Eppie (21 page)

She draped the jacket over his shoulders. ‘Where did you get
that sheep’s heart?’

‘Huh? Oh, gypsies. Yur, that were it. They found a dead
sheep lying about.’

‘Since Gillow ate it he’s been sick lots and has the
squitters. I can’t think anything else could’ve made him so ill.’

Wakelin drained his bottle.  ‘Guilt.’  He thrust his fist at
her. ‘About these.’

She glanced at the tavern not more than ten paces away, a
tilted mushroom against the raven-black sky. Moonlight winked on the attic
windows. ‘Hush, you’ll wake folk.’

‘Every day these stumps is a reminder that pa’s always there,
always on me back, trying to control me life. He never lets up. Never sees I
want to live me own life. Do as I please.’  

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, wiping his face with the cloth
that she had brought the food in. ‘None of us can do exactly as we like, at
least not all of the time. We must pull together. Help one another. Follow
rules like
not
stealing firewood. For the last time, I am telling you to
stop.’

He mimicked her severe voice, raising it several pitches. ‘
Stop! 
Stop
! Why don’t
you
stop? I’m sick to death of you ranting on at me.’
Resentment was in his eyes. ‘Why should I let du Quesne tell me what to do?
You’re as bad as the rest, letting him walk all over ya.’

‘I live my life and let others live theirs. I can’t see
what’s so wrong with that.’

‘Sometimes you’re a numb-skull, Ma. Can’t ya see? Ya don’t
live your own life. You’re not free. You live by du Quesne’s paltry rules. He
thinks he’s better than us, but he ain’t. You even let pa bully-rag you when
he’s a mind.’

‘He don’t bully-rag me.’

‘He do and ya know it. Everything you say to me is about
trying to make me live a shallow life, like you. All I ever get is, do what yer
pa says Wakelin, do what du Quesne says Wakelin.’

‘It is sinful to act the way that you do at times. Your father
is purple in the face from telling you not to steal.’

A deadly cramp crushed the muscles in his thigh and he grimaced.
‘For all yer blab, you ain’t so wonderful, so righteous.’

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. ‘I am a
God-fearing person.’

‘God-fearing, yur, but not du Quesne-fearing. If only ya
knew.’

‘Right, that’s it! I’m off home.’ Seething, she paced away. 

‘Off ya trot,’ he said
caustically. ‘Home to what don’t belong to ya. Home to
her
.’

There was a cruel ring in
his voice that arrested her steps. Turning to face him, she spoke tentatively. ‘Now
what are you on about?’

He lowered his head, so
that his forehead rested upon the hard, greasy timbers. He spoke almost in a
whisper, his voice shaking. ‘It ain’t ownee the wood I’ve stolen, Ma.’

Leaden clouds blotted out the stars.

She took a step back through the drizzling rain.

‘Wakelin? What else?’ She didn’t really want to know, but
curiosity had got the better of her.

‘Yuv gorra understand. I
only did it for you.’

‘Wakelin, tell me. What
else have you stolen?’

He shivered violently. ‘I
stole
her
, Ma. 
Her.
  Eppie is Genevieve du Quesne.’   

‘Don’t be silly. Genevieve du Quesne
is dead.’

‘No, Ma. It’s your Eppie what’s dead.’

‘That’s a very cruel thing to say.’

‘True, nevertheless.’

‘You’re only making this up because I wasn’t pleased about
the logs.’

‘I wish. Why d’ya think I hate going to church? It’s because
seeing her and Gabriel together is too much to bear. Why d’ya think I drink so
hard? It’s because of me guilt about taking Genevieve.’

‘You’re raving with the drink.’

‘Listen, Ma. At least listen to what I have to say, then you
can choose whether to believe me or not.’

Unwillingly, he recreated the torment of that night.

‘If it hadn’t been for Gabriel I might’ve been able to
forget. I could’ve got on with me life. In me head, though, I always hear his
screams.’ Weakly, he added, ‘It were Talia what encouraged me.’

‘Talia?’ Martha breathed.

‘I didn’t reckon on what she were at first. I was blundering
along the tunnel with Genevieve when this all-bones dead ‘un came shambling at
me in a dripping frock.’

‘Are you saying you saw her bugaboo? Now that
is
ridiculous.’

Mirrored by their troubled minds they sat battered by the
rain. Martha had no energy even to drag up the hood of her cloak.

