The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Oh, Billy’s just like his father,’ Bridget would trill. ‘Such a handsome, merry little chap.’

  ‘And is Leonard like his father, Bridget?’ Emma dared to ask once, holding her breath.

  ‘Leonard’s father?’ Bridget’s tone was mystified, almost as if she had forgotten the existence of such a man.

  ‘Mm,’ Emma said. ‘Was he a dashing, man about town when you married him?’

  ‘Me? Married?’ The woman went into fits of laughter, until Emma, despite herself, was smiling too. Bridget wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Oh, my darling Emma. I’ve never been married, but don’t you dare tell a soul, mind.’ She patted the neat blonde sausage curls. ‘Keep ’em guessing, that’s what I always say. Keep ’em champing at the bit.’ Her eyes twinkled with merriment. ‘You’d have done better not to have married our Leonard. Once they’ve got a ring on your finger – and through your nose – ’ she snorted with laughter at her own joke, ‘they take you for granted. Expect you to wash and cook and clean for them.’ Again she preened and glanced towards the mirror over the fireplace. ‘That’s not for me, Emma dear. Never was and never will be.’

  ‘But,’ Emma said hesitantly, ‘what about Leonard’s father?’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Leonard’s father? Huh! I wouldn’t have married him if he’d been the last man on earth! Never knew where you had him or if you had him at all. A real “Jack the Lad”. I suppose that’s where Leonard gets his bad habits from.’

  Valiantly, Emma tried to hide her smile, but failed and Bridget wagged her finger playfully at her. ‘Now then. I know what you’re thinking. “Pot calling kettle black”.’ The smile spread across her painted mouth. ‘Oh well, you’re right, I suppose. I have been a bit of a bad girl in my time.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘But I’d do it all again. Every minute of it. I don’t regret a moment of my life.’ She paused, pondering for a moment and then added slowly, ‘There was a time when I thought I did. When I found I was pregnant with Leonard. That was a mistake, I can tell you.’

  Emma was speechless, unable to comprehend any woman not wanting to have children and at Bridget’s next words, she could not stop the gasp of surprise escaping her lips.

  ‘I thought about giving him away. You know, putting him up for adoption. But, well, when it came to the point, I couldn’t do it.’ She giggled as if surprised at herself. ‘I must have more maternal instincts in me than I thought. Of course, he’s been a pain at times. Some of my gentlemen friends haven’t been too keen to have a kid tagging along.’ Her grin widened and she winked broadly. ‘But I soon changed their minds for them.’

  Emma sniffed wryly. ‘Well, he’s a pain now, your Leonard.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be too hard on him. He’s not a bad lad. He just likes a good time and you are a bit of a sobersides, now aren’t you? Always worrying about money and paying the rent. No man wants to come home to a nagging wife, Emma.’

  ‘Am I his wife?’ She hadn’t intended to ask the question but the words were out before she realized she had spoken them aloud.

  Bridget’s eyes widened. ‘Of course you are. You can’t think that big, fancy wedding could have been fixed?’

  Emma pulled a face. ‘I have wondered.’

  Bridget laughed. ‘Oh no, I’ll say that for Harry Forrest, he had Leonard weighed up and tied up good and proper.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said grimly, and thought to herself, if only I had realized it at the time.

  ‘Now,’ Bridget was saying, dragging Emma’s thoughts back to the present. ‘Where’s Billy? I’ve a present for him.’ As a hasty afterthought, she added, ‘And for Charles as well, of course.’

  As if on cue, they heard Billy’s whistling and his boots thudding down the passageway between the two houses. The yard gate crashed back on its hinges and the boy came into the house.

  ‘Hello, how’s me favourite gran then?’

  He stood before Bridget, bent forward and planted a sticky kiss on her cheek.

  ‘You young scallywag,’ Bridget laughed. ‘I’m your only gran.’

  Billy’s cheeky grin widened. ‘Where’s me present then?’

  ‘Billy . . .’ Emma began, but Bridget only laughed and began hunting in the depths of her bag. ‘But you’ve got to pay me for this, young Billy.’

  ‘Pay you? Not likely!’

