The Miller's Daughter (31 page)

Emma laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Bridget, you’re priceless.’

Bridget only shrugged her shoulders and laughed girlishly, adding, as always, ‘Now where are my darling boys? Where’s my little Billy?’

But this morning’s letter from Sarah, Emma had not wanted to receive.

‘Poor Luke,’ she murmured. ‘And poor Sarah. I ought to go to her. I ought—’ With a swift movement she got up from the wooden chair and went to the mantelpiece and
lifted down the pint pot where she kept a little housekeeping money. As she might have expected, it was empty. That meant Leonard was short this week, for he never touched her jar when he had money
enough of his own to flash around.

So all she had was the rent money which she hid every week away from Leonard. Though she knew he had tried desperately on occasions to find it, pulling drawers open and scattering the contents,
flinging furniture about in his frustration, she had always managed to keep it hidden from him. She would watch him with a thudding heart, determined to keep outwardly calm while all the time
feeling the money tucked safely in the elastic of her knickers.

Her glance went to the cupboard in the corner where the christening mug stood. It was still there. So, things were not that tight at the moment. She bit her lip, debating whether to follow her
husband’s example and pop the mug to raise the fare to Marsh Thorpe so that she could go to Luke’s funeral.

‘No,’ she said aloud to the empty kitchen. ‘I’ll not be dragged into his ways.’ Her mouth tightened. Just for once, the rent man would have to wait. She was going
to Marsh Thorpe to attend old Luke’s funeral and Mr Forbes would have to whistle for a week. She quelled the shudder that ran through her, smothering the thought that it would be dangerous to
get into that man’s clutches too often.

‘Oh, Emma, Emma lass. I’m that glad to see you. Thank you for coming. Let me look at you.’

Emma returned the swift hug and then allowed herself to be scrutinized by the puffy eyes that spoke of Sarah’s recent loss. ‘Luke would love to have seen ya again before . .
.’

‘Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry I haven’t been back. I should have—’

‘No, no, lass,’ the older woman was shaking her head. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. We knew you couldn’t get away, what with ya family an’ all. ’Sides,
we realized it must be difficult for you to come back here . . .’ Her voice trailed away and she glanced swiftly at the looming shape of the mill behind them.

Emma found she was holding her breath as her eyes went beyond the plump little figure of Sarah and she allowed herself to look at Forrest’s Mill for the first time in twelve long years. It
was still there, standing tall, a black shape against the morning light from the east, remarkably unscathed by the years that had passed.

‘William came and – what did he call it? – capped it, I think he said, to stop the weather getting in and rotting all the floorboards.’

Emma glanced at her old friend in surprise. ‘William?’

Sarah nodded and looked at her keenly. ‘Oh yes.’ Now it was her turn to show surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought you must have asked him to do it.’

When Emma said nothing but merely shook her head, Sarah’s puzzlement deepened. ‘Oh that’s odd, then, ’cos he comes every month to see to it. He goes all over the mill and
does any repairs. To be honest, at first Luke and me thought you must have sold it to him, but we asked him one day – he always comes in for a cuppa, y’know – but he said no, he
was only keeping an eye on it for you, to keep the machinery right, an’ that. And the house, Emma, it’s all just as you left it. I go in every week and keep it nice. It’s all
ready if you should ever want to come back.’

Emma hardly heard Sarah’s prattle. She was standing perfectly still, just staring at the mill, her mind hammering out his name. William, oh, William.

Then something in Sarah’s tone caught her attention again. There was a catch in the woman’s throat as she said, ‘But – but there’s just one thing I’ll have to
tell you now. It’s something mebbe I should have told you in a letter, but I could never bring myself to write the words. I kept hoping, you see . . .’ Her voice dwindled. Even now she
was putting off the moment of the actual telling of something unpleasant.

‘What is it, Sarah?’ Emma said gently, putting her arm around the older woman’s shoulders.

The words came out in a rush then. ‘It’s the bees. They’ve gone. The hives, they’re all empty.’

‘Oh,’ Emma said flatly. ‘I see.’

Sarah was shaking her head sadly. ‘I was so afraid they
would
go, y’know. But for the first few years after you’d gone, they did stay. And I was that pleased because I
thought it meant that you would be coming back.’ Her face slackened into lines of defeat. ‘And I’ve tried everything I can think of, baiting the hives, all that. But they’ve
never come back.’

