Eppie (34 page)

‘Gillow’s gone off,’ Jonas shouted across the yard to Samuel.
‘I forgot to ask him to bring his accordion tonight. Let him know, will you? 
After tackling misery-mouthed Bill I fancy an evening of fiery hand clapping.’ A
barrel rumbled down a ramp. Samuel rode away on Fleecy. All fell silent.

The children’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. The closer they
slunk towards the badgers, the stronger grew the sickening, charnel smell of
death. Shoving a finger through a mesh, Dawkin prodded the stiff body of a badger,
detecting no stir of life.

Eppie was roused to pity at seeing the dead creature. ‘Look
at the ghastly teeth marks around its legs.’

In the adjacent cage slept two adult badgers, beside their
paws, as sustenance, a maggoty jackdaw. 

‘I know it sounds daft, but I’ve never seen a badger
before,’ Dawkin said. ‘They’re bigger than I imagined. I wonder why this dead
one is sandy-coloured.  I thought they were meant to be black and grey?’

‘Not if their parents were sandy.  It’s passed on.’

A grunt from a sleeping badger drew Eppie’s thoughts back to
their quest. ‘We must hurry.’

Throwing open the cage, Dawkin poked the animals to rouse
them. 

‘They bite. How are they to know we’re friends?’

‘Sorry, Ep, I forgot, but look they’re not getting out.’

Drawing in her stomach muscles, she attempted to tip the
cage, grimacing as the mesh bit into the skin of her palms. ‘I can’t shift
this; the badgers are so heavy.’

There was a slight movement in the cage with the dead
badger.

‘There’s a little one!’ Dawkin cried.

Eppie’s amazement was tinged with despair at the sight of
the injured cub. ‘It can’t be more than a few weeks old.’

Oblivious to the open cage door, the animals threw their
hefty bodies about. The foul reek of the badgers’ fur, damp from being unable to
maintain their daily hygiene rose to Eppie’s nostrils ‘No!’ she cried, seeing
them attempting to dig their way out, claws scratching the base of the cage. ‘Get
out!’

With a sense of horror, the children realised that the low
rays of the sun were filtering into the barn. Because the floor and timbered
walls of the barn were uneven, the heavy door was swinging wide of its own
accord.

A man was picking his way across the yard, heading towards
the barn.

‘It’s Tom!’ Eppie whispered, hastily relocking the cage.

With not a moment to lose, Dawkin scrambled onto the
platform and lifted the round handle of a flat door. They dropped into the
hollow dug out of the chilly ground for cold storage of root crops. Beneath
them the heap of vegetables felt hard and bumpy. Eppie’s fingers alighted upon
a coil of rope. It formed a running noose. Reeling with dizziness at the shock,
she glanced upwards to ascertain the truth of her conjecture. Chinks of light
seeped around the flap above them. They were
inside
the scaffold.

‘Hix?’ Are you sneaking around again?’ Tom called
suspiciously. He prowled, searching behind sacks.

Eppie’s nerves tingled. Although shrouded in darkness she
closed her eyes, praying this action would make her invisible.

The badgers, having detected the scent of their sadistic
persecutor, attempted to escape from the pen. Tom kicked a cage. ‘You could’ve
waited ‘til Saturday’s baiting to die.’ Mindful of his purpose in entering the
barn, he heaved a log upon his shoulder and headed back to the inglenook. The
rusty bolt shot through. The children cringed, realising they were trapped.

Throwing back the trapdoor, they clambered out.

Dawkin went to comfort the terrified cub, stroking it,
careful not to touch its injured leg. Nuzzling, sucking his finger, it made a
sorrowful wicker sound. ‘I know how you feel, little ‘un. Look at its front
leg, how badly hurt it is. The poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance if we threw
it down a sett.’ Despite the gloom, his eyes shone. ‘Ep, d’ya think we could
take this one home with us? It needs a splint.’

She readily agreed. ‘We could keep it in the cart shed and
feed it goat milk. After it’s better we could release it.’

She rattled the wooden door, to no avail. Scanning the barn,
she noticed daylight penetrating through planks at the rear. She went to
investigate. There was a hole. ‘This must be where Wasp escaped.’ The rotten
timbers crumbled like stale bread as she tore at the green, slimy wood, making
the gap larger.

Crawling out, she found herself in a narrow alley. To one
side was an open shed, cluttered with ironware. Crates and tins were ranged on
a brick-pile base.

From the yard they heard departing inn-goers riding off, Tom
wishing them farewell.

‘Hurry, Dawkin!  Tom’s coming back.’

