Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  The cart pulled up. Du Quesne glowered at Martha. ‘In!’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, we shall walk.’

  Eppie’s heart swelled with pride at Martha’s dignity. They stepped towards the track way.

  ‘It is not all the same to me,’ du Quesne retorted. ‘Regal! Sceptre!’

  Growling deep in their throats, the mastiffs roamed around Eppie and Martha, baring their teeth as though at the loss of a bone. There was nothing for it. Compelled to climb into the muck cart, they perched upon the slimy wooden lip.

  ‘What about my sister?’ Fulke asked. ‘It weren’t right that Master Gabriel should’ve put her ladyship up to dismissing her.’

  Spying Agnes standing in the open doorway of the carriage shed, her arms crossed in resentment, du Quesne said, ‘Miss Clopton, you may return to your duties.’

  Smug satisfaction written across her face, she picked her way across the yard.

  ‘I will not suffer Miss Clopton in my house,’ Gabriel cried. ‘I have lost count of the number of times I have caught her gossiping about mother’s failing health.’

  ‘Knowing your lack of mathematical acuity that comes as no surprise to me,’ his father replied.

  Fulke chuckled at Gabriel’s misfortune.

  ‘As for you,’ du Quesne thundered at Fulke, ‘for allowing Mrs Dunham to travel in my carriage, I will no longer suffer you in my service.’

  ‘It were Master Gabriel as told her to get in!’

  ‘Knowing that I would be infuriated about peasants travelling to my home in my carriage, you should have refused my son.’

  Light footfalls rang in the brewhouse. ‘Sir!’ Molly erupted into a coughing fit. Unable to continue, she gabbled words to the barefoot climbing-boy, and shoved him.

  Dawkin’s filthy shirt had come un-tucked and hung to his knees over raggedly-patched trousers. At intervals he stopped and glanced back at Molly, unsure, only to be briskly waved on by her. Unwillingly, the climbing-boy stared up at the grim-faced lord.

  ‘Yes, what now?’ du Quesne asked irascibly.

  ‘Please, guv’nor, the girl sez your missus is deader than a cold kipper.’

  Gabriel’s brow knotted with grief. Leaping from his horse, he raced into the house.

  Whisking Dawkin off his feet, du Quesne tossed him into the muck cart. ‘That’s where your sort belong, not defiling my house. As for you, Strawhead, if I catch you associating with my son again I will ensure that you live to regret it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CUT OF THE AXE

  Leading draught horses, a gang of reluctant men stomped down Further Nigh Field. Before them Robert du Quesne rode on Ranger.

  Eppie wrapped her arms around the trunk of the mulberry. ‘They’re coming, Mam!’

  It was October, five months after Lottie’s birth. The mulberry tree, crooked and bowed to the ground with age, offered Eppie and Martha a shady seat in the summer where they would card wool and chatter away the happy hours. Soon, the tree would be no more.

  ‘Come away,’ Martha coaxed, ‘this will be too hard to bear.’

  Hugging each of the trees in turn, the apple, pear, damson and bullace, Eppie sobbed her heartfelt farewells.

  ‘Tie ropes around that hedge,’ du Quesne ordered. ‘Have the horses pull out what they can.’

  The elderberry hedge was quickly ripped from its life-giving earth. The men were through the paddock and into the orchard. Axes swung. Bark chips flew.

  Eppie was unable to comprehend how one man’s anger could result in such destruction.

  Shortly after Lottie’s birth, Henry, in his role as bailiff, informed Gillow that his lordship intended extending Further Nigh Field. ‘Now du Quesne’s had the yard covered he’s increasing the number of in-wintering cattle housed. More land is needed to grow winter fodder. If you can’t afford the extra two shillings a week rent his lordship’s demanding, he has no option but to reclaim the land. It will be rigged and furrowed for a crop.’

  No man’s fool, Gillow saw through du Quesne’s ploy. After learning from Martha about the insensitive way the man had treated her and Eppie he realised that destroying his back yard was an act of retribution against his family. Since cockcrow, he had been busy at his loom, refusing to set foot outside.

  Clods of mud flew behind Wayward’s hooves as Gabriel rode across the field. ‘I told you not to do this, Father!’

  Gabriel’s sharp words brought the efforts of the labourers, lopping branches, to a standstill.

