What the Heart Keeps Page 3

  She stirred when light penetrated her lids, thinking it must be morning. Then the hay rustled beside her. She opened her eyes wide and sat bolt upright in fright, blinking into a lantern.

  “I thought you might be ‘ere,” the farmer’s son said in a thick whisper, sitting back on his heels to hang the lantern on a nail and flick it shut. In the blackness he reached for her, even as in terror she began to scramble away, and threw her down again into the hay. His heavy hands pushed up under her skirt to fasten on her thighs and wrench them apart. She screamed, struggling wildly, but he made no attempt to silence her, the barn being out of earshot of the house. There was a terrible thoroughness about his actions. His weight and strength defeated all her panic-stricken attempts to free herself. He handled her breasts as if they were hard apples and his entry was brutal and bloody. Her agonised scream filled every corner of the vast barn.

  She did not know if her shrieking continued as at last she was able to get away from him. Her mind and hearing were blank from shock as she dashed from the barn into the night. How fast and how far she ran she did not know. Having lost all sense of direction, she had no guide to safety except to keep the horizon ahead clear of buildings. She was far into a wood before she realised that it was the thickness of ferns and other undergrowth that was slowing her pace. Slumping against a tree, she heard her own sobs and rasped breathing for the first time. Her legs gave way and she slid down into a carpet of leaves where she remained throughout the rest of the night.

  At first light she found a clear brook and bathed the abused parts of her body; purification in the iciness of the water. The state of her torn underclothing nauseated her and she buried it before leaving the wood to try and get her bearings. It proved impossible for her to recognise a single landmark from the previous day, whichever way she looked. Taking a lead from the rising sun, she simply turned northwards.

  She was never quite sure how many days it took her to get back to the orphanage. She had left what food she had with her bundle of possessions in the barn and had nothing to sustain her except turnips from a field, a cabbage from a kitchen garden, and some crusts she managed to beg. She wore the soles of her old buttoned boots through until they flapped on her feet and had to be discarded. For a while her black stockings, wrapped around like bandages, gave some protection until they in turn fell into ribbons. She tramped the rest of the way barefoot. She was a sorry sight, dirty and dishevelled, when she arrived in the superintendent’s study.

  “I’ve come back,” she said in a croaked voice.

  “So I see,” Mrs. Bradlaw replied drily. She did not add that she had banked on it, everything staked on Lisa’s basic qualities. It was satisfactory beyond measure, quite apart from an over-whelming relief, to have been proved right about the girl. Unfortunately it was a triumph that could not be shared.

  “Have you anything you wish to say in excuse to me?”

  Lisa shook her head quickly. “No, ma’am.”

  “When did you last eat?”

  “I can’t remember. Yesterday, I think.”

  “Go to the bathhouse and get rid of the marks of travel. You shall have some clean clothes brought to you and some salve for your feet. Afterwards there will be a bowl of broth in the dining room. Do not gulp it or you will vomit it up. Take some rest for a few hours and then resume your allotted duties as usual. Dismiss.”

  In a daze, Lisa left the study. No punishment. No storm of recrimination. If it had not been a completely ludicrous supposition, she would have thought that briefly she and Mrs. Bradlaw had shared a mutual respect for each other.

  Five weeks later, Miss Drayton arrived at the orphanage to take her emigration party in tow. Lisa still suffered from nightmares that had followed her ordeal in the barn, although a particular private worry as to its possible outcome had been put at rest. There had been some sad farewells to those being left behind. It was some comfort that a few of the better-natured girls had promised to look after the toddlers as she had done.

  In the vestibule, Mrs. Bradlaw watched the party assemble, the older members helping the younger ones to attach the labels that each must wear, bearing their names and that of the society as well as their destination in Canada. She would have liked to see them depart in new clothes, but the governors were always parsimonious in matters of clothing, believing that donated garments were perfectly adequate. It riled her to see Miss Drayton’s disparaging lift of the eyebrows when she saw how they were dressed. The woman herself was in a handsomely tailored travelling costume in a biscuit colour, which hardly seemed a practical shade in which to accompany children.

