The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  All this she did without Sam’s instruction, maybe even without his approval.

  ‘Eh, we ain’t been fed like this on Brumbys’ Farm afore,’ one of the workers told her, biting into a juicy fruit pasty. ‘This is a rare treat an’ no mistake!’

  Not a word of praise to her ever passed Sam’s lips, but there began a subtle change in his attitude towards her. One morning she overheard him talking to the carrier again.

  ‘She’s a way with her, Will,’ Sam was saying in one of his rare talkative moods to the man who was perhaps the nearest the reclusive, taciturn farmer had to a friend. ‘She laughs and jokes with all the visiting workers, and yet when she wants ’em to do summat, well . . .’ Sam paused, lifting his cap and running the back of his hand across the red, sweating mark the band of his cap left on his forehead. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know ’ow she does it, but she gets t’work out on ’em, and no mistake.’

  Will grinned. ‘Bit of her aunt in there somewhere, I’ll warrant, but Esther wouldn’t thank me for saying so. But she’s a nicer way wi’ her than that old shrew.’

  Sam Brumby sniffed and setteld his cap back on his head. Squinting up at Will he said slyly, ‘Mebbe she teks more after dad, the?’

  ‘Aye, mebbe so,’

  And Will’s grin broadened.

  Six

  SAM Brumby’s hay was gathered and stacked in the farmyard. Now it was time for Sam, Esther and Matthew to go to the other farms and offer their help in return, but at least this time Esther did not have to provide the food for the workers. This was the task of the womenfolk on the farms where they went to work.

  At Tom Willoughby’s farm, Esther was surprised to see Beth coming out to the field carrying baskets laden with food.

  ‘What’s she doin’ here?’ Esther demanded of Ma Harris.

  Ma Harris lived in the end cottage at Fleethaven Point. She had a horde of children, but there, to Esther’s relief, all resemblance to her Aunt Hannah ended. Ma Harris was shorter than Esther and her plump little body reminded Esther of a cottage loaf on legs. Her grey hair was drawn back into a bun and covered by a white frilled bonnet which she always wore. Esther wondered if she even took it off to go to bed. Ma Harris was a motherly woman, with a ready laugh, a kindly word, and although she often delivered a stinging slap if one of her brood misbehaved, it was a swift chastisement made with rough affection and soon forgotten by both child and mother.

  ‘Who, lass?’ Ma asked in response to Esther’s question.

  ‘Beth Hanley.’

  Ma Harris looked across the field. ‘She’s got a job as dairymaid for the Willoughbys. Posh, ain’t she, in her white apron and cap? Gone up in the world, ’as our Beth,’ Ma Harris laughed, opening her mouth to reveal almost toothless gums. She turned back to Esther. ‘You ought to wear a bonnet, lass, in this sun.’

  Esther grinned at the older woman. ‘To protect my milky white skin, you mean, Mrs Harris?’

  Ma Harris’s laugh cackled out across the field at Esther’s sarcasm against herself. Of all the women and young girls in the field, only Esther wore no protection of any kind on her head against the heat of the day. Pride would not let her admit that she did not possess a bonnet. Ma Harris, however, was a wise woman and good-hearted and, within her means, as generous as it was possible to be. The following day, she brought one of her old bonnets and made Esther stand meekly whilst she tied it on the girl’s head. ‘’Twill keep all that grass seed out o’ your lovely hair, lass. By, I ain’t seen prettier hair than yours. Auburn streaks, it’s got, when the sun shines on it.’

  Esther thanked her both for the bonnet and the unaccustomed compliment. Working the rest of the day at Ma Harris’s side, listening to her prattle and smiling as the woman marshalled her children whilst never pausing in her own work, Esther basked in the warmth of her motherly friendliness.

  *

  The hay harvest was in and there would be a few weeks’ respite before a similar process would begin again with the corn harvest.

  Her litter of piglets, as Esther thought of them, had been weaned at eight weeks old and sent to market. One morning after feeding Curly and the young gilt, she went in search of Sam.

  ‘Mester?’

  His answer was a sniff.

  ‘I reckon Curly is ready for the boar.’

  ‘Eh?’ He looked up, startled. ‘’Ow does a wench like you know about such things?’

  Esther laughed. ‘’Tis nature, ain’t it?’