  ‘And I recall that I told you to remain at your studies,’ du Quesne replied.

  ‘These people rely on their plot of land for their livelihood. What you are doing is deplorable.’

  Awaiting the outcome of this clash between father and son, an air of optimism hung over the men.

  ‘You are a lazy, deceitful boy. Sure not to advance in the world if you continue with this attitude of brazen defiance. Get out of my sight.’

  Gabriel’s face was rung with misery.

  With an ache in her heart, Eppie realised that he lacked the strength to do verbal battle with his father.

  With her friend gone, all hope was lost.

  Dust stung her eyes as iron mallets were wielded upon the wring-shed, the bottles of liquor and all else inside having been dumped beside the stream. Soon the cow-byre, Jenny’s loosebox and the pigsty were reduced to rubble. Shuddering, the mulberry died with a rustle of its branches around the shattered seat.

  Du Quesne surveyed the devastation, the remaining cart shed and the vegetable plot. ‘There’s an arsenic pit somewhere. I don’t want that in my field. Load the timber onto the wagon for the hearths at the manor house. The stone will come in useful for repairing walls.’

  Hector Lowford was in the habit of calling upon cottagers in expectation of free victuals as emolument for bestowing his words of wisdom. The following day he dropped in to express his commiserations about the destruction of the orchard.

  Up early, Dawkin had just returned to the cottage. Using spiked worms as bait in a wicker basket, he had been blobbing for eels.

  Leaning over the arm of Gillow’s armchair, the parson stared at the yellow-brown creatures circling in the bucket. ‘They will make fine eating.’

  About Dawkin was a charm and cheerfulness, always a ready smile on his lips, so that one could imagine he would burst into laughter at any moment. He fetched the carving knife. ‘You want to do ‘em in, Ep?’ He beamed at her repugnance. ‘Thought not.’ Fishing out a slithering eel, he slapped it on the table and made a decisive slash. Off shot its head.

  ‘Oh!’ she shrieked, seeing the creature’s nerves propel it as though swimming. ‘It’s still alive!’ She had watched Gillow and Wakelin do the same thing, but it always filled her with revulsion.

  He grinned at her startled expression. ‘Good, in’t it?’

  They set about skinning, gutting and hacking the meat. Water splashed and plinked onto the floor. Eppie fetched salt from the box beside the chimney beam, where it was kept as the least damp place.

  Gillow came in to collect nets that were strewn before the dresser.

  ‘After I’ve done with these, I’ll go and hang the onions in the cart shed loft,’ Dawkin offered.

  ‘Thanks son.’ He made to return to the garden but Twiss, who was going blind, lumbered into his legs. ‘Outta the way, me old shaggy mat.’

  Eppie was bemused by the blithe tone in his voice. ‘You don’t sound upset after what’s happened to our yard.’

  ‘Like your mother says, there’s nowt gained by moping.’

  ‘Wakelin’s hopping mad,’ Dawkin said. ‘He’s off to torch the manor house tonight.’

  Gulping black tea, the parson spluttered.

  ‘With Wakelin it’s all talk,’ Gillow answered.

  Martha was penning a duck; pulling out small feathers left in the skin by trapping them between her thumb and the blade of a knife.

  The parson laid down his empty plate. ‘Your gracious hospi
tality is much appreciated, Mrs Dunham. Though, if it were offered, I would not say no to another bite.’

  Martha forced the glimmer of a smile. Wiping feathers down her apron, she fetched the serving plate from her handsome tea service reserved for the parson’s visits.

  ‘Mam!’ Eppie cried, seeing her place the plum cake upon the table.

  It was three days before the special day. With nothing else to offer, Martha felt compelled to proffer the cake. ‘Don’t be afeared to cut yourself a good breed, parson.’ Seeing him help himself to an over-generous slice, she regretted her words. Not wishing to embarrass the parson with any outburst from Eppie, who was about to protest, she told the children, ‘Sit down the pair of you, you missed breakfast.’

  ‘But that’s pa’s birthday cake,’ Eppie objected.

  ‘It’s of no consequence. Anyway, now we’re badly off Gillow says such niceties must be a bygone. Though, since he’s lost a few bad teeth from eating sweet things I think it’s more the toothache he’s bothered about.’

  Muttering doleful thanks, the children dug into the stale bread and lard.

