The Fleethaven Trilogy
Margaret Dickinson
The Fleethaven Trilogy
Pan Books
THE FLEETHAVEN TRILOGY
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
From an early age I dreamed of becoming a writer and between 1968 and 1984 I had eight novels published in hardback by Robert Hale. Then followed seven years in which I was unable to write because of very heavy family commitments. By 1991 life was a little easier and I was able to start writing again. My greatest ambition was to be published in paperback. I was very lucky in finding the literary agent, Darley Anderson, who advised me to write a regional saga. At that time, I was unable to travel very far to do detailed research so I began to write about the area I knew and loved – Lincolnshire – the place where I grew up and lived. In particular, I focused on the flat farming land near the coast, which I so love. And this was how
Plough the Furrow
was born. I soon realised that this story was going to be more than one book and in fact it became a trilogy – the story of three generations of women. When Darley sold the first novel to Pan Macmillan and they published it in September 1994 I was over the moon. My thirty-eight year dream finally came true when I first saw a paperback of
Plough the Furrow
on the shelves in WHSmith! So this trilogy really does have a special place in my heart as these books were the first of my stories published into paperback and began my career with Pan Macmillan, which has so far spanned 20 titles.
Margaret Dickinson
Plough the Furrow
PAN BOOKS
One
LINCOLNSHIRE, 1910
‘A
GIRL
! A chit of a girl is no use to me.’
Esther Everatt stood before the glowering man and ignored his insult. Inside she was quivering, but she wasn’t going to let the old man know that. Her firm chin jutted out resolutely. ‘Well, mester, it looks like I’m all ya’ve got. An’ from what I’ve heard, all ya’re going to get.’
‘Why you cheeky young wench, Ah’ll . . .’ Sam Brumby raised his hand and stepped forward as if to strike her. The girl did not flinch. Her green eyes stared at him steadfastly. Her feet were planted firmly on the cobbles of his farmyard as if already she intended to put her roots down in this place.
‘Aye,’ she said softly now, ‘ya can hit me if ya like. I’m used to it. One more blow’ll mek no difference.’
Sam’s arm sliced the empty air inches from her face. ‘Be off with you,’ he muttered and turned away, but not before she had seen the momentary shame in his eyes. She guessed it was the first time he had ever raised his hand to a woman, but her impertinence had angered him.
‘Ah’ve no use for the likes of you here,’ he was saying gruffly as he went back towards the cowshed. ‘It’s a strong farm lad Ah want – not a lady’s maid!’
Her laughter rang out clear and sweet in the misty, early morning air. ‘Mr Brumby – do I
look
like a lady’s maid?’ Her mouth softened when she laughed; even so, it was a mouth that could harden into an unyielding line of determination.
Despite his insistence that he had no interest in her, he glanced back over his shoulder. She was still standing there, hands on hips, watching him. There was a feline stillness about her. Her feet were encased in boots which had known better days long before her ownership of them. Dust from the road she had travelled encrusted the hem of her long, coarse skirt. She was slim, yet there was an aura of physical strength about her. Her hair was a dark tangle of curls with strands plastered damply to her forehead. Her hands and face were tanned by wind and sun.
But it was her eyes that caught and held the attention of anyone who dared to meet that bold, green gaze. They were still staring at Sam, willing him to listen to her, holding him from turning away.
She saw his moment of hesitation, could almost read on his face the question that was forming in his mind. Where had a young girl like her come from at this early hour? She saw Sam Brumby open his mouth, then clamp his jaw shut again. He was afraid to show even the slightest interest in such a cheeky baggage – she thought, inwardly amused – in case it gave her more ideas.
But Esther Everatt did not need anyone to give her ideas – she had plenty of her own. As Sam Brumby turned away and disappeared into the cowshed, she picked up the meagre bundle of her belongings she had dropped to the ground and marched after him. Outwardly, she was displaying a confidence she did not feel inside. She was determined that this old man should not guess how desperately she needed work and a place to live. She wanted to tell him that she would work morning, noon and night for him if only he would let her stay. But grovelling was not part of Esther Everatt’s nature, nor, she guessed, would it find favour with this gruff old man. He would see it as weakness and despise her for it.
At this moment she knew far more about Sam Brumby than he did about her. He had never married and had no family to carry on the farm now that his once-strong limbs were painfully misshapen with rheumatism.
‘He needs help,’ Will Benson, the carrier, had told her. ‘But the miserable old devil’s too stubborn to admit it. He needs someone young and strong and not afraid of hard work. Someone like you, lass. And it would get you away from
this
!’ Will had jerked his head towards the cottage where Esther lived with her aunt and uncle and their large brood of children. She had stared up at Will as he sat on the high seat on the front of his carrier’s cart, hope rising within her. Threading the reins backwards and forwards through his fingers, not looking at her, he had murmured, ‘I’ve always known what a rough life you’ve got, lass, with yar aunt, an’ I’ve often wished I could do summat to help you.’ He had lifted his head and smiled. ‘Then last week when I went on me usual trip out to Fleethaven Point and saw how old Sam’s getting more bent and slow ev’ry time I sees him, well, I thought to mesen, “he needs a young ’un about the place” and, o’ course, I thought of you, lass.’
