The well-dressed track led towards the large, centuries-old oak door, above which the date of the original building was clearly shown, 1583, along with a family heraldic crest; it was inside that evidence of the repair work that was needed showed itself. Willy and Ruby had been surprised to see an upper room on the south side well lit and Peter confirmed the early rising of his master and mistress. Indeed, Florrie had been summoned to serve tea just before half past six, a most unusual occurrence. When Willy asked Peter if his master and mistress were leaving the house, his reply was that he knew of nothing to give rise to an early morning start. ‘In any case,’ went on the balding Peter, who certainly looked the elderly retainer that he had been for nearly fifty years, ‘you know about the party over at Mister Mansfield’s farm tonight? Well, it seems he has invited all of us there as well and so the major is providing all the beer and Elsie has already started some baking to take over there.’
‘I didn’t know that. That’s something of a last minute arrangement, isn’t it?’ replied Willy. ‘I’m already going, as Racer who works there, has been allowed to invite a few friends as well. Ruby, I expect you can go as well.’
‘That’s lovely, but I won’t have time to get ready,’ blushed Ruby.
‘Well, that’s no real problem,’ added Peter. ‘Mr Mansfield is letting everyone at Spinney Farm off at five o’clock so they have time to go home before the party. Bit of a surprise that the major is doing the same, although just recently it seems he does whatever he can to please Mr Mansfield.’
In their large bedroom which displayed a certain faded elegance, Isabella and Sebastian de Maine were deep in a conversation, their serious expressions reflecting more than a casual conversation. They sat facing each other, Isabella on the soft green covered chaise longue, her husband on an equally graceful, though well-worn stool.
‘Seb, I know you want to keep the status quo, but some things just have to change. Times are different now and, in truth, have been since your father lost so much in the seventies.’ Her husband sighed, finding it difficult to admit that anything needed to change. However, he knew his wife was right as was nearly always the case in financial matters, small or large.
‘No one’s to blame,’ encouraged Isabella, ‘but we were fortunate that Jack Mansfield loaned us enough to cover the cost of the new tractor. Without that we really would be in trouble with the bank. Such a kind man.’
‘Indeed he is and I know he will keep things to himself. But what are you suggesting Isabella?’
‘Well, at the moment there’s no way we can increase the farm income except by raising the rents of the farm cottages or the four cottages in Meadow Way and I know you won’t do that.’
‘You’re right. I know a lot of people around here see me as a Victorian-style landowner who is only interested in making money and shooting, but we have a responsibility. Our tenants can hardly get by anyway and I would like to increase their wages, not raise rents.’
The delicately-featured Isabella knew he was right in his understanding that villagers viewed him as reserved, even aloof, but she also knew he had a deep, if largely hidden sense of responsibility to his workers, indeed to the whole village. She knew how much these difficult financial times upset this strong feeling of responsibility, upon which his sense of pride was built. Both knew that much repair work was needed both to the inside and exterior of their home, but Isabella was too sensitive to raise this matter.
‘Well, let’s think of money going out,’ she suggested. ‘We really could manage without both Florrie and Elsie. Let’s also think about some of the village things we support. It was a lovely idea of yours to send money to Peter for the village reading room, just as it is to provide the beer for tonight’s party at Jack’s farm, but these things do cost money and maybe we could ease up a little, at least for the time being. Perhaps wheat prices and prices of some of our other products will soon go up a little.’
The dapper Sebastian flinched at some of the points she had made, but deep down he knew that something needed to be done. ‘I’m not sure about some of these things you mention,’ responded her husband, ‘but, I agree we need to think about them.’
‘I know, my darling. And I love you the more for not wanting to hurt anyone. Another way of looking at things has to be about raising some money. Might we not be able to sell the parcel of land butting on to the Steepleton Road? The brewery could well be interested; they seem to be doing very well and wishing to extend all the time. What do you think?’
Sebastian pondered deeply before expressing any thoughts. ‘It’s hard to know which crops and animals produce the best return and I guess we may have gone on for too long just doing the same thing. Jack Mansfield is doing very well at Spinney Farm and when we were all at Sir Lancelot’s place last Christmas, Jack and I were talking and he said he was carefully weighing up the benefits of moving more towards cereals. Let’s see what advice we might get from Jack. Perhaps we could invite Mabel and him to dinner. But what really worries me,’ he went on to say, ‘is what of the future? I’m lucky in that I keep well, although this damned leg troubles me at times. We had both hoped that either young Ralph or Tobias would take over, but they both seem to be going in very different directions. I was really quite saddened to hear Ralph talking about going off to America to further his career in finance and Tobias has never really shown any interest in the farm.’
‘All too true, which just leaves Lionel. Can you see him running the place?’
Sebastian stood up and wandered towards the leaded window overlooking the paved courtyard. ‘Quite frankly, I can’t,’ he replied. ‘He really worries me. In spite of the allowance we give him, that never seems to be adequate for each term. We don’t know much about how he’s doing at Cambridge, but if things are like the school reports we used to receive, he’ll be wasting much of his time. So it’s a difficult age he’s at, but he seems very arrogant and thoughtless. I don’t even like the way he treats our staff, Peter in particular.’
