Daisychain Summer

  ‘They might, lass, but the man Grimes said he didn’t hold out much hope,’ Tom said softly. ‘We’re just to tell Polly that both tried to get Beth out and got pulled into the river by the current. And we’re to say that neither of them has been found, yet. It’s all we can tell her until they’re certain, but it’s best it comes from us and not from the constable. Just give me a minute to move Beth, then we’ll go to Willow End – all of us.’

  They huddled round the hearth, numb and cold in spite of a blazing fire; Daisy asleep in Alice’s arms, Keth close to his mother, thumb in mouth. He hadn’t sucked his thumb, Alice thought, since he was a small, hungry bairn, three years old.

  ‘Another cup?’ Polly whispered.

  ‘No, thanks, love.’ Alice shook her head, shifting her arm against Daisy’s weight, wishing there was something she could do.

  Through the uncurtained window a pale yellow sky told them another day had begun; the fifth day of November. Guy Fawkes day. The anniversary of Andrew’s death and now, she was sure, the day on which Polly would be told that Dickon too was dead.

  ‘I hate November,’ she said. ‘Always have.’

  ‘Me, an’ all.’ Shivering, Polly hugged herself. ‘It’s the month of the dead, November is; the month, folks say, when spirits who die unchurched walk the earth looking for salvation.’

  ‘Don’t, Polly? Please don’t,’ Alice whispered. ‘Pray, love. Pray with all your heart that –’

  ‘That he’ll come home? No, Alice – he’s dead, I know it.’ She nodded towards the window. Outside, silhouetted against the dawn light, a figure walked slowly, reluctantly almost, up the path. ‘It’s the Welby constable. He’s come to tell me …’

  That morning, Tom walked to school with a protesting Daisy.

  ‘I don’t want to go! I want Keth!’

  ‘Keth is needed at Willow End. His Mam needs him more than ever, now. Polly doesn’t want you under her feet. She’s got more’n enough to contend with,’ Alice had scolded. ‘I’ll meet you outside, when school is over; walk back with you.’

  This was the day on which she always telephoned Julia – the anniversary of Andrew’s death. Julia needed her sympathy, the comfort of her understanding, for hadn’t Alice Hawthorn been there the night they met; hadn’t she, Alice, been the cause – in a roundabout way – of their meeting? Yet this morning, Polly’s need of her was paramount; Polly who sat dry-eyed, in a stunned silence, hugging herself tightly, rocking back and forth.

  ‘Why don’t you try to sleep?’ Alice had whispered. ‘I’ll fill a bed warmer and make you some hot milk and honey; help you drop off.’ Lady Helen swore by milk and honey; Miss Clitherow, too.

  Yet Polly had just sat there with Keth at her feet, staring into the fire as though she could see something in the shifting flames that no one else could.

  A little before school ended, Alice asked for the Rowangarth number at the Post Office counter.

  ‘Sit you down, Mrs Dwerryhouse,’ the post mistress murmured. ‘Won’t take a minute, once I’ve got through to Trunks. And isn’t the news terrible? Thought of nothing else since I heard. How is that poor woman going to manage, and Willow End a part of the job; wherever is she to go, and her with a growing boy to rear?’

  Alice had nodded and murmured agreement, saying nothing, for a word exchanged in the post office was quickly added to and retailed with every three-ha’penny stamp.

  ‘Julia,’ she whispered into the receiver. ‘It’s Alice. Sorry I’m late ringing.’

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten, but bless you, all the same. But tell me – what is the matter? Something is wrong. Is it Daisy?’

  ‘No. Nothing wrong at Keeper’s – but how did you know?’

  ‘Because you usually ring early and you always say, “Hullo, love.” And you are bothered. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me?’

  ‘Oh, Julia love. I phone to give you comfort, help you through this day yet, oh dear …’

  She stopped, close on tears, and bit hard into her bottom lip.

  ‘Alice! What is it?’

  ‘It’s Dickon. He’s dead. Him and Mr Hillier. Yesterday, it was. Tried to get a gun dog out of the river and both of them got pulled in. They came to tell Polly, last night. It’s awful.’

  ‘I’ll come down. Drew will be all right, with mother. There must be something I can do?’

