Eppie (13 page)

Sam tried, unsuccessfully, to tread quietly down the ladder.

Pouring steaming tea into a mug, Martha whispered, ‘I’ve
fried you some bacon rashers, sausages and a couple of eggs.’

‘This is as much a banquet as last night,’ Sam said
appreciatively, breaking off chunks of bread and mopping runny yolks.

All too soon it was time for him to take his leave.

Cushioning lilac clouds, lined with silver, concealed the
early sun. Martha and Sam stood beneath the porch, neither wishing to move away
from the other. Martha let herself believe in the romantic notion of a loving life
spent with this gentle man, once he was let out of jail, of course.

With a slash of silvery yellow, like a shining sword, the
sun rose from its nest of verdant green hills. Blackbirds ricocheted from the
blast like burnt sparks. Rapidly, the clouds changed to grey, the colour of a
dirty dishrag, bringing Martha back to reality.

 A ghastly feeling of loss caught at Eppie’s heart. Diving out
of bed, she ran to Sam and wrapped her arms around his legs. ‘Don’t go back. 
Run away!’

He stooped so that his face was level with hers and
light-heartedly rapped her nose with his finger. ‘Boyle trusts me. I wouldn’t
want to get him into trouble. Besides, if I were caught I’d hang.’ 

‘Wait, don’t forget.’ From a shelf Martha fetched the pipe and
tobacco that Gillow had put aside for Sam the previous evening.

Accepting the gifts, his hand touched hers. In that instance,
Eppie sensed something important pass between them for, their faces anxious,
they no longer smiled. 

Turning swiftly, Sam was gone.

Whilst Martha went to sort a few
tasks in the garden, Eppie dived back into bed for a little more rest. Above
her head, sparrows scratched in the thatch and hopped along tunnels to their
nests. The birds were as much part of the cottage as the stones and mortar. She
was glad that Gillow, who also enjoyed their cheerful antics, turned a blind
eye to Lord du Quesne’s demand that, because the sparrows scavenged in his
wheat fields, the cottagers should kill them in their nests. She had watched
others lay ladders against their eaves and, climbing with a soft tread, catch
the birds by surprise and dash their heads against the ladders. To her mind, it
was senseless cruelty.

Dragging on his clothes, Gillow sang a maddened, hurried
ditty. It came to an abrupt halt. ‘Not again, Eppie!’ When she mended the hole in
his shirt, she had accidentally stitched the front and back together. ‘How am I
supposed to put this on?’ 

His shirt covering his head he dropped to his knees and crawled
towards her bed, a grey snail hiding in its shell.

Despite her guilty nervousness, Eppie giggled.

‘At least you do giant stitches; it’ll be easy for your
mother to unstitch. Outside is she?’ Fumbling with the shirt, intent on finding
a way for his head to poke out, he stepped into the garden. ‘Martha! Come and
fix my belly-timber.’ 

Eppie was disturbed by the anger in his voice. 

Sam, also perturbed, turned fleetingly towards Martha. Before
she became aware of his concerned look, he resumed his work.

She traipsed indoors, milk from her bucket slapping onto the
earth-pressed floor. 

Eppie noticed her sad, tired eyes. Gillow saw only the
stains of pulped apples splattered upon her apron. ‘You ought to rise before
dawn every day; that way you’d get more chores done.’

She ignored the bitter tone in his voice. ‘How many eggs
would you like?’

‘My usual, of course, five, and a dozen rashers. I need
setting up for a hard day. I’m riding over to Mulberry Farm this afternoon. George
and I are taking out his rowing boat for a spot of fishing on Lynmere.’

Munching, his head was bowed so low that his nose was almost
buried in the eggs.

‘Sheep and badgers have babies, but they don’t go to jail
for not getting married,’ Eppie reflected.

Gillow eyed her gravely. ‘Things are different with people.
Lambs soon fend for themselves.’ 

The carrier drew up.

Wiping his hands down his trousers, Gillow peered over the
pot of red geraniums set upon the windowsill. ‘Reuben Shaw’s here, if you’re
sending that stuff.’   

The cheapjack’s bell rang.

‘Harvey Elmer, an’ all!’ Eppie cried. 

Hurriedly, Martha untied the plucked ducks from the rafters
and fetched the money jar.  ‘Go and ask Harvey for four pence worth of lantern
oil, Eppie.’

In the cheapjack’s cart were stacked boxes of assorted
goods. Dropping the ducks into a pothole, Eppie rummaged through the wares. 

Betsy thrust a coin at the cheapjack. ‘Two foot o’ string.’

