Chaff upon the Wind
Read Chaff upon the Wind Online
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Margaret Dickinson
PAN BOOKS
For Una and David
One
LINCOLNSHIRE, 1910
‘Now get back into this kitchen, Kitty Clegg, before I take me a copper stick to ya backside.’
‘I’m just off across to the wash-house, Mrs Grundy.’ The girl paused in the back doorway. She tilted her head to one side and glanced up coyly from beneath her long, black
eyelashes yet she failed to hide the mischief dancing in her brown eyes. ‘I thought I’d just hang them wet sheets out while there’s a good drying wind blowing and get these in to
soak.’ She nodded towards the bundle of washing she was carrying in her arms. ‘You know Master Edward needs a clean nightshirt and sheets every day while he’s so
poorly.’
The cook’s expression softened. ‘Aye, poor little scrap,’ she murmured. ‘I heard him coughing and wheezing half the night, I did.’ The round face, flecked with tiny
red broken veins, sagged sorrowfully. ‘He’ll not make old bones . . .’ She dabbed away a sudden tear with the corner of her white apron. ‘You’re a good lass to Master
Edward, doing extra bits for him along with your own work and sitting with him in your own time when he wants a bit of company, I’ll grant you.’ She sniffed, then eyed the girl
shrewdly. ‘But just you remember, young Kitty, I aren’t so green as I’m cabbage-looking and to my way of thinking it’s not Master Edward on your mind at this very
minute.’ The chins wobbled as Mrs Grundy nodded her head and wagged her pudgy finger at the girl. ‘I know what’s going on in that scheming little head of yours. The minute that
threshing set arrives in the stackyard do you start wearing a track between me back door and yon wash-house. It was the same last year and I know what you’re up to. Chasing that young feller,
Jack What’s-’is-name, that’s what. And him as fickle as the weather vane on yon barn roof.’ Mrs Grundy sucked her teeth in a tut of disapproval. ‘Well, don’t say
I didn’t warn you, when it all ends in tears.’ She shook her head again. ‘I don’t know what’ll become of you, Kitty Clegg, really I don’t.’
Kitty’s dark eyes sparkled and, as she smiled, the two dimples in her cheeks deepened so disarmingly that Mrs Grundy, small and plump and jolly, chuckled and flapped her hand towards her.
‘Oh go on with you then, ya little minx. But don’t let the master catch you, else ya’ll be dismissed without a reference and I’ll get me knuckles rapped, an’
all.’
‘Ta, Mrs Grundy,’ the young girl trilled. ‘I’ll give you a kiss at Christmas.’
‘Cheeky young wench.’
But Kitty had skipped out of earshot and was dancing on light, dainty feet across the yard, the bundle of washing tucked under one arm, but her whole attention directed towards the
stackyard.
Above the wall at the end of the long garden that stretched from the back of the Manor House to the farmyard and buildings beyond, Kitty could just see the chimney of the traction engine as it
moved majestically into the yard puffing little clouds of black smoke lazily into the blue August sky. Behind it rattled the red threshing drum, like a huge square box on wheels. The noise filled
the air and Kitty felt a sudden fluttering somewhere in her chest and her knees trembled.
He was here. Jack was here, and, if she was quick, she could run the length of the straight path through the back garden, slip through the door in the wall at the end and maybe, just maybe, he
would speak to her.
The girl scurried towards the wash-house and plunged the dirty linen into a deep tub of cold water. Then she picked up the basket, heavy with wet sheets, pillow cases and long white nightshirts,
and carried it out into the yard. Shaking out one of the sheets, she stretched up to throw it over the line strung across the small paved area, then pegged it firmly in place, but her glance darted
again towards the stackyard. Even above the noise of the engine she could hear the shouts of the other men, gathered to witness its arrival, as Jack Thorndyke coaxed the unwieldy machinery into
position.
Kitty pushed the last clothes-peg into place and glanced over her shoulder at the house towering behind her, her sharp eyes scanning each of the windows in turn. No one was watching, not madam
or any of the household; not even Mrs Grundy had appeared in the back doorway. But the garden path was too risky, so easily seen from the house. Kitty bit her lip and then, picking up her long
skirt, she ran silently towards the corner of the house, ducking low as she passed the window of the master’s study that looked out on to a courtyard. Through a side gate in the wall, she
stood a moment on the broad drive in the cool shadow of the tall trees. She was out of sight from the house now, but she still glanced to right and left, making sure there was no one about. Then
past the stables and the garage where the master’s new motor car stood in shining splendour, round the corner and into the stackyard.
Kitty caught her breath as she saw him. He was standing on the footplate of the gleaming engine, his strong hands turning the wheel with ease as he brought the great lumbering machine to a halt
in the centre of the yard.
‘That’ll do, Jack,’ his workmate shouted and waved his arms.
The noise spluttered and died and Jack Thorndyke was climbing down.
Kitty edged forward. ‘You’re here again then?’
He turned and looked over his shoulder. Then, seeing who it was, he turned fully round and came towards her, wiping his grimy hands on a piece of rag.
‘Aye. Looks like it, dun’t it?’ The sun gleamed on his black hair and his arms, tanned and thick with muscle, glistened with sweat. He wore workaday clothes: an open-necked,
striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a dark waistcoat and trousers with string tied beneath the knees, and heavy, solid boots. Smut blackened his broad forehead and square jawline, but his
blue eyes glinted, challenging her. Kitty caught her breath, wishing that she was dressed in something – anything – a little more becoming than the plain skirt, white cotton blouse and
copious apron of a kitchen maid. Even her pretty black curls were hidden beneath the triangular cloth tied tightly around her head.
