Eppie (48 page)

Revolted by the depravity of the scene, Eppie wished the
heated baying of the mob would cease, for the suffering to be over. Soon
enough, it was.

‘Wakelin!’ Martha shrilled, setting eyes on him. 

He half-turned to flee, an odd blend of horror and humility
written upon his flushed face.

Too clearly, she saw the worst had happened. Without waiting
for him to utter a word, she scolded, ‘How could you?’ There was such despair
in her voice that it frightened Eppie, and set Lottie to crying. ‘I trusted
you.’

‘Ah, stop raging at me.’

Martha picked her way through the exodus, pursuing him. ‘How
much have you lost?’  

Eppie remembered du Quesne’s coin and fetched it out of her
pocket.

‘What ew got?’ Lottie asked, placing her fingers around
Eppie’s wrist.

‘I could give this to mam. Only it ain’t mine to give.’

The guinea was snatched out of her hand by a filthy-nailed
hand. Eppie shrieked in alarm.

Jaggery spat on the coin and rubbed it dry on his waistcoat.
‘Where ya got this from?’

Eppie was loath to talk to this despicable man, though she could
not refrain from honesty. ‘Thurstan du Quesne gave some money to his uncle at
the pumping mill. Ranger hooved it into the ground.  I was gonna give it back.’

‘Was ya?’ He held the coin high, squinting closely at it. ‘So,
how come you’ve still got it?’ He guffawed, seeing her stern, troubled
expression. ‘I’ll do you a favour and tek it off ya. That’ll save me the
trouble o’ reporting you to the Thief-Taker General at Malstowe jail.’ 

Martha hastened to Eppie’s side like an irate chicken
without a head. ‘How weak-willed can you get? His excuse is that the other men
led him on to chance our money.’ Seeing Jaggery limp away, tossing the gold
guinea in the air, she added, ‘It’s a pity Wakelin didn’t have his luck.’

A watery sun rose above the horizon as
the marlers broke camp.

Steadfastly marching, it was not long before the Dunham’s
came upon the poorhouse, standing in a remote setting. Originally used as a
plague house, where people suffering from leprosy were isolated from the
healthy population, the building looked bleak and exposed, catching the full
blast of the icy wind that tugged Eppie’s cloak.

Before an arched portico, men loaded a wagon with mops,
brushes, woven baskets and candles, all made by the inmates, ready to be sold
at the market. 

Eppie gripped the iron railings
and scanned the barred windows, hoping against hope that she might see Betsy. The
place seemed as dead as she felt.

Treading the steep road into Malstowe, Eppie’s step lightened.
The air smelt refreshing, saturated with the dampness of fallen leaves. It
filled her with optimism. ‘This is like Copper Piece Wood.’

A river wound its way down the wooded escarpment, thundering
in cataracts and splashing mossy branches. Soaring from its surging swell, the
ashen-grey stone wall of a mill rose like the elevation of an imposing bastille.
Behind rows of small-paned windows, machines rattled and clanked. A waterwheel,
clamped to the side of the mill, turned with a tremendous grinding and
creaking, shaking off frills of sparkling water. 

Most curious was a dwelling built upon the bridge. The
house, constructed of black timber and in-filled with yellow-green patched
plasterwork, could only be Bridge House, where Gabriel occasionally stayed.

They stepped, in single-file, along the bridge. Going about
their daily business, people hurried past. Some, like themselves, drove pigs
and other livestock. Others lingered to chat or watch water crashing and foaming
in deep pockets between boulders.

The thoroughfare that ran beneath Bridge House was only wide
enough for one wagon to cross at a time. Eppie contemplated the mayhem caused
if a wheel fell off a rickety wagon or animals being led across misbehaved.

On the embankment, on the town side, was a garden which
belonged to Bridge House, the canopies of trees visible above its high brick
wall.

A studded wooden door was set to one side of a central
archway beneath Bridge House. As they passed by, the door was swept open and a
housekeeper, her waistline bulging beneath a blue-spotted chemise, waved at a rat
catcher who was about to step into the mill yard. ‘Mr Loafer! Rats!’ 

Dressed entirely in brown, his spindly legs peeping from an
overlarge coat, the rat catcher had the guise of a rat. ‘I ownee called by
yesterdee, Miss Scratchings,’ he shouted, side-stepping a woman who carried a
basket of vegetables upon her head. ‘You sure you ain’t inviting these bristly
fellas in so’s you may have the benefit o’ my company?’