  ‘Wait a bit and I’ll tell you why. Ah, here we are.’ Bridget pulled out two small thin parcels about four inches long.

  ‘What is it?’ the boy asked in spite of himself.

  ‘Open it and see.’

  Billy put his head on one side, a wary look on his face, meeting her teasing eyes squarely. ‘Not if I’ve got to pay for it.’

  Bridget laughed. ‘Go on, open it first anyway.’

  The boy unwrapped the present and in his palm lay a pearl handled penknife. ‘It’s great, but why have I got to pay for it?’

  ‘If anyone gives you a knife, you’re supposed to pay for it else it’ll “cut” your friendship.’

  Emma stifled her mirth. She had never thought of Leonard’s mother as being superstitious. Sarah Robson, yes, but never Bridget. She watched, amused, as Billy’s mouth curved in a sneer, but he was fishing in his pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Well, that’s all I’ve got.’

  Over his shoulder, Emma saw the coin – or rather what had once been a coin of the realm – lying on the flat of his palm.

  Bridget smiled. ‘Well, that’ll do.’

  ‘Wait a minute, young man,’ Emma began, ‘what is it?’ She reached out and picked up the piece of metal that still had the imprint of the monarch’s head on it, but it had been flattened and battered into twice it’s normal size. ‘What have you been up to now, Billy?’

  She caught hold of the lobe of his ear and nipped it, holding it firmly between her thumb and forefinger until he squirmed. ‘Ouch. It’s only a ha’penny, Mam.’

  She looked at it again. Yes, it was a halfpenny, or rather, it had been, but now it was the size of a penny. ‘What have you done to it?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘We all do it,’ he began, as if that made it acceptable. ‘The older lads told us what to do. Joey told us,’ he added slyly, perhaps thinking that would make it all right. ‘We buy some chewing gum with half our Sat’day penny, chew it until all the taste’s gone and then we – we—’

  He wriggled again, but Emma’s grip was firm. ‘Go on,’ she said grimly.

  ‘We stick it on the railway line. Y’know, where the track goes across the road in the High Street? Joey ses they used to do it on the tram lines but since the trams stopped running, we have to use the railway track. The train runs over it and it ends up like that.’

  ‘And?’ Emma persisted. ‘Then what do you do with it?’ The finger and thumb pressed a little harder.

  ‘We – we go and put it in the slot machines on the station and get chocolate and stuff.’

  Emma opened her mouth to upbraid her son, but before she could say a word, Bridget was clapping her hands and laughing. ‘Oh, how clever of you, Billy. You are like your father. That’s just the sort of thing Leonard used to do.’

  Thwarted in her outrage, Emma thought to herself, ‘And he’s still doing it.’ Automatically, her glance went to the cupboard in the corner.

  The christening mug was missing yet again.

  Thirty-Two

  Twelve years had passed since she had come to live in the city and in all that time she had not been back to Marsh Thorpe once. So when a letter arrived from Sarah telling her of Luke’s death, Emma sat in her kitchen, the letter lying open on the table, and was overcome by guilt. ‘I should have gone back more. I should have gone to see them,’ she murmured aloud.

  They had corresponded, she and Sarah, regularly, but Sarah had never come to the city and Emma, immersed in the hardship of her everyday life and burying the memories of her girlhood, had allowed the months and years to slip by. Perhaps, she thought, in a moment of honesty with herself, I’ve deliberately avoided going back. Marsh Th
orpe held so many memories, happy and sad, that perhaps her innermost self had shied away from returning to open old wounds.

  However, she knew exactly what had been happening in the village during all the years she had been gone, for Sarah’s letters, an untidy, childish scrawl, were nevertheless newsy and a joy to read. Holding the pages of her ramblings was like talking to Sarah face to face and Emma had always eagerly awaited their arrival.

  We’ve a new vicar come to the parish and he’s not married and you’d be surprised how many young unmarried girls have suddenly found going to church of a Sunday a good idea . . .

