The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  They heard the pounding of hobnailed boots on the pavement and turned to see Billy flying down the slope of the street, his jacket open, his eyes wild, his mouth gaping. ‘Me mam! Oh, me mam! Where’s me mam?’

  She made an involuntary movement towards her son, but felt William hold her back and heard his whispered, ‘Wait, Em. Watch.’

  Billy had not seen them standing quietly on the other side of the street. Now he was thrusting aside the restraining arms of the air raid warden, pushing his way through the little knot of men who were digging amongst the debris for survivors or bodies. Billy saw the door the two men were carrying as a makeshift stretcher, saw the covered form lying on it.

  ‘No,’ he yelled. ‘No, oh no . . .’

  He caught hold of the rough blanket covering the body and ripped it away, staring down wide-eyed and fearful at Mary’s body. For a moment he was motionless as the realization that it was not his mother dawned, then he turned away scrambling over the rubble, clawing frantically at the bricks and stones with his bare hands.

  Now Emma broke free from William’s arms and stepped forward.

  ‘Billy, Billy love. I’m here.’ Slowly he straightened up and turned round to stare at her. She saw his white face, his dark eyes wide with terror. ‘I’m all right, Billy,’ she said gently.

  He stumbled down the pile of bricks and began to run towards her, opening his arms wide as if to scoop her into them. ‘Oh, Mam . . .’ she heard the break in his voice and, as he reached her, she saw the tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  He flung himself against her, for a moment no longer the swaggering, rebellious youth despising any emotion as weakness. For those few anguish-filled moments he was her little boy again, her Billy.

  ‘It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’ She rocked him in her arms, holding him tightly against her. Above his head she met William’s steady gaze. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. We’re going home, Billy, we’re going home.’

  Thirty-Nine

  ‘What are you going to do, Alf?’

  With her own immediate future decided, Emma was concerned for the big man whose whole world had been devastated. They were walking out of the gates of the cemetery after Mary’s funeral. On her other side, with his hand on her elbow, supporting her, loving her, walked William.

  ‘Have you somewhere to go, because . . .?’ Emma said gently.

  ‘S’all right,’ the big man said, a slight tremble in his deep voice. ‘Me eldest lad says I’m to go to theirs.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder towards the family mourners following them. ‘For a while anyway. I can get a job there, an’ all, he reckons.’

  Emma nodded. She was relieved. Alf would be with his family. She hadn’t wanted to leave without knowing that he had somewhere to go, somewhere to live, yet she was anxious to be gone. She couldn’t wait to go home.

  ‘Have you heard from Joey?’

  The big man shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve sent word.’

  They walked in silence until, at the top of their street, they stopped and faced each other.

  Alf seemed to be struggling to find the words. ‘She liked you, Emma. My Mary thought a lot of you. I hope everything – ’ he glanced briefly towards William, ‘works out for you. Mary would have been pleased.’

  Her voice husky with emotion, Emma said. ‘Thank you, Alf.’ For a moment, they clasped hands and then, with the awkwardness of knowing they were parting, probably never to meet again, they hugged each other. ‘Goodbye, Alf. And thank you – for everything,’ she whispered and then turned away, tears blurring her vision. She tucked her hand through William’s arm and he led her down the street towards his truck, already loaded with all her possessions, standing outside the wreckage of the terraced houses.

  ‘Billy,’ she called, spotting him at the bottom of the street, kicking a ball against a wall. ‘Come on, we’re going.’

  Billy’s caring attitude had not lasted long. He had very soon reverted to form and now he picked up the ball and came slowly up the street towards them, reluctance in every step.

  ‘Why do we have to leave? Old man Rabinski said you could have another house as soon as one comes vacant,’ he grumbled as he climbed into the front of the truck to sit between them. With every mile that took him away from the city where he roamed the streets freely, his indignation grew. ‘I don’t want to live in a bloody village.’

  Emma’s, ‘Watch your language, m’lad,’ was accompanied by a sharp slap and it was all William could do to hide his laughter and keep the truck straight on the road.

