Eppie (11 page)

Seeing Martha making off, Betsy said, ‘Afore ya go, dear, give
me a heave out. Your
pa left me coins to buy him cloth for a smock. I’ll be able to make a start on
it.’

Left alone, Eppie jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. ‘I
see your cow’s off.’

Sam Scattergood stood on the path, other prisoners gathered around
him.

Frightened by the lean, haggard faces, Eppie surged through
the water, forgetful of Gillow’s shirt, which tumbled into the stream and
caught on rocks.

‘I used to rent a farm,’ Sam said. ‘I could take a look at
her?’  

Bellowing plaintively, the cow was a pathetic sight, ribs
jutting through flesh.

Slowly, dubiously, Eppie turned to face Sam. ‘If ya wan’.’

Spotting the prisoner wading towards Eppie, Martha dashed
back, shouting as though to one of her father’s stray sheep. ‘Shoo, shoo, get out
of my garden!’

Jaggery leered. ‘That’s right, missus. Don’t let him near ya.
He’s doing time for attacking a woman.’

Martha appealed to the guard. ‘Please, send him away.’

‘It’s all right, Mam. I asked Sam to take a look at
Celandine.’

Sam examined the cow’s teeth. Methodically, he ran his hands
over her stomach and rear-end. ‘Looks to me like tail-shot, ma’am.’

‘What’s that?’ Martha drew near, eyeing Gillow’s pitchfork
propped beside the cart shed, just in case.

‘D’ya want du Quesne on our backs again for dallying,
Scattergood?’ Boyle asked.

Gazing into the stranger’s brown eyes, Martha warmed to
Sam’s open countenance.  Despite his unkempt appearance, he was handsome.

He brushed straggly locks from his broad forehead. ‘If you
touch her tail, you’ll be able to feel where the joints have separated. Not
there. Here.’ He put his hand over her fingers. Sensing her pull back, he
flushed with embarrassment at his over-familiarity. ‘If you want, I can help.’ 

‘What do you need to do?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘I’ll need to slice the tail where the joints have slipped
and strap on a boiled, salted onion. I once tried it with one of my cows. There’s
something in the juice that helps it mend.  If you have the things ready upon
my return, I’ll remedy it.’

The prisoners moved on, Jaggery
ridiculing Sam’s considerate nature.

Martha sat spinning. ‘I must admit to feeling guilty about
my earlier attitude towards the prisoners, thinking they were all the same, not
to be trusted.’

Gillow was securing a bolt to the door. ‘You can’t go by one
action alone. Always be wary. Don’t encourage them in any way, handing out food
and the like.’

Jam bubbled and popped in the pan over the fire. Eppie laid
down her winding thread and went to check. ‘It’s sticky on the spoon.’

Gillow tossed down a spare nail. ‘That’s another job well
done.’

‘There’s still the gate to mend,’ Martha said.

‘Not now. I’m off to Litcombe. Whilst I’m out, stay indoors
and keep the door bolted.’

Martha lined up warmed green jars. ‘Hot jam scalds. I’ll
pour. You cut the string.’ She was ladling the last of the jam, Eppie tying on
mutton-skin seals, when Harvey Elmer, the cheapjack, bellowed his arrival.  

Martha joined other women at his wagon.

Harvey had a nauseating quirk of clanking his loose jawbone
by opening and closing his mouth like a gasping trout. ‘Here ya are, Mrs Dunham.’
He passed her the slipper muller she had asked him to get. The previous one had
burnt through on the fire. ‘We can’t have Gillow going without his warmed ale
of a winter’s night.’

On the lane, the prisoners were shovelling large stones onto
a prepared bed of small ones. The freckle-faced boy tugged a jiggle-pin, thus skelling
a load of stones from a wagon. 

Sarah glanced furtively over her shoulder and spoke confidingly
to Martha. ‘Since them prisoners have been around I’ve not slept a wink. Any
one of them might murder me in me bed.’ 

An argument broke out amongst the prisoners. Eppie wandered
up the lane, curious. Twiss followed.

Jaggery threw his arms wide, pleading. ‘Go on, Boyle, give
us a breather. I’ve been at this for months, up at four, only two snivelling
breaks a day.’

‘You know du Quesne’s orders,’ replied the guard. 

Jaggery kicked a bucket and sent it sailing into Jacob’s
vegetable patch. ‘I’m working meself into an early grave. I’m already a foot
shorter than I was when I started.’

Boyle’s thin, blue-veined hands clasped tight around the
musket. He aimed the gun at Jaggery’s legs. ‘Do that again and you’ll be
two
feet shorter. If you’re complaining about the long hours labouring, it’s your
own fault.’

