‘What are you doing in here, Missy? Nosing into things that dun’t concern ya?’
The voice made her jump and she swivelled round to see her grandmother standing in the doorway. Ella had been so intent upon the family pictures that she had not heard footsteps mounting the stairs.
The excuse came easily to her lips for although it had not been the initial reason she had ventured upstairs, it was now the truth. ‘I wanted the lav, Nannie. I can’t find it.’
The woman gave a snort of laughter. ‘We dun’t have such fancy things as an indoor lav in the country, Missy. It’s outside.’
‘So’s ours at home. It’s across the back yard,’ Ella said and began to cross towards her grandmother and the door, making no apology for having been caught in Esther’s bedroom.
‘And dun’t call me “Nannie”’ Esther said. ‘Meks me sound like a goat. You call me Grannie.’
Ella stared at her and then suddenly the young girl’s face broke into an impish grin. Her blue eyes danced with mischief. ‘All right – Gran.’
It was a half-way concession without being complete capitulation.
Her grandmother’s green eyes flashed fire. ‘Grannie.’
Boldly, the girl’s gaze never faltered. ‘Gran,’ she said, calmly but decisively.
The battle of wills had begun.
Two
Her grandmother’s strong fingers were digging into Ella’s shoulder as she found herself being propelled down the narrow stairs, through the living room, kitchen and scullery and out of the back door. Turning to the right towards smaller brick buildings attached to the main house, they passed one door and came to a second. Esther flung this open.
It was nothing like the lav across the yard back home in Lincoln. There, it was a proper flush toilet with a chain to pull; here, it was a wooden bench fitted against the wall with a hole in the centre. Dangling from a hook on the wall a loop of string held squares of neatly torn newspaper. Ella wrinkled her nose at the sour smell in the gloomy, confined space, the only light coming from the draughty gaps above and below the wooden door. Perched on the seat, her feet swinging above the rough-set cobbles of the floor, Ella shuddered and was glad to jump down, yank up her knickers and push open the door. It crashed back against the brick wall.
‘What are you doing, child? Ya’ll have the door off its hinges.’
Blinking in the sudden light, Ella saw her grandmother coming across the yard from the barn. The girl breathed deeply in the fresh air. ‘It pongs in there.’
Esther sucked her tongue against her teeth in a sound of exasperation and pointed towards the back door. ‘Into the scullery with you and wash ya hands.’
Pushing up the sleeves of her jumper, Ella frowned. In the deep sink there was a white, enamel bowl and on the window-sill, a dish and soap. But where were the taps? To the side of the sink, there was a huge sort of spout and a big handle, but there were no taps.
Ella opened her mouth and shouted, ‘Mum. Mum!’
But it was her grandmother who appeared again in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Now what’s the matter?’
‘Where are the taps?’
They glared at each other once more. ‘Taps? What do ya think this is? A posh hotel? Work the pump, child.’
Ella blinked. Pump? What on earth did this old woman mean? What pump?
‘Dear, oh dear. What has your mother been doing? Dun’t you know anything?’
Impatiently, the woman pushed past Ella and grasped the big handle. She worked it up and down and water splashed from the spout into the bowl. ‘There, see how to do it?’
The girl said nothing, but plunged her hands into the bowl, only to pull them out again quickly.
‘Ugh! It’s cold.’ She twisted her head round and looked up at her grandmother resentfully.
‘Course it’s cold. None of ya namby-pamby ways here, Missy. We always wash in cold water, night and morning.’
Thinking with longing of the steaming hot water gushing from the taps at home, Ella stared up at her grandmother. ‘You don’t bath in cold water, do you?’ she asked incredulously, although she was beginning to think that anything might be possible in this place.
‘Bath night’s on a Friday night in a tin bath on the hearth in the kitchen. Every drop of hot water comes from the side boiler in the range.’
Ella gawped at her again, trying to imagine bathing in the kitchen in front of the fire instead of in the white enamelled bath at home.
‘It seems,’ Esther Godfrey remarked drily, ‘that you’ve been spoilt by city life, Missy. You’ve a lot to learn . . .’
