The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘She’s right,’ Emma murmured, ‘Your Mummy’s right, Boydie, they are busy today.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Sarah said a few moments later when Emma related the encounter in the orchard.

  ‘I thought they were going to sting him.’

  ‘Emma, oh Emma. What are you thinking of? Have you learnt nothing in all these years? Our own bees sting a Forrest? Tut-tut. Fancy you even thinking such a thing?’

  Emma smiled tenderly, considering herself rebuked by the elderly woman whose faith in the bees was eternal. She was taking the child into her fat arms and bouncing him. ‘Now my little fellow. You know better, don’t you? The bees will never sting you.’ The wrinkled old face bent closer and whispered to the child, who crowed with delight and reached out with tiny fingers to clutch at the wisps of her white hair.

  Old Sarah was right; it seemed as if the boy had a charmed life and from the moment he began to take notice, he was besotted by the mill. Lying in the sunshine in his pram, his legs kicking with growing strength he would watch the mill’s sails turning and, if anyone mistakenly placed his pram so that he could not see the mill, his screams of protest could be heard along the village street. His first tottering steps were made in the yard, straight towards the mill and his first word – after the obligatory ‘Dada’ – was ‘mill’ and later when he began to string words together, ‘Boydie’s mill’.

  ‘What would old Charlie have said?’ Emma would often remark, watching the boy with doting, grandmotherly love.

  ‘He’s a chip off the old block and no mistake. He even looks like him,’ William would say with surprise in his voice, ‘if those old pictures of Grandpa Charlie are anything to go by. You wouldn’t think it’s possible four generations later, would you?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Emma would say.

  ‘Now then, Em. I know you,’ William would say warningly, but his loving tone was filled with concern for her; concern that she should not be hurt yet again. Life had dealt his Emma many blows, but this would surely be the cruellest yet. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up about Boydie and the mill. By the time he’s grown, Emma, there’s going to be no milling business left.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she would sigh. ‘But I can dream, can’t I?’

  He knew she heard what he said, knew she knew it to be the truth with her rational mind. But in her heart? Now that was a different matter. There was nothing more William could do, but he could foresee more disappointment and heartbreak for his Emma.

  Although the arrival of their child had been a joy and a living proof of their love, Lottie and Micky were so wrapped up in each other, so determined to succeed, that they happily handed Boydie over to Emma during the daytime. As soon as she could, Lottie resumed her duties running Marsh Thorpe’s village post office which still formed part – the major part now – of Emma’s shop. On leaving school, Micky had begun to work in the mill but a few months after their marriage, it had become obvious to all of them that there was not going to be enough of a living to support them all.

  ‘The lad tried and tried hard,’ William had told Emma. ‘But he’s not cut out for it. His heart’s not in it. I don’t think he really likes the hard physical work. He’s always seemed to like doing the paperwork though.’

  Emma had snorted contemptuously. ‘Well, he’s welcome to it. I can’t abide all that side of business. It all seems such a waste of time when there’s real work to be done.’ She had sighed. ‘What’s he going to do then?’

  ‘He’s applied to work in a bank in Calceworth. I reckon that would suit him fine.’

  It had and it did. Micky had got the job and had embarked upon a career to which he seemed well suited, being promoted during his first year so that he and Lottie were able to put a deposit on a small house a few doors up the street from Emma and William, even though Emma fought desperately with every excuse she could think of to keep them, and more importantly now, Boydie, under her roof.

  They saw Bridget Smith almost every week for she was getting very frail now. But her laugh was still as merry and her smile as warm. Much to Emma’s relief, they saw nothing of Leonard.

  ‘Let him live in cloud cuckoo land,’ Micky would grin, unrepentant. ‘He wouldn’t know the truth if he saw it staring him in the face.’

  Emma stared at her son-in-law, marvelling at his perspicacity where his own father was concerned. Then his face would sober as he would say with quiet solemnity, ‘Besides, there’s not really much of a future in the mill. You know, you’ll have to sell it eventually, Mother, don’t you?’