  ‘No, Julia. Not yet, at least. Let’s all of us catch our breath, first? And there’ll have to be an inquest. Come next week? I’ll be glad to see you and I know Polly will. It wouldn’t have happened but for a fancy collar. Beth – that’s the bitch – was wearing a collar, you see. Tom buried her this morning, with Morgan. Daisy is very upset about it all. Mr Hillier was fond of her and she’s going to miss him. And as for Keth – but I’ll write you a letter, tell you all about it.’

  ‘Poor little Keth. Is he all right?’

  ‘As right as may be, but what’s to become of Polly I don’t know.’

  ‘Give Keth my love, won’t you? And tell Polly I’ll be thinking of her. Tell her I know just what she’s going through.’

  ‘I’ll do that. And I’m sorry to pour my troubles out like this. It should be me comforting you today, shouldn’t it? And when you come down, don’t drive? Come by train? Don’t want anything happening to you.’

  ‘I won’t drive. I’ll change stations at London – come straight through. I won’t stop over at Montpelier Mews. Monday, perhaps, or Tuesday?’

  ‘I’ll write you – and I’ll ring again, when I know what’s happening here. Take care, love? And I want to see you – I really do.’

  She hung up the receiver, then left the little shop, eyes lowered. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, however well-meaning. She wanted to go back to Keeper’s Cottage with Daisy and make Tom’s supper; draw the curtains on the night and pretend that none of this had happened.

  But last night, Dickon had not come home to eat the supper Polly was keeping warm for him. Dickon was never coming home again.

  Ralph Hillier’s body was taken home, as he had wanted, to the village near Torvey Main colliery where once he had worked. His coffin was of finest oak, its fittings ornate. A service was read for him in West Welby church, attended by most of the village and all the staff from Windrush Hall.

  He had, they were forced to admit, been a private man, for they knew little of him. He had been a fair employer, though, and in that fact lay their thoughts as they sang ‘Abide with Me’, a hymn he particularly liked. Ralph Hillier had given them work. He had no heir, no family truth known, to inherit. What was to happen now?

  That same day, Dickon Purvis was laid to his rest without pomp and with little ceremony in a pauper’s grave in West Welby churchyard. At the end of the service, which the Parish paid for, Tom drew Polly aside, handing her a brown envelope.

  ‘I’ve been asked to give you this,’ he said gently. ‘Folk around these parts and Windrush staff, an’ all, thought fit not to waste good money on flowers. They’re offering it, instead, where they feel it’ll do more good. No lack of respect, Polly. The fact that they’re here shows their good intent. All they ask is that you accept it in the spirit they gave it in.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Tom, and it’s beggars me and Keth are, now. I’m grateful.’

  At the church gates she stopped, and smiling gently at those who had waited until she left, she said, ‘I thank you all. Me and Keth are grateful for your kindness.’

  Then taking her son’s hand she walked, head high, back to the cottage she knew they soon must leave.

  ‘What’s to become of her?’ Alice fretted, that night. ‘Where is she to go? Her mother can’t help, that I do know. Polly’s Mam gave up her home last year and went to live with her other daughter. There’s no room there for two more. And Tom – how much was in that envelope?’

  ‘Nigh on four pounds. At least they’ll be able to eat, for a week or two. And Polly, being destitute, will qualify for a widow’s pension.’

  ‘Ten
shillings? And how is she to manage on that? She’ll have to leave Willow End. Half that pension will have to be paid out in rent!’

  ‘Lass – happen we’ll all have to leave,’ Tom said softly. ‘Mr Hillier had no kin. What’s to become of Windrush is any man’s guess. It’ll go on the market, to my way of thinking, and them that buy it might have ideas of their own about who they employ.’

  ‘I know that.’ She had lain awake, turning it over and over in her mind since the night the keeper from Shroveby left Beth on their doorstep. ‘But you and me will manage, somehow. You’ll get another job and I can sew and scrub an’ all, if I have to.’

  ‘Aye, lass. But who’s to give me a job and how soon? Aren’t there decent men begging in the streets and tramping the length of the country, looking for work – any work? Mind, I know there’s an empty cottage, at Rowangarth, but Lady Helen has no use for a keeper, and I’m no woodman.’