‘Mine?’ Jaggery lurched towards Eppie. ‘If it’s anyone’s
fault, it’s hers. I was only having a bit of amusement at the pool.’ He glared
into Twiss’s glistening eyes. ‘Nice bit o’ steak on that dog.’ He turned to the
gang. ‘Anyone fancy stewed mongrel? Make a change from tripe.’

‘Stop stirring trouble,’ Sam said. ‘If it hadn’t been for
you roughing up his son, du Quesne would have let us alone. We wouldn’t be
working seventeen hours a day. We’re only down for thirteen.’

‘It’s all right for the likes of you,’ Jaggery answered
scornfully. ‘You’ve gorra easy life in jail.  The best ale, and bread without
worms.’

‘Give it a rest,’ Sam persisted. ‘It’s tiring enough doing
this work, without having to listen to you ranting on, day after day, in your
small-minded way.’

There was a murmuring of agreement. 

‘Small-minded is I, Scattergood?’ Jaggery wielded his spade.
‘We’ll see how small your mind is when I’ve flattened it.’

‘Watch it, Jag!’ Boyle warned. 

Sam raised his hand to protect himself, too late. Jaggery
brought the spade down on the side of Sam’s head. Groping the air, Sam staggered.

Eppie held her breath as the prisoner made ready to inflict
another blow. 

The freckled boy grabbed Jaggery’s arm.  ‘No!’

Jaggery shot a baleful glance at him. ‘You askin’ for a dent
in the head an’ all, Dick?’

‘Raise that shovel to anyone again, I’ll blast out your
brains,’ Boyle shouted. ‘Some of you lug Sam back to the wagons.’

‘Have a heart!’ Dick cried. ‘He’d like as not bleed to death
if we left him alone.’

Boyle’s gaze swept the cottages that straddled the lane. Fay
had watched the quarrel from her doorway. ‘You there, missus.’ Startled, she ushered
Wilbert and Sukey inside and slammed the door. 

Jacob scurried off with the bucket, heading for the solitude
of his woodshed. 

Sam lay unconscious, sprawled in the dirt.  Blood oozed from
the wound, matting his hair.  

Boldly, Eppie stepped forward. ‘My mam will put him back together.’

‘Why’d she wanna do that when most folk around here treat
the prisoners like the black plague?’ Boyle asked.

‘Mister Sam mended our cow.’

‘Shift him, you two.’ 

Martha was storing a batch of jam on the dresser shelf when
the prisoners burst in. ‘Oh, my!’ A jar fell from her hand and crashed to the
floor.

‘Where d’ya wan’ us to stick him?’ asked a grim-faced
intruder.

‘You can’t stick, I mean, bring him in
here,’ Martha cried.

Eppie crept in sheepishly.

‘Eppie, you know what your pa told us.’ 

‘But it’s Mister Sam.’

For the first time, Martha glanced at the prisoner’s pained
face. Long lashes swept his closed eyes.

‘Hurry up, missus. He’s dripping blood on yer rug.’

Recovering her senses, Martha climbed to the loft and fetched
down Wakelin’s sack bed.

Hampered by their shackles, the prisoners tramped through the
spilt jam, dumped Sam, and left.

Taking a pot of hedge woundwort from the dresser, Martha
dabbed Sam’s freshly-cleaned cut with salve. ‘Luckily, it’s not deep. There’s
not much more we can do, just keep him comfortable. I should think that yeast’s
warmed.’

Eppie pounded with her fists, sending flour and dough flying
over the rim of the bowl. The spinning wheel whirled. Martha twisted fibres, forming
a caterpillar-like thread. Frequently, they stole furtive glances at one
another, each knowing the other’s thoughts. 

‘Will pa be
real
mad?’

In Martha’s voice was a ring of doubt. ‘I can’t see why.’

The kitten pounced on the weighted spindle which dangled by
a thread.

Eppie giggled and tried to prise the kitten’s claws from the
yarn. ‘Tipsy thinks it’s a mousie.’   

‘You’ve got flour all over her little face!’ Martha said, amused.

Their merriment was interrupted by a groan from Sam.

Eppie stroked his slender fingers. ‘His hands are all cut
an’ scabby.’

Boyle poked his nose in at the door. ‘Any problems?’

‘We’re managing,’ Martha answered.

‘I’ll call this evening. See how he’s doing.’

Shortly afterwards, Sam recovered enough to accept the barley
soup. ‘You’re most kind.’ Though he smiled, Eppie detected an unfathomable sorrow
in his eyes. Furrows of stress were etched upon his forehead.

