When she saw Sam come out of the back door and go towards the barn, Esther collected the milk and carried it back into the house. She stood at the top of the three steps down into the pantry and surveyed the long, cool room with its red brick floor. At one end similar red bricks formed a raised gantry. Round the walls were shelves cluttered with all manner of stone jars, earthenware basins and bowls, enamelled jugs, scales and weights, knives, spoons and ladles – the conglomeration of years of neglect. On the top shelf was a row of glass preserving jars still holding fruit that was grey with age, a thick layer of dust lining the greased paper tops. Cobwebs festooned the shelves, looped between the jars and spiders scuttled away at her approach.
Her glance came to rest – with a final expression of disgust – upon the dairy equipment on the gantry.
‘It’s a wonder the folks drinking this milk don’t die of disease,’ Esther muttered aloud and with pursed lips set herself to clean the bowls, milk cans and the barrel-shaped butter churn. By the time Sam returned, she was pouring the milk into a spotless separating bowl, broad and shallow for the cream to rise to the top.
‘Thought I told you to go?’ he said, standing at the top of the pantry steps.
‘Just thought I’d do this for you, Mr Brumby. After all, this is woman’s work. I’m sure there’s something else waiting that needs a man’s brawn.’
He gave an angry snort. ‘Cheeky young wench!’ he growled and shook his fist at her before turning away. ‘Just dun’t let me catch you still here next time Ah gets back. That’s all!’
Esther straightened up and eased her aching back. With one last glance of satisfaction at the change she had already wrought in the pantry, even though it had taken her nearly the whole day, she went outside again. She saw Sam disappearing into the cowshed. She stood outside the back door of the house and looked about her.
Just how, she asked herself, was she going to get this stubborn old man to admit that he needed help about his farm? Her help!
Straight opposite her across the yard were some stables, the cowshed and between the two, a small barn. The stables were littered with an accumulation of rubbish slung in carelessly; tools, empty sacks, a barrow and harness badly in need of cleaning and polishing. So, thought Esther, there’ve been no horses in here recently.
On the right hand side of the yard was a row of small, brick buildings – three pigsties and a tool shed. Beyond that was a large barn with a hayloft.
Four geese headed by a gander came waddling towards her, protesting loudly. The gander spread his wings. Flapping and shrieking, he thrust out his neck and came rushing towards her, his webbed feet slapping the cobbles. Esther stood her ground, hands on hips and faced the fearsome bird.
‘Ya can stop that racket!’
He stopped, his vicious beak only inches from her. The wings settled back and, fluffing his feathers, he regarded her with tiny bright eyes. Behind him his mates squawked encouragement from a safe distance. With one last strident screech of disapproval, he turned and, gabbling to his wives, he waddled away. Dutifully, the geese fell into step behind him.
Esther glanced across the yard and saw that Sam was looking out over the half-door of the cowshed, presumably to see what was causing all the noise. For a moment he stared at her, then, even from this distance, she heard him sniff and saw him scratch his white stubble thoughtfully. He glanced at the departing gander and then back at Esther before turning away.
Already the sun was setting, throwing shafts of golden April sunlight across the fenland fields that stretched westward, flat as far as the eye could see till they touched the glowing sky. As dusk closed in on the farm, the tiredness swamped her. She hadn’t slept for over thirty-six hours and though the work she’d done that day had hardly been strenuous even in her own estimation, every bone and muscle in her body ached to lie down and rest.
But the work was not done yet. From the cowshed she could hear the sounds of evening milking. She leant on the half-door watching Sam, listening to his rasping breath as he worked. She saw him lever himself up from the low milking stool and a grunt of pain escaped his lips.
As he moved towards Clover in the end stall, the animal lashed her tail and kicked out sideways with her back leg, catching Sam a painful blow on the shin. The old man swore volubly and then, suddenly becoming aware of Esther’s shadow at the door, turned his anger on her. ‘Ah told you to clear off. Ah dun’t want you here. Ah dun’t need no help.’
He snatched a leather thong from a hook on the wall and strapped it round the cow’s back legs. Now Clover was forced to stand still an submit to being milked.
‘ “Kicker” would be a better name for that ’un, mester,’ Esther grinned saucily and, picking up her bundle, she turned away.
