Chapter 2

_Midsummer morning. EZRA BARRASFORD sits crouched over the fire. ELIZA BARRASFORD, looking old and worn, and as if dazed by a shock, comes from the ben, or inner room, with a piece of paper in her hand. As she sinks to a chair to recover her breath, the paper flutters to the floor, where she lets it lie, and sits staring before her._

ELIZA: So that's the last.

EZRA: The last? The last of what?

ELIZA: The last of your sons to leave you. Jim's gone now.

EZRA: Gone where, the tyke? After his wife, I'll warrant. 'Twill take him all his time to catch her up: She's three months' start of him. The gonneril, To be forsaken on his wedding-day: And the ninneyhammer let her go--he let her! Do you reckon I'd let a woman I'd fetched home Go gallivanting off at her own sweet will? No wench I'd ringed, and had a mind to hold, Should quit the steading till she was carried, feet-first And shoulder-high, packed snug in a varnished box. The noodle couldn't stand up to a woman's tongue: And so, lightheels picked up her skirts, and flitted, Before he'd even bedded her--skelped off Like a ewe turned lowpy-dyke; and left the nowt, The laughing-stock of the countryside. He should Have used his fist to teach her manners. She seemed To have the fondy flummoxed, till his wits Were fozy as a frosted swede. Do you reckon I'd let a lass ...

ELIZA: And yet, six lads have left you, Without a by-your-leave.

EZRA: Six lads?

ELIZA: Your sons.

EZRA: Ay ... but they'd not the spunk to scoot till I Was blind and crippled. The scurvy rats skidaddled As the old barn-roof fell in. While I'd my sight, They'd scarce the nerve to look me in the eye, The blinking, slinking squealers!

ELIZA: Ay, we're old. The heat this morning seems to suffocate me, My head's a skep of buzzing bees; and I pant Like an old ewe under a dyke, when the sun gives scarce An inch of shade. You harp on sight: but eyes Aren't everything: my sight's a girl's: and yet I'm old and broken: you've broken me, among you. I'd count the pens of a hanging hawk: yet my eyes Have saved me little: they've never seen to the bottom Of the blackness of men's hearts. The very sons Of my body, I reckoned to ken through and through, As every mother thinks she knows her sons, Have been pitch night to me. We never learn. I thought I'd got by heart each turn and twist Of all Jim's stupid cunning: but even he's Outwitted me. Six sons, and not one left; All gone in bitterness--firstborn to reckling: Peter, twelve-year since, that black Christmas Eve: And now Jim ends ...

EZRA: You mean Jim's gone for good?

ELIZA: For good and all: he's taken Peter's road.

EZRA: And who's to tend the ewes? He couldn't go-- No herd could leave his sheep to an old wife's care: For this old carcase, once counted the best herd's In the countryside, is a useless bag of bones now. Jim couldn't leave ...

ELIZA: For all I ken or care, He's taken them with him too.

EZRA: You're havering! Your sons aren't common thieves, I trust. And Jim Would scarce have pluck to sneak a swede from the mulls Of a hobbled ewe, much less make off with a flock-- Though his forbears lifted a wheen Scots' beasts in their time-- And Steel would have him by the heels before He'd travelled a donkey's gallop, though he skelped along Like Willie Pigg's dick-ass. But how do you ken The gawky's gone for good? He couldn't leave ...

ELIZA: I found a paper in the empty chest, Scrawled with a bit of writing in his hand: "Tell dad I've gone to look for his lost wits: And he'll not see me till he gets new eyes To seek me himself."

EZRA: Eyes or no eyes, I'll break The foumart's back, in this world or the next: He'll not escape. He thinks he's the laugh of me; But I've never let another man laugh last. Though he should take the short cut to the gallows, I'll have him, bibbering on his bended knees Before me yet, even if I have to wait Till I find him, brizzling on the coals of hell. But, what do you say--the empty chest--what chest?

ELIZA: The kist beneath the bed.

EZRA: But, that's not empty! How could you open it, when I'd the key Strung safely on a bootlace next my skin?

