Christmas at Emmerdale

by Pamela Bell

  Maggie turned back and looked around the farmyard. Hugo had made the changes so unobtrusively that she hadn’t realised what he was doing. The muck heap had been moved behind the stable. The mess of wire had disappeared and the broken barrels chopped up for a neat pile of firewood. The nettles and the bindweed had been dug up and the barn and stable doors repaired.

  She was thoughtful as she drove the trap into Beckindale.

  The food shortages she’d read about hadn’t had much impact in a farming area but not everyone had their own dairy so Maggie set out her cheeses on the back of the trap confident of selling them all. She blew on her hands to keep them warm and caught the eye of Polly Warcup who was waddling past. It had been so long since she had seen her that she hadn’t realised Polly was also pregnant, so she smiled and held out a sample.

  ‘Would you like a taste of cheese, Polly?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly rudely and kept on walking.

  ‘Good for you, Polly,’ said plump Betty Porter, chins wobbling in outrage. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she said to Maggie. ‘My Alfred’s dead. There’s Robert Carr gassed and George Kirby blown up by t’side of road and Jim Airey missing a leg and you’ve got that coward up at Emmerdale Farm! Nobody’s going to buy nothing from you while you’ve got that bloody conchie there!’

  George dead too? The news was a dull shock to Maggie. She wanted to be angry but Betty had only said what she had thought herself about conscientious objectors. When Ava Bainbridge turned up, though, it was harder to keep a lid on her temper.

  ‘You may as well give it up, Maggie,’ Ava said with satisfaction ‘Betty’s right. No one in this village is going to touch anything you’re selling, not when you’re hiding that shirker.’

  ‘Hugo’s not hiding.’

  ‘Ooh, Hugo, is it?’ Ava smirked for the benefit of the inevitable crowd that had gathered at the first sign of a confrontation. ‘It must be very cosy up at Emmerdale Farm with just the two of you – but then, we all know how you like to have a man hanging around, and you’re not fussy about whether it’s your husband or not.’ She noted with satisfaction that Maggie had gone white and nodded her head at Maggie’s swelling stomach. ‘I see you’re in the family way. Is that the conchie’s kid you’re carrying, then?’

  ‘It’s Joe’s,’ she bit out.

  ‘Joe hasn’t been in Beckindale for over a year.’

  ‘He had embarkation leave in May.’

  ‘Funny how nobody saw him, isn’t it?’

  ‘I saw him, Ava,’ Janet Airey put in fairly. She was an angular woman with five sons and a no-nonsense manner. ‘He weren’t back for long, mind.’

  ‘It don’t take long to father a bairn,’ said Mary Ann with a cackle. ‘Least, not when my Tom is at it.’

  There was some laughter and lewd comparisons of various husbands’ staying power before Ava managed to wrench the conversation back on track.

  ‘Having owt to do with cowardly conchies is unpatriotic,’ she told Maggie. ‘We’re all agreed on that. As long as he’s at Emmerdale Farm, you can forget trying to sell any produce in Beckindale. So you may as well pack up those cheeses right now because nobody’s going to buy them.’

  Maggie was furious. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I do what you say, Ava Bainbridge,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll see I’m right,’ said Ava and swept off.

  Maggie glared after her and turned to appeal to the other women. ‘Janet? Mary Ann?’

  But Janet shook her head. ‘Ava gets uppity about things but she’s right about this. We don’t care for conchies. You’d have been better off letting Tom Skilbeck take care of t’farm.’

  Wearily, Maggie began to pack up her cheeses. She was fastening the back of the trap when Nancy Pickles found her. ‘I heard you was here, Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to employ a conchie, Mrs Pickles,’ Maggie said, ‘but when Frank left, I couldn’t—’ She stopped, registering the starkness in Nancy Pickles’ eyes and, too late, the official looking letter in her hand. ‘Oh, no,’ she said as her stomach pitched queasily with the premonition of horror.

  ‘This came this morning,’ said Nancy. ‘I’m not much for reading, Mrs Sugden. Would you … would you read to me, in case I got it wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Pickles …’

  ‘Please,’ she said, pushing the envelope into Maggie’s hand. ‘I have to be sure.’

