Eppie (9 page)

‘We lived in Pear Tree Cottage, just past the church. It
borders onto his lordship’s orchard and looks lovely in spring with the
blossom. After I buried my last child, my husband fell ill. Daily I dosed him
with tartar and brimstone, but he died of the fever. An impotent pauper his
lordship called me when he turned
me out of the
cottage.

‘To earn a few pennies I helped at the manor when Hannah, the
cook, was busy. In the years before Talia died the master and his lady used to
hold splendid balls.

‘My mouth fair waters recalling the sumptuous meals Hannah
prepared for the banquets: turtle, caviar, swan and cygnet. His lordship loves
his food and eats enough for a battalion at one sitting. I especially remember
the last ball. Folk were dressed in their finery and musicians played. There
were fireworks with odd names like skyrockets and
mines. 

‘I was carrying a tray of brandy cherries into the dining
hall when I saw his lordship at the bottom of the grand stairs, bemoaning to
Lord and Lady Wexcombe about the disgraceful antics of the children’s aunt. She
had disturbed the quadrille by running in and cursing his lordship for his
arrogant ways.

‘Talia crept down with this ghastly dried-up thing, a
vampire bat Hannah later told me it was, from the Americas, and hung it on the
back of her father’s tailcoat. His lordship was ashamed of Talia on account of
her being born a mute. He never permitted her to go beyond the house or garden,
and told her she would not be allowed to attend the balls when she was older, so
I suppose she did the bat thing to ridicule him in front of his guests.’

She passed the darned stockings to Eppie.

Wearing Anne’s moth-eaten funeral frock and shawl, Eppie
stood in the lane, staring longingly at Claire’s cottage. 

‘Hold fast of my hand,’ Betsy said, leading her away.

With the help of other villagers, Gillow had been busy in
the morning, washing everything in the cottage that was muddy. It seemed odd to
see the familiar furniture ranged alongside the lane to dry.

Broken branches bowled along the brown river. Braving the
foaming spray, wagtails searched for drowned insects beneath the packhorse
bridge.

Betsy shivered. ‘Let’s mog on; it’ll keep us warm.’

In silence they ambled along the riverside lane. Drifts of wild
daffodils and purple saffron edging the common lay battered. A hornbeam had
fallen beside the stocks.

The Fat Duck, the whitewashed stone tavern, was suffering
the same fate as the medieval granary, sinking into the soft ground. None of
its gable windows were level.

‘A little further?’ Betsy asked.

Lost in her sad thoughts, Eppie trudged on. Twiss’s tail
thumped her legs as he trotted alongside. Occasionally, he nudged her hand for
a stroke. Gradually, she became aware that, the cottages left behind, they were
passing through bleak hilly lands littered with isolated boulders. Trees grew
at tortured angles, bent from bitter winds. 

Betsy’s footsteps faltered. ‘Deary, why’ve we come this far?
Best turn back.’

Twiss growled deep in his throat. Hackles raised, he bolted
across the wet, hillocky ground, heading toward the river. Eppie charged after
him, Betsy’s plea for her to stop ignored.

The dog disappeared from view. Eppie pelted in pursuit along
narrow, sheep-beaten paths. Wind tore at her billowing shawl and moaned in the
skeletal branches of stunted hawthorns.

Leaping into a rain-washed gully, Twiss barked frenziedly.
On the opposite bank, Miller’s Stream tumbled in a
dramatic torrent over the steep rocky face. Here the thundering waters cut
deeper and faster. Stones dislodged by the dog’s paws plummeted into the
ravine.

Catching
up, Betsy chided breathlessly, ‘What’s your mam forever telling you? No running
off.’  

Eppie
trembled uncontrollably. By the stern look on the old lady’s face, she guessed
that she had not seen Talia’s ghostly body buffeted upon rocks in the ravine.

Head
lowered, Twiss whimpered.

‘Whatever
is the matter with him?’ Betsy asked, her voice shaking. ‘Why’d he run off?’ 

At
Twiss’s paws lay a bird. Eppie picked it up. In her cupped hands its body felt
cold, its feathers damp.

Betsy
frowned. ‘How odd. It looks like a white robin. Toss it in the river or a cat
might chew it.’

The
instant the bird touched the heaving waters, its wings opened. They watched in
amazement as it rose towards the ragged, racing clouds.

‘Well
I never!’ Betsy said. ‘I could’ve sworn it were dead.’   

