Moorland Mist

by Gwen Kirkwood

  Vera gave a scornful sniff and turned away. Dick’s eyes narrowed. He knew Vera well by now. ‘You weren’t thinking of sending Emma up there to clean, were ye? Not the way she is and the baby due in a week or two. I’ll not have that, Vera.’

  ‘She can do the washing and cook the dinner while I do it.’

  ‘She does that every day.’

  ‘Anyway, she doesna know when the bairn is due.’

  ‘She said she thought it was sometime in June and you said yourself she’s getting big now.’

  ‘There’s four weeks in June.’

  ‘Aye, and babies can be early or they can be late.’ Dick said. ‘She can’t be that far off and we’re supposed to be looking after her. Remember, Bert has paid us for her keep, though I reckon she’s earned it. I’ll not have her climbing up into the loft,’ he said sternly.

  Vera’s eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she muttered as he shut the door with a bang and went away to work.

  Emma supervised the children as they washed and dressed, and brushed their hair ready for school. It had become her daily routine. As soon as they had eaten their porridge, she and Peter walked with them down the path to the end of the garden, where it joined the main farm track between the farm and the village.

  ‘Take a brush and shovel up to the loft,’ Vera ordered as soon as she and Peter returned to the house. ‘Sweep out the cobwebs and the dirt then you can scrub the bed boards ready for moving the boys’ mattress up there.’ Peter was excited at the prospect of exploring the loft.

  ‘Surely he is a bit young to go to bed up there?’ Emma said.

  ‘Just you do what I tell you.’

  ‘I want to go into the loft now with Emma,’ Peter insisted.

  ‘No, Peter,’ Emma said gently, ‘you might fall down the ladder and break an arm or a leg. You stay with your mother until I get rid of all the big spiders and the cobwebs.’

  He shuddered and his eyes grew round. She hated spiders herself but she knew it would be no use protesting. She had seen the determined set to Aunt Vera’s thin lips and the glitter in her eyes. She would have to make the best of it. The thought of her father coming to take her home before the baby was born kept her spirits up.

  After ten years of neglect, the loft was festooned with long black cobwebs and there was a thick layer of dust on the floor and the built-in bed boards. It made Emma cough. There were two tiny skylights in the steeply sloping roof so she brushed these first to let in more light. She discovered one of them could be opened by a rusty iron lever. It was stiff and creaked in protest but Emma was thankful for a breath of fresh air. It was going to be a hot day again and she knew it would be stifling up here later on.

  She could see Peter playing in the garden and he looked up when he heard the creak of the protesting lever. He waved to her excitedly and she waved back. He was a lovely little boy but he was often left to his own devices.

  Today she knew Aunt Vera had received a copy of Harper’s Bazaar, and another women’s magazine from the woman in the next door cottage who helped Mrs Donnelly at the farm. The magazines were passed on from Lady Chisholm’s housekeeper to Mrs Donnelly, who sent them round. Vera was not very good at reading but she could spend all day looking at pictures.

  At each end of the loft, platforms had been built about a foot off the ground to hold the mattresses. As many as four – and sometimes six – boys had slept in the cottage loft. There was a long wooden chest built under the eaves for storing clothes. Emma prised open the lid with an effort but even inside there was dust and cobwebs, and she realized it would take her all day and maybe longer to clean everything thoroughly.

  At midday she climbed carefully down the wooden ladder, her throat parched with dust and her stomach rumbling with hunger. Aunt Vera was still sitting in the wooden chair, absorbed in the new Women’s Penny Paper. She looked up at Emma’s hot, dust-streaked face and the cobwebs clinging to her cap.

  ‘You’ve finished then, have you? Peter is waiting for you to play with him in the garden. He’s been whining for you all morning.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve cleaned all the dust and cobwebs away as much as I can, but the bed boards and the chest will need scrubbing before they can be used.’

  ‘You’d better get back up there and do it then.’

  ‘I shall, but not until I’ve had some bread and cheese and a drink of milk,’ Emma said firmly. Vera opened her mouth to protest but Emma met her eyes steadily. The older woman had realized she could only push her so far when she gave that steely look.

  ‘You’re just like your father, you like your own way,’ she grumbled.

