Eppie (17 page)

‘I’m sure you’ll win, Mister Jacob.’

There was a crunch as he twisted the leaves off the enormous
beetroot. ‘That’d make a change. Hadn’t you better keep an eye on your pigs?
They’re making off.’

A red mail coach bowled down the lane. The guard blew a
warning on his trumpet and Jacob scurried to the tollgate to let it pass.

Eppie watched the four-horse team career towards the
packhorse bridge.

‘This ‘ere gatekeeper job will be the death of me. If it
ain’t a body-breaker, it’s a yellow-bounder. Folk never give a thought to the
trouble they cause me with their out-comelings.’

‘Why don’t the mail coach never stop, like the carts?’

‘Them and these ‘ere express coaches travel toll free.’

A brewery wagon rumbled over Miller’s Bridge; before it tramped
a pair of draught horses.

‘Morning Jermyn,’ Jacob called to the wagoner. ‘It’s another
damp ‘un.’

The wagoner drew up at the brick-pillared gate and dipped
into the commodious pocket of his coat for the toll. ‘Your Tobias left to work
on the flyboats yet?’

‘Aye, Sarah sore misses him, and our Molly. She’s gone to be
a maid-of-all-tasks at Bridge House in Malstowe.’

A shiny blue carriage, drawn by white horses, swept over the
packhorse bridge.

Shrieking with laughter, Wilbert and Sukey charged into the
lane after it. It was a popular practice amongst children in these parts, upon
meeting a white horse, to make a cross on the ground with twigs. The first to
spit on the centre of the cross would find treasure. With gusto, they took it
in turns to spit beside the front hooves of the carriage horses waiting before
the gate.

A scuffle broke out. ‘It were me!’ Wilbert cried.

Sukey slobbered her runny nose on her sleeve.  ‘Nah, me!’ 

‘Oy, stop that filthy behaviour in front of her ladyship,’
Jacob chided. 

They ran off, thumping one another. 

Jacob wrenched open the carriage door. The interior was
upholstered in blue velvet. Matching curtains were pulled aside from the opposite
windows. ‘Sorry about that, m’ladies.’

Eppie’s gaze fell upon a lady with puckered ruby red lips.
Her round face, fat like a pig’s, was framed below by an enormous Brabant
collar and above with a fur hat. ‘Really, gatekeeper,’ she said in an imperious
tone, readjusting her lap blanket, ‘this stopping and starting is not good for
one’s constitution. Has this wagoner completed his transaction?’

‘Aye, that he has, aye, Mrs Bulwar.’

‘Kindly close this door. It lets in a most disagreeable
chill.’

Jacob waved his beetroot leaves at Jermyn, indicating that he
had better get a move on.

As the carriage rolled past,
Eppie’s eyes momentarily rested upon the fine lady who sat opposite Mrs Bulwar,
reclining against the padded backrest. She recognised her from Gabriel’s
description of his mother. Though pale and aged through illness, Lady Constance
du Quesne’s tender nature was plain to see. Acting upon impulse, Eppie
curtsied. The smile that flickered upon Constance’s delicate lips, as she
caught sight of Eppie, vanished as quickly as it appeared, to be replaced by an
expression of perplexity.

Treading into Copper Piece Wood, Eppie was awestruck by the
glorious cathedral of trees, resplendent in their autumnal foliage. The air was
full of creaking and rustling as the last of the leaves shook free, drifting around
her like parched shrews.

Picking up a stick, she thrashed branches where acorns hung
limply. Greedily, the pigs raced around, nosing for the fallen acorns. The
image of Lady Constance remained fixed in Eppie’s mind. Whilst the lady’s face
had borne a mask of well-practiced social etiquette, caught off guard it was as
though her private, inner self had surfaced. What was it about the sight of the
woman that pulled at her heartstrings? Made her sense that something was
missing from her life?

From a clearing arose the smell of smouldering wood. Men had
stacked hornbeam branches in readiness to make charcoal and were now shovelling
earth on top of the hummock. Every now and then an escaping jet of spiralling
smoke swirled close to the men’s feet, to be smothered with earth. She imagined
the mound to be the lair of a vexatious dragon. 

Axes hacked. An oak shivered as it sought to hold onto life.
Wistfully, Eppie reflected upon all the years that the tree had lived in
harmony with the seasons. Though she hastily pressed her palms to her ears, this
could not shut out the sickening thud which reverberated through her feet as
the trunk smashed to the ground. 

Wakelin sat inside the entrance of a rain-shelter
constructed from woven branches and canvas, slashing with a knife as though
cleaving and trimming hazel poles. Outside the tent, Haggard, a wily-looking
character, who wore strips of blanket around his calves, which he called his country
boots, was hacking branches.

