The Wrong Side of Happiness Page 3

  ‘But it weren’t just one little drink, were it?’ Tresca persisted, taking the bull by the horns. ‘It lost us our jobs.’

  She saw her father’s mouth twist with guilt. ‘Aw, I’s mortal sorry ’bout what ’appened, you knows that. Worst thing I’s ever done, an’ proper shamed I feels ’bout it. But you knows I’ve niver ’urted no one when I’ve bin in my cups. I’ve oft times seen men brawlin’ really violent like when they’m drunk. Or beatin’ their poor wives black an’ blue, or their chiller. I’ve niver ever done ort like that.’

  ‘I know, Father, I know,’ Tresca assured him, patting his hand fondly.

  It was absolutely true. So many times since she was a child she had waited for Emmanuel outside a village public house, watching men stagger out at closing time and lurch down the road. She always found somewhere to hide herself out of harm’s way, for she had seen how some men could behave when they were blind drunk. But when her father was the worse for drink, he just became morose and ravaged by memories of his dear departed wife. When he emerged from whichever hostelry it happened to be, even if he could barely stand, the first thing he would do was look for his little girl, and he would shield her protectively from the abusive inebriation that was going on around them. He would quietly slink off to wherever they were living, deliberately avoiding any trouble – even if Tresca had to show him the way.

  ‘So let’s make this a fresh start, eh?’ she said, turning to him, determination shining from her eyes. ‘And you promise me that even if you have a little drink occasionally – and I mean little – you won’t ever get drunk again,’ she concluded fiercely.

  Emmanuel’s face moved into a solemn mask. ‘I promises on your mother’s grave,’ he declared with sincerity.

  Tresca hoped and prayed that he meant it.

  It was virtually dark and time for bed, especially as Emmanuel had to be up early in the morning. He mustn’t be late on his first day. If Mr O’Mahoney didn’t find him waiting on the doorstep as they had arranged, he would hardly be likely to offer him another chance.

  They had lit the candle in the one enamel holder in their possession, and Tresca took it to see her way down to the water closet in the backyard. It had all seemed so normal in the daylight, but now the shadows made her heart beat nervously. She could bump into any of the other lodgers, and from what she had seen of them, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to.

  Out in the yard it was almost pitch black as the street lamps didn’t penetrate that far. Tresca had never been afraid of the dark before. In the countryside you were only likely to come across a worker from the same farm, but heaven knew what dangers lurked out here in the yard. She clenched her jaw resolutely as she lifted the latch to the privy, and then once inside set the candle holder on the concrete floor to push across the bolt. At least Mrs Mawes kept the place relatively clean, and it smelt of bleach rather than anything else.

  Tresca was relieved to go back inside the house and climb the stairs without meeting a soul. Not a sound came from behind any of the closed doors, except for loud snoring from the room where the couple had been arguing earlier that afternoon. Tresca hurried up to the attic, releasing a deep sigh of relief – and collided with a figure emerging from the room next to theirs.

  It was a young woman, but nevertheless Tresca experienced a flush of alarm. In the flickering candlelight the human form took on a ghostly appearance, the bush of dark hair wild and unkempt and falling loose about the shoulders. What shocked Tresca even more was the ragged blouse half undone and revealing the top of the girl’s full, ripe bosom.

  ‘Oh.’ The young woman started and visibly jumped back, and for a moment they stared at each other in silence.

  ‘We’ve just moved in next door.’ Tresca spoke first, her voice firm and assured now. ‘My father and me.’

  ‘I’s sorry to ’ave startled you,’ their neighbour replied. ‘I’s just goin’ out.’

  Going out? It seemed a funny time to be going out, especially on her own and dressed like that – or rather in a state of undress. But Tresca stood back, letting her new acquaintance pass and watching her hurry down the stairs.

  ‘How very odd,’ she mused as she went back into the room, where Emmanuel had pulled out the mattress. ‘I’ve just met our neighbour, a young woman, and she’s just going out. All on her own, too.’

  ‘None of our business.’ Emmanuel shrugged casually. ‘Well, us must get some sleep if I’s goin’ to work in the mornin’.’