  Biting her lip, Maggie pulled out a flimsy piece of paper. She had to swallow hard, twice, before she could trust her voice.

  ‘Dear Mrs Pickles,’ she read out loud. ‘I regret very much …’ Her voice cracked and she had to stop and start again. ‘I regret very much to inform you that your son Private F. Pickles of this Company was killed in action on the night of the 17th instant. Death was instantaneous and without any suffering.’

  Maggie stopped once more and made herself take another deep breath. Frank, with his guileless blue eyes, his shy smile, the tow-head bent over his supper. Frank who had said farewell to each of the cows and had whispered in Blossom’s ear before left. Dead.

  ‘Your son was taking part in an advance against the enemy,’ she read on after a moment. ‘He and four of his comrades were killed by enemy fire. It was impossible to get his remains away and he lies in a soldier’s grave where he fell.’

  Her eyes were so blurred with tears that she could barely read the words. ‘I and the Commanding Officer deeply sympathise with you in your loss. Your son always did his duty and now has given his life for his country. We all honour him, and I trust you will feel some consolation in remembering this. His effects will reach you via the Base in due course. In true sympathy, Captain R. Rowland.’

  There was a heavy silence. ‘I wasn’t wrong then,’ said Nancy Pickles at last.

  ‘No, you weren’t wrong.’

  ‘The letter, it said he didn’t suffer. I’m glad of that at least.’

  The officer might have lied. He wouldn’t tell a mother that her son had suffered horribly. She couldn’t bear to think of Frank stumbling through the mud, through a hail of bullets, terrified as screaming shells rained down on him. Had he thought of peaceful days at Emmerdale before he died, of fetching the cows from the meadow, of walking behind the plough with Blossom?

  ‘And he did his duty.’

  ‘I … I am so sorry, Mrs Pickles.’ Maggie’s voice wavered horribly. ‘Frank was … a good boy.’

  Nancy Pickles nodded. ‘A good boy,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Yes, he were.’

  ‘Can I take you home?’

  ‘No, I think I’ll walk.’ There was a blankness in Nancy’s expression that Maggie recognised. It was shock, frantically building a wall inside her to keep out the pain. ‘Thank ee, Mrs Sugden,’ she said.

  Fury and despair roiled sickeningly inside Maggie as she watched Nancy walk away. She wanted to scream and shake her fists at the sky as she had done when Ralph died, but this time God was not to blame. Ava Bainbridge was.

  The buzz of conversation in the Woolpack faltered and then petered out completely when Maggie strode in.

  ‘Where’s Ava?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Ava lifted the hatch and came out from behind the bar, arms akimbo. ‘I’d like you to leave. I thought I’d made it clear that you’re not welcome in the Woolpack or in Beckindale.’

  ‘Believe me, I don’t want to be here, but I have an account to settle with you.’ The white heat of grief and fury drove Maggie across the pub, and her expression was so menacing that Ava took a step back.

  ‘If this is about this morning —’

  ‘It’s about Frank Pickles.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Ava’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You should be. He’s dead because of you.’

  ‘You can’t blame me! It’s not my fault if he was killed in the war,’ Ava protested. ‘It’s sad of course, but that’s what happens in wartime.’

  ‘But I do blam
e you,’ said Maggie. ‘If you hadn’t pushed him to join the army, Frank would still be alive, and Nancy Pickles would still have a breadwinner in the family. He died in terror and in pain because of you, Ava. You gave him the white feather. You made him feel like a coward. You told him he should do his duty. He was only fifteen, too young to do what he should have done and tell you to mind your own bloody business for once.’

  ‘I’d like you to go,’ said Ava in a shrill voice.

  Maggie stepped up, nose to nose. ‘I’m not going until you admit you’re responsible for Frank’s death.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Admit it!’ Reaching out, Maggie grabbed a hank of Ava’s hair and pulled it. Ava screamed and struck back and then they were scratching and slapping at each other, shoving and pushing and clawing and spitting, both sobbing with rage, while the rest of the pub watched with astounded interest.

  It took four men to separate them. Maggie’s hair was straggling around her scratched face, her eyes bright with fury. Her hat was askew and there was a button missing from her coat, and Ava looked even worse.