Clunking his jaw, Harvey wielded his scissors. ‘Here ya go.
Just don’t go hanging yerself with it.’

From the distance came the blast of guns. ‘They’re rabbit
shooting in Sickle Field,’ Jacob said. Though bald, tufts of hair stuck out
behind his ears. ‘When the wheat’s cut the coneys is easy targets. It’ll be
rabbit pie every night for the next few weeks. I’ll get our Edmund to bring you
a couple o’ good un’s, Mrs Psalter. Six penny worth o’ snuff and a candle,
Harvey.’

Reuben loaded baskets of food to be taken to market. Eppie
tossed in the dusty ducks.  ‘Mam wants ‘em took to Alicia Strutt’s
dressmakers.’

He sucked on his pipe. ‘Will do.’

Ranger’s hooves clattered, cold and hard, as Robert du Quesne
rode over Miller’s Bridge. A ray of sun cut through gathering clouds, glinting
on the shiny buttons of his waistcoat.  He scowled at the prisoners toiling
before Samuel’s cottage. ‘I’ve a herd of longhorn oxen coming through today, around
mid-day.’ He pointed agitatedly at stones, buckets and tools littered about. ‘I
want this clutter out of the way before then. Can’t you work any faster?’

Jaggery leant on the wagon. ‘You release us from our fetters,
we’ll go quicker.’ 

‘I have no sympathy for the plight of the criminal class,’ du
Quesne retorted.

Eppie dawdled, hoping Sam would notice her. He didn’t glance
up. 

In the cottage, she found Martha lying on the bed. ‘Sorry
Eppie, I’ve a rotten head cramp.’

‘Any tasks want sorting?’ she asked sympathetically.

‘There’s ‘em pig’s pettitoes been salting in the bucket for four
days. You can put them on for your pa. They’ll need a couple of hours. I’ve set
the water on. After you’ve fetched a scoop of corn and fed the hens, the hutch
could do with a sweep. There’s the pigsty to shovel.  I’ll come and help out in
a bit.’

Eppie drew back the doorway sacking so that the bright
sunlight would not hurt Martha’s eyes. Nipping into the garden, she plucked a
sprig of mint. Plonking it upon the table, she was about to slice it when a
meadow butterfly fluttered indoors. She watched as it flittered about and became
trapped on the inside of the windowpane. Cupping her hands over it, she smiled
at the feel of it tickling her skin. Released, it trembled delicately over the heads
of the prisoners. They were talking loudly to one another. Only Sam worked in
silence. 

Having tossed several mugs of dried peas into the pot
alongside the meat and steaming water, Eppie chucked more logs onto the fire.

She skipped into the garden to play in the stream. Gillow
was tinkering with rhubarb.

Shortly afterwards, remembering the stew, Eppie ran in and heaped
further firewood beneath the pot. Climbing to the loft, she stretched one of
Gillow’s woven blankets over sacks of finished broad cloth to make a den.

Gillow strode in, muttering angrily to himself. He had not
uttered a word to her since breakfast. Now and again, she sneaked a look at his
bent, treadmill attitude as he worked the loom, using the picker with more
force than seemed necessary to knock the flying shuttle to and fro. Adjusting
an irregularity in the thread he became aware of the stillness in the cottage.
He glanced up to where Eppie played with her doll. ‘Is your ma in the
wring-shed?’

‘She’s in sleep.’

‘Asleep? Here am I slaving at this wretched loom, not to
mention killing myself in the garden, just to keep a roof over our heads, and
there’s your mother sleeping.’  He rubbed his aching back.  ‘Stick
out my tack whilst I go to the privy.’

Eppie sprang to her feet.  ‘Trotters!’

Meat and peas stuck in a lump at the bottom of the cauldron.
Frantic, she threw a cup of water onto the mixture. A hiss of steam shot up,
the contents sizzled.

Martha emerged, pinning her hair into a bun. ‘Eppie, you
should’ve waked me.’

‘Are you better?’

‘Not much.’ She stared askance at the contents of the
cauldron. ‘That doesn’t look appetising. Fetch a pot of blackberry jam. You and
I best have bread n’ sugar.’

Eppie laid the knives and spoons and stodged a plateful of
stew before Gillow.

‘You didn’t do the yarn,’ he grumbled at Martha. ‘You know I
don’t like going short.’

She scraped the cauldron, ignoring him.

A knife held in his fist like a candle in a sconce, he
muttered nastily, ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’ He caught Martha’s startled,
backwards glance. ‘This morning I was looking through the gap at the door
curtain after Eppie ran out. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it
with my own eyes.’