  ‘You’m sure you don’t mind sleeping on the mattress?’ Tresca asked as she undressed down to her underwear. ‘You’ll need a good night’s sleep if you’m going to be working hard during the day.’

  ‘No, I’s quite ’appy for you to ’ave the bed, my little princess. An’ I really promises we’m goin’ to ’ave a new life from now on!’

  Tresca gave a wry smile as she climbed into bed. She hoped he was right. But it was so lovely to be in a proper bed again, even if the mattress was a little lumpy. It wasn’t long before her father’s rhythmic snoring told her he was asleep, but it wasn’t disturbing her. After all, he would need a good night’s rest before the strenuous day ahead, and he would need to impress Connor O’Mahoney with his strength.

  Tresca closed her eyes, but the day’s events kept whirling inside her head. All the strangers she had met conjured themselves up in her brain: Vera Miles, Assumpta Driscoll and her brood of children, the nice lady in the dairy, the one-legged man and, of course, Connor O’Mahoney – all of whom had made their arrival in the town less daunting. But then her thoughts moved to the less savoury characters: the boy who had tried to rob her, the staring women in the street, and above all the other lodgers in the house. She wasn’t at all sure about them, but if Emmanuel kept to his promises, they could hopefully move on to better accommodation in a few weeks’ time.

  Yet Tresca’s heart ached; it would have been so much better had they been able to stay on at Tremaine Farm. She could picture now the night it had all come to an abrupt finish – the peaceful, idyllic harvest supper that had ended in disaster.

  ‘Well, everyone,’ Jethro Tremaine had announced, ‘you’ve done a good job and the corn’s all in. It’s not been the best of years and times are hard, but I reckon we’ll survive. So sup up and enjoy yourselves. My wife and young Tresca’ve been busy in the kitchen and we’ve been blessed with a fine evening. So my thanks to you all, and let supper begin.’

  A jovial cheer lifted from the small group seated around the long trestle table in front of the farmhouse. Over the last two weeks, the wheat and barley had been reaped and bound into sheaves, left in stooks to dry in the fields, and then brought in and stacked either in the barn or in the two carefully constructed and weatherproof ‘mows’ in the rickyard. But Jethro would not need to employ outside workers any longer. It was not a huge farm and he and his two sons could probably manage to strip the fruit trees and thresh and winnow the corn themselves – in between ploughing and sowing, harvesting turnips and storing mangolds, and everything else that had to be done on a mixed farm in the autumn. It was by being thrifty that they had survived and could afford to pay a fair rate for a good day’s work – and provide a harvest supper that was second to none.

  Tresca’s heart lifted with contentment as her eyes swept down the laden table and convivial chatter broke out once more. Behind them, the late summer sky was almost aflame as the sun floated downwards, and everyone was in a happy mood as they helped themselves to hard-earned food and drink.

  ‘My missus tells us you’re really good in the kitchen,’ Jethro said to Tresca. ‘And we need a good dairymaid and just one hired hand through the winter. So I’m hoping you and your father will stay on.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’ she cried delightedly.

  ‘I be thankin’ you kindly, sir,’ Emmanuel nodded with his mouth full of pie, and Tresca wished vehemently that he had better table manners. It had dawned on her as a young child that most yeoman farmers conducted their eating habits in a more
genteel fashion, and she had begun to copy them. She had even tried to mimic their more refined speech a little, since one day, she hoped . . . Well, she wasn’t quite sure what she hoped. To marry a farmer’s son and become a farmer’s wife, she supposed. But a yeoman rather than a tenant farmer . . . maybe even young Alex Tremaine who she got on so well with. Oh, yes, she was determined that she wasn’t just going to be a travelling dairymaid all her life.

  Before too long, the table was scattered with the remains of the meal Mrs Tremaine and Tresca had laid out so painstakingly. But as the night went on the earthenware ale pots continued to be refilled, and lively banter and gentle laughter wafted across the balmy evening air. Then Obadiah Burrell fetched his old violin and his lively jigs soon had them all on their feet, making wheels of eight, skipping under arches of joined hands and weaving in and out of opposing circles. Tresca was dancing with Alex, the laughing faces flashing past her in a blur as she dreamed that the night would go on for ever.

