Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  ‘You’re such a caring child. I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Course ya do,’ Eppie enthused glowingly. ‘I love ya.’

  ‘I love you,’ Martha sobbed, hugging Eppie tight. ‘I truly love you.’

  ‘What’s that racket?’ Gillow demanded. ‘I was hoping to have a good rest. Martha, come and chuck out my slops. They’re overflowing.’

  ‘Surely you could go to the earth privy?’ Martha asked, fed up with him. ‘Just once?’

  ‘And die of cold in this howry weather? Perhaps you have failed to notice, but that woodpecker has been hacking the thatched roof off the privy again. There’s nowt worse than having a drenching when I’m trying to concentrate. When I’m better I’ll take the fowling gun to that blasted bird. And another thing, my bed needs sorting; the sheets are drenched in sweat.’

  ‘I bet they are,’ Eppie whispered to Martha. ‘Pa gets a bit over-heated at times, doesn’t he?’

  They grinned; sometimes they rather enjoyed his forlorn grumbles.

  Whilst Gillow’s fever grew and Martha rested in the loft, Eppie busied herself in the stable, piling straw bedding to keep out the draughts.

  Stood on a stool, she brushed the mane of the chestnut horse, whispering to Jenny, so that Primrose, in the adjacent stone byre, could not overhear. ‘King Henry the Eighth munched a whole cow a day! He got so big that he had to be craned onto his horse. That’ll be Mister Lord in a few years’ time!’

  That evening, Eppie entertained Martha and Twiss by making hand-shadows of dogs, wolves, rabbits and people on the wall. She made a fist. ‘What d’ya think to this grisly man? His teeth is all knocked out.’

  Martha was stitching Wakelin’s already heavily-patched shirt. Greyness circled her red-rimmed eyes. Gloomily, she answered, ‘Aye, that’s funny.’

  ‘I’ll try summat to eat,’ Gillow called from his sickbed.

  Round-shouldered, like an elderly woman laden with years of carrying heavy loads, Martha trudged to the food cupboard.

  Concern was in Eppie’s voice. ‘Has your head cramp went?’

  ‘Not quite.’ She plonked a bowl of leftover pudding rice on the table. ‘I kept getting woken by all ‘em wheels rolling past. Jacob seems unable to take a toll without shouting about it.’

  ‘What ya making for pa?’

  ‘Summat that’ll ease his discomfort.’

  ‘Shall we play a game whilst we wait for it to heat?’

  ‘If ya like,’ Martha answered unenthusiastically.

  Eppie added her domino to the lengthening pile. ‘Parson Lowford says that playing dominoes is ungodly.’

  ‘Oy, where’s my drink? I might be dying in here and nobody would care.’

  ‘I reckon pa’s that grisly old man I made on the wall.’

  Martha smiled weakly. ‘I think you might be right.’

  She was straining the boiled water into a jug when Gillow shuffled out, clutching his stomach, his face ashen grey. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Rice water with dried blackcurrants,’ Martha answered.

  ‘You might as well serve me ditch water swimming with bull-head tadpoles,’ he said, unimpressed.

  ‘I was going to add a tumbler of brandy to help it slip down.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Oh, right. That’s more like it.’

  Slumping into his chair, he blew on the posset. ‘Why didn’t you come when I shouted you this afternoon?’

  Martha took up her sewing. ‘I must’ve been asleep.’

  ‘Asleep? Again? Are you intent on us all ending up in the poorhouse? Simply because I’m sick doesn’t mean you can get sloppy. And you needn’t give me that huffy lower-lip.’ Gently, he added, ‘I suppose it’s the bairn. I remember you were a broody old hen when you were expecting Eppie.’

  Martha glared at him. ‘I am not broody.’

  ‘Here am I at death’s door, and all you want to do is argue back.’

  ‘I am not arguing.’

  A sullen look swept his face. ‘I don’t know why I bother getting up if this is the only way you can talk to me. I’m off back to my bed, to die in peace.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A STAKE THROUGH THE HEART

  Martha left the cottage before dawn.

  All was silent in the graveyard as she gazed upon the hewn names of her babies.

  Around her, gravestones dipped like galleons jostling in a stormy sea. She knew her name would never be amongst them. The bodies of those who committed suicide were interred at the crossroads with a stake driven through their hearts to ensure that the restless souls of the departed would never haunt God-fearing mortals.