  Jamie Metcalfe’s never wed, you know, Emma. Keeps himself to himself. If it wasn’t for folk doing business with him, why, I don’t reckon he’d set eyes on a body from one weekend to the next. William comes over now and again from Bilsford and always calls to see us. Oh, but he’s a lovely man, Emma, and no mistake. Mind you, he was always a nice lad. Can’t understand why some nice girl hasn’t snapped him up years ago. Now I can understand Jamie not getting wed. Who’d put up with that mardy creature? But William, now he’s a different kettle of fish . . .

  By the way, I heard tell that Bridget got left a little cottage when that feller she went to live with passed away.

  Luke’s rheumatics are playing him up and his breathing is getting worse. Some days he don’t even get out of bed. Since the mill went, he don’t seem to have the heart somehow . . .

  And now poor old Luke was gone.

  The gossip about her mother-in-law was not news to Emma. She was very fond of her mother-in-law for Bridget made no secret of her way of life and was in no way ashamed of it.

  ‘I’ve been fond of all my gentleman friends, Emma,’ she would say, smoothing the silk of her skirt. ‘Never mind what anyone says about me. And I’ve given them affection and pleasure,’ she gave an arch look at the younger woman, ‘in their final years, and if,’ she waved her slim, well-manicured hand in the air, ‘they want to show their appreciation by leaving me a little something, then I’m certainly not going to complain, now am I?’ The latest ‘little something’ had been a small, thatched cottage in Thirsby, the next village to Marsh Thorpe. ‘Of course, I may sell it and move back to the city,’ she said dreamily, examining her long pointed fingernails with seeming intensity. ‘But I’m in no hurry. There’s this retired Colonel who’s just moved into the village.’ She looked up at Emma coyly out of the corners of her eyes. ‘A widower, you know.’

  Emma laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Bridget, you’re priceless.’

  Bridget only shrugged her shoulders and laughed girlishly, adding, as always, ‘Now where are my darling boys? Where’s my little Billy?’

  But this morning’s letter from Sarah, Emma had not wanted to receive.

  ‘Poor Luke,’ she murmured. ‘And poor Sarah. I ought to go to her. I ought—’ With a swift movement she got up from the wooden chair and went to the mantelpiece and lifted down the pint pot where she kept a little housekeeping money. As she might have expected, it was empty. That meant Leonard was short this week, for he never touched her jar when he had money enough of his own to flash around.

  So all she had was the rent money which she hid every week away from Leonard. Though she knew he had tried desperately on occasions to find it, pulling drawers open and scattering the contents, flinging furniture about in his frustration, she had always managed to keep it hidden from him. She would watch him with a thudding heart, determined to keep outwardly calm while all the time feeling the money tucked safely in the elastic of her knickers.

  Her glance went to the cupboard in the corner where the christening mug stood. It was still there. So, things were not that tight at the moment. She bit her lip, debating whether to follow her husband’s example and pop the mug to raise the fare to Marsh Thorpe so that she could go to Luke’s funeral.

  ‘No,’ she said aloud to the empty kitchen. ‘I’ll not be dragged into his ways.’ Her mouth tightened. Just for once, the rent man would have to wait. She was going to Marsh Thorpe to attend old Luke’s funeral and Mr Forbes would have to whistle for a week. She quelled the shudder that ran through her, smothering the thought that it would be dangerous to get into that man’s clutches too often.

  ‘Oh, Emma, Emma lass. I’m that glad to see you. Thank you for coming. Let me look at you.’

  Emma returned the swift hug and then allowed herself to be scrutinized by the puffy eyes that spoke of Sarah’s recent loss. ‘Luke would love to have seen ya again before . . .’

  ‘Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry I haven’t been back. I should have—’

  ‘No, no, lass,’ the older woman was shaking her head. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. We knew you couldn’t get away, what with ya family an’ all. ’Sides, we realized it must be difficult for you to come back here . . .’ Her voice trailed away and she glanced swiftly at the looming shape of the mill behind them.

  Emma found she was holding her breath as her eyes went beyond the plump little figure of Sarah and she allowed herself to look at Forrest’s Mill for the first time in twelve long years. It was still there, standing tall, a black shape against the morning light from the east, remarkably unscathed by the years that had passed.

  ‘William came and – what did he call it? – capped it, I think he said, to stop the weather getting in and rotting all the floorboards.’

