Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

Screaming, she frenziedly hurled herself between the settle and the table, the loft ladder and the dresser, fighting for breath, her eyes wild with fright. The taste of roast meat stuck in her throat.

  Ignoring the shower of fire drops that scorched her own face, Martha reached for an earthenware jug of vinegar and threw it over Eppie’s blazing hair. Dragging her to her knees, she dunked a cloth into a pail of water.

  Her hands shaking uncontrollably, she frantically dabbed Eppie’s blistered skin. ‘You’ve done this to her!’ she yelled, turning on Wakelin.

  ‘It was an accident!’ he bellowed above Eppie’s wailing.

  ‘You wanted to hurt her, you always have.’

  In anguish, he tore at his filthy hair. ‘No, Ma, ya don’t understand!’

  ‘Don’t you dare have the impudence to tell me what I understand and what I do not! If only her brother was at home, he’d fetch Doctor Burndread to her.’

  Roaring from the pit of his stomach, unable to contain his despair, Wakelin fled through the acrid smoke. Gripping hold of the sill, he rammed his head through the window. Splinters of glass sliced into his skin. He felt not his pain, only Eppie’s.

  Samuel and Betsy, Claire and Henry, had dashed over, having heard the screaming and yelling.

  Eppie knew nothing of their visits.

  It was late when she came to.

  All was quiet.

  Downy, velvety snow blanketed the sleeping woods. By dawn, the hedges and bushes would have vanished beneath a crescendo of flakes, the world muffled.

  A breeze blew through the smashed windowpane, sending in a flurry of snowflakes as soft as voile. They heaped at the base of the yule candle which Martha had placed there shortly after Eppie’s return from the market.

  A shovel stood by the door. Wakelin must have gone to bury Twiss.

  Dank, appalling, a stench, as of burning feathers, filled the parlour.

  Upon the table stood a gallipot of rose-honey, a heap of rags, and a salve that Martha had prepared from egg whites whisked into clarified hog fat to soothe Eppie’s burns.

  So tortured did she feel by her excruciating burns that the muscles of her face were drawn into a tight grimace. She was conscious of her body throbbing in sympathy.

  Martha had placed Eppie’s truckle bed at the fireside, to keep her warm.

  Twiss’s blood speckled the pitching stones beside the bed. Eppie reached out with her trembling fingers and touched the spots. The stones felt icy, the blood dry.

  Blubbering uncontrollably, she whimpered, ‘Twiss!’

  Martha came to kneel beside her and cooled her sad, pitiful face.

  ‘Mam! Twiss!’

  ‘I know. Try not to get too upset. You’re very poorly.’

  ‘But I loved him!’

  ‘I know. We all did.’

  The fire crackled steadily. Lying with the unburned side of her face pressed against the pillow, eking out its meagre comfort, she contemplated how, in an instant, the fire had turned from a welcoming, peaceful friend, cooking their food and keeping them warm, to a loathsome monster, lacerating with flaming slashes. Never had she imagined its powers could be so terrible.

  ‘Are you able to eat anything?’ Martha asked.

  Eppie mournfully closed her eyes. She felt wretched and could not imagine ever being cheerful again. ‘How far could sadness drag you down?’ she wondered. She realised how much, in the past, she had taken her happiness for granted. Little things, like listening to a song thrush chirping on a wet April evening: ‘swit-swit-swit, chewy-chewy, chuck-it-out.’ The banter and jolly times spent with Gillow and Dawkin. The rare moments when all the family had contentedly gathered around the table for a meal, laughing over some silly tale or memory. Simple things. Simple, but now she realised how precious those moments had been to her. Some things, some people, had gone for ever. Maybe she could regain some contentment in life, one day, though, at the moment, she doubted it.

  Having cleared away the uneaten meal, Martha crept off to settle Lottie, who slept with her in the wainscot bed.

  Dimly, Eppie was aware of Martha’s comforting voice and the child chattering.

  Wakelin’s empty ale mug clinked as he placed it on the stone floor beside Gillow’s armchair.

  Turning her maimed head away, she prayed he would not approach.

  Hardly caring whether she was asleep or awake, he sank onto the milking stool beside her bed and stared at her pale face, shiny with perspiration. ‘I’m sorry, Eppie. I shouldn’t have done it.’