  Though it was never spoken of between them – it would have been a serious breach of the rules of banking if Micky had breathed a word outside the walls of the bank – he knew better than anyone just how severely depleted their savings now were.

  ‘Over my dead body! Never, never. I’ll never sell Forrest’s Mill. It’s to be Boydie’s, you know that, young Micky.’

  And Micky would put his arm about his mother-in-law’s shoulders and say softly, ‘I know, I know.’

  What he did not say was that, in his view, she would be leaving the young boy a mountain of debts and a useless pile of bricks.

  Forty-Nine

  The growing Boydie had no idea of the gloomy predictions of his own father. From the time he could walk, he roamed the yard, the mill and the orchard with complete freedom.

  ‘Oh, watch him, do watch him, William,’ an anxious Emma would call from the bottom of the rough wooden ladder as she saw his chubby little legs climbing far above her, up and up and round and round. She would hear William’s chuckle from the bin floor above and hear him say, ‘You come to help, young’un?’

  Then would come the child’s piping voice asking questions, and William’s deep rumble as he answered, patiently explaining what he was doing and just why he was doing it. A smile upon her mouth and shaking her head fondly, she would watch with fascinated wonderment as the boy stood on an upturned box, reaching out to gauge the flowing flour between his finger and thumb, a slight frown of concentration on his forehead. Then he would reach up and, on tiptoe, grasp the tentering gear lever with his other hand, easing it gently until he was happy with the fineness of the flow.

  ‘He’s a natural,’ William never tired of telling her. ‘He’s got a born instinct for it.’

  Emma’s smile would broaden.

  With the increase of traffic passing their gate, rushing towards the seaside, Emma’s anxieties for Boydie grew, but the child made no attempt to go out of the gate. The world beyond the mill yard held no fascination for him.

  She had not thought to ban him from the orchard, but the day she saw the seven-year-old trotting purposefully towards the hives beneath the trees, she gave a cry of alarm and began to run after him, her heart pounding, her once strong legs suddenly feeling old and feeble. ‘Boydie, Boydie, no, don’t go near the bees!’

  The boy took no notice and Emma watched in horror as he lifted the lid of one of the hives.

  ‘Hello, bees. Have you got any honey for me today?’ Emma pressed her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from crying out again. A sudden noise might startle the bees and make them angry. They were swirling around the child’s head now, buzzing, diving and then swooping away. Away? Emma’s eyes widened in disbelief as she watched in fearful fascination.

  A voice spoke behind her. ‘They won’t sting Boydie, Emma. You needn’t fear. He comes nearly every day to look at his bees.’ Leaning heavily on the two sticks she now used to get about, Sarah was standing a few feet away from her watching the boy. She shook her head gravely. ‘It’s as if old Charlie had been born again, Emma. But don’t you tell our Minister I said so, else he’ll think I’m forgetting me good Christian upbringing.’

  ‘No,’ Emma said softly, her gaze turning back to watch the child, still not quite able to believe what she was seeing. ‘And I know what you mean. I’ve thought it often myself and the more he grows, the more I see it.’

  Sarah chuckled. ‘Mind you, you
r grandad was an old rogue.’

  Emma laughed, ‘Oh yes, but a lovable old rogue, Sarah.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true. That’s true.’

  Emma held her breath as she watched the boy gently let the lid fall back into its place and come towards the two women. His dark blue eyes sparkled with mischief and when he smiled, two dimples appeared in his cheeks. His black hair, ruffled into curliness by the summer breeze, shone in the sunlight.

  ‘They haven’t got enough for us to take any today, Grannie.’

  Emma stared in amazement. Already, the boy knew that only excess honey, not needed by the colony, could be removed from the hives.

  The dimples on his rounded cheeks deepened. ‘Hello, Grannie Sarah. How are you? Have you come to tell the bees some news today?’ The question was said in all seriousness, without a hint of the derision with which some of the villagers viewed old Sarah’s beliefs.