  ‘I’ve worked hard up there and I’ve earned some food.’ In truth she would have loved to lie on her bed and rest. She felt hot and sticky and her back ached from continual bending to avoid bumping her head on the beams in the sloping roof.

  ‘I see you didn’t light the copper to do the washing so I’ll boil the kettle to dissolve the soda for scrubbing the boards.’

  ‘Suit yourself but make sure there are no spiders left up there or the lads will never go to sleep.’

  Emma had almost finished by late afternoon. She looked around with satisfaction as she viewed the results of her labours. The loft smelled fresh and clean, and the summer breeze was blowing gently in at the open skylight. She had several bruises where she had bumped her head, though. She moved backwards towards the open trap door and carefully eased herself through. She would stand on the steps to scrub the last square of the wooden floor boards and everything would be ready when the wood had dried. If only Aunt Vera would stir herself to make a bright rag rug for the floor, it would make a cheerful room for the boys, like the one her brothers shared back home.

  She had just finished scrubbing the last of the boards and she was wringing out the cloth to wipe them when Peter seized the bottom of the ladder and shook it impatiently.

  ‘Don’t do that, Peter! Stop shaking the ladder.’

  ‘When are you coming out to the garden, Emma? How long before Bobby comes home?’ he demanded, adopting his mother’s whining tone.

  ‘I’ll not be long now,’ she said soothingly. ‘You go find your mother while I finish this last bit of floor and I’ll bring my bucket down the ladder. I might spill the dirty water over you if you’re standing there.’ This was no deterrent to the impatient four-year-old.

  ‘I want you to come now. Now!’ he shouted and grabbed the ladder with all his puny strength.

  ‘Don’t do that, Peter!’ Emma shouted in alarm, feeling the ladder wobble and settle again, but it was not as level as it had been before and as she reached for her bucket and began to descend it wobbled precariously. Peter giggled and grabbed one side of the ladder to shake it some more. The last thing Emma remembered was hearing his howl as she fell down the last half of the ladder, spilling the water over him as the bucket flew from her grasp.

  Eight

  Whatever his faults, William had never been idle and his pride would not allow him to remain as a visitor with his cousin indefinitely so he accepted the job at the Mains Farm. The work was familiar but he thought he would never get used to the strange Yorkshire accent of his fellow workmen, especially when they gathered around the long scrubbed table in the kitchen for their meals and gabbled away to each other. He would never admit it in his letters to Maggie but he was homesick for the familiar faces and voices, and the landscape he had known since he could toddle. He felt both he and Emmie had been banished and they were being made to pay a high price for one night of pleasure – carnal pleasure, his mother had called it. If he felt bitter, the experience hardened his resolve to make a success of his life. He would prove himself as good a man as his father and an even better farmer.

  He did not relish his nights in the loft above the stables but at least it was warm enough in May. He had begged a sheet from the housekeeper and one of the maids had offered to sew it into a large bag which
he filled with hay for a mattress. He swept away the cobwebs from his corner of the loft, and kept the floor around him clean and tidy. His work clothes he kept in a small tin trunk which Annie had loaned him. He had written to Maggie, asking her to send on his wooden trunk by train to Wilmore station where Drew had promised to collect it. He knew his fellow workers smirked when they saw him making himself a clean corner to sleep and when he washed each evening at the pump in the yard, stripped to the waist.

  ‘I wish we had more men like him,’ Cook said to Mrs Milne, the house-keeper. ‘He brushes his feet afore he comes into my kitchen.’

  Fred Black, the foreman, also expressed his approval when the land agent enquired how he was getting on.

  ‘Grand, Mr Frame, we could do to keep him.’

  ‘That good, is he?’ Walter Frame asked with some amusement, knowing how dubious the foreman had been about taking on a Scotsman, and how rarely any man came up to his exacting standards. ‘He is looking to rent a farm of his own, but even if he was content to stay with us, he would not want to stay in the stable loft. He has a young wife so he would need a cottage and we have none vacant.’

  ‘So that’s the way of it. I wondered why he didn’t join the other lads and enjoy himself on a Saturday night. He told Mrs Milne he enjoyed a good dance. She says he can play the fiddle, but he hasn’t brought it with him. Last Saturday night I saw him having a go at breaking one of the young ’osses. You can tell he’s done that job afore. It seems him and his brother broke ’osses to sell to a brewery back home in Scotland. I hope he stays long enough to help with this lot. We’ve four to break in this year.’