  She had determined to remain calm, not to show weakness throughout this ghastly ordeal. Now her body stiffened in sorrow at his words. Her tears soaked into the pillow and felt damp against her cheek.

  His voice was taut. ‘Yuv gorra understand. It’s like I’m never free of ‘em. It’s like they’re always trying to get a hold on ya.’

  Martha came to stand in the darkened doorway, silent, listening.

  Eppie shifted her bandaged head to look at him.

  ‘I can’t let ‘em, see. Ma loves ya. I know you don’t always think it, but I love ya an’ all. It’d be like having our hearts ripped out if you was to go back to ‘em.’

  Frowning in an effort to concentrate, she sought to make sense of his words. Finding it impossible, she gave up. Too much thinking only amplified the relentless crashing in her head.

  Her eyes drifted over his face. His skin was covered in cuts and bruises. One gash, on his forehead, had been so bad that Martha had plucked a hair from Dusty’s tail to stitch the cut; Eppie recognised the wiry texture.

  At the mention of Twiss’s name, she was alert.

  ‘I know it weren’t your fault. Not really. Ya must hate me.’

  Wakelin seemed an unpredictable intermingling of emotions, sometimes brimming with affection towards her, at other times treating her with alarming animosity. Never, though, would she harbour any desire to hurt his feelings. Despite her suffering, the tremble of a smile danced upon her lips, and she reached out to touch his hand.

  Struck by her tender nature, a hard lump leapt visibly to his throat. Not trusting himself to speak, afraid of weeping, he nodded understandingly. Rising swiftly, he stumbled away, clattering to the loft in his cumbersome ploughman’s boots.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  SIBILANT WHISPERS

  From the lane before Dank Cottage came the leaden footsteps of reapers heading towards the cornfields. Villagers urged their reluctant, squalling children onwards.

  Seeing Sukey slap Sissy, her younger sister, for dawdling, Eppie stiffened in foreboding.

  ‘Before rain comes, I’ll fix a fresh wax sheet over that smashed pane,’ Martha said. ‘Tipsy treats it like her own door and delights in bringing me half-chewed presents. Last night I was dozing off in bed when I felt something fluffy between my toes. No head the dreadful mouse had.’

  Seated on the bench beside the porch, Wakelin was busy sharpening thatching spars with his jack-knife.

  Claire breezed down the path, a look of resignation upon her face. ‘Martha! Henry and I are ready to go now.’

  For the last few years Henry had struggled on working for du Quesne as a labourer. However, the acrimonious relationship between him and Maygott was choking him and he had decided to sling in his spade. Having sold their furniture and stock to give them a little extra cash, he and Claire were leaving England to work in North America.

  Martha shooed Lottie out of the garden like one of Samuel’s sheep. ‘Eppie, hurry, come and say your goodbyes an’ all.’

  Come rain or shine, Eppie would never dream of being seen outside the cottage without wearing her bonnet to conceal her burnt ear. Hastily, she tied the ribbons beneath her chin and followed the others.

  Chiff-chaffs hopped around gooseberry bushes. Cobalt-crested tomtits dangled upside down on seed heads. Though Eppie’s heart soared with pleasure at beholding them, she never once smiled.

  Sweeping Lottie off the ground, Claire lavished kisses upon her. ‘How’s about I stuff you down
one of your Uncle Henry’s boots and stow you away on the ship?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Samuel asked, knowing full well that his son-in-law’s mind was made up.

  Henry tossed the last of the bags into Samuel’s cart. ‘There’s nothing here for us. Not anymore.’

  ‘And remember, Martha, you must get Wakelin or Eppie to write and say when you’re ready to follow us,’ Claire said.

  ‘I can’t simply up sticks,’ Martha answered. ‘Things are different for you. Henry’s had a taste of the good life. It’s only right he should want it again. I’ve never journeyed further than Litcombe. Rough and rustic my life might be, but this is my home.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll change your mind,’ Henry said. ‘Though you’re right, rolling green pastures are a finer sight than cows in a dust storm.’

  Claire stepped towards Wakelin, her arms wide. ‘I’ll not be setting eyes on you for a while. Come and give your aunty a big slobber of a kiss.’ Pulling a face of stiff repugnance, he quickly carried out the deed. ‘Henry will find work for you in America. There are more opportunities over there for a young man to better himself, especially in beef.’