She stood uncertainly in the yard for a moment, breathing in the soft air with a hint of the sea in it. The barn, and its hayloft, loomed before her in the gathering dusk and promised warmth and rest. She glanced back over her shoulder. Let him struggle tonight, she thought, but tomorrow – I’ll show him! Esther smiled to herself and went towards the barn.
S
HE
became aware of the early morning light filtering through the cocoon of hay she had made for herself. There was a rustling close beside her. Rats! Esther thought. Her drowsiness vanished. Not that she was afraid of them but she didn’t want them running over her whilst she slept.
Without warning the sharp tines of a pitchfork were driven into the hay only inches from her throat. She gave a shriek, flung back the hay covering her and scrambled to her feet. A young man stood there, open-mouthed, the fork he held still embedded in the hay. They stared at each other for a moment before both spoke at once.
‘What the ’ell . . .?’
‘Can’t you be more careful with that thing? You nearly speared my neck!’
‘You shouldn’t be ’ere,’ he retorted defensively, then as his initial shock faded, he grinned and his gaze travelled up and down her lithe body. ‘Oh, I don’t know, though.’
He let go of the pitchfork and moved towards her. Esther stood her ground, her eyes challenging him. He was standing close now, too close, but she did not move. He was no taller than she was, but stockily built, the width of his shoulders proclaiming their muscular strength. He wore an open-necked shirt, the rolled-up sleeves showing his arms covered with black hairs. A red kerchief was knotted at his throat, but he wore no waistcoat. His trousers were the usual corduroy with a length of twine tied below each knee. His cap perched uneasily on top of his thick, curly black hair and his skin was swarthy. Three days’ growth of stubble darkened his face even more, but his brown eyes glinted as their gaze rested on the gentle swell of her bosom. He ran his tongue around his lips and then grinned showing white, even teeth. He put out his hand to touch her throat where the top button of her blouse was undone. ‘It’d be a pity to wound such a lovely neck as—’
Her arm came up smartly to smack his hand away before his fingers could touch her skin. ‘Keep ya hands to ya’sen –
boy
!’ She uttered the final word with scathing derision. His eyes blazed and a flush of anger spread across his dark features.
‘I aren’t going to let a little tramp talk to me like that . . .’ he muttered. His strong hands gripped her shoulders bruising her skin and digging into her flesh. Instantly she brought her arms up to knock his sideways, loosening his grip on her. Then she tugged on his right sleeve at the same time as she kicked his shin with her sturdy boot. He found himself lying on his back in the hay, staring up at her. The fall had knocked the breath from him. He could make no answer as she said, ‘Next time I’ll let you have it where it really hurts –
boy
!’
With that she climbed down the ladder.
As Esther sluiced the sleep from her eyes under the icy water from the pump, she heard behind her the clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the yard and turned to see Sam bringing two of his three cows through the farm gate and towards the cowshed. She wondered why he didn’t milk the cows in the field like her aunt had done, but watching his hobbling, bow-legged gait, she realized it was easier for him to bring the cows to the byre than to be chasing each one around the field to milk it – especially the temperamental Clover.
As he passed her, she thought he hadn’t noticed her until he said, ‘What sort of time do ya call this? ’Tis halfway through the day. Ah thought the work’d be too much for a slip of a wench.’
Esther opened her mouth to retort, but for once she thought better of it. She wasn’t one to make excuses. Let him think what he liked. Instead she said, ‘What do ya want me to do, Mester Brumby?’
He was moving away from her now, but over his shoulder he grunted, ‘Ah want you to go, that’s what Ah
want
you to do!’ He paused, one hand on the door of the cowshed, then turning to look at her, added, ‘But seein’ as how Ah dun’t expect you’ll tek any notice of me – you can get on with milking this pair.’
He let his hand fall from the door and began to go towards the house. ‘When you’ve done, turn ’em out into North Marsh Field. Ah’ll show you when you’re ready. Ah’m off up Top End, but Ah’ll be back by you’re done.’
There was no further sign of the ‘boy’. Who was he, Esther wondered, and what had he to do with Brumbys’ Farm? She wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. Maybe what Will had told her wasn’t true after all. Maybe Sam Brumby had got some help about the farm. If so, her argument about being the only one he could get to stay would lose its effectiveness.