There was nothing Emma could think of to say.

As she left the pew at the end of the funeral service to follow Luke’s coffin out into the churchyard, with Sarah clinging to her arm and snuffling into her handkerchief,
Emma searched for sight of William. It seemed as if all the village was there, packed into the church standing on the rise towering over the houses clustering round it. There were a lot of faces
she recognized, older, certainly, but then no doubt hers was too. There were some strangers amongst the congregation; people she presumed had come to the village in the past twelve years and who
had come to know – and to like – old Luke. Then she saw Jamie, standing rigidly tall, his gaze fixed upon the altar as the family mourners processed slowly down the aisle. But there was
no sign of William Metcalfe and the fact surprised and disappointed Emma in one swift stab.

They buried Luke in one corner of the churchyard in a plot beneath a yew tree and, as Emma lifted her gaze from the deep hole with the mound of earth to one side, she saw the mill and knew that
Luke would have been happy with the place Sarah had chosen for him. He would lay within sight of the mill where he had lived and worked all his life. No man could have loved that mill more, she
thought, if he had owned it.

Only a handful of mourners came back to Sarah’s cottage after the interment. Jamie was the last to leave and Emma walked with him out of the cottage, through the orchard and into the mill
yard. They were ill at ease with each other. Neither seemed to know what to say nor even how to open up a conversation.

‘How are—?’ ‘Do you see—?’

They both began to speak at once and then stopped, looked at each other, smiled awkwardly and then Emma said, ‘You first.’

Jamie twisted his cap through his fingers. ‘I was only going to ask how you are? You
look
fine.’

She glanced up to see those dark brown eyes upon her, but in their depths his expression was difficult to read. She smiled brightly, perhaps a little too brightly, and said, ‘I’m
fine. I’ve got used to life in the city. I never thought I would but, well, on the whole it’s not so bad. I have a lovely neighbour, Mary Porter.’ She laughed. ‘She’s
very like Sarah in some ways.’ Emma was prattling, she knew she was, to cover up her embarrassment. She was talking about anything and everything save the one thing she knew Jamie was really
wanting to ask.

But he was not one to be put off. ‘Are you – happy – Emma?’

She looked at him then, turning to face him, her brilliant eyes holding his, not allowing him to look away. Quietly, she said, ‘As happy as I’m ever likely to be, Jamie.’

They stood in the middle of the yard just looking at each other until Jamie let out a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul.

‘Oh, Emma, Emma,’ was all he said.

‘What on earth?’ Emma began in surprise as she watched Leonard struggling through the back door with a huge wireless set in his arms.

He set it on the kitchen table and turned to face her, his eyes shining with excitement. He was breathing rapidly but not only from carrying the heavy piece of equipment from the handcart down
the passage and into the house. There was excitement in his voice and his eyes sparkled as he said, ‘Haven’t you heard? The Prime Minister is to speak at a quarter past eleven this
morning. This is it, Emma. It’s going to be war again.’ To her amazement, Leonard actually rubbed his hands together.

‘And you mean – ’ she spluttered angrily, pointing at the brown box with knobs and dials on the front sitting innocently on the table, ‘you mean, you’ve actually
gone and bought a wireless – just to hear the Prime Minister tell us what we already know? Have you taken leave of your senses, Leonard Smith?’

Leonard grinned cheekily at her. ‘I haven’t bought it exactly.’

She held up her hands. ‘I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know.’

But Leonard was too exhilarated today for her reproaches to upset him. Ignoring Emma’s furious face, he began to play about with wires and cables, muttering to himself. ‘Now
let’s see, where does this go?’

There was a knock at the back door and through the window overlooking their back yard, Emma saw the Porter family en masse, Mary, Alf and Joey, now a tall, broad-shouldered young man, standing
there and peering in through the window. Tight-lipped Emma beckoned. ‘Come in. Come in all of you. Why don’t we fetch the whole street in to listen? Make it really worth your
while,’ she finished, glaring at Leonard.

The Porter family trooped into the kitchen and stood around watching Leonard fix up the wireless. Emma folded her arms under her bosom and tapped her foot angrily on the floor.

‘Picked it up on the market, Alf,’ Leonard said, ignoring his wife. ‘It’ll be useful to know what’s going on.’

