Eppie (8 page)

‘Yes, I’m ‘cited.  I’m glad I was born Eppie ‘cos I love you,
Mammy.’

‘What about me?’ Gillow groused sleepily.

Martha yawned. ‘We thought you were in the Land of Nod.’

‘And you was snoring like Twiss,’ Eppie added.

‘Snoring was I? What about you last night, my little maid?
You snored so loud it’s a wonder the chimney didn’t crash on top of you.’

 ‘I don’t snore!’

 The door blew open and tapped. Martha made to get out of
bed. ‘I’ll have to fasten it, else it’ll knap all night.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Gillow said, groaning. 

He trudged back. ‘The wind’s torn the thatch by the door.
There are a few drips coming through, as big as radishes. I’ve put the cauldron
under them. Shift up; make way for a big ‘un.’

‘I’ll mop up first thing,’ Martha said. ‘I hope the larder
will be all right. Those wretched mice have been in again.’

‘I don’t like the mousies running over me when I’m in bed,’
Eppie said.

‘They must get in at the bottom of the door, where it’s
rotted,’ Martha mused.  ‘Yesterday, I noticed the pigeon pie was nibbled around
the edges.’

Eppie felt a pang of guilt, recalling Twiss’s training
sessions. ‘They won’t come again, Mammy.’

‘We’ll have to get another cat. It was sad when Pickles
died.’

‘What happened to her?’ Eppie asked.

‘In spring, Lord du Quesne makes Gramps put poison outside
the hurdles on account of the new-born lambs to stop stray or wild dogs getting
them. Pickles must’ve eaten the meat bait.’

Lying safe and warm, Eppie felt less fearful of the
screaming wind. ‘Does the pin go right through the children’s skin when the
glove-makers pin their children to them?’

‘Their mothers put it through their children’s petticoats so
that they don’t go wandering.’ 

‘What if the children fall asleep, like I do when I’m
turning the butter?’

‘I suppose their mothers wake them with smacks.’

‘I’m glad you and pa never hit me.’

‘That could be arranged, if you don’t keep your peace,’ Gillow
grumbled good-humouredly.

Eppie was silent a while, staring into the noisy darkness. ‘My
mittens is shrinking.’

‘Are they?’ Martha asked sleepily. 

‘When I tried to put them on this morning they was trying
not to fit.  My hands are hurty; all purple with orange spots. Jenny was itching
this morning. Wakelin pulled a tick off Twiss. It left its mouth bits in
Twiss’s skin. He got a bumpy boil.’

‘That reminds me, we need more oil of turpentine to kill the
ticks,’ Martha said.

‘The sheep fleece on top of my sack makes me itchy,’ Eppie
said. ‘A nasty beetle bit me up the nose.’

‘Do you two mind?’ Gillow asked. ‘I’m trying to sleep even
if you’re not. As if it isn’t bad enough having to put up with this storm, now
I’ll be itching all night at the thought of fleas. Another thing,’ he rambled
on, as Eppie and Martha giggled helplessly beside him, ‘it’s a bit hot with
four and a half of us shifting about in here. And keep your legs down, my
little maid.  The last time you came in I was bruised all over by the morning. If
you must be in here, lay still. I don’t want to sleep with a windmill that’s
forever going round.’

‘Be quiet, Gillow,’ Martha admonished. ‘What with the wind, the
beating rain, and you twittering on, we’ll never snatch any sleep.’

‘Me?  It’s Eppie!’

‘It isn’t me!’ Grabbing a pillow, Eppie pummelled his head.

Twiss bounded around, barking madly.

‘If that pillow bursts we’ll be smowered in feathers,’
Martha cautioned, pushing Twiss’s wet muzzle away from her face. ‘Do as your father
says, or we’ll be too tired to work in the morning if we don’t grab some shut
eye.’

Eppie gave Twiss a goodnight tickle behind his ear, and snuggled
back into bed.

‘And no chattering in the middle of the night,’ Gillow
grumbled.

‘I can’t help sleeping in my talk,’ Eppie protested.

‘That’s all I need, if I can
work that one out.’

Grumps lit a fuse. Wind roared like cannon fire. The bed
shook.

In her dream, Eppie span from a cliff and landed in a
garden.

A clutch of silver-pheasant eggs lay in a scrape beneath a
yew tree shaped like a badger.

Crouching beside the abandoned nest were two children, Talia
and Gabriel. Their kittens, Ophelia and Prince Ferdinand, frolicked on the damp
grass.

