The Miller's Daughter (30 page)

Emma would sigh and view both her sons with bewilderment, wondering just how they came to have the characters they did. Billy was his father’s son with the same cherubic charm, the same
temper and the same deviousness. As he grew, the boy would come home with the pockets of his short trousers jingling with the ha’pennies he’d won at marbles or conkers or some other
game depending on the time of year.

‘That’s my boy,’ Leonard would laugh proudly, ruffling the child’s dark hair and Billy would look up at his father with a cheeky grin and in his eyes was a knowledge far
beyond his years. Emma would turn away and catch sight of Charles melting into the shadows, no match for his charismatic brother. Surprisingly, though, the two boys were remarkably fond of each
other, despite the difference in their ages and the complete antithesis of their characters. The amusing thing was that, of the two, it was Billy who was the natural leader, and, from the time
Billy could walk, it was Charles who followed in his younger brother’s wake.

Once Emma had taken over the responsibility of finding the rent each week, she felt a little more secure, though Leonard’s temperamental moods grew worse, rather than
better. When he had money, he spent freely, buying presents for her and the two boys. At such times he came home decidedly less than sober most nights. When money was tight, his temper was short.
If the boys annoyed him, he would raise his hand and take a swipe at them, uncaring on what part of their anatomy the blow landed. When his rages filled the small terraced house, Charles would
creep next door to find refuge with the happy-go-lucky Porter family, but young Billy, even when quite small, would stand his ground, taking the blows and outstaring his father.

‘Why do you do it, love?’ Emma would ask with exasperation. ‘Why don’t you just keep out of his way, like Charles?’

‘I aren’t a coward,’ Billy began and winced as his mother dabbed iodine on to the cut on his lip inflicted by Leonard.

Emma thought back briefly to the night of the storm that had wrecked the mill and said quietly, ‘Neither is Charles, if push comes to shove. But he doesn’t ask for trouble like you,
young Billy. He tries to avoid it if he can. He’s got a bit of common sense.’

He grinned up at her cheekily, his wounds forgotten. ‘He’s all right, our Charlie. ’Sides,’ the seven-year-old swaggered, ‘he’s got me to look after him,
ain’t he?’

The irony of the fact that Charles, at nearly fourteen, needed a seven-year-old to ‘look after him’ was not lost on her. Emma sighed and turned away without answering. Oh yes, she
thought grimly, and he’s got you to lead him astray too.

Only Billy ever called his brother ‘Charlie’, for, to Emma’s mind, there was only one Charlie – Grandpa Charlie Forrest – and her reserved elder son bore no
resemblance at all to the ebullient man she remembered. If anything, she thought, Billy was closer to the daredevil her grandfather had reputedly been in his youth. Her younger son certainly had
daring and charisma, yet there any similarity ended, for Billy had also inherited the darker, more devious, side of his own father’s nature. There was a cunning about the young boy that was
disconcerting, and to his mother, worrying, for she had not been able to prevent Leonard from teaching his son the tricks of his trade and the boy was fast becoming more streetwise than Emma
liked.

‘Oh, Grandpa Charlie,’ she would murmur in quiet, reflective moments, ‘why couldn’t one of them have been more like you?’

Bridget had visited them now and again through the years, arriving unannounced in a flurry of excitement and laughter, leaving a waft of her flowery perfume wherever she went.
She idolized Billy and whilst she was kind enough to bring presents for both boys, it never entered her pretty head that her obvious affection for the younger boy might hurt the older one. It was
to Charles’ credit that he never showed any jealousy at all towards Billy.

‘Oh, Billy’s just like his father,’ Bridget would trill. ‘Such a handsome, merry little chap.’

‘And is Leonard like
his
father, Bridget?’ Emma dared to ask once, holding her breath.

‘Leonard’s father?’ Bridget’s tone was mystified, almost as if she had forgotten the existence of such a man.

‘Mm,’ Emma said. ‘Was he a dashing, man about town when you married him?’