  ‘Get that bitch out of my pub!’ Ava spat. ‘She doesn’t belong in Beckindale!’

  Percy Bainbridge held her back while the other men carried Maggie bodily to the door. ‘You killed him!’ Maggie yelled over her shoulder, still struggling. ‘Frank’s death is on your conscience, Ava! I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done, never!’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Winter that year came roaring down from the fells without warning. One day it was autumn, all damp leaves and spiralling woodsmoke, and the next the temperature had plummeted. Maggie woke up one morning to a winter dawn streaked ominously with red. Peering through her bedroom window, she saw Hugo, well wrapped-up in a coat and scarf, skidding over the frosty cobbles as he chivvied the cows to the byre for milking, while the breaths of beasts and man hung in white clouds in the rigid air.

  ‘I’m worried about the sheep up on the moor.’ Maggie went to the kitchen door and eyed the sky. After milking, while they had been eating breakfast, the sky had clouded over and now hung grey and leaden over the fells. ‘It smells like snow.’

  ‘It’s only November,’ Hugo objected. ‘It’s too early for snow, surely.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t want to risk it. I’ll bring the sheep down today. I’d rather have them closer to farmhouse, just in case.’

  He looked worried. ‘You shouldn’t go up on the hills if you think it’s going to snow, not in your condition.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, not ill!’ she snapped. She should never have admitted that she had been having trouble sleeping when the baby was kicking and hiccupping. Her back was sore too.

  ‘You can hardly lace up your boots! Let me go instead.’

  ‘You don’t know the hills,’ Maggie pointed out. ‘And you don’t know how to work Fly.’

  ‘Then I’ll go with you.’

  ‘No, I need you here. It’s more important to get that field ploughed now if it is going to snow. I can’t do that at the moment, but I can get the sheep. It’s the sensible division of labour.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Hugo persisted. ‘Maggie, you’re nearly seven months pregnant. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Look, who’s boss around here?’ Maggie demanded, exasperated. ‘I should never have mentioned snow and you’d have been none the wiser. Come on, Fly, let’s get going. The sooner we find the sheep, the sooner we can get back.’

  A few stray snowflakes were drifting through the air as Maggie and Fly set off, but she told herself that it wasn’t going to amount to anything. She had on boots and thick socks, and was bundled up in one of Joe’s winter jackets, a shawl over her shoulders and a woolly scarf around her neck. Together with a hat, woollen mittens, and a bundle of hay to tempt the sheep on her back, the outfit kept her warm as she climbed, but it was slow going, especially now the baby was so much bigger, and she was glad of the crook Elijah had given her.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea, Maggie thought as the snowflakes began to fall thicker and faster until she had to blink them out of her eyes, but now that she had got this far, it would be silly to turn back. She plodded on, Fly at her heels. They both kept their heads down against the swirling snow and it was a relief when they made it up to the moor. Maggie’s hands were so cold by then that she could barely open the gate. The sooner she could get the sheep down off the fell, the better.

  By now she could hardly see anything, but the sheep came at her call, and she dangled the hay tantalisingly in front of them before sending Fly to gather up the stragglers. The swirl of white was disorientating. Maggie turned to start the downhill trek but she couldn’t see the gate she had just come through.

  She stood, blinking the snow out of her eyes. She had forgotten how quickly the landscape could change in the hills. The snow was already lying thickly on the ground, draping a white blanket over the clumps of rough grass and tussocky reeds.

  There was no need to panic, Maggie told herself sternly. Surely the gate was just over there. Waving the tempting hay in front of the sheep, she set off, and the flock followed obediently behind in single file, Fly nipping at their heels. When she came to a wall, Maggie stopped. Go left or right? She chose to go right, and followed the wall, but it seemed to go on and on, much further than she had expected, and when she did come to a gate, she wasn’t sure that it was the right one.

  Doggedly, Maggie carried on but her feet were so cold, she began to stumble. Several times she fell over into the snow and had to struggle up. She had to get down the hill out of the blizzard, she told herself, and when it felt as if the ground was at last falling away, she almost cried with relief. If she could just keep going down, she would surely find a familiar landmark.

