Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  ‘We could break all the rules and get ourselves dismissed,’ Eppie suggested.

  ‘What work would we get around here that is any better?’ Martha answered.

  More than anything Eppie longed to sleep, to forget. The unbearable stinging in her limbs made slumber impossible. Eibhlin lay close by, her breathing laboured. Though Eppie tried to hold her nose against the offensive stench of the tinkers’ full bucket, the muscles in her arm were too weak even to make this small effort. Unblinking, she stared into the darkness, listening to shouts in the streets.

  Time ground on, slowly.

  Growing weary, longing for sleep to carry her away, she yearned to exist no longer.

  Soon enough the tolling of the mill bell sliced through the hoary air.

  After her beating, Eppie’s body felt like a scab that, with each bend, as she was compelled to crawl beneath the mules to retrieve a bobbin or brush the fly, cracked open and bled afresh.

  The stone, which she was forced to wear around her neck for a second time, slowed her reactions. On several occasions she was almost caught by the moving parts. Trembling, lying flat against the floor, she sensed the threatening mass of hissing machinery pass over her head like a dragon creeping out of its lair, seeking its next victim.

  So consumed was she by her worries that she gave not a thought to Wakelin until he lurched in, drunk. He had been content in the company of Ezra and Tobias and always looked forward to hunting with Fur. But now, consumed by the knowledge that he was working for a man he hated, how could he live? He felt as powerless as the creatures he trapped. Drowning in drink always was his means of escape.

  If Wakelin had hoped Crumpton would not notice him sneaking in, he was mistaken.

  ‘What do you mean by coming in at this time?’ the overseer bellowed. ‘You’re twenty minutes late.’

  ‘I’ve come in, s’all ya need ta know.’

  ‘Dock quarter of a day’s wage,’ the overseer informed the clerk. ‘Dunham.’

  Eppie pondered frantically, ‘The loss of four hours’ pay for having arrived only a few minutes late. Oh, Wakelin!’

  He had been making an effort, dutifully handing a shilling a week to Martha. However, with the family’s fines increasing, their savings were rapidly dwindling.

  Martha rushed Lottie into the cellar that night. The child’s face was ashen and as shiny as a tallow candle.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Eibhlin cried. ‘She looks half dead.’

  ‘It’s a wonder she isn’t dead. Now I know why she’s been looking so lost, without the energy to eat. Grandmother Mobsby’s been dosing the children with heart’s-ease to keep them quiet. And poor Becky, Ezra’s youngest, died this morning. Grandmother Mobsby never even had the gumption to send word to Jenufer at the mill.’

  ‘What are you going to do with Lottie?’ Eibhlin asked the following morning.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Martha agonised. ‘I’ve been awake all night, worrying.’

  ‘We’ll take her with us,’ Eppie said.

  ‘We can’t,’ Martha answered. ‘It’s against the rules.’

  ‘Rules!’ Eppie said hotly. ‘I am sick of rules. It’s stupid that children are beaten because of rules. Rules that say we mustn’t talk or look out of the windows. Rules that say I have to carry that horrid stone around my neck. Rules that workers mustn’t sing or whistle - not that anyone feels happy enough to do that anyway.’

  Taking no heed of her pains, she swept Lottie into her arms. The child’s hands felt icy to her touch.

  Martha plodded up the street alongside Eppie. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’

  ‘Lottie is ill. I am not leaving her.’

  Crumpton’s gyrating mouth ceased its habitual whirling as he watched Eppie cross the yard. ‘Oy! Where do you think you’re going with that?’

  ‘Lottie is a little girl, not a that!’

  Eppie knew she had uttered dangerous words because the overseer reached for his strap.

  Mr Grimley glanced up from his desk, startled, as she burst into the office.

  Sat on his long-legged chair, Longbotham was copying details of fines into the book of misdemeanours.

  ‘Some trouble?’ the manager enquired.

  ‘The little ones need somewhere safe to go in the day. Becky Shaw died yesterday. She was only two. Granny Mobsby has over twenty children to take care of. She can’t watch them all the time. Outside her house there’s that ditch what flows down Scalding Lane. It’s full of hot water tipped in from the soap-boiler’s place. A boy tripped into it and got roasted. Another child pottered away and got crushed beneath cartwheels, and a three-year-old girl drowned in a horse trough. What if a child fell into Granny Mobsby’s fire? That’s if she’s luckier than us and able to get one going in the first place.’

