*
25th June 1776
‘Here, Jennet, put them pies out on’t table, lass,’ Mam said, thrusting a basket of cold mutton pastries at me. ‘Get a move on, will thee, that pen’s nearly empty, they’ll be ready for a break in a minute.’
I sighed and were about to point out that we were only late because she had not been able to find the crab apple pickle, but spotted Mary Farmer walking purposefully towards us, and did as I were told. If I were already busy, she would not be able to give me more work to do. I took the basket from Mam and carried it to the tables, the coarse heather grabbing at my skirts.
The whole village had turned out for the sheepwashing. The flocks had been driven the mile to Thores-Ford early this morning, and everyone had been hard at work since daybreak. It would have been noted that we were late, but Mam were respected as the local cunning woman and she had helped at least one member of every family here at one time or another – she would be forgiven.
This were the start of our year – even though it were midsummer – when the sheep were washed ready for shearing in a fortnight. Their wool were our livelihood and, looking round, I saw shepherds, carders, fullers, spinners and weavers. And Richard Ramsgill, the wool merchant and most powerful man on the moor. I smiled at him, shy, and looked past him to my pa who were in the ford itself, along with William Gill, ducking the sheep in the now foul-smelling water, one at a time.
The ewe thrashed as she were held underwater then thrown out whilst the next one were dumped in. It were hard, dirty, noisy, smelly work, but essential if we were to get the best out of the fleeces, and the whole valley had gathered to get it done. Another half dozen to go, then they would be ready for a break before starting on the next flock.
The washing ford were a natural widening in the stream high up on the moors, by the rocking stone. I glanced over at it now; an enormous oval rock balanced on a plinth – put there by giants to amuse their young, the old tales said. There were not enough wind now to set it in motion, but in the most powerful gales, it would move, sending a noise throughout the valley that sounded like giants’ grinding their teeth. But not this day.
‘Jennet! Stop dallying, lass, they’re nearly ready!’
I snapped back to myself and grinned at Mam, then got back to work.
‘Whoa! Watch out there!’
I glanced up at the shout. The new flock being herded to the washing ford had broken loose and were stampeding towards us.
‘The food! The tables!’ Mary Farmer wailed. ‘Stop them!’
Mam did as she were told – everyone did what they were told by Mary Farmer, it were easier that way – and ran at the approaching flock, trying to turn them back towards the ford, but to no avail. The first ewes ploughed into the trestles sending pies, pickles and ale flying. I put my hands to my mouth in merriment – I had never seen anything so funny and I would have given anything to have seen that look on Mary Farmer’s face.
‘Alice!’
I stopped laughing at the panic in Pa’s voice and turned. One of the ewes had knocked Mam into the water. She could not swim.
I watched Pa jump in after her and wanted to help, but could not move. Everywhere were chaos. Sheep bumped my legs, but my feet were as rooted to the moor as the heather. I could only watch.
Pa surfaced, coughing, then disappeared. I could not see Mam – not even her skirts. I could feel the blood drain out of my face as I realised what were happening and finally moved my feet. I ran to the water’s edge, screaming for me mam, and got there as Pa finally pulled her up. She did not move.
‘Mam? Mam? Mam!’
Pa did not look at me and Mam had not shifted. He waded to the edge and handed her up to the men gathered there, and they hauled her on to dry land. No one would look at me.
I pushed my way through the men and fell to my knees. Her usually rosy face were white and streaked with mud and sheepshite. Her eyes were shut and her lips slightly parted. She had a dark red mark on her forehead and were not breathing.
‘Jennet.’ Pa’s hands were on me shoulders and he tried to pull me back. ‘She’s gone, Jennet, she’s gone. Come away.’
I did as I were bid. I did not seem to be able to decide for myself, I just did as Pa bid, and the ring of people closed around Mam.