  Mrs. Bradlaw began the process of shaking hands with each departing emigrant. When Lisa stood before her she thought, not for the first time, how changed the girl was since her few days of liberty. Yet her spirit was not crushed by whatever hardships she had endured. Whether Lisa realised it or not, she had been strengthened by her conscious decision to give up freedom in order to return to her duties. No adversity would ever break her if she continued to live by her principles, but life would go hard with her for doing it.

  “Goodbye, Lisa. God bless you.” The same words that had been spoken to each one.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Bradlaw.”

  Lisa took Amy by one hand and Cora by the other to go down the steps of the orphanage. Minnie, always nervous of upheaval and change, grabbed onto her skirt to keep close.

  Together they joined everyone else getting into the waiting hackney cabs that were to take them to catch the train.

  When they were being driven past the park, which was bright with daffodils and children playing and shining perambulators, Lisa thought of her own special dream. Maybe dreams were not meant to come true. Maybe they existed only to spur the dreamer on to whatever might lie ahead. She turned her gaze away from the park and looked resolutely in the direction of the railway station.

  Two

  At Liverpool the ship that would take them to Canada was being coaled up. Lisa and her companions had a glimpse of it as they left the train to follow Miss Drayton into the dockside buildings where she presented their documents, which were duly stamped. The woman made sure that her cabin trunk was wheeled off by a porter while her party had to continue to carry their own bundles. Briskly she led the way into the large and draughty embarkation shed where they were to await a signal to go on board.

  Lisa was astonished to see how many people were gathering there. Not only individual passengers but young parties like their own, travelling under the sponsorship of a public-spirited organisation. The most nervous in her charge immediately gathered closer at seeing such a milling throng.

  “Come on,” she encouraged, shepherding them along. “We’ll find a bit of space to ourselves.”

  She was unaware of being observed by a young man in whose direction she was guiding them. Tall, straight-backed, and strongly built, he was in the section divided off for those sailing with a sister ship to New York, his arms resting leisurely on the top rail of the intervening barrier. His ticket was steerage class, which meant he would be carrying his own luggage aboard. His travelling box was set on the ground beside him. Fashioned of Norwegian pine with a domed lid and iron hinges, it bore his name on the side within a decorative panel: PETER HAGEN.

  He had been trying to estimate the number of children that were Canada-bound. The way in which they were dressed was a guide to their collective identity, just as much as the colour of the labels worn attached by cord to a collar or button. Whole parties were stoutly clad in coarse tweed or thick serge or durable flannel, giving a clear indication of the amount of funds that had been available for rigging them out for the journey. Some, less fortunate, were attired in motley clothes that, in several cases, must have had two or three previous owners. Among the latter was a small cluster of young children who appeared to have detached themselves from the main party in the charge of an older girl. Still not noticing his riveted attention, Lisa brought them to a standstill close by.

  “T
his’ll do. We can join up with Miss Drayton and the others when it’s time to go on board.”

  He studied her as she ranged them in a semblance of order. Her clothes were extraordinarily ill-fitting, and her silky hair, pale as if she had been born in his own northern land, slipped from under a crocheted tam-o’-shanter of discordant colours. Yet there was an air about her that overcame the disadvantage of her attire. It was related to something vital and alive in her, a warm femininity that imbued her voice with soft cadences as she continued to address her charges, all of whom were agitated, two or three decidedly truculent, and one noisily tearful.