Battling with her inner turmoil, she forced the words, ‘If
what you say is true, the baby in the coffin, the day that it passed our cottage,
was
my
Eppie?’

‘I’ve already said an’t I? I’d proved I was cleverer than
that half-wit, Thurstan.  I’d stolen his cousin from under his warped nose. In
me heart, though, I knew he’d won. He had our Eppie. I was outta me mind
knowing I’d cast her away as though she meant nowt to me. I longed to smash
that hearse, to tear her out of the coffin and hold her.’

‘When Eppie was in church she saw you beside Genevieve’s
tomb.’

‘Eppie’s tomb. It looked like she’d died having a fit.’ He
massaged an ache in his shin.

Under the cloak of darkness it was easy to imagine that they
were the only people in the world, though the threat of unseen others was the
terror Martha knew she must face if she allowed herself to believe him. Too often
he told untruths. ‘No, Wakelin, I flatly refuse to believe you.’ She made to
rise.

He had gone this far and knew he must convince her. ‘When
Eppie was being born, old Salty gave me a hard time.
Steam this, Wakelin.
Scrub that, Wakelin
. I told the interfering beezum to go boil ‘er warts. 

‘I woke in a sweat. I’d had a nightmare about Josias and
Hepsie and how their deaths had stung ya. I went to look on Eppie, to reassure
meself that she was all right, ownee she weren’t.

‘I held a candle over your face. You looked so peaceful. I
couldn’t bear the thought of you waking and finding her dead. I had this
idea. If I swapped the bairns you need never know. I
had to be fast; dawn weren’t far off. I guessed Eppie must’ve only just died,
but I scattered rosemary in the cradle in case there were a lingering stink.’

More than anything he could have said to her, this grim
reminder struck home. How else could he have known that there was rosemary in
the cradle?  It had been brushed out whilst he lay in a stupor in the loft.

It was some moments before she spoke, and then in a daze,
her voice shaking. ‘Why?  Why did you do it?  I’d have accepted Eppie’s death,
eventually. Mothers lose their children all the time in the village. It was
wrong of you to take Eppie, far worse to steal Genevieve. Whatever shall we do
now?  What will Gillow say?’

‘I wouldn’t risk telling him. You said he was swift
with the knife when he sliced off me thumbs. Pa would
gut me quicker than du Quesne could toss a rope around me neck.’

Martha’s thoughts were pierced with dread. She did not want
to think. She wanted the terrible things unsaid. If she was to believe him, and
now she could think of no reason to disbelieve him, she must kill the love she
felt for Genevieve. ‘Wakelin, why ever did you have to tell me? I could’ve gone
on living a simple, contented life with Eppie.’

‘I never meant to tell ya, Ma. Honest. I thought it’d always
be my secret. Things have got me down. The gin didn’t help. It loosened me
tongue. It’s all pa’s fault. Ever since I were a lad he’s made me feel bad
about who I am, made me hate mesen. I try to bottle up me anger. It does no
good.’

‘We must take Eppie back.’

‘Throw oursens at the mercy
of du Quesne? He don’t have none. What’s the reckoning his lordship will say that
you n’ pa put me up to it?’

Martha stared at him, askance. ‘Her mother
must
have
her back.’

‘Fine. So du Quesne discovers that Eppie is his daughter.
D’ya reckon he’ll welcome her with open arms?  Straight off he’d nail her skull
on the wall in his study, alongside the rest of them weird beasts. I’m telling
ya, Ma, she can’t never go back.

‘Another thing, when Thurstan was chucking me outta the church
I spotted Eppie hiding in du Quesne pew. I’ve gorra feeling summat is going on
between her and Gabriel. When I crept back to look in at the window, to check
what she was up to, I saw her and him grinning at one another, all friendly
like.’

Afraid that she might betray her knowledge about the friendship
between the children, Martha rose and trod torpidly away. ‘I have to go. Your pa
will be wanting me.’

‘Take Twiss will ya. He likes to keep me company, but it
ain’t good for him out here.’

Martha’s
old way of life was shattered.

Her mind in torment, she
stood beside the hearth, gazing upon Genevieve. The child’s face was grubby from
yesterday, her flaxen hair stuck to her sweaty skin.

