A Country Marriage (34 page)

Deeply unsettled, he tried to turn his attention back to what she was saying.

‘…right from the start I had my work cut out keeping him
happy
. We were fine them first few days after we wed. I mean, let’s be honest, I wasn’t exactly virginal; I knew how to entertain a man.’ Despite the very point he had just been considering, her admission made him wince. ‘At Mist Hollow Farm, where I was afore I went to Wych Green, Master Ruben made sure I knew exactly what was expected if I wanted to keep food in my mouth and a roof over my head but with Tom it was different. No matter how often I gave in to him, it never seemed to be enough. He always seemed bitter, frustrated.’ On the tip of his tongue was his own observation but what felt like utter exhaustion made him bite it back. ‘And now I find out that he tried it with your
wife
, too, going after much the same thing from
her
, by all accounts.’

‘Ah, well, that,’ he offered uncertainly, feeling her eyes boring into his, ‘I think maybe
that
was about summat else altogether.’

‘What?’

But knowing better than to rake over old ground, he said simply, ‘I think he did that to rile
me
. Not that it matters now.’

For a moment, silence fell between them and he was just about to turn her towards home when she said flatly, ‘Still, for years I been wishing him dead. And now he is.’

‘Aye.’

‘Although somehow, I have to say, it don’t feel like I thought it would. Somehow, with him dying in such a mystery and with so many questions over it, it feels as though he’s
still
in control; as though he’s
still
laughing at me.’

‘Truly, Annie, I don’t think there’s much laughing where
he’s
gone,’ he replied. And – feeling more than a little unsettled at the notion – he reached for her hand and placing her arm firmly through his, gave her no choice but to go with him towards the gate, back to her work in the dairy and to face whatever now lay ahead.

Chapter 13

Wintertide

The autumn months were hard for everyone at Summerleas Farm that year. While Thomas Strong inwardly grieved for the loss of his eldest son, outwardly he appeared cold and unforgiving. He took little comfort from the harvest of grain now being threshed in the barn and nothing anyone did was good enough for him. To the family, his view seemed to be that someone else – or indeed, everyone else – was to blame for Tom’s death, a fact with which none of them had any sympathy or, except possibly for Hannah, the courage to disagree.

‘Why ain’t them oats bagged yet?’ he snapped one dreary morning, and it took all of Will’s self-control not to point out that it was on account of them being a man down, Tom down, in fact.

Apart from Hannah, who carried on as normal despite her husband’s frame of mind, the family tiptoed around; conversations halted abruptly when he entered a room, and meals were taken in silence for fear of inadvertently incurring his wrath. The only good thing to come from his gloom, the family agreed, was that at least these days his mood was entirely predictable.

Hannah Strong also grieved, although – with a better understanding than her husband of the circumstances of Tom’s death – her anger was rather less raw than her horror. Where Thomas felt inconvenienced and let down by the loss of his eldest son, privately at least, Hannah felt both sorrow and revulsion. She had long since recognised that Tom had grown up to be domineering and difficult, but what she hadn’t appreciated was that he also nurtured a cruel and distasteful side. If she harboured any anger at all, then it was because he had left her with a mess of unimaginable proportions in the shape of a husband in an enduring rage, a pregnant, widowed daughter-in-law and a young girl in her care who would be scarred for a very long time to come.

Coming across her in the scullery one afternoon, dabbing at her eyes with a drying cloth, Ellen put her hand on her mother-in-law’s arm.

‘Oh, Ellen, love, sometimes ’tis all just too much.’

‘I know,’ Ellen assured her with a sigh.

‘I just hope that wherever he is, he can see the effects of his selfishness,’ she wept. ‘He’s broke this family, completely broke it, from Thomas all the way down to Robert.’

In fact, it was Robert who concerned Hannah most. He had never been talkative at the best of times but now he appeared to harbour a grudge so deep that she was afraid it would ruin the rest of his life. Apparently unable to talk to anyone, he went about his daily tasks in complete silence, his head lowered.

‘It’s all right to talk about it, you know,’ George said gently, as they walked back from church one Sunday.

‘Talking won’t do no good,’ he had replied in an uncharacteristically snappy tone and, without warning, had dodged through the hedge to run off across the field and left George staring after him.

If it was possible for
anything
good to have come from Tom’s actions, then it was the surprising friendship that developed between his victims.