The big man nodded and said, as briefly as always, ‘On at quarter past eleven, ain’t he?’

‘That’s right. Now, let’s see . . .’ Leonard bent towards the wireless and twiddled the knobs. Strange noises interspersed with crackling came from the brown fabric of
the speaker as he tried to tune into an interference-free wavelength.

There was the thumping of feet on the stairs and Billy charged into the room, followed by Charles. ‘Aw, Dad, you’ve got a wireless!’

‘Be quiet, then. Let’s listen.’

‘It’s just gone eleven. He’ll be on in a few minutes.’

As they all waited in the room, standing awkwardly, Emma noticed Charles move to stand beside Joey. A young man now, tall and thin, Charles was still quiet and rather reserved, his eyes large in
a pale face. He had done so well at school that he had stayed on to take his Higher School Certificate examination and was now waiting to see if he had a place at a university, whereas Joey Porter
had left school and was working in a local factory.

‘He’s a man now,’ Leonard had stormed. ‘He should be out earning a living, not still a lad in short trousers at school.’

‘He’s not in short trousers,’ Emma had retorted. ‘He’s a chance to go to a university, a chance to better himself.’

‘Better himself. Huh!’ Leonard had sneered. ‘He’d do better to get a trade.’ There had been a pause, then he had added slyly. ‘What about the milling trade,
Emma? After all, he’s destined to become a miller, isn’t he?’

Emma had glared at him, her lips tight, but she had made no reply.

Now as they waited in the kitchen for the momentous words to issue from the wireless, Emma was filled with dread. What did the future hold for her quiet, studious son? What, indeed, did the
future hold for any of them?

‘Well, that’s it then,’ Leonard said, glancing round everyone in the room as the voice died away. He switched off the wireless and turned to look at Alf
Porter. ‘You joining up again, Alf?’

‘Eh?’ Mary Porter’s voice came, high-pitched with fear, her eyes wide as she stared at her husband. ‘You won’t have to go, Alf, will you? You’re too old,
aren’t you?’

Alf shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘Dunno.’

Mary looked around at the others standing in the room, her eyes wild. ‘He’s too old and the boys are too young. No, no, they won’t have to go . . .’ There was silence. No
one spoke as she added, her voice a terrified squeak. ‘Will they?’

‘Well, I wish I was old enough to go,’ Billy said. ‘You’ll be going, Dad, won’t you? You could be an officer if you went back in the army, couldn’t
you?’

Emma watched her husband’s face, saw the calculating look on his features, the excitement in his eyes. Casually he rested his arm about his younger son’s shoulders. ‘Maybe so,
son, maybe so.’

‘Cor, Dad. I wish I could join up,’ Billy said again, his worshipping gaze on his father. ‘I wish I was as old as our Charles. He can go, can’t he?’

Before she could stop herself, Emma gasped and looked towards her elder son. She hadn’t realized, hadn’t thought, that Charles at eighteen, might really have to go to war.

Standing behind them at the back of the room, the colour seemed to drain from Charles’ face. He was silent as Billy said again, ‘I wish
I
was Charles.’

Joey Porter, burly like his father, put his arm about his friend’s shoulder. Quietly he said, ‘If we have to go, Charlie, we’ll stick together, eh?’

Charles said nothing but only nodded.

‘They won’t have to go, will they?’

If she’d said it once in the three weeks since the announcement that Britain was at war with Germany, Mary Porter had uttered the same words a hundred times, Emma thought. Biting back her
rising irritation, she said, ‘To be honest, Mary, I think that eventually, yes, they will be called up. At least Joey and Charles. We’d best get used to the idea.’

‘But they won’t send them to fight, will they? I mean they’re so young.’

Emma, standing at the white sink in her scullery, her arms deep in soap suds, leant on her hands, the warm water lapping around her elbows. She was remembering the last time when she had been
what? Only fifteen. The picture was in her mind of Jamie Metcalfe, her sweetheart, marching off proudly to war; the war they had all said was to ‘end all wars’ and yet here they were
again with another generation of young men having to do it all over again. Fleetingly, she wondered if Jamie would volunteer for this one, but then her mind was dragged back to the present and to
the agitated little woman beside her. Poor Mary, Emma thought with sudden compassion. Her family were her whole life as indeed were Emma’s to her. If anything were to happen to any of them .
. .