ELIZA: The key--you should have chained the kist, itself, As a locket round your neck, if you'd have kept Your precious hoard from your own flesh and blood.

EZRA: To think a man begets the thieves to rob him! But, how ...

ELIZA: I had no call to open it. I caught my foot against the splintered lid, When I went to make the bed.

EZRA: The splintered lid! And the kist--the kist! You say 'twas empty?

ELIZA: Not quite: The paper was in.

EZRA: But the money, you dam of thieves-- Where was the money?

ELIZA: It wasn't in the box-- Not a brass farthing.

EZRA: The money gone--all gone? Why didn't you tell me about it right away?

ELIZA: I wasn't minding money: I'd lost a son.

EZRA: A son--a thief! I'll have the law of him: I'll sprag his wheel: for all his pretty pace, He'll come a cropper yet, the scrunty wastrel. This comes of marrying into a coper's family: I might have kenned: thieving runs in their blood.

ELIZA: I've seen the day that lie'd have roused ... But now, It's not worth while ... worth while. I've never felt Such heat: it smothers me: it's like a nightmare, When you wake with your head in the blankets, all asweat: Only, I cannot wake ... It snowed the night That Peter went ...

EZRA: Blabbering of heat and snow: And all that money gone--my hard-earned savings! We're beggared, woman--beggared by your son: And then, to sit and yammer like a yieldewe: Come, stir your stumps; and clap your bonnet on: Up and away!

ELIZA: And where should I away to?

EZRA: I'll have the law of him: I'll have him gaoled, And you must fetch the peeler.

ELIZA: Policemen throng Round Krindlesyke, as bees about a thistle! And I'm to set the peelers on my son? If he'd gone with Peter, they'd have tracked his hobnails ... It snowed that night ... The snowflakes buzz like bees About the prickling thistles in my head-- Big bumblebees ... I never felt such heat.

EZRA: And I must sit, tied to a chair, and hearken To an old wife, havering of bumblebees, While my hard-earned sovereigns lie snug and warm In the breeches' pocket of a rascal thief-- Fifty gold sovereigns!

ELIZA: Fifty golden bees-- Golden Italian queens ... My father spent A sight of money on Italian queens: For he'd a way with bees. He'd handle them With naked hands. They swarmed on his beard, and hung, Buzzing like fury: but he never blinked-- Just wagged his head, swaying them, till they dropped, All of a bunch, into an upturned skep.... My head's a hive of buzzing bees--bees buzzing In the hot, crowded darkness, dripping honey ...

EZRA: You're wandering, woman--maffling like a madpash. Jim's stolen your senses, when he took my gold.

ELIZA: Don't talk of money now: I want to think. Six sons, I had. My sons, you say. You're right: For menfolk have no children: only women Carry them: only women are brought to bed: And only women labour: and, when they go, Only the mothers lose them: and all for nothing, The coil and cumber! If I could have left one son, Wedded, and settled down at Krindlesyke, To do his parents credit, and carry on ... First Peter came: it snowed the night he came-- A feeding-storm of fisselling dry snow. I lay and watched flakes fleetering out of the dark In the candleshine against the wet black glass, Like moths about a lanthorn ... I lay and watched, Till the pains were on me ... And they buzzed like bees, The snowflakes in my head--hot, stinging bees ... It snowed again, the night he went.... In the smother I lost him, in a drift down Bloodysyke ... I couldn't follow further: the snow closed in-- Dry flakes that stung my face like swarming bees, And blinded me ... and buzzing, till my head Was all ahum; and I was fair betwattled ... I've not set eyes ...

EZRA: Gather your wits together. There's no one else; and you must go to Rawridge-- No daundering on the road; and tell John Steel Jim's gone: and so, there's none to look to the sheep. He must send someone ... Though my money melt In the hot pocket of a vagabond, They must be minded: sheep can't tend themselves.

ELIZA: I'll go. 'Twas cruel to leave them in this heat, With none to water them. This heat's a judgment. They were my sons: I bore and suckled them. This heat's a judgment on me, pressing down On my brain like a redhot iron ...