‘Annie’s been a real help to Lottie,’ Mary commented to George, as they returned home from visiting her one evening. ‘She ain’t hardly left her side since it happened and I’m certain it’s on her account that the poor girl’s so much brighter lately.’

‘Aye,’ was George’s non-committal reply.

‘See, I never thought of Annie as being warm and kind-hearted.’

‘Then no wonder you’re surprised,’ he replied, rather obscurely Mary thought.

*

By the middle of November, Thomas had come to the conclusion that, with two capable sons lost in little more than a year, he had no real choice but to hire some help.

‘It’s crossed my mind to ask George to come back,’ he said to his wife out of the blue one morning.

‘If it has, then you’re setting yourself up for a disappointment,’ she replied without even looking up from making their bed.

‘Aye,’ he agreed wearily, watching as she tugged the ageing blanket squarely into place. ‘You don’t think there’s a chance he’d come back then?’

‘Thomas,’ Hannah said firmly, ‘George is well set up now at Keeper’s Cottage with Mary and their boy. And the estate speaks real highly of him, which is why they gave him the foreman’s job a while back.
And
he’s earning proper money. Now I’m sure it ain’t easy but you raised him to understand there wasn’t a living to be had for him here and so he did what had to be done. So think about it for a moment; why would he give up being his own man to come back here now?’ Thomas pulled a face and rubbed his whiskers. ‘I know he seems the answer to your problem but listen to me when I say you’d be best advised not to ask.’

With a long sigh, her husband shook his head.

‘Aye. I know; I thought as much meself. I’ll have to make up the labour some other way, then. Not that I’m entirely giving up on the idea of getting George back, mind. No, when the time comes, well, I still got a nice carrot to dangle there. For now though it can wait; no sense bein’ hasty and upsettin’ the apple cart when there’s plenty of local lads wanting steady work.’

‘Quite,’ Hannah agreed.

And so it was that when all of the family were next together, Thomas announced his intentions.

‘Listen up, folk,’ he said, breaking what had now become their usual, uncomfortable silence. ‘I been thinking over the labour here and it’s plain we need more hands. So I’m going to see whether young Francis Troke might want work. I trust that causes no one a problem?’

While George and Will exchanged surprised glances, it was their mother, who piped up, ‘Praise be for common sense, Thomas Strong.’

At the other end of the table, however, Mary’s cheeks turned a perfect match for the pickled blood turnip on her plate and, grasping her fork, she bowed her head and proceeded to take greater interest in her food. Francis Troke. Here on the farm. Every day. Despite two months having passed since the incident at the harvest home, she was still dreading facing him; something that now seemed inevitable. And while agonising over this unfortunate discovery, she also realised that, courtesy of a sudden tautness in her stomach, she no longer fancied the rest of her meal, either.

‘I’ll see if he can start this week, then,’ she heard Thomas continuing, ‘and Will, you can help me decide what best to set him to doing.’

*

Coming out from the church into the blustery wind, Mary paused to wrap Jacob’s blanket more closely about him, but as she turned to George to remark upon the chill, she was surprised to see him duck under the low branch of the yew tree and make his way towards a group of men standing on the far side of the churchyard. Ordinarily, if he wanted to dally awhile and talk to someone, he would tell her to go on home out of the cold, the fact that he hadn’t done so today suggesting that this particular gathering was spur of the moment. And stepping aside to make way for the congregation still spilling out behind her, she cast her eyes over the assembled group, not in the least surprised to see Ezra Sharpe among their number.

‘What are
they
up to?’ she asked, seeing Ellen coming out of the porch.

‘Men’s business,’ Ellen answered without slowing her pace and raising her hand to guard her tilt bonnet against the wind.

‘Well it must be business they don’t want just anybody hearing’ Mary observed, skipping a couple of steps to keep up with her.

‘Which is fine by me since I’ve no mind to hear it. And neither should you.’

‘Why not? If the matters they talk of are important, how can it harm to know them?’

‘It just
can
, Mary, and anyway, I’ve no wish to tarry here in this draught.’

‘Fair enough.’

Unsurprised by Ellen’s lack of interest she decided to ignore her advice, and having waited to see her pass through the lychgate, crept around the yew tree to a spot where she felt reasonably certain that no one could see her. Then, quickly checking all about, she held her breath and peered towards them. Among the party were a few faces that she recognised as well as some that she didn’t, but from the unfussy nature of their dress she guessed that they were mostly labourers. As a group, they were leaning in towards one another, their manner restless, but for a while nothing happened and, shrugging her shoulders, she was just about to turn away when she caught sight of a lone figure coming up over the rise. Dressed entirely in dark clothing and carrying at his side a tall hat – as though the act of wearing it on his head in such a location would draw unwanted attention – he stole quickly across the ankle-deep grass towards the waiting assembly where he was quickly absorbed into their number.

