by Allie Burns
At the edge of the orchard, her gaze trained on a shape on the ground. A brown heap. A pile of abandoned sacks? But then, she raised a hand to her mouth. The brown felt hat. She sprinted towards Mr Tipton, supine on the ground, staring up to the heavens. She called for the doctor. She lifted his floppy arm and put two fingers to his wrist. But she was too late.
Chapter Thirty-Two
September 1919
The day after Mr Tipton’s funeral, Wilfred arrived. He asked Mrs Tipton up to the house. More grey hair hung loose than was in the knot itself, and the rims of her eyes were scorched red. Emily wanted to run from the room.
‘It’s important to squeeze every last profit out of the farm,’ Wilfred explained to the grieving widow. ‘One last push until the end of the season.’
If it wasn’t for Percy Greenacre, and to everyone’s surprise Cecil, stepping in then the farm would have ground to a halt.
‘It’s rather a lot to ask,’ Emily pointed out. ‘Given what’s happened.’
‘The Tiptons are still employed to work for us until the end of the season. There are three more weeks’ work owing, or I shan’t be paying any wages and I certainly won’t be allowing Mrs Tipton to stay on in the farmhouse.’
‘Can I help her then?’ said Emily. Mrs Tipton had her head on the table and wept. She was in no state to run the farm on her own. ‘I’ll step into Mr Tipton’s boots,’ she said.
Wilfred cast his eyes heavenwards and then levelled his gaze at her, shaking his head. ‘You can’t possibly run a farm.’
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘I’ve done it before, when Mr Tipton wasn’t here.’ She didn’t add that it had been only for a day at a time, or that she was only giving her orders to women and prisoners. ‘I had some drama then.’ She still dreamt about those poor sheep.
‘You have a baby,’ Mother reminded her.
‘Cecil can babysit,’ she said. ‘So could you.’
‘Those days are behind you. There are plenty of men who could step up. What about that tall chap with the Alsatian?’
It was hopeless. She couldn’t even persuade her own family to let her take over the farm in a crisis. How ever would she induce a landowner to give her a job as a bailiff or a supervisor?
‘Let her do it.’ Cecil entered the room. ‘She knows the ropes and you won’t have to pay her. If you ask Percy Greenacre, or bring in another manager you’ll have to pay the wages, and you’ve already made a loss because of the frost.’
Wilfred was nodding; it always came down to money with him.
‘It’s just for three weeks,’ Cecil continued. ‘Let her recoup our losses until the end of the season, and the sale is completed.’
Mrs Tipton lifted her head from the table, her handkerchief soaked through. She put an arm around Emily’s shoulder.
‘It’s what the ole man would have wanted.’
*
Her return to the farm had galvanised Mother into finding a place to live in London. She was ready to buy once the sale went through at the end of the season.
Wilfred still lingered about the place, his visits frequent. There were more deliveries of building materials, and more men in suits came. His plans to own the estate and to invest in the farm had been in the making for years. All the while she’d been dreaming, he’d been putting his plans into action.
Their first market day loomed ahead of them. Mr Tipton had always taken charge of this important weekly event. It all just happened by magic; no one else on the farm had any idea at all of the details.
Mrs Tipton had chewed her nails so low she’d reached the skin. So Emily called the men together around the farmhouse table to decide on a course of action.
‘Joe and I will herd the sheep down to the station.’ Percy spoke first, before she’d even sat down. ‘Mrs Tipton should come. It’ll take four of us to load the sheep. I’ll help Mrs Tipton with negotiations – and before you say anything else, it needs to be a man because of the meetings after in the public house.’
The others all nodded in agreement. Before she could ask what she should do, Percy had called the meeting to a close with a heavy palm on the table. Mrs Tipton had stopped chewing her nails, and that was the main thing.
On the morning of market day, Emily came down whether she was wanted or not, to see them off. The sheep rumbled into the lamplit yard, bumping and bleating, as she arrived.
Percy bared his teeth and whistled at Sally. Her tail fell between her legs, her ears pinned back to her head. Two sheep had already strayed away from the flock and were in the entrance to the cart shed.
‘Yur! Yur!’ Percy called, just as Mr Tipton used to command the collie. Only instead of jumping to her paws and circling her herd, keeping it as one, Sally twitched her brow and with lazy defiance lowered herself to the cobbles. ‘Sally!’ he called. ‘Come on, you stupid mutt. Yur! Yur!’ He put his teeth together and whistled. Still nothing.
‘Sally!’ Mrs Tipton cried. ‘Come on, girl.’ She took the dog by the scruff of her neck and pulled her to standing. ‘It’s market day. We can’t do this without you.’
Percy whistled again. Sally stood. Her tail lolled about. He instructed Joe to run around, keeping the sheep together as one pack. It was a delicate operation. If Joe ran too close to the flock he spooked them and they would all clatter into one another, then scatter, and his job was even harder. The force of the lamplight was fading now as the daylight grew in strength.