(_She rises with difficulty, and goes, bareheaded, into the sunshine. In a few moments she staggers back, and stumbles, with unseeing eyes, towards the inner room. She pauses a second at the door, and turns, as if to speak to EZRA; but goes in, without a word. Presently a soft thud is heard within: then a low moan._)

EZRA: Who's there? Not you, Eliza? You can't be back already, woman? Why don't you speak? You yammered enough, just now-- Such havers! Haven't you gone? What's keeping you? I told you to step out. What's wrong? What's wrong? You're wambling like a wallydraigling waywand. The old ewe's got the staggers. Boodyankers! If I wasn't so crocked and groggy, I'd make a fend To go myself--ay, blind bat as I am. Come, pull yourself together; and step lively. What's that? What's that? I can't hear anything now. Where are you, woman? Speak! There's no one here-- Though I'd have sworn I heard the old wife waigling, As if she carried a hoggerel on her shoulders. I heard a foot: yet, she couldn't come so soon. I'm going watty. My mind's so set on dogging The heels of that damned thief, hot-foot for the gallows, I hear his footsteps echoing in my head. He'd hirple it barefoot on the coals of hell, With a red-hot prong at his hurdies to prog him on, If I'd my way with him: de'il scart the hanniel!

(_He sits, brooding: and some time has passed, when the head of a tramp, shaggy and unkempt, is thrust in at the door; and is followed by the body of PETER BARRASFORD, who steps cautiously in, and stealing up to the old man's chair, stands looking down upon him with a grin._)

EZRA (_stirring uneasily_): A step, for sure! You're back? Though how you've travelled So quickly, Eliza, I can't think. And when's John Steel to turn us out, to follow Jim And the other vagabonds? And who's he sending? He's not a man to spare ... But, sheep are sheep: Someone must tend them, though all else go smash. I've given my life to sheep, spent myself for them: And now, I'm not the value of a dead sheep To any farmer--a rackle of bones for the midden! A bitter day, 'twill be, when I turn my back On Krindlesyke. I little reckoned to go, A blind old cripple, hobbling on two sticks. Pride has a fall, they say: and I was proud-- Proud as a thistle; and a donkey's cropt The thistle's prickly pride. Why don't you speak? I'm not mistaken this time: I heard you come: I feel you standing over me.

(_He pokes round with his stick, catching PETER on the shin with it._)

PETER (_wresting the stick from EZRA's grasp_): Easy on! Peter's no lad to take a leathering, now. Your time's come round for breeches down, old boy: But don't be scared; for I'm no walloper-- Too like hard work! My son's a clean white skin: He's never skirled, as you made me. By gox, You gave me gip: my back still bears the stripes Of the loundering I got the night I left. But I bear no malice, you old bag-of-bones: And where's the satisfaction in committing Assault and battery on a blasted scarecrow? 'Twas basting hot young flesh that you enjoyed: I still can hear you smack your lips with relish, To see the blue weals rising, as you laid on, Until the tawse was bloody. Not juice enough In your geyzened carcase to raise one weal: and I never Could bear the sound of cracking bones: and you're All nobs and knuckles, like the parson's pig. To think I feared you once, old spindleshanks! But I'm not here for paying compliments: I've other pressing business on that brings me To the God-forsaken gaol where I was born. If I make sense of your doting, mother's out: And that's as well: it makes things easier. She'd flufter me: and I like to take things easy, Though I'm no sneak: I come in, bold as brass, By the front, when there's no back door. I'll do the trick While she's gone: and borrow a trifle on account. I trust that cuddy hasn't cropt your cashbox, Before your eldest son has got his portion.

(_He starts to go towards the inner room, but stops half-way as he hears a step on the threshold._)

PETER: The devil!

_BELL HAGGARD, a tall young tinker-woman, with an orange-coloured kerchief about her head, appears in the doorway with her young son, MICHAEL._

PETER: You, Bell? Lass, but you startled me.

EZRA (_muttering to himself_): This must be death: the crows are gathering in. I don't feel like cold carrion, but corbies will gather, And flesh their bloody beaks on an old ram's carcase, Before the life's quite out.

