Wintergill village had its very own Christmas tree and she had gone down to see the lights switched on, and one of Santa’s helpers, who stand in when he’s too busy, had asked them to count down from ten, and suddenly there were lights all around the village green hanging from the trees, and fairy lights in the windows.
She knew about lights and the longest night of the year. She knew about Swedish crowns of light and the Christ Child’s candle. Now that the schools were breaking up for the holidays Mummy said they must keep up her reading lessons for a couple of weeks but she still kept her secret drawing journal up to date and hid it in a bag under the car seat so Mummy wouldn’t read it. It was fun drawing pictures of her secret helpers, and how she sometimes saw the White Lady by the old wall on the footpath.
Soon they would be going back to Granny’s house and there would be another school, but Evie didn’t want to think about that now. She could see Mummy watching her in the darkness, smiling, and she wished Daddy was there too but he was always busy somewhere else. She wondered where he was, for he never rang to leave a message. Sometimes she wondered if he was ever coming back, but a promise is a promise and he promised her she could choose a big tree. Mummy kept telling her his spirit was in Heaven and he didn’t need his body any more. It was buried in the churchyard near Sutton Coldfield where they took flowers sometimes with Granny, but Evie didn’t like going there.
When they were carrying the Christingles out into the darkness it was snowing hard. Evie looked out over the snow and twinkling lights and thought it was just perfect, but poor Mrs Snowden started to shiver and Mummy said she wasn’t well and must go home. So they did not stay for the mulled wine and mince pies, though Evie grabbed a Christmas biscuit decorated with silver balls.
The school children had made all the refreshments for their nativity play, rolling out the pastry for the mince pies, cutting out biscuit shapes. She was having much more fun than she ever had at her other schools.
By the time Mrs Snowden got into the car, Mummy had to go slowly up the hill, struggling with the gear stick all the way back. The snow was turning back to driving rain and the magic was gone.
‘You shouldn’t have come out with us tonight,’ said Mummy to the old lady. ‘You aren’t well.’
‘I’ll be sorted once I’ve had a good night’s sleep. I’m fine. I hope you enjoyed it all, Evie,’ Mrs Snowden asked.
Evie nodded. ‘Can we make Christmas biscuits?’
The two women laughed. ‘Not tonight, love, another day perhaps … if you behave.’
The next morning when Kay and Evie called over for some eggs at the back door, Mr Grumpy looked very worried and said Mrs Snowden was in bed with flu.
‘Stubborn old mule, she won’t be told! She won’t have the doctor and didn’t get her flu jab this year. Serves her right.’
Mummy went up to see her and came back with a list of stuff from the chemist. ‘I don’t like the sound of her chest, Nik,’ she added. ‘I think it needs to be checked out. She’s too old to leave it to chance.’
Evie didn’t like to think of anybody in bed for Christmas. ‘What will she do on Christmas Day?’
‘That’s a long way off yet,’ said Mummy. ‘If she gets antibiotics I’m sure she’ll be fine by then.’
Evie was not to be thwarted. ‘Can we give her Christmas?’ she offered hopefully, looking at Mr Grumpy. Why was he always sucking his pipe like a dummy?
‘That’s kind of you,’ said the farmer. ‘but Christmas is not one of Mother’s favourite seasons. She’ll be glad to give it a miss, I expect.’
She looked up at him in amazement. ‘But everybody has Christmas,’ she argued, but the farmer just laughed.
‘Not at Wintergill, they don’t,’ he replied. ‘Not for a long time.’
Evie’s jaw dropped and she turned to her mummy, puzzled. ‘We’re having Christmas, aren’t we?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she winked. ‘We’ll leave the Scrooges to themselves.’
Mr Grumpy laughed.
