The Miller's Daughter (22 page)

‘What was good enough for your grandpa Charlie, is good enough for me.’

‘But they’re so out of date now and so cumbersome. It’s a wonder you don’t get dreadfully stung every time you remove the combs. Now, these new ones . . .’ Emma
would begin, but Sarah would hold up her hands in horror and refuse to listen.

‘What if the bees didn’t like some newfangled thing?
Then
they’d sting me. Or worse still, they might leave us. Then what?’

Emma always covered her amusement. ‘They’re not newfangled, Sarah. Wooden hives have been on the go for – oh, years now. You can lift out each—’

‘I don’t want to listen and I certainly don’t want any, so there.’

And there the argument always ended with Sarah having her own way as usual.

The bees seemed very active this morning, Emma thought, flying in and out with a sense of urgency as if there was not a moment to lose. Perhaps they were getting ready for winter. Smiling to
herself, she continued towards the cottage where Sarah and Luke lived.

As soon as Sarah opened the door, Emma said, ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

Sarah looked away as if avoiding Emma’s direct gaze. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, nothing. You’d only laugh.’

‘Me? Now Sarah dear, have I ever laughed at you?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘no, not exactly, but I know what folks think of me and my silly superstitions.’

Emma put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘The bees. It’s the bees. They’re very restless. It’s as if something’s going to happen. There’s going to be trouble.’

‘I did notice as I came by just now that they seem very busy,’ Emma said and added quietly, ‘and no, I’m not laughing.’

The two women exchanged a look then Emma felt the shoulders beneath her arm lift in a little shrug of resignation. ‘Well, there’s nowt we can do about it. We’ll just have to
wait and see. Come on through,’ she said, trying to change the subject, ‘and see Luke. He’s feeling a little stronger today, even talking about coming back to work. He’s
that worried about you trying to manage everything on your own.’

Emma laughed. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ve something to tell him, anyway.’

Moments later when Emma had given the old man her news, Luke leant back in his chair and let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘I can’t tell you how that’s taken a weight off me mind.
I’ve been whittling that much about that blessed mill ’cos the workings need checking,’ he gave a wry laugh, ‘ya’d think it were mine.’

Emma sat on a low stool and rested her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin in her hands. She regarded him with her bright eyes. ‘Well, Luke, to my way of thinking it very nearly is.
You’ve given your whole life to it,’ she said gently, ‘to the mill and to the Forrest family.’

Tears welled in the old eyes and he reached out with calloused fingers that were crooked now with rheumatism. ‘Eh, lass,’ he said hoarsely, touched by her compliments.
‘I’m just sorry that ya man dun’t tek more interest and be a help to ya. If only them Metcalfes hadn’t been so bloody stupid, ya’d be married into that family by now
and well taken care of.’

Emma had rarely, if ever, heard Luke use bad language and coming from his lips it sounded more comical than blasphemous, yet she hid her smile. She tried to reassure him. ‘Well,
there’s one Metcalfe who’s not so bloody stupid,’ she teased him. ‘It’s William who’s coming on Saturday to look at the machinery for me.’ She saw the old
man glance towards his wife, saw the look that passed between them.

At once old Luke seemed to relax even more and settle back in his chair. ‘Is it, be-gum? Well, then, that’ll be all right. Them bees must have got it wrong, Sarah, me old dear,
’cos if it’s William coming back, then everything’ll be all right.’

By nightfall the wind had risen to gale force. It rattled the granary door on its loose catch, flinging it open, the wood splintering as it crashed back against the wall.

‘I’ll have to go and tie that door, Charles,’ Emma said to her son, who was sitting huddled by the fire, his eyes huge and fearful.

‘Don’t go out in it, Mamma,’ his child’s voice pleaded. ‘Stay here, where it’s safe. You might get blown away.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ She fought to keep the vexation from her voice. She knew he was only six, yet even she was sometimes irritated by the boy’s lack of spirit.
Charles was always so solemn, his dark eyes huge in his pale face. And he didn’t seem to laugh and play like other children. He was never naughty, never in childish pranks or scrapes and
whilst she loved him with motherly protectiveness, at times, Emma wished there was some way in which she could instil some of her own mettle into her son. He was nothing, she thought, like his
namesake, old Grandpa Charlie, if the tales that had been told down the years about him were to be believed.