  Sam sniffed again, dropped his hedge knife and walked back with her to the sty to take a look for himself.

  Esther giggled as she walked along beside him, and added, ‘The chap who used to bring the boar to me aunt’s always used to ask, “Is the sow ready, is she flushed – just like a strawberry – at the back?” ’

  Sam stopped and looked at her. Then a slow smile spread across his shrunken mouth and a chuckle from somewhere deep within forced its way out. ‘Eh, lass,’ he shook his head. ‘You’ll be the death o’ me.’

  Esther grinned back at him.

  Sam reached the sty, opened the door and went inside, whilst Esther watched from the doorway. He stood behind the pig and leant his hands on her haunches. The sow blinked but did not move away. ‘Aye, lass, I reckon you’re right.’ Sam stood a moment looking down at the huge sow with her wiry, curling coat. ‘Well, old girl,’ he said as if to the pig, but at his next words Esther knew he intended her to hear. ‘I reckon this wench here has saved your bacon. If ya d killed yar litter again this year, you were fer me knife come autumn.’

  Sam looked directly up at Esther and laughed wheezily again. ‘Go up to Tom Willoughby’s and ask him to bring his boar as soon as he can. Tell him she’s as flushed as a strawberry. He’ll like that, will Tom.’

  Tom Willoughby did like it. He leant back and roared with laughter, his great belly wobbling, the grey whiskers of his long sideburns quivering, his fat cheeks growing redder by the second. He was a huge man, tall and broad and obviously jovial. ‘So it’s true what I’ve heard about you, lass?’

  ‘That depends on what ya’ve heard, mester.’ She stood before him, smiling at his infectious laughter.

  He drew a large red and white spotted kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Will Benson told us that Sam had got a rare lass working for him now. A rare lass, ’ee said. I reckon ’ee’s right.’

  Esther’s smile broadened but she made no comment. She expected that every farm for miles around on Will’s route would know she had come to live and work at Brumbys’ Farm.

  ‘Aye, lass, tell Sam I’ll be over with the boar tomorrow.’

  Soon the corn harvest was upon them. The work for Sam was not quite as hard for he did not do the cutting but allowed Tom Willoughby to send his new reaper.

  ‘Newfangled thing,’ Esther heard Sam mutter as he watched the sails of the reaper crossing the field pulled by three heavy horses. “Spect me corn’ll be ruined.’

  Sam still worked in the field, tying the sheaves and stooking, all the time keeping a truculent eye upon the machine swallowing up his harvest and spewing it out behind. The stooks stood in the fields for a few weeks to dry in the wind that always seemed to blow across this flat land and when the time came for them to be moved, the wagon was loaded so high at times that Esther held her breath thinking a wheel would crack and it would surely tipple over. But when Sam walked behind the last load to leave the field carrying the last sheaf and placed it on top of the final stack, he knew he had never had a better harvest.

  The cry went up amongst the workers, ‘Harvest home, harvest home.’ Then the gleaners were allowed into the fields and one of the first was Ma Harris, wearing a bag apron over her long skirt in readiness. With her tribe to feed, Ma Harris was thankful that the old traditions still survived. She could usually collect enough corn from all the nearby farms for her family’s needs through the winter.

  When harvest was finally over, Esther noticed that Sam’s walking was more painful, that his back was a little mor
e bent and the joints of his fingers were gnarled with rheumatism. He was tired, yet not too tired to give thanks for a good harvest.

  One Sunday morning in September, Sam Brumby bade Esther put on her best frock and be ready in the yard in half an hour.

  Esther blinked and looked down at the coarse, well-worn skirt in dismay and then back at Sam. Didn’t he realize these were all the clothes she had? Didn’t he know that when she washed them each week and hung them on the clothes horse so close to the warm range over night that they almost scorched, it was because they had to be dry for the following morning? Esther wrinkled her forehead and smiled at her own foolishness. Of course he didn’t know, for she was careful to strip off and take her bath in the tin bath in front of the kitchen range and wash her clothes long after Sam had climbed the stairs.

  ‘I ain’t no more clothes, mester,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Huh,’ was Sam’s only comment, but his glance at her, up and down, spoke volumes.

