The Farthing Mark

By Bunny Mitchell

A novel set in Victorian Sussex.

' They talked about Hannah, and her sinful behaviour, over the washing lines and at the well, in Farley's store and behind the church. They made their plans and it was done with great secrecy.'

Hannah Challen is trapped in a loveless and abusive marriage, shunned by the villagers who regard her as a 'furriner'. Seth Weller, a shepherd on the Downs, has just lost his wife in childbirth. the friendship that develops between them is an innocent one, born out of loneliness.
But the villagers don't see it like that. They think Hannah is an adulteress and express their disapproval in no uncertain terms, tormenting her on every occasion. Their attitude, however, only serves as a catalyst for the very thing they are trying to stop.

The Farthing Mark is a story of love and deceit, hatred, malice and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bunny Mitchell
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301087822

Bunny Mitchell

Bunny Mitchell was a dancer before becoming a mother and later had a career as a cook. She made her home in Spain and America for several years before returning to England in 1998. She now lives in Sussex where she has grown to love the South Downs and the history of its people. Her novels encompass the folklores of the region and the colourful Sussex sayings that are in danger of dying out. She has three published novels (The Farthing Mark and A Magpie Mourning and Blind Bargain)and her fourth,Sweet Thunder, is soon to be released For many years Bunny Mitchell has encouraged and helped many to write their autobiographies. She founded the Bexhill Writers’ Forum in 2002 which she still runs.

Book preview

The Farthing Mark

by

Bunny Mitchell

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY

Bunny Mitchell on Smashwords

The Farthing Mark

Copyright 2004

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then pleaseencourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is also available in a print edition at most on-line stores.

Other books by Bunny Mitchell

A Magpie Mourning

The Coffin Maker’s Daughters – Blind Bargain

Sweet Thunder

*****

THE FARTHING MARK

Chapter One

It was a hot summer, the summer of 1886, when Hannah first saw the man. She had been in the front garden and happened to look up to the summit of the Downs just as he came into view. Nearing midday, the sun was high in the sky. She had to lift her hand to shield her eyes so that she could see more clearly, but something compelled her to watch the man’s progress.

At first, it wasn’t apparent how tall he was because he was bent over the burden on his cart, but as he began the slow descent, he leant back, digging his heels into the dusty chalk track in his effort to prevent the weight of the cart running away with him. And then she could see that he was a tall man, uncommonly tall, in stiff Sunday clothes and a hard felt hat obscuring the upper half of his face so that the only part visible was a square chin and a wide mouth set in a grim line.

A small girl trailed in his shadow, dragging along a smaller boy. A solemn girl of six or seven, who kept craning her head upwards to dart uncertain eyes at the man, like a young dog trying to judge its master’s mood and hoping to understand what was expected of it. She, too, was in her Sunday best; a blue cotton dress covered by a spotless white apron. On her feet she wore black button boots, coated with a fine film of dust, and her bright golden hair was tied back from her ace with a blue ribbon. The little boy sucked his thumb.

Every so often the man stopped to adjust his load, unhurriedly and with great care, as if the cart contained his most treasured possession. He stroked the box and patted it two or three times before resuming his journey.

Hannah, curious, watched him as he came into the lane that led past her cottage and into the village. She was still standing at the gate as he passed by. He neither paused nor greeted her, but continued on, staring straight ahead as if he hadn’t seen her. The small boy, still sucking his thumb, fingers hooked over his nose, twisted his head to look back at her with round and innocent eyes.

Hannah saw, then, what was on the cart. It was a plain wooden box made of new wood, partly covered by a cloth of worn linen. She wished now that she hadn’t been standing there and lowered her eyes.

She hadn’t realised that the man was taking a coffin to the graveyard.

* * *

A chair stood in the shade of the porch in front of Farley’s store; an old rocking chair with a faded red cushion, lumpy and worn, that covered the back where a rung was missing. Martha Farley was sitting there, fanning herself with a man’s handkerchief, her wrinkled old face perspiring freely and a darkening patch spreading from under the sleeves of her dress.

The chair creaked on the planked wood floor of the porch, like new leather boots, as she rocked rhythmically back and forth. Every so often, Martha stopped flapping the handkerchief to mop her face and neck. She grumbled to herself about the heat even though she had nothing to do but sit. Old age had forced her to relinquish the store to her son.