‘Sadly, Seb, I worry about him, too. Maybe he will change when he’s finished at Cambridge, but right now I don’t hope for too much. However, let’s give ourselves a little time to think about what we’ve been talking over. If we do, I’m sure the next year or so can bring worthwhile change.’
Her husband glanced at his fob watch on the dressing table. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock and we’ve already been up for two hours.’
Smiling, Isabella added, ‘We mustn’t make a habit of being early risers, otherwise Peter and other staff will wonder what we are up to, and that won’t do.’ Sebastian, for all his reserve, stood up, walked over to his wife, laid his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed the top of her head.
EIGHT
Afternoon, Wednesday, 3 April
Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find that by late afternoon he had finished preparations for the Good Friday and Easter services. He had also selected prayers and readings for communion and a meditative service the next evening, in preparation for Good Friday. That lunchtime he had visited the Jones family in Wood Lane and learnt that Susannah Jones had talked her way into seeing the brewery manager who had reluctantly promised to consider her appeal for some compensation. Arthur made a note to call again in a week’s time to see if any reply had been received.
Eleanor was upstairs helping Eliza Carey prepare the two largest spare bedrooms for the visit by Arthur’s parents. His father, fastidious at best, always spoke of being a poor sleeper and Eleanor had already given them the main bathroom, with its recently installed gas water-heater. Colonel Hector Richard Windle expected his warm bath every morning.
Eliza normally came in for two mornings and one afternoon each week and whilst this did not include a Wednesday, she had responded to a plea for this extra help. Eleanor always felt apprehensive of the visits by Arthur’s parents; whilst a little more warmth had crept into their relationship, particularly with Charlotte Windle, she had no idea of any remaining problem with the colonel.
With the clock showing five o’clock he realised there was time to make one pastoral visit before returning for supper and decided that he should call on the Smith family to see how the overworked Liz Smith was coping with her elderly and ailing mother, Martha. It was certainly not worth getting out his old bicycle, a gift from Mrs Grout when she moved away from the village following her husband’s death. He left by the rear door and after walking through the churchyard, crossed the green and turned towards Meadow Way. He waved to Miss Rushton who was at the door of her small haberdashery shop near the corner of the green, one of the four village shops that provided essential needs. Arthur had never been able to find out her first name; indeed, many in the village wondered if she owned one.
He worried about Liz and her elderly mother Martha. Clearly Liz worked desperately hard and had been much relieved when young Fred got work at the smithy. Arthur guessed that Liz was around forty, but she appeared much older. Little was known about the family background as she had moved into Rusfield from some distance away, London had been rumoured, with her mother and baby Fred; reference had never been made to Fred’s father. Fred had found school work a struggle, but had earned the respect of all by his gentle nature, good manners and his prowess on the football field.
Her small cottage was one in the row of four owned by the de Maine family and backed on to the village green. The front door was ajar. He knocked and immediately Liz called out her usual greeting: ‘Come in, the door is open.’ He had visited most cottages in the village, many of which were poorly furnished, but none as bleak as the Smith home. The floor was simply packed mud, uneven, even dangerous in places, on which stood three rickety upright chairs, a crudely-made table and two stools piled high with an assortment of rags, wools and a box of straw; the latter for Liz’s well-intended but rare straw-plaiting endeavours. There was a large fireplace with cooking implements in the hearth, also hanging from hooks set into the blackened lintel, and a high pile of hefty logs. In one corner of the room, next to the stairs, there was a bed round which a curtain, made from an old blanket, was draped. Arthur knew this to be Fred’s bed. A picture of the school team with Fred in the front row was the only adornment.
Liz appeared through the opening to the other downstairs room, smiled and generously welcomed Arthur. She certainly looked an elderly lady, stooped shoulders, missing teeth and lank, greying hair. As she wiped her flowered though well-worn apron across her sweating face, Arthur realised she had been laundering in the back room. ‘Please excuse the mess, Vicar.’
‘I partly came to enquire after your mother, maybe even to pop upstairs to speak with her for a few minutes.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Vicar, but she has just dropped off to sleep. I know she would like to see you another time and I will, of course, tell her you kindly called.’ He passed through to the back room which was full of washing, some hanging up to dry, more in the large sink. The bare, plastered walls were running with condensation and a further pile of washing rested by the large mangle in the corner.
‘Looks as if you have plenty to keep you busy,’ Arthur said.
She laughed. ‘Yes, there is quite a lot to launder at the moment, but there aren’t really many folks around here that can afford their washing to be done although I don’t charge but a few pence. I’m lucky that I get a lot from Spinney Farm and Mrs de Maine kindly sends some down from the manor, but not so much recently.’
‘So how are you Mrs Smith and tell me about your mother? I heard she is rather poorly at the moment.’
‘Oh, I’m all right, as long as I’m kept busy with washing. I’m really very lucky and young Fred is a godsend. He’s kept busy at the smithy working for old Joe, but when he gets home he’ll start chopping up wood that he’s collected, helping me hang up the washing, ironing and generally tidying up.’ Looking around, Arthur could not imagine the latter activity took much of Fred’s time, but he knew she received much other help from him.
