The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  But Leonard was smiling. ‘I’ll see if I can pick up some clothing for the lad, Emma. This jacket’s seen better days.’ He pointed to the frayed cuffs and her neat darning around the patches on the elbows. ‘Can’t have a son of mine looking like a street urchin, can we, boy?’

  ‘No, Father,’ Charles said, smiling back a little uncertainly, but with a growing confidence. He pulled up his knee-length grey socks and rubbed the toe of each boot on the back of his legs, then smoothed back his hair in an effort to be like his well-dressed father.

  Emma, watching them together, hid her smile. The old Leonard Smith charm was being turned on his son for once, she mused. During the past few months her husband had grown a small, neat moustache that made him look a little older, much more the part of a successful middle-class man-about-town, and even more dashing. And today he was wearing a new dark suit.

  As she had listened to their footsteps going down the stairs, Emma sank into the chair by the fire, thankful to have a few moments respite.

  She awoke with a start at the sound of knocking and now, as she struggled across the room to open the door, she felt a sudden stab of unease. It was almost dark; they were later than she had thought. Oh, surely nothing had happened . . .

  A strange man stood on the landing, a notebook and pencil in his hand, a leather strap slung across his shoulder which supported a deep leather bag resting against his hip. He was a small weasel of a man, with thin, sharp features and a scraggy neck that stuck up out of a stiffly starched collar.

  ‘Yes?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Rent, madam,’ the man said through thin, almost nonexistent lips, without preamble or greeting.

  ‘Rent?’ she repeated, blinking stupidly.

  ‘Yes, madam. You’re already two months in arrears. There was no one at home the last twice I’ve called.’ The words were said with a hint of disbelief that was not lost on Emma.

  ‘Well, you’re out of luck again I’m afraid,’ she said tartly. ‘My husband pays the rent and he’s out.’ She made to close the door, but found the man had put his foot against the door jamb to prevent her doing so. Surprised she gaped at the booted foot for a moment and then raised her gaze to look into the man’s mean eyes.

  ‘Think I ain’t heard that one before?’ His thin lips stretched. ‘I want three months’ rent, Missis, and I ain’t budgin’ till I have the money.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Emma said and turned away from the door back towards the fire, leaving the man standing there. Unhurried and unconcerned she settled herself back in her chair, her mouth twitching with amusement. She raised her voice. ‘There’s a draught. Either come in or go out, but shut the door.’

  Hesitantly, he stepped into the room and closed the door. He stood beside it, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Obviously, in his vast experience, he had not previously encountered this sort of treatment. ‘Er, if you’d just give me the money, Missis, I’ll be on me way. I’ve other calls to make . . .’ His voice petered out.

  ‘I can’t give you what I haven’t got. If you want your rent money tonight, then you’ll have to wait until my husband comes home.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ the man said with dry sarcasm. ‘When the pubs shut, I suppose?’

  Emma opened her mouth to say he shouldn’t be long, he has our six-year-old with him, but something about the man’s belligerent manner made her remain silent. She leant back against the chair and gave an exaggerated sigh and pressed both her hands on to her bulging stomach. ‘I hope he’s not long myself. I’ve been getting these pains . . .’ She closed her eyes and gave a low moan.

  ‘Pains,’ the man’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. She heard the door open and him say, ‘Well, I’d best be on me way. I’ll call again. Yes, I’ll call again. Tomorrow – or – or the next day. Good day, missis.’

  As the door closed behind him, Emma opened her eyes and looked into the firelight. Quietly she began to chuckle, then as the merriment bubbled up inside her, she clapped her hand over her mouth. The rent man could still be outside, hovering on the landing. She didn’t want him to hear her laughing. But the more she tried to stifle her giggles the more insistent her mirth became until she was lying back in the chair, tears of helpless laughter running down her cheeks.

  It was the first time since leaving Marsh Thorpe that she had laughed like this and that was how her husband and son, coming back into the room in a flurry of excited chatter, found her. As she told them of her run-in with the rent man, Leonard sat down in the chair opposite and stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, now Emma Smith, if that don’t beat all. You, of all people, tricking that little ferret, Forbes. I never thought I’d see the day.’ There was a note of admiration in his tone that made Emma look up sharply, her laughter silenced.

