The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  His eyes were dancing, his mouth smiling as he turned on the familiar charm. In spite of herself, Emma found herself smiling in return.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You can hardly blame me for wondering. You spend so much time away from home and—’

  ‘My dear, I have my business to keep going. And I’m sorry I’m not more use to you here, but, well,’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘my time’s better spent doing the job I know how to do. Now you must see that, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Emma murmured. Even after having been married to him for almost seven years, she still did not know precisely how her husband made his money. All she knew was that it was some kind of dealing. She supposed that meant buying and selling, for he always seemed to be scouring the newspapers. He was still the same; flush with money one week, penniless the next and borrowing from her. Although he always promised to pay her back the next time he pulled off a deal, he never did repay her and in the end she ceased to expect it. After all, they were husband and wife and all that was hers was, by law, his too. As, more than once, Leonard had reminded her. But whenever she tried to probe too deeply into his affairs, her husband became angry and eventually, Emma had given up trying. Whatever it was that he did to earn a so-called ‘living’, Emma decided at last, then let him get on with it. Shrewdly, however, she did not so readily hand over money every time he demanded it.

  ‘I can let you have a little next week,’ she would answer, becoming as evasive as Leonard himself, ‘when Farmer Popple pays me.’

  Then Leonard would frown and glare at her, but she would stand firm and he would turn away muttering darkly about what might happen to people who did not pay their debts on time, though whether he was referring to Farmer Popple or to himself being in debt to someone, Emma could never quite be sure.

  But now, Leonard was all smiles. ‘Actually,’ he was saying airily, ‘I’m going over to Sheffield to look at a second-hand car. A mate of mine knows a bloke in the business.’

  ‘Leonard, we really can’t afford . . .’

  ‘I’m not asking you for money, Emma. I had a bit of good luck last week so I thought I’d get one while the going’s good.’

  ‘I see,’ she said flatly. No intention of paying back all the money he’s had from me, she thought.

  ‘Oh, come on, Em, cheer up. If I get this motor car, I’ll take you out for a drive next Sunday – you and the boy. If the weather’s nice, we’ll take a picnic and go up the coast. How about that, eh?’

  Suddenly, he looked so boyish, so anxious to please, that she hadn’t the heart to spoil his fun. She forced herself to laugh, tapped his nose playfully with her forefinger and said gaily, ‘You’d better.’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ He leant forward and kissed her forehead briefly. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll try to find someone in Lincoln who knows about mills.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t bother. I’ve just remembered someone locally who might be able to help.’

  His wide smile showed gratitude at being relieved of the responsibility, and he left the house with a jaunty step and his Homburg set at a rakish angle.

  Now why on earth had she never thought of it before she asked herself? It had been Leonard’s unusual shortening of her name to ‘Em’ that had reminded her. Only one person ever called her that; William. And now he worked for a millwright in Bilsford.

  She only had to ask, she knew, and William would come.

  When she had delivered her son to the village school only a few yards up the road from the mill, Emma crossed the road and went into the market place, striding purposefully across the square towards the smithy.

  During the past seven years, she had, of course, seen Jamie about the village, at chapel, in the market, even in her bakery. She had spoken to him, enquired after his health and William’s, but this was the first time since her marriage that she had visited him at the smithy, the first time she had deliberately sought him out. As she drew near, she could hear the roar of the furnace, could smell the tang of singeing hoof that always seemed to linger about the place, even when there were no horses there being shod. Then she heard the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of his hammer as he shaped a piece of metal on his anvil. From a safe distance she stood and watched him.

  He must have caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, for she saw him stiffen and then slowly straighten up to face her. For a fleeting moment, his feelings were naked in his eyes; brown eyes that were dark with longing. But then the mask of indifference clouded his face and the perpetual frown deepened. Against her own will, her heart quickened its beat.

  ‘And what do you want?’ he said gruffly and flung the piece of metal into a corner, its clanging sound echoing around the yard.

  ‘Good morning, Jamie,’ she said with emphatic politeness.

  He grunted and then grudgingly replied, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the people William works for in Bilsford? He did tell me once, but I’ve forgotten it.’

  Jamie wrinkled his brow, ‘Er, something beginning with P – er – Pickering. Yes, that’s it, Pickering.’

  Feeling she owed him some kind of explanation, she added, ‘I thought maybe he’d take a look at the mill for me. The machinery, y’know. Luke’s not up to it any more.’

  ‘Aye, I’d heard he was ill.’

  There was silence and though Emma waited, gave him every possible chance, there was no offer of help from Jamie.

  Sighing softly to herself, she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll write to him.’

  ‘You do that,’ the man said harshly. ‘But he’ll not come.’

  She half-turned back towards him. ‘Eh? Why not? Why won’t he come?’

  Jamie sniffed. ‘He ain’t been back here more than twice since he went six years ago. Too taken up wi’ his new employers and his new job to think about his family; the only member of his family left now,’ he added bitterly. He glanced at her and said, ‘He lives with them, y’know.’

  Emma frowned. ‘So? Why is that so very dreadful?’