*
I picked up my pen to write on and find out what happened next, how Jennet carried on; but no words came and I realised I was crying. After an hour, I threw the pen down in disgust and put the kettle on. I stood at the window with my steaming cup of coffee, but found no inspiration. Thruscross was shrouded in fog, just like my brain.
With a sigh, I turned to put my mug on the desk and picked up the inkpot. Then I saw the goose feather. Why not? I fetched a knife from the kitchen, sharpened the shaft and poured ink into the inkpot. Feeling a bit of an idiot, I dipped in the quill, held it over the page, dropped a few blotches of ink, and started writing.
Chapter 22 - Jennet
27th February 1777
I sat back and watched the tiny lamb struggle to its feet and bleat at its dam. I rested on my heels in relief. I loved this time of year, and had not needed to give this ewe any help. At six years old she were strong and healthy and had already done this a few times.
I waited until the lamb started suckling, then got to my feet, picked up my lantern and looked around the dark moors.
I had driven my girls closer to the farm last month, where it were more sheltered with better grass – I would have to mark the new arrivals before they wandered again, to make sure everyone knew they were mine. I would give them a couple of months at least though, before I got the branding iron out and burned the initials of my great-great-great-great-grandpa on to the sides of their noses.
I stretched and glanced up at the tiny sliver of moon. I sighed, I could have done with a full one tonight. I held up my lantern and went in search of the last ewe I had marked as being likely to birth tonight.
She were the eldest of the flock, and in any year past she would have been mutton by now. But I only had one mouth to feed these days, and had decided to keep her for one more wool crop and, hopefully, another lamb.
I found her lying down, her birthing already started. I set the lantern down near her back-end and gave her face a rub before settling down to help her.
‘Ey up lass, is thee all right?’
I jumped and peered at the shadowy figure behind the lantern. He held it higher, and I recognised Peter Stockdale.
‘How do, Peter,’ I said. ‘What’s thee doing here?’
‘I’ve just finished up with Ramsgill’s lambs for the night, saw thy lantern and wondered if thee needed an hand.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. I could not remember the last time anybody but Mary Farmer had offered me aid. ‘Um, she’s the last one tonight, I reckon, but she’s old and I think she’s twinning.’
He crouched down next to the ewe and felt her belly. ‘Aye, there’s two in there all right.’ He tugged on the ewe’s ears. ‘Thee’s not on thy own, though, old girl.’
I glanced at him sharply. I wished he would say that to me and mean it.
Peter Stockdale caught my eye and smiled. I looked away embarrassed, back to the ewe’s back-end.
‘First one’s coming,’ I said.
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Peter, pushing me out of the way.
‘Hmm, it’s taking too long, think we’d better give her an hand – give other twin a chance.’
I nodded and clasped my hands around my belly in fear. What if I had problems birthing my babby and there were no one to help?
He reached between the ewe’s back legs, then pulled, emerging with the back legs of a tiny, limp lamb in his grasp.
‘Dead,’ he said, laid it on the ground and examined the ewe again. ‘Next one’s coming.’
I picked up the dead lamb, wiped the crud from its nose and mouth, then stood while holding its back legs and spun round. I had seen Pa do this successfully, but it did not work tonight.<
br />
I fell to the ground, dizzy, and sobbed.
‘Never mind, lass, thee can’t save them all. Here, look after this live ’un while I see to its dam.’
I took the newborn and wiped it down. It bleated at me and I grinned.
Peter Stockdale sat back on his haunches. ‘Damn it,’ he said.
‘Oh no!’
‘She’s gone.’
I reached out and stroked the dead ewe’s face.
‘Don’t fret, she were old. I’ll help thee get her to farmhouse so’s thee can butcher her.’
I nodded my thanks and hugged the poddy lamb.
‘What’ll thee do with that ’un?’
I shrugged. ‘Hand-rear her, I suppose.’
‘Does thee not have another ewe with a stillborn?’
I said nowt.
‘Come on, lass, I knows thee’s had hard time, and house must be terrible quiet, but let’s give this little ’un a proper mam.’
