Eppie (53 page)

‘Mrs O’Ruarc,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘Irish. Been unwell some
time I believe.’

‘She should be discharged. I will have no idlers in my mill.
Why was this not brought to my attention beforehand?’ 

‘I have had no cause for complaint about her work.’ Hampered
by du Quesne’s presence, unable to do anything to help Eibhlin, Mr Grimley
turned to Eppie and spoke sympathetically. ‘If she can make it through the next
few hours she will be able to look forward to a rest tomorrow.’

‘The deuce she will. Have you not comprehended what I’ve
been saying?’ Du Quesne jabbed the reckoning book with his finger. ‘If you have
a drop of patriotism in your blood, man, you will appreciate that we have to
meet this order. For all I care the French infantry may freeze to death, but I
will ensure that we put coats upon the backs of our soldiers. The workers will
labour through tomorrow.’

Mr Grimley was flabbergasted. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day. The
workers should be allowed a day of respite.’

‘Do not presume to preach to me. I am well aware of what day
it is.’ Seeing Mr Grimley’s crestfallen face, du Quesne consented, ‘Of course,
you have my leave to attend the service at Saint Peter’s church, and partake of
your seasonal victuals. I insist, however, that straight afterwards you return
to your desk, in a sober state. As for these workers, never forget that they
are brutes, with not a speck of Christian sensitivity. Their only concern is
for themselves. They would think nothing of stealing meat from their fellow
workers’ plates.’ 

Eppie glared at du Quesne. ‘That’s a load o’ drivel. When we
arrived in Malstowe, Mrs O’Ruarc shared her meals with us, even though she and
her family are half-starved. When Mrs Eibhlin’s name is written in the book of
misdemeanours, Coline and Fur will have to go without bread and dripping for
the whole of Christmas Day, except they won’t, we’ll go halves with ours.’

Du Quesne was unmoved. ‘If this woman of whom you speak has
not the resourcefulness to save her wages for when times are lean that is her
concern.’

‘What money has Mrs Eibhlin, or any of us come to that, got
to save? We can’t even afford proper clothing.’ 

Du Quesne opened his mouth to reply.

She rushed on. ‘The tinkers pinched my yellow Sunday frock.
I’ve only got this one.’ She lifted her apron, revealing a grey skirt. ‘It’s dirty
with oil and fluff from crawling under the machines. I have to wear it every day
and sleep in it every night.’ She stuffed her nose into the cotton. ‘It smells
worse than Wakelin’s sweaty singlet. Take a whiff.’

Du Quesne rose furiously to his feet, his chair crashing back
against a cabinet. ‘I have no desire to smell your disgusting garment! Leave
the office, this instance, or I will get Crumpton to beat you until your blood
runs black.’

Eppie stuck up her nose and headed towards the door. ‘He
already has.’

Crumpton nowhere in sight, she snatched a moment to
enlighten Martha about du Quesne’s intention to make the workers labour through
Christmas Day.  Word spread. 

For hours, Eppie worked as a doffer, mounting and taking
down bobbins. Frequently she glanced around at Eibhlin, whose movements had
become sluggish, her body progressively crooked with the passage of time.

It was whilst gazing at snow drifting as light as
thistledown upon the woodland canopy that she became aware of a commotion
behind her.  

‘I will take no more of this nonsense!’ Crumpton fumed.

Holding onto the wooden lip of a mule, Eibhlin tried to rise
to her feet, Jenufer supporting her by the arm. 

Mr Grimley chanced to peer through what the workers called
his spy-hole, a tiny window in the wall of his office. He scurried forward. ‘For
pity’s sake, Mr Crumpton, give the woman a moment to recover.  Someone fetch a
chair from my office.’

Du Quesne strode after the manager. ‘Give into this woman’s
weakness and you will have all the sick workers demanding time for respite.’

Eppie’s distress was so great that she whirled around to the
window and hammered with her fists upon the pane. ‘Stop them! Make them stop!’ 

The crashing, foaming river glazed over and froze. Crystal
spears, like the ice swords of ancient warriors, spiked out from the wooden waterwheel
as though thrusting against an unseen enemy. The mill engine halted. The
rattling of spinning machines ceased.

Stunned silence amongst the workers lasted for only a moment.
Floors thundered as weary workers stamped and cheered, realising that, at least
for this Christmas Day, they were freed from the shackles of their labours.              