Nik spent the next morning sifting through the boxes of junk in the attic cupboard. The dust was getting up his nose but he knew what he was looking for: a set of old leather hatboxes full of Jacob Snowden’s Christmas collection. He sifted through the papers with interest. It was years since these boxes had seen the light of day, and memories came flooding back of his own father proudly going through it all with him, explaining some of the long-forgotten occasions in the district that Jacob had documented so meticulously over the years as senior Circuit Steward of the Methodist chapel.
There were photographs, programmes for concerts, testimonials, chapel anniversaries, invitations to weddings and funerals, ornate black-edged orders of service. The whole life of Wintergill village and the dale lay before him. Sadly he calculated none of it was worth much. It would be better donated to some local archive. He felt mean to be even thinking of selling such a heritage, but instinct said there was something he recalled in here of value and then he found them.
Wrapped in tissue paper was a series of the most beautiful Christmas cards he had ever seen. Some were hand-painted Valentine cards to Joss’s wife, Susannah, and they were executed with such an eye for detail, exquisite in their sentimentality, innocence, and signed in a spidery copperplate from Joss himself. Others were overprinted commercial cards, showing the Dickensian Christmas in all its glory: a coach and horses in the snow, the church spires, glistening with hand-painted gold dust. There was a fine pop-up card in the shape of a flowery bower of roses with two turtle doves on the roof and posies of flowers with a sliding tab that said:
Neath love’s sweet bower,
O may you spend a very merry Christmas
Friend!
Another world, another planet, Nik thought to himself sadly. Those long-gone days when Wintergill House was in its prime, filled with Snowden treasures. Jacob, Joss’s son, was renowned for playing tricks with parcels and conjuring displays. He was a man who saw only goodness in folk, his father had once told him. No tramp ever left his back door hungry, no plea for alms went unanswered. His view was a simple one. His wife was another matter, a gypsy’s child, by all accounts.
Nik smiled to himself as he looked at their wedding portrait on the hall stairs, Agnes peering down with her strange white features and piercing stare, Jacob all whiskers and bonhomie. He must have had his work cut out taming a gypsy, he thought. No one mentioned her much. Was she the shadow to Jacob’s brightness? Apart from the Christmas cards there was nothing much to the collection. How could he think of auctioning such a family treasure? In a trunk there were old costumes packed tight, Victorian day dresses by the look of them, shoes flattened, a musty smell of decaying silk, nothing of interest but a strange cotton quilt made up of patchwork moons and stars, hand-made, frayed at the edges, as he pulled it out. Perhaps Kay and his mother might like to see such a motheaten object.
As he lifted the cloth, something fell out onto the floor amidst a flutter of dried leaves; a small leather-backed notebook. In the fly leaf was handwritten:
Privet
Agnes Snowden. Her Herball.Nik plonked himself down on the dusty floor and began to read the copperplate handwriting, first with curiosity and then with amazement.
Her HerballFor the opening of the mind drink first, rosemary, thyme or yarrow tea. The burning of the bay leaves, mugwort and wormwood to transport the spirit whither it must go.
For the cleansing of a room from evil, an incense of pine, juniper, and cedar is best. For protection from evil take fresh marjoram or dried to every room of the house and renew at each new moon rising.
Restoration JellyPack a cow heel into an earthenware pot with 2 quarts of new milk, 2 ounces of isinglass and 2 ounces of hartshorn shavings.
Put jar in brick oven, just after the bread has been drawn out, let it remain until half consumed.
When cold, skim off the fat, drink a small cup warmed, morn and night.
Regular pursuance for six weeks is necessary to render this restorative thoroughly efficacious; therefore should a housewife be in the habit of visiting the sick from house to house, she must make a point of taking a supply with her.
Time to head for the hills again, smiled Agnes Lee. They came to Wintergill every year for haytime but there was still no sign of her brothers ahead as the lanes narrowed. The Snowdens would find fewer hay-cutters this year since there’d be better paid work building the new Settle-to-Carlisle railway through the mountains.
