Eppie (41 page)

Not once did she stop to draw breath.

Snow fell into her eyes, upon her hair and melted down her
face. Up ahead, she could see Wicker, ever loyal, racing after Dawkin, her earlier
whimpers of distress now a high-pitched yap:
quick, quick, quick
.

The road wound on to Litcombe, a dirty ribbon trailing
through the white hills. Travellers passed Eppie, amongst them the butcher
riding his piebald pony. 

Not until Crowe’s wagon had travelled so far that Dawkin’s
cap looked like a speck of blood, did she stop, hot tears streaming down her
cheeks. Her cry of despair was thrown back to her from the slopes of the frozen
valleys: ‘D a w k i n!’

Evening deepened in the valley. With
no lantern to guide her, Eppie put her trust in Dusty to lead her and Twiss
home.

One by one, the stars appeared, strangely bright, speckling
the pristine heavens.

Worn out, she rested her head upon Twiss’s back, as he lay
curled up beside her, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Becoming aware of the trap at a standstill, she opened her
eyes and realised they were home. Clambering down, she unlatched the cart gate
and led the donkey to the shed. Jenny had not returned. This being the season
of goodwill Wakelin had, no doubt, prolonged his journey with sojourns at
alehouses along the way. Padding to the corner, Twiss nestled sorrowfully on
the straw, which smelt of his beloved badger. 

Having fed Dusty and rubbed her coat dry, Eppie left the
door slightly ajar in case Twiss wanted to follow. ‘It’ll be cosier indoors.’

Martha had spruced up the parlour. The shelf above the
hearth was decked with sprigs of holly. Laid upon the table were servings of
meat hash and apple charlotte, while upon the dresser were the best china
plates, each with a slice of plum cake and a hunk of cheese.

‘At last!’ Martha cried. ‘It’s well past darklins. I was
worried. You’ll both be needing a warming drink, though I couldn’t keep the
food warm.’ She turned away from the stove. The kettle in her hand sent up a
hiss of steam. ‘I’ve kept this hot.’ She glanced up, a smile on her lips.
‘Eppie, has something happened?’

‘I’ve lost Dawkin!’

‘Whatever can you mean?’ She slipped the kettle back onto
its hook.

‘The chimney sweep took him!’ 

‘No!’

Drawing Eppie to sit beside her on the settle, Martha lovingly
enfolded her with her arms. Both felt an anguish so deep, so cold, it was as though
the boy had died.

Church bells clanged, plaintive and mournful, tolling a devil’s
knell to rid the land of evil. The bells also served to guide any soul lost in
the snowstorm homeward.

Eppie’s heart went out to Dawkin, one lost soul who would
not be returning home tonight. 

‘I’ll ask Wakelin to go and speak to Mr Crowe,’ Martha
suggested. ‘He’s often spoken of the man and was on good terms with him whilst
he was at the cropping shop.’

This thought cheered Eppie. Drying her tears, she told
Martha all about the ice market and the fun that she and Dawkin had had. She
told her about Ezra and the singers. In a desperate attempt to distract herself
from the loss of Dawkin, she sang a few lines from a carol that the men had
sung. A happy thought struck her. ‘Whilst Wakelin isn’t here we could have a
song.’ Kneeling beside the dresser, she fetched the flute from its hiding
place.

‘That’s a nice idea,’ Martha said. ‘The music will flutter
though the air to Litcombe. Dawkin will hear it and it’ll cheer him. He’ll know
we’re thinking of him.’

Eppie knew Martha’s idea was fanciful, that she was trying
to distract her from her sorrow, but it was a nice idea all the same.

Lottie romped on the bed, strewn around her a collection of
playthings: an egg whisk of bound twigs, biscuit and pastry cutters, a jelly
mould and a wooden butter stamp.

Seeing Eppie fix the ivory joints of the boxwood flute
together, Lottie eagerly wafted her arms around her head. ‘Lottie want song!’

Martha went to sit beside them on the bed. ‘Wakelin makes
such a clatter when he returns. I’ll listen out. When I hear him coming we’ll
stop.’

Twiss raised his weary head. Though he could not hear
Wakelin humming, he sensed his master returning homeward. Crunching through the
snow, the dog plodded onto the lane and waited expectantly, whistling low in
his throat.