  With a determined step she struck out for the Lyn hills. All the while marching, arms swinging, she was lost in a nightmare world. She did not notice Jermyn pass, nor hear his greeting, ‘T’is a blowzy morning, Mrs Dunham.’ Grieving for Eppie, for Genevieve and the life Wakelin had denied the child, she wept, inwardly.

  The echoing cry of a lone heron sounded harsh in this desolate place. With a steady beat of its wings it crossed the marshes and flew low over George Williamson’s rowing boat, The Little Owl, left tied at the inland end of the jetty. Following in the wake of the bird, Martha made her way down the rough cart track.

  Caught within the undulating landscape, a warbler’s churring song was magnified.

  After the recent rain the strangled watercourse of peat bog was sodden and choked with knife-like clusters of marsh grasses. The stench of decay and the blackness of reeds mirrored Martha’s sense of desolation, for it was here that she would end her life.

  The jetty timbers slippery with slime, she trod gingerly to the furthest end. Long and thoughtfully she gazed at the downy mist, a ghostly breath veiling the waters. She did not desire death; there was so much to live for.

  Sobs welled tight in her throat and were given liberty. Never before had she felt so alone. She knew she lacked courage. Was appalled at what she was about to do. But there was no sense in delaying. She would treat her death as a chore.

  She made her way back along the jetty and clambered into the Williamson’s boat. Rocking on wind-blown waves, The Little Owl was rapidly swept away by the gusting wind.

  She gripped the edge of the boat and peered into the choppy depths, glimpsing her face pinched with dread and weariness.

  Without warning, the boat swayed, almost pitching her into the heaving waters. She shrieked in alarm.

  Though the sun’s feeble warmth fell upon her shoulders, it was blotted out as a shadow fell upon her.

  Genevieve du Quesne stood in the stern, the wind tugging her nightdress about her legs, her locks whipping her troubled face.

  ‘Eppie, you nearly tipped me in!’ The irony of her words was lost on her. ‘How did you get here?’

  The hinged leather lid of the crate at the stern, where the Williamson’s usually kept supplies and provisions for fishing trips, was open. The child had stowed away.

  ‘I was worried about you because you’re poorly. I didn’t know if you’d be mad about me following you, so I kept back a bit. You never turned around. When I heard you crying on the jetty I felt naughty because I knew you’d rather be alone, so I hid in the snap box. I couldn’t breathe with the lid down, so I had to pop up.’

  Martha could hardly believe that she was sitting beside Eppie. Her presence warmed her heart. ‘I thought you were fast asleep when I left. Goodness, you’ve nowt on your feet.’

  ‘Did you see that enormous puffball? It looked like a sheep lying down. There were some little ones, like eggs. They’ll be nice toasted over the fire. We could collect them on the way home.’

  It was all Martha could do to bring herself to gaze into the child’s gentle eyes. ‘Would you be sad if I never came home?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you were coming back. Why did you want to come all this way just for a ride in Ella’s boat?’

  ‘Eppie, tell me the truth. You think me worthless and plain compared to fine ladies like Mrs Bulwar and Lady Wexcombe?’

/>   ‘You do ask daft questions sometimes, Mam. I love you. You’re funny and kind, and as lovely as those little white and blue speedwell flowers I put on Grandma Euphemia’s grave.’

  ‘Very apt, I used that plant to line Gillow’s smelly boots so that his broken blisters didn’t become infected.’

  The sun shimmered through shredded patches of cloud. Eppie lifted her face to its golden rays. ‘I like playing mutineers. We ought to do this more often.’

  ‘Ahoy there!’

  Eppie span round and shielded her eyes. A man stood on the shore.

  ‘It’s George,’ Martha said, stung with guilt. ‘He’ll think we’re a couple of ragamuffins making off with his boat.’

  ‘There are oars you know!’ George yelled.

  ‘Sorry!’ Martha shrilled. ‘We didn’t mean to take it.’

  ‘He’ll never believe that!’ Eppie said, chuckling.

  ‘No problem. Leave her tied to the jetty, shall I?’

  ‘Wait on,’ Martha shouted, ‘I’ll row us back! Here, Eppie, wrap my cloak about you; for sure George will think us barmy if he sees you wearing nowt but your nightdress.’

