Their expertise could not be truly appreciated unless one also saw others trying the same feat. Violet had seen many a man or youth confidently asking for a go—only to fail spectacularly. A badly handled ewe would struggle, causing an uneven shear or cuts to the skin. Ewes seemed to recognise that they had no chance of escaping with Mr. Brookes or Joe and resign themselves to the process, but on being handled by an amateur, they put up a fight. With their hands fully occupied with a struggling sheep, the men looked as if they needed to grow a third to hold the shears. The watching crowd gleefully watched their predicament and offered contradictory advice. Not a few half-shorn sheep struggled free and escaped into the open field. Nothing was as determined not to get caught again as a semi-shorn ewe, and much time could be wasted sprinting after it. Joe normally joined in the laughter and said that at least it gave the spectators something to do, but inefficiency irritated Mr. Brookes, who at that busy time of year wanted to make the most of every dry day. “Leave it to Joe and me” was his stern command to anyone who dared step onto the shearing platform.
“Leave it to Vi” was also his plea when it came to wool winding. She too was unbeatable, and she had no qualms in admitting it. Other women occasionally stood in for her, but their loose fleece rolls often came undone when being thrown onto a cart or into the barn. Yes, she knew the job well. Once the shearers had finished with a fleece, she would remove all soiled wool, then deftly throw the fleece clean side down onto the floor. While standing on it, she would twist and pull up a corner of the wool to produce a strong rope. Then she neatly folded the fleece, rolled it, and tied it securely together with the woolen cord.
As well as winding wool, Violet was always at hand with the Stockholm tar. Occasionally even the best shearer nicked sheep, and the wound needed a dab of tar. Violet was quick to spot a cut and apply the tar in an efficient manner, not staining the fleece or delaying the shearer. Other girls came to watch the shearers and enjoy the spectacle, but Violet was there as an important part of the team. The other girls were happy standing around, looking pretty, and joking with the workers, whereas she was a worker herself.
Even Mrs. Hayworth had acknowledged her status as chief wool winder and allowed her a few days off for the work! Violet smiled to herself. No doubt her domineering mother had seen to that. Few people would go against the wishes of Mrs. Brookes, and Mrs. Hayworth was not one of the few. Violet normally resented her mother’s interference, but with shearing, they were in full agreement about Violet’s role and usefulness. It’s about the only thing she admits I can do well!
Violet enjoyed working with her father. He was a man of few words, but what he did say was worth hearing, either for its wit or wisdom. Unlike Ma, who was always trying to organise her, Pa just let her be, unless, of course, she was too outrageous or foolish. But even then, unlike Ma, he always seemed to have a special rapport with her, which even his sternest disapproval could not completely obliterate.
Her father would never have said it, but Violet knew he enjoyed working with her. Her quickness suited him, and they worked well together. Away from the house and among the workers, she often spoke to him in a playful, slightly cheeky manner, which drew out a twinkly smile if not a reply in a similar vein. At lunch time, they sat together on a hessian sack, leaning against the sheep hurdles eating the ample lunch Ma had prepared. Violet commandeered the basket and handed out the food.
The basket was also a handy, innocuous barrier between her and Joe Mason. No one can be offended or hurt by the presence of a picnic basket, and she did not want to offend or hurt Joe, but neither did she want him sitting right up close, and he might well do so if he got half a chance.
A few years ago she wouldn’t have minded. Why, they had always been the best of friends. He had started school with her, made the same dens in the bracken, and climbed the same trees. Ever since Violet could remember, Joe Mason had been around and had been sweet on her. His look of adoring devotion when she handed him a slice of meat pie at the sheep pens was exactly the same as when they were six and they had shared licks of a cough-candy.
Of course, he had changed. He was now a strong young man with a deep voice. Witnessing his metamorphosis from a boy into a man had been a strange, slightly hilarious experience for her. It was all a bit awkward, really. Friendship as children had been simple and straightforward, but now Joe was no longer satisfied with the status quo.