One of Thurstan’s flying coaches raced past Wakelin on the
lane. Unbeknown to him, the coach, easily perceived as carrying travellers
hastening home to make ready for the Christmas celebrations was, in actuality,
empty of fee-paying passengers. What it contained were sacks of forged coins.
Owning a stagecoach inn, Thurstan received a steady cash flow in the course of
business. The minting equipment was kept in caves near Malstowe, where Thurstan
supervised the clandestine operation. The gang clipped and filed metal from the
tapered edges of the coins in order to use the metal to make new coins. They
rubbed them with wax and salt to make them appear old before they put the money
back into circulation.

Snug in the driving seat, a rug over his knees, a stone
bottle filled with hot sand beneath his feet, Fulke blew a trumpet, warning of
the coach’s approach.

Jacob was in the woodshed fetching logs. Huffing with
irritation, he scurried down the path to open the toll gate.

On the perch at the rear of the carriage stood a guard, eyes
alert, a blunderbuss to hand. It was this man who noticed something standing
directly in their path, its head lowered as though sleeping in an upright
position. ‘Waz that?’

Fulke narrowed his eyes to help him see better in the
darkness. ‘Dog.’ Seeing it standing before Dank Cottage, he added, ‘I reckon
it’s them Dunham’s.’ Fists tightening upon the reins, he gave a cry of
encouragement to the horses. ‘Let’s have it!’ 

Rocking on leather springs the carriage hurtled towards
Twiss.

At the last moment, conscious
of the ground shaking beneath his paws, Twiss made to escape. Struck with a blinding
blow from the lead horse, he fell.

Not only had Wakelin earned a little money to give to
Martha, he had bagged a hare and appropriated a yule log from du Quesne’s
orchard. Granted it was not oak, nor was it so big that two men would have to lug
it to the hearth. It was, however, well-seasoned and would burn brilliantly. ‘This
is gonna be the best Christmas ever,’ he thought.

Before the cottage gate something whined. Jacob was crouched
over it, stoking it. At the man’s feet was a lantern.

Wakelin left Jenny and the cart further along the lane and
approached, quietly. ‘What’s up?’ he asked gently, sensing something awful had
happened.

‘It’s your dog. Thurstan’s coach ran him down. I was just
gonna go tell your ma.’

Beside himself with grief, Wakelin fell to his knees. ‘Twiss,
me old mate?’ Stroking his faithful friend’s head, his fingers sank into a
sticky patch that could only be blood.

Whimpering, Twiss paddled with his front paw, longing to
rise. Then he went still. Each breath became less perceptible, the distance
between each breath longer. He took one last look at Wakelin, for the dog knew
he was dying and that he would never see his master again. It was a look of
pleading, for Wakelin to save his friend’s life. All this Wakelin saw and
understood in an instant. It was over. 

Manfully, Wakelin wrestled with his emotions. He had done
nothing to stop his dog dying. There was nothing he could have done, but he
still felt guilty about not thinking of some way of helping his dog. His throat
felt so stiff that he could not even speak the words of farewell he longed to
utter. Tears sprang to his eyes.

Cradling Twiss, his fingers clutching the dog’s cold, damp
fur, he let himself into the parlour just as Eppie launched into the mellow
notes of
Silent Night, Holy Night
.

Storming into the bedchamber, he made a grab for the flute.
‘Gimme that!’

Eppie and Martha were astonished to see him appear so
unexpectedly.

Eppie jumped up and concealed the flute behind her back. 

Lottie saw not her brother but a grotesque fiend, its eyes
starting from a face filthy with coal dust and grime. Shrieking, she toppled
off the bed.

‘Wakelin, stop this!’ Martha cried, going to help Lottie.
‘Is that blood down your jerkin? Are you hurt?’

‘I said gimme it!’

‘Won’t!’ Throughout Gabriel’s over-long absence the flute
had become like a friend, so imbued was it with his and her love.

‘He give ya it, din’t ‘e?’ 

Fatigued, it took all her energy to fight back tears.

‘I told you to have nowt to do with the du Quesnes.’ 

‘Gabriel’s not the same as the others.’

He held out his hand, ugly with its severed thumb.

Haughtily refusing to cede to his demand, she gripped her
chilled hands around the instrument. ‘It’s mine!’ Ducking, she breezed past him,
but halted in shock, seeing the dog before the fire, snow flecks in his fur. She
could tell by the odd way that he lay upon the hearthrug, his eyes open and
mouth agape, that Twiss was dead. She did not want to even consider it. ‘What’s
the matter with Twiss?’

‘He’s dead. You killed him.’

‘I’d never hurt him!’

‘You left the picket gate open. Ma’s forever telling ya ta
shut it.’ 