  Emma glanced at her old friend in surprise. ‘William?’

  Sarah nodded and looked at her keenly. ‘Oh yes.’ Now it was her turn to show surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought you must have asked him to do it.’

  When Emma said nothing but merely shook her head, Sarah’s puzzlement deepened. ‘Oh that’s odd, then, ’cos he comes every month to see to it. He goes all over the mill and does any repairs. To be honest, at first Luke and me thought you must have sold it to him, but we asked him one day – he always comes in for a cuppa, y’know – but he said no, he was only keeping an eye on it for you, to keep the machinery right, an’ that. And the house, Emma, it’s all just as you left it. I go in every week and keep it nice. It’s all ready if you should ever want to come back.’

  Emma hardly heard Sarah’s prattle. She was standing perfectly still, just staring at the mill, her mind hammering out his name. William, oh, William.

  Then something in Sarah’s tone caught her attention again. There was a catch in the woman’s throat as she said, ‘But – but there’s just one thing I’ll have to tell you now. It’s something mebbe I should have told you in a letter, but I could never bring myself to write the words. I kept hoping, you see . . .’ Her voice dwindled. Even now she was putting off the moment of the actual telling of something unpleasant.

  ‘What is it, Sarah?’ Emma said gently, putting her arm around the older woman’s shoulders.

  The words came out in a rush then. ‘It’s the bees. They’ve gone. The hives, they’re all empty.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emma said flatly. ‘I see.’

  Sarah was shaking her head sadly. ‘I was so afraid they would go, y’know. But for the first few years after you’d gone, they did stay. And I was that pleased because I thought it meant that you would be coming back.’ Her face slackened into lines of defeat. ‘And I’ve tried everything I can think of, baiting the hives, all that. But they’ve never come back.’

  There was nothing Emma could think of to say.

  As she left the pew at the end of the funeral service to follow Luke’s coffin out into the churchyard, with Sarah clinging to her arm and snuffling into her handkerchief, Emma searched for sight of William. It seemed as if all the village was there, packed into the church standing on the rise towering over the houses clustering round it. There were a lot of faces she recognized, older, certainly, but then no doubt hers was too. There were some strangers amongst the congregation; people she presumed had come to the village in the past twelve years and who had come to know – and to like – old Luke. Then she saw Jamie, standing rigidly tall, his gaze fixed upon the altar as the family mourners processed slow
ly down the aisle. But there was no sign of William Metcalfe and the fact surprised and disappointed Emma in one swift stab.

  They buried Luke in one corner of the churchyard in a plot beneath a yew tree and, as Emma lifted her gaze from the deep hole with the mound of earth to one side, she saw the mill and knew that Luke would have been happy with the place Sarah had chosen for him. He would lay within sight of the mill where he had lived and worked all his life. No man could have loved that mill more, she thought, if he had owned it.

  Only a handful of mourners came back to Sarah’s cottage after the interment. Jamie was the last to leave and Emma walked with him out of the cottage, through the orchard and into the mill yard. They were ill at ease with each other. Neither seemed to know what to say nor even how to open up a conversation.

  ‘How are—?’ ‘Do you see—?’

  They both began to speak at once and then stopped, looked at each other, smiled awkwardly and then Emma said, ‘You first.’

  Jamie twisted his cap through his fingers. ‘I was only going to ask how you are? You look fine.’

  She glanced up to see those dark brown eyes upon her, but in their depths his expression was difficult to read. She smiled brightly, perhaps a little too brightly, and said, ‘I’m fine. I’ve got used to life in the city. I never thought I would but, well, on the whole it’s not so bad. I have a lovely neighbour, Mary Porter.’ She laughed. ‘She’s very like Sarah in some ways.’ Emma was prattling, she knew she was, to cover up her embarrassment. She was talking about anything and everything save the one thing she knew Jamie was really wanting to ask.

  But he was not one to be put off. ‘Are you – happy – Emma?’

  She looked at him then, turning to face him, her brilliant eyes holding his, not allowing him to look away. Quietly, she said, ‘As happy as I’m ever likely to be, Jamie.’