Emily

by Valerie Wood

  She couldn’t wait to start. Some of the children who called for her the following Saturday said that they went to the Thorngumbald school. The boy, Dick, who had spoken to her outside the chapel, another boy, Jim, and two girls, Dora and Jane. The girls were both aged seven and were only allowed so far from home under the safe keeping of the boys, who were eight and had been threatened with the strap if they came to any harm. The other boys in the group said that they didn’t go to school because their parents hadn’t any money, but in any case, said one, ‘Larning is a waste o’ time, I already know how to plough.’

  Granny agreed that Emily could go with them as long as they were back before dark. The morning was sharp, frost lay across all the marshland and when Emily took a deep breath she could feel the icy air freezing her nostrils.

  That winter morning was the start of friendships and quarrels and of a discovery of life on the river bank, when they dug in the mud for crabs and shrimps, fished for flounders and gudgeon with homemade rod and line, or stole eels from the baskets laid out on the mudflats. They chased foxes and rabbits and whispered together if they spotted a solitary heron or stood silently watching the mass influx of wildfowl, brent-geese and waders.

  They clambered in and out of the small boats moored in Stone Creek, which in daylight was peaceful and no longer threatening as it had been on the night she had been lost. They made believe that they were sailing away over vast oceans and the girls had to be lookouts and bailers whilst the boys were captain and mate who planned the voyage. They were only disturbed by the shouts of men on the shore to, ‘Get off those boats, tha young peazans!’ and they scuttled away laughing to find other pleasures on those lonely shores.

  That first winter came on hard and fast and the other children stopped coming for almost a month when the fields were thick with snow and the road was impassable and even Granny couldn’t make her usual visit to chapel. Sam stayed on at the farm, for he couldn’t get home and Emily and Hannah made the best of their time together. The pump in the yard froze and to get water for their cooking they had to break off icicles which hung from the door lintel.

  They brought in more wood and kindling which Sam had stacked by the house wall and the cottage was warm if smoky. Hannah taught Emily to knit and to bake, and sat during the long winter evenings and spoke of her own childhood spent much as Emily was doing, in the depths of the Holderness countryside. She told her that after she married, her husband was made manager of a farm and she had taken over the running of the house, feeding as many as eleven to fifteen men three times a day as well as bringing up her own daughter.

  ‘Old Mr Francis ran the estate then and later, when his father died, young Mr Francis said I’d allus have a roof over my head, and even after Mr Edwards died he kept his promise. He let me have this house for onny a peppercorn.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what’ll happen to our Sam, though, when owt happens to me.’ She glanced up from her knitting. ‘And let’s trust in God that afore I go tha’ll be in service or wed.’

  As soon as the road was clear, Emily was prepared for school. She was wrapped in new flannel bodices which Granny had made and in thick wool vests, which she had helped to knit and which itched and tickled as she got warm. Two new pinafores were made from cotton sheeting and new boots ordered from the cobbler in the market town of Hedon were delivered by the carrier.

  ‘I’ll tek thee this once and meet thee half-way home this afternoon,’ Granny said as they set out on the long trek. ‘So tek notice of which way to go.’

  Emily clutched her bag, which contained her dinner of bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, a piece of chalk and a clean handkerchief, which she had hemmed and painstakingly embroidered with the initial E.

  She was eager and quick to learn and soon she could write her name, Emily Hawkins, and was mastering her numbers. The mistress was strict and made them sit up straight and speak clearly and properly, for, she said, she couldn’t understand their rough country speech. Dick jeered at Emily’s cleverness because he stumbled over his reading and writing, though he could add up quickly enough, but like the other boys he longed for spring, summer or autumn when they could help on the farms and had ready excuses for not going to school.

  By the time she was eleven Emily was head and shoulders over the other pupils both in ability and height. Her hair was long and blond and was kept firmly under control in two plaits. Her shape was changing and she started to stoop to hide her swelling breasts. One morning she arrived at school in time to see Jane hand their teacher a note, and at dinnertime when Emily and Dora went outside to eat their dinner and go to the privy, Jane stayed behind and sat with her head on the desk and the teacher said not a word in admonishment.