‘What a pity,’ Lady Constance said. ‘The poor bird must have
been disturbed or grown tired of the weeks of incessant rain. Be careful you
don’t touch the eggs; they would smell dreadful if they broke.’

 Upon hearing her mother’s cautionary words, Talia’s sadness
was replaced by her penchant for mischief.

 Later that evening, whilst reclining in the drawing room, Sapphira
told Robert and Constance about the jangling skeletons, headless ghosts and
shrieking demons she and Obadiah had seen at a travelling theatre in Malstowe.

Nothing nauseated his lordship more than the ridiculous
notion of the belief in the unquiet dead, and it was not helped by Zelda, his nephew’s
crazed mother. Listening behind the door, she squealed, ‘Ghosties! Whooo!’

The whole thing had put du Quesne in a bad mood for the
remainder of the evening, and he was snappy with the footman when he drew back
his chair for him at the dining table. Huffing, he plumped himself,
unnecessarily heavily, into his padded seat. The rotten eggs crunched.

Wafting her nose with her fan, Sapphira glared suspiciously
at Robert. ‘Whatever is that foetid smell?’

A sour expression on his face, du Quesne circumspectly
peeled back the cushion. 

Obadiah rumbled with laughter, highly amused at the sight of
the gelatinous mess and shattered eggshells. It was at this moment that Zelda,
prancing on the lawn, screeched, ‘Whooooo! Ghosties!’

Beside himself with rage, Robert threw back the window and
shouted at the woman to rid herself from his life.

Constance pleaded the innocence of the children, who had spied
the calamity from behind curtaining drapes in the dining room. Du Quesne,
though, had had enough of their practical jokes. The last time he entertained
guests, Talia had poured salt into his brandy when the butler was not looking.
Then she had the inspiration of sprinkling flour onto his wig. Caught in the
rain, a sticky mess had dripped down his nose.

He marched the children to the nursery and snatched the
kittens from their arms. ‘It is high time that you both had a punishment to
remember. I am going to drown your kittens!’ 

Gabriel screamed. Talia hammered on the locked door.

Regardless of the lashing rain, their father strode across
the topiary lawn. Momentarily, he glared up at their horrified faces pressed
against the windowpane.

They knew he was heading to Shivering Falls.

Stood at the bottom of the bed, Twiss whined. Forcing
herself to wakefulness, Eppie opened her eyes upon the blackness of night. With
the breaking of its banks the roaring turbulence of the stream was replaced by
an ominous, brooding silence. ‘Mam, summat is wrong with Twiss!’

‘Ignore him,’ Martha answered, sighing.

‘No, summat’s up!’

Martha fumbled sleepily with the bedclothes. ‘It’s probably
that cauldron overflowing with the drip. I’ll go see.’ Her legs splashed into
water. ‘Gracious! There’s water almost up to my knees!’ She drew her legs back
into the bed and dried them on the coverlet. ‘It’s freezing and so slimy! The stream
must’ve flooded. Our cottage was flooded once before, shortly after your pa and
I wed. No wonder his great-grandfather called this Dank Cottage. Gillow, wake
up. You’ve got to check on them animals. I can hear the chickens squawking.’

‘Hum?’ he muttered between snorts. 

Martha huffed. ‘I suppose it’s all down to me, again.’

‘I’m coming!’ Eppie said enthusiastically.

‘Don’t be silly, what could you do? Go back to sleep.’

Lifting the hem of her nightgown, Martha waded steadily
away. Pushing aside the partition sacking, she surged into the parlour. ‘You
can never rely on a man. This is awful!’

Eppie dragged the blanket around her shoulders and shut her
eyes.

Though she waded carefully, Martha’s heel struck a
knuckle-bone which had been left lying on the floor. Falling backwards, she
knocked her head against the dresser and slid, dazed, beneath the floodwaters.

Something icy blew down Eppie’s neck. Something like damp
grass brushed against her face. Startled into alertness, she sat bolt upright
and found herself staring into a pale, glowing face, its eyes wild and
beseeching. In the same instance that Eppie recognised the apparition from her
dream, Talia vanished. 

Eppie fingered the warm hollow in the pillow where Martha’s
head had lain. She scrabbled her way out of the sheets. ‘Mammy! Where are you?’

Gillow groggily slapped his lips. ‘Here.’

Leaping clumsily into the flood, Eppie gasped as the freezing
waters momentarily took her breath away. Air billowed beneath her nightdress. Immediately,
the folds fell, sodden and tugging.

Martha grasped the corner of the dresser. Spluttering for
air, she sought to keep her head out of the waters. So terrible was the
stabbing pain in her womb that she had been unable to cry out for help.