‘I don’t think I want . . .’ Ella began and then the sound of hob-nailed boots in the yard made her glance out of the scullery window. Suddenly everything was all right, for coming across the yard was someone she knew – knew very well – and loved dearly.
‘Grandpa. Grandpa!’ she cried, and, shaking the icy droplets from her hands, she ran out of the back door.
‘Just a minute,’ her grandmother began, ‘you haven’t finished washing your hands properly . . .’
But Ella was gone, scampering across the yard towards the tall man whose blue eyes crinkled with laughter when he saw her. Knowing her grandmother must still be watching, Ella flung her arms wide in greeting, inviting him to catch her and swing her up into his arms.
‘My, you’re getting a big girl,’ Jonathan Godfrey said, pretending to puff and pant under her weight.
Casting a sly glance back towards where her grandmother stood, hands on hips, watching, Ella wound her arms around her grandfather’s neck and pressed her cheek close to his bristly face. Seeing the frown on her grandmother’s face, Ella was triumphant.
‘Have you given Kate her letter, Esther?’ Grandpa Godfrey said as he pulled off his cap, unwound the long woollen scarf from his neck and kissed Kate’s cheek in greeting.
‘Letter? For me?’
Ella saw her mother’s puzzled expression. ‘Why should a letter for me come here? I haven’t lived here for years.’
With a work-worn hand, the purple veins standing out against the tanned skin, he swept back the untidy lock of greying hair that fell across his forehead and shrugged. ‘Well, it did. Last week. I was going to send it on to you, but knowing you’d be coming for the funeral . . . Where is it, Esther?’
‘On the mantelpiece in me bedroom.’
A few moments later Jonathan was handing it to Kate.
‘Who’s it from, Mum?’
‘I . . .’ Her mother’s fingers were trembling. She was staring, mesmerized, at the envelope in her hand.
‘Open it, Mum,’ Ella urged, hopping up and down. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Be still, child. Leave ya mother be . . .’ her grandmother began.
‘Come outside with me, Ella,’ Grandpa Godfrey said.
‘But I want to know . . .’
‘Come along. Put your coat on.’ Though his voice was gentle, his hand on her shoulder was firm and would allow no argument. ‘We’ll go and feed the pigs.’
‘Mum . . .?’ Ella began again, but her mother was not listening. Instead Kate was now hurrying towards the door leading into the privacy of the living room, everyone else in the kitchen forgotten . . .
‘Where are we going, Mum? Are we going home now?’
They were walking back the way they had come along the lane, but this time towards the town. Ella, never still, skipped and danced and hopped beside her mother. The late January day was blustery and cold. The icy wind stung the girl’s cheeks.
‘No. We’re going to Rookery Farm.’
‘Who lives there, then?’
Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘Uncle Danny.’
Ella stopped her skipping and stood still for a moment, her eyes shining, a grin stretching her wide mouth. ‘Uncle Danny?’ she squeaked with delight. ‘Really?’
Her mother nodded. Before they had gone very far, Kate said, ‘This way, Ella,’ and they turned to the left off the coast road, taking a lane leading inl
and. Ahead of them in the distance, Ella could see tall chimneys poking skywards from a clump of trees.
‘Is that it? Is that where Uncle Danny and Aunty Rose live?’
Kate smiled. ‘No, love. That’s the old squire’s place. It’s empty now, I think.’
‘Why?’ Ella jumped over a puddle at the side of the lane and back again, but the heels of her sturdy, lace-up shoes caught the edge and spattered her grey knee-length socks with muddy water.
‘Oh, darling.’ Kate sighed. ‘Do walk properly.’
Ella came and walked sedately beside her mother for a few moments. ‘Why’s the house empty, Mum?’
‘The squire died a few years back and his son lives in London.’
Ella, skipping once more, glanced across the expanse of open fields all around her. Shuddering, she pulled her scarf closer around her neck and muttered, ‘Don’t blame him.’
She felt her mother look at her. ‘Don’t you like it here, Ella? It’s our home.’
‘No, it isn’t. Lincoln’s our home.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But our roots are here. This is where all our family are . . .’