  She kissed Eppie. ‘You’ve had a miserable time and I know you’re not quite over it. Things will get better. Look after your mother. She thinks she’s nothing short of a workhorse and will wear herself into the ground if not restrained.’

  Mournfully, they watched the cart trundle over the packhorse bridge, until it was eventually lost from sight.

  Eppie’s eyes were drawn to a wrinkled face staring from behind a grimy pane in the cottage across the lane. Raising her palm level with her expressionless eyes, Betsy curled her fingers as her despondent way of saying goodbye. It was almost too much for Eppie to bear. Of recent there had been too many sorrows, too many partings.

  Martha lifted Lottie astride Dusty. ‘We’d better hasten.’

  Scooping Eppie off the ground, Wakelin settled her upon Jenny. Though he urged the horse to a fast trot, she seemed incapable of a quicker pace. Despite there being plenty of luscious grass on the lane-side for the horse to graze, she ate little these days. Beneath her fingers, Eppie felt the hardness of the horse’s projecting ribs.

  In the field opposite the church the last of the corn grew golden, thick and deep. Already reapers, sickles tucked into girths, were being organised into groups by gang leaders. Several fields of corn had been cut, dried in the searing heat and taken to the stack-yard, where Wakelin and Haggard spent much of their time thatching stacks. Martha strolled off to chat to Sally, who cradled her baby in her arms. Wakelin went to release their animals in the adjacent stubble field, to graze alongside beasts belonging to other reapers.

  Each morning, throughout the harvest, loaves were baked at the manor for the reapers. It was the children’s task to fetch the family loaf, distributed by the parson. Children at the end of the queue turned to stare at Eppie as she approached. Aware of their sibilant whispers, all the incidents of yesterday’s bullying filled her mind. She became conscious of her aching thigh, where Wilbert had kicked her. Though she tried to summon courage for the interminably long day ahead, it was easier to turn away.

  Conscious of Sukey, her chief tormentor, creeping up, her heart missed a beat. The reason for Sukey’s animosity had its roots in the activities at the vestry school where Eppie, through no intention of her own, showed herself to be more knowledgeable than the others. Many of the youngsters harboured a latent jealousy of her status as the parson’s favourite, and after her accident the general consensus amongst Sukey’s gang was that her injuries served her right.

  Sukey clapped her palm against her own ear, feigning Eppie’s pain in the blaze. ‘Oh, oh, it hurts!’

  Creeping up, Wakelin clouted Sukey so hard around the ear that her mock wail became a genuine cry of pain.

  Emerging from the vestry, Parson Lowford chanced to witness this assault.

  ‘Sedge-fly,’ Wakelin said, shrugging. ‘Gorra nasty bite if ya dain’t swat ‘em quick.’

  Well aware of the negative attitude of some of the children towards Eppie, Wakelin was doing everything in his power to protect her. That he had played a role in bringing about her mental torment he would never forget. In a positive light, however, the catastrophe had brought them close. Though Eppie could not surmise the reason for his sporadic dark moods, each acutely sensed the other’s suffering.

  Together, they left the vestry, the oatmeal loaf wrapped in a cloth that Eppie had brought from home.

  ‘What’s the betting the parson gets loaves made from the best white flour?’ Wakelin said. ‘It’s only the likes of us what gets this horse fodder.’ Cantering on the spot he neighed until he was rewarded by Eppie’s embarrassed grin.

  In the middle of the cornfield stood a crab apple tree which provided shade for the reapers whilst partaking of their meal. Beneath it, Eppie helped Edmund upturn sheep cages and fill them with new-mown hay to form makeshift cradles where Sally and other field-faring women could lay their babies in the cool green shade. Today, it was Pip’s turn to watch over the infants.

  On horseback, du Quesne glared at the tracks sunk by the passage of wheels as wains traversed the fields. Between the two outside ruts was a third, beaten in by hooves. It was the children’s task to fill the ruts with loose stone. ‘I’m not happy with this track,’ he told Maygott. ‘Picking up stones hither and thither, the children aren’t repairing it quickly enough.’ The hurdle-maker turned into the field in his wagon. ‘Haggard!’ du Quesne shouted. ‘Take some of these children with you to the stack-yard so that they can fetch stones from the ditchers’ heap.’