Eppie’s teeth chattered involuntarily. ‘Twiss! Wake pa!’

‘What the!’ Gillow cried, terrified out of his wits as Twiss
leapt about, pummelling his face with his soil-engrained paws.

Gillow surged towards them in his nightshirt. ‘Martha!
What’s happened? Why didn’t you wake me?’ Gathering Martha into his arms, he ploughed
back to the bedroom.

Arms outstretched to keep her balance, Eppie followed, mud
squelching between her toes.

Gillow hastily lifted her onto the bed beside Martha, who lay
groaning in agony. He splashed away to seek help.

Moments later, he floundered back through the leaden waters.
‘It’s only us; our cottage is in a dip. Claire says for me to carry your ma
over to her.’

He seemed to have been gone ages. All the while Eppie lay
with her arms around Twiss, her tears soaking into the dog’s wiry fur.

‘Let’s be having you, my little maid. It’s lucky you were in
with your ma and me, otherwise you’d have drowned in your sleep.’

Eppie clung to his neck. Passing beside the half-submerged
gate, she glanced back. Surrounded by swirling blackness, the cottage looked
like an island in a lake. Beneath her cheek she felt Gillow’s strong veins
pulsate, and was conscious of his heart beating next to hers. Never did she
want to let him go.

Curled upon Betsy’s sack bedding in
the corner, Eppie had not uttered a word since Martha’s accident. 

Betsy stirred the stew over the iron-trivet crab, her face
warmed by the fire. She spoke quietly to Gillow, ‘I’ve had enough sadness in my
life to know I mustn’t impose myself. Grief takes many guises and silence is
one of them. It’s hard with a child, though, knowing what to say to comfort
her.’

Gillow laid Elizabeth beside Eppie. ‘It was fortunate you
left her in the loft.’ 

No emotion flickered in Eppie’s wide, dull eyes as she
stared at the doll.

‘It was the alder with Eppie’s swing on that fell and partly
blocked the stream.’ He glanced at the hearth. ‘I see your wood store’s running
low. Jacob’s bound to have some to spare. I’ll go and see for you, if you like.’
 

Twiss was slumped on the rug, shattered after his disturbed
night.

Lucy, Betsy’s black cat, crept in and glared warily at the
dog.

Betsy roused herself to be cheerful for Eppie’s sake.
‘Remember that painful swelling I had on my eyelid? When I rubbed Lucy’s tail
on it, the boil disappeared.’

Gazing at Betsy’s warty parsnip chin, Eppie wondered whether
Wakelin was right, that Betsy really was a witch.
 

Gillow stooped beneath the low threshold with a basket of
logs.

‘You’ll stay for something to eat?’
 
Betsy
asked.

‘That’s mighty kind of you, Mrs P.  I appreciate all yer
doings.’

‘Sit yersen down.’

Betsy sopped bread into her potage. ‘Will Eppie soon be able
to see her mam?’

Eppie stared hopefully at Gillow over the rim of her bowl.

‘I don’t think so. She’s too badly.’

Eppie bit her lower lip, forcing back tears.

‘I tried to stay Doctor Burndread on his way to learn Master
Gabriel, to ask him about Martha. He didn’t so much as look my way.’

‘Don’t ‘e fret, Gillow. Claire lost her two bairns before
they were born, so she’ll know how to care for Martha. After losing a child,
the most important thing is that the clots and tissues come loose, else the rot
sets in.’

Lethargically, Eppie stirred slithers of cabbage and prodded
bacon. 

‘Try and eat your meat,’ Betsy said, adding, as a bribe,
‘then I’ll give you a cake as a copsy. Take a look at Twiss begging with his
paw up!’ She placed a bowlful of stew on the floor for the dog. ‘How are your
beasts, Gillow?’

‘The geese had a jolly time, though the pigs were up to
their necks. I’ve lost a lot of vegetables.’

‘Bring any ‘taties over afore they go bad. Grated down,
they’ll be fine in garlic soup.’

Standing in the doorway, Betsy watched him trudge across the
lane. The sun shone between racing white clouds in a heavenly blue sky. ‘It’s
as though there’d never been a storm. What about an amble, though you’ll need
summat on your feet.’ 

Rummaging in a cobwebby corner, she fetched out a pair of goatskin
shoes, and exclaimed in dismay at the sight of a pair of worn stockings. ‘I’ll stilt
these.’ She set to the repair, knitting needles clattered in her skilful
fingers. ‘These belonged to Anne. Most of my children died before they were
seven. Pox took ‘em. Always grumbling about the coverlets rubbing their sores
the poor mites were.