Eppie (32 page)

‘I sold six cabbages at the market to buy a few chunks of
coal, and that’s soon gone,’ Martha said. ‘Jonas told Gillow that some canal
men sold him a wagonload of cheap fuel. He’s fetching some tonight. I hope it’s
not sea coal. I don’t fancy being smoked out of my home again.’

Eppie tipped chopped onions and mushrooms into the flour and
eel mix. To replenish their dwindling fuel supply, she and Dawkin regularly gathered
dried cow dung from the fields.

Du Quesne had dismissed Henry. Francis Maygott, a long-standing
friend of his lordship, had been taken on as estate manager.

‘Mr Maygott was angry when he caught Dawkin and me stuffing cow
cassons in a sack. He says it robs the fields. He told us to scrape Primrose’s
patties from the lane-side and dry them by our fire.’

‘Eppie, you ought to know,’ Martha whispered, not wishing to
disturb the parson who was dozing, ‘since we’ve lost the byre, Gillow said we
ought to get rid of the cow. Wakelin took her to Litcombe first thing.’

‘I could’ve grazed Primrose on the stubble fields!’

‘Where would she shelter come the snow? Tell me that. There’s
scarce enough room for a horse and a donkey in the cart shed. Gramps is extending
his sty for our pigs, though his yard’s too small for another cow. Gillow
reckoned we ought to sell Dusty. I told him she’s useful taking you to the market.
I thought we’d get a nanny goat. There’s grass enough in the lane to feed her
for half a year. Jacob has offered to kid her with his billy. Besides, Primrose
was coming to the end of her milking days. At least we won’t starve, we’ve
plenty of …’

‘… bacon, ‘taties an’ cheap cuts of mutton,’ Eppie finished
her words, having heard them so many times of recent.    

Woken by the sorrowful droning, the parson stared
bleary-eyed at steam rising from the bubbling pot. ‘There are parish
hand-outs.’

Realising he had caught some of their words, Martha said in
a flustered tone, ‘Gillow says he would rather work all day and all night,
until he’s as thin as the threads he weaves, rather than accept charity. We’re
not paupers, he says, and never will be if we all pull our weight.’

Swaying towards Martha, the parson poured himself another
glass of wine and settled at the table. To one side of his head a calico bag of
cheese curds hung from the rafters. ‘I have spoken to Master Gabriel and so I am
acquainted with the circumstances by which you came to his home.’ He thrust up
his wig, making it sit skew-whiff upon his bald patch. ‘I believe it to be most
unchristian of his lordship to treat you in such a callous, hic, pardon me,
manner. Nor do I concur with his lordship’s action in destroying your plot.’ He
leant so close to her that his nose rubbed against her ear lobe.

Martha drew back in revulsion. 

‘If you didn’t like Lord du Quesne chopping our orchard, why
didn’t you stop him?’ Eppie asked shrilly.  

‘Really, Eppie, you mustn’t ask the parson such questions,’
Martha said.

The parson squinted at Eppie, as though suffering a pain in
the head. ‘I take no offence. Alas, how I wish I could have acted to, hic, aid
your father. I am, in a spiritual sense, the shepherd of the flock, but in
political affairs the natural lawmaker is Robert du Quesne. Neither I nor
anyone else have the right to go against his orders.’

‘It’s just such a worry, wondering how we’ll manage,’ Martha
said.

‘You will regret having two extra mouths to feed,’ the
parson drawled. ‘I imagine that now the boy’s arm has healed, his master will
be pleased to have him back.’   

Dawkin was feeding twigs from a raven’s nest to the fire. He
and Eppie exchanged anxious glances, though he grinned shyly when Martha
answered, ‘Gillow and I would never consider it. The lad had a raw time at the
poorhouse and Mr Crowe was cruel to him. Besides, Gillow’s forever saying how
useful he finds Dawkin about the place.’

‘I quite understand. Your husband must feel quite, hic,
disappointed with Wakelin. And you are correct when you talk about the
hardships in the poorhouse. Upon my perambulation around the wards I gain the
impression that none of the inhabitants, from the very young to the elderly and
incapacitated, are especially healthy. Many perish within its confines. Even
the late matron succumbed to, hic, rattlings in the throat, something of the
quinsy, I believe.