  ‘You could learn, Tom.’

  ‘Happen I could. But I’m earning thirty shillings with a house and firewood and a suit of clothes thrown in. What is a woodman’s wage? A pound a week, if he’s lucky.’

  ‘Twenty shillings,’ Alice flashed, ‘is better than nothing at all! It’s twice what Polly will have. But don’t think I’m going to start agitating to go home to Rowangarth, because I’m not.’

  ‘No?’ Tom reached out for her hand. ‘I’d have thought it would’ve been the first thing you thought of.’

  ‘It was, truth known.’ Best not deny it. ‘But I’m of a mind to stay on here just as long as they’ll let us. It’s Polly I worry about and there’s Keth, too. Daisy loves him. He’s the brother she never had and I know he cares for her. It’ll break their young hearts when the time comes to part them, so I’m not for packing up and leaving till I have to – much as I long, sometimes, for Rowangarth. We’ll just have to wait and see – all of us.’

  ‘Then we won’t have all that long to wait. Bailiff told me that all Windrush staff – indoors and out – are to be at the Hall tomorrow, at two sharp. We’ll be told what’s to do, then. Seems the solicitor has things to say.’

  ‘Mr Hillier’s Will? It’s going to be read?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Wills are private things and only read to those that will benefit. But the solicitor will know what’s to happen to Windrush – how long it’ll be before it goes on the market. And how many staff are going to be kept on, because it’s my belief they’ll have to keep some on, for a time. I’m hoping I shall be one of them. The ground is thick with game birds – something will have to be done about them, for a start. Game birds are worth money.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Tom?’

  ‘I meant to, in the morning. What you didn’t know I reckoned you couldn’t worry about and you’re worrying already, aren’t you?’

  ‘N-no. But why is he sending for all the staff if there isn’t something to tell them – something bad?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to tell yourself it’s going to be something good. No use looking for trouble.’ Tom lit a spill of wood at the fire, then held it to his pipe. ‘We’ll all of us know, this time tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll have to cut down on tobacco.’ It was all she could think of to say.

  ‘Tomorrow I might have to, but tonight I’m enjoying a pipe.’

  ‘I’m off to Willow End!’ Alice reached for her shawl.

  ‘You do that. Have a chat with Polly. Do you both good. And happen, when you’ve decided between you what’s going to be said tomorrow at the big house, you’ll let me know,’ he grinned. ‘Take the candle-lamp, and watch your step. It’s slippy, underfoot.’

  ‘Men!’ Alice slammed the door behind her. Couldn’t see further than the ends of their noses. Left the women to do the worrying. No use looking for trouble? They’d be jobless before so very much longer and all Tom Dwerryhouse could do was light a pipe! Mind, there was always Rowangarth …

  She held up the lamp and its small, soft light touched the slender trunks of the beeches that lined Beck Lane. Briefly she paused beside the newly-turned earth. There were two of them, now. Company each for the other. Morgan and Beth. Beth of Winchester, who’d been the cause of it all.

  She dashed away a tear, then walked, chin high, towards the light that shone from Willow End. She wondered what Polly would make of tomorrow. Not a lot, she supposed, and anyway, they would know soon enough.

  Bad news always travelled fastest, didn’t it?

  24

  ‘Just where have you been till now? Near on dark and me worrying about what’s been happening at Windrush!’

  ‘Sorry, Alice. Had to stay behind, after the meeting was over. Solicitor wanted to talk to me about die game – it’s all to be culled.’

  Which wasn’t entirely true. The past hour, Tom had spent walking the game covers, though he’d told himself he was making sure nothing was amiss, as he always did. But truth known, he’d needed time alone; try to make sense of what had been said.

  ‘Things won’t be too bad, bonny lass. At least no one will be on the street, just yet. It takes time to wind up an estate, I was told. You and me and Polly could be here till spring. Polly is to stay in Willow End for the time being which is something to be thankful for.

  ‘And all employees have been left a hundred pounds each; now what do you think to that? Dickon was included, so the solicitor said Polly is to have his money. And I’ve been left Mr Hillier’s Purdeys.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful! All that money – well, I’ll be grateful enough for it myself, but Polly won’t be able to believe her good fortune. Does she know?’