Violet knew that everyone, especially her mother, expected her to marry Joe. He was most suitable and would be a very loyal and reliable husband. He was nice, and she liked him, but he was not exciting. He was so . . . Capford! Capford born and bred, with no ambitions beyond the village boundary. He wasn’t bad looking, and he was definitely manly, unlike some of the new male servants down at Biggenden, who looked so delicate and weedy. Marrying Joe wouldn’t be bad—she could manage it—but her life would be so humdrum and predictable. Just like her sisters’ lives. She would be the centre of attention for one day—her wedding day—after that her life would consist of babies, laundry, and kitchen chores. Joe would become a middle-aged man, interested in his vegetable garden and average rainfalls. Conversation would be limited to teething problems and toilet training, and his devoted glances her way would become a thing of the past. No, that would not do at all! Joe must find a wife elsewhere! But that was no good either, as she didn’t like the idea of him falling in love with anyone else. No, Joe should remain a bachelor.
Another good thing about working with her father, Violet acknowledged privately, was the freedom it gave her to banter freely with Joe. Joe wouldn’t dare flirt with her, or even worse, press his suit in front of her father. Safe in this knowledge, Violet could converse freely with him, just like old times before Joe had started getting silly ideas. Indeed, if the shearing was going well and the spectators were responsive, Violet and Joe could keep up a good banter and play to their audience. If luck was on Joe’s side and he suddenly found himself alone with Violet, all her wit and sparkle would vanish. She became tongue tied and rapidly found a reason to disappear.
The Sunday school prize giving day dawned bright and warm. Rebecca was up early to cook the eggs, let them cool, and assemble the sandwiches. Between the stages of sandwich preparation, she helped the female Sunday school teachers decorate the church with flowers. Weather permitting, the tea would be served in the vicarage garden, so she had to also ensure everything looked as neat and tidy as possible. The hens complained indignantly about being imprisoned in the coop for the day.
The morning flew by, with many last-minute arrangements needing her attention. The kitchen was no longer her own, as each lady came with her contributions and crockery. Not her best crockery, mind you, for no child should be trusted with that. But not her worst either, for that was not fit for public inspection. Extra kettles filled the range, which Mrs. Grey instructed Violet to keep well stocked. Violet (Mrs. Grey also decreed) was to leave the service at the third hymn to ensure the water was boiling by the final amen.
Rebecca left the busy kitchen to change her attire and brush her wayward hair. She felt nervous and responsible for the proceedings. Would her class remember their verses? Would her egg sandwiches meet Mrs. Brookes’ standard? Would the tea go well? She wanted to look her best. Her hair had to be done “Violet style.” If only Violet wasn’t so busy, she could have helped her. If Rebecca looked good, she would feel more confident and in control. The Harringtons would be among the guests, and she wanted to show Mrs. Harrington that although she was unable to reproduce, she was an able minister’s wife.
The church was beautifully cool, and all the children looked unusually good and innocent in their Sunday best. Their normal mischievousness had evaporated as nerves set in. Rebecca sat in the second row with her little class of girls and smiled reassuringly at them as the gallery band struck up.
The building rang with the voices of the children singing “All things bright and beautiful,” and Rebecca glowed with pride and pleasure. All indeed seemed
bright and beautiful. The youngest class came to the front first to recite their verses. They were a darling bunch of five-year-olds, each looking clean and smart, even in hand-me-down clothes that covered if not fitted them.
The recitations had barely begun when beneath the children’s feet, a puddle began to form. The puddle gradually expanded into a lake. The lake developed into various streams, slowly meandering over the memorial plate of a notable benefactor beneath. Rebecca looked in awe at the volume. Mirth welled up within her.
“Extraordinary!” gasped the teacher behind her in a whisper.
At this apt description, Rebecca began to shudder with suppressed laughter. The more she tried to control herself, the worse the situation became. Rebecca, this is no way for a vicar’s wife to behave, she told herself sternly. The next class of children arranged themselves at the front. The line was somewhat disorganised as each child avoided standing in the puddle. Rebecca’s group was next, so she severely reprimanded herself and nodded to her girls to come forward. They are behaving better than me, she thought as they filed to the front. One by one the girls recited their verses flawlessly. During the rehearsal, they had spoken loudly and slowly, but now they rushed their words in a small voice, so only those near the front could vouch for their accuracy, but Rebecca felt proud.