Releasing the latch of the cage, he screamed at the badgers.
‘Go!  Go!’ 

Sensing their last chance for freedom, the badgers pelted
through the hole, down the alley, and past Tom.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ he yelled in anger, spinning round
to watch the badgers careering across the field. ‘Wilbert Hix!’ He dashed down
the passage. ‘It’s you two!’

Consumed by loathing for the man’s evil ways, Dawkin thrust
the writhing cub into Eppie’s arms. ‘I’ll sort him.’ Snatching any item that he
could lay his hands upon, he threw it in Tom’s path to thwart his approach: a broken
hoe, wooden yoke, baskets, dibbers, and rat traps. Tom leapt easily over these
obstacles. 

Without taking his eyes off the man’s enraged face, Dawkin groped
about until his fingers curled around the handle of a metal container. He hurled
it. The tin landed with a crash, the top flew off and the gooey liquid spewed
across the ground. In his fury, Tom made to grab Dawkin. His left foot slipped
in the tar. Stepping forward with his other foot in an attempt to retain his
balance, the toe of his boot rammed onto prongs. The rake smashed him in the
neck and he fell. His eyes blacker than the viscous black tar in which he lay,
he glared at Dawkin. ‘Wanna know what I’m gonna do to the pair of you?’

‘Not particularly,’ Dawkin
answered smugly, and ran. 

Back home, Eppie left Dawkin to settle the cub.

The moment she stepped indoors, dread swept through her. So
rarely did she see Martha and Gillow hug that she knew something was amiss.

It was clear from Martha’s flushed face that she had been crying.
She forced a smile. ‘You’ve been gone ages.’

Bursting in, Wakelin grabbed hold of Eppie and shook her by
the shoulders so briskly that the bones in her neck wrenched, making little
cracking noises. ‘I’ll make you suffer for this.’

‘What do you mean by talking to your sister like that?’ Gillow
demanded.

Having guessed the reason for Wakelin’s anger, Dawkin rushed
in.  ‘Leave her be, she’s done nowt wrong.’

‘That’s a joke, you and her have only gone and let the
badgers loose, and stolen a cub. The both of you is coming with Tom and me.
When you see how long it takes to clap badgers into sacks you’ll realise the
trouble you’ve caused.’

‘We ain’t going nowhere with you, ya big bully,’ Dawkin
cried.

Grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt, Wakelin lifted
him off his feet and hung him in mid-air, smirking at his ineffectual punches.
‘You couldn’t hit a fly, ya lice-head.’

‘Talk for yersen! I ain’t got no crawlies on me.’

‘For goodness sake!’ Martha cried. ‘What does it matter about
a few badgers? Lottie nearly breathed her last this afternoon and now look, all
your mouthing has woken her.’

Wakelin and Dawkin stood in the bedroom doorway, their faces
pictures of repent, watching as Martha fussed around the crying baby, trying to
comfort her. ‘I’d put Lottie down to make a start on the evening meal when she
threw a deathly fit like Eppie. I beat on her chest and she breathed again. Oh,
but it gave me such a scare.’

Eppie frowned. ‘You never told me I had a fit when I was a
bairn.’

‘Your mother’s in a muddle,’ Gillow said, adding, with a
grin, ‘as usual. Apart from the odd sneeze, Eppie’s always been in rude health,
hasn’t she, Martha.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she answered hurriedly. ‘I’ve gone
silly-headed with all this worry.’ She saw from Eppie’s puzzled face that she
wanted to ask questions and so sought to distract her. ‘Finish off the dinner would
you, Eppie?  Lottie’s less fretful in my arms. I don’t want to risk her being
sick.’

Passing beside Wakelin, Martha’s steps faltered. He was staring
trance-like at the cradle. A chill, as though the presage of an evil act passed
over her heart. Ever since she had learned the truth about the theft of
Genevieve she inwardly resolved that if she kept silent about her knowledge the
family would be safe. The strong ties of affection between her and Eppie would
blossom unscathed. Wakelin would live his life as happily as circumstances
allowed. He would never fall into the depths of guilt and torment that had once
consumed him. She now realised the hope that her careless words had fallen upon
deaf ears was dashed.

At Wakelin’s weakest moments, in the days subsequent to one
of his seizures, or when drink made him morose, he would reveal to Martha his
darkest thoughts. Though Genevieve in no way deserved his wrath or any act of
wickedness wreaked upon her innocent being it seemed to Martha only a matter of
time before Wakelin, brooding upon inane thoughts of retribution, was driven to
harm du Quesne’s daughter. This fear was borne out by his agonised words when
he confided to her that he had attempted to kill Genevieve after he had smashed
the tomb.