When Hannah walked down the lane, she didn’t see Martha at first. The first thing she noticed was the man’s cart, empty now, standing where two stray hens scratched and pecked optimistically at the parched earth in front of the store. The two children hung about the door, silently watching her approach. Hannah looked at their grave intent faces and smiled. She was rewarded by a fleeting, uncertain one from the girl but the boy merely stared solemnly back at her.

Stepping onto the porch and seeing Martha in the shadows, she greeted the old woman. ‘Good morning, Mrs Farley.’

‘Morning.’ It was a muttered reply, grudgingly given, no more than enough to be polite. Hannah hadn’t expected anything else. The girl pulled the boy to one side and Hannah stepped into the dim interior of the store.

She had always liked the smell of Farley’s place. It was a confusion of rich aromas; bacon, cheese, vinegar, cinnamon, shag tobacco, paraffin and soap. Jack Farley sold anything and everything, and what he didn’t have in stock he would gladly order. He had candles, lamps and clothes pegs, big jars of boiled sweets, axe heads and crockery as well as sacks of flour, sugar and tea that he carefully measured out on a pair of shining brass scales before packaging in a cone of blue paper.

Jack Farley was serving the man while a clutch of women huddled, whispering, over the other end of the counter pretending to examine a roll of dress material. Hannah recognized Blanche Longley and Esther Penfold, Lizzie Akehurst and Annie Riddle.

Annie’s young son, Willie, snooping among the vegetables, had discovered Martha’s ginger cat dozing on a sack of potatoes and was teasing it with a piece of string.

‘Will that be all, Seth?’ Jack asked the big man.

‘It’ll do for now.’

Jack took the stub of a pencil from behind his ear and added up the bill. ‘That’s three shillings and five pence ha’penny.’

The man emptied the contents of a worn leather pouch onto the counter top. He counted out the necessary coins, separating them from the rest and pushed the pile towards Jack Farley. Jack took the money and the man scooped up what remained and returned them to the pouch.

‘Take these for the littl’uns,’ Jack said, putting a twist of sweets down on the counter. ‘Happen they’ll enjoy a few suckers.’

The man, about to drop the pouch in the pocket of his jacket, looked up sharply and considered a moment. ‘How much?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Jack beamed. ‘My compliments.’

‘If I’m not paying they can’t have them.’

At this, the smile slipped from Jack’s face. ‘I only thought —’

‘I know what you thought, Farley, and I know you meant it kindly, but we don’t have what we don’t pay for. So how much?’ His mouth had tightened into a stubborn line. ‘I can take ’em or leave ’em,’ he added when Jack hesitated. The women ceased their whispering and watched out of the corners of their eyes. Flies buzzed over the bacon.

‘Three farthings,’ Jack said at last.

The man took the coins from the pouch, laid them down on the counter and scooped up the twist of sweets.

‘Good day to you,’ he said, dropping it into his pocket along with the pouch. He picked up his packages and with a curt nod of his head towards the women, spun on his heel and left, brushing past Hannah in the open doorway.

He had scarcely left before the women started, their voices full of indignation.

‘Scandalous!’ exclaimed Blanche.

Esther agreed ‘Bringing his poor wife down on that there cart and going back with his groceries.’

‘And ’er not been in the ground above ten minutes,’ said Annie.

‘It’s not at all fitting,’ said Lizzie, tossing her head.

Jack closed the till drawer with a metallic ring. ‘Can’t say that I blames him. I don’t justly know how far it is, his place, but I reckon he’ll have a middlin’ jaunce before he gets there.’ He spotted Willie poking about among the vegetables and shouted at him. ‘Willie! You just give over messing about with those cabbages!’

‘Ah, ’tis a middlin’ stride,’ Annie agreed, ignoring her son. She shook her head sadly. ‘They do say that if he hadn’t lived so far out, the doctor might of got to her in time. Poor woman would still be here today.’

‘Happen he thought to save a journey. It don’t do to leave a flock for long, even if it is folded.’

Lizzie said, ‘Well, I do call it a fagot-above-a-load to have to bring her down on an ’and cart. You’d think he’d have more respect.’

‘Still, she won’t have known no different,’ said Blanche, ever practical.

