Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Her mother-in-law nodded sympathetically.

  Folding her arms across her chest, Rebecca added, “And I don’t want to be an object of pity.”

  “There is nothing wrong with pity, my dear. Don’t call it pity; call it sympathy. Even sympathy is easier to give than to receive. Our silly old pride doesn’t like it. But accept it when it comes because it shows people care for you.”

  “But I can’t go around crying at every christening.”

  “No, my dear. You need a lot of grace to remain cheerful and optimistic, and to be able to rejoice genuinely about the blessings of others—and from what I have seen of you, you are doing very well.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I really do.”

  “But inside I am not. I am questioning the Lord’s wisdom and wondering why He is doing this. Wondering what lesson He is trying to teach me. I get so confused, and it is easy to think, ‘If only I am nice and gracious about it this month, maybe next month He will bless me with pregnancy.’ I seem to want to bargain with Him.”

  “We don’t deserve God’s blessings any more than we earn our salvation. They are gifts.”

  “I know, but the Bible does say, ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap.’”

  “I don’t think that is the right application of the text. That verse is talking about wrong actions having consequences. Your situation is different. You are struggling with unanswered prayer, prayer for something perfectly legitimate.”

  Rebecca took a path that would make the walk home longer but allow them to avoid the centre of the village. The conversation hadn’t been easy, but she did not want it to stop quite yet.

  “How can I be totally submissive to the Lord’s will for me?”

  “Are any of us totally submissive? When we delight in the Lord and fully trust Him, His character, and purpose for us, we can be submissive, but like any other spiritual fruit, it can come and go. Remember, my dear, I was widowed relatively young. I struggled with God’s purpose in that loss. I questioned myself about everything. Had I not been a good enough wife? Had I relied on my husband too much for my own spiritual life? What had I done wrong, and why was I being punished? Why did God remove a useful and gifted minister so early? God doesn’t answer all our questions, but He gives grace and peace to rise above this the quagmire of questions and simply trust Him.” Rebecca walked on silently, and her mother-in-law continued. “Samuel Medley’s hymn ‘God Shall Alone the Refuge Be,’ was a great comfort to me in my early widow-hood, especially the line, ‘Too wise to be mistaken, He / Too good to be unkind.’ Once the devil has convinced you that God can be unkind, he can rob you of any joy and comfort. That is when you are at risk of self-pity and becoming bitter, sour, thinking ‘poor little me.’”

  Rebecca sighed. “I know. Sometimes I have to make myself count my blessings: I have a wonderful husband, a good maid, some lovely friends, and I live in a beautiful part of the world.”

  “Yes, that’s good. Sometimes if you look around and see everyone else’s burdens, you come to realise you wouldn’t want to swap theirs with yours even if you could.”

  “Some burdens are hidden from sight.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Hayworth. “Imagine living with a violent or disagreeable husband. Or a private struggle with an unfortunate character trait. Or an unspoken-of miscarriage.”

  They walked on in silence. Rebecca shuddered as she imagined a loveless marriage: the stony silence and icy atmosphere. How quickly one’s concept of home would change! Home should be the place of refuge and solace, not a battle scene. Surely nothing could be more draining and wearying than an unhappy and hostile domestic situation.

  With her mind’s eye Rebecca ran through the pews at church and their Sunday occupants. To the left of the aisle, there was a case of unrequited love, various cases of constant pain, a rocky marriage, an overly-fertile and worn-out woman, and an unhappy spinster. To the right she saw an insomniac, another spinster, three constant pains, two difficult dispositions, and a recently bereaved. And those were only the burdens she knew about! Surely, all people gathered are included, when they unite in the prayer that says:

  Have compassion on those who suffer from any grief or trouble; That they may be delivered from their distress.

