The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  The boy walked slowly across the playground towards her, ignoring the other children, skipping and shouting all around him.

  ‘Hello, Gran,’ he said, slipping his hand into hers. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘At home, love. But you’re both coming to stay with us for a while just till, well, till your dad feels a bit better.’

  ‘At the mill? We’re going to live at the mill – for ever?’

  She looked down into the upturned face and, for the first time since he had been told the news of his mother’s death, there was a spark in Boydie’s eyes. They stopped walking and, still hand in hand, turned to face each other.

  ‘Is that what you would like, Boydie?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes.’

  She said no more, for she was very afraid that, in the long term, Micky would not agree.

  The months that followed were difficult for them all. Micky turned to his work as his salvation and gradually, life began to return to something approaching normality.

  ‘Mother, you’ve been wonderful,’ he said at last, putting his arm about Emma’s shoulders. ‘But it’s time Boydie and I made a home for ourselves. I – I still can’t face returning to the house up the street. I don’t really want to live there again.’

  ‘You can stay here. You know you can . . .’ she began, her hopes rising, but at his next words the fragile world she had clung to since Lottie’s death began to crumble.

  ‘I’ve been offered a Head Cashier’s job in Lincoln. It’s a wonderful promotion for someone of my age and I think it could be just what I’m looking for. Boydie and I can make a fresh start.’

  Emma knew the colour drained from her face and she felt suddenly weak and sick and every minute of her seventy years. But she said nothing. She could not. Boydie might be the child of her heart, the boy who was, to her, her grandpa Charlie reborn, but he was not her son. There was nothing she could do to stop Micky taking him away.

  With a hand that trembled, she reached out and clasped Micky’s hand. ‘Just promise me one thing, Micky?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’ he said, infinitely tender, knowing how his decision must be hurting her.

  ‘Don’t ever let him go to live with your father, will you?’

  Micky’s smile was amused and yet sad at the same time. ‘Oh no, Mother. That I can promise you.’

  The boy faced his father, his face mutinous, his dark eyes resentful. ‘I won’t go. I’m staying here with my gran. I’m staying at the mill.’

  Micky’s eyes clouded. ‘You’re my son and you’ll do as I say.’

  At eight years old, there was nothing the boy could do, but the day his father forced him into the back seat of his car, slammed the door and got in behind the driver’s seat, would live in Emma’s memory for the rest of her life. Boydie’s white face, streaked with tears, watched her from the rear window of the car, his little hand waved as the car drew out of the yard and turned into the road. She raised her hand and found her sight of his face was blurred by her own tears.

  ‘I’ve let him down. I’ve failed him,’ she wailed, turned and buried her face against William’s shoulder. ‘I should have fought Micky to let him stay here. How can he look after a little boy and do his job properly?’

  ‘There’s nothing we could do. He’s Micky’s son, and we’ve no say in the matter.’

  ‘But I’ve lost all my children, one way or another,’ she mourned. ‘And now I’ve lost Boydie too.’

  This time, even William could not comfort her. Emma was beginning to wonder just how cruel the world could be.

  Fifty-One

  In the three years that followed Boydie ran away from Lincoln a total of five times. On the first two occasions he was spotted by a friendly policeman in the city who thought that a boy of eight or nine should not be out alone. The third time, Boydie caught the bus to Calceworth but had money for only half the distance and Micky travelled to Horncastle to take him back home.

  By the time he was eleven, Boydie planned his escape with meticulous care.

  ‘Is he with you?’ Micky’s voice came distantly down the wire to Emma, but she could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Oh no, not again, Micky,’ she groaned and then said, ‘no, he’s not here.’

  ‘He must have gone this morning. The school says he’s not been there all day. I dropped him off at the gate on my way to the bank, but . . .’ Micky sighed heavily. ‘Oh, Mother, I’ve got to admit it. I can’t control the lad. Even when he’s not actually running away, he roams the streets, doesn’t come home till all hours. He’s only eleven for Heaven’s sake, yet I can’t do anything with him. I’m so afraid he’ll be getting into trouble, real trouble.’