Guessing that this new arrival would now occupy their attention, she felt it safe to creep onwards around the yew, where she then ran the few steps to the corner of the church itself. Feeling safe from prying eyes, she paused, wondering whether she would be close enough to catch anything being said. At first, the bluster of the wind about her ears made it impossible but each time the gusts died down, she could hear their voices, although still not sufficiently to determine what they were saying. She took a quick peek around the corner, rapidly discerning that there was nowhere nearer to secrete herself –
unless
, she noticed then – she went back into the church and along to the door in the south transept.

Wasting no time, she retraced her steps around to the front porch, and with only the merest of glimpses up the aisle, tiptoed along the first few rows of empty pews and then darted across to the relative obscurity of the smaller side entrance.

‘Don’t be fooled; this is no
new
struggle, my friends,’ the words were almost blown against her ears as she turned the heavy iron latch and edged open the low door. Straight away, she noticed that the speaker lacked the lengthy vowels and unhurried delivery of a local, suggesting that it must be the newcomer. ‘The lawmakers and landowners have been stealthy. Yes, that’s right, stealthy,’ he reiterated to the sound of general agreement. ‘For three decades or more they have been chipping away at the ability of the ordinary man to own some land, keep a few animals, grow a few crops. Chip, chip, chip. And
why
have they done this?’ In the buffeting of the stiff breeze, his question appeared to go unanswered. ‘To turn him into a wage-earning labourer, that’s why.’ This time, though, there was a murmur of accord. ‘Because to feed and clothe his family, a wage-earning labourer is entirely at the mercy of his employer; gone is his independence, gone are the means to live his life in freedom and gone is his ability to profit from his own endeavours.’ The response to this particular assertion was louder. ‘But this time, my friends, I tell you it’s different, for this time we are many and the cry is bread or blood. Bread or blood!’ Startled by the roar of approval that greeted this impassioned declaration, Mary briefly pushed the door to and glanced across the nave, aware how easy it would be for someone to creep up behind her to see what she was about. But, not wanting to miss a word of what was being said, and as satisfied as she could be that she was still alone, she once again eased open the door to hear that the visitor was still talking, ‘…easily more than a hundred of them, their grievances the same as your own; the chance to earn a fair wage.’ Although the speaker’s last pronouncement generated further agreement, he hastened on. ‘Their demand was but two shillings more a week…’ but to Mary’s dismay, the rest of his statement was drowned out by a high-pitched whistle as the wind tore through the narrow gap between door and frame. Hastily she edged the door wider and the whistling died away. ‘But their number by now was far too many for him,’ she heard the stranger say. ‘What did they
do
?’ he asked, repeating a question from the supportive crowd. ‘Why, friends, they did exactly what they had promised; they broke his machine!’ At this, a cheer went up, and although she couldn’t see, she could picture the men turning to each other in appreciation of such a worthy accomplishment.

Having heard enough now to at least discern the matter under discussion and with her feet growing numb in the draught, she gently pushed the door to its frame, but lacking the knack of the latch, let it fall too quickly, the metallic clang echoing mercilessly from one stone wall to another. Standing motionless, she waited, feeling the cold disapproval of the carved statuette in the wall niche above her head. But when the sudden din seemed not to have alerted anyone, she moved stealthily back along the aisle and casually out through the front porch to head home and mull over the fragments of information she had been able to glean.

*

‘George, can I ask you about summat?’ Mary broke cautiously into the silence when they were back in Keeper’s Cottage, replete from their dinner at the farmhouse.

‘About what?’

‘Summat that’s been botherin’ me… only I don’t want to make you cross.’

‘Why would you make me cross?’

Hearing him stir in his chair, she purposely didn’t look at him but could nevertheless feel his eyes on her.

‘Because you might think it none of my business.’

‘Well, if I do, I’ll say so. So what is it that’s botherin’ you?’

‘Well, just lately, I been hearing a lot of talk about them protests.’

‘Mary…’

‘And it seems serious. So I thought that if I understand more about it, I might not fret so much.’