  ‘You’ll have to do as you are then, wench. I’ll be waiting in the yard – half an hour,’ was all Sam would say. Self-consciously and wondering what this was all about, Esther strip-washed in the back scullery, intrigued to hear the boards above her head creaking as Sam moved about upstairs. In her own small attic boxroom, Esther brushed her hair and shook out her only shawl and put it about her shoulders. Then she climbed down the ladder and opened the back door. She stopped. Her mouth fell open with surprise and then widened into a grin.

  Sam Brumby was a resplendent figure in a black suit, a gold watch-chain looped across his waistcoat. He had shaved and his thin white hair was plastered down under a black trilby hat. He was standing stiffly by the gate staring down the long lane leading towards the town, looking as if he hardly dared to move in his starched white collar. Her handiwork, Esther thought, with a stab of pride. It took a moment for her to control her laughter, but knowing that at any moment Sam might turn and see her, Esther cleared her throat and strode purposefully across the yard, her boots scrunching on the cinders.

  Sam pulled out the gold Hunter watch from his pocket and looked at it, then giving a sniff he set off along the road towards the town. Esther fell into step beside him, but where exactly they were going, she had no idea for not a word passed between them.

  They had walked about a mile when behind them came the rattle of the wheels of a pony and trap. Stepping on to the grass verge to let it pass, Esther looked up to see Matthew grinning down at her. Beth, in her Sunday best bonnet and shawl, was sitting beside him.

  As they drew level, Matthew slowed the trap. ‘Want a lift, Mester Brumby? ’Tis a long way to the church.’

  Sam’s frown deepened. ‘Thank ’ee – no. Ah can still walk two miles, young feller!’

  Above Sam’s head, Matthew winked at Esther. ‘’Spect you’d like to ride in style, Esther?’

  Esther grinned back at him but, mindful of Sam’s feelings, she answered pertly, ‘Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll walk with Mester Brumby.’

  As Matthew flicked the reins and urged the pony forward, Beth looked back over her shoulder at Esther, a smug expression on her face. With an obvious gesture, she tucked her hand possessively through Matthew’s arm.

  When they reached the outskirts of the town, Esther looked about her. She had come this way the day she had arrived, but in the early morning light the houses had been only shadowy shapes. Now, in the sunshine of a September morning, there was a brightness about the neat houses and well-kept gardens.

  ‘By, them’s posh places, mester,’ Esther broke the silence. Twisting and turning as she walked she pointed excitedly to right and left. ‘Look at that ’un – it’s a mansion!’

  Esther noticed a brass plate fixed to the gatepost. Laboriously she spelt out the name. ‘Doctor Blair.’

  Sam neither answered nor turned his head. Esther heard his sniff that indicated disapproval. Evidently Sam Brumby had no time for the town-dwellers.

  They walked through the town centre, down the main street with little shops huddled together and living quarters above, and on almost out of the town to a small church. Sam walked up the flagged path, gravestones standing sentinel on either side, to the low porch. Esther followed.

  Beth was sitting in a pew half-way down the left hand side of the church, her dark head bowed, her eyes closed piously in prayer. On her left against the wall sat Matthew, but on her right was a thickset man with dark hair. His mouth was completely hidden by a full beard so it was impossible to see if he ever smiled. It was unlikely that he did, for there was no laughter in his eyes beneath heavy, dark eyebrows. The visible part of his face was weather-beaten and lined, giving his forehead the impression of a permanent frown. Esther had seen this man before – he had been one of the visiting harvest workers – but she had never learnt his name.

  As if feeling her gaze upon him, the man turned his head slightly and looked straight into Esther’s eyes.

  The frown seemed to deepen.

  Wordlessly, Sam motioned Esther to precede him into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle to where Matthew, Beth and the stranger were sitting. Beth seemed not to have noticed their arrival, or was deliberately ignoring them.

  The service began and Esther watched and listened. The altar steps overflowed with the offerings from the congregation of fruit and vegetables, flowers and even one or two small wheat-sheaves and corn dollies. The atmosphere was warm and friendly as if the air of thanksgiving pervaded the congregation. She knelt beside Sam and watched covertly as he turned the pages of his prayer book. Esther was no great reader, yet she had learned enough to be able to find the same page in the book as Sam had, and then she proceeded to make a pretence at following the service, moving her lips and miming the prayers, deliberately inaudible.