I nodded, ashamed of my weakness, and led the way to another ewe who had lost her lamb. I rubbed the lamb on the ground around her, trying to pick up the smell of her afterbirth, then put it to the teat.
Now all we could do were wait for the milk to come through and the lamb to take it. We sat a little way back to watch.
‘Thee’ll not tell no one I were here, will thee, lass?’
I glanced up at him in surprise and disappointment.
‘Sorry, lass.’ He looked ashamed. ‘But Mr Ramsgill wouldn’t take kindly to this, and I can’t afford to lose work.’
‘Thy secret’s safe with me, Peter,’ I said. ‘And I’m grateful for thy company.’
We sat in silence for a while and watched the lamb finish feeding and lie in the coarse grass.
‘Did thee lose many?’
‘Three lambs, but that one were only ewe.’
He nodded. ‘That’s not too bad, and at least thee’ll have plenty of meat.’
‘Mm.’
‘How’s thee faring?’
I shrugged and he nodded again. We sat in silence for a while, until the lamb had done its business.
The ewe sniffed the lamb’s turds, then licked the tiny body.
‘That’s it, she’s accepted it! I’ll help thee get dead ’uns to house.’
‘Thank thee,’ I said as I stood. I realised I could see him properly now. He was my height, but twice as broad; with floppy, sandy hair and hazel eyes; and his crooked smile revealed crooked teeth.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s be off.’
Chapter 23 - Jennet
26th May 1777
‘Come on, lass, keep pushing! Thee can do it!’
I swore; loudly and crudely. I had been pushing for hours already; if the little bugger did not come out soon, he could bloody well stay where he were.
‘I can see head!’ Mary Farmer exclaimed. She were the only one here, the only one who cared. But at least I were not on my own any more. I had been for the first six hours – I had had no way of summoning Mary, but she had got into the habit of checking on me twice a day. Thank God.
I had made myself up a bed downstairs where it were warmest, and had forced myself up to unbar the door for her when she had finally come knocking.
‘Push, lass, push!’ Mary sounded more urgent.
‘What is it?’
‘Just push, lass.’
‘Tell me!’
‘The cord’s wrapped round neck, I can’t get me fingers in. Thee needs to push hard. Now!’
I screamed in agony at the ripping sensation as I forced the silent babby out into the world.
‘Come on, Mary!’ I screamed.
Nowt.
She held the babby up by its legs and I realised from the colour of him that he were dead. Mary smacked his arse.
Nowt.
She did it again with the same result and looked at me. My babby were dead. I sank back on to the filthy bedding, then screamed as another spasm of pain ripped through my body.
‘Ruddy hell! There’s another one! Come on, lass, don’t give up now, he’s been in there too long as it is, thee needs to get him out!’
I screamed obscenities at her and did my best, but I had been doing this for hours, my body felt mutilated beyond repair, and the makeshift bed were soaked in blood.
‘Come on! Don’t let him die too! Push, Jennet!’
I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and heaved one last, desperate time.
‘Aye!’
There were no noise. No cries. I lifted my head from the cushion of fleeces to see. ‘Does he live?’
Mary were bent over the tiny body and I could not see. ‘Aye, she does lass, but she’s weak. See if she’ll take milk.’
She handed me the tiny body she had wrapped in muslin, and I held my daughter to my breast. She moved her head slightly towards me, but did not take my nipple.
‘Thee’ll have to help her, lass.’
I looked at Mary. I did not like how sombre she sounded and my ravaged body flushed with panic. I took my breast, pulled the girl to me and forced my nipple into her mouth. I felt her lips close around it, but she were too weak to suckle. I looked at Mary in despair.
‘I’ll go to Gate for some goat’s milk,’ she said. ‘Just keep trying.’
I nodded, and moved my breast against the tiny mouth, encouraging her to suck, but it were useless. I held the tiny body close, trying to keep her warm; trying to let her know she were wanted and loved. I realised I were muttering to her.