‘The poorhouse committee, of which my good self, Lord Robert
du Quesne, Mr Thurstan du Quesne, and a Mr Jeremiah Grimley, are amongst the guardians,
were pleased to welcome the replacement matron. She is the sister of the recently-appointed
master, Grinling Clopton. You yourself are acquainted with her, the former
personal aid to the late Lady Constance du Quesne, a Miss Agnes Clopton.’ Eppie
and Martha glanced at one another, taken aback by this news. ‘With some of the
monies which Thurstan raised from the recent sale of The Rogues’ Inn to Hurry
Eades he contributed to the building of an extra wing at the poorhouse.’

Clinging to Eppie’s pigtail with her plump fists, the baby
gurgled happily.

‘You were no doubt saddened that your last child was a girl,’
the parson said, nodding exaggeratedly at Lottie. ‘At least a boy can be driven
from home to earn his living.’

‘What’s wrong with being a girl?’ Eppie asked. ‘I do my toil.
I watch the pot and fetch water. I crawl under hedges for faggots. I tend
Lottie whilst mam’s working.’ 

Realising he had overstayed his welcome and concerned his
head was fuzzy with over-indulgence, the parson, afraid to utter further
remarks he might regret, made to leave. At the threshold he took Martha by the
elbow, rather than risk touching her hands with their residue of grease. ‘Keep
strong, my child. Weak in a crisis, you are weak indeed. Walk in God’s strength
with faith, so shall thy work be, hic, done.’ Turning, he blundered into
Wakelin.

Martha emitted a cry of woe
at the sight of the goat nibbling the fine leather gloves the parson held in
his hand.

Wakelin trailed the
unsteadily rocking parson down the garden path. ‘It ain’t the Good Lord as does
our work; it’s us as have to sweat n’ suffer.’

The parson scowled from
behind the safety of the hedge. ‘It would do you good, young hic, to heed the,
hic, word of God. Then, per-hic, you would be a finer spirited person.’

‘I listen to my own words
of wisdom. What you preach is a load o’ ‘ogwash.’

Gillow glared in consternation at his son. ‘When you speak
to Mr Lowford kindly keep a civil tongue in your head and for goodness sake stop
dropping your haches.’

‘The parson will ‘ave ta tek
me as ‘e finds me,’ he answered curtly. Purposefully adding, to aggravate his
father, ‘I ham as I ham.’

Hector Lowford’s shrill words rang
out as cold as the church walls. ‘Intemperance, animosity and profanity are the
vermin that gnaw the core of our community.’

Eppie shut her mind off from his gloomy sermon. Shivering in
the dampness of the morning, she enviously eyed the shimmer of heat rising from
the stove set within the du Quesne box pew. 

Rain fell steadily from the saturated skirt of darkened
clouds, clattering on the stone-tiled roof. 

Martha, aware that Eppie was not paying attention, nudged
her.

The parson ranting on in his dry, monotonous voice, Wakelin’s
attention also wavered. Surreptitiously he clasped Molly’s hand.

Eppie glanced at Gillow, keen to discern his reaction to the
lovers. Making pretence of ignoring his son’s every move he was staring
pokerfaced at the parson. 

Aware that one or two of the elderly members of the congregation
were snoring, the parson attempted to enliven the sermon. ‘The wicked shall not
be saved!’

His resounding words were drowned by Lottie’s startled
shriek. Irritable with her head cold, she struggled in Martha’s arms. As in
sympathetic unison several of the congregation, all suffering autumnal ills,
sniffed and wheezed, loudest amongst them Molly’s hacking cough. 

The parson realised it was futile to continue his discourse
against such a background of din and cried optimistically, ‘Let us recite the
words of Psalm 14.’

Reaching the words, ‘…
they will be filled with terror
,’
Molly exploded into such a coughing fit that she fell back onto the bench, all
looking anxiously upon her.

The parson deemed it prudent to wind up early. Eppie was
delighted.

Compelled by social grace, the poor members of the
congregation remained standing whilst they waited for the lord and his son to
leave. 

Gabriel looked ill.

Eppie, distressed by his indisposition, reached out
comfortingly as he passed and gently brushed his fingers. Seeing him glance at
her, her heart raced with pleasure.

Robert du Quesne was determined to curb any familiarity
between Gabriel and this girl, who seemed to wield such an unnerving power over
his son. He chanced to catch sight of this exchange of affection.

Blushing with discomfiture,
sensing du Quesne’s eyes burning into her like red-hot pokers, she fiddled with
the tail of the mouse carved onto the end of the pew.

All was cosy in the cottage. The fire crackled, giving off a
ripe, sickly scent of dried donkey dung. 

Nowadays, Wakelin spent most Sundays over at the Leiffs.