  ‘At least this is better than what they gave us at the poorhouse,’ Dawkin said chirpily. ‘There were lumps of rye in the black bread so hard that they fair bust my teeth. The inside of the bread was always runny. I had to scoop it out with a wooden spoon. And after our garments was washed, the same cauldron was used to boil horse bones for the soup.’

  ‘Delicious,’ the parson said. ‘You don’t mind if I help myself to another slice?’

  An untruthful ring in her voice, Martha answered, ‘Why, of course, I was about to offer you some more.’

  In a synchronised movement, the children glanced up from their platters, their faces a picture of astonishment.

  ‘If it were offered,’ the parson added, as an afterthought, ‘a glass of your delectable elderberry wine would make the morsel slip down most pleasurably.’

  Crates of wine were stacked between sacks of root vegetables and piles of Gillow’s gardening tools. Lifting aside an iron potato planter, Martha lined up the bottles. ‘I must apologise about the mess. Now I’ve lost the wring-shed it’s hard to find space to store things.’

  Undersized marrows rolled across the floor. Blundering indoors, the pig grabbed one.

  ‘Get out of it!’ Martha cried in dismay. Her foot caught against the planter. It slanted down, smashing a bottle. Frightened by the rumpus, squawking hens flapped around the settle. Twiss’s one good eye fixed on the parson’s fruitcake. Snatching it from his hand, he bolted outdoors.

  Ruffled, Martha passed the parson another slice, and her one engraved wine glass brimming with succulent fruity liquor. Wretched with worries she settled back to her task, while Eppie brushed up the shattered glass.

  ‘I sold six cabbages at the market to buy a few chunks of coal, and that’s soon gone,’ Martha said. ‘Jonas told Gillow that some canal men sold him a wagonload of cheap fuel. He’s fetching some tonight. I hope it’s not sea coal. I don’t fancy being smoked out of my home again.’

  Eppie tipped chopped onions and mushrooms into the flour and eel mix. To replenish their dwindling fuel supply, she and Dawkin regularly gathered dried cow dung from the fields.

  Du Quesne had dismissed Henry. Francis Maygott, a long-standing friend of his lordship, had been taken on as estate manager.

  ‘Mr Maygott was angry when he caught Dawkin and me stuffing cow cassons in a sack. He says it robs the fields. He told us to scrape Primrose’s patties from the lane-side and dry them by our fire.’

  ‘Eppie, you ought to know,’ Martha whispered, not wishing to disturb the parson who was dozing, ‘since we’ve lost the byre, Gillow said we ought to get rid of the cow. Wakelin took her to Litcombe first thing.’

  ‘I could’ve grazed Primrose on the stubble fields!’

  ‘Where would she shelter come the snow? Tell me that. There’s scarce enough room for a horse and a donkey in the cart shed. Gramps is extending his sty for our pigs, though his yard’s too small for another cow. Gillow reckoned we ought to sell Dusty. I told him she’s useful taking you to the market. I thought we’d get a nanny goat. There’s grass enough in the lane to feed her for half a year. Jacob has offered to kid her with his billy. Besides, Primrose was coming to the end of her milking days. At least we won’t starve, we’ve plenty of …’

  ‘… bacon, ‘taties an’ cheap cuts of mutton,’ Eppie finished her words, having heard them so many times of recent.

  Woken by the sorrowful droning, the parson stared bleary-eyed at steam rising from the bubbling pot. ‘There are parish hand-outs.’

  Realising he had caught some of their words, Martha said in a flustered tone, ‘Gillow says he would rather work all day and all night, until he’s as thin as the threads he weaves, rather than accept charity. We’re not paupers, he says, and never will be if we all pull our weight.’

  Swaying towards Martha, the parson poured himself another glass of wine and settled at the table. To one side of his head a calico bag of cheese curds hung from the rafters. ‘I have spoken to Master Gabriel and so I am acquainted with the circumstances by which you came to his home.’ He thrust up his wig, making it sit skew-whiff upon his bald patch. ‘I believe it to be most unchristian of his lordship to treat you in such a callous, hic, pardon me, manner. Nor do I concur with his lordship’s action in destroying your plot.’ He leant so close to her that his nose rubbed against her ear lobe.

  Martha drew back in revulsion.

  ‘If you didn’t like Lord du Quesne chopping our orchard, why didn’t you stop him?’ Eppie asked shrilly.