Almost, Martha could
believe what Wakelin had told her, that she had been part of the conspiracy to
steal her from her parents. Fingers pressed against her throat, she felt the rhythm
of her pulsating veins and imagined a noose tightening around her neck’s soft
clamminess.

Dreading uttering her first
words to the girl, she wrung her hands in agony. Genevieve was bound to notice
her acting differently towards her.

Filling her mind with the
cares of the day, she fought to cut out thoughts of the du Quesne girl. Having
milked the cow, she trudged along the mossy path to the cottage. With no
inclination to raise her frock above her ankles, her hem swirled into muddy
puddles.

‘Hello, Mam.  I’m feeling a
bit better.’

Face averted from the girl, Martha set to cleaning the
floor. Gillow had finally got around to laying pitching stones, gathered from
the stream, after Martha complained, almost incessantly, about the moles that
excavated heaps of soil onto the earth floor. The wide chinks left between the
stones were apt to fill with hardened dirt.

Eppie gazed at the back of
Martha’s head, her damp bun bobbing as she threw her weight into scrubbing,
intent on wiping away each lump of fat, every speck of blood and grime.  ‘Did
anyone catch you?’

‘Hmm?’ 

‘Did anyone see you with
Wakelin?’

Martha’s voice sounded thin, tight. ‘No.’

Eppie crawled out from the coverlet and examined the empty
basket set beside the hearth. ‘What did ya take him?’

No answer.

‘Mam?’

Martha’s face felt hard, constricted with masked emotion.
‘Mmm?’

‘To eat?’

‘This n’ that.’

‘But what?’

Martha sat back on her heels. ‘I can’t remember. What does
it matter?’

Eppie was startled by her sharp reply. ‘It don’t. I was
wondering if he liked it, that’s all.  His belly must’ve been rumbling, like
mine.’

Martha threw herself back into her work.

‘Is he all right?’

Martha emitted a breath of exasperation. ‘Who?’

‘Wakelin, of course!  Mam, why are you being all silly?’

Wringing the rag into a tight sausage, Martha slapped it
into the pail. Water slopped over the sides. ‘Do you want some tack?’

‘I don’t know.’ For some reason that she could not
understand, Eppie felt nervous of Martha. Shivering, she crawled back into her
bed.

‘Make up your mind,’ Martha
said sharply.

‘If you want, though I … ’

Martha broke twigs with
force, as though wringing the neck of one of her geese. Dry moss caught light.
Soon the fire blazed. 

Ladling poached eggs upon a
chunk of bread, Martha said frostily, ‘It’s on the table.’

‘If it ain’t no bother, would
you mind if I have it here?’ Eppie asked meekly.

‘Why should I care where
you have it?’ Martha averted her eyes from the child’s steady, puzzled gaze as
she handed her the food. ‘Eat it up quick, else it’ll go cold.’ Hurrying
outside, she sloshed filthy floor water over Gillow’s cabbages.

 Miserable, Eppie stared at
the runny egg whites. She knew she ought to tell Martha that they were not properly
cooked, but was afraid to.

Anger was Martha’s way of
shutting out appalling thoughts and images. Striding to the wring-shed, she
flung the pail at the back wall and slammed the door. Closed off, away from the
world, her body shook from broken sleep. She wished she could die rather than
endure a day of anguish with the du Quesne girl. It was no good. She had to go
on. Make pretence that everything was as usual. She needed time to think what
was best to be done with the child.

Rushing into the parlour,
she snatched up the sack of carded wool. Fast and furious the spinning wheel
whirled.

Swallowing the last of the
eggs, Eppie gripped her heaving stomach. In an alarmed voice, she cried, ‘I’m
going to be …!’  Sick splattered upon the scrubbed floor.

Martha pressed her thumb
against her temple in an effort to reduce the painful rush of blood throbbing
through her head. ‘You are
so
naughty!’

Eppie stared frightened-eyed
at Martha’s severe face. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t keep it in.’

Martha’s solid composure crumpled. Throwing her hands
against her face, she sobbed. ‘You don’t love me anymore!’

Diving out of bed, Eppie hugged Martha. ‘I do, Mammy!  I do,
I do!’

‘I am a wicked, cruel person.’

Eppie giggled at this extraordinary declaration. ‘Don’t be daft;
you’re the best mammy in the world! Did Wakelin shout at ya?  Is that why
you’re upset?’