Wilbert sighed deeply, the gnawing ache that had been with him ever since his wife’s death and which took every ounce of pleasure out of his days, making itself felt more strongly. He prided himself that he was tough, resilient and hard-bitten, only Moll had known he had a soft centre, and he missed her more than words could express.
Knowing that he’d be black and blue come the morning after his fall in the barn, Wilbert pulled on the heavy tweed jacket he wore over his shirt and indoor dungaree jerkin. An ‘inbye’ shepherd, his flock of sheep were confined to fields rather than living on the open hills all the year round, and during the winter when the snow could reach the tops of the hedgerows and the drifts were treacherous, the animals were brought into big sheds until they could go back into the fields again once he was sure they wouldn’t perish. Like most Border shepherds, he knew every individual sheep in his flock. For Wilbert, no two sheep any more than any two human beings looked exactly alike. Their faces, the shapes of their bodies, their gait and even their characters set them all apart. The one that was presently ailing he had reared by hand after its mother had died and he hadn’t had a foster mother available within the flock. He didn’t get emotionally attached to the sheep – although he was fond of his two Border collie working dogs, Meg and Jessie – but when the lambs had been sent away to St Boswells Auction Mart last year he had kept this particular one back and bought it off the farmer to add to his own shepherd’s ‘pack’. He had settled the animal in its individual pen on the straw after his altercation with Andrew, but now he needed to check it again.
Wilbert had a few sheep of his own, as was the custom on Border farms, and with the one in the summer his pack now numbered thirteen animals. They ran along with the farmer’s flock and were kept in regular ages, older ones being sold off at some point, the same as those of the farm flock, whereupon lambs would replace them. Besides this benefit, he had the keep of a cow – at a charge of four shillings a week deducted from his wage by the farmer – paid no rent for his cottage, and was given forty stone of oatmeal for use as dog feed. He also had licence to plant several hundred yards of potatoes in one of the farmer’s fields, and these, added to the vegetables from his strip of garden, provided the bulk of his diet. When Moll had been alive she had milked the cow and made cream and cheese and butter, selling any excess to the grocer who called weekly at the farm in his van, or bartering it for other supplies. Now he paid one of the farm labourers’ wives to do the job. The vegetable garden, along with planting the potatoes and then digging them up – which had also been one of Moll’s many jobs – he attempted himself when time permitted. Which was not often.
He knew full well Moll would be aghast at the state of the cottage which she had kept as neat as a new pin, and even more horrified that since she had been gone he tended to live on bread and cheese and cold meats. Mrs Burns, whom he paid to see to the cow, had offered to clean the house and provide a hot meal once a day for a charge, but it wasn’t the money that prevented him taking the woman up on her offer. He didn’t want anyone poking about in what had been Moll’s domain, that was the long and short of it.
Wilbert had his hand on the latch of the door when a knock sounded from outside. He paused for a moment, knowing who it was. In his temper with Andrew he had said more than he should have, and some of his tirade had featured Joe who was often more awkward than his father on a day-to-day basis. He was sick to death with the pair of them, that was the truth of it, and if Joe thought to take him to task, then he would give him what for. Joe wasn’t the first lad to be jilted by a long chalk and he should have got over it years ago rather than bearing a grudge that affected the whole farm community. Miserable so-an’-so.
Scowling ferociously he flung open the door, only to freeze with his mouth open as he stared down at the two snow-covered children on the doorstep whom he recognized as Molly’s bairns. It was the girl, who had her arm round her brother, who spoke first. ‘We . . . we’ve come to ask you if we can stay,’ she said, her voice shaking so much he could barely make her out. ‘There was nowhere else to go and they wanted to put us in the workhouse.’
‘What? What did you say?’ Even to himself his voice sounded over-loud.
She repeated, ‘We’ve come to ask if we can stay here with you. We won’t be any trouble and I’ve got seventeen an’ six you can have, an’ we’ll work for our keep. I promise.’