Keen to collect the family wage and be off, children
gathered in a disorderly, animated queue outside the office. Others barged one
another out of the way in their eagerness for a glimpse through the windows at
the magical scene. None other than Eppie could see Talia standing upon the
river, its waters contorted into a multitude of rope-like twists. Around the
ghost a myriad of water droplets hung suspended in mid-air, like pearls spun
from a necklace wrenched apart.

Donning his coat, du Quesne warned the rapturous children,
‘Advise your fathers to use their wages cautiously or they will come to regret it,
for not a farthing will your families receive whilst my mill is at a
standstill.’

Eppie went to collect the Dunham and the O’Ruarc’s tokens. Afterwards,
she joined the long queue at the truck store.  

Heading through falling snow towards the marketplace, she
hurried past Finagle’s. The window was crammed with assorted paupers’
paraphernalia, including knee-length coats, crockery, and peg legs. An arm thrust
out from the doorway and grasped her by her shawl. Breathless, coming to an
abrupt halt, she stared up into Wakelin’s severe face.

Tobias dropped coins into the pocket of his corduroy
trousers. With a backward wave at Wakelin, he strolled off.

‘Let me go!’ Eppie cried. ‘What’ve you got to pawn?’

‘Mind your nose,’ Wakelin answered. ‘It’s perishing in that
cellar. You’re coming with me.’ He glanced furtively around, checking that he
would not be overheard. ‘There’s no one in the mill office. We need coal.’

Eppie stiffened in abhorrence at the thought. ‘I will not
steal,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘and certainly not from Mr Grimley.’

‘He couldn’t care less about the likes of us. What money we
make he takes away in fines.’

‘Mr Grimley has to do what Lord du Quesne tells him.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Now come with me.’  

With a final struggle and kicks to his shins she tore off,
yelling all the way down the lane, ‘Never! Never! NEVER!’

To her surprise, Mr Grimley was in the cellar. He was
talking quietly to Martha. Coline and Fur knelt beside their mother.

Slowly, respectfully, Eppie drew to where Eibhlin lay. The
thinnest layer of ivory-toned flesh was stretched tautly across her cheekbones.
Cotton fluff clung to her blood-speckled clothes like down. ‘I’m so sorry, Coline.’

‘Don’t you go being; her heart is back in Ireland.’

‘Fluff and dust,’ Mr Grimley muttered mournfully. ‘They wind
around the lungs and poison the workers. Many are the times that I have advised
his lordship to fit a filter system. Does he listen?’   

‘It ain’t right, Mr Grimley,’ Eppie said passionately. ‘Why
did Mrs Eibhlin have to suffer like she did? She was a good woman. She had so
much pain and never complained of it. Lord du Quesne treats us like we’re of
lesser importance than him when, before God, we’re equal. Why can’t he
understand that the poor have feelings? If workers are sick or injured he
throws us onto the streets. We’re forgotten and left to die. Why don’t he care,
Mr Grimley?  Why?’

Staring into her blue eyes, huge and hollow with misery, he
answered gravely, ‘Yes, Eppie. Why?’

Though Eppie’s spirits rose whilst
attending the Christmas Day church service, that afternoon they sank.

Lying in their beds to keep warm, the children were scarcely
aware of Bellringer nibbling their blankets. Martha stood on the threshold, her
eyes blank, staring into nothingness. A few remaining chunks of coal lay
scattered beside the cold cooking pot. She lacked the energy and enthusiasm to
light the fire or ward off starving rats that sheltered in the cellar.  

Striding in, snow thick upon his boots, Tobias murmured a
greeting to Martha.

Eppie’s pleasure at seeing him was dashed when she saw
Jaggery in tow. Though she knew Wakelin and Tobias regularly drank with him,
she hoped never to set eyes upon the man again.

The canal iced over for miles, steersmen had abandoned their
boats in preference for cosy sojourns at taverns. Leaping at this opportunity,
thieves were banding together, pilfering liquor and other goods from stranded boats.
Finagle disposed of the stolen items and made pay-outs to gang members. 

An empty bottle of ale in his hand, Wakelin lay face down on
his sack. 

Tobias approached. ‘Thought you was coming with us?’

Wakelin glanced up, glazed-eyed. ‘Huh?’ 

‘There are a couple of boats we’ve got it in mind to do,’ Jaggery
said. ‘The steersmen have left dogs on board. We need an extra man to muzzle
‘em. You game?’

‘Yur, yur.’ Struggling against his stupor, he stumbled to
his feet.  

‘Do you have to keep stealing, Wakelin?’ Martha
remonstrated. ‘There must be a better way?’