As they were walking back to their pew, Rebecca spotted the source of the puddle. He sat in the front pew, fighting back tears, with a tell-tale wet patch on his oversized trousers. A few pews back, his older sister sat helplessly looking on at her sad brother. Rebecca immediately knew what to do. She offered him her hand, took him back to her pew, sat him on her knee, and dried his eyes. Frankie was Agnes’s little stepson. He was far too young to be in Sunday school but came with his big sister to give his parents an hour’s peace. As he snuggled onto Rebecca’s lap, she felt the dampness penetrate through her skirts and petticoat. She half regretted following her impulse, but on seeing his contented face, she knew she had done the right thing.
Before the recitations had finished, Frankie was fast asleep. He became heavier and heavier, and Rebecca became hotter and hotter. It was debatable who was most grateful to Jack for keeping his comments brief—she or Mrs. Grey. But as the amen was echoed by the congregation and Violet’s kettles came to the boil, Rebecca gently woke Frankie and handed him over to his big sister.
Rebecca intended to disappear upstairs and get changed. But the opportunity kept evading her: the class needed congratulating, teapots needed filling, plates needed distributing, and people needed greeting. So many people! Rebecca was sure more people had come for the tea than for the service. The tea was primarily intended as a treat for the children, but anyone with the remotest link to them or the church had descended on the vicarage lawn and required feeding. Again and again, the teapots were refilled in the kitchen for a new round of “topping up.” The children’s nervousness had vanished, they had received edifying new books as prizes, and their tummies were full, so now they played happily among the guests and the gravestones.
Armed with a milk jug and tea pot, Rebecca approached the genteel group of ladies on the back lawn. Lady Wilson and her daughters had joined Mrs. Harrington and Sophia. What a pretty picture they make in their finery, thought Rebecca. What a contrast to me, with my damp, smelly skirt and sweaty, windswept hair! Mrs. Harrington must have had similar thoughts, for as Rebecca poured the tea, she commented in a kindly voice, “Oh dear, the day certainly has taken its toll on you, Mrs. Hayworth.” Just when Rebecca thought she could not seem less like a capable vicar’s wife, she glanced beyond Mrs. Harrington to see two boys opening her hen coop and the whole flock escaping.
CHAPTER 10
THE FOLLOWING EVENING FOUND JACK and Rebecca sitting by the fire in exhausted silence. Jack had conducted two services and preached twice that day. Three services in two days was heavy enough, let alone including all the small talk he had been obliged to engage in yesterday afternoon. On reflection, he decided, the hen’s disruptive presence had been a good thing, as the ensuing commotion had hastened the departure of many of the visitors. Rebecca was still unable to see the amusing side of the situation, but Jack rewarded the hens with extra corn. Armed with one of John Calvin’s commentaries, which he might or might not read, Jack sank gratefully into his arm chair.
Rebecca’s book was open and her eyes rested on the words, but her mind was elsewhere. Today Agnes had confirmed her suspicions that she (Agnes, that is) was again expecting a baby. Agnes stated the fact with an air of reluctant resignation. Her youngest was only eleven months old. Rebecca mused on life. How odd it is! If a neighbour has a glut of apples or leeks, for example, you might swap them for, say, potatoes. Or give them away. But you can’t do that with babies. Imagine the conversation:
“Agnes, you have too many children, don’t you?”
“Yes, we don’t know where to store them all.”
“Then let’s do a swap.”
“What have you got?”
Rebecca looked around the room. What is a baby worth?
“Well, Agnes, our most precious and valuable possession is our grandfather clock. Jack brought it into the marriage. It is an antique. It needs winding only once a week, and it gains only a minute a day.”
“What are you dreaming about, darling?” interrupted Jack. “With that half smile playing on your face.”