‘Me? Married?’ The woman went into fits of laughter, until Emma, despite herself, was smiling too. Bridget wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Oh, my darling Emma. I’ve never
been married, but don’t you dare tell a soul, mind.’ She patted the neat blonde sausage curls. ‘Keep ’em guessing, that’s what I always say. Keep ’em champing at
the bit.’ Her eyes twinkled with merriment. ‘You’d have done better not to have married our Leonard. Once they’ve got a ring on your finger – and through your nose
– ’ she snorted with laughter at her own joke, ‘they take you for granted. Expect you to wash and cook and clean for them.’ Again she preened and glanced towards the mirror
over the fireplace. ‘That’s not for me, Emma dear. Never was and never will be.’

‘But,’ Emma said hesitantly, ‘what about Leonard’s father?’

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Leonard’s
father
? Huh! I wouldn’t have married him if he’d been the last man on earth! Never knew where you had him or
if
you had him at all. A real “Jack the Lad”. I suppose that’s where Leonard gets his bad habits from.’

Valiantly, Emma tried to hide her smile, but failed and Bridget wagged her finger playfully at her. ‘Now then. I know what you’re thinking. “Pot calling kettle
black”.’ The smile spread across her painted mouth. ‘Oh well, you’re right, I suppose. I have been a bit of a bad girl in my time.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘But
I’d do it all again. Every minute of it. I don’t regret a moment of my life.’ She paused, pondering for a moment and then added slowly, ‘There was a time when I thought I
did. When I found I was pregnant with Leonard. That was a mistake, I can tell you.’

Emma was speechless, unable to comprehend any woman not wanting to have children and at Bridget’s next words, she could not stop the gasp of surprise escaping her lips.

‘I thought about giving him away. You know, putting him up for adoption. But, well, when it came to the point, I couldn’t do it.’ She giggled as if surprised at herself.
‘I must have more maternal instincts in me than I thought. Of course, he’s been a pain at times. Some of my gentlemen friends haven’t been too keen to have a kid tagging
along.’ Her grin widened and she winked broadly. ‘But I soon changed their minds for them.’

Emma sniffed wryly. ‘Well, he’s a pain now, your Leonard.’

‘Oh, don’t be too hard on him. He’s not a bad lad. He just likes a good time and you are a bit of a sobersides, now aren’t you? Always worrying about money and paying the
rent. No man wants to come home to a nagging wife, Emma.’

‘Am I his wife?’ She hadn’t intended to ask the question but the words were out before she realized she had spoken them aloud.

Bridget’s eyes widened. ‘Of course you are. You can’t think that big, fancy wedding could have been fixed?’

Emma pulled a face. ‘I have wondered.’

Bridget laughed. ‘Oh no, I’ll say that for Harry Forrest, he had Leonard weighed up and tied up good and proper.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said grimly, and thought to herself, if only I had realized it at the time.

‘Now,’ Bridget was saying, dragging Emma’s thoughts back to the present. ‘Where’s Billy? I’ve a present for him.’ As a hasty afterthought, she added,
‘And for Charles as well, of course.’

As if on cue, they heard Billy’s whistling and his boots thudding down the passageway between the two houses. The yard gate crashed back on its hinges and the boy came into the house.

‘Hello, how’s me favourite gran then?’

He stood before Bridget, bent forward and planted a sticky kiss on her cheek.

‘You young scallywag,’ Bridget laughed. ‘I’m your
only
gran.’

Billy’s cheeky grin widened. ‘Where’s me present then?’

‘Billy . . .’ Emma began, but Bridget only laughed and began hunting in the depths of her bag. ‘But you’ve got to pay me for this, young Billy.’

‘Pay you? Not likely!’

‘Wait a bit and I’ll tell you why. Ah, here we are.’ Bridget pulled out two small thin parcels about four inches long.

‘What is it?’ the boy asked in spite of himself.

‘Open it and see.’

Billy put his head on one side, a wary look on his face, meeting her teasing eyes squarely. ‘Not if I’ve got to pay for it.’

Bridget laughed. ‘Go on, open it first anyway.’

The boy unwrapped the present and in his palm lay a pearl handled penknife. ‘It’s great, but why have I got to pay for it?’

‘If anyone gives you a knife, you’re supposed to pay for it else it’ll “cut” your friendship.’