  ‘I’ll run away again,’ was all Billy muttered morosely and fell silent between them.

  But Emma, sitting on the far side of him, had a contented, placid smile on her face. She was on her way home. The few belongings they had been able to salvage from the devastation of her home were packed in the back of William’s vehicle and on her knee, wrapped in a soft cloth, she held the silver christening mug. There was only the tiniest dint in the rim, caused the night the house had been bombed, that would tell generations to come – Charles’ children and grandchildren – of its chequered history.

  As the truck rattled and bumped over the miles, Emma felt excitement mounting within her. Rounding the final corner that took them down the gently sloping hill within sight of the mill, she found she was holding her breath.

  Except for her brief return to Luke’s funeral, just over fifteen years had passed since she had lived here, and yet when the black shape of the mill, still standing forlornly without its proud sails, came into view, it was as if all the intervening years fell away. She was back home, back where she truly belonged. Above Billy’s head she felt William’s glance upon her face as he turned the vehicle into the gate and came to a halt in the yard of Forrest’s Mill.

  She climbed down and stood in the middle of the yard staring up at the mill above her. Silently she said, ‘Oh, Grandpa Charlie, I deserted you, but I’m back now and I’ll never leave you again.’

  Almost as if reading her thoughts, William came and stood beside her putting his arm about her waist. ‘Welcome home, Emma Forrest.’ His arm tightened. ‘We’ll rebuild it, Em, you and I.’

  She looked at him, her eyes on a level with his. ‘Do you mean it? Can we? Do you really think we can?’

  Steadily he returned her gaze. With sober sincerity, he said, ‘Emma, I’d do anything in this world for you. Anything.’

  Hearing the love and devotion in his voice, the lump that rose in her throat robbed her of her voice, so, in answer, she laid her head against his shoulder.

  A cry from the direction of the orchard made her lift her head again to see Sarah hurrying towards them as fast as her legs would carry her plump little body. ‘Emma, my little Emma . . .’ and in a moment Emma found herself clasped against her soft bosom.

  She hugged Sarah in return. ‘It’s so good to see you and this – ’ Emma turned to pull a reluctant Billy forward, ‘is young Billy.’

  As Sarah made to envelop the boy in her embrace, Billy stepped smartly backwards to avoid the fat arms. The woman laughed, understanding. ‘Too old for cuddles, eh?’

  Turning back to link her arm with Emma’s, she said, ‘Is this a flying visit or have you come to stay? I’ve a spare bed all made up and Billy can sleep on me couch.’

  There was a moment’s pause before Emma said carefully. ‘I’ve come home, Sarah.’ She glanced at William and then added, so that there should be no mistake in anyone’s mind from the very start, ‘We’ve come home.’

  The woman’s eyes widened as she glanced from one to the other and then back again. ‘Oh,’ she said and then again, ‘oh!’

  Suddenly the yard of Forrest’s Mill was filled with the sound of laughter.

  Of course, in the village, Emma’s return was a nine-day wonder. The gossips were having a field day.

  ‘Come back, she has, and William Metcalfe has moved into the mill an’ all. Of course, he’s rebuilding it for ’er, leastways that
’s what the story is, but there’s more to it than that. There’s got to be.’

  ‘And ’er husband away at the war, an’ all.’

  ‘He’s been killed though, ain’t he?’

  ‘Ah, but they never identified his body, did they? What if he turns up after the war, eh? What happens then? You tell me that?’

  And when Emma’s belly swelled with William’s child, the gossips nodded, satisfied that their predictions had been correct.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she had asked William.

  ‘Do you?’ he had countered and when she had shaken her head, he had kissed her and said, ‘Well then,’ and that had ended the matter.

  As for Emma, anyone had only to look at her face to see the happiness shining from it. She was loved by a wonderful man, she still had the loyalty of the devoted Sarah and she was home; home at Grandpa Charlie’s mill.