  “Stop crying now, Amy,” she coaxed, patting the child who still clung limpetlike to her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of when I’m with you. Think how nice it’s going to be in Canada. You’ll be in a real home with a proper family to call your own instead of being stuck in the old orphanage. What did you say?” She bent her head to catch the muffled words. “No, you won’t be away from me on the ship. I’ve promised to keep you near me.” Abruptly her note became stricter, although not unkind, as she tapped another child on the shoulder. “Don’t scuff the toes of your boots, Minnie. You don’t want to arrive in Halifax with your feet sticking out. I know what that feels like,” she added crisply, more to herself than anybody else. Then with a practised turn of speed she dragged apart three who had begun to pinch each other spitefully. “Quit that, Lily and Bridget and May! Do you three always have to squabble? Stand still now. What would happen if the Captain saw you? He would never allow you on board.”

  The warning took effect. Nobody wanted to be left behind. Peace was momentarily restored. Lisa found time to look around properly at last while keeping a comforting hand cupped about the head of Amy, whose tears had diminished into a few shuddering sighs. What a busy scene! What a chatter! Her head turned as she looked towards the neighbouring section of the shed.

  Abruptly her scanning gaze was snapped to a halt, held by the penetrating, dark blue stare of the stranger within touching distance at the rail. Some trick of reflected light in that vast cavern of concrete and steel and grimy glass held him in its reflected rays. It gilded his tow-coloured hair, burnished the well-cut bones of his squarish face, and cast indented shadows into the corners of his firm mouth as it widened into a slow smile at her. To her dismay, she felt a deep and terrible blush soar into her cheeks. Worse, she wanted to shy away and run. Run, run, run.

  “May I ask if these children with you are solely in your charge?” he inquired with interest. An unmistakably foreign accent tilted his words and, in spite of her sudden confusion, intrigued her ear.

  “They have been allotted to me for the journey.” At least her initial reaction was subsiding. It was a distressing fact that her nerve ends still played tricks with her at times when she was caught unaware by any unexpected turn of events, however slight.

  “All the way to Halifax?”

  “Further than that.” She stooped to rescue a dropped hat and thrust it back onto its owner’s head. Then automatically she pulled another potential trouble-maker safely to her side. She thought sometimes that her arms moved as rapidly as if she was pulling out organ-stops when keeping control of her present band. “We’re going to Toronto.”

  “You vil be kept busy.”

  She glanced at him swiftly. He had said vil instead of will. It had sounded funny. And pleasing, too. “I’ll manage them,” she said phlegmatically, no trace of the smile she felt inside.

  Briefly he took his eyes from her to glance around at the groups of children interspersed with adults keeping order. He knew something of what it was like to have an uprooted childhood. The travelling box that he had with him now had been specially made for the occasion of his first leaving home. In his country of Norway, where times had been hard for centuries, it was not uncommon for a couple with a large number of children to let one or more be brought up by childless relatives. It would even have been considered a trifle selfish not to share such a God-given bounty in a land where children were cherished as the very meaning of life. Since the arrangement was kept within the family circle, contact with the parents was maintained and much benefit resulted. Nevertheless, he himself he found it a traumatic experience at the age of five to leave the farm and valley, where he knew everyone, to travel many miles up the coast to a new home. On the point of departure, when he would have flung himself back into his mother’s arms, weighed down by a sick feeling in his stomach at leaving all that was dear and familiar, she had taken him by the hand deliberately. Never one to show emotion, she had given him over to his uncle, who had lifted him up into the seat of the waiting carriole. He had understood that she expected him to show the same courage as she was sustaining. He obeyed her. It had been a hard lesson in partings. He had learnt it well.

  He wondered how many children in the embarkation shed were leaving parents behind. In their case it would be through having been abandoned for one reason or another. Soon the severing would be completed by the sheer breadth of the Atlantic Ocean lying in between.

  “Is every group going to the same place in Canada?” he queried, a faint note of incredulity in his voice at the prospect.

  “No, there are different reception centres. I’ve heard there is one at Ottawa and another at Niagara-on-the-Lake. I believe Winnipeg is the distribution point for boys going out to learn farming. We’re twenty-five in our party from Leeds and we’re being sponsored by the Herbert Drayton Memorial Society. The younger ones will be adopted and we older girls are to be skivvies.” When she saw that the slang phrase puzzled him, she explained more fully. “We’re to be housemaids and scullery maids.”