Nervously, she smoothed her hands, suddenly hot, down the sides of her apron, her gaze drinking in the sight of him. His broad shoulders and wide chest narrowed suddenly to a surprisingly slim
waist. His strong hands were huge, so big and powerful that Kitty could imagine them spanning her own tiny waist in their grip. He stood with his arms akimbo, knuckles resting on his hips, his feet
planted apart. Kitty felt the colour creeping into her face as his bold gaze rested unblinkingly upon her. She looked up at him. He was so tall that the top of her head only came up to his
shoulder.
‘You’re early this year, ain’t ya?’
‘That’s right. We’d nowt else on, so we’ve come to help with the last of the harvest.’
There were only the two of them who came with the threshing set: Jack, who owned it, and the man who worked for him, Ben Holden. They travelled the county to find work and the additional labour
required was provided by each farmer who hired them. Four or five men who worked on the Manor Farm lands stood about, intrigued to see the huge machinery filling their stackyard.
‘You – you’ll be here for a while then?’ Kitty asked Jack.
‘Only for a few days.’
Kitty knew she could not stop the disappointment from showing on her face. ‘But the threshing? When will you start threshing?’
‘Not yet. There’s Nunsthorpe Hall Farm and Home Farm needin’ help with their harvest after we finish here and then . . .’ He reeled off a list of farmers in the district
where he and Ben would find work in the coming weeks. Ben Holden was a skilled thatcher and Kitty knew that soon after the end of harvest the now almost empty stackyard would be filled with neatly
thatched stacks.
‘We’ll maybe do a day or so’s threshing here about the end of October,’ Jack was saying, ‘but it depends how much Mester Franklin wants and when. Mebbe he’ll
want us every few weeks.’ He paused and his mischievous eyes teased her. ‘Then again, he may not want us back till after Christmas to thresh him out.’
Christmas! That seemed an age away to Kitty.
‘But . . .’ Jack was saying, ‘I’ll be leaving me threshing tackle here at the Manor for a week or two, so just you mind you keep an eye on my
Sylvie
for me,
won’t you?’ For a moment, he laid a possessive hand upon the side of his engine and then he was moving towards Kitty. With the tip of his forefinger, he traced the line of her cheek.
Down, down and round under her chin with a surprisingly gentle, featherlight, touch.
‘You’re even prettier than I’d remembered,’ he said softly, with a low cavernous chuckle that began somewhere deep in his chest. Then he was turning away, back to his
engine.
‘Oh, so you remember my name then?’ she said pertly, tilting her head to one side.
‘Course I do. I remember all the girls’ names.’ He paused and then added deliberately, ‘The pretty ones, that is.’
She felt a blush begin to creep up her neck, but to hide her nervousness she said saucily, ‘So I’ve been told.’
His deep laughter echoed around the yard so that one or two of the other men looked up and grinned. Kitty saw them nodding towards her and Jack and then one, shouting across to the others, said,
‘He dun’t waste much time, does he?’
‘Naw, not Threshing Jack,’ came the prompt reply.
Kitty felt the flush of embarrassment deepening and spreading up into her face. She turned away, but at Jack’s ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ she hesitated.
She stood very still, not daring to turn back to look at him as she heard him step towards her. She felt him close to her, could smell the manly sweat of him mixed with the smoke from his engine
that clung to his clothes and never, however much he washed, seemed quite to leave him. She closed her eyes and swayed. Oh how she remembered the smell of him, how she’d longed to feel his
hands on her waist, the touch of his lips on hers.
‘You’re only a kid,’ he’d teased her a year ago. ‘Wait till you’re older.’
And now, this year, she was sixteen. Now, she was a woman. Maybe this year . . .?
He was bending down towards her, his mouth close to her ear so that she could feel the waft of his breath upon her cheek. ‘Meet me later, pretty Kitty. Up in the woods yonder.’
Her heart seemed to stand still and then began to thump so loudly that she thought he must surely hear it. She tossed her head and, feigning lack of interest, said, ‘I might. Then again, I
might not.’ But as she pretended to flounce away, holding her head high in the haughty manner of her betters, she heard his deep chuckle following her.
‘Come on, girl,’ came Mrs Grundy’s voice as Kitty stepped across the threshold. ‘Look sharp, else you’ll have me in trouble an’ all, and I
can see you’re heading for it already. Never mind what I say, you’ll take no notice . . .’ The older woman shook her head, looking for all the world as if she didn’t quite
know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Eh, Kitty, we’ve all been young once, but just mind yourself with ’im. You know what they all say about Jack Thorndyke, now don’t you? And
besides, he’s too old for you. Why, he must be twenty-five or six, if he’s a day.’
Kitty opened her mouth to make a retort, but at that moment one of the bells in the row above the pantry door bounced on its spring and tinkled. They both looked up towards the sound.
‘That’s Master Edward. Go an’ see what he wants, Kitty.’
‘I can’t go upstairs in this, Mrs G.’ She pointed to the hessian apron she wore over her white cotton pinafore to protect it from the dirty jobs in the kitchen. Since, for a
kitchen maid, such tasks formed the bulk of her daily work, it seemed to Kitty that she hardly ever divested herself of the rough apron. She put her hands behind her back and struggled to untie the
knot in the strings. The bell sounded again, more urgently this time.