Moorland Mist

by Gwen Kirkwood

  Outside the station she looked around in bewilderment, wondering which direction to take. A plump, middle-aged woman walked by.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Emma said nervously. ‘Could you tell me where I can find a chemist’s shop please, and a hardware shop?’

  ‘We-ell, let me see. I usually go to Milne’s. There’s nearly every kind of shop you could want down that way. I’m going in that direction. If you walk with me I’ll direct you before we part company. I’m not shopping today. I’m going to visit my sister. She’s been ill but she’s getting better now.’

  The woman chattered on as they walked.

  ‘I can tell you’re not from these parts, lass, the way you talk. Where you from?’ Emma did not always notice when they turned right or left as she answered the woman’s questions. ‘And there’s Walter Moorhouse, the chemist along there. I’d forgotten about that. I usually go to Lambert’s,’ the woman said as she directed her when they parted.

  Emma found the chemist first. She went in and asked for a teat but she ended up buying a banana-shaped bottle with a sort of teat on both ends which was supposed to let the air out when the baby sucked and prevented wind. She hoped she had not wasted her money.

  Further along she discovered a haberdashery shop. She needed wool to knit William some new stockings and she wanted to put new feet in two pairs which he had almost worn away. He’d had nobody to darn his socks since he came to Yorkshire. She had found one pair which he had tried to darn himself. The sight of it tugged her heart strings. She visualized him struggling to mend his own socks after all the loving care he had received from Maggie at Bonnybrae. The darns were large and rough around the edges and she knew they must have been uncomfortable for walking. She wondered if William had been as miserable away from his home and family as she had been at Aunt Vera’s.

  He had also lost some of the buttons from his shirts. She bought some more and blue wool to knit Jamie a bigger jacket, as well as some strong, closely-woven calico to make a new mattress for the cot. She renewed her sewing threads and bought a packet of needles, a thimble and two of the hooks for making rugs. She intended to teach Polly how to make rugs during the winter. She thanked the woman for wrapping her purchases and made her way to the ironmongers across the street as the seamstress had directed. She had noticed a man lounging against a doorway earlier. He was still there so she assumed he must be meeting somebody.

  George Milne, the ironmonger, came to serve her himself when he heard her Scottish accent, ushering his young assistant to another job.

  ‘Are you the wife of the new tenant at Moorend Farm then?’ he asked. ‘We heard it was a Scotsman that had taken it. He’s a brave man to tackle a place as run-down as that.’

  ‘We don’t mind hard work so long as we can make a living,’ Emma said firmly. The man nodded.

  ‘Aye, we’ve all to make a living. What can I get for you today? We travel round the villages with the horse and dray, you know. My brother carries most things. He’ll fill up your paraffin can for the lamps.’

  ‘We just missed his last round and I need two flat irons now.’

  ‘They’ll be heavy to carry,’ he said, eying Emma’s slight figure.

  ‘I’ll manage. I shall need new wick, enough for two house lamps and three byre lanterns.’

  ‘Byre lanterns, eh?’ he smiled.

  ‘Lamps for the cowshed,’ Emma amended, flushing. She had forgotten they didn’t talk about byres in Yorkshire. ‘I also need a rubbing board and black lead polish for the range. We need a tin bath, a large one. Do I need to order that?’

  ‘We have some in stock through the back. I could pack everything in the bath and send it by train for your husband to collect at Silverbeck Station in a day or two?’

  ‘That would be kind of you but I need to take my irons and the black-lead with me today.’

  ‘All right. It’s a good order and we shall value your custom in future so I’ll give you a small iron for your frills and things. You could take that and one big one with you, and the polish. Do you want some steel wool for hinges on the oven? I’ll make a parcel and send the rest. How about that?’

  ‘Thank you. That would be a great help.’ Emma beamed at him and he grinned.

  ‘Milne brothers are always pleased to oblige, Mrs Sinclair, and there’s not much we can’t get for you even if we don’t stock it.’

