Wordlessly, Sam motioned Esther to precede him into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle to where Matthew, Beth and the stranger were sitting. Beth seemed not to have noticed their arrival, or was deliberately ignoring them.
The service began and Esther watched and listened. The altar steps overflowed with the offerings from the congregation of fruit and vegetables, flowers and even one or two small wheat-sheaves and corn dollies. The atmosphere was warm and friendly as if the air of thanksgiving pervaded the congregation. She knelt beside Sam and watched covertly as he turned the pages of his prayer book. Esther was no great reader, yet she had learned enough to be able to find the same page in the book as Sam had, and then she proceeded to make a pretence at following the service, moving her lips and miming the prayers, deliberately inaudible.
Esther could not remember having been in a church before. Her Aunt Hannah had been a staunch Methodist and Chapel was the only form of worship with which Esther was familiar.
The service came to an end and Esther stood behind Sam whilst the gentry from the front pews walked down the aisle and out of the church. There was a portly gentleman with whiskery grey sideburns and red-veined cheeks that spoke of too much indulgence of the port. He nodded and smiled to each side as he strutted down the aisle. Esther watched as the men touched their foreheads in a deferential salute, whilst the women smiled self-consciously and nodded. One or two even bobbed at the knee. In contrast to the gentleman’s jolly manner, the woman who walked at his side with her hand in the crook of his arm was a thin, miserable-looking creature. True, she acknowledged the greetings of the congregation with a quick, darting look and the briefest of nods, and then her eyes were downcast to the floor as if she almost feared to meet anyone’s gaze directly. She looked nervous and ill-at-ease, though why Esther could not imagine, for it seemed her husband was held in high esteem.
Behind them came Tom Willoughby with two ladies whose skirts rustled and swished. One was very large, tall and stately. She sailed along, her breadth filling the width of the aisle. Her face was bloated and the folds of fat beneath her chin wobbled as she moved. The woman with her was thin, with steel-rimmed spectacles perched on her hooked nose. A receding chin and protruding upper teeth accentuated her thinness.
As he drew level with the pew where Sam Brumby and Esther were still standing waiting to leave, Tom Willoughby greeted them. ‘How do, Sam? And you, lass?’
Sam nodded briefly and Esther smiled up at the huge figure of Tom Willoughby, causing the two women with him to look her up and down. Their heads bobbed together as they whispered to one another and then they stared at her again. Boldly, Esther returned their scrutiny. As she passed close to Esther, the thin woman pointedly picked up her skirt and pulled it towards herself as if to avoid the merest contact with Esther, even though Sam stood between them.
Sam, Esther noticed, spoke to no one and acknowledged only very few people – the portly gentleman and his wife, Tom Willoughby and the vicar as they left the church – and then only with a sharp nod, a swift pecking movement. All the rest of the congregation Sam deliberately ignored, even those from the Point who were, after all, his nearest neighbours.
As Esther followed Sam from the church the vicar was standing outside the porch shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with each member of his congregation.
‘Ah, Mr Brumby,’ He clasped Sam’s hand warmly. ‘It’s good to see you, good to see you,’
‘Parson,’ Sam murmured.
‘And is this the young lady I’ve been hearing so much about who’s come to help you on the farm? Glad to meet you, my dear, glad to meet you.’
Esther smiled broadly at the vicar, her tanned face creasing with smiles, her green eyes twinkling. ‘Thank you, sir,’
‘Now, come again, my dear, come again. Mr Brumby, you bring this young lady to church again.’
Sam was half-way down the path and made no indication of having heard the vicar. Behind her Esther heard a muffled snort of indignation and a whispered comment between the large woman and her skinny companion. ‘Young lady, indeed!’ whispered one.
‘Fancy,’ came the twittering reply. ‘Who would have thought it of Sam Brumby?’
Esther whirled around, a stinging reply on her lips, but the retort died as behind the two gossiping women she saw Beth Hanley, her hand on the bearded man’s arm. Esther’s gaze met Beth’s and she saw the triumph written in the girl’s eyes. Esther turned away, sickened by the implications of the two women and Beth’s glorying in their insults of her. Still in front of the vicar, Esther turned back to him and said politely, but loud enough for those about her to hear distinctly, I’ll certainly come back to your church, when your congregation show a little more Christian charity. Good morning.’ Ignoring the appalled gasps behind her, she marched down the path after Sam.