  Having been used to the enforced silence of the workers, the mill manager was taken aback by her torrent of words. ‘Is that what happened to you, your face? A fire?’

  She stared forlornly at the brown stripes on his canary yellow waistcoat, remembering the time when Twiss had been killed.

  ‘You are a good Christian girl. I see you regularly at chapel. You have a strong faith?’

  She looked deeply into his sad eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Grimley. I believe that God is in every living thing: each bird, tree, and flower. I can feel God’s energy all around me. It is in the air, the earth, and in the water.’ She pulled a face of stiff repugnance. ‘Though, I don’t suppose God would like swimming in that foul river by our cellar.’

  ‘Hmm, quite. You and your brother have got yourselves noticed in the short time you have worked here.’

  ‘Wakelin only got pilking-drunk yesterday because he found out that Lord du Quesne was the mill owner.’

  ‘Why would your brother have feelings of animosity towards his lordship?’

  ‘When we lived in Little Lubbock, Lord du Quesne wanted to hang Wakelin.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Thurstan accused Wakelin of being a rowdy revolutionary. Gabriel was real good when I went to ask him for his help. He tried to tell his father that Wakelin didn’t mean no harm. When his pa wouldn’t listen, Gabriel stuck the noose around his own neck and told him that, if he wanted to hang Wakelin, he had to hang him first.’

  ‘Gabriel did that? And you are much acquainted with Gabriel?’

  ‘In the Crusader Oak he taught me to play the flute. That’s when he wasn’t learning me my letters or we weren’t sossing about in the woods.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking. Why would Gabriel du Quesne choose to associate with the likes of you?’

  ‘Talia led him to me.’

  ‘His deceased sister?’ He looked at Eppie askance, weighing up the possibility that there might be a touch of lunacy about her. He deemed it best to change the line of conversation. ‘Why did your family come to Malstowe?’

  ‘Partly because Wakelin refused to be muck-man and partly because Lord du Quesne doesn’t like me. When he shot my pa dead in the graveyard I shouted at him that if he came back to life after he’d died he’d be a grizzly wild boar, like his head in the Brown Room. Dawkin told his lordship that he already was one.’

  ‘Well, well, there is a lot about you that intrigues me. I am sorry you were beaten by Crumpton. Too much of that goes on. I rue the day that I was compelled to sell out to Lord du Quesne, but the circumstances were beyond me. He does not have a care about the workers. There are too many hazards, especially for the children when they are tired towards the end of a long day. If his lordship forces them to work from such a young age and for such long hours is it any wonder that they fall asleep. It is utter nonsense to beat them for that reason.’ He swung his leather chair around and rose to his feet. ‘You are right; we must do something to help the very young. I have a notion. Follow me.’

  It was still dark as they strode past the truck store and up the hill, passing the weaving shed and woollen mill.

  Stepping solemnly behind the manager, Lottie in her arms, Epp
ie trailed him through the kitchen of the apprentice house and upstairs to the dormitory, where rows of truckle-like beds were laid side-by-side with scarce a space between. Covering each of the straw mattresses, where the children slept two to a bed, were grey blankets. Besides a line of chamber pots were little heaps of straw, ready to use to clean bottoms.

  ‘Mrs Muggleton,’ Mr Grimley said, indicating to Lottie, ‘this child is unwell. She needs taking care of. I have decided that the mill workers, if they so desire, will be offered the opportunity of leaving their under-fives here during working hours. The children will be safe in the apprentice house and may make use of the beds if they are tired. There will be no charge. I shall buy provisions: milk, bread, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I thought you sold the mill to Lord du Quesne because you was poor?’ Eppie said. ‘Where will you get the money?’

  ‘I shall manage,’ he ruminated. ‘One way or, perhaps, the other.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THE HAUNTED WATERWHEEL

  Merrily the Christmas bells of Little Lubbock church chimed. Eppie whipped across the frozen mere, sheep bone blades strapped to her feet. ‘Watch me, Dawkin! I can skate!’ Overwhelmed with a sense of freedom, she whirled until she felt she would never stop.