‘Come on, Alice, come on, don’t give up on me.’ I had not known I had decided to call her for Mam until I heard the name pass my lips. I realised I could not feel her breath on my skin any more. I kept her in my arms, held against my heart. I did not look up when Mary Farmer returned.
‘Oh lass,’ she sighed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
*
The sun were going down before I let Mary take the small bundle from me and place her on the table next to her brother. I had not cried. I did not want to cry. I stared at my only friend and all I felt were rage. It were so unfair. I had been used, berated and abandoned for these babbies, but I had wanted them and loved them, and neither had lived an hour.
‘Suffer the little children,’ I muttered.
‘What?’
‘That’s what they’ll say, ain’t it? In that Damned church. “Suffer the little children.” They’ll say it’s my fault, God’s punishment for my actions and he ... he gets off scot free!’ My voice had risen to a shout. ‘Well he won’t, none of them will!’
I forced myself off the bed, staggered to the table and picked up my children. I stumbled towards the fire, hunched like an old crone, but with blood running down the inside of my thighs.
‘I curse the Ramsgills! All of them! I curse them to die before adulthood!’ I threw the boy on to the fire. Mary screamed and tried to grab me. I shook her off and she fell to the floor. ‘Only one may live to carry the curse to the next generation, then they will suffer their losses!’ My daughter joined my son.
‘More peat, Mary, it needs to be hotter!’ Mary backed away from me. She looked terrified. I managed to bend and knock more peat on to the pyre, then straightened as best I were able and watched my children burn. The room filled with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of the cracking of skin as it charred.
‘I curse Thores-Cross! Let the Devil and his hounds be welcomed to hunt for souls here!’
I threw a handful of herbs on the flames to add potency to my words.
‘They’ll pay for this! The Ramsgills and Thores-Cross will pay for eternity!’ I were screaming now. I turned to face Mary. She had reached the far wall, her face distorted with horror.
‘Bear witness, Mary Farmer. They’re all Damned now!’
Mary rushed to the door and ran. I watched her go.
Chapter 24 - Emma
5th September 2012
I sat back on the sofa, horrified at what I had written. Where did that come from? I put my notebook and quill on the table and mass
aged my right wrist. I realised tears poured down my face. Poor Jennet. Those poor babies. I propped my head in my hands and let the sobs out. I cried for Jennet, and I cried for my own lost child.
I jumped at the eruption of barking from the kitchen. Someone was at the door. I wiped my face and took a deep breath, then made my way downstairs to see who it was.
‘Mark!’
I was surprised to see him, but stood aside to let him in.
‘How do. I brought you those local history books I promised. Found something else you might like an’all, lass.’
I jumped at the ‘lass’ but managed a smile. ‘That’s great. I was about to make coffee, would you like a cup?’
‘Aye, that’d be grand.’
I shut the door behind him and led the way to the kitchen as he greeted all three dogs jumping around us.
‘Are you all right? You look upset.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I just got caught up in my story.’
‘It must be a rum ’un if it’s brought you to tears.’
‘Umm, you could say that,’ I replied, my voice shaking as I poured water into mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Yes to both.’
I nodded and finished the drinks, then passed a mug to Mark.
‘So is it Jennet?’
‘What?’
‘Your story, is it Jennet’s?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘And does the quill work?’
I glanced at him in surprise.
‘Your fingers.’
I looked down and managed a smile. My right hand was black with ink. ‘Not the tidiest way to write! I wanted to try the inkpot and quill, I guess I got carried away.’
‘Oh yes, the inkpot – you were going to show it to me.’
‘Of course, it’s in the office – would you bring the books up?’ I led the way upstairs.
‘Wow!’ Mark stopped on the top tread and stared at the view. ‘How can you possibly work in here? I’d be staring out the window all day!’
Ghosts of Yorkshire Page 10