  Emma paid and put the parcel carefully in her basket, pleased with her purchases but Mr Milne was right, her basket was full and heavy. She put the change in her purse and tucked it under the basket’s cover.

  She was shocked to see how the sky had darkened when she got outside. A big black cloud glowered overhead. It seemed the gypsy Yakira was right about the weather. She saw the man again, on this side of the street now but still lounging against a wall. She frowned, feeling uneasy. More importantly, she had to catch the train home and she had forgotten which way to go. She walked quickly away, aware of the man eying her up and down.

  She slowed her pace when she came to a clothes shop but she didn’t stop. Her own green dress and jacket were much smarter than anything in the window. She realized she had not passed the shop before. Was she walking in the wrong direction? She had crossed the street from the chemists of course. She crossed back again and kept on walking but none of the shops seemed familiar. When she looked around she was surprised to see the same man in a brown jacket nearby. He stopped when she stopped. Was he following her? Was he a pickpocket? She felt in her basket and clutched her purse in her hand, feeling reassured. Two women came towards her and she asked directions to the railway station.

  ‘You’re going in the wrong direction, lass,’ one woman answered and began to give directions.

  ‘Come on, Bertha,’ the other interrupted. ‘It’s coming on rain.’ The first woman grimaced. ‘Anybody’d think we’d melt,’ she muttered, and continued with her directions before hurrying after her friend. She turned and called over her shoulder. ‘You could take a shortcut if you turn second left, then third right.’

  Emma mentally repeated the directions. People were scurrying for shelter or going home now. A plump woman with a child bumped into Emma, almost making her drop her basket. She half-turned. That man was close behind her. She walked faster. The quicker she walked the louder and faster his footsteps seemed to get, although Emma knew it could be other footsteps with so many people about. A steady drizzle had begun to fall. She stopped at a shop window and propped her basket on the ledge while she pulled her shawl more firmly over her shoulders and tucked the ends into the waistband of her skirt. The soft wool would not turn much rain. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was closer now, pulling up the collar of his brown jacket, near enough for her to see the whites of his eyes and his hard grey stare assessing her as though she was an animal for sale. She clutched her basket and purse and hurried on, almost running now.

  She had passed two turnings. Perhaps if she took the next one she would lose the man. Could the woman have meant this narrow entry? The buildings towered above her, shutting out the light but doing nothing to stop the rain. She glanced over her shoulder. Her heart thumped. The man had followed her. There were fewer people around now. She took another turning, hoping it would take her back to the main street. It didn’t. Still the man followed, closer now. Emma realized she was hopelessly lost. Her basket seemed to be getting heavier. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in little gasps. She hurried on. Some of the buildings looked derelict. She could smell stale tobacco. She fumbled in her purse and took out her return ticket for the train. At least she could get home if he snatched her purse. Why didn’t he just grab it? There was nobody to see him now. Emma knew it had been a mistake to leave the shops and people behind but she didn’t know how to get back so she could ask for help and proper directions. She turned down another street but it was no wider than the first one. She was almost sobbing now and there was a stitch in her side. All she wanted was to get home. She cannoned into a figure. She stifled a scream. The m
an seemed to have stepped out of nowhere. She was trapped between them.

  Sixteen

  At Moorend, William had just finished carting the hay home before the rain came in earnest. The two young gypsies had worked with him to the end. He had thought they wouldn’t come back now they had their own stack of hay, but Garridan had come and even brought his own gelding to pull one of the carts in place of William’s little mare.

  ‘It will be good for him to work between the shafts again,’ Dan grinned. ‘Soon he will need to pull the caravan many miles every day.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ William asked curiously. He had grown to like the two young men. They knew even more than he did about the countryside and nature. He gathered they also knew a lot about poaching and he wondered what Mr Rowbottom would say if he heard them.

  ‘We go to Ireland for the winter.’

  ‘I see,’ William said. ‘And when you come back, do you have a hay knife for cutting the hay from your stack?’