  ‘Mmm, so we have, so we have,’ Walter Frame mused. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can do a deal with him before his wife comes down to join him. I understand she is expecting a child so she is staying with her parents until he gets settled. Pity we have no spare cottages. Allan is recovering well so he should be back to work in a few weeks.’ He frowned. ‘I had a feeling William Sinclair was hiding something, maybe a shady past, but he seems to be a hard worker and honest. I promised to let him know of any farms coming to let so I’m glad of this opportunity to get to know more about him before I recommend him to any of my fellow land agents.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no fault to find with the lad. Even Cook has a good word for him.’

  ‘Has she now?’ Walter Frame chuckled. ‘That’s all the recommendation he will need then.’ It always amazed him how swiftly gossip spread from one big house to another via the domestic staff.

  ‘I reckon so. Ellen’s never been easy pleased.’

  ‘Walk over to the long paddock with me, Fred? We’ll have a look at the young horses now. Sinclair might be willing to break them in his spare time now it’s long light in the evenings. Maybe we could offer him the little filly in return for his labour as an inducement, provided he makes a fair job.’

  ‘Aye, she is a little ’un even for a Clydesdale.’

  ‘I expect that’s because her mother died of the grass sickness before she was ready to wean. She might grow a bit yet.’

  ‘Compared to the three Shires she’s a midget, but Scotsmen seem to like their Clydesdales.’

  ‘He will need a decent pair of horses if he takes on a farm tenancy. Perhaps Drew Kerr would keep it for him until he’s ready for it.’

  William was astonished at the foreman’s proposal. If he had been given the choice he would still have chosen the Clydesdale filly, before the Shires, and in preference to money. He had no intention of letting the foreman see how he felt, though. He lowered his eyes and hid his excitement. Horses were the backbone of any farm. It could save him thirty of his precious guineas. Fred Black mistook his silence.

  ‘I can’t offer you money,’ he said. ‘It was Mr Frame’s idea. He thought your cousin would keep her until you need her, if that’s what’s bothering you, lad.’ He brightened as an idea struck him. ‘Or you could sell her to him if you don’t need her. Mr Frame says his are all Clydesdales. She has a pedigree. The stallion travelled from Scotland.’

  ‘All right, it’s a bargain,’ William said. He looked up and smiled, giving the foreman a firm handshake. ‘I might need one of the laddies to help with yon big Shire with the white splash on his side – just in the beginning until I show him who is boss. He’ll make the best o’ them all if I can break him without wasting his spirit, but I’ve seen the fire in his eye.’

  ‘Aye, his mother’s a bit of a devil, but she’s a grand worker. Don’t take any chances with him, though. We don’t want any more accidents and the three Shire geldings are for sale to the brewery if you can train them to the cart. There’s not a man on the estate who likes breaking ’osses in.’

  Emma became aware that someone was slapping her face hard and shouting at her to waken up but her eyelids felt like lead and her head was spinning. She tried to move but pain shot though her. She became aware of Peter crying.

  ‘I’se sorry, Emmie, I’se sorry. I didn’t mean to make ye fall and spill the water.’

  ‘Shut up and get outside!’ That was Aunt Vera’s voice. Emma tried to speak but although her lips moved, she didn’t seem to be making sense.

  Millie and Bobby came running in from school. They had seen Peter sobbing in the garden.

  ‘What’s happened, Ma?’ Millie demanded.

  ‘Run up to the farm and bring your father. Quickly now.’

  There was silence for a few minutes then Emma became aware Bobby was trying to push a pillow under her head. She forced her eyes open.

  ‘Wh-what happened?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘You might well ask,’ Vera said grimly. ‘You clumsy fool. See what a mess you’ve made spilling that filthy water everywhere.’

  Emma closed her eyes, willing everyone to go away and leave her in peace. It seemed only moments later when she heard Uncle Dick’s voice, speaking softly and kindly. He lifted her in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom. She groaned as pain shot through her. She clutched her stomach but in fact she seemed to be in pain all over.