  ‘What’s up with Jane?’ Emily asked. ‘Is she poorly?’

  Dora shook her head and whispered in her ear. ‘She’s started her flux!’

  ‘Started her flux?’ Emily asked. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know!’ Dora blushed and would say no more until they were well away from the flapping ears of the boys.

  Emily that day learned the facts of life from Dora, or at least as much as Dora knew, which wasn’t much for she hadn’t been told either, except by an older girl, and Emily walked home in a daze, pondering on whether to impart her new-found knowledge to Granny Edwards, for as she was so fond of saying, she hadn’t had much learning and Sam was no scholar and that was why she had sent Emily to school.

  Every spring they renewed their weekend visits to the river, but as they got older sometimes Jane and Dora couldn’t come. They now had more tasks to do at home, smaller children to look after, bread to make or kitchen floors to wash, and Emily found that she was increasingly irritable with the boys’ behaviour as they clowned around in their last days of childhood before leaving school.

  ‘You’re always showing off,’ she grumbled as they fought with one another, or tried to stuff a dead rat down someone’s shirt, or dared each other to jump from one boat to another without capsizing it. They were noisy and boisterous, they chased rabbits down holes and pelted birds with homemade catapults. They generally went home wet and muddy and sometimes they manhandled Emily too when she complained of their stupidity, pushing her to the ground and holding her down with their sweating, panting bodies until abruptly they would let go of her and run off, their faces red and unable to look at her.

  ‘Can I look down tha frock, Em?’ an older boy said one day. ‘I’ll give thee a bite of my apple if tha’ll let me.’

  She stared at him, then felt herself blush. No matter how she pushed them down, her breasts always protruded. ‘No you can’t. It’s rude.’

  ‘Aw, go on.’ He came nearer and tweaked the buttons of her dress. ‘Just a quick look.’

  ‘No.’ She turned away, but he grabbed her and placed a hand over one breast, clutching it tightly. She swung out with her fist and caught him under his chin, making his teeth chatter, and he dropped his hand and looked away.

  ‘Some lasses let us,’ he muttered. ‘They think it’s a lark.’

  She walked away, not looking back. Her cheeks burned and she felt a pulse throb in her throat. She was embarrassed, humiliated and confused. I’ll never go with them again, she vowed. Never, never, never.

  Instead, whenever Sam had time off she went to the river with him and he taught her how to fish. He borrowed a boat from Stone Creek and they rowed upriver, keeping close to the shore and watching out for hidden mudbanks. She gazed at the shore in all its seasons as they pulled hard, seeing the lonely salt-marsh flatlands and meandering creeks from a different view, empty of habitation except for the winter-feeding wader birds; a thousand curlew which rose in sudden flight, the dunlin, plovers and gulls. Once she caught a young salmon on its way back to the sea and she carried it home in triumph. Sometimes, if the wind was not too strong and the tide was low, they would row down towards Spurn Point, the curling tongue of land which retreated from the sea to dip into the Humber mouth. The tidal flow carried them down on its
journey to the sea, around the bulging Hawkin’s Point of the reclaimed land of Sunk Island, to tip them ashore on a narrow fringe of marsh and mud and sand, where buckthorn scrub and sea lavender grew and they would slop through the oozing mud of the river’s edge, then race up and over the sandy dunes, Emily’s legs going at double the pace of Sam’s lumbering long stride, vying to be the first to view the mighty German Ocean on the other side of the bank.

  During Emily’s last winter term at school Hannah was unwell. She had caught a cold which attacked her chest and dosed herself with honey and marshmallow root, but wouldn’t stay in bed no matter how Emily and Sam tried to persuade her. Reluctantly, Emily went to school one morning and told the teacher she wouldn’t be coming back until Granny Edwards was better. ‘She needs me at home,’ she explained to the startled mistress, who was unused to her pupils taking the initiative. ‘She doesn’t know that she does, but she does.’ She stayed until dinnertime and then went home.