  ‘What do you mean? Tricked him?’

  Leonard’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Well, you know, give him the run-around.’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ Emma denied hotly. ‘I couldn’t give him what I haven’t got, could I? I told him that. But if I’d had the rent money here, I would have given it to him.’

  At once Leonard’s expression turned into a sneer and he rose to his feet. ‘Huh, I might have known it was too much to hope that you were learning a bit of sense.’

  ‘Leonard, what do you mean? And why are we two months’ rent in arrears? He said he hadn’t been paid the last twice he’s called.’

  Her husband waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘Forget it, Emma. I’ll see to it. Now come and see what we’ve bought.’

  There was a new jacket and short, boy’s trousers for Charles and two shirts.

  ‘Oh, Leonard, they’re almost new.’

  ‘There’s a good stall there on the Saturday. Secondhand stuff mostly, but it’s usually very good.’

  There was a box of chocolates for her, wrapped with a blue ribbon. She reached out her hand to pick it up, torn between the pleasure his gifts gave and the nagging thought that they could not afford such luxuries.

  ‘And I got you this,’ he said, pulling something wrapped in a piece of cloth from his pocket and beaming at her. He unfolded the cloth and there in his hands lay Charles’s silver christening mug.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the mug from him, far more thankful to have it safely back in her hands than for any other present he could have bought her.

  As she went to the shelf in the corner of the room and reached up to put it in pride of place, Emma felt the first stab of pain low in her groin.

  ‘I won’t have that old beezum near me,’ Emma shouted, writhing on the bed, alternately sweating and shivering as the spasms of pain gripped with increasing frequency. ‘Get a doctor – a midwife – anyone, but not her!’

  ‘Oh, I see, not good enough for you, aren’t I?’ Mrs Biggins, standing at the end of the bed, her flabby arms folded beneath her bosom across which was stretched a dirty, grey-white blouse, gave a sniff and turned away.

  ‘No.’ Leonard’s hand shot out and gripped the woman’s arm. ‘No, please stay. She’s – she’s delirious.’ He gave an exaggerated, hearty laugh. ‘She must think you’re my mother. Yes, that’s it. They never did get on. Can’t stand the sight of each other, in fact,’ he added, warming to his theme.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Emma tried to whisper, but her words were lost in the groan that began low in her stomach and forced its way up and into her throat. It was, in fact, a lie. Emma wished with all her heart that it was Bridget standing at the end of the bed at this moment.

  She gave another moan and the pain caused her to bring her knees up, to grip her hands beneath them and bend forward over her bulging stomach. Through the haze of her pain she saw Leonard staring down at her and heard the woman say, ‘Good God, she’s getting ready to push. Look lively, man. Get down to yon kitchen and get some water boiling. Get my old man to help ye. He knows what to do. I’ve ’ad five o’ me own and he delivered two of ’em when we couldn’t afford a midwife. Go on.’

  Roughly,
she pushed Leonard towards the door and then gripped the bedclothes and flung them off. ‘Now then, let’s be ’aving a look at yer.’

  Not one of them – not Emma, lost in the depths of her pain, nor the bewildered man, nor the blowsy, unkempt woman – noticed the young boy, cowering, terrified in the corner of the hot, stuffy room.

  Twenty-Seven

  By the time Emma was well enough to write and tell her friend Sarah the good news, the child’s name had become Billy.

  Tell William when next you see him that I’ve named the baby after him. She smiled as she wrote, her pen hovering over the page as she almost added, and don’t forget to tell the bees. But the words remained unwritten. Sarah needed no reminding. Emma’s gaze went to the window and beyond as she thought about her home.

  The bees in the orchard would be the first to know.

  Sarah replied by return.