PETER (_to BELL_): I feared 'twas mother. Lucky, she's out; it's easier to do-- Well, you ken what, when she's ... But didn't I bid You keep well out of sight, you and the lad?

BELL: You did. What then?

PETER: I thought 'twas better the bairn ...

BELL: You think too much for a man with a small head: You'll split the scalp, some day. I've not been used To doing any man's bidding, as you should ken: And I'd a mind to see the marble halls You dreamt you dwelt in.

PETER: Hearken, how she gammons!

BELL: She--the cat's mother? You've no manners, Peter: You haven't introduced us.

PETER: Only hark! Well, dad, she's Bell--Bell Haggard, tinker-born-- She'll tell you she's blood-royal, likely as not-- And this lad happens to be hers and mine, Somehow, though we're not married.

BELL: What a fashion To introduce a boy to his grandfather-- And such a dear, respectable old sheep's head! (_to MICHAEL_) Look well on granddad, son, and see what comes Of minding sheep.

MICHAEL: I mean to be a shepherd.

BELL: Well, you've a knack of getting your own way: But, tripe and trotters, you can look on him, And still say that? Ay, you're his grandson, surely-- All Barrasford, with not a dash of Haggard, No drop of the wild colt's blood. Ewe's milk you'd bleed If your nose were tapped. Who'd ever guess my dugs Had suckled you? Even your dad's no more Than three-parts mutton, with a strain of reynard-- A fox's heart, for all his weak sheep's head. Lad, look well round on your ancestral halls: You'll likely not clap eyes on them again. I'm eager to be off: we don't seem welcome. Your venerable grandsire is asleep, Or else he's a deaf mute; though, likely enough, That's how folk look, awake, at Krindlesyke. I'd fancied we were bound for the Happy Return: But we've landed at the Undertaker's Arms-- And after closing time, and all. You've done That little business, Peter--though it's not bulged Your pockets overmuch, that I can see?

PETER: Just setting about it, when you interrupted ...

BELL: Step lively, then. I find this welcome too warm On such a sultry day: I'm choked for air. These whitewashed walls, they're too like--well, you ken Where you'll find yourself, if you get nobbled ...

PETER: It seems There's no one here to nab us; Jim's gone off: But I'd as lief be through with it, and away, Before my mother's back.

BELL: You're safe enough: There's none but sheep in sight for three miles round: And they're all huddled up against the dykes, With lollering tongues too baked to bleat "Stop thief!" Look slippy! I'm half-scumfished by these walls-- A weak flame, easily snuffed out: the stink Of whitewash makes me queasy--sets me listening To catch the click of the cell-door behind me: I feel cold bracelets round my wrists, already. Is thon the strong-room?

PETER: Ay.

BELL: Then sharp's the word: It's time that we were stepping, Deadwood Dick.

(_As PETER goes into the other room, EZRA tries to rise from his chair._)

EZRA: Help! Murder! Thieves!

BELL (_thrusting him easily back with one hand_): The oracle has spoken. And so, old image, you've found your tongue at last: Small wonder you mislaid it, in such a mug. Help, say you? But, you needn't bleat so loud: There's none within three miles to listen to you, But me and Peter and Michael; and we're not deaf: So don't go straining your voice, old nightingale, Or splitting your wheezy bellows. And "thieves," no less! Tastes differ: but it isn't just the word I'd choose for welcoming my son and heir, When he comes home; and brings with him his--well, His son, and his son's mother, shall we say, So's not to scandalize your innocence? And, come to think, it's none too nice a word For grandson's ears: and me, his tender mammy, Doing all I can to keep the lamb's heart pure. And as for "murder"--how could there be murder? Murder's full-blooded--no mean word like "thieves": And who could murder a bundle of dried peas-sticks? Flung on the fire, happen they'd crackle and blaze: But I'm hot enough, to-day, without you frizzling. Still, "thieves" sticks in my gullet, old heel-of-the-loaf. Yet I'm not particular, myself, at times: And I've always gathered from your dutiful son Manners were taken for granted at Krindlesyke, And never missed: so I'll overlook the word. You've not been used to talking with a lady, Old scrag-end: still, I'm truly honoured, sir, In making your acquaintance: for I've heard Some pretty things about you from your son.