‘You wanna be trapped in this cellar forever?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Then unless we all wanna sell our teeth, not that any of us
have got any what ain’t in a rotten state, I’ve gotta go stealing, an’t I? Getting
money’s the only way we’ll be able to dig ourselves outta this hole.’

‘You might get caught. What then? Where will I be without
you?’

‘Never fear, Mrs Dunham,’ Jaggery said. ‘When it comes ta
thieving, there’s none better than Wake.’

Wakelin’s thick lips protruded from his sleep-satiated face.
‘S’right. Jag sez am good at it.’

Crispin Cornell had been murdered in his bed a few days ago.
A new Thief-Taker General ruled in his stead: Thurstan du Quesne. 

‘It makes no sense,’ Martha went on. ‘Surely knowing
Thurstan might catch you is all the more reason not to go thieving?’

‘All the more reason
to
go, don’t ya mean?  It’s my way o’ showing I’m better than that scum. He’ll
never catch me.’

A few days later, the weather being sufficiently warmer,
Eibhlin was buried in that part of the graveyard reserved for paupers.

Even though there was no work, none of them felt happy. Fur
kicked pebbles as they headed home along the towpath. Coline had hardly said a
word since the death of her mother. Lottie sobbed because she had an earache. Wakelin
was annoyed because they had been forced to dig into their savings. Added to
this, he had nearly being caught pilfering. They were all hungry.

Martha was exasperated with their stock of food acquired
from the truck store. ‘It’s almost impossible to make anything with Mr Loomp’s
pea-flour,’ she said as they approached the cellar. When she had fried the oat
biscuits that morning they had crumbled like dry porridge. ‘I so wanted you to
have something nice to eat after the funeral.’

Wakelin was the first to spot the cellar door wide open.
‘That’s all I need. ‘em wretched tinkers are back. I wonder where they’ve been
hiding all Christmas.’

Fur picked up a dead sparrow from a dirty puddle of thawing
snow.  

Eppie guessed from his expression what he was thinking. ‘You
can’t be serious?’

‘You’d get more nourishment from boiling a flea,’ Wakelin
said disparagingly.

Trudging indoors, Martha stood as though transfixed, her
fingers fanned across her mouth in consternation. ‘The frying pan? Stew pot?
Kettle? Where’ve they went?’ 

Eppie scanned the cellar. ‘Bellringer?’

A knife had sliced the tethering rope where they had left
the goat tied to the grating in the wall.

The junk heap had gone.

‘They’ve cleared out,’ Wakelin cried. ‘Taken what little we
had with ‘em.’

‘The kettle was on credit from the truck store,’ Martha
said. ‘We’ll be months paying Mr Loomp back, and all for nothing.’

Lottie screamed.  ‘Ow, ow!’

‘Fiends!’ Grabbing a chair, Wakelin smashed it against the
wall and stamped upon it until the timbers splintered.

‘Wakelin!’ Martha cried, aghast. ‘Whatever are you doing?’  

‘Waz it look like?’ With his bare hands he ripped out the
worm-eaten doorframe. ‘You want dry wood?  You’ve got it.’

‘Wakelin, stop! This is senseless!’

Sweating with the effort, he went in search of anything
combustible. ‘I could kill ‘em tinkers, Ma. Why din’t ya let me at ‘em afore?’

The children watched in bewilderment and trepidation as the
pile of firewood grew. Seeing him discard his jerkin, inadvertently stamping upon
it, Eppie snatched it out of his way.

He wrenched down boards which had been nailed to the ceiling
to stop the plaster from disintegrating. ‘I’m sick to death of this place. Weeks
we’ve had to put up with stinking wet wood. No more, I tell ya. I only wish there
was summat good to eat. The only meat we get is eelworms flapping in Loomp’s
‘taties.’

‘If you weren’t eternally guzzling and soaking on gin, and
getting fined for it, we’d be able to save more,’ Martha berated him. 

Fur peered in the gap between the floor timbers that Wakelin
had ripped up. ‘Hey, come and look at this, there’s a lake under the cellar.’

‘Don’t go blaming me for it!’ Wakelin yelled carelessly. He
stared fiercely at his mother. ‘If anyone drains our savings it’s Eppie. Hardly
a week goes by when she isn’t fined for her lazy ways, or for talking back to
Crompton.’

‘Don’t call Eppie lazy!  She’s always under the mules and so
tired.’

Fur dropped in a nail. ‘It must be at least two feet deep. I
wonder if there are any fish down there.’