  Martha grabbed her flailing arms. ‘Eppie, wake up!’

  Dawkin’s laughter died.

  ‘Mam? What’s up?’

  ‘Can’t you hear the mill bell? Hurry or we’ll be late. Eibhlin, you’re surely not thinking of going today? You spent the whole night awake, coughing. Take the day off.’

  ‘If I do, that’s the last I see of the mill and my children will starve.’

  Tramp, tramp went the tread of many feet across the desolate marketplace as workers marched through the shrouding cloak of darkness.

  With a heavy heart, Eppie set about the task of joining broken threads.

  It seemed an eternity until the end of the day.

  On and on they worked. Wheels clattered. Straps and spindles hummed.

  Abruptly, Eibhlin fell.

  Coline dashed to her mother, terrified she would die before her eyes.

  ‘Back to piecing!’ Crumpton roared. ‘Longbotham, fine Mrs O’Ruarc six pence for lying down.’

  ‘She’s not well!’ Martha cried. ‘She needs to rest.’

  Helped by Coline and Martha, Eibhlin rose, slowly, coughing up fluff. Her ankles swollen from continuous standing, she sank back to her knees.

  Crumpton kept a cudgel in his belt as ready punishment for slacking mule operators. Threateningly, he wielded the weapon over Eibhlin’s head. ‘On with your work!’

  Staggered by his callous attitude, Eppie stamped her foot at him. ‘You’re a wicked, spiteful man.’

  Before Martha could stop her, fearful of further trouble, she had dashed off.

  ‘That’s five pence for leaving your place without my say so!’ Crumpton yelled after her.

  ‘I couldn’t give a hoot!’

  Du Quesne was going over orders with the manager. He shot an enraged look at the noisy intruder. ‘How dare you enter this office in such a manner?’

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Jeremiah Grimley asked calmly.

  Eppie glanced from one stern face to the other. For the first time, she noticed that Mr Grimley’s right hand was made of wood. ‘Coline’s mother is sick. I think it’s a stupid rule that says she can’t rest if she feels poorly.’

  ‘Mrs O’Ruarc,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘Irish. Been unwell some time I believe.’

  ‘She should be discharged. I will have no idlers in my mill. Why was this not brought to my attention beforehand?’

  ‘I have had no cause for complaint about her work.’ Hampered by du Quesne’s presence, unable to do anything to help Eibhlin, Mr Grimley turned to Eppie and spoke sympathetically. ‘If she can make it through the next few hours she will be able to look forward to a rest tomorrow.’

  ‘The deuce she will. Have you not comprehended what I’ve been saying?’ Du Quesne jabbed the reckoning book with his finger. ‘If you have a drop of patriotism in your blood, man, you will appreciate that we have to meet this order. For all I care the French infantry may freeze to death, but I will ensure that we put coats upon the backs of our soldiers. The workers will labour through tomorrow.’

  Mr Grimley was flabbergasted. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day. The workers should be allowed a day of respite.’

  ‘Do not presume to preach to me. I am well aware of what day it is.’ Seeing Mr Grimley’s crestfallen face, du Quesne consented, ‘Of course, you have my leave to attend the service at Saint Peter’s church, and partake of your seasonal victuals. I insist, however, that straight afterwards you return to your desk, in a sober state. As for these workers, never forget that they are brutes, with not a speck of Christian sensitivity. Their only concern is for themselves. They would think nothing of stealing meat from their fellow workers’ plates.’

  Eppie glared at du Quesne. ‘That’s a load o’ drivel. When we arrived in Malstowe, Mrs O’Ruarc shared her meals with us, even though she and her family are half-starved. When Mrs Eibhlin’s name is written in the book of misdemeanours, Coline and Fur will have to go without bread and dripping for the whole of Christmas Day, except they won’t, we’ll go halves with ours.’

  Du Quesne was unmoved. ‘If this woman of whom you speak has not the resourcefulness to save her wages for when times are lean that is her concern.’

  ‘What money has Mrs Eibhlin, or any of us come to that, got to save? We can’t even afford proper clothing.’

  Du Quesne opened his mouth to reply.