  ‘Where does it hurt, lassie?’ Uncle Dick asked. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken any bones as far as I can tell.’

  Emma opened her eyes and looked up at him, but the clenching pain in her stomach came again, making her catch her breath with its ferocity.

  ‘The baby!’ Uncle Dick exclaimed. ‘I think it’s the bairn.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ Vera said sullenly. ‘She’s only wanting sympathy.’

  Emma screwed her eyes tightly and chewed her lower lip, trying to stifle her moan at the recurring pain. Dick was looking down into her pale face. He saw the sweat beading her brow.

  ‘The fall has brought on the baby. Vera, go and fetch Mistress Donnelly. She’ll know what to do. Milly, find some towels and put the kettle on to boil.’

  ‘Who do you think you are, ordering everybody about?’ Vera protested.

  ‘Get Mrs Donnelly now!’ Dick shouted. ‘If anything happens to Emma or the bairn, you will be to blame. Go on!’

  Several hours later, a kindly woman bent over Emma and placed a tiny, dark-haired bundle in her arms. Emma felt the pain had gone on for an eternity. She couldn’t believe it had stopped. It was true her back and hips were badly bruised from the fall but as she gazed down at the snuffling little bundle in her arms, a tender smile lit her face.

  ‘My baby?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, my lamb. You have a wee boy. A pair of broad shoulders he has on him. He may be a bit small but there’s nothing wrong with his lungs, is there, Doctor?’

  Emma looked past her, and saw a man with brown sideburns and moustache and sparkling grey eyes.

  ‘Nothing wrong at all that a good supply of milk willna cure and that will come in a day or so. You were a brave young woman, but let that be a lesson to you, no more climbing steps into lofts in your condition.’

  Emma cradled her baby in her arms and her young heart swelled with love, until she remembered Aunt Vera’s words somewhere in the mists
of her pain.

  ‘You willna let them take him away, will you? My father was coming to take me home before he was born.’

  The doctor looked at Mrs Donnelly with raised eyebrows, his eyes questioning.

  ‘I think that was the plan originally but Dick told me his brother and his family have changed their minds.’ Mrs Donnelly drew the doctor to one side of the room. ‘Vera would have him away to the nuns immediately if she had her way. I think we should wait until her father comes to take her home. Let him make the decision.’

  ‘It will be at least two weeks before she’s up and fit to travel,’ the doctor frowned, ‘but the baby will benefit from his mother’s milk whatever happens. He is obviously a bit before his time so he may turn yellow.’

  ‘I think you should ask Mrs Mackie, the midwife, to check on them every day until the girl regains her strength. I will pay her,’ she added. ‘Dick is one of the best workers we’ve ever had but his wife is a harridan. She has no idea of cleanliness. We don’t want the girl getting an infection. Young Milly has more sense but she’s still at school.’

  ‘Very well.’ He moved back to the bed. ‘Don’t worry, Emma. I shall tell your aunt on no account is she to take your baby away. That decision will be up to your father when he comes to take you home.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Emma said in a tremulous whisper. ‘Thank you b-both for saving m-my baby.’

  When they had gone, she noticed the little room seemed strangely empty, then she noticed Uncle Dick must have removed the boys’ mattress up to the loft. In the dim light of the Kelly lamp she saw the clock. It was two in the morning. No wonder it was dark and the house so silent.

  Several times in the next two weeks, Mrs Donnelly sent up a pot of chicken broth with Dick.

  ‘She says it’s the best thing for getting your strength back, lassie, so you’re to eat it all.’

  It was delicious but she didn’t get the chance to eat more than one small bowl each time he brought up a pot. Aunt Vera saw to that. She grumbled constantly, and Emma was grateful for the visits and ministrations of the motherly midwife who came each day to make sure the baby was feeding and that she was recovering. She had been dismayed when she first saw the bruises which had turned Emma’s back and hip black and blue and yellow, but Emma didn’t complain. The bruises would heal and she was young and strong; she had her baby son and she felt better each day. She had written to tell her parents of the baby’s birth and when she would be ready to travel home, and she couldn’t wait for that day to come in spite of Uncle Dick’s kindness and the way the children wanted to spend all their free time with her and the baby.