Setting off to the broad skirt of an oak tree, Eppie swooped
upon an enormous acorn.

‘Hey, I’ve found a hedgehog!’ Wilbert yelled. 

Eppie glanced back to where the path dived into a dingle,
stunted oaks surrounding its slope. Wilbert had been whacking leaves in a
half-hearted effort to find nuts to feed his family’s pigs. He now turned his
attention to the unfortunate hedgehog. 

Enraged, seeing him strike it with his stick, Eppie raced
towards the boy.  ‘Leave it be!’

‘Shove off.’

‘It’s done nowt to you.’

‘It’s sucked our cow’s milk dry.’

‘That’s a dullard’s tale, no mistake.’

Spying the massive acorn, he snatched it from her.  ‘What a
big un!’

Hurtling into Wilbert, Sukey knocked it from his hand.
‘That’s mine! I spat in the middle of ‘em horse twigs, so I won it.’

‘Nah, ya din’t.’ Wilbert tried to grab it back. ‘It were me.
I know my spittle anywhere; it’s got yellow blobs in it.’

Eppie stamped her foot. ‘You gimme back my acorn.’

Sukey sneezed over her. ‘I take what I want.’ 

Skulking behind Sukey, Wilbert snatched it.

Wakelin raced up to the squabbling children. ‘Oy! Give that
back!’ He booted Wilbert on the backside so hard that he flew through the air.

Wilbert howled in agony, his face as grubby as the rotting
leaf-litter in which he sprawled.

Taking one last look at Wakelin’s fierce expression, the
children pelted off.

Eppie and Wakelin wandered back to the tent.

‘A year of many nuts means a year of many nits,’ Wakelin
reminded her. ‘So, unless ya wanna catch what ‘em Hix kids have got, stay away
from ‘em. Anyway, where’s yer guts?  Why didn’t ya fight ‘em for yer acorn?’

‘Pa says it’s wrong to fight.’

‘You don’t need to listen to what pa says. A good smack
around the chops is the only language them sort understand.’

Haggard emerged from the shelter. Tugging
at his goatee beard, he stared anxiously around.

Before the folds of the canvas fell back, Eppie spotted the
bloodied carcase of a deer. ‘So, that’s what they’ve been up to,’ she thought. ‘Poaching.’
Despondently, she ambled away. 

Wakelin tossed rods into a heap.  ‘Where you off?’

‘Home.’

‘With them clodpoll Hix lying in wait for ya? Not clever.’ 
Nearby was an elder tree, its criss-cross branches sweeping the ground. Within was
a log. ‘Sit.’

Eppie wanted to chastise him for talking to her as though
she was Twiss, but felt too tired to argue.

Wakelin and Haggard worked on, making wattle hurdles that
would be used to cordon off parts of the fields. The hurdles were useful for
providing shelter at lambing time. Laying a log mould upon the ground, in which
holes were drilled in a line, Wakelin inserted upright spur rods and wove
horizontal cleft rods around them.

Eppie’s stomach rumbled.

Wakelin was riled to see her expectant eyes fixed upon him.
‘Yur, Yur.’ He stole a cautious glance into the shadowy woodland and
disappeared into the shelter.  Moments later he reappeared, a bulky sack upon
his shoulder. 

Motioning Wakelin to chuck the sack into his wagon, Haggard
drove off in the direction of The Fat Duck.  

Wakelin grabbed a ragged bundle and hastened away. ‘Shift
it.  I’m famished.’

Eppie’s fast walk changed to sporadic bursts of running as
she tried to keep up with the racing pigs and Wakelin’s giant strides. Consumed
by thoughts of his poaching she uttered not a word about the theft, though she
must have given something of her mind away.

‘Why ya staring at me like that?’ he upbraided.

‘I ain’t.’ 

What neither of them saw was a furtive watcher. Camouflaged
by his moleskin jacket and trousers, Amis Lodge, Lord du Quesne’s gamekeeper,
lurked beside a field maple, a gun slung over his shoulder.

Eppie’s attention was drawn to dirty grey smoke billowing
not from the chimney in the hip roof of Dank Cottage but from out of the door. 

Wakelin dashed indoors. ‘What’s amiss, Ma?’

Martha’s face was flushed. ‘I’m not getting the parsnip pudding
whisked, that’s what. Not long after Henry called to let me know we mustn’t
gather fuel from Copper Piece Wood I bought some cheap coal from a gypsy who came
acalling. I’m sure it’s sea coal, it smokes so. I’ve been frozen all morning
having to keep the door open to let out the smoke.’