Now she was here, had walked all through the night to get here, and with all her being she wanted Sam Brumby to need her.
As she followed him towards the cowshed, he banged the lower half of the door behind him, right in her face, but she merely dropped her bundle against the wall, waited a moment or two then drew in a deep breath, lifted the latch and stepped inside. She stood quite still breathing in the pungent smell of the warm beasts – oh how she loved it! She reached out and touched the back of the nearest cow, making soothing noises deep in her throat, standing quietly while Sam Brumby worked.
At last he stretched his aching limbs and stood up from where he had been crouching to finish milking the first of the two cows. Esther saw him rub his knuckles, swollen with rheumatism.
‘’Ere,’ he growled, ‘since you’re so keen, you can ’ave a go with her – Clover.’
Was she mistaken, Esther thought shrewdly, or did she detect a wicked gleam in the old man’s eyes? Her mouth twitched, but she said nothing and moved towards the cow tethered in the corner. Clover turned wild eyes towards her. Again came Esther’s soft, pacifying murmur. She ran her hand over the cow’s rump, down her legs and along her rounded sides. Down and round and under the cow’s stomach until tenderly she touched the bursting udder, all the while her voice crooning softly. She sat down upon the three-legged stool, leant her head against the beast’s belly and began to draw milk with steady, rhythmic movements.
Esther refused to look up but sensed that Sam was watching from under his shaggy white eyebrows that shadowed watery hazel eyes. The white stubble on the old man’s face scarcely concealed the hollowness of his cheeks and his wispy hair stuck out from underneath his cap. His clothes – a striped, collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, black waistcoat and thick corduroy trousers with leather leggings from knee to ankle – hung loosely on him, as if, when new, it had been a much stronger, straighter man who had worn them. Sam was now bent with age, his shoulders permanently rounded, his legs bowed. Each step he took seemed painful; the hobnailed boots too heavy for him to lift.
She heard him sniff and wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘You can finish milking her before . . .’ he added pointedly, ‘you go.’ Sam was testing her, she knew it. Esther sensed that Clover was a difficult cow.
‘Yes, Mr Brumby, right you are,’ she replied, pretending meekness.
As he left the cowshed, closing the half-door quietly behind him, Esther allowed herself a wry smile against the soft hide of the animal. For the first time in her young life she had cause to thank the bad-tempered woman who had reared her. Everything she knew – not only household duties, but all aspects of work on the farm – had been learnt under her aunt’s cruel tongue and harsh hand.
Thanks to Aunt Hannah, it would take more than a temperamental cow for Sam Brumby to rid himself of Esther Everatt.
*
Half an hour later, Esther tapped on the back door of the house. It opened into Sam Brumby’s back scullery. At least Esther presumed it to be the scullery though it bore no resemblance to her Aunt Hannah’s, always so neat and clean you could see your face in the shining copper pans hanging on the wall. This place was filthy; unwashed pots and pans were piled in the deep sink and bits of mouldy food littered the draining board.
In front of her was the door leading into the main kitchen. This room was no better than the outer one. To her right she noticed another door leading out of the kitchen and down some steps into what she guessed would be the pantry.
Sam Brumby was standing at the cluttered kitchen table hacking at a lump of fat bacon. He glanced up. ‘You still here?’
Esther eyed the food hungrily. She hadn’t eaten since the previous day and even Sam Brumby’s unappetizing fat bacon in his dirty kitchen looked good to her.
‘’Ere, sit down and eat,’ he said grudgingly and almost threw her a wedge of meat and a hunk of coarse, grey bread. ‘Then you can be on your way, wench.’
‘Thank you, Mr Brumby.’ All politeness now, she sat at his table and ate the food he offered. When she had finished she thanked him, stood up and left the house. But she did not leave the farm. If Sam Brumby wanted her gone, he would have to carry her bodily off his land – and even then, there would be nothing to stop her returning.
She had nowhere else to go. Not now. Not since she had bundled her few possessions into a square of cloth, and, tying the corners together, had crept from her pallet bed in the draughty loft and out into the night. Esther had walked away from the only home she had ever known without looking back. Now, as she stood near the wall of the cowshed, watching the back door of the house but ready to dodge out of sight when Sam appeared, she thought briefly of her journey through the previous night, leaving the village on the edge of the Wolds that had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life. She had left without a trace of sorrow. There was no one she would really miss; certainly not her Aunt Hannah nor her seven cousins, from Mary, the eldest – a pudding-faced, sullen girl – right down through boys and girls of varying ages to the youngest girl – a spoilt, whining brat! Taking the lead from their mother, they had alternately ridiculed Esther or used her to do their share of the chores.
Perhaps her Uncle George was the only one whom Esther would remember with affection. A strong ox of a man, he was kindly but slow-witted and no match for his wife’s sharp tongue. He was even overawed by his growing children. Esther had watched his efforts to be close to his family meet with derision. Somehow, she thought, there was a streak of cruelty in all of Hannah’s children – and they did not inherit it from their father!