  ‘What’s he talking about, Mam? Why’s he got Dusty tied to his cart?’

  Martha breathed heavily with the effort of rowing against the wind. ‘George mentioned it after church last Sunday. He said he can’t afford to feed all his beasts through the winter. I’m fed up with Gillow twittering on about his aching back. I thought a donkey would take the hard work out of the garden. He’s forever saying that if the plot were used more efficiently we could earn extra money from selling our vegetables. If you take care of her, she’s yours.’

  George gave them a hand out. ‘Chilly day for a sail.’

  Cooing over the donkey, Eppie stroked its black coat and gazed lovingly into its wistful eyes.

  ‘It’s all right for the likes of du Quesne,’ George grumbled to Martha, as though in the midst of a conversation. ‘He’s got enough cash to buy in wagonloads of protein-rich oilcakes from the Americas. No need to cull his animals come the snow. His cattle will parade their tonnage right through winter. They’ll not go short of fresh meat up at the manor house. Don’t think me sentimental, I know I could get a shilling or two for Dusty at the market, but I’d rather know she’s gone to a friendly home. Seems you’ve had a fair trot, ladies. Like me to give you a run home?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE CHURCH CONCERT

  ‘Hurry up!’ Eppie cried gaily to Jenny.

  She and Martha were on their way to the church concert.

  ‘Let her take her time. You wouldn’t be tearing along if you had hock-knees.’

  ‘I like her funny legs.’

  ‘Sit still, can’t you? You’ll wear a hole in the seat.’

  During a break in the rainstorm they had made a dash for it. Though only early afternoon, the sky had darkened until it felt as though night were closing in.

  ‘It’s a shame pa and Betsy are too unwell to come.’

  ‘This damp weather creeps into Betsy’s bones. I asked Wakelin to chop those logs Gillow bought her from Litcombe. He never did.’

  ‘I hope Dusty will be all right without Jenny.’

  ‘Claire reckons we could earn a little from hiring your donkey to folk who want their plots furrowed. She’s booked Henry in as your first customer.’

  ‘Dusty will be a nice surprise for pa.’

  ‘You said that about your stuffed rabbit and look what trouble he got us into.’

  ‘If Wakelin comes in late, his bacon hotpot will be as tough as a leathery bat. I wonder why he went off so angry.’

  ‘I wonder too.’ Quietly, Martha added, ‘I only wish I knew what’s in his mind.’

  Apricot-hued candlelight shone through the arched windows of the church, bright and inviting. Villagers packed the path to the door.

  Leaping from the cart, Eppie dashed towards the throng.

  Having secured Jenny, Martha ambled after Eppie. ‘Can’t we go in?’ she asked her sister. ‘Not that it’s much warmer in there.’

  ‘Parson Lowford says he’s under strict orders from Lord du Quesne to keep the villagers waiting until he and his guests arrive,’ Claire answered. ‘His lordship calls it etiquette.’

  ‘I call it downright idiotic,’ Jonas grumbled. ‘If I’d known we’d be stuck out in this raw mist I’d have brought a barrel of brandy to shut out the bitterness.’

  Samuel blew on his cupped hands. ‘I hope we don’t have snow this winter, One-Quart.’

  ‘I hope we do, Grumps. I love to see the frost-candles dripping off the eaves. It was funny last Christmas. Pa stood beneath a heap of snow that had puffed on top of our porch. When he stamped his boots, the snow tumbled down his neck. Listen! They’re rehearsing.’

  ‘Henry has been perfecting his serpent horn for weeks, though he still sounds like Oss calling the cows in for milking,’ Claire said, laughing.

  ‘I once had a donkey called Cross-Eyes,’ said Jonas. ‘He acquired a taste for ale.’ The sagging jowls around his mouth shook as he chuckled at the memory. ‘No matter where he was in the field, he’d race across at the clank of a jug. One day, the yeomanry were sat around on benches, taking bets as to whether that donkey could sup a pint without taking his lips off the tankard. That was the last I saw of the old fellow. He must’ve trotted off after the soldiers’ wagons.’

  ‘Donkeys are useful creatures,’ Ebernezer said. ‘Lord du Quesne once asked me if I had a donkey’s hoof hanging around. Tied to a bloated ankle it’s an excellent cure for gout. Oh, here they are.’