  CHAPTER 25

  VIOLET WONDERED WHY SHE HAD accepted the offer of a Sunday afternoon walk with Joe. It would seem so odd. Everyone knew what Sunday afternoon walks meant—it was almost courting! A walk and chat with Joe would be pleasant enough in an uneasy sort of way, but she could hardly bear to think of the smugly satisfied look her mother would wear if she heard about it. And she was bound to hear about it, for this was Capford, not anonymous London. She could decide simply not to show up and pretend to have a fever or a headache, but that would not do: a promise is a promise. Joe’s opinion of her would plummet even further if she stood him up. She was not quite sure what she thought of him, but one thing she knew: she wanted him to have a good opinion of her.

  The whole idea of a Sunday walk was awkward. As it was only early spring, the second service on a Sunday was still at half past two. Not until after Easter did the time change to six in the evening. The idea was that, during the winter months, there was enough light left after the service to do the chores and feed the animals before dusk. So, when could one fit in a walk? It would have to be straight after the midday meal—just when her mother expected her to don her apron and wash the dishes.

  Violet walked home in the dusky pale light of the evening sunshine. The birds were singing their last songs of the day, and in the distance a sheep was bleating. Well, she decided, it was best to stop worrying about it. If Joe wanted to see her, he would have to arrange the details himself. Perhaps he was just being polite about meeting up and had already forgotten his suggestion.

  Suddenly, heavy footsteps fell behind Violet. Panic immediately rose within her, and her heart began to pound as the incident with Reuben flashed before her mind’s eye. She wanted to run.

  “Hey, Vi, wait up!”

  Her consternation evaporated on hearing Joe’s voice. She turned and waited for him.

  “Sorry, Vi,” he puffed as he came alongside her. “I can’t make it for the Sunday walk.”

  Violet’s heart sank.

  “Lambing has already started,” Joe explained, “and this year I am in charge of half the flock.”

  “That’s new,” Violet responded in surprise.

  “Yes. Mr. Thorpe decided not to stagger tupping but to put all the rams to the ewes at the same time. This means lambing will be intensive, but hopefully more lambs will be fat for the early markets, when the price is higher.”

  Violet smiled to herself at this information. Her father was terribly old-fashioned and never discussed the details of either tupping or lambing. Such information was thought not to be suitable for young, female ears, and she had never been encouraged to visit the lambing field.

  “So, you’ll be busy for the next month or so.”

  “Yes, I have even got my own shepherd’s hut to sleep in. Your pa is having a hundred ewes in the Orchard Meadow, and I am having the rest in the next field—Four Acres.”

  Violet could see Joe was excited about the prospect of shepherding his own flock, but she could not wholeheartedly share in his pleasure. He would be too occupied to do any socialising.

  “Will you come and visit me, Vi?”

  Violet stared at him with delight and surprise. “Could I really?”

  “If you would like to.”

  “Can I help with lambing?”

  “Of course, if that is what you want.”

  “I most certainly do.”

  “Good. I’ll expect you at Four Acres then. Wear old clothes and bring your own cup if you want tea from my little stove.”

  “When shall I visit?”

  “Any time after tomorrow. Tomorrow I am setting up the hurdles and getting the hut towed out to a good spot.”

  It is amazing how quickly a new routin
e can be created if there is the will and enthusiasm. Every evening, however cold and wet, found Violet hurrying through her chores at home, dressing up warmly, and filling the lantern to head to Four Acres. Everything there was welcoming: the shepherd, the cosy hut, the snug sheep shelter, and the motherly baas of the ewes to which the newborn lambs replied with high-pitched bleats. Joe taught her how to latch a hungry lamb onto its mother, how to spot an ewe about to give birth, and then, most exciting of all, how to deliver a lamb. An ewe’s womb was surprisingly warm compared with the cold evening air, and many lambs seemed reluctant to cooperate with being delivered. Their slippery legs would slide out of Violet’s grasp as they pulled them back into the ewe’s warm environment.

  “They are playful even before they are born.” Violet couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Ahh, the cheeky chaps like a fight. Show ’em who’s boss, Vi.”

