The Miller's Daughter (37 page)

Almost as if reading her thoughts, William came and stood beside her putting his arm about her waist. ‘Welcome home, Emma Forrest.’ His arm tightened. ‘We’ll rebuild it,
Em, you and I.’

She looked at him, her eyes on a level with his. ‘Do you mean it? Can we? Do you
really
think we can?’

Steadily he returned her gaze. With sober sincerity, he said, ‘Emma, I’d do anything in this world for you. Anything.’

Hearing the love and devotion in his voice, the lump that rose in her throat robbed her of her voice, so, in answer, she laid her head against his shoulder.

A cry from the direction of the orchard made her lift her head again to see Sarah hurrying towards them as fast as her legs would carry her plump little body. ‘Emma, my little Emma . .
.’ and in a moment Emma found herself clasped against her soft bosom.

She hugged Sarah in return. ‘It’s so good to see you and this – ’ Emma turned to pull a reluctant Billy forward, ‘is young Billy.’

As Sarah made to envelop the boy in her embrace, Billy stepped smartly backwards to avoid the fat arms. The woman laughed, understanding. ‘Too old for cuddles, eh?’

Turning back to link her arm with Emma’s, she said, ‘Is this a flying visit or have you come to stay? I’ve a spare bed all made up and Billy can sleep on me couch.’

There was a moment’s pause before Emma said carefully. ‘I’ve come home, Sarah.’ She glanced at William and then added, so that there should be no mistake in
anyone’s mind from the very start, ‘
We’ve
come home.’

The woman’s eyes widened as she glanced from one to the other and then back again. ‘Oh,’ she said and then again, ‘
oh!
’

Suddenly the yard of Forrest’s Mill was filled with the sound of laughter.

Of course, in the village, Emma’s return was a nine-day wonder. The gossips were having a field day.

‘Come back, she has, and William Metcalfe has moved into the mill an’ all. Of course, he’s rebuilding it for ’er, leastways that’s what the story is, but
there’s more to it than that. There’s got to be.’

‘And ’er husband away at the war, an’ all.’

‘He’s been killed though, ain’t he?’

‘Ah, but they never identified his body, did they? What if he turns up after the war, eh? What happens then? You tell me that?’

And when Emma’s belly swelled with William’s child, the gossips nodded, satisfied that their predictions had been correct.

‘Do you mind?’ she had asked William.

‘Do you?’ he had countered and when she had shaken her head, he had kissed her and said, ‘Well then,’ and that had ended the matter.

As for Emma, anyone had only to look at her face to see the happiness shining from it. She was loved by a wonderful man, she still had the loyalty of the devoted Sarah and she was home; home at
Grandpa Charlie’s mill.

To Emma, the village had changed little in all the years she had been away, except that now, like everywhere else, the war was making its mark. All around the village, the kerbs were painted
white so that they could be seen in the blackout. Nearly every backyard or garden had a trench shelter and now, where once pretty flowers had nodded their heads, every inch of ground grew
vegetables. Even the grass verges had been ploughed up to grow potatoes. William was soon part of the Auxiliary Fire Service and Emma found herself pressed into joining the Women’s Institute
and helping out in the large room at the pub which had become the NAAFI canteen. In their own way, the villagers were welcoming Emma back amongst them.

‘There’s far worse things going on while this war’s on,’ Sarah nodded sagely, ‘for any of ’em to be casting stones at you, lass. What with a lot of our
menfolk away at the war and the village full of soldiers.’ She straightened up and looked at Emma. ‘Well, then?’

Emma returned her gaze, puzzled. ‘Well – what?’

‘When are we opening up the bakehouse again?’

‘The bakehouse?’ Emma said stupidly, mystified by Sarah’s sudden change in their conversation. ‘But – I mean – I thought Sam Fothergill opened up a bakery
after we finished?’

‘Oh aye, he did and he’s still going strong. But there’s enough business for two of you now.’ Sarah leant towards her. ‘There’s all the soldiers billeted in
the village, then there’s the camps and the airfields close by, not to mention—’

‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point. And I thought nothing much had changed in Marsh Thorpe,’ she laughed.

Sarah snorted. ‘Aw lass, you don’t know the half of it. The place is awash with the military, and as for the whole area hereabouts, well, I don’t reckon anything will ever be
the same again. Why, Jamie Metcalfe’s never been so busy in his life. Different work to the old days, mind you, but it’s work for him, none the less.’