  To Emma, the village had changed little in all the years she had been away, except that now, like everywhere else, the war was making its mark. All around the village, the kerbs were painted white so that they could be seen in the blackout. Nearly every backyard or garden had a trench shelter and now, where once pretty flowers had nodded their heads, every inch of ground grew vegetables. Even the grass verges had been ploughed up to grow potatoes. William was soon part of the Auxiliary Fire Service and Emma found herself pressed into joining the Women’s Institute and helping out in the large room at the pub which had become the NAAFI canteen. In their own way, the villagers were welcoming Emma back amongst them.

  ‘There’s far worse things going on while this war’s on,’ Sarah nodded sagely, ‘for any of ’em to be casting stones at you, lass. What with a lot of our menfolk away at the war and the village full of soldiers.’ She straightened up and looked at Emma. ‘Well, then?’

  Emma returned her gaze, puzzled. ‘Well – what?’

  ‘When are we opening up the bakehouse again?’

  ‘The bakehouse?’ Emma said stupidly, mystified by Sarah’s sudden change in their conversation. ‘But – I mean – I thought Sam Fothergill opened up a bakery after we finished?’

  ‘Oh aye, he did and he’s still going strong. But there’s enough business for two of you now.’ Sarah leant towards her. ‘There’s all the soldiers billeted in the village, then there’s the camps and the airfields close by, not to mention—’

  ‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point. And I thought nothing much had changed in Marsh Thorpe,’ she laughed.

  Sarah snorted. ‘Aw lass, you don’t know the half of it. The place is awash with the military, and as for the whole area hereabouts, well, I don’t reckon anything will ever be the same again. Why, Jamie Metcalfe’s never been so busy in his life. Different work to the old days, mind you, but it’s work for him, none the less.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma said and her eyes narrowed. Perhaps Jamie was now finding out just how hard it was to cope single-handedly.

  They were quiet for a moment, each busy with their own thoughts. Then Emma said slowly, ‘So, you think we ought to start up the bakery again do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ was the prompt reply.

  When she spoke to William about the idea, he was reluctant at first. ‘I don’t want you overdoing it, what with our baby coming. If Billy would help, then . . .’

  ‘Billy?’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Billy won’t stay five minutes, William. I know that and I’ve got to face it.’ She sighed. ‘He’ll go to sea, I know he will. Just as soon as he can lie his way in to one of the services.’

  ‘So? What do you want to do then?’

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly, her mouth twitching. ‘There’s this little man I know in Lincoln and he might, he just very well might, be the answer to our prayers.’

  They found Mr Rabinski living in two rooms in a house that had only been partially repaired since the bombing. The old man was pathetically glad to see Emma again.

  ‘I haf nothing now,’ he spread his hands. ‘People haf been kind to me. Very kind, but it is not the same as when I had my little shop, you know. Oh, how I miss the smell of the bread and . . .’ He waved his hands in the air and smiled a little sadly. ‘We vill say no more about it. It is done and I am lucky I am alive and still haf my strength.’

  Emma glanced at William then, who, unseen by the old man, nodded.

  ‘Would you like to be a baker again?’ Emma began.

  The old man was shaking his head. ‘Oh, but I am too tired to start all over and—’

  ‘No, I don’t mean here, Mr Rabinski, and I don’t mean on your own either. But would you be prepared to leave the city?’

  Mr Rabinski blinked at her in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand . . .?’

  Swiftly she explained and when she had finished, tears were coursing down the old man’s cheeks. He clasped Emma’s hand in both of his, raised it to his lips and kissed it again and again until Emma found herself glancing towards William in embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you. I vill come with you. I vill come with you this day, this minute . . .’

  So Mr Rabinski had packed his belongings and had travelled to Marsh Thorpe sitting in the front of the truck between William and Emma.

  ‘You should let me sit in the back, dear lady. It is not – er – goot for you.’ His glance had shied away from her growing bulge, but Emma had only laughed and said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you sit in the back. The wind would blow you away.’