  So, pulling with all her might, Violet eased the slimy front legs and head out, after which the body followed easily, and soon another perfect lamb was lying steaming on the hay, soon struggling to get up. Quick as a flash Violet cleared mucus from the mouth and pulled the lamb around to its mother for licking. Violet never tired of observing the first loving communication between mother and baby: the ewe’s reassuring baas between licks of her offspring’s face and the first shrill bleats of the lamb in reply as it lunged toward its now-standing mother, looking for milk.

  “Get your arm washed first, or you’ll freeze,” said Joe.

  “I just want to see the lamb find its feet.” An icy breeze whipped stray wisps of hair into Violet’s eyes and chilled her slime-covered arm. But she stood entranced.

  In silence they watched the wobbly lamb try out his lanky legs for the first time and launch himself toward his mother’s udder.

  “He’s aiming in the right direction.”

  “He’s latched on.”

  Jack swung his lantern away from the ewe and lamb and toward the hut. “They’ll be fine. Now we can have a well-deserved cuppa.”

  “Unless another ewe has started.”

  The hut was warm and snug compared to the chilly sheep pen. Joe threw another log in the tiny stove and, after washing her hands, Violet made the tea. A bushel box under the bed was Joe’s larder, and Violet dragged it out to find the tin of tea leaves and jar of biscuits. The hut was a strange mixture of shepherding equipment—Stockholm tar, shears, and a shepherd’s crook—muddled in with saucepans, logs, lamps, and a bed. Joe often tipped the logs out of the box, letting them roll anywhere, to make room for a weak, chilly lamb in front of the stove. The diverse aromas of rabbit stew, tar, damp clothes, and wet lambs added to Violet’s fascination. It was all so male, business-like, and intriguing.

  At first it had felt somehow amiss to sit on Joe’s bed, but there was nowhere else to perch in the cluttered hut, so Violet soon overcame her scruples.

  “How can you sleep on this lumpy hay mattress?” She asked, trying to get comfortable.

  “I sleep like a log.”

  “I bet you have never shaken it about since it was made.”

  “Alas, my housemaid is somewhat negligent,” said Joe in an upper-class voice.

  “Then dismiss her forthwith,” replied Violet in like vein.

  Looking around the functional hut, Violet could not help wondering if Joe would have a similar wagon for traveling across Canada. She had seen drawings of settlers making their way along the American Oregon Trails in covered wagons. Probably in Canada they used something like that, unless the weather was much colder up there. The thought of Joe leaving caused her enjoyment of the moment to evaporate, and Violet tried to dismiss the prospect from her mind.

  “Do you get many visitors here?” she asked.

  “Mr. Thorpe wanders along every so often to see how things are going—he likes to lend a hand if it is busy. He’s quite decent like that. After school one of my young siblings comes along with a casserole from mother and to raid my biscuit tin. Other than that, it is pretty much me, myself, and I.”

  “Do you get lonely?”

  “Lonely? Never! I’m too busy or too tired to get lonely. Anyway, what more would I want? I like the work, the landscape, and the night sky. Most other people would spoil it.”

  Violet wondered at the last comment. It sounded like a compliment.

  But tea breaks never lasted long. After downing the scalding tea, Joe set off to work again. As he opened the door, a blast of cold night air chilled the hut. Violet left her half empty mug on the stove and followed. Joe stood on the steps and gazed at the stars.

  “It’s clear tonight. There’s old Orion.”

  “I only know his belt.”

  “There’s two stars up and two down as a basic shape, a bit like a sand timer, then some people say those over there are his bow.”

  “I can see the Plough.”

  “Who have you been star gazing with?”

  “My dear father, of course.”

  The night sky was awesomely vast and beautiful, and Violet felt tiny. Joe must have had similar thoughts, for he began quoting Psalm 8.

  “When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy hands . . . ”

  “The moon and stars, which Thou hast ordained,” continued Violet.

  “What is man, that Thou art mindful of him?”

  “Or the son of man, that thou visitest him?”

  Neither of them moved, but after some time, Violet sensed Joe’s attention shifting from the heavens to the earth.