‘You had no ought to criticize, Lizzie,’ Esther put in. ‘We don’t know the ins and outs of it. It could be Trigwell wouldn’t give him the lend of his ’orse and cart.’

‘Or else Seth Weller wouldn’t ask.’

‘Trigwell’s teg shepherd told me Weller was in a bad skin with Trigwell. They had a misagreement, back in springtime, ’bout sheep feed or summat. Shepherd, there, wanted one thing and the old farmer said it weren’t necessary.’

‘Ah, he would. He’s a mean old codger.’

‘If you do that again, boy, I’ll skin you alive!’

‘They were argufying for days over it, till old Trigwell realised Seth Weller was right.’

‘Trigwell always looks at a shilling a long time before he spends it.’

‘You’re right there. He’s got his good faults but he’s that gridgen he’ll never do nothing for nobody.’

And so it went on. Hannah would have liked to join in, have a bit of conversation, but she knew she wouldn’t. As far as these women were concerned she might just as well not be there for all the notice they took of her. It’s as if I’m always on the outside looking in, she thought, and wondered if it would always be like this. Would she always be regarded as a furriner as they liked to call anyone who hadn’t been born around these parts? How long did she have to be here for them to accept her?

The loneliness was like an emptiness inside, an aching loneliness that made her wish she could put the clock back to a time when she had sometimes thought she had too much company.

At that moment, the pile of cabbages collapsed and went rolling across the floor. Willie scooted out of the door.

Annie, red-faced, was forced to say something. ‘Sorry, Mr Farley. I’ll give him a good bannicking when I catch him,’ she said, stooping to pick up the cabbages. Esther put her basket down and went to help.

Lizzie looked across the room, across the stacks of china and tinware, and saw Hannah standing there.

‘You’d better serve her next, Mr Farley. We don’t want to keep her waiting, do we?’ she asked, the sarcasm heavy in her voice. She inclined her head to whisper in Blanche’s ear and they both looked at Hannah and laughed.

* * *

The village of Medley lay hidden in a secluded hollow of the Downs; a small village boasting a Norman church with a flint tower and a collection of weather-stained headstones surrounded by an iron paling fence, a little public house called The Coach and Horses, and Farley’s stores. The nearest blacksmith was at Pimberton or Barkwell and the railway station at Walmsley some seven miles to the north. In the centre

of the village stood a tight cluster of a dozen or so houses and then a few more were scattered along the three roads that converged on the south west corner of the green. They were quiet roads that led from the village, petering out into white, deeply rutted tracks that climbed steeply on to the open Downs.

Nat and Hannah lived in a small brick and flint cottage, with a long strip of garden, in Becky Lane. It was a narrow lane that ran northwards out of the village, flanked by low hedges and tall trees, and the cottage was at the very end, isolated from its nearest neighbour by a quarter of a mile. It had belonged to Nat’s father who had died several years earlier and was a tiny cottage; only one bedroom and a low-ceilinged room Downstairs that served as both kitchen and living room. It had a scullery, an outhouse where the wood and garden tools were kept, and a privy at the bottom of the garden where the tall nettles grew.

The day was softening into twilight and midges danced in the air over the gravel path when Nat arrived home after a five-mile trek from Trigwell’s farm. He had been up on his feet since five that morning and in no mood for conversation.

‘What’s for supper?’ he asked, as soon as he stepped through the open doorway into the kitchen.

Hannah hardly looked up from the pot she was examining on the range. ‘Boiled ham,’ she replied with equal brevity. ‘It’s ready as soon as you are. Your washing water’s poured out.’

Nat removed the dinner frail slung from his shoulder and dropped it on the massive table that dominated the small room. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a hook behind the door and hauled his shirt over his head. A line showed round his neck and across his forearms where he had caught the sun.

Hannah went to the dresser, took cutlery from a drawer and plates from the shelf above. While she was laying the table she could see into the narrow, cramped scullery where the tin bath hung on the wall alongside strings of onions and bunches of drying herbs; sage and rosemary and thyme. She watched Nat as he bent over the enamel bowl that she had set in the shallow sink and as he splashed the water over his face and stood there drying himself, while the water dripped from his elbows, she could see why she had been attracted to him.