Hardly able to believe his eyes, Wilbert stared into the swirling snowflakes. ‘Where’s your mam?’ he muttered, his voice lower, expecting Molly to step out of the snowstorm behind her children. ‘Sent you ahead, has she?’
Abby was cold and wet and terrified by this man who was their grandfather, this man with the loud angry voice and whose face was as black as thunder as he glared down at them. A convulsive shiver went through Robin, and her arm tightened round her brother. ‘Our mam’s dead.’ It came out more baldly than she had intended.
‘Dead?’ And then, as if he had only just realized the state of them, he said, ‘You’re wet through. Come into the house.’
As he stood aside for them to enter, Abby was aware that Robin was crying. She felt like crying herself. Farmer Dodds had dropped them at the end of the farm track with instructions to follow it until they came to the pair of semi-detached cottages which were some distance in front of the farm, but the snow had been so deep and the blizzard so fierce it had been hard going. And now they were here and their grandfather was even more fierce than she remembered.
He didn’t immediately follow them into the house, standing at the door as he said, ‘Who brought you here if not your mam? Your da?’ as he peered once again into the murky afternoon.
‘We came by ourselves.’ There was a good fire burning in the fireplace in the sitting-room half of the big room, and Abby pushed Robin towards the warmth, saying, ‘Go and get thawed out,’ whilst remaining where she was.
At last their grandfather seemed to understand there was no one with them. He shut the door and stared at her, his gaze moving briefly to Robin crouched in front of the fire before returning once more to her pinched white face. ‘We had to come,’ she said, her voice small. ‘They were going to put us in the workhouse.’
For probably the first time in his life Wilbert was completely out of his depth. If he had been confronted by two of the goblins that were said to roam the countryside he couldn’t have been more taken aback. ‘Your mam?’
Again she said, ‘She’s dead.’
So he had heard it right. Molly was gone. A pain equal to when Moll had breathed her last seared his chest. Pulling himself together with some effort, he saw the child was shivering uncontrollably and the little lad by the fire had steam rising off his clothes. Wilbert was nothing if not a practical man. ‘I’ll bring you some blankets and you two get them wet things off,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sit by the fire along with your brother, lass, an’ we’ll get a hot drink inside you. Now, now, no blubbering,’ he added as his words brought tears pouring down her face. ‘We’ll get you warm and comfortable, and then you’d better tell me it all. All right?’
Abby nodded. From the look of her grandfather when he had opened the front door, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had ordered the pair of them out into the snow, but now he seemed different. Hope rising in her had brought tears. The one thought that had tortured her during the journey was what she would do if their grandfather refused to help them. But now, perhaps, it wouldn’t come to that?
It was two hours later. After getting the children settled in front of the fire wrapped in blankets and with a plateful of bread and cheese and cold bacon each, and a mug of tea, Wilbert had gone out to do his rounds checking the sheep in the outbuildings and seeing to his two dogs. His tasks completed, he had retraced his steps, relieved to find Molly’s bairns had colour in their cheeks and looked much better than they had done, when he entered the house. After making himself and them another hot drink, he had sat down by the fire and told Abby to start at the beginning and to tell him everyt
hing that had happened in the last weeks.
Abby had just finished her story and she had kept nothing back. She had expected her grandfather to start ranting and raving when she had explained what her father had done, but surprisingly he had said not a word although his eyes had narrowed and he’d looked really scary again, causing her to falter. Nervously, her stomach trembling, she waited for him to say something. After several long moments he spoke.
‘So these neighbours, the ones who took you in at Christmas, didn’t know you were going to come here?’ Wilbert was struggling to grasp the enormity of what the bairn had told him. Molly murdered by her husband; it seemed too incredible to be true. It made him feel physically sick.
‘Shirley knows and she was going to tell her mam once we were gone.’
‘But I’ll still need to get word to them to say you’re safe,’ he murmured dazedly, one part of his mind chewing over what he would do to Edgar Kirby if he could get his hands on him.