  For Emma, it was like an echo from the past. Years ago she had said the same words about Billy, and yet she had always had such faith in Boydie. She could not believe that he would turn out like Billy, a runaway and a rogue. She sighed heavily. But, she reminded herself, Boydie did, of course, have Leonard Smith’s blood in his veins too.

  ‘What are we going to do, Micky?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m at the end of my tether with him. If he comes home safe and sound, I’ll try and have a talk with him at the weekend. We can’t go on like this. We’ll have to try and sort something out.’

  Emma replaced the receiver slowly and turned to answer the question in William’s anxious eyes. When she had finished telling him, William shook his head.

  ‘Poor kid,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t help but sympathize with him, y’know. Micky does his best, and I’m not criticizing him, but it’s not the same as if . . .’ He left the words hanging between them.

  ‘No,’ Emma said quietly. ‘It’s not the same as having a mother around, is it?’

  Emma folded her arms under her bosom and moved to the kitchen window. Her glance roamed over the mill, the sails were idle today. There was not only no wind, there was also very little work.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be much of a milling business to leave the lad, when the time comes?’ she asked suddenly. ‘He loves this mill, you know. That’s what all this running away from home is all about, isn’t it?’

  William came to stand beside her, his arm resting casually about her. He sighed heavily and, answering her first question, said, ‘The way things are looking there won’t be much of a business left, no, if I’m honest.’

  Her glance followed the sweep of the sails, the stark black outline of the mill, the tiny white-painted windows.

  ‘I don’t suppose—’ she began and then stopped, bending forward, squinting up at the mill. ‘Why, the young scallywag!’

  ‘What? What is it? What have you seen? I can’t see anything.’

  She was laughing with relief and pointing. ‘Look, look at the window on the granary floor, the small one right at the top above the bin floor. The young monkey’s hiding up there. He knows we rarely go up on to that floor.’ She giggled mischievously. ‘I reckon we ought to play the little rascal at his own game. We’ll leave him up there for the night.’

  ‘Are you sure you saw him?’

  ‘Oh, I saw him right enough. He’s there, all right.’ She chuckled again. Now she knew the boy was safe, she was enjoying Boydie’s escapade as much as he was. ‘I’ll ring Micky.’

  Minutes later, when she had reassured the boy’s father that he was hiding in the mill and told him of her plan, she came back to stand beside William.

  ‘Maybe by the time he’s spent a night up there in the cold and with mice and spiders for company, he won’t be so keen to run away again.’

  William said nothing but his glance out of the corner of his eye told her that he did not quite agree with her.

  The following morning, from her kitchen window, Emma watched for Boydie to appear. He emerged from the white double doors and, to her surprise, sauntered jauntily across the yard whistling loudly.

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ she began and, behind her, William chuckled.

  ‘
You know, Em, I think even you’ve underestimated that lad this time.’

  The back door opened. ‘Morning, Gran.’ The grin was stretched across his mouth and his eyes challenged her. A flop of curly, black hair fell untidily across his forehead and he flicked it back expertly. ‘Any breakfast going?’

  ‘Well,’ she said and, ‘well, I never.’ And then she was laughing and scooping him against her in such a bear-hug that the young boy wriggled with embarrassment.

  She stood him back at arms’ length. ‘Let’s have a look at you. My, you’ve grown. Come on, sit down. It’s all ready.’

  The boy’s eyes widened. ‘You knew I was here?’

  Now it was Emma’s turn to tease him. ‘Oh yes, I saw you up there last night.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ he began and then the three of them laughed together.

  ‘So, what are we going to do with you, Boydie?’

  They were gathered around the table in the sitting room on the following Sunday afternoon. Emma, William, Boydie and Micky, who had arrived on the Friday night to stay the weekend.

  ‘We can’t go on like this you know,’ Micky continued.

  There was no anger now, just a loving concern for his boy’s welfare. As if he felt this, Boydie acted with a maturity far older than his eleven years.