It soon became apparent to Esther that Sam Brumby was no regular churchgoer and he had what some might think was a peculiar attitude towards the Being he always referred to as ‘The Almighty’. He did not believe in the prayer of supplication; he could never bring himself to pray for things to be given to him. On the contrary his sole purpose in his rare attendances at church was to give thanks. At harvest – good or bad – he would attend the Harvest Service. At Christmas he would celebrate with the Church the birthday of the Son of the Almighty, and at Easter he would give thanks for Christ’s sacrifice. But never, ever, would he ask for anything for himself. His lips hardly moved during prayer except to say such words as, ‘Thanks be to God’.
Esther was not to attend church again until Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but her first visit was not soon forgotten. The very next day when she saw Matthew, she demanded, ‘Who was the man sitting on the other side of your girl?’
‘Beth’s not my girl,’ came his swift reply.
‘She seems to think so.’
‘Well, she ain’t,’ he muttered and then he grinned. ‘You jealous?’
Esther tossed her curls. ‘I can do better for mesen than the likes of you, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Oh, Miss High an’ Mighty, chance’d be a fine thing . . .’
‘I asked you who that feller was.’
‘Well, you’ve no chance there, I can tell you. He’s eyes for no one but Beth, even though he’s years older.’
Esther blinked at Matthew. ‘Really? But who
is
he? I thought he were her father.’
‘No – Beth’s dad never sets foot in a church – not as long as I’ve known him, an’ that’s all me life. No – the feller you mean is Robert Eland.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, remembering suddenly what Matthew had told her previously, ‘he lives in that boat stuck up on the river bank, dun’t he?’
Matthew nodded. ‘He’s a seaman at heart and dun’t really want to live on the land.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon he tries to get as near to living at sea as he can.’
‘Who was the portly gent and the thin woman with him?’
‘That’s Squire Marshall. He lives at the Grange.’
Esther nodded. She hadn’t been required to help out at harvest on the squire’s farm. He would employ enough of his own workers, she supposed.
There was silence between them, then Matthew asked, ‘Dun’t you want to know who everyone else was in church? How about the two women who . . . ?’
‘I dun’t wish to know who
they
were, thank you very much!’ Esther replied.
‘The fat ones Martha Willoughby and the thin ones her sister, Flo.’
Rather than display any interest in them, she refused to listen to Matthew any more, picked up two heavy buckets of milk and disappeared into the pantry.
There were others too who would not forget Esther’s first visit to the church and two in particular who had no wish to see her there again.
Three days after that first Sunday, a pony and trap bowled along the lane from Rookery Farm, turning sharp right at the junction with the lane running alongside the sand dunes and came to a stop outside Brumbys’ Farm. Hearing the rattle of wheels and the horses hooves, Sam came out from the barn and Esther peeped out of Curly’s pigsty, which she was cleaning out.
The two ladies from the church were climbing gingerly down from their trap and coming towards Sam, marching side by side as if confronting the enemy.
‘Sam Brumby – Flo and I would like a word with you, if you please,’ began Martha Willoughby, taking the lead.
Esther watched the scowl on Sam’s face deepen but he said nothing.
‘It’s about that young girl you have – er – living with you,’ put in Miss Flo, but she took care to stand slightly behind her more formidable sister.
‘You see, Sam,’ continued Mrs Willoughby, ‘Flo and I – we don’t consider it seemly for a young girl – and one of doubtful character and morals – to be living out here
alone
with you. I mean – did you know what she said to Tom about – about . . .’ The woman wafted her hand before her face as if it ill became her to speak of such an indelicate matter. ‘. . . the boar?’
Flo nodded in dutiful agreement. It’s all over the town, Sam, just think.’
Esther had heard enough. She came out of the sty and slammed the door behind her. Two pairs of startled eyes turned towards her as she crossed the yard, her green gaze spitting fire, her determined chin thrust forward, the pitchfork she still held in her hands pointing aggressively towards them like a fixed bayonet. Miss Flo gave a terrified shriek and clung to her sister.
Sam put up his hand warningly, as if to fend her off. ‘Easy, wench,’ he murmured. ‘They’re naught but a couple of busybodies . . .’