As she leant her head against the warm flank of the beast and began to pull with easy rhythmic movements, she could almost hear her aunts shrill voice: ‘Not like that, girl, you’ll ’eve ’er tits as sore as ’ell,’ and, obediently, Esther’s fingers were gentle on the cow’s udders.
Just as she was finishing milking the two cows, a shadow fell across the straw near the pail and Esther twisted her head slightly to look over her shoulder, although her hands never slowed or faltered in their task.
A girl stood there, though Esther could not see her features for the light was behind her, casting her face in shadow, but outlining her rounded form. She stood uncertainly in the doorway, one hand resting on the rough wood of the door jamb.
‘Is Mr Brumby about?’ she asked, her voice low and husky.
‘’Fraid not. He’s up Top End — wherever that is,’ Esther told her, the milk still squirting steadily into the pail.
‘It’s yon side the Point,’ the girl said. ‘I must have missed him somehow – I’ve just come from there.’
Esther stood up and placed the full pail of milk away from the cow’s restless hooves and then moved out of the cowshed and into the light so she could get a better look at the newcomer. Long hair – black, now that she could see it properly in the morning light – straight yet sleek and shining. A grey, knitted shawl covered the girl’s shoulders and she hugged it about her, folding her arms across her already womanly breast. She was smaller than Esther but her body was rounded and buxom. Her eyes were dark brown with long black lashes. Her face was childishly plump, yet her high cheekbones and smooth brow hinted at the promise of beauty as she grew and matured.
She seemed to hesitate as if uncertain what to do next.
‘Are you working here?’ The dark eyes regarded Esther steadily. ‘Matthew told me he thought Mr Brumby needed more help about the place, so – I’ve come up to see him . . .’
Esther felt her heart lurch. Somehow she would have to give this girl the impression that the job was taken. Esther adopted her forthright pose: hands on hips, feet planted apart, a stance that refuted opposition. But deliberately she smiled, as if to take some of the sting out of her words. ‘I heard that too. Sorry – it looks like I’ve beaten you to it!’
The dark-haired girl shrugged. ‘Oh, well, never mind then. It was worth a try.’ She smiled in return. ‘I reckon he’d have frightened me to death, anyway. I hope you get on all right.’
Esther was taken aback by her friendliness. The girl was not in the least resentful that Esther had taken what might have been her job.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked as the girl half-turned to go.
‘Beth Hanley. I live at the Point in one of the cottages with me dad.’
‘Oh.’ Esther shook her head. ‘I ain’t seen the Point yet . . .’ She grinned ruefully. ‘I ain’t been off the farm since I got here.’ She did not add that it had been deliberate; she was afraid that if she set foot outside the gate, Sam Brumby would find some way to keep her out. Now, more than ever, if there were others wanting the job, she had to prove herself indispensable to Sam.
But Beth Hanley was smiling again showing white, even teeth. ‘Mester Brumby’ll work you hard, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Well, well, well, look what we’ve got here, then.
Two
pretty girls . . .’
They both turned and Esther saw the young man whom she had encountered early that morning in the hayloft coming towards them looking from one to the other, a broad grin on his face.
At once the smile disappeared from Beth Hanley’s face. Her glance went from Matthew to Esther and then back again. ‘D’you know her, Matthew?’ The friendliness was gone from her tone. ‘Did you tell
her
about this job too?’
‘Naw, course I didn’t.
I
don’t know who she is or where she’s come from. I only met her this morning.’ His insolent eyes raked Esther up and down. ‘But – I can’t say I’m sorry.’
Obviously, Esther thought, he bears me no grudge for kicking his shins, even though the bruise must still be sore. Perhaps he thinks he can tame me. Well, Mester Matthew – if that’s what ya name is – ya can think again! A small smile flickered on Esther’s mouth as she met his impudent gaze.
Seeing it, Beth’s dark eyes flashed, any sign of a tentative friendship gone in an instant. ‘Huh, might ’ave known
you’d
have your eye on her afore she’s been here five minutes. Can’t keep your hands off anything in skirts, can you, Matthew Hilton?’
‘What would either of you do here anyway?’ he asked of them mockingly. ‘The ploughing?’