‘Mr Loafer! What a thing to fancy!’ Conscious of her
work-worn appearance, she straightened her beribboned mobcap, and let him in.

Beyond the bridge, the imposing homes of the wealthy nestled
on a wooded hillside. 

Opposite Thurstan’s stagecoach inn, The Wolf and Child, stood
a coaching workshop, a wheelwrights and a corn store. Further along was The
Prince’s Theatre. A boy who had lost half a leg sat on the steps of the Town
Hall, clutching a stick. Beside him was a girl who, having suffered an injury
to her eyes, had her eyelids sewn down. Palm outstretched, she waited in silent
expectation of receiving a coin from a kindly lady or gentleman.

The Dunhams tramped down a constricted lane, heading towards
the bustling market square.

Whilst pleasantly surprised by the charm of the town higher
up, Eppie’s spirits now sank. Dilapidated warrens, their roofs bowed and
chimneys tottering dangerously, replaced the lush vales and expansive sky of the
countryside. Over the doorway of one house hung a sign declaring it offered
Good
Beds and Logins fer Thravelers
. The rundown appearance of the dwelling did
not make the offer tempting.

Skirting heaps of rubbish, Eppie could tell from the look of
consternation upon Martha’s face that she was equally appalled by what she
saw. 

Many of the houses around the marketplace were tall and
ugly, their windowpanes grubby, the paintwork chipped. Standing in the doorway
of Finagle’s Pawnbrokers, the proprietor bellowed a gruff reply to a neighbour
who leant out of a top window.

Hoping to earn a few coins for their labours, ragged
children swept mud and filth clear before the feet of the few fine folk that
milled around. 

Wakelin wrung his hands against the cold wind. ‘It’ll be
dusk soon. The few shillings we’ve got left won’t go far.’ Eppie perceived a
note of repentance in his voice.

‘I’ll speak to a couple of traders,’ he suggested. ‘See if
they can recommend somewhere for us to stay overnight.’

Having purchased a thrupenny loaf, Martha led the way to a
disused shop. Legs aching, Eppie sank gratefully upon the icy step and sucked
the coarse bread to make it last. Seen through the smashed door, the interior
of the shop was littered with soaked rags and, judging from the reek, the dingy
place served as a privy to poorer passers-by. To quench their thirst they
bought drinks from a higgler who sold fresh water.

Tinkers squatted amongst wares strewn upon the pavement,
selling all manner of items, from spades and iron potato planters to chipped
crockery. Chickens and geese, bound by their legs, dangled from a pole above
the men’s heads.

A pack of hounds, ribs projecting from their flesh, bounded
towards them. Eppie and Martha jumped to their feet in alarm. Hurriedly, they
made to the safety of the stalls where burly stallholders saw off the dogs with
well-aimed kicks.

Waiting for Wakelin to return, they wove their way around
the jumble of stalls. Though plenty of baskets of vegetables and fruit were
piled for sale, most looked bad, hardly fit for consumption. Less choosy,
Bellringer and the pigs crunched rotten vegetables off the ground.  

The longer they hung around, the chillier Eppie became.

She spied Wakelin’s head bobbing towards them through the press
of market-goers. ‘At last!’

‘There are cheap quarters,’ he said jauntily, ‘ownee tuppence
a night, though we’ll have to share with the roughest o’ the rough, six to a bed.
This landlady showed me a room where, ownee last night, a woman was stabbed to
death.’

Despite being appalled by the incident, at the sight of Eppie’s
stunned look he was unable to repress a grin. For her benefit, he added
graphically, ‘I saw the trail of blood on the stairs where they’d dragged ‘er
body. To save the landlady the trouble o’ changing the bed linen, she said we
could have the room dirt-cheap tonight. Half-a-penny. The blood on the sheets was
dryish, so I telled her it were fine by me.’ 

Martha shook her head in incredulity. ‘Sometimes I wonder
what goes on between your ears, Wakelin.’

‘I’ll keep asking.’

Lottie rubbed away tears of weariness. They were quickly
replaced by others.

‘This is a dreadful place,’ Eppie said. ‘Let’s go back to
Litcombe and see if we can find work there.’

She knew the only reason they had journeyed to Malstowe was
because Wakelin was hoping to meet Ezra. Shearing machines had been introduced
as a means to nap fibre and hand cropping was no longer lucrative employment. Several
months ago, Ezra had been forced to bring his family here in search of work.

