Eppie (42 page)

Having cleared away the uneaten meal, Martha crept off to
settle Lottie, who slept with her in the wainscot bed.

Dimly, Eppie was aware of Martha’s comforting voice and the child
chattering. 

Wakelin’s empty ale mug clinked as he placed it on the stone
floor beside Gillow’s armchair. 

Turning her maimed head away, she prayed he would not
approach. 

Hardly caring whether she was asleep or awake, he sank onto
the milking stool beside her bed and stared at her pale face, shiny with
perspiration. ‘I’m sorry, Eppie. I shouldn’t have done it.’

She had determined to remain calm, not to show weakness
throughout this ghastly ordeal. Now her body stiffened in sorrow at his words. Her
tears soaked into the pillow and felt damp against her cheek.  

His voice was taut. ‘Yuv gorra understand. It’s like I’m
never free of ‘em. It’s like they’re always trying to get a hold on ya.’

Martha came to stand in the darkened doorway, silent,
listening.

Eppie shifted her bandaged head to look at him.   

‘I can’t let ‘em, see. Ma loves ya. I know you don’t always
think it, but I love ya an’ all.  It’d be like having our hearts ripped out if
you was to go back to ‘em.’

Frowning in an effort to concentrate, she sought to make
sense of his words. Finding it impossible, she gave up. Too much thinking only amplified
the relentless crashing in her head.

Her eyes drifted over his face. His skin was covered in cuts
and bruises. One gash, on his forehead, had been so bad that Martha had plucked
a hair from Dusty’s tail to stitch the cut; Eppie recognised the wiry texture.

At the mention of Twiss’s name, she was alert.

‘I know it weren’t your fault. Not really. Ya must hate me.’

Wakelin seemed an unpredictable intermingling of emotions, sometimes
brimming with affection towards her, at other times treating her with alarming
animosity. Never, though, would she harbour any desire to hurt his feelings.
Despite her suffering, the tremble of a smile danced upon her lips, and she reached
out to touch his hand.

Struck by her tender nature, a hard lump leapt visibly to
his throat. Not trusting himself to speak, afraid of weeping, he nodded understandingly.
Rising swiftly, he stumbled away, clattering to the loft in his cumbersome
ploughman’s boots.

From the lane before Dank Cottage came
the leaden footsteps of reapers heading towards the cornfields. Villagers urged
their reluctant, squalling children onwards.

Seeing Sukey slap Sissy, her younger sister, for dawdling, Eppie
stiffened in foreboding. 

‘Before rain comes, I’ll fix a fresh wax sheet over that smashed
pane,’ Martha said. ‘Tipsy treats it like her own door and delights in bringing
me half-chewed presents. Last night I was dozing off in bed when I felt something
fluffy
between my toes. No head the dreadful
mouse had.’ 

Seated on the bench beside the porch, Wakelin was busy
sharpening thatching spars with his jack-knife.

Claire breezed down the path, a look of resignation upon her
face. ‘Martha! Henry and I are ready to go now.’

For the last few years Henry had struggled on working for du
Quesne as a labourer. However, the acrimonious relationship between him and Maygott
was choking him and he had decided to sling in his spade. Having sold their
furniture and stock to give them a little extra cash, he and Claire were
leaving England to work in North America.

Martha shooed Lottie out of the garden like one of Samuel’s
sheep. ‘Eppie, hurry, come and say your goodbyes an’ all.’

Come rain or shine, Eppie would never dream of being seen
outside the cottage without wearing her bonnet to conceal her burnt ear.
Hastily, she tied the ribbons beneath her chin and followed the others.

Chiff-chaffs hopped around gooseberry bushes. Cobalt-crested
tomtits dangled upside down on seed heads. Though Eppie’s heart soared with
pleasure at beholding them, she never once smiled. 

Sweeping Lottie off the ground, Claire lavished kisses upon
her. ‘How’s about I stuff you down one of your Uncle Henry’s boots and stow you
away on the ship?’

‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Samuel asked,
knowing full well that his son-in-law’s mind was made up.

Henry tossed the last of the bags into Samuel’s cart.
‘There’s nothing here for us. Not anymore.’

‘And remember, Martha, you must get Wakelin or Eppie to
write and say when you’re ready to follow us,’ Claire said.