  ‘Hay knife?’ Dan asked and shook his head, then he grinned. ‘We never had stack of hay. Uncle says you’re good man although not Romany.’

  William knew he would not have got all the hay made and gathered in without their help. It would have gone to waste.

  ‘I am glad of your help. You earned the hay but you will need a special knife to cut it neatly into trusses.’

  ‘Trusses? What are they?’

  ‘Squares of hay cut neatly from the stack. You must keep the face of the stack straight so the hay does not spoil.’

  ‘What is this knife?’

  ‘I could ask the blacksmith to make you one.’

  ‘No, no. We have cousin make metal tools.’

  ‘All right.’ William took a stick and began to draw in the damp earth. ‘It is shaped like a very big arrowhead but it is flat and smooth and the two sides from the point are very sharp to cut into the hay. You need a long handle from the third side and you press down with your feet, like a spade.’

  ‘You will tell this to our uncle before we leave?’

  ‘All right.’ William grinned and waved them on their way as they both jumped easily onto the gelding’s back and set off towards the common.

  He was surprised to see Strawberry at the gate of the field, mooing restlessly, clearly wanting to be relieved of her milk. Petal stood nearby, chewing her cud. He wondered why Emma had not milked them. She had a strict routine for the cows, just as they’d had at Bonnybrae. He walked towards the house and met Polly coming out. She seemed distraught and near to tears. She was holding Jamie in her arms, trying desperately to quieten him but his little cheeks were hot and red, and he was throwing his tiny fists around like a boxer.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ William asked bluntly.

  ‘Sir, he’s hungry and Mrs Sinclair has not come home. She said she would be back in time to milk the cows because Jamie had an early feed this afternoon.’

  ‘Wait! What do you mean, Mrs Sinclair has not come home? Has she gone to the village?’

  ‘No, sir, she …’

  ‘Don’t keep calling me sir,’ William snapped, feeling his tension rising. ‘Sir makes me feel like a schoolmaster. Where has my wife gone?’

  ‘She’s gone on the train to Wakefield, s–s–s, Mr Sinclair. She said she would be home … I don’t know what to do with Jamie.’

  ‘Have you learned to milk the cows yet?’

  ‘Milk the…? Oh no, I—’

  ‘All right, all right! But you’ll have to learn soon.‘

  He hurried past Polly and into the house, running up the stairs without removing his boots. He had barely looked at the wedding presents still set out on the tallboy but he knew that none of them bore his mother’s name, while Emma’s parents had been generous and forgiving. They must have sacrificed half their lifesavings. He opened the writing box and saw that Emma must have taken out some of the money. His heart beat faster. Had Emma run away?

  He had counted himself fortunate to have such a long spell of dry weather. He had spent every minute making hay. What a fool he was to bring Emma to a strange place, to live in a cheerless home amongst people she didn’t know. He had neglected her shamefully. He thought she understood how important it was to make the pastures suitable for grazing so he could take sheep to graze and earn some money, but Emmie was so young. Could he blame her if she was sickened by the demands of a baby, cooking, washing and cleaning? Annie had been well-loved but she had still been homesick. His heart sank. Had Emma seen the train north and gone to her parents?

  He sank down onto the side of the bed and put his head in his hands. What would be the point of all his work if Emma had left him? The cries of his son pierced his consciousness. Surely Emma would not leave her baby behind. So where could she be? The crying irritated his frayed nerves. Maybe it had become too much for Emma if she hadn’t enough milk to satisfy him. He remembered how the tears had sprung to her eyes when he had passed on Mrs Wright’s advice. She had felt she was a failure. Slowly he got to his feet and went downstairs.

  Jamie was sucking noisily on Polly’s little finger but that did not soothe him for more than a few seconds.

  ‘Can’t you give him something?’ he asked, forgetting Polly was barely more than a child herself.

  ‘My stepma sometimes gave the little ’uns boiled cow’s milk.’