  “You can tell a lot from just listening,” he explained, breaking the silence. “Even when I’m in bed, I have a pretty good idea what is going on. The normal sounds are the contented noises between the ewes and their lambs, the ewes chewing their cud, and a bit of moving around. Anything else usually means action. Loud baa-ing and bleating means a lamb has got lost. Grunts and groans mean a sheep is struggling to deliver. All of them baa-ing means a fox or dog is at them or they have broken out of the pen. I wouldn’t even stop to lace up my boots if I heard that noise.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Yes, somewhere behind my larder box,” said Joe.

  If the live births were beautiful to behold, the stillbirths could be heartbreaking. After sometimes hours of labour, the exhausted ewe would nudge and lick her dead lamb, puzzled by the lack of movement and response. Violet could have wept as she heard the mother’s noises of love go unanswered. As often as possible, Joe would find a spare twin lamb, skin the dead lamb, and cloth the lively one in the skin, then present it to the confused ewe. Meanwhile, Violet ran to the adjoining field and borrowed the sheep dog from her father. The dog sat placidly near the new family. The ewe would stamp her front hoof at the perceived threat and was so busy protecting the lamb that her inspection of it was cursory. Meanwhile, the lively lamb got down to business, found the udder, and had a good drink. By the time the interloper was full and ready to curl up next to its new mum for a snooze, she had accepted it as her own.

  “She thinks a miracle has happened,” said Joe with a smile for Violet.

  “It has—thanks to you.” Violet gazed at the happy pair. “It’s the miracle of adoption, not resurrection.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THE VICARAGE WAS QUIET, IDEAL for sermon preparation. Rebecca was at the charity knit group at Biggenden Manor, and Jack’s mother had gone back to his sister’s house at the end of last week. Yet Jack was unable to apply himself to any work. He had received post that morning, the contents of which had rendered studying impossible. Once again, he unfolded the letter and read the now familiar lines.

  My dearest Jack and Becca,

  Words cannot express my gratitude to darling Becca for her loving care and devotion rendered to me during my recent illness. I am feeling bereft and lonesome without her, and the house is empty without her cheerful presence. Since our happy reunion two years ago, I have hinted to my darling niece, (who is as a daughter to me), that all I have will be hers once I depart this life. I wish you to be fully aware and
assured of this arrangement. For your immediate enjoyment, I enclose a bank cheque for £100. I have instructed my solicitor to make this an annual gift.

  Yours indeed,

  Hector Stubbs

  Jack fingered the cheque. How easy it would be to tear it up! He was slightly alarmed at such a thought, but there was something about the whole arrangement that grated. The cheque was payable to him, not Rebecca. This was, of course, exactly as was proper and correct, for solicitors are always proper and correct, but somehow it seemed wrong. Now that Rebecca had committed herself to him in marriage, all she ever had or would earn, inherit, or be gifted was legally his. He hardly knew Uncle Hector, was not sure if he even liked the man, and being the recipient of such generosity made him feel guilty. One hundred pounds! It was more than he earned in a year. He balked at the idea of another man providing better for his wife than he did. Could he still call himself the breadwinner? Such a liberal amount would definitely make their lives more comfortable, and he was delighted for Rebecca—she would enjoy ordering a new frock and Sunday bonnet. If only she were here now! Jack willed the charity knitters to drop their stitches, lose their voices, and disband early. But with his intimate knowledge of committees and charitable gatherings, he realised an early finish was a vain hope.

  Jack leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. Running his fingers through his hair, his mind continued to whirl. Such generosity comes at a price. They were duty-bound as relatives to help Uncle Hector in his hour of need. Such assistance was right, proper, and biblical. But the monetary gift bound them to Uncle Hector with golden handcuffs. From now on they would doubt their every motive—was it pure Christian charity or for ulterior motives? How murky things would become! Money is not the root of all evil, but the love of it is. Jack and Rebecca did not love money, but who was totally immune from liking it, just a little?

  Time and again he heard the back door creak on its hinges and sprang up to greet Rebecca, only to sink back into his chair when recognising the footsteps as Violet’s. His Greek dictionary lay unopened on his desk as he doodled on the paper intended for sermon notes and mulled over the implications of the letter.