Agnes and Granny Bones were following the old droving route, hoping to catch up with Jesse and Rufus and their cart. It was looking like they’d not bother to turn up after the rowdy gatherings at Appleby Horse Fair in June. Now they must make their way straight to the new camp at Batty Wife Green instead, to sign on for navvy work.
Granny wanted to linger round the campfires listening to the craic, the gossip, admiring the new brides and the families joined in the gypsy ceremonies. Agnes always held back in the shadows, aware she looked different from other girls, with their black curls and flashing jet eyes.
She had seen the growing patchwork of white and brown on her arms and neck, the white streaks in her dark hair, her pale eyes blinded by the ripples of bright sunshine. Children pointed and laughed and called her ‘the badger’, Sunlight hurt her eyes.
Winter was her season, and darkness gave her better vision. Ma once told her she was blessed with special powers and to give no heed to ignorant folk. She had stuffed her head with the growing of herbs and knowledge of potions since she was a small child.
‘We must pass on our remedies to anyone who will listen. Make an honest living and you’ll not go far wrong in this world.’
Pa called his wife a heathen witch and beat the daylights out of them with his belt if he caught her with her candles and signs. In defiance Ma had sewn all her knowledge into a patchwork quilt, each square an instruction, a recipe like a book. It was all Agnes had to remind her of those special times they shared before Ma and Pa caught the fever and left them orphans at the mercy of Pa’s mother, Granny Bones.
Now Ma was gone, they were back on the open road in all weathers, knowing that Jesse and Rufus would want Granny up at the navvy camp to cook and wash for them. The makeshift town, high up in the rough hills, was growing, despite little shelter under the three high peaks of the Yorkshire Dales.
Granny Bones was sucking on her clay pipe, chuckling as they neared the farm track. ‘There’s gold in them hills, I’ve heard; rich pickings, fortunes to be told, palms to be crossed with silver, baccy to chew, beer huts and farm doors to knock with lucky heather and pegs. Happen you’ll jump over the brush with a strong navvy man, keep his hut and take in lodgers. I don’t know why yer driving this poor old horse up the lane to the high house again. They don’t take on women at haytime.’
‘It’s worth a try, and I like it up here. The air is clean, the green lanes are quieter than the turnpike road. The Snowdens will not see us go without.’
Agnes knew some farmers’ wives set the dogs on them if they knocked, others bought in fear of curses. One look at Granny Bones in her black boots, shawl, her flat cap and her pipe, and the maids fled. Others sifted through her basket of hat trimmings – lace, ribbons and feathers – shaking their heads and closing the door.
There were markers left by tramps on the gateposts, secret signs that showed who would welcome them and who would see them off. The Snowdens never turned a genuine pedlar away. The mistress was a fine lady who liked to dress her bonnets in the latest fashions.
Haytime was a good season to call. It was all hands to the fields, any help was welcome and field workers were fed. If they were short of labour, there was a chance that Agnes would be hired. She was all sinew and bone, not afraid of hard work. She wore her ma’s sun bonnet with a wide brim to shield her face from the sun and a deep neck shield. Her sleeves were never rolled up to reveal her patchwork skin.
They would feed from the farm kitchen, pasties and cool lemonade, flatbread with cheese and fresh berries. She would share it with Granny. It would make a change from rabbit pot, and hedge greens.
Ma was right about one thing. Light and shadow, goodness and evil, kindness and malice she could sense in other souls as clearly as her sight in the darkness. There was something about Wintergill that drew her back each season. Strange, since she came from travelling stock, who moved with the seasons, not fixed in one place for generations, but that too held its own mystery and power.
Sometimes she felt a grey mist of sadness around the place, some unquiet spirit like a force of nature at work, a danger in this windswept place. But if she was honest what drew her most was the sight of Jacob Snowden in his breeches and boots, striding the fields like a lord in his glory. She had worshipped from afar for years and dreaded the moment she might find out he now had a pretty wife by his side.