Perhaps she had allowed the boy to be too much in the company of old men. First, her father and lately, with Luke. Perhaps it was her fault. She was so busy, so wrapped up in trying to keep the
mill going that she had little time for her son. She would try to make more time for him, she promised herself, see that he had some playmates of his own age.

Contrite now for her sharpness, Emma hugged him swiftly to her and ruffled his hair. ‘You stand and watch me from the back door, then I’ll be safe, won’t I? You must be the man
of the house when your father is away.’

Picking up a length of line from under the sink, she opened the door. The wind blew into the house with a ferocity that made even Emma gasp in surprise. She stepped out into the yard, bending
her head against the gale. She turned and saw Charles, his white fingers gripping the door frame as if to stop himself being blown away.

Sudden fear for his safety now – he was, after all, such a little chap – made her say, ‘Now don’t move from there. Promise me?’

His eyes were large ovals in his white face and his lips were pressed together as if to stop them trembling, but he nodded.

Clutching her coat around her, she staggered across the yard and, reaching the steps to the granary, grasped the rail and hauled herself up. Above her, the mill creaked and groaned. At the top
of the steps she caught hold of the door and slammed it, leaning against it whilst she struggled with icy fingers to tie the piece of line around the catch to secure the door shut. As she turned
away, the wind buffeted her and she grasped the rail to stop herself being blown down the steps. She looked up at the mill, a black shape against the stormy sky. The sails, silhouetted against the
deepening dusk, shuddered as the gale blustered from first one direction and then another and the fantail struggled to turn the huge mechanism into the wind. But which way, which way now? She could
almost feel the panic rising in her as she watched the neglected machinery fighting to do its job. Transfixed, she stared at the huge sails above her as a dreadful split-second premonition gripped
her. In that moment, she knew exactly what was going to happen yet she was helpless to prevent the catastrophe.

The main sails were tail-winded and a great gust of wind with the force of a tornado got behind the huge sails and pushed them forward. Emma watched in horror as, in slow motion, the gigantic
structure – sails, fantail and the onion-shaped cap – toppled into the yard, the wood of the sails smashing and splintering into matchwood, the canvas shades tearing into shreds. The
noise seemed to go on forever. Shards of wood flew in all directions and Emma cringed against the granary door. Dropping to her haunches, she covered her face and head with her arms. She felt a
piece of flying timber hit her forearm, then rattle down the steps, bouncing on every tread.

At last there was silence, an unearthly silence, with only the wind still howling triumphantly. Slowly Emma raised her face and saw the shape of the mill, a black, capless cone, stark against
the sky.

‘Oh, Grandpa. Grandpa Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘No! Oh no!’

And then, above the wind, she heard the wailing of her terrified child.

Struggling to her feet, she tried to call out to him. ‘I’m all right, darling. Stay there. Charles, stay there.’

But she heard him clambering over the pile of wood that filled the yard. ‘Mam, Mammy – where are you?’

‘Stay there, Charles. I’m fine – I’m coming . . .’ But the wind whipped the words from her mouth and tossed them away.

She tried to go down the steps but a huge spar of wood blocked her way. Then there were other sounds borne on the wind; Sarah, from the direction of the orchard, and even Luke, had struggled out
into the night. From the gate into the road, there came the voices of other neighbours, who, hearing the horrific noise, had rushed out to see what had happened.

There was no way down the steps for Emma. The broken wood lay in a tangled heap of wreckage, blocking her way down the steps and across the yard.

‘Mammy, Mammy,’ came Charles’s piping voice. ‘I’m coming.’ The voice was no longer panic-stricken, instead there was a note of reassurance.

Emma strained her eyes through the dusk and saw the small boy climbing over the wood, picking his way carefully, testing each foot and handhold until it felt safe.

‘Go back, Charles,’ she cried again, but above the howling wind he could not hear her.

She saw him totter once, as the wind buffeted him, but he held his arms out wide, instinctively balancing himself on top of the pile of wood.