  Relieved muttering consumed the villagers.

  A carriage stopped before the lychgate. A footman stepped down and opened the door for the gentry.

  The villagers fell into silence as du Quesne, Obadiah and Sapphira Bulwar trod sedately past them.

  Forming a tidy body, the cottagers filed inside.

  ‘I’m glad Thurstan hasn’t come,’ Eppie whispered to Martha. ‘That would’ve spoilt things.’

  The parson beamed at Sarah Leiff who passed into the church with her sons, Edmund and James. ‘A good afternoon to one and all. I am delighted to see so many of you. Eppie, might I make use of your donkey for the nativity play? You shall be Mary and ride down the aisle. Samuel, you must lend us a sheep, although you must choose one that is biddable. After all his work in decorating the church, the sexton was most perturbed to see Carronade tear down the berried branches which festooned the ends of the benches.’

  Martha and Claire shuffled along a bench, their voices lost in the hubbub of nattering neighbours.

  Ensconced in the box pew, du Quesne and his guests warmed their hands before the coal stove, receiving jealous glances from shivering villagers.

  The bassoonist, tenor-viol, flute, drum, tambourine and clarinet practicing together resulted in a cacophony as of mice screeching behind wainscoting.

  Children sidled to the front to get a closer look at the instruments.

  Wilbert raced up to Eppie. ‘’ere, yer bruver says he’s got summat to show ya. He’s at that split yew.’

  ‘I ain’t bothered.’

  ‘He give me a farthing to send you.’ He shoved her. ‘I ain’t giving it back.’

  Eppie shouted to Martha to let her know where she was going. The noisy buzz of anticipation in the audience drowned her words.

  Not that Martha would have heard her anyway. Abstracted, she was scanning du Quesne’s serious face, trying to see in him the father that Genevieve would have known. He appeared perpetually ill at ease, like a tightly bound twist of wire that would, at any moment, spring open. Clearly not in the best of moods, he was frowning at the black-whiskered oboe player.

  Eppie hastened through the shifting swell of coats and legs of latecomers.

  Like a stoat amongst rabbits, the parson ushered scurrying children. ‘To your seats, if you please. Hurry now.’

  The fringing arms of spruce trees dripped along the path like ragged phantoms. St
raying mist curled around weather-blackened gravestones.

  Startled by the screech of an animal in the shrubbery, she sprinted to the ancient yew, desperately seeking Wakelin’s mortal familiarity. Stealthily, she paced around the tree, its bark spongy beneath her fingertips.

  ‘D’ya wanna know why that old yew’s gorra split?’ Wilbert had asked the children during vestry school. ‘Jelly got stuck inside. A toad grew up from it, as tall as a man, his flesh as black as tar. When you ain’t looking, he twists outta that tree an’ grabs ya.’

  Eppie could not get Wilbert’s voice out of her head. Clasping her clammy hands together, she stared at the hollow mould in the yew, the exact shape of the giant toad that had lain inside. She shot a nervous glance around. ‘Wakelin, what d’ya want? I ain’t got all day!’

  Redolent of fluttering snowflakes the melodious notes of Gabriel’s flute drifted through the wintry air, accompanied by the tender strains of Jacob’s bass viol.

  ‘Wilbert Hix, you told me a tale so I’d miss the start of the concert!’

  Racing back to the church, now almost obscured from view by the mist, she tripped. Looking up, she found herself lying beside Aunt Zelda’s grave, shaped like an upturned rowing boat. At one edge was a hole, presumably a rat tunnel. She imagined Aunt Zelda’s bony, dead fingers shooting out and grabbing her pigtail.

  Lingering over a semibreve, Gabriel beheld the rapt listeners only to realise that the friendly face he most longed to see was missing. Moreover, unlike the tranquil countenances of the congregation, Martha was nervously staring around at the audience.

  With no time to ponder the reason for Eppie’s absence, his gaze fell back upon the notation. In his mind, concentrating on a bar of high octaves, he imagined villagers waving jovially to him as they cleared snow-heaped paths with besoms. Softening from presto to diminuendo, he was startled from his quiescent state by an almighty crash.

  Bustling amongst the flock, the parson had been handing out threadbare cushions to those unfortunate not to have found a bench upon which to repose. ‘Oh, my! Genevieve’s body has gone!’