‘Really?’ Emma said and her eyes narrowed. Perhaps Jamie was now finding out just how hard it was to cope single-handedly.

They were quiet for a moment, each busy with their own thoughts. Then Emma said slowly, ‘So, you think we ought to start up the bakery again do you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ was the prompt reply.

When she spoke to William about the idea, he was reluctant at first. ‘I don’t want you overdoing it, what with our baby coming. If Billy would help, then . . .’

‘Billy?’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Billy won’t stay five minutes, William. I know that and I’ve got to face it.’ She sighed. ‘He’ll go to sea, I know
he will. Just as soon as he can lie his way in to one of the services.’

‘So? What do you want to do then?’

‘Well,’ she said slowly, her mouth twitching. ‘There’s this little man I know in Lincoln and he might, he just very well might, be the answer to our prayers.’

They found Mr Rabinski living in two rooms in a house that had only been partially repaired since the bombing. The old man was pathetically glad to see Emma again.

‘I haf nothing now,’ he spread his hands. ‘People haf been kind to me. Very kind, but it is not the same as when I had my little shop, you know. Oh, how I miss the smell of the
bread and . . .’ He waved his hands in the air and smiled a little sadly. ‘We vill say no more about it. It is done and I am lucky I am alive and still haf my strength.’

Emma glanced at William then, who, unseen by the old man, nodded.

‘Would you like to be a baker again?’ Emma began.

The old man was shaking his head. ‘Oh, but I am too tired to start all over and—’

‘No, I don’t mean here, Mr Rabinski, and I don’t mean on your own either. But would you be prepared to leave the city?’

Mr Rabinski blinked at her in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand . . .?’

Swiftly she explained and when she had finished, tears were coursing down the old man’s cheeks. He clasped Emma’s hand in both of his, raised it to his lips and kissed it again and
again until Emma found herself glancing towards William in embarrassment.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you. I vill come with you. I vill come with you this day, this minute . . .’

So Mr Rabinski had packed his belongings and had travelled to Marsh Thorpe sitting in the front of the truck between William and Emma.

‘You should let me sit in the back, dear lady. It is not – er – goot for you.’ His glance had shied away from her growing bulge, but Emma had only laughed and said,
‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you sit in the back. The wind would blow you away.’

The old man smiled. ‘I vould hold my hat on very tight,’ he said and, impishly, he pulled his broad-brimmed black hat low down over his forehead to demonstrate.

The three of them were still laughing when William drew into the yard of Forrest’s Mill and Sarah came bustling towards them.

A week later, she said, ‘Mr Rabinski can move in with me if you like, Emma. He’d be company for me. He’s a nice old boy. I like him.’

‘Ooh, Sarah,’ Emma’s eyes glinted teasingly. ‘Now, now . . .’

The round face beamed and the cheeks grew pink. ‘Aye well, let’s give the gossips summat else to chatter about, shall we?’

As he had threatened, Billy ran away again and again. It had nothing to do with the arrival of Mr Rabinski, although when the boy had seen him climbing down from the cab of
William’s truck, his face had been a picture.

‘Oh, my boy. It is Billy. See, Billy,’ the old man opened his coat to display the watch chain looped across his waistcoat. ‘I still haf my vatch.’ The boy had given him a
sickly smile and his glance had gone straight to his mother, a glance that said, ‘Have you brought him here on purpose?’

‘What’s all that about?’ William whispered to Emma, who, trying desperately to hide her mirth, said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

The third time Billy ran away, he did not return. A brief letter in his untidy scrawl informed them that he was going to sea on a ship out of Grimsby.

Holding the scribbled note in her fingers Emma murmured, ‘Just like Grandpa Charlie’s brother . . .’

Three weeks later, Emma was standing looking out of the scullery window, watching William at work in the yard on the last sail of the mill. Soon, she thought, soon the sails
will be turning once more on Forrest’s Mill.

A black cloud, a moving, humming black cloud, came from the fields and drifted towards the mill, nestling against the black slope of the mill side.

Emma caught her breath, then opened the back door and began to walk across the yard, her hands protectively covering the swell of the child she carried.