  Then Alex stopped abruptly, wrinkling his nose and sniffing. ‘Can you smell smoke?’ he whispered, and walked off in the direction of the yard.

  An acrid whiff wafted into Tresca’s nostrils, too, becoming stronger as she followed him around the corner of the farmhouse. The darker silhouette of the barn was outlined against the open, star-scattered sky, and Alex was a grey figure moving in a pale, low mist drifting from a crack below the great barn doors.

  Tresca froze. It wasn’t mist, of course it wasn’t. It was smoke.

  As if to echo her stunned thoughts, she heard Alex scream at her across the space that separated them. ‘Fire!’ he yelled. ‘The barn’s on fire! Get help!’

  Dear Lord. Tresca’s legs felt imprisoned in their own leaden weight, but with a supreme effort she forced herself to run back towards the scene of celebration. ‘Mr Tremaine!’ she cried above the clamour of merrymaking. ‘There’s smoke coming from the barn!’

  Jethro’s mouth dropped open in appalled disbelief, but an instant later he was rushing past her, shouting over his shoulder as he went. Tresca ran after him. She had seen that Alex had opened one of the barn doors just enough to squeeze inside – so as not to fan the flames, she realized instinctively. Jethro, too, had disappeared into the expanding cloud of smoke, and Tresca followed him without a second thought.

  It was difficult to see through the thick, grey veil that stung her eyes, but she could make out the murky shapes of Jethro and Alex frantically beating with their coats at the flickering fingers of orange that were darting through the edge of the corn stack. Tresca at once picked up an empty sack and began beating at the flames herself. It was then that she spied the familiar figure lying on the barn floor. Emmanuel was fast asleep, snoring heavily in a drunken stupor. Beside him was an empty jug of ale, and where his arm had flopped away from his body, his pipe had fallen from his open fingers, charring the corn stalks around it.

  Oh, God. Tresca’s blood froze in her veins. Emmanuel had set the barn on fire.

  She saw Jethro turn and jabbing his head at the prostrate form, he barked at his son, ‘Get him out of here!’

  Alex swung round, and for an instant his streaming eyes met Tresca’s. Then between them they dragged Emmanuel outside. He grunted in protest, his incoherent words slurred and incomprehensible. They abandoned him out of harm’s way and then Alex turned to the group of horrified faces that by now had assembled in the yard and began issuing instructions.

  Tresca stood, locked in shock, as people rushed all about her. It was a nightmare. Her eyes moved from Emmanuel to the smouldering barn and back again, but the time for recriminations would come soon enough.

  A human chain was being formed across the yard from the pump to the barn and Tresca took her place, passing buckets full of water in one direction and returning empty ones in the other. It was unreal, voices becoming hoarse from both shouting and the smoke, and the faces on either side of her smeared with sweat and black smuts. She must look just the same, hands filthy and the new frock she had stitched from some material bought cheaply at market totally ruined. No matter. Her heart was pumping furiously, every muscle strained and aching. But she must keep on. For her father had done this and she must help to put it right, even if it killed her. And just as she felt she couldn’t go on, they were told to stop.

  Everyone collapsed, exhausted, to the ground, bone-weary and eyes bloodshot from the billowing smoke that only now was drifting away. But Tresca could not rest. She stumbled through the darkness to the now open door of the barn. The floor was awash with water and wet, slippery stalks of ruined corn, but it looked as if the hungry flames had at last been extinguished. Jethro and Alex had evidently dragged the burning sheaves from the stack to stop the whole lot going up in flames. Though the stack was partly demolished as a result, most of it remained intact and the danger appeared to be over.

  ‘We’ll need to keep a vigil all night,’ Jethro croaked. ‘It’d only need a stray spark somewhere for the whole barn to go up.’ When he saw Tresca standing there, his blackened face moved into a scowl. ‘Best keep your father out of my sight or I’m likely to throttle him for this!’ And he stomped past her out into the yard.

  Tresca shrank on the spot. Jethro was furious, and justifiably so. But not as angry with Emmanuel as Tresca was herself. He had committed the cardinal sin for a farm-worker of smoking in a barn. It was beyond belief – and when Jethro had just offered them permanent positions. Well, they could say goodbye to those! Tresca’s dreams lay shattered at her feet and she sank down into the broken pieces, hands over her face as she wept.