  ‘Then you can give him some. I can’t stand a noise like that. I’ll bring the cows in from the field now. You scald one of the enamel mugs and bring it to the byre.’

  ‘B-but he can’t d-drink, not from a m-mug, not yet.’

  ‘Well, spoon it into him then,’ William snapped. He went out, leaving Polly to bite her lips and wipe away tears. She wished she could run away to Auntie Ivy’s. She hated the master. She wouldn’t blame Mrs Sinclair if she never came back, she decided crossly.

  She watched William carefully wash and dry the cow’s udder, then wash his hands in a bucket of clean water. He dried them before he sat on the little stool and started milking. He made it look so easy. The milk streamed into the pail with a steady thrum. He asked her to pass the mug then squirted milk from one teat until it was half-full of warm frothy milk. Polly carried it and Jamie back to the kitchen, and found a towel to put under his little chin. She had seen her stepmother feeding the babies often enough to know they always spilled as much as they ate at first. Jamie was impatient and kept knocking the spoon with his fists then crying because he didn’t get any milk but Polly persevered. She told Cliff to get his own meal from the pan of stew in the oven and to leave enough for everybody else.

  Eventually Jamie grew calmer and began to understand he had to suck the milk from the spoon even if he didn’t like the feel of the cold metal. Polly knew a bone spoon would be better but they didn’t have one.

  William finished milking the two cows and turned them back into the field. It was raining steadily now and they seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the buildings. He cleaned the two stalls and made sure everything was washed and in order in the dairy. He couldn’t settle to go indoors and eat his supper, even if young Polly had made any. He paced the farm yard and went into the byre, then back out. He looked in the stable but Cliff had turned the two horses out to the field. Most of the hens had gone into their hut to escape from the rain. He chased in the few which were lingering near the door and shut them in until morning. Emma did all these things every day. She didn’t moan or grumble. What would he do if she didn’t come home? It wouldn’t be home if Emma was not here. It came to him like a flash of lightning. Wasn’t that what Drew had been trying to tell him?

  He stood still in the pouring rain. He had said he didn’t know what love was because his mother had brought them up not to show their emotions and she had always seemed stern and aloof.

  ‘Loving a wife is different,’ Drew declared. ‘I’d do anything to make Annie happy. I’d even go back and work for my brother. You’ll know when you find the woman you can’t live without.’

  Well, he did know n
ow. No one had forced him to marry Emma. He could have sent her money to look after the baby, but he wanted Emma beside him. He had longed for her company ever since they had been parted and he came to Yorkshire. Now she was his wife and he knew he needed more than her company. He remembered she had been reluctant to say she would marry him. His heart was heavy. If she was so homesick, if she had gone home to her parents then he would follow. He wouldn’t stay here without her. There would be work somewhere. He would work for other farmers if he had to, as long as Emmie was with him. What a blind fool he was.

  He collected his tweed jacket from the peg behind the door, pulled his cap on and set off for the station. He would wait until the last train had come and gone. He would pray that Emma was coming back to him and not on her way back to Scotland and her family.

  Two strong hands gripped Emma’s shoulders.

  ‘Steady lass, steady now,’ a deep voice rumbled above her head.

  Emma glanced fearfully over her shoulder, expecting the other man to grab her, or snatch her purse, but the narrow passage was empty. She raised her eyes and saw a silver button next to her nose, and another further up. Her eyes widened. She stared upwards. The man seemed like a giant with his domed policeman’s helmet on his head and the black cape around his broad shoulders.

  ‘Th-there was a m-man,’ she gasped, unable to resist looking back again. ‘H-he was f-following me, I ken he was …’

  PC Brownlee could feel Emma’s slight body trembling beneath his hands. She was distraught. He noticed her fresh young face, her wide frightened eyes, the quality of her shawl and high-necked blouse.

  ‘I believe you, lass.’ Over her head he had seen the man in the brown coat slink into an entry which ran between the backs of rows of houses. ‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’ he asked, noting her Scottish accent. It was more pronounced in her agitation.