  The old man smiled. ‘I vould hold my hat on very tight,’ he said and, impishly, he pulled his broad-brimmed black hat low down over his forehead to demonstrate.

  The three of them were still laughing when William drew into the yard of Forrest’s Mill and Sarah came bustling towards them.

  A week later, she said, ‘Mr Rabinski can move in with me if you like, Emma. He’d be company for me. He’s a nice old boy. I like him.’

  ‘Ooh, Sarah,’ Emma’s eyes glinted teasingly. ‘Now, now . . .’

  The round face beamed and the cheeks grew pink. ‘Aye well, let’s give the gossips summat else to chatter about, shall we?’

  As he had threatened, Billy ran away again and again. It had nothing to do with the arrival of Mr Rabinski, although when the boy had seen him climbing down from the cab of William’s truck, his face had been a picture.

  ‘Oh, my boy. It is Billy. See, Billy,’ the old man opened his coat to display the watch chain looped across his waistcoat. ‘I still haf my vatch.’ The boy had given him a sickly smile and his glance had gone straight to his mother, a glance that said, ‘Have you brought him here on purpose?’

  ‘What’s all that about?’ William whispered to Emma, who, trying desperately to hide her mirth, said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  The third time Billy ran away, he did not return. A brief letter in his untidy scrawl informed them that he was going to sea on a ship out of Grimsby.

  Holding the scribbled note in her fingers Emma murmured, ‘Just like Grandpa Charlie’s brother . . .’

  Three weeks later, Emma was standing looking out of the scullery window, watching William at work in the yard on the last sail of the mill. Soon, she thought, soon the sails will be turning once more on Forrest’s Mill.

  A black cloud, a moving, humming black cloud, came from the fields and drifted towards the mill, nestling against the black slope of the mill side.

  Emma caught her breath, then opened the back door and began to walk across the yard, her hands protectively covering the swell of the child she carried.

  ‘Keep back, love,’ William called coming towards her. ‘It’s a swarm of bees.’

  As he spoke, Sarah came bustling from the direction of the orchard.

  Her face wreathed in smiles she said happily, ‘They’re back. Oh, Emma, the bees have come back now that there’s a Forrest at the mill again. But of course, I knew they would. I’ve had a skep baited ever since you came home.’

  Emma said nothing, her gaze fixed upon the heaving mass. She was very much afraid that for once in
her life, Sarah Robson was wrong. Much as she respected the country woman’s quaint beliefs and superstitions, and would never dream of ridiculing her, Emma was very much afraid that there were occasions when Sarah believed what she wanted to believe. And at this moment, Emma was remembering the last time she had seen a swarm of bees on the side of Forrest’s Mill.

  It had been on day her father had died.

  Forty

  ‘Those bees, they do not like me. I am stung again.’

  In the bakehouse, Mr Rabinski held up his hand for Emma and Sarah to see the swelling on the back of his purple veined hand. Sarah bustled towards him. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Let me see. I can’t understand it, really I can’t.’

  On the day the swarm had arrived, Sarah had busily arranged the old-fashioned straw skeps in the orchard, placing them lovingly between the trees and the hawthorn hedge. ‘Now everything’s all right,’ she had said happily. But much to her disappointment the bees refused to take possession.

  ‘I’ll make you some modern ones,’ William had offered. ‘Those old things have seen better days. They’re nearly falling apart.’

  Two days later he had presented Sarah with three square shaped, wooden hives, fashioned with the help of instructions in a book on bee-keeping.

  ‘They’re very nice, William,’ Sarah had said dutifully, and baited the brand new constructions, but the expression on her face exposed her doubts. But by nightfall, she came hurrying through the orchard to the millhouse to report that the bees had settled in one of the hives.

  Her happiness was complete, at least, almost, for to her chagrin her beloved bees did not seem to welcome the newcomer in their midst – Mr Rabinski.

  ‘I vill come the other vay to the bakehouse,’ he said firmly, ‘I vill not come through the trees anymore. I vill go out the other side of your cottage, round by the road and come in by the big gate.’