‘We can’t live like this, Ma. Up at the manor they’ve got
heaps of logs for fires. Du Quesne don’t intend shivering, so why should we?  Outta
me way.’ Dragging the fire bucket towards the grate, he shovelled out embers. 

Martha fetched the cauldron off the fire and set about
serving the cow heel broth. ‘I only hope this has warmed through.’

‘There ya go, Ma. A cheerful blaze with no smoke.’

‘Whatever did you make that with? I’d no wood left.’ Branches
lay beside a pile of discarded rags. Martha drew her ash-grimed hand across her
forehead. ‘Wakelin, you’ve never gone and … ’

‘It don’t matter, Ma.  Say yer pleased.  I thieved it for
you.’

‘His lordship gave strict orders.’

Wakelin was irritated by his mother’s displeasure. ‘What do
any of the du Quesne’s care?  As long as they live life lavish they don’t give
a hoot about us.’

Eppie stamped her foot. ‘That’s not true.  Gabriel told me …’
She bit her tongue, horrified at the words that had tumbled out.

Wakelin glared at her, his eyes
filled with suspicion.     

‘Shoo!’ It was shortly after dawn the following day. Martha
was in the backyard. ‘How did you get in here?’ 

The remains of her bread and sugar breakfast sticking out of
her mouth, Eppie dashed off to investigate, expecting to see the yard overrun
with Samuel’s sheep. She was in time to see the pigs scurry into the orchard, their
roly-poly rumps swaying.   

Hands on hips, Martha stood in the wring-shed, surveying the
remains of the plums she had intended to use for liquor. ‘Did you leave the
door open?’

Eppie shook her head.

‘Who did? Gillow, before he set off to the cloth market
after cockcrow?’ Some cider bottles were missing. ‘Ah, no, I see. That Wakelin Dunham
has been helping himself a bit too often for my liking. I suppose it’s because
he’s badly off. It was mean of du Quesne to say Wakelin could only work for him
if he accepted half-pay.’

Whilst Martha was busy indoors, Eppie set to, clearing up. Having
swept the last of the mashed fruit into a pile, she fetched a pail of water
from the stream. Charms of goldfinches flitted around, nipping seeds from
summer’s knapweed crowns.

Kneeling on the wring-shed floor, she was busy scrubbing
when shouting came from the lane. She scurried down the garden path to
investigate. Hanging over the cart gate, she saw a gang of hallooing men and
boys chasing a dog. ‘Wasp!’ He must’ve escaped from Tom’s barn.

The dog looked so crazed that she imagined he could bite off
his own head.

Martha came to the cottage door, opening it only a little,
so that Twiss would not escape. ‘Eppie get indoors!’

Swinging around, Wasp faced the gang. They came to an abrupt
halt, fearful looks on their faces. Like a miniature fighting bull, the dog tore
towards Tom. Before it had a chance to bite, Tom dealt it a vicious kick. Making
a bloodcurdling howl, Wasp fell to the ground. The tormentors left off.

Staring at Wasp, Eppie saw him open his eyes a crack. His nostrils
trembled as though smelling her out.

Rising swiftly, he raced towards the garden gate which,
obligingly for him, as he head butted it, swung open.

‘Eppie!’ Martha beseeched, still holding the door ajar.
‘Quickly!’

The dog came to a jolting stop, standing between the cart
gate and the cottage, glowering at Eppie.

‘Uh oh!’ Eppie realised she should have done as Martha said.
Now it was too late.

Pelting back to the wring-shed, squealing, she sensed the
dog close on her heels.

At the moment that she braced her back against the door, the
dog’s horny head slammed onto the other side. Intent on reaching her, he
scrabbled at the gap at the bottom.

Eppie’s legs shook so much that she was sure they would not
prop her up.

There was a moment of silence. This was followed by
deafening squeals.

‘Those are my piggies!’ she thought despairingly. ‘I grew
‘em from acorns.’ In her mind she pictured Slodgy lying in a pool of blood, his
trotters twitching.

A barley threshing flail hung upon a rusty nail. She grabbed
the ash hand-staff. The holly-wood swingle swung upon its leather strap, heavy
and free.

Mustering courage that she did not truly feel, she threw
back the door and raced towards the dog. The flail in her raised hand now felt,
incredibly, feather-light. ‘Oy, you!’

From the corner of her eye she saw Martha also running
towards the orchard. She looked most un-Martha-like, flapping her arms and squawking
like a pheasant.

Hearing Eppie’s thudding footsteps, Wasp wheeled round. Gnashing
his teeth, he rocketed towards her.