Relieved
to be back in her cottage, Betsy fretted. ‘I must’ve been barmy taking you so far.
Now my ankle looks more bruised than one of yer pa’s soaked ‘taties.’ 

Thinking
about the bird, soaring like an angel to the skies, lent wings to Eppie’s feet.

Parson
Lowford, Gillow and Claire were seated at the bedside, gazing mournfully upon
Martha’s blue-tinged face. The parson spoke quietly, his palms pressed together
in prayer. ‘O Almighty Lord God let it be thy pleasure to restore Martha to her
former health. If thou hast decreed it otherwise, let not my will but thine be
done.’

Sobbing
out her heart, Eppie raced in and pressed her cheek against Martha’s neck. 
‘Don’t die, Mammy!’

Betsy
appeared, puffing and distraught. ‘I couldn’t stop her!’    

Upon
hearing the commotion, Martha’s eyes flickered open. She smiled weakly, though
her voice was filled with pain. ‘Eppie! For once I’m glad you got to wandering,
leastwise as far as the parlour.’

Eppie slopped whey into the trough. ‘Uncle
Henry says that Mister Lord’s prize pig is nine feet long and eight feet round
its belly. You’ve both got to grow bigger than that.’

Though she tried to interest the cow in a handful of chopped
root vegetables, Celandine lethargically lowered her head.

Fetching the wicker basket that Haggard the hurdle-maker had
made for her, she sprang across the stepping stones that spanned the stream.

Gillow tied the outer leaves over the curd of a cauliflower,
shielding it from the sun so that it would not run to seed. ‘Don’t eat them all
afore you get back,’ he called, guessing she was off to collect more
blackberries from beside Shivering Falls. ‘And don’t be long; I could do with
some help.’

Skirting the wood, she came to the open glade. Gushing over
a stone lip, the waterfall glistened in the morning sun. Fragrant petals of
wild rose swirled in knotted confusion with blackberry briars. Careful not to
scratch herself with the thorns, she plucked the firmest berries and placed
them in the basket.

Twiss soon lost interest. A pheasant fled, squawking, at his
homeward dash.

Uncomfortably hot and sticky, she knelt beside the pool and
splashed her face. 

Last night being the hottest of summer, she had slept only fitfully.
Overcome with tiredness, she lay in the shade beneath a white willow. Above her
head, skeins of midges hung in shafts of light.

A myriad of sunlight and shadows played upon her face, flickering,
lulling her into an ocean of dreams.

Around her a fey princess, apple blossom sprinkled in her golden
hair, danced to the haunting lilt of a flute, which played as happily and
brightly as the chirping birds.

Abruptly the quivering trill died.

A boy, of noble appearance and attire, squatted on a boulder
above the pool. His flaxen hair was caught back in a ponytail.

‘Don’t stop!’ Eppie cried, seeing him lay the flute upon his
knees.

‘I don’t feel like it anymore.’

Scrambling up the rocks, she plonked herself beside him.

Around his blue eyes was a red-rimmed soreness.

‘You’re Gabriel, ain’t ya?’

Crushing the tails of his
scarlet jacket in his hands, the boy stared transfixed into the pool.

‘I see you in church. I’m
Eppie. I live in the cottage beside Miller’s Bridge. Twiss came with me. He’s
Wakelin’s dog. Tipsy was from Aunty Claire’s cat. Have you gorra dog?’

He let out a shaky sigh. ‘I
have a brown and white Angora cat called Prince Ferdinand. Father says my cat
is a drawing-room-pet-only, but I smuggle him into my bed at night. I chose his
name from Shakespeare’s plays.’

‘Wakelin’s supposed to learn his letters. Mr Strutt, the
master cropper, slaps him when he won’t think. Pa wants to learn Wakelin the
accordion so he can play in the church concert. Wakelin told him he’d rather go
blobbing for eels.’

In silence, they watched grey wagtails dart from rock to
rock at the poolside. Red admiral butterflies flitted among the yellow petals
of marsh Saint John’s wort.

‘I’ll be off. Pa told me to give him a hand with his caulis.’

‘Don’t go!’ he implored. ‘It’s just,’ he faltered, ‘you see,
I’m not used to other children. Mother likes me to talk to her, though she’s
sickly.’

‘My mam was sick a year ago. She skidded and squashed my
baby brother. I’ve not seen you at the Falls before.’

‘Father says I’m to keep away from the cottagers. He says
they’re ill-disposed, though I think Samuel Cobbett is friendly.’