‘I can’t simply up sticks,’ Martha answered. ‘Things are
different for you. Henry’s had a taste of the good life. It’s only right he
should want it again. I’ve never journeyed further than Litcombe. Rough and
rustic my life might be, but this is my home.’

‘I’m sure you’ll change your mind,’ Henry said. ‘Though
you’re right, rolling green pastures are a finer sight than cows in a dust
storm.’

Claire stepped towards Wakelin, her arms wide. ‘I’ll not be
setting eyes on you for a while. Come and give your aunty a big slobber of a
kiss.’ Pulling a face of stiff repugnance, he quickly carried out the deed.
‘Henry will find work for you in America. There are more opportunities over
there for a young man to better himself, especially in beef.’

She kissed Eppie. ‘You’ve had a miserable time and I know
you’re not quite over it. Things will get better. Look after your mother. She
thinks she’s nothing short of a workhorse and will wear herself into the ground
if not restrained.’   

Mournfully, they watched the cart trundle over the packhorse
bridge, until it was eventually lost from sight.

Eppie’s eyes were drawn to a wrinkled face staring from
behind a grimy pane in the cottage across the lane. Raising her palm level with
her expressionless eyes, Betsy curled her fingers as her despondent way of
saying goodbye. It was almost too much for Eppie to bear. Of recent there had
been too many sorrows, too many partings.

Martha lifted Lottie astride Dusty. ‘We’d better hasten.’

Scooping Eppie off the ground, Wakelin settled her upon
Jenny. Though he urged the horse to a fast trot, she seemed incapable of a
quicker pace. Despite there being plenty of luscious grass on the lane-side for
the horse to graze, she ate little these days. Beneath her fingers, Eppie felt
the hardness of the horse’s projecting ribs.

In the field opposite the church the last of the corn grew
golden, thick and deep.  Already reapers, sickles tucked into girths, were
being organised into groups by gang leaders. Several fields of corn had been
cut, dried in the searing heat and taken to the stack-yard, where Wakelin and
Haggard spent much of their time thatching stacks. Martha strolled off to chat
to Sally, who cradled her baby in her arms. Wakelin went to release their
animals in the adjacent stubble field, to graze alongside beasts belonging to
other reapers.

Each morning, throughout the harvest, loaves were baked at
the manor for the reapers. It was the children’s task to fetch the family loaf,
distributed by the parson. Children at the end of the queue turned to stare at
Eppie as she approached.  Aware of their sibilant whispers, all the incidents
of yesterday’s bullying filled her mind. She became conscious of her aching
thigh, where Wilbert had kicked her. Though she tried to summon courage for the
interminably long day ahead, it was easier to turn away.    

Conscious of Sukey, her chief tormentor, creeping up, her
heart missed a beat. The reason for Sukey’s animosity had its roots in the activities
at the vestry school where Eppie, through no intention of her own, showed
herself to be more knowledgeable than the others. Many of the youngsters
harboured a latent jealousy of her status as the parson’s favourite, and after
her accident the general consensus amongst Sukey’s gang was that her injuries
served her right.

Sukey clapped her palm against her own ear, feigning Eppie’s
pain in the blaze. ‘Oh, oh, it hurts!’

Creeping up, Wakelin clouted Sukey so hard around the ear
that her mock wail became a genuine cry of pain.

Emerging from the vestry, Parson Lowford chanced to witness
this assault.

‘Sedge-fly,’ Wakelin said, shrugging. ‘Gorra nasty bite if
ya dain’t swat ‘em quick.’

Well aware of the negative attitude of some of the children
towards Eppie, Wakelin was doing everything in his power to protect her. That
he had played a role in bringing about her mental torment he would never
forget. In a positive light, however, the catastrophe had brought them close. Though
Eppie could not surmise the reason for his sporadic dark moods, each acutely
sensed the other’s suffering.

Together, they left the vestry, the oatmeal loaf wrapped in
a cloth that Eppie had brought from home.

‘What’s the betting the parson gets loaves made from the best
white flour?’ Wakelin said. ‘It’s only the likes of us what gets this horse
fodder.’ Cantering on the spot he neighed until he was rewarded by Eppie’s
embarrassed grin.