‘I’ll not be called such names, mester. Not by them nor anyone else. I may be poor, an’ I may look like a tramp, but I
ain’t
one, an’ no one has the right to . . .’ Esther jabbed the fork towards them, and Miss Flo began to wail and even the bolder Mrs Willoughby took hold of her sister and stepped backwards. Esther thrust the pitchfork towards them again, so that the two women jerked away. Mrs Willoughby stumbled and fell heavily, dragging her sister down with her.
‘I
work
for Mr Brumby on the farm and nothing else. You hear me, missus,
nothing
else.’
She emphasized her statement by prodding the fork ever nearer to the two quivering women on the ground. For a long moment she glared down at them and then, as if satisfied, she lifted the fork away and stood back a pace. The two women, seizing their chance, scrambled up, clinging to each other. Tripping over their long skirts, they scuttled towards and trap. As they went, Esther’s anger was turned to laughter. Planted neatly on Martha Willoughby’s fat bottom was the perfect brown circle of a cow-pat.
Esther heard Sam’s wheezing and she looked sideways at him. He was bending slightly forward, his hands resting on his knees, his head tilted up to watch the two women laughing until the ears came into his eye.
‘Ayel, wench,’ he splutterd, ‘you’ll be the death o’ me!’
‘Y
OU
coming to the Supper tonight, Esther?’ Matthew was grinning at her over the half-door of the cowshed.
Without pausing in her milking, her voice muffled against the beast’s stomach, Esther asked, ‘Supper? What Supper?’
‘Harvest Supper, of course. Ain’t Sam told you about
it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s at the Grange. Squire holds a Harvest Supper for all the folks around here. Anyone can go – an’ they do. It’s a grand night. Aw, do come, Esther. Come with me, if you’re frit to go on your own.’
She finished milking Clover and stood up, giving the cow a last gentle pat on her rump. ‘Good girl, there now, there’s a good girl. We’ll have to stop milking you soon, shan’t we? Ya’ll be calving in a few weeks.’
The cow swished her tail but her kicking feet stayed still at Esther’s pacifying tone.
Now Esther faced Matthew. ‘I ain’t frit to go nowhere on me own, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Aw, don’t take the huff, Esther. I only meant – well – I meant I’d like you to come with me. There’s still a lot of people round here you don’t know an’ . . .’
‘Aye, and some as I’d rather not know an’ all, judging by them two old biddies in church last week,’ she countered.
Matthew grinned. ‘I ’eard about ’em coming here. But you sent ’em packing by all accounts.’
Esther smiled at the memory and found Matthew staring at her.
‘My, but you’re bonny when you smile,’ he said softly and his eyes darkened with desire as he stepped towards her.
‘Oh, go on with you.’ She pushed him away from her, laughing as she added, ‘I’ll think about the Harvest Supper. Now go away, I’ve work to do.’
Grinning, Matthew went.
‘Mester,’ she ventured to Sam at tea time. ‘What’s this Harvest Supper Matthew’s been on about? Do you go?’
Sam sniffed. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to. I don’t reckon much to it, but I don’t like to snub the squire. Why d’you ask? You going?’
She shrugged and looked down at her rough work-worn skirt and faded blouse. ‘I – I dunno.’
Sam sniffed again. There was a long silence between them. He got up from the table and settled himself in his straight-backed Windsor chair by the range. He reached for his clay pipe on the mantelpiece and began to pack it slowly. Without looking at her, he said, haltingly, ‘In that room where you sleep . . .’
Esther looked at him.
‘. . . there’s a trunk of – old clothes. They – they belonged to – to someone – a long time ago. If – if there’s owt you can wear, you can have ’em,’ he finished in a rush.
Her green eyes were shining. ‘Aw, thanks, Mester Brumby, thanks ever so.’
Sam sniffed, settled his aching bones in his chair and puffed at his pipe.
On the night of the Harvest Supper, Sam Brumby was waiting for her in the kitchen when she climbed down the ladder and stood before him in her finery. She had found a cotton print dress, patterned with blue cornflowers. Its skirt was a little too full to be fashionable and the sleeves too narrow. But, ignoring the fusty smell of material which had been packed away in a trunk for years, she had put it on, pinned up her freshly washed hair with some ivory combs she had found in the bottom of the trunk and arranged her curls to fall over her forehead. She felt like a princess.