  She rushed on. ‘The tinkers pinched my yellow Sunday frock. I’ve only got this one.’ She lifted her apron, revealing a grey skirt. ‘It’s dirty with oil and fluff from crawling under the machines. I have to wear it every day and sleep in it every night.’ She stuffed her nose into the cotton. ‘It smells worse than Wakelin’s sweaty singlet. Take a whiff.’

  Du Quesne rose furiously to his feet, his chair crashing back against a cabinet. ‘I have no desire to smell your disgusting garment! Leave the office, this instance, or I will get Crumpton to beat you until your blood runs black.’

  Eppie stuck up her nose and headed towards the door. ‘He already has.’

  Crumpton nowhere in sight, she snatched a moment to enlighten Martha about du Quesne’s intention to make the workers labour through Christmas Day. Word spread.

  For hours, Eppie worked as a doffer, mounting and taking down bobbins. Frequently she glanced around at Eibhlin, whose movements had become sluggish, her body progressively crooked with the passage of time.

  It was whilst gazing at snow drifting as light as thistledown upon the woodland canopy that she became aware of a commotion behind her.

  ‘I will take no more of this nonsense!’ Crumpton fumed.

  Holding onto the wooden lip of a mule, Eibhlin tried to rise to her feet, Jenufer supporting her by the arm.

  Mr Grimley chanced to peer through what the workers called his spy-hole, a tiny window in the wall of his office. He scurried forward. ‘For pity’s sake, Mr Crumpton, give the woman a moment to recover. Someone fetch a chair from my office.’

  Du Quesne strode after the manager. ‘Give into this woman’s weakness and you will have all the sick workers demanding time for respite.’

  Eppie’s distress was so great that she whirled around to the window and hammered with her fists upon the pane. ‘Stop them! Make them stop!’

  The crashing, foaming river glazed over and froze. Crystal spears, like the ice swords of ancient warriors, spiked out from the wooden waterwheel as though thrusting against an unseen enemy. The mill engine halted. The rattling of spinning machines ceased.

  Stunned silence amongst the workers lasted for only a moment. Floors thundered as weary workers stamped and cheered, realising that, at least for this Christmas Day, they were freed from the shackles of their labours.

  Keen to collect the family wage and be off, children gather
ed in a disorderly, animated queue outside the office. Others barged one another out of the way in their eagerness for a glimpse through the windows at the magical scene. None other than Eppie could see Talia standing upon the river, its waters contorted into a multitude of rope-like twists. Around the ghost a myriad of water droplets hung suspended in mid-air, like pearls spun from a necklace wrenched apart.

  Donning his coat, du Quesne warned the rapturous children, ‘Advise your fathers to use their wages cautiously or they will come to regret it, for not a farthing will your families receive whilst my mill is at a standstill.’

  Eppie went to collect the Dunham and the O’Ruarc’s tokens. Afterwards, she joined the long queue at the truck store.

  Heading through falling snow towards the marketplace, she hurried past Finagle’s. The window was crammed with assorted paupers’ paraphernalia, including knee-length coats, crockery, and peg legs. An arm thrust out from the doorway and grasped her by her shawl. Breathless, coming to an abrupt halt, she stared up into Wakelin’s severe face.

  Tobias dropped coins into the pocket of his corduroy trousers. With a backward wave at Wakelin, he strolled off.

  ‘Let me go!’ Eppie cried. ‘What’ve you got to pawn?’

  ‘Mind your nose,’ Wakelin answered. ‘It’s perishing in that cellar. You’re coming with me.’ He glanced furtively around, checking that he would not be overheard. ‘There’s no one in the mill office. We need coal.’

  Eppie stiffened in abhorrence at the thought. ‘I will not steal,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘and certainly not from Mr Grimley.’

  ‘He couldn’t care less about the likes of us. What money we make he takes away in fines.’

  ‘Mr Grimley has to do what Lord du Quesne tells him.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Now come with me.’

  With a final struggle and kicks to his shins she tore off, yelling all the way down the lane, ‘Never! Never! NEVER!’

  To her surprise, Mr Grimley was in the cellar. He was talking quietly to Martha. Coline and Fur knelt beside their mother.

  Slowly, respectfully, Eppie drew to where Eibhlin lay. The thinnest layer of ivory-toned flesh was stretched tautly across her cheekbones. Cotton fluff clung to her blood-speckled clothes like down. ‘I’m so sorry, Coline.’