  Oh, Emma, another Forrest bairn and wouldn’t your old dad have been that proud to think it’s another boy? William Forrest Smith. It’s a grand name. By the way, the bees are still here in the orchard. I was so afraid they might leave us, you know, after what happened to the mill and then you going away. But they’re still here and that means one day you’ll come back to us . . .

  A week after the birth, a knock came on the door.

  ‘Oh no,’ Emma groaned, remembering it was the day the rent man was due again and Leonard was once more, conveniently for him, not at home. She sighed and called, ‘Come in.’

  She was still in the huge bed in the corner although she now got up each day for a few hours, against the advice of the ‘midwife’. Mrs Biggins, though without improvement in her appearance and slovenly ways, had risen in Emma’s estimation. Emma was always ready to give credit where it was due, and whilst she bemoaned the fact that it could not have been Sarah once more with her at her confinement, she had to admit that without the ministrations of her neighbour, she would have been in great difficulty. And even afterwards, she was thankful when the woman levered her huge, bloated frame up the flight of stairs each day to help. Leonard disappeared every morning as soon as he could and even young Charles displayed a sudden keenness for school.

  The door opened and Emma gave a delighted squeal and flung her arms wide in welcome. ‘William!’

  Grinning, he approached the bed, bent down and submitted himself to a rapturous hug.

  ‘Oh, how lovely to see you. Sit down,’ she patted the covers beside her. ‘Tell me all the news. How’s everything at home? How’s – ?’ she hesitated a fraction and then finished, ‘everyone?’

  He sat beside her, his eyes intent upon her face. ‘How are you?’ he said soberly. ‘You look pale, Em.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, it is only a week since Billy was born.’ She saw his glance take in the squalid room and said a little too brightly to deceive William, ‘We’re hoping to move out of here soon. These rooms were what Leonard had when he was on his own. They’re not suitable for a family. They were always only temporary . . .’ Her voice faded away. She could see that William did not believe her.

  Emma lay back against the pillows and found herself confiding in her childhood friend. She hadn’t meant to, but in the overwhelming joy of seeing someone from home, and especially as that someone was William, for a moment she was vulnerable. ‘I’ve had a difficult time with this one. The labour lasted twelve hours. It’ll be different when I get my strength back.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ William asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead, his voice deep with anxiety. Suddenly, he stood up and turned away from her. ‘This is no place for a newhorn baby or for you,’ he burst out angrily.

  She watched him, her violet eyes dark and troubled. Tears welled up and she brushed them aside impatiently, but he caught sight of them as he turned to look at her again. ‘Oh Em, don’t. I’m sorry.’ He sat beside her again and caught hold of her hands.

  ‘Leonard’s trying to find somewhere better for us, really he is,’ but even as she spoke the words, she could hear the doubt in her own voice.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ William said, a little too quickly and patted her hand, but she could see that he had to force a smile on to his lips. ‘Now, I’d better have a look at my namesake.’

  Emma watched as he bent over the rough cradle and saw his expression soften, a small smile curve his mouth. What a wonderful father he would make; the thought came unbidden into her mind. He put out his forefinger, roughened and calloused by hard work, and gently, so very gently, touched the child’s cheek. The infant stirred and snuffled and William straightened up. ‘I’d better not wake him,’ he whispered.

  Emma laughed. ‘He’ll be waking soon to be fed. He’s a greedy little devil.’ She pulled a wry face. Her breasts were heavy with milk, and tender, and every feed was an agony for her.

  ‘I don’t know why this time’s so different to when Charles was born,’ she murmured and a frown creased her forehead. ‘And talking of Charles, he ignores the baby. He won’t even look at him.’

  ‘I expect he feels pushed out a bit,’ William said gently. ‘After all, he’s had you to himself for six years.’

  Emma lay back against the pillows, her long, black hair spread around her and smiled up at him. ‘Of course you’re right. I should have realized. I must try to make more fuss of Charles.’ She smiled and then added, ‘Enough about me and my problems. Tell me about home? You haven’t said anything about the village. Have you seen Sarah and Luke? How is poor old Luke?’