Martha was in the bedroom, checking clothes in the blanket
box for moths. ‘Eppie, do you want to get on with that bacon?’ 

Seeing Sam’s eyes fix upon Martha, Eppie was gripped with
panic, recalling what Jaggery alleged, that Sam had hurt a lady. Finding it
difficult to concentrate on her task, she clumsily hacked the meat. 

‘I’ll return to my labours,’ Sam said, noticing her
nervousness. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’ 

Eppie breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Martha said, unconvinced of his
strength.

Swooning with pain, he fell back.

She came to his side. ‘You’d best rest some more.’

‘I don’t want to be in your way.’

‘You’re in no one’s way. Now look what you’ve done - the
cut’s bleeding again.’

She finished winding on a fresh bandage. ‘I don’t want
another peep out of you.’ 

Comforted by her soothing kindness, he slept.

Peeling potatoes, dropping them into an earthenware pot, Eppie
caught the familiar clippity-clop of Jenny’s shoes. She ran out excitedly.
‘I’ll go and tell pa about Mister Sam.’

‘No, let me …’ Eppie had dashed away before Martha could finish
uttering her warning.

She returned moments later. ‘Come an’ see! Pa’s bought a
broken wheelbarrow.’

‘Whatever for?  We already have two behind the cart shed.’

Gillow released Jenny into the paddock.

Martha stomped down the garden path. ‘Gillow, the yard is
full of rubbish. Why ever do you want to come home with more?’

‘It isn’t rubbish. Guess.’ 

Eppie clambered onto the cart to examine the machine. ‘Is it
a broken spinning wheel?’

‘Nop! It’s a spinning jenny. I bought it for next to nothing
from Cartwright’s, hardware dealer. It’s years old, from a domestic workshop,
but it’s got a bit of life left in it.’ Playfully, he ruffled Eppie’s hair.
‘Like me, hey!’

Eppie squeezed the spindles, pretending to milk the cow.
‘Why are there eight?’

‘So your ma can spin eight threads at once. I’ll get it
indoors. She can give it a whirl.’

‘You can’t! You’ll wake the prisoner.’

‘Prisoner!’  

‘It’s only Mister Sam.’

A surge of blood flooded Gillow’s cheeks. ‘I come back and
find you entertaining prisoners?’

Martha gave a short laugh. ‘We’re not entertaining and
there’s only one!’ 

‘What difference is there? I don’t want Scattergood or any
other prisoner in my home. You have disobeyed me, Martha. I am ashamed of you.’

‘Jaggery bashed Mister Sam on the head with a spade,’ Eppie
piped up.

‘Jaggery must have been sorely provoked. Why else would he
hit Scattergood? Ask yourselves that. More to the point, why should we be
expected to look after one of them?  That’s the guards’ job.’

Martha began, ‘I thought … ’

‘It seems to me, Martha, that you do not do a lot of
thinking. You must not be in two minds about this sort of thing. At times you
are far too weak-willed. Now they’ve got us down as an easy target they’ll be demanding
all sorts of things off us. I’m going to turn him out.’ He marched off.

Eppie tugged the bottom of his jacket. ‘Let him be, Pa.  He
saved Twiss.’

Gillow stopped. ‘I’m all for being neighbourly, Martha, but
these sorts of people are sinful and must be punished. I will not have him
defiling my home.’

‘He isn’t well enough to go back to work.’

Gillow eyed his wife suspiciously. ‘Why should you care
whether he is fit or not?’

Eppie stared into their faces, realising that they, too, had
caught the rhythmical rap-rap of Gillow’s weaving loom. 

‘What the?’ Gillow stormed indoors.

Peering around his straddled legs, Eppie saw Sam seated at
the loom.

‘I hope you don’t mind, sir? It is long since I have done
any.  I used to live a lot like you.’

Gillow was stumped. ‘Well, er …’ He straightened his back so
that, to Eppie, his head appeared to reach the rafters. ‘Seeing as how you’re
on the mend, I’d be obliged if you’d kindly leave. Now!’

‘Of course. I never wished to impose. Though, forgive me,
before I go, I would value the opportunity to tell you a little about my
so-called crime.’

‘I don’t need no account.’

‘With all due respect, sir, even if you do not care to
listen, I feel that I owe your wife and daughter an explanation. I saw fear in
their eyes, yet they showed me compassion. I would like them to understand me a
little.

‘My father was a farm labourer. On his deathbed, he made
Lewis, my elder brother, and I, promise that we’d better ourselves. We worked
hard, half-starved, saved. Eventually, we were able to rent a parcel of land, with
a small cottage, outside of Malstowe. All was going well until I met a lady by
far my social superior.