  Esther could not remember having been in a church before. Her Aunt Hannah had been a staunch Methodist and Chapel was the only form of worship with which Esther was familiar.

  The service came to an end and Esther stood behind Sam whilst the gentry from the front pews walked down the aisle and out of the church. There was a portly gentleman with whiskery grey sideburns and red-veined cheeks that spoke of too much indulgence of the port. He nodded and smiled to each side as he strutted down the aisle. Esther watched as the men touched their foreheads in a deferential salute, whilst the women smiled self-consciously and nodded. One or two even bobbed at the knee. In contrast to the gentleman’s jolly manner, the woman who walked at his side with her hand in the crook of his arm was a thin, miserable-looking creature. True, she acknowledged the greetings of the congregation with a quick, darting look and the briefest of nods, and then her eyes were downcast to the floor as if she almost feared to meet anyone’s gaze directly. She looked nervous and ill-at-ease, though why Esther could not imagine, for it seemed her husband was held in high esteem.

  Behind them came Tom Willoughby with two ladies whose skirts rustled and swished. One was very large, tall and stately. She sailed along, her breadth filling the width of the aisle. Her face was bloated and the folds of fat beneath her chin wobbled as she moved. The woman with her was thin, with steel-rimmed spectacles perched on her hooked nose. A receding chin and protruding upper teeth accentuated her thinness.

  As he drew level with the pew where Sam Brumby and Esther were still standing waiting to leave, Tom Willoughby greeted them. ‘How do, Sam? And you, lass?’

  Sam nodded briefly and Esther smiled up at the huge figure of Tom Willoughby, causing the two women with him to look her up and down. Their heads bobbed together as they whispered to one another and then they stared at her again. Boldly, Esther returned their scrutiny. As she passed close to Esther, the thin woman pointedly picked up her skirt and pulled it towards herself as if to avoid the merest contact with Esther, even though Sam stood between them.

  Sam, Esther noticed, spoke to no one and acknowledged only very few people – the portly gentleman and his wife, Tom Willoughby and the vicar as they left the church – and then only with a sharp nod, a
swift pecking movement. All the rest of the congregation Sam deliberately ignored, even those from the Point who were, after all, his nearest neighbours.

  As Esther followed Sam from the church the vicar was standing outside the porch shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with each member of his congregation.

  ‘Ah, Mr Brumby,’ He clasped Sam’s hand warmly. ‘It’s good to see you, good to see you,’

  ‘Parson,’ Sam murmured.

  ‘And is this the young lady I’ve been hearing so much about who’s come to help you on the farm? Glad to meet you, my dear, glad to meet you.’

  Esther smiled broadly at the vicar, her tanned face creasing with smiles, her green eyes twinkling. ‘Thank you, sir,’

  ‘Now, come again, my dear, come again. Mr Brumby, you bring this young lady to church again.’

  Sam was half-way down the path and made no indication of having heard the vicar. Behind her Esther heard a muffled snort of indignation and a whispered comment between the large woman and her skinny companion. ‘Young lady, indeed!’ whispered one.

  ‘Fancy,’ came the twittering reply. ‘Who would have thought it of Sam Brumby?’

  Esther whirled around, a stinging reply on her lips, but the retort died as behind the two gossiping women she saw Beth Hanley, her hand on the bearded man’s arm. Esther’s gaze met Beth’s and she saw the triumph written in the girl’s eyes. Esther turned away, sickened by the implications of the two women and Beth’s glorying in their insults of her. Still in front of the vicar, Esther turned back to him and said politely, but loud enough for those about her to hear distinctly, I’ll certainly come back to your church, when your congregation show a little more Christian charity. Good morning.’ Ignoring the appalled gasps behind her, she marched down the path after Sam.

  It soon became apparent to Esther that Sam Brumby was no regular churchgoer and he had what some might think was a peculiar attitude towards the Being he always referred to as ‘The Almighty’. He did not believe in the prayer of supplication; he could never bring himself to pray for things to be given to him. On the contrary his sole purpose in his rare attendances at church was to give thanks. At harvest – good or bad – he would attend the Harvest Service. At Christmas he would celebrate with the Church the birthday of the Son of the Almighty, and at Easter he would give thanks for Christ’s sacrifice. But never, ever, would he ask for anything for himself. His lips hardly moved during prayer except to say such words as, ‘Thanks be to God’.