  In the evening Granny took to the bed which she shared with Emily. ‘I’ll give Sam a note for ‘doctor to come,’ Emily said to her. ‘You’re not getting any better.’

  ‘That tha’ll not! I’ve never had a doctor in my life.’ She tried to rouse herself from the pillow, but sank back again. ‘Only once has he been over this doorstep and that was when our Sam was born.’

  ‘Time he came again, then,’ Emily said firmly.

  ‘Oh, do as tha likes.’ Hannah closed her eyes wearily. ‘I haven’t ’energy to argue with thee.’

  When the doctor came the next day he listened long and hard at Hannah’s chest, moving aside the thick embrocated flannel that was covering it. He pursed his lips and gazed at her. ‘Well, Hannah,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t be telling me owt I don’t already know,’ she croaked. ‘’Good Lord will decide whether I go or stay.’

  ‘That’s true.’ The doctor closed up his bag. ‘There’s nothing I can give you. Just stay in bed and try to rest.’ He turned to look at Emily. ‘And this is a niece I believe? We haven’t met before.’

  ‘Aye, almost a niece – my late nephew’s daughter. I’ve brought her up as my own.’ Hannah wheezed and coughed and sweat stood out on her forehead. ‘She’s been a good lass, I hope she’ll manage on her own.’

  A sudden fear clutched Emily. Was Granny Edwards going to die? To leave her and Sam? She followed the doctor out of the room to the door, where he paused and lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Edwards has pneumonia. Give her plenty to drink and wash her with a cool cloth if she’s feverish.’

  ‘Will she die?’ Emily stared at him with wide eyes. ‘She won’t, will she?’

  He patted her shoulder. ‘Everybody does, child, sooner or later. There’s no cure for death.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll come again.’

  Emily boiled water, which she cooled to make Granny a drink, then whilst she was sleeping she prepared a meal for Sam. She skinned and jointed a rabbit which he had caught and put it into a pot with potato and onion and placed it over the fire to cook. She swept the floor and polished the brass knobs and filled up a bucket with water from the pump. Then she carried a basket outside and filled it with wood for the fire. When she had finished she carried a chair next to the bed, where Granny was now sleeping, and sat down to watch over her.

  When Sam arrived home Emily was fast asleep and he had to waken her, the fire had burned low and she hastened to build it up. ‘Your dinner’s ready, Sam,’ she said, lifting the lid off the pot and carrying it to the table, ‘and I’ll make some tea in a minute.’

  Sam lifted the curtain and looked down at his granny. ‘She don’t look very good,’ he said ponderously as he sat down at the table. ‘One of ’hosses at ’farm was wheezing like that and ’master shot it.’

  Emily drew in a deep breath. ‘What’ll we do if she dies, Sam?’

  He paused in the action of lifting a fork to his mouth, then placed a piece of rabbit in his mouth and laboriously chewed and swallowed. He put his fork down in his dish and considered. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘we’ll have to bury her, I expect.’

  They sat up with her all night. Sam dropped asleep in the chair by the fire, but Emily, sleepless and anxious, never closed her eyes, but bathed the old lady’s face frequently and trickled water through her lips. At four o’clock she roused Sam for his breakfast. She brewed a pot of tea, made his gruel and cut him a thick slice of bread. She sipped her tea as she sat by the bed and whispered to Sam that she thought the fever had passed. That the worst was over. He looked down at his grandmother and blinked his reddened eyes.

  ‘Aye,’ he breathed. ‘Mebbe so.’ He leaned over and kissed the pale cheek and stumbled out of the door.

  Emily pottered around all morning, unable to settle to any job of work. She kept looking at the still figure in the bed, but Granny Edwards lay quietly sleeping so she didn’t disturb her. She went outside to feed the hens and collect the eggs and looked up at the immense pale blue sky and took several deep breaths of crisp, cold air. She gathered up more wood in the basket and as she straightened up from the woodpile, she saw a horse and trap with the doctor and a woman in it coming along the lane towards the cottage.

  The doctor nodded at her as he climbed down from the trap. ‘Sam called and left a message this morning on his way to work. This is Mrs Scott. She’ll do what is necessary.’