Granny apologised for her grandsons’ absence. Agnes offered her services. They had been welcomed back and found a corner by the hedge to park the vardo and rest the horse. She was given lighter work with the other village women, gathering up loose hay, and Jacob had smiled at her, asking about her brothers.
In her bodice she was carrying a posy of fresh herbs and charms she hoped might open his heart to her. It was guesswork since Ma had thought her too young to know about the love charms and incantations necessary to secure a lover. But midsummer would work its own magic if only she could recall the ceremony. There was a bonfire and words to be said but how could she get a lock of his hair?
Suddenly the skies were darkening and everyone was rushing to get the hay under cover. Jacob was shouting to his brothers and men to drag the bales to the far barn while he was loading the cart high. Agnes didn’t want to be in the way but something made her hover by the gate, an instinct felt deep in her belly that something was about to happen and she might be needed.
Granny was already packing, restless to be on her way north to the railway settlements. Agnes’s brothers would want a roof over their heads, and one they didn’t have to rent. It was going to be a hard winter and she would have to find servant work. Most girls of her age were long married, but who would marry a badger who needed spectacles to see, a girl with no schooling except as a hedge woman …? Then she heard the scream and shouting.
The haycart was on its side and someone was trapped by the leg underneath, in agony. Men were muscling up, straining to lift the weight off the man to drag him clear. ‘Send for the master and the doctor!’ A crowd stood not knowing what to do, and the lad was lying as if dead.
Agnes tore across the field, her heart racing with fear, pushing her way forward. ‘Don’t move him now … give him air!’ No one let her pass, eyeing her with suspicion. ‘If you move him you will crack his back!’ she ordered ‘Give me a belt … a necktie to stem the bleeding, and a bucket of spring water to cleanse the wound.’
‘Who does she think she is?’ said a village wife. ‘It’s a job for a doctor not a dirty thing like her.’
Agnes didn’t hear her words. She saw that Jacob was in danger. Doctors lived in towns and it would be hours before he would come. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘let me treat him here and find a board to carry him back to the farm.’ She peered down, relieved to see his eyes were open though he was staring in shock. She asked for a jacket to cover him while she searched out where the bone was crushed. She could stem the flow of blood, clean the wound and get him to safety.
She knew about shock. There were always accidents on the road and the injured needed sweetness, honey and warm drinks to stop the shakes and weakness. She was thinking on her feet, reeling off all the herbs needed for healing: knit-bone, poppy juice and cleansing poultices. Still hiding her face under the sun bonnet she barked her orders like a fishwife on a market stall and the onlookers were too stunned not to obey. She felt over his body, trying not to shake. Ma, please help me do it right, she prayed, and then out of her bodice slipped the posy and she blushed, hoping no one recognised what she had made.
‘Get the hay in afore it rains …’ Jacob groaned.
Agnes smiled with relief at his words. He was alive enough to be worried. The pain had not kicked in yet but it would come later.
‘Can you feel your legs?’ she whispered, touching his other leg with a pointed finger. He nodded. Only then did she let them lift him gently onto the barn door.
‘The hay …’ he groaned.
‘Never mind the hay!’ Agnes screeched. ‘Get him to his ma’s kitchen. I’ll go and fetch my healing box.’
She ran across the field to where Granny was packing the last of the cooking pots and dousing the fire. ‘We have to stay. The young master’s in trouble.’
She reeled off what had happened but Granny sniggered. ‘Just like yer ma: one drop of blood and you’ve got your sleeves rolled up. Come on, let’s be off before you get lumbered. He’ll be fine.’
‘No, Granny, I have to stay … I just know it.’
‘It’s none of our business. They don’t want the likes of us hanging about once a job’s done.’
‘I’m not coming … I’ll follow you on foot when I’m done.’
‘Don’t be daft. It’s miles from here. This be no place for a lass on her own.’