‘I’m afraid mother is not well at all. We managed to get the doctor in last week. Thank goodness for the good health fund. I manage to pay sixpence a week and it really does soon mount up. Anyway Doctor Spencer said that her lungs are really struggling and she doesn’t help herself by not eating properly. In the kindest way, he explained that she wouldn’t be with us for much longer. Still, she’s fifty-six and had a pretty good life. I just don’t want her to be in pain and the doctor gave me something which can help.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ comforted Arthur. He reached across and lightly rested his hand on Liz’s arm. ‘You know that if you ever want me or Eleanor, just send Fred round to let us know.’
‘Your Eleanor is the world’s kindest. She popped in last week and helped me with folding some big things and then cooked some food for the three of us that she had brought along. She really is a saint.’
At that moment a slightly breathless Fred came in. He looked mildly flushed and gave Arthur a cheerful greeting. He went straight to his mother, put his arms gently round her, and kissed her. ‘How is Gran?’ Not every lad of Fred’s age would put his arms round his mother, greet her with a kiss and immediately show his concern for his grandmother, thought Arthur. He really is a thoughtful son.
After their visitor had left, Fred went into the back room and saw the large heap of wet washing. He immediately set down his lunch-box, picked up the sheet which was on the top of the washing pile, shook it out well and folded it.
‘I’ll just go and see how mum is,’ his mother called as she set off upstairs. ‘You get yourself ready for the do at the farm tonight.’
But the ever-helpful Fred continued with shaking and folding the washed items, knowing it to be a sensible prelude to ironing. It wasn’t too long before he had arranged all in a neat pile, which certainly made it look less overwhelming. He then took one item at a time, putting it through the mangle. It had been extremely kind of Mrs de Maine to suggest to Liz Smith some years ago that as the washing house at the manor had been equipped with a new mangle she would be pleased for Liz to have the old one. Having finished the mangling, Fred popped back into the front room, collected a large kettle of water that was on the hob, poured some into a bowl, added some cold and took off his grey shirt. Freshened up by his rather spartan wash, he took a lightly-striped shirt from one of the several shelves in the cupboard he had constructed next to his bed. He had ironed it the evening before and it certainly felt better than the one he had been wearing all day at the forge; the smell of horses was never far away from Fred. He slipped into his slightly-worn waistcoat and finally a grey and green jacket which Mr Wallace, one of the most regular customers
at the forge, had given him a month previously. He felt properly dressed for the evening, one to which he was looking forward to sharing with his mates.
NINE
Afternoon, Wednesday, 3 April
Jack Atkins had cycled the four miles back from Steepleton six times a week for almost four years, but on this particular Wednesday he wanted to cover the distance with greater alacrity than usual. He counted himself fortunate to have got the job at Davis’ bakery and was determined to make it work out well. Starting as a delivery boy he had collected yeast from Jarmins and then taken the fresh, rich smelling bread to restaurants in the lively market town. He now helped bake the bread, even managing it well on his own. Maybe, one day, he would own a bakery and with this dream growing stronger each year he worked hard to make it a reality. This cherubic-looking seventeen-year-old surprised his employers with his determination, just as he had surprised football opponents by being the school team’s most prolific goal scorer.
Wednesday had been early closing day in Steepleton for as long as people could remember, but occasionally Mr Davis Junior, although he had long since enjoyed his sixtieth birthday, asked Jack to stay on a little later to give the bakery a ‘welcome extra clean’; this Jack willingly did, but now he was keen to get back to Rusfield. The prospect of an evening with his mates at the farm party was most inviting, but first he wanted to spend some time in one of his favourite places.
A few minutes after the nearby clock at St Ethelbert’s struck two o’clock, he took off his overall, washed his hands, donned his heavy coat, bade farewell to Mr Davis Junior and took out his originally blue bicycle. Jack had never lost his energy or fitness since his sporting days at school and enjoyed the slight challenge as he pedalled out of the town centre and up the slight hill past Pratchetts Machine Works. The four-mile route was so well known by Jack that his mind began to wander. It was along this road, though on the stretch through the wooded area near the junction to the manor, that his father, Edward, had met with his terrible end when less than thirty years old. Jack, unborn at the time of his father’s death, had always wished he had known him. Having nearly finished ditching along the road, a sudden thunderstorm blew up and anxious to finish the work, unfinished labours brought in no pay, Edward Atkins had disregarded the danger posed by the nearby giant oak tree and his metal tools. Villagers had heard the thunder and remembered an exceptionally vivid flash of lightning. It was some two hours later that a passer-by, old Joe Groves, had come across the badly burned body of this young man. Whilst the detail of the tragedy was well known, Jack knew little about his father. Olivia, his beautiful widow, had always turned away from telling Jack much about him and this evasion was evident with other villagers. As a boy, Jack had been bewildered by this; later he had realised that it was out of respect for his mother’s feelings.
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