(_EZRA, who has shrunk back, gasping, into his chair, suddenly starts chuckling to himself._)

BELL: You're merry, sir! Will you not share the jest? Aren't you the sparky blade, the daffing callant, Naffing and nickering like a three-year-old? Come, none-so-pretty, cough the old wheeze up, Before it chokes you. Let me clap your back. You're, surely, never laughing at a lady?

(_Seizing him by the collar, and shaking him._)

You deafy nut--you gibbet--you rusty corncrake! Tell me what's kittling you, old skeleton, Or I'll joggle your bones till they rattle like castanets.

(_Suddenly releasing him._)

Come, Peter: let's away from this mouldy gaol, Before old heeltaps takes a fit. Your son Will be a full-grown shepherd before we leave-- And his old mother, trapped between four walls-- If you don't put a jerk in it.

(_PETER comes slowly from the inner room, empty-handed; and stands, dazed, in the doorway._)

BELL: Well, fumble-fingers? What's kept you this half-year? I could have burgled The Bank of England in the time. What's up? Have you gone gite, now?

EZRA (_still chuckling_): Thieves cheated by a thief!

BELL: But, where's the box?

PETER: I didn't see the box.

BELL: You didn't see it?

PETER: No; I didn't see it: The valance hangs too low.

BELL: And you're too proud-- Too proud a prig to stoop? Did you expect The box to bounce itself into your arms, The moment it heard your step?

PETER: I dared not stoop: For there was someone lying on the bed, Asleep, I think.

BELL: You think?

PETER: I only saw A hunched-up shoulder, poking through the curtain.

BELL: A woman?

PETER: Ay, my mother, or her fetch. I couldn't take my eyes from that hunched shoulder-- It looked so queer--till you called my name.

BELL: You said Your mother was out. But, we've no time to potter. To think I've borne a son to a calf that's fleyed Of a sleeping woman's back--his minney's, and all! Collops and chitterlings, if she's asleep, The job's the easier done. There's not a woman, Or a woman's fetch, would scare me from good gold. I'll get the box.

(_She steals softly into the other room, and is gone for some time. The others await her expectantly in silence. Presently she comes out bareheaded and empty-handed. Without a word, she goes to the window, and pulls down the blind; then closes the outer door: PETER and MICHAEL watching her in amazement._)

EZRA: So Jim, the fox, has cheated Peter, the fox-- And vixen and cub, to boot! But, he made off Only this morning: and the scent's still fresh. You'll ken the road he'd take, the fox's track-- A thief to catch a thief! He's lifted all: But, if you cop him, I'll give you half, although 'Twill scarcely leave enough to bury us With decency, when we have starved to death, Your mother and I. Run, lad: there's fifty-sovereign! And mind you clout and clapperclaw the cull: Spanghew his jacket, when you've riped his pockets-- The scurvy scrunt!

BELL: Silence, old misery: There's a dead woman lying in the house-- And you can prate of money!

PETER: Dead!

EZRA: Eliza!

BELL: I found the body, huddled on the bed, Already cold and stiffening.

EZRA: I thought I heard ... Yet, she set out for Rawridge, to fetch a man ... I felt her passing, in my very bones. I knew her foot: you cannot hear a step For forty-year, and mistake it, though the spring's Gone out of it, and it's turned to a shuffle, it's still The same footfall. Why didn't she answer me? She chattered enough, before she went--such havers! Words tumbling from her lips in a witless jumble. Contrary, to the last, she wouldn't answer: But crept away, like a wounded pheasant, to die Alone. She's gone before me, after all-- And she, so hale; while I was crutched and crippled. I haven't looked on her face for eleven-year: But she was bonnie, when I saw her first, That morning at the fair--so fresh and pink.

BELL: She must have died alone. It's an ill thing To die alone, folk say; but I don't know. She'd hardly die more lonely than she lived: For every woman's lonely in her heart. I never looked on a lonelier face.

PETER: Come, Bell: We'd best be making tracks: there's nothing here: So let's be going.

BELL: Going, Peter, where?