Emma stifled her mirth. She had never thought of Leonard’s mother as being superstitious. Sarah Robson, yes, but never Bridget. She watched, amused, as Billy’s mouth curved in a
sneer, but he was fishing in his pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Well, that’s all I’ve got.’

Over his shoulder, Emma saw the coin – or rather what had once been a coin of the realm – lying on the flat of his palm.

Bridget smiled. ‘Well, that’ll do.’

‘Wait a minute, young man,’ Emma began, ‘what is it?’ She reached out and picked up the piece of metal that still had the imprint of the monarch’s head on it, but
it had been flattened and battered into twice it’s normal size. ‘What have you been up to now, Billy?’

She caught hold of the lobe of his ear and nipped it, holding it firmly between her thumb and forefinger until he squirmed. ‘Ouch. It’s only a ha’penny, Mam.’

She looked at it again. Yes, it was a halfpenny, or rather, it had been, but now it was the size of a penny. ‘What have you done to it?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘We all do it,’ he began, as if that made it acceptable. ‘The older lads told us what to do. Joey told us,’ he added slyly, perhaps thinking that would make it all right.
‘We buy some chewing gum with half our Sat’day penny, chew it until all the taste’s gone and then we – we—’

He wriggled again, but Emma’s grip was firm. ‘Go on,’ she said grimly.

‘We stick it on the railway line. Y’know, where the track goes across the road in the High Street? Joey ses they used to do it on the tram lines but since the trams stopped running,
we have to use the railway track. The train runs over it and it ends up like that.’

‘And?’ Emma persisted. ‘Then what do you do with it?’ The finger and thumb pressed a little harder.

‘We – we go and put it in the slot machines on the station and get chocolate and stuff.’

Emma opened her mouth to upbraid her son, but before she could say a word, Bridget was clapping her hands and laughing. ‘Oh, how clever of you, Billy. You
are
like your father.
That’s
just
the sort of thing Leonard used to do.’

Thwarted in her outrage, Emma thought to herself, ‘And he’s still doing it.’ Automatically, her glance went to the cupboard in the corner.

The christening mug was missing yet again.

Twelve years had passed since she had come to live in the city and in all that time she had not been back to Marsh Thorpe once. So when a letter arrived from Sarah telling her
of Luke’s death, Emma sat in her kitchen, the letter lying open on the table, and was overcome by guilt. ‘I should have gone back more. I should have gone to see them,’ she
murmured aloud.

They had corresponded, she and Sarah, regularly, but Sarah had never come to the city and Emma, immersed in the hardship of her everyday life and burying the memories of her girlhood, had
allowed the months and years to slip by. Perhaps, she thought, in a moment of honesty with herself, I’ve deliberately avoided going back. Marsh Thorpe held so many memories, happy and sad,
that perhaps her innermost self had shied away from returning to open old wounds.

However, she knew exactly what had been happening in the village during all the years she had been gone, for Sarah’s letters, an untidy, childish scrawl, were nevertheless newsy and a joy
to read. Holding the pages of her ramblings was like talking to Sarah face to face and Emma had always eagerly awaited their arrival.

And now poor old Luke was gone.

The gossip about her mother-in-law was not news to Emma. She was very fond of her mother-in-law for Bridget made no secret of her way of life and was in no way ashamed of it.

‘I’ve been fond of all my gentleman friends, Emma,’ she would say, smoothing the silk of her skirt. ‘Never mind what anyone says about me. And I’ve given them
affection and pleasure,’ she gave an arch look at the younger woman, ‘in their final years, and if,’ she waved her slim, well-manicured hand in the air, ‘they want to show
their appreciation by leaving me a little something, then I’m certainly not going to complain, now am I?’ The latest ‘little something’ had been a small, thatched cottage in
Thirsby, the next village to Marsh Thorpe. ‘Of course, I may sell it and move back to the city,’ she said dreamily, examining her long pointed fingernails with seeming intensity.
‘But I’m in no hurry. There’s this retired Colonel who’s just moved into the village.’ She looked up at Emma coyly out of the corners of her eyes. ‘A widower,
you know.’