  ‘I – ’ he hesitated and then the words came in a rush, ‘I don’t go to Marsh Thorpe very often. Sarah sent word to me by the carrier about the bairn and I came straight here to see you.’ There was silence as he seemed to be struggling with the next words. ‘Jamie – Jamie and me – we still don’t get on, you know.’

  Emma sighed. ‘I do so wish it was different,’ she said sadly and once more she felt William’s gaze upon her. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he had been about to say remained unspoken, for at that moment they heard the sound of raised voices on the floor below, then of footsteps mounting the stairs and the raucous voice of Mrs Biggins. ‘Leave the poor lass alone, can’t you? ’Er only a week past her birthing. ’Er man’s not at home, I tell you.’

  But the footsteps continued relentlessly up the stairs towards Emma’s door.

  ‘It’ll be Forbes, the rent man. Please, William, just ask him to come back later. Leonard should be home then.’

  William opened the door and Emma heard the man’s surprised. ‘Oh, good afternoon, sir. Is Mrs Smith at home?’

  William’s tone was polite, but clipped. ‘She is, but she is not well enough to see you.’

  ‘You the doctor, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m just visiting. She’s asked me to tell you to come back later when her husband will be here.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ the voice was not so pleasant now. ‘You in on it an’ all, mate?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ William began and Emma felt a sweat of embarrassment break out all over her. She pushed back the covers and put her feet to the floor.

  William, hearing her movement, leant backwards to look at her around the open door. ‘Get back into bed, I’ll deal with this.’

  He stepped out on to the landing with the rent man and closed the door behind him. Suddenly weakness gripped her and she felt dizzy and sick. She lay back and closed her eyes. She could hear them talking outside her door but could no longer hear what was being said.

  ‘William . . .’ she called weakly, but the murmur of voices continued for a few moments before the door opened again and William stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him once more.

  Emma opened her eyes. ‘Is he coming back later?’

  William did not come back to the bed where Emma lay, but bent over the cradle once more. ‘Er, he says he’ll leave it until next week and try to call when Leonard will be at home. I made him see you weren’t up to being bothered at the moment.’ He looked up at her. ‘Has a doctor seen
you, Em?’

  She shook her head, touched by his concern, his kindliness making her feel unusually weepy. ‘I’ll be fine in a day or two. I just feel so dreadfully tired.’

  They talked a little longer and then William said reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry, I must go else I’ll miss the bus back.’

  He stood uncertainly in the centre of the cluttered room; the one room where Emma’s family lived, ate and slept. He was fishing in his pocket and pulled out two pound notes. ‘Here . . .’

  ‘Oh no, William, please . . .’ she began, but he cut short her protestations saying, ‘It’s for the child – for Billy. And give this five shillings to Charles. Mustn’t leave him out, you know,’ he added, grinning at her.

  ‘But so much . . .’ she began again.

  ‘Please let me. After all, you’ve called the baby after me, haven’t you?’

  She nodded as the easy tears threatened again. ‘Oh, William,’ was all she could say.

  He stood there looking at her for a long moment, before he turned and placed the money on the mantelpiece under a candlestick. ‘There, and don’t let Leonard—’ he began and then stopped and altered whatever he had been going to say, ‘I mean, it’s for the boys.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, but they both knew that once Leonard knew about the money, it would never find it’s way into the baby’s money box or even into young Charles’s pocket.

  ‘I must go,’ he said again and stood at the side of the bed looking down at her for a long moment, then he bent, kissed her forehead swiftly and turned away. ‘Take care of yourself, Em. And if you ever need me, you know where I am.’

  Then he was gone, moving across the room, opening the door and going through it before she could speak again.

  As she listened to the sound of his steps on the stairs becoming fainter and fainter, she whispered, ‘Goodbye William.’ Then she turned her face into her pillow and wept.

  Three days later, when she felt a little stronger and got up from her bed and dressed for the first time, she found that the money had disappeared from beneath the candlestick. Slowly, knowing what she would see, she turned her head towards the shelf in the corner. The space where the silver christening mug should have been standing was empty.