  ‘Really, Eppie, you mustn’t ask the parson such questions,’ Martha said.

  The parson squinted at Eppie, as though suffering a pain in the head. ‘I take no offence. Alas, how I wish I could have acted to, hic, aid your father. I am, in a spiritual sense, the shepherd of the flock, but in political affairs the natural lawmaker is Robert du Quesne. Neither I nor anyone else have the right to go against his orders.’

  ‘It’s just such a worry, wondering how we’ll manage,’ Martha said.

  ‘You will regret having two extra mouths to feed,’ the parson drawled. ‘I imagine that now the boy’s arm has healed, his master will be pleased to have him back.’

  Dawkin was feeding twigs from a raven’s nest to the fire. He and Eppie exchanged anxious glances, though he grinned shyly when Martha answered, ‘Gillow and I would never consider it. The lad had a raw time at the poorhouse and Mr Crowe was cruel to him. Besides, Gillow’s forever saying how useful he finds Dawkin about the place.’

  ‘I quite understand. Your husband must feel quite, hic, disappointed with Wakelin. And you are correct when you talk about the hardships in the poorhouse. Upon my perambulation around the wards I gain the impression that none of the inhabitants, from the very young to the elderly and incapacitated, are especially healthy. Many perish within its confines. Even the late matron succumbed to, hic, rattlings in the throat, something of the quinsy, I believe.

  ‘The poorhouse committee, of which my good self, Lord Robert du Quesne, Mr Thurstan du Quesne, and a Mr Jeremiah Grimley, are amongst the guardians, were pleased to welcome the replacement matron. She is the sister of the recently-appointed master, Grinling Clopton. You yourself are acquainted with her, the former personal aid to the late Lady Constance du Quesne, a Miss Agnes Clopton.’ Eppie and Martha glanced at one another, taken aback by this news. ‘With some of the monies which Thurstan raised from the recent sale of The Rogues’ Inn to Hurry Eades he contributed to the building of an extra wing at the poorhouse.’

  Clinging to Eppie’s pigtail with her plump fists, the baby gurgled happily.

  ‘You were no doubt saddened that your last child was a girl,’ the parson said, nodding exaggeratedly at Lottie. ‘At least a boy can be driven from home to earn his living.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being a girl?’ Eppie asked. ‘I do my toil. I watch the pot and fetch water. I crawl under hedges f
or faggots. I tend Lottie whilst mam’s working.’

  Realising he had overstayed his welcome and concerned his head was fuzzy with over-indulgence, the parson, afraid to utter further remarks he might regret, made to leave. At the threshold he took Martha by the elbow, rather than risk touching her hands with their residue of grease. ‘Keep strong, my child. Weak in a crisis, you are weak indeed. Walk in God’s strength with faith, so shall thy work be, hic, done.’ Turning, he blundered into Wakelin.

  Martha emitted a cry of woe at the sight of the goat nibbling the fine leather gloves the parson held in his hand.

  Wakelin trailed the unsteadily rocking parson down the garden path. ‘It ain’t the Good Lord as does our work; it’s us as have to sweat n’ suffer.’

  The parson scowled from behind the safety of the hedge. ‘It would do you good, young hic, to heed the, hic, word of God. Then, per-hic, you would be a finer spirited person.’

  ‘I listen to my own words of wisdom. What you preach is a load o’ ‘ogwash.’

  Gillow glared in consternation at his son. ‘When you speak to Mr Lowford kindly keep a civil tongue in your head and for goodness sake stop dropping your haches.’

  ‘The parson will ‘ave ta tek me as ‘e finds me,’ he answered curtly. Purposefully adding, to aggravate his father, ‘I ham as I ham.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  QUARTER OF A WISH

  Hector Lowford’s shrill words rang out as cold as the church walls. ‘Intemperance, animosity and profanity are the vermin that gnaw the core of our community.’

  Eppie shut her mind off from his gloomy sermon. Shivering in the dampness of the morning, she enviously eyed the shimmer of heat rising from the stove set within the du Quesne box pew.

  Rain fell steadily from the saturated skirt of darkened clouds, clattering on the stone-tiled roof.

  Martha, aware that Eppie was not paying attention, nudged her.

  The parson ranting on in his dry, monotonous voice, Wakelin’s attention also wavered. Surreptitiously he clasped Molly’s hand.