‘I’ll be safe with the Snowdens … I can find a bit of the barn to rest in, but I’m staying. I don’t know why but I have to. The place needs me,’ she argued.
Granny put on her cap. ‘May all the blessed saints preserve us, and pure St Agnes, yer namesake. What would yer pa be thinking of me to let you abide with strangers in a stone house?’ She crossed herself three times and climbed up on the ledge to leave.
‘I’ll be needing Ma’s chest – the wooden one,’ Agnes called.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting her quilt for your witchery, an’ all. They’ll show you the lane end if you show those heathen things to good Christian folk.’
‘I just want to see Master Jacob back on his feet.’
‘So he’ll make a bride of you? Who are you fooling, Agnes Lee?’ Granny chuckled again. ‘I’m off bogtrotting. You know where to find me when you come to your senses. You’re on a loser there. Who wants a witch for a wife?’
Susannah watched the field girl washing down the wound without flinching. It would need stitching up. She’d never seen her mottled arms before, patches of white skin and brown, and that thick streak of hair down the centre of her parting like silver ribbon. They’d given Jake sleeping draughts to ease the pain but the poor lad would not take to his bed kindly. Already the storm was abating but the hay was dry inside now.
There was something about this strange girl, the lilt of her voice with the hint of the Irish twang. She was no beauty but striking in a different way with fierce pale eyes and a quiet manner. She talked of garden remedies with a knowledge that belied her years.
Later, as they took a stroll around Susannah’s walled patch, the girl surveyed the distant hills, the far peaks, the sky and then her straggly herb garden with interest. She stopped and looked into Susannah’s eyes as if she could read into her very soul’s anguish.
‘You’ll not have far to find your sorrows or your blisters here,’ she whispered, eyes flashing with concern.
‘Yes, it’s a wild place, but the farm yields a good crop of lambs, and the herd fine cheese and butter. Our children thrive in the fresh air better than any town bred,’ Susannah replied.
‘It’s not of this world that I speak,’ Agnes said, looking straight into Susannah’s eyes as they blinked. ‘My eyes are better suited to darkness than sunlight. My ma says guard what is yours from the danger.’
Susannah made no reply as the girl continued, ‘Fret not, the old ways have the best remedies. There’s so much you could grow in here, mistress. This be not always a happy place,’ she added, bending over to examine a patch of scallions.
‘What do you mean?’ Susannah snapped.
‘Forgive my plain speaking. I talk not of this world but the next, and the poor restless souls who find no peace, who gather with the winds in your corner. My ma would say you need protection from their menace.’ Agnes’s face was blank as if transfixed by some force beyond her.
I’ve prayed for such guidance, Susannah thought, hearing her worst fears realised. Was this child sent to give answers wise men couldn’t, this common field worker? Her words sounded so matter of fact, so calm and confident, as the two women sat on a bench sipping yarrow tea.
‘All women have powers, if you know how to use them, but the skills need a fine grinding on the rocks to sharpen them. How do you protect yourself?’ The Lee girl looked up.
‘I say my prayers like any good Christian.’ Susannah sensed they were on dangerous ground.
‘My ma used to say summon the four angels from the four corners of the earth to your aid: Raphael from the east to be your front, Gabriel from the west to your rear, Michael from the south for your right side and Auriel from the north to guard your left. When you feel yourself in danger summon these great forces to protect your home. Let their names sing around the clock, over and over for your protection, until the attack is over.’
The girl stood to leave in the gathering dusk light. She turned to face Susannah.
‘Sleep within a circle of light,’ she said. ‘Carry the herbs of protection with you always, sew them into your cloak, as I do. I see you have a little rowan and elderflower by your door. Are there hag stones in the byre?’
She is talking witchcraft, Susannah gulped, knowing that only the superstitious hung stones with natural holes in them over their cattle stalls. I am talking to a hedge witch, she thought, hardly daring to breathe in case she cast a spell. ‘These are heathen ways,’ she snapped.