Jane Hardstaff - River Daughter

The squat little forge was a welcome sight. Moss pushed at the door. Warmth and smoke wrapped her like a blanket. Pa was already asleep, a rising, falling bundle on his pallet. They trod past him softly and settled on the low stools by the fire. The clear October sky brought a chill to the air and Pa allowed a log or two to burn way into the night.

‘Rabbitin tomorrow,’ said Salter. ‘Set the traps yesterday an’ I’m goin back to see what I’ve got first light.’

‘Salter . . .’

‘Yep?’

‘What was that, in the river?’

‘Search me. Some sort of freak current. Ain’t never seen it like that. All whipped up with mud an’ stinkin like a badger’s bum. Best not go swimmin fer a while, Leatherboots. Too dangerous. This time we was lucky.’

But it didn’t feel like luck to Moss. It felt like the river had changed. And the face in the waterweed – she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

‘Salter,’

‘Mmm.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you must. I can tell that head of yers is stewin. Though if you was to ask me, I’d say that questions only lead to more questions an’ don’t make yer troubles go away.’

Moss gave the fire a poke. On the one hand, she liked the way Salter just got on with life, making the best of things wherever possible. But he never questioned why things were the way they were, and this frustrated her no end. She supposed he couldn’t help it. After all, he’d been just six years old when his parents died. From that day on, alone, with nothing but his hands and his wits, he’d had to fend for himself. ‘Bread first, then morals,’ he always said. Survival was the most important thing and Salter had learned not to ask too many questions, of himself or anyone else. But the village was a world away from that harsh life, thought Moss. And there were moments when she wondered if there was more to Salter than he was letting on.

‘You think too much,’ he said.

‘Do I? And what about you? What goes on in that head of yours? Or is just full of rabbits?’

Salter grinned. ‘Yep. Fish an’ rabbits, that’s me, shore girl.’

‘ Shore girl? I can swim almost as well as you.’

‘All thanks to my brilliant teachin.’

‘Oh, is that what you call it? Holding a rope and shouting from the bank?’

‘I could have just thrown you in and watched you sink.’

‘Do you know, sometimes I can’t quite believe it. All this. Swimming in the river, us living here, Pa working the forge. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.’

Salter eyed her. ‘So what’s on yer mind, then?’

Moss hesitated, not even sure herself what she wanted to say.

‘Go on, Leatherboots, out with it!’

‘Well, here in the village, we have food, Pa has work, I’m not catching heads in a basket. Life is good, Salter.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘It’s just that, do you ever, sometimes . . .’

‘What?’

‘. . . feel that something is missing?’

‘Missin?’ Salter’s eyes widened. ‘ Missin .’ He rolled the word around his mouth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since yer askin, I miss the old river.’

Moss sat up.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Salter. ‘The rush and the roar of the big river. This little stream is nice and the fish are fat, but it ain’t the Thames. Dirty and dangerous, that old river can snatch you quick as a rat’s fart and roll yer body like a barrel. But on a good day it’s wide and bright as the sea. And I think about the shack and the smoker and the sound of that old river breathin in and out on the shore. So if I was honest, and I don’t see why I should be, but if I was, then I miss it.’

Salter eyes were shining as the memory of his old life poured from his lips. Now Moss thought about it, it made sense that he missed the river that he’d rowed and fished all his life. She wondered how often his thoughts drifted back to those old ways.

‘So what about you, Leatherboots?’

‘Me?’

‘You said yerself, life is good here. So what’s the problem?’

‘It’s kind-of hard to explain. All my life I dreamed of being far away from the Tower and the Hill and, you know, the executions . To be free. To be with Pa, living somewhere just like this, in a village with fields and bluebell woods.’

‘So? Ain’t too many that get their dreams fer real.’

‘Yes, but now we’re here,’ Moss stared at the slow burn of the fire, logs shedding their feathery ash. ‘Now we’re here and everything’s fine, well, I guess there’s room to think of other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, things . . . from our past. Do you ever think of your father and your mother?’

Salter blinked.

‘I was just wondering,’ she said.

Salter’s gaze dropped. He shuffled the embers with the toe of his boot.

‘Spend too long in the past,’ he said, ‘And you might not find yer way back.’

The fire spat. On his pallet, Pa shifted.

Salter stood up. ‘I’m turnin in. Much as I’d like to, can’t hang about all night chit-chattin.’

‘Night, Salter.’

But he didn’t reply. Moss watched him splash a little water on his face from the bucket. Then he disappeared into his corner, drawing the heavy wool curtain behind him.

‘Moss!’ Pa was calling from the forge.

‘Coming Pa!’ Moss beat the soil from her hands and clomped in from the vegetable patch where she’d been digging up skirrets. Pa was already pumping the bellows, sparks shooting out of the fire.

‘Here.’ She shook the skinny fist of roots. ‘Not too bad for a second crop. If Salter gets us some rabbits, we’ll have a good stew.’

Salter had gone at first light. Moss had heard him from her pallet in the little alcove by the fire. She’d said nothing, just listened to the sound of him pulling his boots on, munching on a hunk of bread while he dressed. She’d wriggled down under her blanket. These noises were as familiar to her now as the crackle of logs. It was as though Salter had always lived with them.

Pa was tying the beaten leather apron behind his back. She looked to the table. On it was a little jug with a sprig of hazel poking out of the top. She’d placed it there for Pa that morning before she’d gone out. All those months ago when she’d walked out of the Tower with no word of where she was going, Pa was so distraught it had almost killed him. A sprig of leaves or a few flowers left in the jug was her unspoken way of telling him that she was coming back. That she loved him.