‘Aunty Peggy’s our family,’ Ella retorted stoutly. She and her mother lived with Peggy Godfrey, Grandpa Godfrey’s sister, in a terraced house in Lincoln; it was the only home Ella had ever known. ‘She wants us,’ the young girl added pointedly. ‘Gran doesn’t.’
She heard her mother sigh and looked up to see the expression in Kate’s green eyes that said, You’re too sharp for your own good sometimes, young Ella Hilton. It was what Aunty Peggy often said to her when she asked too many questions. ‘Is that why we’ve never been here before?’ the girl persisted now. ‘Because you and Gran quarrelled?’
Kate looked away again, her glance roaming over the flat fields all around them. ‘I suppose so.’
‘What was it about?’
‘It’s a long story, love.’
‘Tell me?’
‘Not now. We’re getting near Rookery Farm.’
To their right, Ella saw a long, low farmhouse with white-washed walls surrounded by buildings, sheds and barns. Her mother was bending towards her. ‘You’re not to ask awkward questions when we get there, Ella. D’you hear?’
‘Why?’ The girl’s candid blue eyes demanded an explanation.
‘Because . . . Oh I can’t explain it all now.’
‘Tell me!’
‘No, not now.’ Her mother was firm as she said again, ‘When you’re older, I’ll explain everything.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
Ella Hilton was an intelligent child with an understanding and perception which sometimes exceeded her years. But at this moment she was beginning to feel, disturbingly, that there was a great deal she did not know or understand about her own family. As soon as another thought came into her head, it came out of her mouth. ‘That old man in the coffin? Your grandfather . . .’
‘He was always so good to me,’ Kate murmured, tears in her voice. She seemed to be thinking aloud, not really talking to Ella so much as reminiscing to herself.
Ella tugged at her mother’s sleeve. ‘He’s not – he can’t be – that old woman’s father.’
Kate stopped and stared at her daughter. ‘Old woman . . .?’ Laughter bubbled up inside Kate, banishing for a moment her melancholy memories. Child-like, she clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh Ella, she’d box your ears if she heard you call her that. My mother, Esther Godfrey, an old woman!’
Ella was laughing too, dancing around her mother in the lane. She watched Kate take a deep breath, revelling in the breeze ruffling her long, shoulder-length auburn hair; saw her close her eyes and lift her face to the sky, a small smile curving her mouth.
‘Oh, it’s so good to be back,’ Kate murmured. ‘I hadn’t realised just how much I missed this place.’
Ella’s laughter died. She was suddenly, uncomfortably, aware that back here in the place she still called ‘home’, her mother did not share her feeling of belonging in the city. To Ella, these wide open spaces and glowering grey skies were awesome and lonely.
‘I don’t like it here,’ she muttered as Kate pushed open the farmyard gate and two sheepdogs near the back door of the house began barking. ‘I don’t like that tiny bedroom I had to sleep in last night. I bumped my head on that sloping ceiling and it was all – all creaky in the night.’
Kate laughed. ‘It’s only the wind. There’s nothing to hurt you.’
‘There was a funny rustling in the roof,’ Ella insisted.
‘Only birds, I expect,’ her mother murmured.
‘Well, I want to go home.’
‘Don’t you want to see Uncle Danny and Aunty Rose again?’ Kate paused, her hand resting on the gate. Even though Ella had never visited Fleethaven Point before, she knew Danny and Rosie Eland. Like Grandpa Godfrey, they visited Kate and her daughter in Lincoln, usually at the beginning of December when they came to the city to do their Christmas shopping. It was a time she looked forward to, when the tiny terraced house was filled with laughter and presents.
Ella was quiet for a moment, torn between wanting to see them again and her desire to leave this place. ‘Well, yes . . .’ she began, trying to weigh her dislike of these windswept fields against the pleasure of seeing the Elands. Then her expression brightened. ‘Will Rob be here?’
‘Rob? Why, yes, I expect so.’
The smile on the girl’s face was impish now. ‘Good. He’s about my age, isn’t he? But I’ve never met him.’
‘No, you haven’t. I was forgetting that,’ Kate said, smiling as she added, ‘They’ve always left him at home with his grandma so they could do their shopping in peace.’