  ‘Dad, I hate the city. Why can’t we move back here, to Marsh Thorpe?’

  Micky sighed. ‘My job’s there and besides,’ he shot an awkward glance towards Emma and took a deep breath, ‘I hope this won’t hurt you,’ he began, ‘but I’ve met someone who could become very important to me – to us. Her name’s Angela.’

  Emma reached across the table swiftly and took Micky’s hand in hers. ‘We’re glad. We wouldn’t expect you to spend the rest of your life alone.’

  The relief was written on Micky’s face. ‘Thank you,’ he said briefly, but then their attention came back to the boy.

  Gently, Emma said, ‘Don’t you like Angela, Boydie? Is that the trouble?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘No. She’s all right.’ Then he grinned broadly. ‘Well, better than all right, really. No, it’s just that I want to live here, in Marsh Thorpe, near my mill.’

  William and Micky said in unison. ‘Your mill?’

  The boy looked from one to the other of them, his expression genuinely innocent. ‘Well, isn’t it? I mean, won’t it be? One day? It’s what Gran’s always told me, so I want to come back here to the mill. And to you, Gran, of course,’ he added, but it was obvious to them all that his grandparents were secondary in his boyish list of priorities.

  It amused, rather that distressed Emma but, with a supreme effort, she managed to say, ‘That rather depends on your father.’

  And all eyes were turned on Micky.

  He sighed and spread his hands, palms upwards. ‘All right, you win. All of you,’ but he was smiling as he said it. ‘Boydie can come and live here.’

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the boy gave a loud yelp of joy, jumped up from the table and was hurtling down the stairs and outside. Moving to the window, Emma watched him as he raced across the yard, not, as she had imagined, towards the mill but into the orchard. She could just see him as he darted amongst the trees and came to a halt in front of the hives.

  She laughed and turning back, said, ‘You’ll never guess what. He’s gone to tell the bees!’

  Fifty-Two

  At eleven, Boydie was tall for his age, but sturdy and strong too, so that he looked much older. Even more of the lovable rogue than Sarah had once predicted, he walked with an air of supreme self-confidence, yet without conceit. He was ever cheerful, a wide grin stretched across his face and his dark blue eyes dancing with merriment.

  ‘He’s going to be a real heartbreaker when he grows up,’ Emma said, leaning her chin on her hands as she sat at the kitchen table watching him walk across the yard towards the mill, her fond gaze following him.

  William gave a heavy sigh and sat down, pulling the mug of tea towards him. ‘I’m not so sure he’s isn’t now. Did you see him leaning over the yard gate last night talking to two young girls? Giggling and laughing they were, the two young lasses. Flirting, I’d have called it. But at eleven years old! I don’t know what the world’s coming to, really I don’t.’ But he was laughing as he spoke.

  Emma said nothing. She could well remember being eleven. Even then she would watch the road for a glimpse of Jamie.

  Suddenly, her eyes widened. ‘William, what’s he doing?’

  Boydie had stood for a moment watching the mill sails turning, then he had gone towards the engine shed and shinnied up a drain pipe. Now he was balancing himself on the end of the roof, standing in the guttering. He inched himself sideways towards where the sails swooped past the slope of the roof within a foot or so.

  ‘The silly little . . .’ William muttered, beginning to rise out of his chair, but before either of them could move to the door and out into the yard, they saw Boydie take a flying leap. He caught hold of the tip of the sail and was carried round in the wide circle.

  ‘Oh – my – God!’ Emma breathed and rushed to the door.

  ‘Emma! Don’t shout at him. Don’t startle him,’ William put a warning hand on her arm to stop her rushing headlong out and yelling up at the boy.

  They stepped into the yard and stood watching as the sail swept him up, hanging by his arms, his legs dangling against the sky. Pictures from the past flashed before Emma’s horror-stricken eyes. Pictures of her grandfather high on the side of the mill, turning to wave to her standing below in the yard, slipping, grasping desperately at thin air and then falling, falling on to the yard below.

  ‘Grandpa Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘Oh no, not again.’

  He was at the very top of the arc now, nimbly changing his grasp as the length of his lithe body stretched down the sail. So small, it seemed, and so high up. Then, as the sail came round again, Boydie shifted his grasp, glanced over his shoulder and, as the tip passed close to the roof, he leapt back on to the slates. He landed on all fours like a cat, slithering down until his feet lodged in the guttering. He turned an engaging, mischievous grin upon his grandparents, but for once Emma was not amused by his daring antics.

  ‘Get down here, you little devil!’ she shouted, shaking her fist at him. ‘I’ll skelp the livin’ daylights out of you.’

  He jumped from the edge of the roof landing lightly on his feet on the yard. ‘Don’t be cross, Gran. It was great.’

  Her hand was raised above his head, ready to strike him, but when their gaze met and locked and he stood unflinchingly before her, her hand fell away without the blow being delivered. Instead she leant towards him and said, ‘You trying to give me or your Grandad a heart attack? Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?’

  The boy grinned roguishly. ‘Well, maybe not for a week or two.’ Then, as he saw her hands trembling, he said swiftly, ‘All right, Gran. I promise. But,’ his bright eyes so like her own, sparked mischief, ‘it was fun.’

  ‘Oh, you young scamp.’ And suddenly she swept him into a tight embrace until the boy wriggled and said, ‘Leave off, Gran. Someone might see.’

  Later, she saw William with his hand on the child’s shoulder talking earnestly to him. She was too far away to hear what they were saying or even to read the expressions on their faces, but from their stance, it was a serious conversation.

  As she was laying the table for tea, Boydie came up behind her and put his arms about her waist, a waist that was no longer slim and shapely as it had once been. ‘Gran, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about your Grandpa Charlie falling off the mill. I’d never have done it if I’d known it was going to frighten you so much.’ She turned and hugged him to her, tears smarting the back of her throat so that she could not speak. ‘Grandad’s just told me about it. I won’t do it again, I promise, but – ’ he leant back a little away from her so that he could look at her and there was the cheeky grin on his face once more, ‘but my mill would never hurt me.’
And suddenly they were laughing together.

  Over the next five years, there was less and less work for the mill.

  ‘You’re burying your head in the sand, Mother,’ Micky would try to tell her when he visited every other weekend. ‘And beside, Dad’s getting too old to be climbing up and down those ladders. If you’re not careful . . .’

  Emma put her hands over her ears. ‘I won’t listen. I don’t want to hear it. The mill is for Boydie.’

  Micky leant closer. Gently he tried to explain. ‘There’s nothing to give Boydie now, Mother, just a heap of bricks and wood that won’t ever earn him a living.’

  ‘Micky, don’t you dare speak of Forrest’s Mill like that. Why, if my Grandpa Charlie could hear you . . .’

  ‘Mother, dear, stop living in the past. Grandpa Charlie’s been dead over sixty years. This is a new generation, a new age. Windmills are dead. The best thing you could do would be to sell the mill and the yard. Keep the house and the shop. There’s enough coming in from the post office and the shop to give the two of you a living. But any profit you make now in the shop is being poured back into the mill. Mother, you’ve eaten into your savings just to live, haven’t you, and now you’ve scarcely anything left?’

  Emma glared at him. ‘You’ve no business prying into our private affairs, just because you work in the same bank. I could have you dismissed for that.’

  Micky sighed and shook his head. ‘But you won’t, will you?’ he said wearily. ‘Because you know it’s only that I’m worried about what’s happening. Worried for you. You know it’s no more than the truth.’

  ‘Micky Smith, I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but you’re beginning to sound like your father. He always wanted me to sell the mill. But he was always just after one thing. The money!’ She was silent a moment and then, belligerently, she said, ‘Besides, who’d want to buy it? Who could make a better living out of it than we can? Answer me that?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he began slowly, aware that what he was about to say would cause a storm to break about his head, ‘if you sold the mill, the yard and the orchard, there would be just under an acre of land and building land is fetching quite a good price at the moment.’