  She trudged on, telling herself that she was heading downhill although by then she wasn’t sure of anything any more, until the ground dropped away altogether beneath her feet. The next thing she knew, she was tumbling through the air and she just had time to cry out before she landed with a thud and everything went black.

  Maggie was floating in the dark, rose petals drifting onto her face. How strange, she thought, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. In fact, when the falling petals were replaced by the damp rasp of a tongue, she screwed up her face in protest and tried to bat it away.

  The tongue persisted and she came round, mumbling, to realise that Fly was frantically licking her face. ‘Good dog,’ she whispered, still dazed. It was a few moments before her mind cleared enough to realise that had fallen over the edge of a steep-sided ghyll and was sprawled right by the freezing water.

  The baby! Panic-stricken, Maggie felt her stomach. What if she had hurt it? She struggled up onto her elbows but when she tried to get up, a searing pain in her ankle almost made her pass out again.

  She was in big trouble.

  Trembling, Maggie wiped the snow from her face. ‘Fly, get Hugo!’ she ordered, and when Fly only whined in concern, she made her voice firmer. ‘Get Hugo!’ she said again and pointed to the top of the ghyll.

  Fly quivered and then scrambled up and out of sight. Maggie slumped back in despair. Why, why, why had she been so stubborn? Now she had put her baby in danger. If only it would move to let her know it was all right, but it stayed stubbornly still in her womb.

  Fear had warmed her momentarily but now the cold was creeping back. Awkwardly, she got herself into a sitting position and remembered the hay on her back. Where were the sheep? What if she had lost them too?

  What a fool she had been! She cupped her hands and called the sheep as she did whenever she took food to them, and almost wept with relief when a woolly face appeared over the lip of the ghyll. Where one came, the others would follow. She called again as she shrugged the hay off her back, and with a bleat the sheep made its way cautiously down towards her while the rest of the flock came to investigate. They clustered around Maggie as they found the hay, lending her the warmth of their bodies.

 
Maggie never knew how long she lay there. Any attempt to stand had her screaming in pain and she didn’t want to scare the sheep away. For now, they seemed to be content to huddle around her against the snow that trapped them in a blur of white and grey. It was impossible to tell what time it was, or how long it had been since she had set out so confidently from Emmerdale Farm.

  When she heard barking, she thought at first that she might be hallucinating, but the sheep began to shift uneasily too.

  ‘Fly!’ she tried to call, but she was so cold that she could hardly move her jaw.

  ‘Maggie? Maggie, where are you?’ It was Hugo’s voice. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut against the tears of relief.

  ‘Here!’ she managed, her voice thready but clear.

  The sheep scattered as Fly jumped down to Maggie, followed more carefully by Hugo.

  ‘Maggie!’ he said hoarsely. ‘Maggie, are you all right?’

  ‘It’s my ankle. I can’t walk.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘I’m not sure … I can’t feel anything.’ She clamped down on hysterical tears that would only make things worse. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I was worried as soon as it started to snow heavily. I’d already set off to look for you when Fly came streaking out of the blizzard. She led me straight here.’

  ‘Good lass. Oh, Fly, you’re a good dog.’ Maggie buried her face in the scruff of Fly’s neck. ‘You saved me.’

  Hugo had crouched down to examine her ankle but it was impossible to tell what she had done to it without taking off her boot. He straightened, his expression grim. ‘We need to get out of here. Let’s get you home.’

  ‘I don’t think I can walk.’

  ‘I’m going to carry you.’

  ‘Hugo, you can’t,’ she protested. ‘I’m too heavy.’

  He ignored that. Bending, he stuffed the last of the hay into his pockets and hauled her up into his arms.

  ‘Luckily, you’ve worked me so hard over the past few weeks I’ve developed some muscles,’ he said.

  It was a gruelling trudge through the blizzard. Uneasy off their heaf, the sheep decided to follow the last scraps of hay, and Fly was an anxious escort, darting back and forth to check on Maggie and then the stragglers. Hugo’s breaths were coming in great rasps of exhaustion by the time he set her down gently on one of the kitchen chairs.