  And that was indeed the end. The next morning they were dismissed, and as Tresca followed her father along the rutted lane from the farm, she swallowed down the despair and humiliation that burnt her cheeks.

  ‘Us’ll find summat soon enough,’ Emmanuel had assured her, but they hadn’t. Harvest was over and there was no long-term work to be found, even here in Cornwall, where the mixed farms were so labour intensive. Then they had heard about the railway and had pinned their hopes on that. And so they had crossed back into Devon. Though her heart ripped when she thought of Tremaine Farm, Tresca was determined that they would make a good life for themselves in Tavistock. Feeling content at last, she drifted off to sleep.

  The knocking sound that came from the next room in the middle of the night cut sharply into her dreams. Her eyes sprang open, staring into the darkness. The knocking grew louder, faster, filling her with uncertainty. As the noise increased further, Emmanuel stirred on the mattress on the floor beside her.

  ‘What the devil—?’ Tresca heard him mumble, and then a man’s cry echoed through the wall and the knocking stopped.

  ‘What were that?’ Tresca asked in alarm. ‘Be someone hurt, do you think?’

  It was a moment or two before Emmanuel answered. Reluctantly, it seemed. ‘No. No one’s hurt, cheel. Now go back to sleep.’

  His voice sounded odd, ashamed almost. Tresca obediently tried to snuggle down again, confused. There were sounds of movement coming through the wall still, but quieter and different from before. What on earth was going on, Tresca wondered, imagining the older girl she had met earlier on the tiny attic landing?

  ‘You bitch!’ A man’s voice shouted through the wall. ‘Promised us more than that for me shillin’, you did!’

  The unmistakable thwack of a vicious slap speared into the night and Tresca shuddered. The feelings, the thoughts, the realization that thundered in her head made the nausea rise in her throat. No wonder Emmanuel had encouraged her to go back to sleep.

  ‘Father . . . ?’

  ‘Aw, I’s sorry, princess. Tiddn what I wants fer you. P’r’aps us can find somewheres else to bide. In a while, when I’s taken on permanent, like.’

  Tresca swallowed hard. And in those few seconds it was as if she had grown up and become a woman. In knowledge if not experience. Oh, God, perhaps the world was not so good after all.

  Four

  Tresca took a deep breath and hurried dow
n the stairs. Emmanuel had got off to work on time, excited at the prospect of being gainfully employed again. Tresca had stood on tiptoe to look out of the roof light and watched him walking down the street as a grey dawn broke over the town. Bannawell Street wasn’t as deserted at that hour as she would have imagined. Several men were setting off to work, and further down the hill Tresca could just see the unmistakable figure of Connor O’Mahoney emerge from his lodging house. Excellent timing, she congratulated herself – since she had been the one to wake first and had prodded Emmanuel’s sleeping form into action.

  Twelve hours it would be before she saw him again, and here she was, a young girl alone in a town full of strangers. And strangers they would remain unless she did something about it. She washed in the little enamel bowl, dressed and tidied the room. She fixed her old felt hat on her rebellious hair, wrapped her tattered shawl about her shoulders, and made for the outside world.

  ‘Good mornin’, miss!’ a voice greeted her almost as soon as she stepped into the street. ‘Find a room at Mrs Mawes’s place, then?’

  Tresca turned, and at her shoulder stood the one-legged man they had met the day before. ‘Yes, thank you, we did. And my father’s got a job labouring on the railway, so we’m mighty pleased.’

  ‘That’s good. Goin’ to take some years to build, so ’er’ll ’ave a job fer some time. Goin’ my way, are us? Down the ’ill?’

  ‘Yes, I am actually.’

  ‘Then us can walk together,’ he said, setting off, and Tresca fell into step beside him. ‘The name’s Elijah Edwards. Cas’n shake your ’and cuz I needs them both fer the crutches. I’s a saddler. Works fer the big place in West Street, I does. Doesn’t need two legs fer that. Lost my leg in the Crimean. Wud’ve died if it ’adn’t bin fer that Florence Nightingale woman. Course, she weren’t so famous then. So when I gets back ’ome, I trains as a saddler an’ bin doin’ it over thirty year now.’