Rebecca’s startled gaze flew to his face. “Nothing important, dear,” she lied. Do we lie the most to people we love the most? she wondered.
“Thinking about the hens?” Jack shut his book. “Actually, Rebecca, I keep meaning to tell you something.”
“Oh?”
“Umm, last time I was called to sit with the old dowager, her physician, Dr. Ward, was there too.”
“Oh.”
“Well, the old lady was completely unresponsive, but we just had to sit there, so we chatted a bit. And in the course of our conversation, I just mentioned about . . . err . . . our problem.”
Rebecca sat up. Talking about the problem over a dying lady! Mentioning it to a stranger, a doctor at that, was acknowledging there was a problem. Now it was real.
“Oh,” she replied stupidly. It was sweet of him to call it “our” problem not just “yours” though.
“Dr. Ward recommended a specialist in London who may be able to help, a Mr. Gascoigne.”
“I see.”
“I have his address.”
Rebecca looked into Jack’s pleading eyes. This obviously meant a lot to him, and she was not being particularly helpful.
“Let’s arrange an appointment,” she said with more conviction than she felt, but she was rewarded with a look of relief on Jack’s face. “And I can pay with my savings from Ma and Pa,” she added. Her mind was working rapidly. “And we can combine it with a long-overdue visit to Uncle Hector.”
“And I can take you to a London concert,” added Jack, looking quite pleased.
Rebecca nodded. “And we can have fun.”
If Jack had looked sharply, he might have noticed that Rebecca’s smile was forced.
Proposing such a jaunt to London was one thing, but executing the plan was quite another. A country curate dare not leave his parish without the kind permission of the local landlord; and a landlord is unlikely to give permission when his mother is on her deathbed. Jack knew better than to ask. But he would have been too tired to formulate a plan anyway, for night after night he was called to the bedside of the dying lady. She no longer knew he was there, but Lord Wilson did. Why evening visitations in particular were so vital was open for debate, but Jack suspected that his presence freed up Lord Wilson for dinner parties and other social commitments. Or, if Lord Wilson was in a debating mood, provided a conscripted opponent to discuss higher criticism or evolution. Neither of these reasons were laudable excuses for requesting—nay, demanding—a pastoral visit, and Jack was utterly sick of the situation.
Rebecca harboured un-Christian resentment toward Lady Wilson. She was no biologist
, but the absence of her husband on a nightly basis was not conducive to conception. And the old lady’s lingering existence postponed any medical action plan that might have been beneficial. In short, Lady Wilson stood in the way of Rebecca attaining motherhood.
Finally, when no one was looking, the dowager slipped out of life, and the whole of Capford was thrown into a state of respectful, if not sincere, mourning. Despite the hours of pastoral care Jack had bestowed upon the old lady, he was not asked to conduct the funeral service. Rebecca took this as a personal insult, but Jack was downright relieved. What would he have said anyway? The sermon preparation would have dominated his week. As it was, the Bishop of Rochester (for who less could worthily conduct the dowager’s funeral?) delivered a sugary sermon to the praise of the deceased rather than to the praise of God. He and the Wilson family were delighted by his discourse.
CHAPTER 11
VIOLET HURRIED THROUGH HER MORNING chores. Every minute she spent inside on such a hot July day seemed an utter waste. Today was her half day, and she was determined to be out of the vicarage at one o’clock sharp. To ensure such a prompt finish, she brushed the floor dust under the rugs and was a bit hit and miss with the dusting. Dust never killed anyone, she reasoned as she flew on to the next job. She washed the kitchen floor without sweeping it first, and the result was disappointing.
She sighed at her lot—few other housemaids had the misfortune of having a mistress who had once been a housemaid and then a housekeeper! The vegetables were hacked rather than chopped. They’ll taste the same however odd they look.
When the hall clock struck one, Violet threw off her apron and hung it on the broom cupboard door. Then, quietly as she could, she slipped out the back door into the sunlight. There was only one possible obstacle standing between her and an afternoon in the barley field: her mother. This afternoon, she didn’t want her interfering mother cross-questioning her plans.
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