  ‘You know, Boydie,’ Sarah was saying, ‘I’m finding it difficult to get out now, ’specially in the cold weather, so I was wondering if you could help me out by taking over the job of telling the bees anything they ought to know.’

  The boy put his head on one side and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘But how do I know what I ought to tell them?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll know,’ Sarah said confidently. ‘Anything important that happens in the family and even in the village.’ She nodded and winked. ‘They like a bit of gossip do Forrest’s bees.’

  ‘Have we always had bees, Grannie Sarah?’

  ‘As long as I can remember and before that. Luke used to say that your great-great-grandad started with bees when he built the mill. Bread and honey, old Charlie used to say, the Forrests will never go hungry if they always have bread and honey.’

  ‘And have there been bees here ever since?’ The question was innocent enough, but it prompted a swift look of resentment to cross Sarah’s face as she glanced at Emma. ‘There was a time a while back now, when they – went away.’

  ‘Why?’ came the expected question. ‘Why did the bees go?’

  Emma saved Sarah the awkwardness of having to answer. ‘Because for some years there were no Forrests here at the mill. It was my fault, Boydie. I went away, but when I came back,’ the surprise was still in her voice for she had never ceased to wonder, ‘the bees came back too.’ Yet the memory caused her sadness too, for the bees’ return had heralded the news of the death of a Forrest, her son, Charles.

  But Boydie accepted this statement without further question, as if it was to be expected. ‘That’s all right then.’

  In the early autumn of Boydie’s eighth year, Lottie said, ‘Mam, I’ve got some news for you.’

  Emma looked at her daughter’s pink cheeks and waited. ‘We’re going to have another baby.’

  Emma flung her arms wide open. ‘Oh, darling, how wonderful. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to have any more children.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been trying for a while but nothing seemed to happen. But I saw the doctor yesterday and he’s confirmed it.’

  ‘And everything’s all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, fine. He says I can continue to work in the post office until about a month before the birth.’

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that.’

  Lottie laughed and her eyes twinkled. ‘Now then, don’t start fussing. I’ve got enough coping with Micky.’

  ‘I bet he’s pleased, isn’t he? Does he want another boy?’

  Lottie shook her head and, completely unaware of the memories her words would evoke in Emma, said, ‘Oh no. He’s hoping for a daughter.’

  A small smile curved Emma’s mouth and she shook her head wonderingly. How times had changed!

  ‘Lottie, you look very tired. You ought to go home and rest.’

  ‘I feel so dreadfully sick all the time. I thought that was supposed to go after the first three months and yet here I am almost seven months gone and still getting it.’ She shivered. ‘And I seem to feel the cold so. And today,’ she placed her hand beneath her rounded belly, ‘I keep getting a niggling pain.’

  ‘Oh, do go home and rest, love,’ Emma persisted, worried by Lottie’s pale face and dark rimmed eyes.

  ‘I’ll be all right.’ She sat on the chair behind the post office counter and leant her head on her arms. Her voice muffled, she said, ‘I can’t leave the cashing up. You know what it’s like on pension days.’

  ‘Can’t I help?’ Emma asked, fingering the edge of her apron.

  Weakly, Lottie laughed and sat up again. ‘Oh, Mam, you and your adding up? No thanks. I’ll manage,’ and she flapped her hand at her mother, indicating that she should go away and leave her to her calculations.

  Biting her lip, Emma left the shop and went through the kitchen and into the yard. ‘William,’ she shouted. ‘Where are you?’

  Shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she saw him open one of the windows high up on the top floor of the mill.

  ‘Here, Em. What’s up?’

  She walked across the yard, ‘Can you come down and talk some sense into your daughter. She’s . . .’

  It was then that she heard Lottie’s screams. Emma turned and ran. She found her lying on the floor of the shop, clutching her stomach and writhing.

  ‘Mam, oh Mam! Something’s awfully wrong! Oh, the pain, the pain.’