  ‘She wasn’t at the meeting. The solicitor will be writing to her, he said.’

  ‘And it’s definite?’

  ‘It was all set down in the Will …’

  ‘Then keep an eye on the potatoes? I won’t be a minute. Just want to tell Polly the good news. And Daisy’s in the parlour. She’s worrying about being parted from Keth so think on, and tell her we’ll not be leaving just yet.’

  She was gone in a flurry of excitement but Tom sat there, staring at the pan on the hob and the lid that lifted and fell in little puffs of steam.

  But one thing was certain. Alice would get no more out of him till Daisy was safe in bed and out of earshot, because there were things to be told that Daisy mustn’t know about – not for a long time.

  Yet he should be glad, he supposed, for Alice’s eagerness to carry the news to Polly. It gave him time to pull himself together, think on about which way would be best to tell her what else had been said this afternoon. At the best, it was news hardly to be believed; at the worst, it could make for trouble.

  He raised his eyes to the mantelpiece where Beth’s collar had been laid to dry, wondering what would have happened if she had not been wearing it.

  Beth would’ve got out of that river, flooded or not. Dogs were natural swimmers and she would have gone along with the current until she was able to get out. Dogs didn’t thrash and struggle, panic-stricken, as humans did. If only that willow branch had not been there, beneath the water; if only she hadn’t been wearing that collar. She should not have been, but Mr Hillier hadn’t known that.

  Tom reached for his pipe. He didn’t usually smoke until after supper but tonight he would allow himself the luxury of a fill. To puff on his pipe calmed him, helped him better to think. And think he must, tonight, and put things to Alice in such a way that she didn’t fall in a faint at his feet.

  And all because of a dog collar.

  ‘So now you’d better tell me!’ Alice stood, hands on hips, mouth tightly set. ‘You hardly touched your supper; you haven’t seemed the least bit interested in what Polly said when I told her about the money, and for a man that’s been left a pair of Purdey shotguns, you’re acting in a strange way.

  ‘Now the bairn’s in bed, so you and me are going to talk, Tom Dwerryhouse. What you’re holding back from me I don’t know, but you’ve been in another world since you got back from the big house and I want to be
told!’

  ‘There’s no keeping anything from you. I should have known.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. He always rubbed it when he was bothered.

  ‘No, Tom, there isn’t. I know you too well. All right – so there’s bad news to come – we’ll manage. We’ve been through worse than this.’

  ‘So where do I begin?’ He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the tip of her nose, just as he’d done when they were courting.

  ‘You begin at the beginning, and I want no soft-soaping,’ she ordered. ‘Tell me who was there and what was said – every word.’

  She settled herself in the chair opposite, picking up her knitting, and he smiled across at her and said. ‘I love you, Alice Hawthorn.’

  ‘And I,’ she said, severely, ‘said no soft-soaping.’

  ‘Right then! From the beginning. We-e-ll, we were all told to find a pew in the great hall …’

  There had been eighteen staff there, inside and out. They had carried benches and chairs in and the estate manager and the solicitor from Winchester sat at a big table. No one had had much to say. They just sat there, eyes on the table.

  ‘You could sense it, Alice; folk all uneasy, like. And then they told us. Apart from what the solicitor called bequests, everything is to go to the miners.’

  ‘Give it, you mean?’ The knitting dropped to her lap. ‘How can you give Windrush to the miners?’

  ‘They’re to have it as a convalescent home, on account, I suppose, that Mr Hillier started work in the pits as a lad of twelve. And that’s something I’ll tell you about later.

  ‘But the miners’ union has already accepted – and gladly, too. Everything in the house is to be sold save Mr Hillier’s portrait that was painted in oils. That’s to stay and hang over the fireplace in the great hall.

  ‘The auctioneers are coming next week. Everything is to be sorted and labelled, then sold at public auction. Farms are to be left alone – the tenants are safe – and there’ll still be work for the three gardeners, though the solicitor hinted there’d have to be more vegetables grown, and less flowers. And they’ll want a cook, when it’s a home and starts taking men in, and a few housemaids to do the cleaning. But me – well, when I’ve cleared out the game birds, I’ll be joining the rest of them, on the dole.’