Abby stared at her grandfather. She could see he was shocked and upset so perhaps he had still loved her mam after all, but she had no idea if he was going to let them live here with him. She and Robin were sitting in what had been her grandmother’s chair, Robin snuggled into her side and half asleep, and although she didn’t want to make her grandfather cross or irritate him, she had to know what he was thinking. Tentatively, her voice little more than a whisper, she said, ‘If we go back home they’ll take us to the workhouse. I heard them talking.’
Wilbert came out of the maelstrom of his thoughts and his voice was firm when he said, in what was a gentle tone for him, ‘There’ll be no workhouse, lass. Your place is here with me. Mind you, it’ll be different to what you’ve known before, and with your grandma gone things don’t run like they used to.’
Abby’s face lit up. Eagerly, she said, ‘I can keep house an’ cook an’ that. Mam taught me when she had to go out to work.’ When she had first come into the house she had noticed a number of smells and none of them pleasant. The kitchen was in a state, the range clearly hadn’t been black-leaded in months, thick dust lay everywhere and the floor was covered in bits. ‘And Robin will do his share. I’ll see to it.’
For the first time since she had set eyes on her grandfather his mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. ‘Is that so?’ he said gruffly. ‘Then no doubt we’ll rub along just fine. Your grandma liked everything spick an’ span and never had idle hands, in the house or out of it.’
Abby nodded. ‘My mam said idle hands make work for the devil. She told me her mam always said that.’
‘Aye, she did.’ He looked into the small heart-shaped face that was so like her mother’s, although the bairn’s hair was more silver than golden like Molly’s, and his daughter’s eyes had been a clear vivid blue whereas the little lass’s were blue-grey. But Molly’s lass was a beauty, all right. His Moll would have loved her. The lump in his throat threatening to choke him, Wilbert took control of himself. The bairns had been through enough; he couldn’t break down in front of them. Rubbing his hand over his face, he said gruffly, ‘We’ll have to see about getting you along to the schoolhouse in the next week or two. Can’t have the pair of you falling behind with your lessons, can we?’
‘No, although . . .’
‘What?’
‘Robin would like that. He hates school, except for the playtimes.’
‘Is that so? Never was over-fond of it meself. How about you? Do you like doing your lessons?’
Abby nodded.
Aye, he could see she’d do all right at school, her eyes were bright with intelligence. She was a canny little lass all round. Just like her mam. And the little lad seemed all there whatever his sister said about him not liking school.
Wilbert sighed inwardly. You never knew what a day was going to bring, sure enough. He’d got up this morning thinking the weeks and months ahead were going to stick to the pattern of the last years, but here he was suddenly in charge of two bairns, his grandchildren. If anyone had told him that was going to happen he’d have run a mile, but now that it had, to his great surprise he found he wasn’t displeased. He just wished it hadn’t taken Molly dying to bring about the change of circumstances. He was a stubborn old beggar, he admitted it, and in the past had even been slightly proud of the fact, but he never would be so again.
Aware of a pair of intent blue-grey eyes on him, he smiled. The lass had been scared of him at first, he’d seen that, and he wanted to reassure her. ‘I think the best thing is to make up a bed tonight for you both down here in front of the fire. I’ve got an old put-you-up somewhere. Tomorrow we’ll light a fire in the two spare bedrooms and air the beds with hot-water bottles because the rooms are damp. They haven’t been used for a while.’
He didn’t mention that the last time the rooms had been occupied was when Molly and the bairns had arrived for Moll’s funeral.
‘That bag, lass’ – he pointed to the big cloth bag Abby had brought – ‘is that all your things?’ There didn’t seem much.
Sensing criticism, Abby nodded, her voice defensive when she said, ‘Mam needed to watch the pennies.’
‘Aye. I dare say she did.’ Wilbert felt as though hot coals were being poured over his head. What sort of a life had his daughter had since that wicked devil had come back from the war? And it was clear Molly hadn’t felt she could ask him for help. Why hadn’t he taken the olive branch she’d offered when she had come for her mam’s funeral? And now he had no chance to tell her that he and her mam had never stopped loving her, not for a minute.