  ‘Oh, my darling girl. Oh no!’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Panting, William appeared in the doorway and Emma turned wide, terrified eyes towards him. ‘Get an ambulance. Quick.’

  He paused for the briefest of moments to stare down, with horrified eyes, at his lovely daughter, then he turned and disappeared.

  ‘Lie still, darling, try to lie still. Oh no!’ she breathed as she saw the blood beginning to seep through Lottie’s clothing.

  From the dark recesses of her memory came the awful picture of blood-soaked sheets and the cries of agony from her mother’s room.

  It was some time after midnight when Emma walked alone into the orchard. Beneath the trees, where the moonlight dappled the grass, she stood motionless watching the hives. She lifted her head once and looked towards the mill, half expecting to see a swarm already there.

  But there was nothing and in the cold, black night, there was only silence.

  Her voice low, she said aloud, ‘How could you let it happen? To Lottie? To my darling girl. Why? Why? Oh, why?’ She sank to her knees, the frosty grass crunching beneath her, oblivious to the cold soaking through her dress.

  Half an hour later, it was where William found her, kneeling on the ground, just staring at the silent bee hives.

  Holding his own grief in check, he said firmly, ‘Come along, Em. Micky’s come back from the hospital. He needs you. And so does Boydie.’

  As if the weight of her misery hampered every movement, she lifted her head slowly and stared at him with unseeing eyes. ‘Boydie?’ She blinked and said again, ‘Of course, Boydie. Does he know?’

  William, his voice hoarse with the tears he was trying to hold in check, said, ‘The little lad’s still awake and asking questions. Micky’s telling him now.’

  ‘I must go to him.’ William put his hand beneath her elbow and urged her to get up from the icy ground. Stiffly, she unbent her body and clinging to him, dragged herself to her feet. She stood a moment until the feeling returned to her legs and then she murmured, ‘My poor little Boydie . . .’

  Freeing herself from William’s supporting arms, she set off towards the house, leaving him to follow.

  Fifty

  They buried Lottie in the churchyard on the hillside overlooking the mill near to where Harry Forrest and Luke lay, and in sight of old Charlie Forrest’s grave. At the funeral Micky was inconsolable and it was Emma’s hand that Boydie clutched. He stood beside her, white and solemn-faced. His dark blue glance went from the grave to his weeping father and back again and his grip on Emma’s hand tightened.

  It had all happened so very quickly that none of them could believe that t
heir beloved Lottie was really gone.

  ‘She was, in the end, just like my mother,’ Emma said to Sarah sadly. ‘I’d thought, when Boydie’s birth went so well, that she would be all right.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ the old lady, shrunken in her own sadness for the loss which touched them all, shook her head. ‘You never can tell.’

  ‘By the time she got to hospital she’d already lost so much blood that – that she went into shock and – and . . .’

  Sarah patted her hand. ‘I know, I know, Emma lass.’ Heavily, she added, ‘Poor Micky, and Boydie.’

  Emma sighed. ‘It’s William I feel so for. He’s taken it very badly.’

  ‘She was his only child, don’t forget. You’ve suffered the loss of a child before, Emma, and, terrible though it is, you’ve come through it once and you can again. But this is the first time for William.’

  ‘I know. But you don’t ever get over it, you know. Not really. You just learn to live with it. I don’t think I could have coped when Charles died if it hadn’t been for William’s love and support.’

  ‘Well, this time you’ve got to help each other. And Micky, well, he’s heartbroken now, but he’s young.’

  A cold hand touched Emma’s heart. Yes, Micky was young. Young enough to love again. Young enough to find a new mother for Boydie.

  ‘Why don’t you both come back to us for a while, Micky? You’ll have to get back to work and I can look after Boydie, so you don’t have to worry about him.’

  Micky looked suddenly very young and vulnerable. Robbed of his cheery smile and the light in his eyes, he seemed lost.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said listlessly and just seemed to sink deeper into the armchair.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Emma said briskly, taking his disinterest for agreement. ‘I’ll meet Boydie from school this afternoon and take him home with me. All right?’