  Jamie prodded the air with his finger. ‘He should never have gone in the first place. His duty’s here with me, in the family business our grandfather and his brother started. He’d no right to leave me here to cope alone.’

  Softly Emma said, ‘Maybe now you realize just how he had to struggle after your parents died and you were away in the war. And he was only a boy then, not even a man.’

  ‘That’s different,’ he argued. ‘I had me duty to me country to do. ’Sides, when I left, me mam and dad were well and strong. How was I to know what would happen?’

  He fell silent, but the accusation against his younger brother still hung in the air between them.

  ‘Maybe, Jamie,’ Emma said gently, and there was an infinite sadness in her tone, ‘if the same man who went away to the war had come back to us – the very same man – then perhaps a lot of things might have been different.’

  The tears sprang to her eyes and lest he should see them, she turned away and hurried across the market square without looking back to see if he stood watching her.

  She received a reply to her letter to William by return of post.

  Of course I’ll come over and oil and grease all the workings for you, Em. Do you want the stones dressing too? I’m a dab hand at that now. I could have come before if you’d said. I’ll be there on Saturday afternoon. I was sorry to hear about your father and now you say poor old Luke’s failing. Well, they always were very close despite the fact that they’ve had their ups and downs over the years. They grew up together, didn’t they, let alone worked together? Maybe your father’s death affected Luke more than he lets on . . .

  She let the letter fall from her hands on to the table. She knew William was right. He understood the relationship between the two men as well as she did. A small smile curved her generous mouth as she thought about her childhood friend. Kind, considerate, so gentle, and always, she thought, ruefully comparing him to h
er volatile husband, the same. William had never been in one mood one moment, another the next. Dependable, reliable – dull, some might have said, but Emma at this moment felt the loss of his nearness keenly. But tomorrow, he would be here. How good it would be to see him again.

  She made her way across the yard and through the orchard. It was a bright, breezy morning, white cumulus clouds scudded across a pearl grey sky. To the west, the sky was darker, threatening rain. She paused a moment as she passed by the hives and stood listening and watching. There were three rounded straw skeps on wooden stands. For years now, she had been trying to persuade Sarah to let her buy the more modern square, wooden hives, but Sarah was adamant.

  ‘What was good enough for your grandpa Charlie, is good enough for me.’

  ‘But they’re so out of date now and so cumbersome. It’s a wonder you don’t get dreadfully stung every time you remove the combs. Now, these new ones . . .’ Emma would begin, but Sarah would hold up her hands in horror and refuse to listen.

  ‘What if the bees didn’t like some newfangled thing? Then they’d sting me. Or worse still, they might leave us. Then what?’

  Emma always covered her amusement. ‘They’re not newfangled, Sarah. Wooden hives have been on the go for – oh, years now. You can lift out each—’

  ‘I don’t want to listen and I certainly don’t want any, so there.’

  And there the argument always ended with Sarah having her own way as usual.

  The bees seemed very active this morning, Emma thought, flying in and out with a sense of urgency as if there was not a moment to lose. Perhaps they were getting ready for winter. Smiling to herself, she continued towards the cottage where Sarah and Luke lived.

  As soon as Sarah opened the door, Emma said, ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

  Sarah looked away as if avoiding Emma’s direct gaze. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, nothing. You’d only laugh.’

  ‘Me? Now Sarah dear, have I ever laughed at you?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘no, not exactly, but I know what folks think of me and my silly superstitions.’

  Emma put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘The bees. It’s the bees. They’re very restless. It’s as if something’s going to happen. There’s going to be trouble.’

  ‘I did notice as I came by just now that they seem very busy,’ Emma said and added quietly, ‘and no, I’m not laughing.’

  The two women exchanged a look then Emma felt the shoulders beneath her arm lift in a little shrug of resignation. ‘Well, there’s nowt we can do about it. We’ll just have to wait and see. Come on through,’ she said, trying to change the subject, ‘and see Luke. He’s feeling a little stronger today, even talking about coming back to work. He’s that worried about you trying to manage everything on your own.’

  Emma laughed. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ve something to tell him, anyway.’

  Moments later when Emma had given the old man her news, Luke leant back in his chair and let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘I can’t tell you how that’s taken a weight off me mind. I’ve been whittling that much about that blessed mill ’cos the workings need checking,’ he gave a wry laugh, ‘ya’d think it were mine.’

  Emma sat on a low stool and rested her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin in her hands. She regarded him with her bright eyes. ‘Well, Luke, to my way of thinking it very nearly is. You’ve given your whole life to it,’ she said gently, ‘to the mill and to the Forrest family.’

  Tears welled in the old eyes and he reached out with calloused fingers that were crooked now with rheumatism. ‘Eh, lass,’ he said hoarsely, touched by her compliments. ‘I’m just sorry that ya man dun’t tek more interest and be a help to ya. If only them Metcalfes hadn’t been so bloody stupid, ya’d be married into that family by now and well taken care of.’

  Emma had rarely, if ever, heard Luke use bad language and coming from his lips it sounded more comical than blasphemous, yet she hid her smile. She tried to reassure him. ‘Well, there’s one Metcalfe who’s not so bloody stupid,’ she teased him. ‘It’s William who’s coming on Saturday to look at the machinery for me.’ She saw the old man glance towards his wife, saw the look that passed between them.

