, Moss found the blackberry bushes and had just begun to fill her basket when she spotted Salter coming out of the woods with several grey rabbits flopped over his shoulder.

      ‘Four young bucks,’ said Salter. ‘Not a bad mornin’s work.’

      ‘Enough for stew.’

      ‘And some left over. Goin to take em to the Nut Tree now, see if I can’t sell a couple to Old Samser.’

      ‘I’ll come with you.’

      ‘If you like, but leave the barterin to me, Leatherboots, or I’ll end up with nuppence for me trouble.’

      ‘But I always feel so sorry for Old Samser. This isn’t London, where everyone’s looking for a way to rip each other off, you know. They do things differently here.’

      ‘You reckon so? Well, don’t feel too sorry for that old goat. He may be slow, but he ain’t stupid. If I let him, he’d play me like a fiddle. Anyway, a bit of bargainin keeps everyone on their toes.’

      It was only ten o’clock but already smoke was puffing from the windows of the Nut Tree Inn. Salter pushed at the door and they threaded their way through the tumble of voices. No one batted an eyelid at the rabbits. Like Salter, many of the villagers poached for a bit of meat and the Nut Tree was where you sold or traded any you couldn’t eat yourself.

      Old Samser stood at the top of the cellar steps, jug in hand. Wagging her tail against his leg was Poppy, Old Samser’s spaniel, staring up at Salter’s rabbits with hopeful eyes.

      ‘Eyes off them rabbits, Poppy,’ said Salter, letting the dog lick his hand. ‘They ain’t fer you.’

      Old Samser chuckled. ‘Mornin, Moss, mornin, Salter-boy. What you got there, then?’

      ‘Two young bucks, Samser, if I likes the price.’

      Moss knelt down beside Poppy and ruffled her shaggy coat, catching a wink from the old landlord. He was well used to Salter’s cheekiness.

      ‘Bain’t no lad in the village can trap rabbits like the boy here. He’s a sly city fox, this one. If he can’t get yer one way, he’ll get yer another.’

      ‘A groat buys you two rabbits, take it or leave it,’ said Salter.

      ‘Threefarthin,’ said Old Samser.

      ‘Are you out of yer mind? Three pennies and I ain’t goin no lower.’

      ‘Two pennies and yer backsides can warm themselves by my fire.’

      ‘Our backsides don’t need warmin,’ said Salter. ‘No deal.’

      Moss found herself smiling. She had to admit, there was something very satisfying about watching Salter hold his nerve. But Old Samser wasn’t backing down just yet.

      ‘Two pennies and a jug of my best to take back for yer Pa.’

      Salter shook his head. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, landlord.’

      ‘All right then, two pennies, three farthin and the jug.’

      ‘Three pennies and you can have the pick of these fine rabbits, whichever two you like.’

      Old Samser chuckled. ‘All right, all right. Three pennies it is. It’s a hard bargain you drives, Salter-boy. There’s farmers round here could learn a thing or two from you.’

      When Old Samser had chosen his rabbits, Salter pulled a couple of apples from his pocket and he and Moss sat down to enjoy the sight of the farmers coming in from milking. With them shuffled a weary drover who sank back on the settle by the fire. He sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, until Old Samser brought him a plate of bread and hot mutton and a large mug of ale.

      ‘Old Samser’s no fool,’ said СКАЧАТЬ