Eppie fetched the remains of Gillow’s birthday cake and
ceremoniously placed it on the table before him, amongst the cold pork and
cheese. ‘We’ve only a little plum cake spare after the parson helped himself,
so you only have quarter of a wish.’

Gillow chuckled at his misfortune. ‘I wish for quarter of a
kiss from your sweet lips!’

‘You’ll have to catch me first!’ 

Adorned in his fair-day ruff, Twiss was swift on their heels
as they raced around the table, Eppie squealing with laughter.  

The dog’s tail caught in Lottie’s pilchers ranged before the
hearth and tore down the lot.

‘Calm down you nuisances,’ Martha cried, aghast, ‘you’ll
wake the baby.’

Eppie turned and leapt into Gillow’s arm, lavishing kisses
on him. 

‘No more,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll be washed to death!’

Diving to the table, she bit into the cake, the sticky
sweetness of it melting on her tongue. ‘We’d better save Wakelin a crumb.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Martha said, ‘or there’d be big trouble.’

After a few melodies on his accordion, Eppie and Dawkin singing
along to the jolly tunes, Gillow retired to his armchair. He heaved a sigh.

‘Feeling your age, old man?’ Martha asked cheekily.

Eppie plopped a sugar lump into his tea and passed him his
pipe. Though a virtuous man, like most of the men in the village he abhorred
the thought of having to give up on his little luxuries, chiefly his tobacco
and ale, of a Sunday. That is, unless the parson was spotted approaching, when
his bible would be taken up and all would fall silent.

‘It’s seeing young love that makes me feel old,’ he
answered. ‘I reckon it won’t be long before Wakelin and Molly are wed.’ He
rubbed a pinch of gunpowder onto his gums to lessen his toothache. ‘Though it
beats me what the girl sees in him; he’s hardly eyeable, and he’s cursed into
the bargain.’ 

Martha, finding it hard to be idle, was darning Wakelin’s
work shirt. It helped to take her mind off the recent death of Fay Hix during
childbirth.

‘With Molly taming the lad’s rebellious spirit, at least he’s
started to act in a sensible manner,’ Gillow said. ‘She’s got him to attend
church. And if she bakes fruitcake as well as you, she’ll make him a fine
wife.’

‘What do you think Henry will do now?’ Martha asked. ‘After his
years of steadfast service, Claire says it’s the meanness of his lordship that she
finds hardest to bear.’

‘His lordship will come to regret it. It’s them like Henry
who’ve been labourers and risen to positions of responsibility, who really
understand how to get the value of a man’s wage out of him. The men have always
felt comfortable speaking to Henry.’

Looking over at Dawkin, he asked, ‘If you don’t intend being
a farm labourer, my lad, you’ll have to think about learning a trade. Have you
thought about weaving?’

‘Fine by me.’

‘I only wish Wakelin was as even-tempered as you!’ He waved
his bandaged wrist, which ached from hours spent working on the loom. ‘Mind
you, it’s tough these days. My wages have dropped by a third and I have to work
twice as hard.’

Eppie sat on the stool at his feet, knitting a shawl for
herself in the same green wool as Martha’s. ‘The way you’re going about that,’
Gillow said, ‘it’ll end up identical to your mother’s, there are so many holes
in it.’

‘It’s lucky for you it’s your birthday or I’d have punched you
on the nose for that,’ Martha said.

‘I reckon Lord du Quesne ought to pay the labourers more,’
Eppie suggested. ‘That way they’d be able to afford clothes that don’t forever
need patching. If a thousand labourers bought a thousand smocks, the cloth
makers would be happier because they’d sell more.’

‘You could be right. Well, I’m off to The Fat Duck to get my
birthday drinks in.’

Though the parson had demanded that Jonas did not open his
tavern on a Sunday, few of the inn-goers acceded to his demand, enjoying their
drink too much. Instead, the men took it in turns to stand guard on the lane,
ready to alert the publican and the drinkers if the parson or du Quesne were
passing by.

‘Coming to collect some more faggots for the fire?’ Dawkin
asked Eppie.

The baby was making fretful mewing sounds.

‘Lottie’s only got a cold, hasn’t she?’ Eppie asked Martha
anxiously.

‘Even a head cold has a way of turning bad, especially in
this damp cottage.’

On her way out, Eppie stared at the dismal sight of the
roof. Care of the cottages was low on du Quesne’s list of priorities. He would
only allow the cottages to be re-thatched by the tenants once the roofs were
sopping and thick with weeds.