‘Don’t be silly,’ Martha said hastening towards Twiss. ‘The gate
opens of its own accord. You know your father never got around to fixing it. Besides,
Eppie would’ve come the side way to get to the cart shed. But what’s happened to
Twiss?’

Wakelin ignored his mother’s question. He was determined to
make Eppie suffer. Pinning her arm to her side, he made to grab the flute with
his other hand.

‘Let me go!’ she shrieked, struggling. ‘Let me go to Twiss!
Please, Wakelin! Please!’

He snatched the flute. With a flick of his wrist, he cast it
into the fire.

‘No!’ Tears blinding her eyes, she rocketed forwards.
Stretching for the fire-tongs, she tripped over Twiss’s prostrate body.

Roaring to greet her, ferocious flames surged up her dangling
cotton hair ribbons. Blinding darkness ripped to hellish red. Crackling,
hideous in her ear, stabbing.

Screaming, she frenziedly hurled herself between the settle
and the table, the loft ladder and the dresser, fighting for breath, her eyes
wild with fright. The taste of roast meat stuck in her throat.      

Ignoring the shower of fire drops that scorched her own face,
Martha reached for an earthenware jug of vinegar and threw it over Eppie’s
blazing hair. Dragging her to her knees, she dunked a cloth into a pail of
water.

Her hands shaking uncontrollably, she frantically dabbed
Eppie’s blistered skin. ‘You’ve done this to her!’ she yelled, turning on
Wakelin.

‘It was an accident!’ he bellowed above Eppie’s wailing.

‘You wanted to hurt her, you always have.’ 

In anguish, he tore at his filthy hair. ‘No, Ma, ya don’t
understand!’

‘Don’t you dare have the impudence to tell me what I
understand and what I do not! If only her brother was at home, he’d fetch
Doctor Burndread to her.’

Roaring from the pit of his
stomach, unable to contain his despair, Wakelin fled through the acrid smoke.
Gripping hold of the sill, he rammed his head through the window. Splinters of
glass sliced into his skin. He felt not his pain, only Eppie’s.

Samuel and Betsy, Claire and Henry, had dashed over, having
heard the screaming and yelling.

Eppie knew nothing of their visits.

It was late when she came to.

All was quiet.

Downy, velvety snow blanketed the sleeping woods. By dawn, the
hedges and bushes would have vanished beneath a crescendo of flakes, the world muffled. 

A breeze blew through the smashed windowpane, sending in a
flurry of snowflakes as soft as voile. They heaped at the base of the yule
candle which Martha had placed there shortly after Eppie’s return from the
market.

A shovel stood by the door. Wakelin must have gone to bury
Twiss.

Dank, appalling, a stench, as of burning feathers, filled
the parlour. 

Upon the table stood a gallipot of rose-honey, a heap of
rags, and a salve that Martha had prepared from egg whites whisked into
clarified hog fat to soothe Eppie’s burns.

So tortured did she feel by her excruciating burns that the
muscles of her face were drawn into a tight grimace. She was conscious of her
body throbbing in sympathy. 

Martha had placed Eppie’s truckle bed at the fireside, to
keep her warm.

Twiss’s blood speckled the pitching stones beside the bed.
Eppie reached out with her trembling fingers and touched the spots. The stones
felt icy, the blood dry.

Blubbering uncontrollably, she whimpered, ‘Twiss!’

Martha came to kneel beside her and cooled her sad, pitiful
face.

‘Mam! Twiss!’

‘I know. Try not to get too upset. You’re very poorly.’

‘But I loved him!’

‘I know. We all did.’

The fire crackled steadily. Lying with the unburned side of
her face pressed against the pillow, eking out its meagre comfort, she
contemplated how, in an instant, the fire had turned from a welcoming, peaceful
friend, cooking their food and keeping them warm, to a loathsome monster,
lacerating with flaming slashes. Never had she imagined its powers could be so terrible.

‘Are you able to eat anything?’ Martha asked.

Eppie mournfully closed her eyes. She felt wretched and
could not imagine ever being cheerful again. ‘How far could sadness drag you
down?’ she wondered. She realised how much, in the past, she had taken her happiness
for granted. Little things, like listening to a song thrush chirping on a wet
April evening: ‘
swit-swit-swit, chewy-chewy, chuck-it-out
.’ The banter
and jolly times spent with Gillow and Dawkin. The rare moments when all the
family had contentedly gathered around the table for a meal, laughing over some
silly tale or memory. Simple things. Simple, but now she realised how precious
those moments had been to her. Some things, some people, had gone for ever.
Maybe she could regain some contentment in life, one day, though, at the
moment, she doubted it.