‘What . . . what are we to call you?’
The small voice again brought him out of the darkness of his thoughts. He swallowed hard before he could speak. ‘I’m your granda, hinny, so I think that’ll do, don’t you?’
Abby stared at her grandfather in the dimness of the room lit only by the fire and the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the sitting-room area. Strangely, especially in view of the fact that she was still a little frightened of him, she wanted to comfort him. Robin was fast asleep beside her now, and she carefully slid out of the chair and walked across to her granda. Kneeling down by his chair, she put one small hand on the bony gnarled one resting on the arm of the chair and pretended not to notice the tears rolling down his leathery cheeks.
PART TWO
The New Life
1921
Chapter Six
During the next few weeks Abby and Robin were plunged into a new life, a life that proved to be bewildering and perplexing most of the time as they grappled to learn the unspoken rules of their new existence. But they learned fast; Abby, because the spectre of the workhouse hung over her head in spite of her grandfather’s assurances that their home was now with him, and Robin, simply because he took to Border life in general, and shepherding in particular, like a duck to water.
In Sunderland, Abby had had her work cut out to make Robin do the jobs allotted to him before and after school. Now he couldn’t get home from school quick enough to join his grandfather, even doing chores first thing in the morning like feeding the ewes housed in the barns their corn and turnips. Once lambing time came he was up at the crack of dawn, inspecting the parricks – the small separate pens built into the perimeter of the lambing shed, in which a ewe and her lambs were put after she lambed at night – with Wilbert, and bottle-feeding hungry or motherless lambs before he went to school. In the evenings and at weekends he was stuck to his grandfather’s side like a limpet no matter what the weather. He was like a small sponge as he learned shepherd lore and Wilbert couldn’t hide his delight in his grandson’s interest.
‘It’s in his blood,’ Wilbert was heard to remark on more than one occasion, and in truth it seemed so. Within a short time Robin was able to pick out his grandfather’s pack sheep from the rest of the flock, and know how to check the newly born lambs to ascertain if they were full enough if a dam was short of milk. He watched his grandfather skin a dead lamb to put the skin on a live one and set it o
nto the mother of the dead one so that the ewe would adopt the orphan as her own and feed it, without flinching, and was already well on his way to reading the lugmarks – the snips taken out of the sheep’s ear – that were used as a stockmark signifying what f arm it belonged to, to distinguish the various ages of the ewes, and for a variety of other purposes. A shepherd needed to understand the significance of the lugmarks on any sheep at a glance, and Robin soaked up this information along with many other facts seemingly instinctively.
It was a weight off Abby’s mind that Robin had settled into life at Crab Apple Farm so naturally, confirming as it did that her decision to find her grandfather had been the right one. Her first task had been setting the cottage to rights and it had taken some days, but at the end of the first week the house was as clean and tidy as her grandmother would have wished it, according to Wilbert. But housekeeping, along with cooking and seeing to the laundry, was only part of the new life. At Crab Apple Farm the workers’ cows, including her grandfather’s, a gentle animal called Lotty, were housed from autumn till early summer in a byre of their own, having a few hours out in a field by day. They were fed and tended by the workers’ wives in the main, although the byre lad, who had charge of the farmer’s milk cows and the pigs in the row of pigsties, would step in and help if an emergency arose. The workers’ cows, being milk cows, were fed on a diet of hay, straw and turnips, plus a small ration of cattle cake as they came up for calving.
Now she was living with her grandfather, Abby had taken over the care of Lotty, at first under the supervision of the labourers’ wives who had been generous in their support and help to the ‘poor motherless bairns’ as they privately called Abby and Robin. They taught her how to milk the cow, separate the cream and use some to churn butter, which was exhausting work. Nevertheless, the evening milking was Abby’s favourite time of the day once she got used to the routine. By the light of a hurricane lamp hung up on the byre wall, she would give Lotty a pailful of bran mash she had prepared and after wiping the udder clean sit down on a stool against the animal’s flank.
Snowflakes in the Wind Page 6