  At once old Luke seemed to relax even more and settle back in his chair. ‘Is it, be-gum? Well, then, that’ll be all right. Them bees must have got it wrong, Sarah, me old dear, ’cos if it’s William coming back, then everything’ll be all right.’

  Twenty-Three

  By nightfall the wind had risen to gale force. It rattled the granary door on its loose catch, flinging it open, the wood splintering as it crashed back against the wall.

  ‘I’ll have to go and tie that door, Charles,’ Emma said to her son, who was sitting huddled by the fire, his eyes huge and fearful.

  ‘Don’t go out in it, Mamma,’ his child’s voice pleaded. ‘Stay here, where it’s safe. You might get blown away.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ She fought to keep the vexation from her voice. She knew he was only six, yet even she was sometimes irritated by the boy’s lack of spirit. Charles was always so solemn, his dark eyes huge in his pale face. And he didn’t seem to laugh and play like other children. He was never naughty, never in childish pranks or scrapes and whilst she loved him with motherly protectiveness, at times, Emma wished there was some way in which she could instil some of her own mettle into her son. He was nothing, she thought, like his namesake, old Grandpa Charlie, if the tales that had been told down the years about him were to be believed.

  Perhaps she had allowed the boy to be too much in the company of old men. First, her father and lately, with Luke. Perhaps it was her fault. She was so busy, so wrapped up in trying to keep the mill going that she had little time for her son. She would try to make more time for him, she promised herself, see that he had some playmates of his own age.

  Contrite now for her sharpness, Emma hugged him swiftly to her and ruffled his hair. ‘You stand and watch me from the back door, then I’ll be safe, won’t I? You must be the man of the house when your father is away.’

  Picking up a length of line from under the sink, she opened the door. The wind blew into the house with a ferocity that made even Emma gasp in surprise. She stepped out into the yard, bending her head against the gale. She turned and saw Charles, his white fingers gripping the door frame as if to stop himself being blown away.

  Sudden fear for his safety now – he was, after all, such a little chap – made her say, ‘Now don’t move from there. Promise me?’

  His eyes were large ovals in his white face and his lips were pressed together as if to stop them trembling, but he nodded.

  Clutching her coat around her, she staggered across the yard and, reaching the steps to the granary, grasped the rail and hauled herself up. Above her, the mill creaked and groaned. At the top of the steps she caught hold of the door and slammed it, leaning against it whilst she struggled with icy fingers to tie the piece of line around the catch to secure the door shut. As she turned away, the wind buffeted her and she grasped the rail to stop herself being blown down the steps. She looked up at the mill, a black shape against the stormy sky. The sails, silhouetted against the deepening dusk, shuddered as the gale blustered from first one direction and then another and the fantail struggled to turn the huge mechanism into the wind. But which way, which way now? She could almost feel the panic rising in her as she watched the neglected machinery fighting to do its job. Transfixed, she stared at the huge sails above her as a dreadful split-second premonition gripped her. In that moment, she knew exactly what was going to happen yet she was helpless to prevent the catastrophe.

  The main sails were tail-winded and a great gust of wind with the force of a tornado got behind the huge sails and pushed them forward. Emma watched in horror as, in slow motion, the gigantic structure – sails, fantail and the onion-shaped cap – toppled into the yard, the wood of the sails smashing and splintering into
matchwood, the canvas shades tearing into shreds. The noise seemed to go on forever. Shards of wood flew in all directions and Emma cringed against the granary door. Dropping to her haunches, she covered her face and head with her arms. She felt a piece of flying timber hit her forearm, then rattle down the steps, bouncing on every tread.

  At last there was silence, an unearthly silence, with only the wind still howling triumphantly. Slowly Emma raised her face and saw the shape of the mill, a black, capless cone, stark against the sky.

  ‘Oh, Grandpa. Grandpa Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘No! Oh no!’

  And then, above the wind, she heard the wailing of her terrified child.

  Struggling to her feet, she tried to call out to him. ‘I’m all right, darling. Stay there. Charles, stay there.’

  But she heard him clambering over the pile of wood that filled the yard. ‘Mam, Mammy – where are you?’

  ‘Stay there, Charles. I’m fine – I’m coming . . .’ But the wind whipped the words from her mouth and tossed them away.

  She tried to go down the steps but a huge spar of wood blocked her way. Then there were other sounds borne on the wind; Sarah, from the direction of the orchard, and even Luke, had struggled out into the night. From the gate into the road, there came the voices of other neighbours, who, hearing the horrific noise, had rushed out to see what had happened.

  There was no way down the steps for Emma. The broken wood lay in a tangled heap of wreckage, blocking her way down the steps and across the yard.

  ‘Mammy, Mammy,’ came Charles’s piping voice. ‘I’m coming.’ The voice was no longer panic-stricken, instead there was a note of reassurance.

  Emma strained her eyes through the dusk and saw the small boy climbing over the wood, picking his way carefully, testing each foot and handhold until it felt safe.