‘He’s my Grumps.’

‘Your what?’

‘My grandfather. I’m supposed to call him Gramps. When I was
little I called him Grumps. It sort of stuck. If you’re not meant to talk to
villagers, why didn’t you pelt off scared when you saw me?’

‘It seemed all right because Talia wasn’t frightened of you.’

‘The girl dancing?’

‘You saw her? I thought only mother and I could see her. She
used to be my sister. I mean she still is.’

‘How come she melts away like that?’

‘She just does. I used to sleep in the nursery. Now I’m in
the bedchamber next door. There’s a secret panel in the wall. When I’m lonely I
crawl through to be with her. She rides on Spellbound, her rocking pony. Mother
visits Talia in the nursery. We call it the Swan Chamber because mother, Talia
and I used to like standing together at the window to watch a flock of mute
swans fly over. I still watch them - on my own. Their snowy feathers look a
beautiful blue against the setting sun.’ He hesitated, unsure whether it was
safe to develop a friendship with this village girl, knowing his father would
be enraged if he found out what he was up to. ‘If you like, I’ll show you some
mushrooms called faerie clubs.’

‘I’d love that!’

Although still early, the sun’s rays beat so fiercely that the
children were relieved to run beneath the shady canopies. The green depths of
elm, ash and field maple seemed to stretch to the end of the world.

‘Here!’ he cried.

‘What a great ring!’

Not far off was a leaning tower, crosses etched into its
stonework. Its arched windows were like those in church, although some were
boarded over.

Skirting around brambles, Eppie headed towards it. ‘What’s
this place?’

‘It’s my grandfather’s folly. He had it built to resemble
medieval ruins. He sometimes had poachers locked in here as their punishment.’

Crumbling walls abutted the tower. Inside, pigeon droppings
daubed a large metal star which was attached to a heavy iron pole.

‘One rainy night, when my aunt must have been sheltering in
here, the star fell through the rotten roof and killed her. Her body was not
discovered for days because no one really missed her. I overheard Doctor
Burndread telling father that her skull had been smashed in. I never liked Aunt
Zelda. She used to creep up on me whilst I was studying at my desk and pretend
to snip my hair with her fingers. Once, when I heard her arguing with my
cousin, Thurstan, I peeped through the keyhole into her bedchamber. I saw her
piercing her head with a knife and ripping out hairs from the puncture wounds.
After glaring at each hair, she would strike and bite off the roots as though she
were decapitating an enemy.

‘Whilst we were dining, father spotted the bald patches on
her scalp. They’d become infected and swollen. He asked her what was ailing her.
She said that each evening a vampire bat flew out of father’s study, called the
Brown Room, and attacked her. He forbade her from partaking of future meals
with the family. Father wanted to put her in an asylum. Thurstan told him that he’d
already sent his father to his death and he did not want to lose his mother as
well, though I think it was more that Thurstan enjoyed seeing my aunt vex my father.
Would you like to see my tree house?’ 

‘You have a tree house! How wonderful!’

‘You won’t have been in the wood this side of the river,’ Gabriel
said as they spurted across the woodland floor, their feet kicking up fallen
leaves. ‘Villagers aren’t allowed in here. This is where Thurstan and my father
shoot deer. I hate the killing.’ 

‘I hate it when Wakelin tells me about how the men bait the
badgers.’ 

A magnificent ancient oak stood in the middle of a clearing. 

Eppie clapped in delight. ‘His trunk’s a bull with bulging
eyes. That twig’s a pipe sticking out of his mouth.’ Over their heads swept a stout,
curved branch. ‘I could crawl along that.’ She pressed her ear to the mossy
trunk, listening for the spiritual life throbbing within. ‘I can hear his heart
beating.’

‘I was reading one of father’s documents in the library. It
said that this tree has been pollarded for hundreds of years. That’s why it’s
this odd shape. It was planted in the twelfth century, at the time of the crusades.
I call it the Crusader Oak.’

‘I’ve found his tongue!’

‘This fungi looks like beefsteak.’ Gabriel fetched out a rusty
pocketknife and slashed the smooth, reddish fungi. Juice spurted from the cut.

Eppie poked fungi growing on a branch which had fallen within
a clump of enchanter’s nightshade. ‘These are cramp balls. When I was little I
thought they were brown buns and ate one.  I like the wavy skirts on these
horns of plenty.’