  Emily stared first at one then the other. Called and left a message? What message did Sam leave? That Granny Edwards was much better? Why did he do that when the doctor had said he would call? She looked at their solemn faces and especially at the woman, who cast her a sympathetic glance as she passed inside the door, and felt a sinking despair. Granny Edwards is sleeping, she wanted to say. Don’t waken her. Then a chill washed over her. Sam had known, that’s why he had kissed her when Emily had never seen a kiss between them before. It had been a kiss of goodbye.

  Chapter Four

  A neighbour brought his cart and helped Sam lift the plain wooden coffin into it. Emily had gathered teasels and seed heads, wild grasses and stalks of barley and strewn them over the top. It seemed fitting, she thought, that the land that Hannah Edwards had loved should send its harvest with her to her last resting place. The neighbour climbed into the driving seat and Emily and Sam followed behind, to be joined along the muddy road by farmers and their wives, labourers and young maids who had known Hannah Edwards.

  Mr Francis was waiting at the chapel, standing slightly apart from other members of the congregation, and Emily glanced curiously at him when Sam touched his forehead to him. His hair, though dark, had white streaks, as did his beard. He was tall and broad in his bearing. ‘He’s not young like Granny made out, Sam,’ she whispered, ‘though he’s not really old,’ and she wondered whether he would allow Sam to stay on at the cottage even though he didn’t work for him.

  She worried over this all through the service and even as with wet eyes and trembling lips she watched the coffin being lowered into the grave, a persistent question pounded through her head. What will happen to us?

  As she and Sam began the walk back home they were joined by some of the women who had attended the funeral, women who had been acquainted with Hannah through the chapel. Most of them carried wicker baskets with white cloths on top. Emily glanced over her shoulder several times to see if they were perhaps moving off in another direction over the fields, but still they followed on behind until they came to the cottage.

  ‘We’ve taken ’liberty of bringing a few victuals,’ said one as they approached the door. ‘Nowt much, but Mrs Edwards would have wanted a good tea made on her behalf.’

  ‘Aye,’ said another. ‘Hannah would have put on a good spread for any of us in similar circumstances.’

  Emily thanked them and invited them in, where they divested themselves of their outer garments, though keeping on their hats or bonnets, and proceeded to set the table, first with a white starched cloth with an embroidered cloth over it, and then from their laden baskets they produced boiled ham and tongue, b
oiled eggs and celery, cheese and pickle, cheesecake, jam tarts and plum bread and all manner of other tempting food.

  Emily rushed to place the kettle on the fire and opened the cupboard to bring out plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks, then, not to be outdone, brought out the cake tin wherein lay a fruit cake which she had made only a few days before. One of the women looked over it approvingly. ‘Hannah allus did have a good hand at bakin’,’ she commented.

  ‘Our Emily made that,’ Sam chimed up from his chair by the fire. ‘She’s a good baker. Granny showed her how.’

  There was a sudden silence and all eyes turned to Emily. ‘How old are you, Emily?’ one of the women asked.

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ she answered and wondered why the women looked significantly at each other.

  After they had said grace and eaten their fill, some of the women cleared away and prepared to leave whilst two or three others settled down as if to stay. Emily thought that they had been very kind and considerate, but wished now that they would go and leave her to her thoughts, in particular to the one which was questioning why Mr Francis, on commiserating with Sam on his loss, had told him that he would call round to see him later in the day.

  ‘Now then, Sam,’ one of the women, Mrs Turner, said, ‘can tha make thyself scarce for five minutes? We want to have a word wi’ Emily.’

  Sam stared open-mouthed, then slowly got to his feet. ‘Aye,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll go and chop some wood.’

  ‘And fetch some more water, Sam,’ Emily directed, contemplating that she might have to make more tea when Mr Francis called.

  ‘It’s a bit delicate, like,’ Mrs Turner looked Emily squarely in the eye when Sam had gone out of the door, ‘but it has to be said, and we’re onny thinking o’ thee after all and what’s best to be done.’

  Emily folded her hands in front of her and waited. Whatever could they want to say to her?