‘Keep back, love,’ William called coming towards her. ‘It’s a swarm of bees.’

As he spoke, Sarah came bustling from the direction of the orchard.

Her face wreathed in smiles she said happily, ‘They’re back. Oh, Emma, the bees have come back now that there’s a Forrest at the mill again. But of course, I knew they would.
I’ve had a skep baited ever since you came home.’

Emma said nothing, her gaze fixed upon the heaving mass. She was very much afraid that for once in her life, Sarah Robson was wrong. Much as she respected the country woman’s quaint
beliefs and superstitions, and would never dream of ridiculing her, Emma was very much afraid that there were occasions when Sarah believed what she wanted to believe. And at this moment, Emma was
remembering the last time she had seen a swarm of bees on the side of Forrest’s Mill.

It had been on day her father had died.

‘Those bees, they do not like me. I am stung
again
.’

In the bakehouse, Mr Rabinski held up his hand for Emma and Sarah to see the swelling on the back of his purple veined hand. Sarah bustled towards him. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Let me see. I
can’t understand it, really I can’t.’

On the day the swarm had arrived, Sarah had busily arranged the old-fashioned straw skeps in the orchard, placing them lovingly between the trees and the hawthorn hedge. ‘Now
everything’s all right,’ she had said happily. But much to her disappointment the bees refused to take possession.

‘I’ll make you some modern ones,’ William had offered. ‘Those old things have seen better days. They’re nearly falling apart.’

Two days later he had presented Sarah with three square shaped, wooden hives, fashioned with the help of instructions in a book on bee-keeping.

‘They’re very nice, William,’ Sarah had said dutifully, and baited the brand new constructions, but the expression on her face exposed her doubts. But by nightfall, she came
hurrying through the orchard to the millhouse to report that the bees had settled in one of the hives.

Her happiness was complete, at least, almost, for to her chagrin her beloved bees did not seem to welcome the newcomer in their midst – Mr Rabinski.

‘I vill come the other vay to the bakehouse,’ he said firmly, ‘I vill
not
come through the trees anymore. I vill go out the other side of your cottage, round by the road
and come in by the big gate.’

‘I’ll speak to them. It’ll be all right. I’ll tell them you’re part of the Forrest family now.’

‘Uh?’ The old man was puzzled.

‘The bees,’ Sarah explained patiently. ‘They don’t realize you belong to us now.’

Mr Rabinski, completely mystified, lifted his shoulders and rolled his eyes, and Emma turned away to hide her mirth.

A little later, she saw Sarah hurrying towards the orchard and, gripping William’s arm, she said, ‘Oh, the bees are in for it now.’

‘What’s she going to say? Shall we go and listen?’ he grinned.

‘Oho, not on your life. I wouldn’t dare!’ was Emma’s reply.

Four days after the swarm had taken up residence in the new hives, a telegram arrived informing her that Charles Forrest Smith had been killed in action.

Much later Emma was to admit, to herself if to no one else, that if it had not been for the strength of William’s love at the time of hearing of her son’s death, she would have given
up.

‘Why? Just tell me why?’ she railed tearfully. ‘Why all the Forrest sons? It was all Grandpa Charlie ever wanted – a Forrest at Forrest’s Mill. And what does he
get?’ she cried through her tears of anguish. ‘A
granddaughter
. Then I thought at least I’d given him great-grandsons. I even put Forrest as their second name just to keep
the name alive. Charles Forrest Smith, I called him, and not just because my father demanded it. It was what
I
wanted for my Grandpa Charlie. And now . . .’ her shoulders sagged with
defeat, ‘it’s all come to nothing.’

William put his strong, loving arms around her. ‘My darling,’ he said gently but there was a note of firmness in his tone, ‘it’s time you stopped carrying this ridiculous
burden of guilt for having been born a girl.’ There was sadness in his smile as he touched her face with gentle fingers, lifting her chin to make her look up into his face. ‘Grieve for
Charles as any mother does for her son, but don’t – I beg you, my love – make it even more unbearable with such bitterness. Besides, you don’t know what the future holds.
None of us do. Young Billy might come back and run the mill.’

She sniffed and said sadly, ‘No, Billy will never come back, not here, even if he survives the war.’

William said nothing. He could not argue, for he knew she was right. Billy was not a ‘country boy’ and never would be.