‘Joe!’ Percy called the boy over and sent him off at a sprint in the direction of Perseverance Place. Meanwhile, the sheep were scattering about the farmyard.
Mrs Tipton raised her eyes to the heavens and called, ‘Oh dear. I hope the ole man isn’t watching this.’
Emily widened her arms and tried to keep them all as one. Sally made it look easier than it was. She had an idea, and dashed into the farmhouse to fetch Mr Tipton’s brown felt hat, which she handed to Percy. But he shook his head.
‘That’s the ole man’s,’ he said. ‘It’s not for any of us to wear.’
‘Yes, and he needs us to get those sheep rounded up so that Mrs Tipton gets paid this month.’
Percy refused so she dumped the hat on her own head. Sally splayed her front legs, barked. The poor girl was confused. Emily whistled. And yur, yurred. Sally barked. Bared her sharp teeth. Closing in on her, Emily tried again. A couple of sheep were already trotting off down the lane. If they missed the train for market, the week’s profits would be down, Wilfred wouldn’t pay Mrs Tipton and he’d sack Emily before she’d even started. Sally stood her ground and yapped.
Percy went towards her with a stick raised above his head.
‘I’ll teach her to work,’ he said.
‘No you won’t.’ Emily stepped in his way. How could he think of beating the collie when she was clearly missing her master? The poor dog cowered, her back legs all hunched under, waiting for the blow. Emily stroked the dog’s head.
‘It’s all right, girl.’
Percy threw the stick down. ‘You’re too soft,’ he said, just as Joe came wheezing back down the lane with a black wolf lolloping behind him. It was Rover, Percy’s Alsatian, who responded instantly to his master’s whistle and went to his side.
She peered at Sally, urging her to do her bit. ‘Give her one last chance,’ Emily said.
Even Mrs Tipton had lost patience with the dog, and she shook her head. ‘Let’s just get the sheep to market.’
It was no using pressing it further. Sally wasn’t going to be of any help today. She gestured for Percy to carry on, while Sally rubbed herself against Emily’s shins, her warm coat comforting.
‘Never mind.’ She tickled Sally’s ears. ‘Everyone’s entitled to an off day.’
‘Off we go.’ Percy signalled to Joe, who opened the gate to the lane and the sheep poured out. Rover came up at the rear, growling at any strays.
As they left the yard, bow-legged Alfred, with his big scraggy beard, hobbled up the track towards Percy. There was a problem. Five c
ows had wandered further than ever and were in Hangman’s Wood feasting on young boughs.
‘Emily, you’ll have to deal with it,’ Percy said to her.
‘But I want to make sure you get on the train.’
‘We need the cow’s milk more than we need you watching us doing our jobs. And if those beasts wander on to Finch Hall land, we’ll have to pay for any damages they do.’ Percy didn’t stop his pace.
‘Lily’s there, I suppose,’ Emily called.
Alfred nodded to the top of her head; she was still wearing Mr Tipton’s hat. She would keep it on. Percy might not be so rude to her if he was reminded of who was supposed to be in charge.
‘Afraid so,’ he said. ‘She’s in a terrible mood. And there’s a calf with them. You know her history with calves if she’s in a bad mood. We can’t afford another loss.’
‘Just bring them back,’ Percy called as they reached the crook in the lane.
‘You watch that Lily,’ Mrs Tipton called.
Emily went on ahead of Alfred, striding across the uneven ground, until she came to the stream. The cows liked a paddle. On a hot day she’d often been amused by them cooling their hooves. Her boots wouldn’t take kindly to a soaking, but she didn’t have much choice. She ran along until she reached the old paper mill and then paddled through the shallows, her boots squelching, feet damp, her soggy breeches flapping around her ankles.
Hangman’s Wood sat at the edge of a cornfield, a dense copse, thigh-high in bracken and obstacles of trunks and logs carpeted in lichen. She found three cows, not too far in. Rosie was amongst them. She was a sensible cow, and could be trusted to lead them all back to the farm without needing to herd them. She clapped her hands at them, widened her arms. Spooked, they ran to the edge of the copse and in the direction of home.
A little further in she found Lolly. Her sides were wide and she moved slowly. She was due any day now.
‘How did you get out?’ she asked Lolly. She couldn’t leave her to make her own way back. She’d better find the fifth cow and quick. Pushing her way through the bushes and skipping over logs, twigs snapped underfoot, leaf mould rustled and kicked up a filthy dust. She slowed to a stop. Oh dear. A cow lifted its head, chewing on a branch.
‘Lily,’ she said, sweat on her brow. ‘I might have known that this was your work.’
The cow beat her hoof again. Emily clumped her leather boot in return.
‘None of your nonsense today.’ But Lily was in no mood. She snorted and started towards her. Emily backed off, but in slow, steady steps. That cow was capable of trampling her own calf; she’d not hesitate to flatten her if the mood took her.
‘Come on now, Lily,’ she said. ‘You’re late for milking.’