He was a fine figure of a man, muscular and tanned with a mat of dark hair on his chest and rough curly hair on his head. He had dark fiery eyes that gave the impression of extraordinary vitality. They had been bold, dark eyes looking her over as she served ale in her father’s inn. He had come across as an easygoing man with a fine sense of humour, jovial and loud voiced, full of a careless confidence.

And that’s how most people saw him, she thought. That was the picture he presented to the world. It made him popular with everyone; the villagers, the farmers, the shearers -all his gang looked up to him -but Hannah had seen the blemishes to his character, the dark side of him that others didn’t see. It was a side that she hadn’t seen herself until it was too late.

Hannah dished up the potatoes and the fresh green peas and brought them to the table. She sliced the ham, putting the best slices on Nat’s plate and fetched a jug of water from the crock in the pantry.

They sat eating their meal in silence, the shadows deepening and the sound of sparrows squabbling in the apple tree outside the door.

‘A shepherd came down to bury his wife today,’ Hannah said at last.

For a moment, Nat stopped shovelling peas and looked up. ‘Ah, that’ll be Seth Weller,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘I see him pass by Trigwell’s ’bout noon. Proud bugger, he is. Wouldn’t ask old Trig for a lend of an ’orse and cart.’

‘Why did she die?’ ‘Trouble birthing, I heard. Baby was born dead an’ all. ’Spect it was buried with her.’

Hannah finished her meal and lay down her knife and fork. ‘That’s sad,’ she said.

‘At least she give him two,’ he shot back, a hardness coming to his eyes as he looked straight at her for the first time since he had got in.

The barb sank home. Hannah knew what he was getting at.

‘Have you had enough?’ she asked, nodding towards his now empty plate. ‘There’s cheese and apples or a bit of seed cake left over.’

Nat wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, scraping the chair on the scrubbed brick floor. ‘No, that’ll do. I’m off for a game of skittles.’

When he had left, Hannah washed and dried the plates and returned them to the dresser. She took the bowl of dirty water and emptied it out on the marigolds that grew by the scullery door. All the while she was thinking about the man who had buried his wife that day and how she had seen him stroke the coffin with such tenderness. The remembering brought a lump to her throat.

And she thought of Nat’s words; at least she give him two he had said. She had heard the bitterness in his voice, seen the look of reproach and had felt, herself, the emptiness of their childless marriage.

She wondered if Nat wished he hadn’t married her. There had been many times over the past two years when she had cause to regret marrying him, and those times were becoming more frequent of late. Nat Challen was a man of passions, of love and hate. Always extremes. He had smothered her with love at first, raining kisses on her like an over-exuberant puppy; great smacking kisses that had made her laugh with pure joy. But as the year stretched into two, there had been no sign of a child and she knew his disappointment, knew he blamed her.

She blamed herself too. It must be because I’m so thin, she thought. It had been her delicacy that had beguiled Nat and the slightness, the fragile quality about her, that had attracted him to her in the first place. He had told her so. That and her long fair hair.

But it must be that very delicacy that prevented her from getting pregnant. And it was funny, that, because she had heard people say, about women that were pregnant, that they were in a delicate condition, and it was just because of that that she wasn’t. At least that was what Nat had told her and she believed him even though she knew she was stronger than she looked. I should have had more sense than to marry such a scraggy bitch, he had said to her once and that had hurt.

In some ways it had hurt more than the other things.

Chapter Two

On the west side of the village, tucked away behind the Coach and Horses in Larson Lane, was a row of four terraced cottages. They were owned by Ben Trigwell who was too mean to maintain them properly. Consequently, they had fallen into disrepair; ugly little places, with lichen-coated roofs, peeling paint, damp patches for most of the year, and rotten floorboards in some.

Arthur Akehurst lived in the end one, number four, nearest the green, with his two strapping sons and his daughter, Lizzie, who had kept house for them ever since the mother had died. Being the end house, it had a bigger garden; a strip ran down the side of the house as well as across the tiny front part and the yard at the back, and it was used for growing vegetables. Arthur prided himself on his vegetables and the garden was neat and tidy.

Inside was a different matter. It had two bedrooms, a big one and a tiny box room. The men all shared the bigger room and Lizzie had the box room to herself. Downstairs, the one room was always in a glorious muddle. It didn’t have much furniture but what