In the middle of the cornfield stood a crab apple tree which
provided shade for the reapers whilst partaking of their meal. Beneath it,
Eppie helped Edmund upturn sheep cages and fill them with new-mown hay to form
makeshift cradles where Sally and other field-faring women could lay their babies
in the cool green shade. Today, it was Pip’s turn to watch over the infants.

On horseback, du Quesne glared at the tracks sunk by the
passage of wheels as wains traversed the fields. Between the two outside ruts
was a third, beaten in by hooves. It was the children’s task to fill the ruts
with loose stone. ‘I’m not happy with this track,’ he told Maygott. ‘Picking up
stones hither and thither, the children aren’t repairing it quickly enough.’ The
hurdle-maker turned into the field in his wagon. ‘Haggard!’ du Quesne shouted.
‘Take some of these children with you to the stack-yard so that they can fetch
stones from the ditchers’ heap.’

Soon the wagon crossed the plank bridge that spanned a dyke.
Men stood ankle-deep in the trench, their trousers filthy from dipping into the
black, oozing mud.

‘We’ve had a fortnight of fine weather, McCloskey,’ du
Quesne shouted to Dan, the ditching gang leader, who was dredging with a scoop.
‘It’s bound to breed a thunderstorm. Make sure your men put their backs into it
today.’

Flat tracts of land skirting the northern hills, where du
Quesne intended to grow more corn, were often waterlogged. He could see that
simply digging ditches to drain the land was inefficient. A more effective,
long-term means of reclaiming the marshy land was needed. Having spotted the
model of a pumping mill at the ice market he had had one constructed on his
land last spring, though the wind being sporadic in its original setting, he
planned to have it moved to an alternative site tomorrow.

Before leaving the field the previous evening, Eppie had helped
Wakelin soak straw in the ditch to soften it. Hot and thirsty from lugging
stones and tossing them into Haggard’s wagon, she dawdled to watch Wakelin
spread the straw over the top of a stack. He smoothed it with a comb and secured
it with a spar. With the threat of encroaching rain there was no time to add the
decorative finials.

Already numerous stacks had been neatly finished and raised
off the ground on staddle stones to prevent vermin from raiding the corn.

Another cartload of corn drew into the yard. The men deliberated
what was to be done. Short of staddle-stones, there seemed no choice other than
to build the next stacks on the ground, though they needed lifting to stop damp
setting in. The children were ordered to fetch straw, lay it in circles and arrange
a ring of stones on top. Labourers threw down timber battens, thus providing an
extra tier.

Wakelin shouted down to Eppie, ‘When we came to thresh the
sheaves last autumn, nigh on a thousand mice shot out of one of them ground
ricks.’

Eppie pictured the amazing sight.

The work completed, Haggard set off back to the cornfield,
children sitting on the open tailboard of the wagon, swinging their legs.

Depressed at the thought of the work ahead, Eppie wandered
back alone, kicking dust.

Hours of toil followed.

Sukey stamped another bunch of twigs into a furrow. ‘I’m
sick to death o’ this.’ Seeing no interfering estate manager around to hassle
them, she and her friends slunk aimlessly away.

Eppie set about searching out the few remaining blackberries.
Many were maggoty and so squashy that she ended up with a sticky palm. Persevering,
she found enough fruit to fill the bottom of her basket. Contented, knowing that
Martha would be pleased with her effort, she settled behind a hawthorn hedge.

Though weary from her labours, she never slept well and
constantly suffered nagging pains in her back and neck from bending. Gathering up
the hem of her smock, she stared at her scratched legs, at bruises in varying stages;
brown turning to yellow, and purple to green.

Du Quesne and Maygott rode up. She remained perfectly still,
fearful of detection, observing the men through ragged holes in the hedge.

‘We’ll count ourselves fortunate if we get this lot in
before the storm, Robert. It’s far more than we need on the farm and should
fetch a good price on the home market, though the competition will be against
us.  No doubt Bulwar’s done well.’  

‘Obadiah’s already got his crop in. I’ve invited him and his
wife to dine with us tonight. In spite of this miserable war, I’ve managed to
procure some pomegranates; they will make a delectable dessert.’

‘I heartily look forward to that; it is long since I have
tasted such delicacies.’

‘We’ll dine in the west wing, out of earshot of the reapers’
ridiculous revelry. I suggest we make this the last Harvest Home. Abolish it
and give the reapers a small sum of money instead.  I would welcome the peace.’