Tension was in the air.

No one spoke.

Oblivious to this, Eppie busied herself about the stove.

‘Tack’s ready!’ She ladled lumpy potato mash and thick
rashers of just-done bacon onto platters.

Martha laid the slumbering baby in the cot and took her
place beside Dawkin.

Doing his best to cheer everyone, Gillow gleefully wrung his
hands. ‘Exactly how I like my meat, swamped in grease.’ 

Eppie giggled. ‘Sorry!’

Wiping surplus fat with her thickly-hacked bread, he stared
at Wakelin who sat, sullen and withdrawn, on the settle. ‘Have you got cotton
bolls stuck in your ears? Your sister says she’s put your tack out.  Bestir
yourself, lad.’

‘I ain’t hungry.’

‘Not hungry?  That’ll be the day.’ Rumbling with laughter,
his father rocked back in his chair. ‘I know. It’s love. I felt the same way
when I was wooing your mother.’

Martha poked her meat with a spoon, not eating, being too
absorbed in her pensive thoughts about Lottie’s illness and Gabriel’s loss of a
sister. ‘Rest easy, Gillow. You know he don’t like teasing.’

‘That’s what love’s all about isn’t it, being teased?’
Gillow asked. ‘When it was known I was to wed you, my friends said some
frightful things to me.’ With a circumspect look at her gloomy face, he added,
‘Though I’d best not let on to you what they said.’ 

He returned his attention to Wakelin. ‘Jacob was telling
everyone in The Duck how his girl’s got you under her wing.’ Winking at Eppie,
he spoke in a loud, exultant voice, ‘Let on that Molly has a notion of
out-doing Mrs P, expecting you to father no less than fourteen bairns. So, you
might sit there now, with a face as long as treacle, but it’ll do you no good
sulking once you’re a married man.’ 

Trying in vain to ignore his father’s blithe spirit, Wakelin
stared into the fire, gnawing a thumb stump.

‘Mind you,’ Gillow said, laughing, ‘you’d best not make a
false step with the lassie, else you’ll have to wed her a good few years afore
you expect to.’

‘Why the hell won’t you ever leave me be?’ Wakelin snapped. ‘Keep
yer trap shut for a change.’

‘You mustn’t talk to your father like that,’ Martha
admonished.

Having had all he could take, Wakelin bolted towards the
door. 

‘Surely you don’t mean to leave your meal?’

Gillow smirked at Wakelin’s lack of response to Martha. Whilst
Wakelin continued to throw mindless tantrums, as he interpreted them, he could
maintain his ascendancy over his son, as dominant male. He turned his attention
to the children. ‘So, tell me about this cub of yours. Where’ve you got it
stashed?’

‘In the cart shed,’ Eppie blurted out. Realising the folly
of her words, she glanced, horrified, at Wakelin.

He was staring at her, his eyes stony, emotionless. 

‘No, Wakelin, don’t get her!’  She sprang towards him. Her
outstretched hand struck a jar of dried rosemary on the dresser and sent it
crashing to the floor.

Repulsed by his father’s exuberant spirit, Wakelin had aimed
to rush off to The Fat Duck, but the pungent aroma of the herb arrested his steps,
evoking memories of that night. Quietly, he told his mother, ‘I’m off to Tom’s. 
I won’t be back ‘til late.’

Eppie tugged the rope around his jerkin. ‘Don’t take Wicker
back.’

‘I couldn’t care less about your half-dead badger.’

‘You promise not to hurt her?’

He glared at her upturned face from under heavy brows. ‘I’ve
already said an’t I?’

‘Tell Tom not to get her, an’ all?’  

‘All right, only leave off hanging on me, ya bugbear.’

‘He’s changed his tune,’ Gillow said. ‘Bellowing like a bull
one moment, a soft-hearted lamb the next.’

Wakelin cast his father a sullen look. Stepping into the
garden, he sharply flicked the door behind him.          

Gillow took this opportunity to have the final say. ‘You
spang the door like that, you’ll fetch it off the hinges. And think on, if
their badger goes missing you’ll have me to answer to.’

That evening, his face shining from
a scrub, Gillow sauntered over to Henry’s. ‘Now then Mrs P,’ he said, passing her
in the lane, ‘when I get back from The Duck I don’t want to hear you’ve been up
to your card-sharp tricks.’

‘I’ve barely two farthings to rub together, let alone bet
with. Besides, Eppie is too much of an expert at cards not to notice if I was cheating.’