‘Believed what? Seen what? I wish you wouldn’t go on at me
so. What with you and all that clattering an’ hammering on the lane, my head’s
splitting in two.’

Gillow noticed the reserve in her glance and the restraint upon
her mouth. ‘You slept right through it this morning, no trouble. What’s
ludicrous is how you think any man could find you attractive? You never see
your sister wearing the same frock day-in and day-out with dozens of mismatched
patches sewn on. She takes pride in her appearance.’

‘Claire has money.  I have to make ends meet.’

‘So you’re implying it’s my fault are you? Don’t make
excuses. Not only are you slovenly,
you are a
deceiver.
I would have to be a pin-head not to
know what’s been going on between you and Sam.’

‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that?’

‘Every time I looked your way last night you were gazing at
him like a soft-eyed doe.’

‘By, you’re rare and ugly this morning. I was only concerned
for Sam’s well-being.’

Aware of Eppie’s troubled eyes fixed upon him, he spoke with
a note of finality. ‘I shall say no more in front of my daughter. I will speak
to you later.’

‘She’s my daughter an’ all, remember.’  

‘Then you had better start acting like a mother, instead of some
cheap woman of the streets.’

‘How dare you speak …? ’

Gillow thumped the table with his fist. ‘Hold your tongue,
woman. I will speak to you in any manner that I deem fit.’

After a moment’s reflection, Martha spoke quietly. ‘You’re not
usually like this.’

‘You don’t usually make eyes at strange men, at least not to
my knowledge.’

‘I wasn’t making eyes.’     

‘What does making eyes mean?’ Eppie asked, intrigued.

Gillow let out a long breath, seeking to control his rage. ‘I
like Sam, but there’s only so much that a man can take.’

Hunched over the table, Eppie and Martha sucked tasteless
bread.

‘You might not have noticed, but I have feelings too,’ Gillow
said. Chewing the meat, his thick lips curved down like a dour fish. He spat
out a mouthful. ‘Whatever is this you’ve served me? It tastes foul, like mouldy
offal mixed with sour milk.’

Eppie whimpered.  ‘I didn’t mean to burn it, Pa!’

‘It’s foul!  How dare you feed me such hash,
Martha? I might as well be in jail with your good friend
Scattergood. This is no better than he’d get.’ Angrily, he scooped up the wooden
bowl and slammed it onto the wall. Lumps of meat ricocheted off the loom.
Globules of gravy dripped from the fowling gun hanging above the fire beam.

Martha was aghast to see her freshly-washed clothes speckled
with greasy, brown spots. ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’

‘Rare and ugly isn’t enough for you,’ he fumed. ‘Now you’re
calling me stupid.’ He thrust his fists into his jacket sleeves. ‘I’m off to
George’s.  Don’t expect me back. Ever!’

Sidling in, Twiss wolfed the unexpected treat of strewn
meat. His tail between his legs, he bounded outdoors, retching.

Eppie and Martha sat in silence, neither daring to move. In
relief, they listened to Jenny trot off, at an unusually rapid pace for a
hock-kneed horse.

Eppie gazed at the whitewashed stone spattered with oily
stains. ‘Uh, oh.’

Martha put her nose to a lump of meat which had stuck on the
fire-crane. ‘Pooh! No wonder Twiss was sick.’

‘When I went to sweep the coop, Connie fluttered and knocked
the pettitoes into a pile of chicken droppings. The trotters were hard to fish out;
they kept slipping back into the slime and grit.’

‘My head is cracking with all this laughter. Do you reckon,
Eppie Dunham, that if I left you to muck out
the
loosebox, I could get some more rest? Your father will be in a
fowl
mood
when he gets home. I’ll need all my strength to deal with him.’

‘What about the mess?’

‘I’ll scrub it later. By then it’ll have stuck like a
blackberry flap, but who cares? Your pa obviously doesn’t.’

Chucking the fox-cushion upon the step, Eppie settled to
enjoy the warmth of the sun. Mucking out could wait. How she loved this cottage
- the woodbine cascading over the hazel-lattice porch, and the wallflowers,
hollyhocks, sweet peas and columbine thriving beneath the window.

She watched a bumble bee hovering around the ventilation
hole of the potato storage clamp that Gillow had made from straw and ash. Twiss
leapt, trying to catch the insect in his mouth. ‘Bumbees have a nasty sting, you
silly mop head.’ Tipsy rubbed against her knees. ‘Would you like some leftover
cream from mam’s yellow jug?’