PETER: There's nothing to bide here for: we're too late. Jim's stolen a march on us: there's no loot left.

BELL: And you would leave a woman, lying dead; And an old blind cripple who cannot do a hand's-turn, With no one to look after them--and they, Your father and mother?

PETER: Little enough I owe them: What can we do for them, anyway? We can't Bring back the dead to life: and, sooner or later, Someone will come from Rawridge to see to the sheep: And dad won't hurt, meanwhile: he's gey and tough.

BELL: And you would leave your mother, lying dead, With none but strangers' hands to lay her out-- No soul of her kin to tend her at the last?

(_She goes to the dresser and looks in the drawers, taking out an apron and tying it round her waist._)

EZRA: I never guessed she'd go, and leave me alone. How did she think I could get along without her? She kenned I could do nothing for myself: And yet she's left me alone, to starve to death-- Just sit in my chair, and starve. It wasn't like her. And the breath's scarce out of her body, before the place Is overrun with a plague of thieving rats. They'll eat me out of house and home: my God, I've come to this--an old blind crippled dobby, Forsaken of wife and bairns; and left to die-- To be nibbled to death by rats: de'il scart the vermin!

BELL: Time's drawn your teeth, but hasn't dulled your tongue's edge.

PETER: Come, woman: what the devil are you up to? What's this new game?

BELL: Peter, I'm biding here.

PETER: You're biding here?

BELL: And you are staying, too.

PETER: By crikey, no! You'll not catch me: I cannot-- With thon in the other room. I never could bear ...

BELL: You'll stop, till Michael's old enough to manage The sheep without your aid: then you may spurt To overtake Jim on the road to the gallows; And race, the pair of you, neck and neck, for hell: But not till I'm done with you.

PETER: Nay, I'll be jiggered ...

BELL: Truth slips out.

PETER: I've a mind ...

BELL: She's gone to earth.

PETER: Just hold your gob, you ...

BELL: Does the daft beast fancy That just because he's in his own calfyard He can turn his horns on me? Michael, my son, You've got your way: and you're to be a herd. You never took to horseflesh like a Haggard: Yet your mother must do her best for you. A mattress Under a roof; and sheep to keep you busy-- That's what you're fashioned for--not bracken-beds In fellside ditches underneath the stars; And sharing potluck by the roadside fire. Well, every man must follow his own bent, Even though some woman's wried to let him do it: So, I must bide within this whitewashed gaol, For ever scrubbing flagstones, and washing dishes, And darning hose, and making meals for men, Half-suffocated by the stink of sheep, Till you find a lass to your mind; and set me free To take the road again--if I'm not too doddery For gallivanting; as most folk are by the time They've done their duty by others. Who'd have dreamt I'd make the model mother, after all? It seems as though a woman can't escape, Once she has any truck with men. But, carties! Something's gone topsy-turvy with creation, When the cuckoo's turned domestic, and starts to rear The young housesparrow. Granddad, Peter's home To mind the sheep: and you'll not be turned out, If you behave yourself: and when you're lifted, There'll be a grandson still at Krindlesyke: For Michael is a Barrasford, blood and bone: And till the day he fetches home a bride, I'm to be mistress here. But hark, old bones, You've got to mend your manners: for I'm used To having my own way.

PETER: By gox, she is!

BELL: And there's not room for two such in one house. Where I am mistress, there can be no master: So, don't try on your pretty tricks with me. I've always taken the whiphand with men.

PETER: You'll smart yet, dad.

BELL: You go about your business, Before your feet get frozen to the flagstones: Winter's but six months off, you ken. It's time You were watering those sheep, before their tongues Are baked as black as your heart. You'd better take The lad along with you: he cannot learn The job too soon; so I'll get shot of the sight Of your mug, and have one lout the less to do for. Come, frisk your feet, the pair of you; and go: I've that to do which I must do alone.

(_As soon as PETER and MICHAEL are gone, BELL fills a basin with water from a bucket, and carries it into the other room, shutting the door behind her._)

EZRA: To think she should go first, when I have had One foot in the grave for hard on eleven-year! I little looked to taste her funeral ham.