Through the gloom she saw his mouth moving, but whatever he was saying was lost in the roar of the gale. She watched in awe, in admiration, until he reached the place beneath the steps and
peered up at her.

‘Mam – are you hurt?’ he shouted. Closer now, she could hear what he said.

‘No, darling, I’m fine.’ She looked down at her son. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he almost dismissed her enquiry and glanced about him. ‘But how are you going to get down?’

‘I don’t know, I—’

‘Wait there, Mammy, I’ll fetch a ladder.’

Emma listened in amazement to the confidence in the six-year-old’s voice. How could she ever have thought him weak and timorous? He was turning away again, beginning to feel his way
carefully over the wreckage. ‘Stay there, Mammy. Don’t move.’

Emma felt the tears, wet against her cheeks, and fought the hysteria welling up inside her. He was using the very same words she had said to him only a few moments ago. But it was she, and not
her son, who was trapped amidst the destruction; she, who might, had she been in the yard and not at the top of the steps, have been crushed to death.

‘Em, Emma!’ Above the wind, another voice came faintly from the direction of the yard gate; a voice she knew, a voice she was so thankful to hear.

‘William, oh William,’ she breathed but it was Charles, who, hearing the man’s voice, shouted back, his high-pitched child’s voice carrying above the storm. ‘Here!
We’re over here, Mester!’

The boy stayed perfectly still and waited for William to clamber towards them both. Reaching Charles first, Emma saw William bend towards the little boy, obviously asking, ‘Are you all
right? Where’s ya mam? Where is she?’ for then she saw Charles point to where she was standing, marooned amidst the rubble.

William clambered closer. ‘Oh, thank God, I thought . . . Are you hurt?’

‘No, no, but I can’t get down the steps. Part of a sail has lodged itself at the bottom and it’s too heavy to move.’

‘Can you climb over the rail?’ William held up his arms. ‘I’ll catch you.’

Emma didn’t hesitate. She pulled up her skirts and hitched herself up to sit on the top rail. She threw first one leg and then the other over until she was sitting on the rail above
William’s outstretched arms, clinging on lest the wind should blow her off.

‘Right, now turn and let yourself hang down from the top rail and then just let yourself drop,’ William instructed her.

Trusting him implicitly, Emma did as he suggested, hanging by her hands momentarily until he said, ‘Right, I’m just below you. Just let go, Em. I’ll catch you.’

Emma released her grip and felt herself falling. William staggered and tottered backwards momentarily under her weight but then her feet were on the ground and she was turning in his arms and
wrapping her own around him. ‘You’re hardly built to catch a great lump like me . . .’ she began, and then his arms around her tightened and swiftly his lips brushed her
forehead.

‘Oh, Em,’ his voice was hoarse. ‘I thought for one dreadful moment, when I saw little Charles clambering over the heap and calling your name, that you were under it
all.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said gently and as she felt her son hugging her skirts, she put out her hand to his head and held him to her.

William released her, reluctantly it seemed, and his voice was gruff as he added, ‘Thank God you’re safe – both of you.’

‘Yes, we are, but the mill . . .’ she half-turned towards the looming denuded shape in the darkness, her vision blurred by the tears that welled in her eyes. ‘Oh, just look at
old Charlie’s mill. What have I done? Oh, William, what have I done?’

‘It’s not your fault,’ William tried to reassure her for the twentieth time.

They were sitting huddled against the warm range in the kitchen. She was unable to think of going to bed and William refused to leave her alone. He had come from Bilsford to stay the night with
his brother. ‘So that I could get an early start on the mill in the morning,’ he explained. Tragically, there was no need for William’s expertise now. It would take a great deal
more than a bit of oiling and greasing to repair the destruction of the storm.

The neighbours had gone back to their homes, even Sarah and Luke, whose way across the yard to the bakery was barred by the heap of shattered wood. ‘We’ll come back in the morning,
Emma,’ had been her neighbours’ unanimous promise. ‘And help you clear this lot.’

Charles, thankfully, was safely in bed, remarkably unscathed by the night’s events, Emma thought in surprise. She had seen something in her son this night that she had not seen before;
courage in a crisis. She would ponder this more, but for now the loss of her mill was uppermost in her mind.