Free A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham Page A

the same of the daughter of her father’s late partner, the one her father had insisted should resign.
    ‘I know. We’re dropping off the jingle at Old Bernie’s. He’ll sit on the step and watch us. He can see right the way across the moor so that’s all right, isn’t it?’
    He did not start the trap yet but waited and she realised that it was her decision. It was a strange feeling. She set the hat more securely on her head and looked across the moor; you could see a long way, she realised and nodded to herself and then to Joe.
    The cart jolted down the track and she held the reins as Joe leapt out and opened the gate. ‘Go on then, drive him through.’
    She flapped the reins; the pony’s tail swished and he began to walk.
    ‘Keep him going,’ called Joe as he threw the rope which secured the gate over the post and ran alongside, leaping up beside her. His arm touched hers and it felt good. Like Uncle Simon again. The cottage she could see at the foot of the track was small and an old man sat on a wooden seat at the front door. He rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. His hands were gnarled and his face was scarred down one side. ‘Morning, Master Joe,’ he called and lifted his hat towards Hannah.
    She climbed down by herself, shaking her head at Joe’s proffered hand. ‘I can manage, thank you.’ And she could.
    They set off across the field, keeping near the walls. ‘It’s drier here,’ Joe said. ‘Out there in the middle it’s still wet from the last night’s rain and the morning mist.’
    Hannah nodded, looking ahead at the wall which cut across the bottom of the field. Between the stones she could see daylight. ‘Who is that old man? Does he work for you?’
    Joe moved the bag on to his other shoulder. ‘Not really. He’s from the Penhallon Mine. You know, the one your family run. He’s too old now and Father gave him the use of the cottage and pays him for a bit of gardening.
    ‘Hasn’t he done enough work?’ Hannah said indignantly, turning to Joe, holding her hat on her head. It dug into her bun and hurt.
    ‘That’s what we thought, so you can stop glaring,’ Joe said, his smile less broad now. ‘But he should be in the workhouse now because he’s too old for the mine, him in one and his wife in another. Just like your sort of schools. No sort of life for him, is it, and he wouldn’t come to the cottage when we offered it because it smacked of charity. So we asked him to do some work, just enough gardening to make him feel of use, that’s all.’ He shouldered past her, striding on up to the gate.
    ‘It’s hard working in the mines, you know,’ he called back. ‘You take a look round when you go tomorrow.’
    Hannah stood still and watched as he pushed through the small gap at the end of the wall.
    ‘Come on then,’ he called and was gone.
    She hurried on, frightened of losing him out here where there was no familiar landmark. The moor was spongy under her feet. They had been walking for what seemed like hours now and Joe had removed his jacket and tie, and undone his top button. He spoke of the land where he had been born, of its space, its growth, how there was a chance for everyone. He explained how there was no set pattern of class and privilege as there was in this nation, how a poor man could make good, and to Hannah it was a revelation, a story which could not be true, but he laughed and said it was.
    Here there were fewer wild flowers. There was none of the clover which had darkened the fields they had tramped through or any smell of late violets, but there was still some bird’s foot and lady’s slipper though these were becoming more infrequent. There were lichen-covered, stunted oaks standing alone. Close to them were a few moorland mares, nuzzled from time to time by their foals.
    ‘The river’s not far off now,’ Joe said.
    At the thought of the cool wetness she lengthened her stride. But still she could not see the glint of sun on water