‘I agree with you,’ Martha said, ‘though we’re too tired to
walk any further. We’re stuck here for at least a couple of days.’ 

Darkness fell.

Like a black tidal wave, workers, having collected their
weekly wages, flowed into the lantern-lit market. By now little was left upon
the stalls of any quality. The cheese they bought was mouldy, the vegetables
wilted.

Wakelin returned with a skull-faced boy in tow. The slight
curvature of his spine, bowlegs and large hands, in which he clutched bruised
potatoes, lent to him a frog-like appearance. Though tired from his day’s
labour he spoke cheerily in his Irish cadence. ‘Oil ask my mother if you can stay
with us.’ He led the way. ‘The Hoggett’s was with us for nigh on nine months. After
Mr Hoggett dropped dead, his missus couldn’t pay her way no more, so the rent
collector chucked her and her children on the streets. It was the fumes what did
for Mr Hoggett. He worked at the bleachers. I’m Feargus O’Ruarc. You can call
me Fur. Everyone does.’ 

‘Why are your clothes wet?’ Eppie asked.

‘My mother, sister and I work at the cotton mill. My job’s
wet spinning of the linen-yarn.  I get soaked by water spurting from the
spindle.’

A row of houses, once grand, now dilapidated, lined the
river embankment. Generally, the members of each family shared a room and most
families having a brood of children, everywhere, from behind un-curtained or
raggedly curtained windows, could be heard the sound of clanging pots, men and
women shouting, children crying and yelling. Beneath the railings of each of
the three-storey houses a flight of steps led to low-ceiling dwellings
half-buried in the earth.

‘This is our place, in the basement of River View House,’
Fur said. ‘It isn’t a palace, I grant you.’ 

They were greeted by the heavy, cold stench of urine so
strong that Eppie craved fresh air even before she had set foot in the dwelling. 

Entering the smoky, dim cellar, Fur grabbed a ragged blanket
and wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘These folk want to know if they can stay,
Mother. Them’s the Dunhams.’

A frail-looking woman languished upon a sack which leaked
straw and shavings. Though she must only be about Martha’s age, her face was so
pale that her lively eyes seemed to protrude from a paltry offering of watery gruel,
giving her a prematurely aged appearance. ‘You’re most welcome, to be sure. Mr
Leather, the landlord, calls by of a Saturday night. A shilling a week he
asks.’

A girl abstractedly stirred the stew, her tangled chestnut
locks tumbling about her wasted face.

Chickens, on the scrawny side, wandered freely.

Rising, Mrs O’Ruarc, a thin, slightly stooping figure, with
a small, nervous mouth, erupted into such a fit of coughing that she could
barely catch her breath. ‘You’ll have to excuse me; I’m a bad case of the wheezers.
You and the girls may have those sacks.’ She indicated to what Eppie took to be
a heap of worm-eaten timber and rags. ‘There’s that other for your lad.’

Fetching Tipsy out the basket, Eppie soothed, ‘Don’t be scared.
It’s only a new place.’

Stiffening, the cat pressed its head under her armpit. 

‘Wipe some dripping on her paws,’ Mrs O’Ruarc suggested.
‘Once she’s licked it off, she’ll feel at home.’

‘What shall we do with our beasts?’ Martha asked.

‘There’s a fenced yard at the back for pigs. Everyone throws
in peelings. Or you could keep them in here. The other family bring in their
horse.’

‘A horse?’ Martha said. ‘And there’s another family living
in here?  There doesn’t seem much room.’

‘Mr Leather crams us in. That way he gets more rent. Truth be
told, I wish we could move out. We came six years ago, when my husband was
taken in at the weaving shed. He and my youngest died of the fever. Ever since,
we’ve lived hand to mouth. Pawned nearly everything we owned to make ends meet.’
She took the wooden spoon from her daughter. ‘It must be warmed through by now,
Coline?’

As a means of cooking, bricks were built into a square with
a central hole. A cauldron hung over the blazing faggots.

‘Though there isn’t much, we’d be delighted to share our
meal with you and yours, Mrs Dunham. We could do with a better stew pot. This
was got from the truck store only a few months ago. The metal’s so thin that
the fire’s nearly burnt through it.’ 

Rush-bottomed chairs were set around an upturned market basket
that served as a table.

Settling beside Coline, Eppie smiled. Coline glanced away,
clutching her skirts.