  Soon the wagon crossed the plank bridge that spanned a dyke. Men stood ankle-deep in the trench, their trousers filthy from dipping into the black, oozing mud.

  ‘We’ve had a fortnight of fine weather, McCloskey,’ du Quesne shouted to Dan, the ditching gang leader, who was dredging with a scoop. ‘It’s bound to breed a thunderstorm. Make sure your men put their backs into it today.’

  Flat tracts of land skirting the northern hills, where du Quesne intended to grow more corn, were often waterlogged. He could see that simply digging ditches to drain the land was inefficient. A more effective, long-term means of reclaiming the marshy land was needed. Having spotted the model of a pumping mill at the ice market he had had one constructed on his land last spring, though the wind being sporadic in its original setting, he planned to have it moved to an alternative site tomorrow.

  Before leaving the field the previous evening, Eppie had helped Wakelin soak straw in the ditch to soften it. Hot and thirsty from lugging stones and tossing them into Haggard’s wagon, she dawdled to watch Wakelin spread the straw over the top of a stack. He smoothed it with a comb and secured it with a spar. With the threat of encroaching rain there was no time to add the decorative finials.

  Already numerous stacks had been neatly finished and raised off the ground on staddle stones to prevent vermin from raiding the corn.

  Another cartload of corn drew into the yard. The men deliberated what was to be done. Short of staddle-stones, there seemed no choice other than to build the next stacks on the ground, though they needed lifting to stop damp setting in. The children were ordered to fetch straw, lay it in circles and arrange a ring of stones on top. Labourers threw down timber battens, thus providing an extra tier.

  Wakelin shouted down to Eppie, ‘When we came to thresh the sheaves last autumn, nigh on a thousand mice shot out of one of them ground ricks.’

  Eppie pictured the amazing sight.

  The work completed, Haggard set off back to the cornfield, children sitting on the open tailboard of the wagon, swinging their legs.

  Depressed at the thought of the work ahead, Eppie wandered back alone, kicking dust.

  Hours of toil followed.

  Sukey stamped another bunch of twigs into a furrow. ‘I’m sick to death o’ this.’ Seeing no interfering estate manager around to hassle them, she and her friends
slunk aimlessly away.

  Eppie set about searching out the few remaining blackberries. Many were maggoty and so squashy that she ended up with a sticky palm. Persevering, she found enough fruit to fill the bottom of her basket. Contented, knowing that Martha would be pleased with her effort, she settled behind a hawthorn hedge.

  Though weary from her labours, she never slept well and constantly suffered nagging pains in her back and neck from bending. Gathering up the hem of her smock, she stared at her scratched legs, at bruises in varying stages; brown turning to yellow, and purple to green.

  Du Quesne and Maygott rode up. She remained perfectly still, fearful of detection, observing the men through ragged holes in the hedge.

  ‘We’ll count ourselves fortunate if we get this lot in before the storm, Robert. It’s far more than we need on the farm and should fetch a good price on the home market, though the competition will be against us. No doubt Bulwar’s done well.’

  ‘Obadiah’s already got his crop in. I’ve invited him and his wife to dine with us tonight. In spite of this miserable war, I’ve managed to procure some pomegranates; they will make a delectable dessert.’

  ‘I heartily look forward to that; it is long since I have tasted such delicacies.’

  ‘We’ll dine in the west wing, out of earshot of the reapers’ ridiculous revelry. I suggest we make this the last Harvest Home. Abolish it and give the reapers a small sum of money instead. I would welcome the peace.’

  ‘No doubt the labourers will grumble at the change, preferring the bacon and beer, and the unrestrained license.’

  ‘Let them grumble. As things have gone so well this year, we might consider converting those tracts of rough grazing, south of Ferret’s Farm, into cornfields. There are innumerable problems to be thought through at the outset. If it were to be converted, the cornfields would be remote, far from the manor. Terrain is another difficulty. It would not be practical to bring the straw inwards to the existing stock-yard, and send back cart loads of manure.’

  ‘If there was a muck-yard with a barn over there that would solve the problem,’ Maygott suggested. ‘In-wintered cattle would tread the straw into manure, ready to fertilize the land. That way, there’d be no undue carriage problems. There’s a cottage in the vicinity.’