Ella was marching eagerly through the farmyard gate now but as the dogs came loping towards them, she hesitated once more. The two animals bounded around them, wagging their tails in welcome and shaking their long black and white coats. Ella began to sneeze. ‘Do something, Mum. You know I – atishoo – don’t like dogs.’
The back door of the farmhouse opened and as Ella heard a squeal of delight, she looked up to see Rosie running towards them, her arms stretched wide in welcome. ‘Kate, oh, Katie, and little Ella, too.’
Ella frowned momentarily at hearing herself described as ‘little’ when already she came up to her mother’s shoulder. But then finding herself clasped against the woman’s soft bosom and her face showered with kisses, she couldn’t help smiling. At least Aunty Rosie’s welcome was better than her grandmother’s.
‘Hello, Rosie,’ her mother was saying and submitted to being clasped in a bear-hug too.
Rosie Eland was plump, but not fat. Her hair was a fluffy cloud of shoulder-length blonde curls, swept back from her face by two combs on either side of her head, with a huge roll curl on the top. She wore a paisley patterned wrap-over apron and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up above her elbows. Her blue eyes sparkled with her obvious delight at seeing them and her smooth skin shone with sweat. ‘I was up to me elbows in soap suds in the wash-house, when I heard the dogs barking and came to see what all the racket was about. Oh, it’s so lovely to see you and Ella. Come on in. I knew you’d come. I told Danny so . . .’ Rosie chattered on. ‘“Kate will come for her grandad’s funeral”, I told him, “whatever her mam ses, she’ll come”. I was right, wasn’t I, Katie? I knew you wouldn’t stay away from poor old Will Benson’s funeral. Eh, but it’s good to have you back home after all these years, even if the reason for you coming is a sad one.’
Rosie Eland linked her arm through Kate’s and, putting her other arm about Ella’s shoulders, she urged again, ‘Come along in. I’ve got the kettle on and we’ll mek a pot of tea and have a good old gossip before the boys come home.’
Ella hung back a little and, feeling her reluctance, Rosie said, ‘What is it, love? Don’t you want to come in?’
‘It’s the dogs, Rosie . . .’ Kate began.
‘Oh don’t be afraid of Bunty and Bess. They mek a lot
of noise, but they won’t hurt you . . .’
‘I’m not afraid,’ the young girl said stoutly, ‘but they make me sneeze.’
Rosie looked puzzled until Kate explained. ‘She has some sort of allergy to dogs and horses.’ Her voice dropped so that Ella scarcely heard. ‘I think it’s hereditary.’
Rosie stared at Kate and then blinked. ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ But even to the ten-year-old girl, it was obvious that Rosie did not quite see. Then she said, ‘Wait a minute, I’ll tie them up near the barn. They’ll be well out of your way then.’
The two dogs followed her reluctantly, their tails drooping, and submitted to being tied to a ring in the wall of the barn. Soulfully they eyed the visitors until Ella said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Poor things. Let them go, Aunty Rosie . . .’
Rosie put her arm about the girl’s shoulders once more and hugged her. ‘Don’t worry, love. They’ll be all right just while you’re here. Fancy you sneezing your head off every time you come near animals. And there I was just going to show you some pretty little kittens our cat’s just had.’
‘Oh, cats don’t bother me, just dogs and horses.’
‘Really? Oh, well then, come and look at them while me and yar mam have a good old chin-wag.’
Near the back door of the farmhouse, set to one side, was a long triangular-shaped chicken coop. Rosie lifted one of the lids and there, nestling in a bed of straw, was a tabby cat with four kittens, who were crawling around the straw, mewling blindly.
‘They’re not ever so pretty yet,’ Rosie said. ‘Not until they gets their eyes open.’
The mother cat was licking one of her offspring so furiously that she rolled it over on the straw. Ella knelt in front of the coop, so fascinated by the little family that she hardly noticed Rosie and her mother move away and go into the house.
Ella lost track of how long she stayed there, stroking the mother cat’s head and watching her suckle her four kittens, purring loudly. She heard the click of the farm gate and looked up to see her uncle Danny limping across the yard. His left leg was held stiffly, as if he could not bend it, and he swung it outwards as he walked. Ella knew he had been injured during the war when the bomber in which he had been a rear gunner had crashed.
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 81