  He nodded quickly in comprehension. Like most people fluent in another language, he was annoyed with himself at being caught out by a word he had not known. To cover his lapse, he held out a hand quickly across the rail to introduce himself. “I’m Peter Hagen.”

  She put her fingers into his. “My name is Lisa Shaw.”

  He shook her hand firmly, ducking his head in a formal bow. “How do you do, Miss Shaw.”

  “Nicely, thank you,” she replied. Until he had straightened up from leaning on the rail, she had not realised how tall he was, and she became fully aware of his fine physical appearance for the first time. Curiosity was overcoming all earlier qualms. “Where are you from, Mr. Hagen?”

  “From Norway. I was born not far from a town called Molde on the fjord of that name, but I was brought up by an aunt and uncle far north of there at Namsos.”

  Although her education had been sparse at the local elementary school, she had filled in many gaps for herself by reading every dog-eared book that came her way. Norway. Land of mountains and fjords and the midnight sun. Over a thousand miles long as the crow flies. Twenty-two thousand miles of indented coastline. Peopled by only three and a half million, one of whom was facing her across a wooden barrier. Having started to question him, she could not stop now.

  “How long have you been in England, then?”

  “Three days. I arrived in Newcastle from Bergen and came by train to Liverpool.” It had cost him fifteen shillings in hard-earned money to cross the North Sea, and a further nine pounds was to cover his fare to the New World. The spirit of adventure was so high in him, his ambition so strong, that he would have travelled the long distance if it had taken the last coin in his possession and he had had to survive on mouldy bread to reach America. He liked what he had seen of England. It struck him as a quiet land with an inner sense of peace, much like Norway. He had been fascinated by his first sight of the great shire horses working the fields and pulling everything from buses to brewers’ drays in the streets. The first thing he had done upon his arrival in Liverpool was to go into a pub. Knowing how his own countrymen could drink when liquor came their way, he had expected to find raucous brawling and wild drunkenness. Instead, it had been as still as a church with a few men talking quietly and a respectable young woman knitting a sock behind the bar. She had served his order with a pleasan
t word and returned to the clicking of her needles while he had seated himself at one of the tables to drink his first glass of English beer. It had tasted extremely good. He had seen drunkenness since in the dock-area pubs, but he would never forget his surprise at discovering that, on the whole, these establishments were orderly, and in the evenings, jolly places, each ruled over by a muscular landlord ready to throw out any real disruptors of other people’s enjoyment.

  “Why come to England to take ship?” Lisa asked him.

  “If there had been a direct line from Norway to the United States, I would have taken it. As it was, I had to follow the same route as many of my fellow countrymen before me.”

  “But your English,” she persisted. “You haven’t learnt to speak the language in three days?”

  He shook his head vigorously, much amused. “My father’s sister, who brought me up, was a teacher before she married a farmer in North Norway, and she grounded me in the language from my first days there. It was useful, you see. When the English gentry arrived there in the summertime for the salmon-fishing, she took some in as guests in the farmhouse. My uncle was always too busy to spare them any time, and as soon as I was old enough I rowed boats for them on the river Namsen, loaded their guns when they went after elk or ptarmigan, and acted as their guide. I always had to do a full day’s work, however it was fitted in, with the haymaking and harvesting, which was much more enjoyable as far as I was concerned. I have never liked to be at anybody’s beck and call.”

  “I can understand that,” she interjected with feeling.

  He smiled, giving a ruminative shake of the head. “Do you know, however long their sojourn, those gentlemen never tried to learn one word of Norwegian! However, it was lucky for me, because it meant my knowledge of their language increased steadily every summer. Now that I’m emigrating to start a new life in the United States, my being able to speak English should stand me in good stead.”