Lily stopped. Emily breathed out and widened her arms, signalled a path for Lily to take. And continued to walk backwards towards Lolly, who was slowly working her way to the stubbled cornfield. Lily stopped again. She stamped her hoof and with a startling acceleration she took off, stampeding straight at Emily.
Emily had nothing to wave at the cow, and even if she did she’d seen her and recognised her and still she was charging. Of course, it must be the hat – she’d confused Lily. She could try to stand her ground – it had worked before – but something told her today might be different. She had no choice but to turn her back on the cow and run like stink. Hurdling a log, hands up to her face, twigs scratched her skin, she pulled the hat from her hair. The hooves hammered behind her.
‘Lily,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Please, girl.’
Perhaps she should have dug in, but her instincts told her no, and it was too late for regrets now.
She was nearing the edge of the copse. Out on the open ground Lily might tire, or she might gain pace.
‘Yap. Yap.’
Emily scanned the ground. The woof came again.
‘Sally!’ she called. Sally at the edge of the stubble ran at Emily, jumped up at her in greeting, her paws to her thighs. And then Sally spread her paws wide and barked at Lily. Emily glanced over her shoulder. Lily rumbled to a stop. Emily slowed too, panting. She held on to an oak’s trunk just in case. Sally growled, sidled around the edge of the cow and snarled at her. Lily started. Swished her tail. Her coat steamed. Lolly emerged now and came alongside Lily.
‘Good girl,’ Emily said to Sally, brushing her coat. Sally panted and tilted her head to Emily’s thigh. ‘Good teamwork,’ she said.
Lily and Lolly swayed out of the copse with Sally at their heels, through the stubble, across the stream, the orchard and the dairy. When Lily was locked back inside the dairy, Emily fell to her knees and buried her hands in Sally’s fur, her head resting on the dog’s.
Alfred sauntered down chewing an ear of grass, checking up on her. It would all make its way back to Percy later, and thankfully the report would be a good one.
‘Would you look at that,’ he said. ‘Our Sally has found herself a new master.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
September 1919
Her blood still thumping in her ears, she ran all the way home. Sally followed her the whole way. She couldn’t wait until Mrs Tipton was back from the market and she could tell her how Sally had run down to help her bring in the cows.
She went in through the back door, peeling off her soggy boots. The dip in the river had cleaned the mud off. She’d forgotten that the leather could shine. Edna smiled at the sight of Sally, and filled her a bowl of water.
But when she passed the conservatory, she stopped in her tracks. Mother sat on a chair, blanket on her lap. Wilfred, opposite, was bouncing John up and down on his knee. Cecil was in front of them both with his arms folded.
‘Thank goodness,’ he said, when she approached him. ‘Someone with some sense. You need to come in and hear this.’
Mother eyed the straw stuck to her breeches with mud, but Emily stepped into the room anyway. She was in no mood for Wilfred, or her mother. She lifted John away from Wilfred. She’d take him with her to the farm tomorrow. No matter if he grizzled and stopped her working every now and then, he’d be happier outside. The last person she wanted him around was Wilfred.
‘Ask him,’ Cecil said. ‘You’ll want to hear this before the rest of the village gets wind. Ask him what he plans to do with the land once the sale has gone through.’
Emily cupped John’s tiny feet in her palm, waiting for an explanation.
Uncle Wilfred appraised her with a quick up and down, his eyebrows raised. She put a hand to the fringes of her bob. He was trying too hard again, and although he was in full country regalia he was completely out of place in his Norfolk jacket, tweed cap, knickerbockers and long woollen socks.
‘It’s of no concern to Emily, or to any of us what happens here after we’ve left,’ Mother said with a sternness Emily had never before heard directed towards her youngest son.
‘Very well. I’ll tell her,’ Cecil continued. ‘Oh, Emily,’ he faltered, his face drawn taut. She steadied herself by leaning on the doorframe in readiness. ‘He’s going to have the estate turned into a new paper mill.’ She took a step back. ‘It’s going to be the biggest of its kind in the country, with tennis courts and a community centre. Finch Hall is up for sale as well, and he’s buying up that land. He’s going to destroy the village.’
It couldn’t be true, but then the building materials had been piling up – she’d just never thought … She waited for Wilfred to explain.
‘I had to come up with something to give me a return on buying this decaying old pile and an unprofitable farm.’ He shrugged. ‘What did you expect?’
Her legs were losing their strength beneath her.
‘You can’t do this,’ Emily said. ‘Mother, you can’t let him do this. What would Father say?’
‘Your father isn’t here,’ Mother reminded her.
‘And what will happen to the farm?’
‘The land provides vital access to the river, which is essential for paper making,’ Wilfred explained.
So the staked-out pieces of land, the piles of building materials and those men measuring everything up, testing the ground – it had all been going on beneath her nose, and she hadn’t questioned it.
‘Does anyone else know?’ She removed her clammy palms from John’s back one at a time and rubbed them on her breeches. If now Cecil knew, then the talk of the plans would have spread through the village like sprouts from a taproot. In a village like theirs, people just got to know things without you even trying. They’d be outcasts all over again.
‘On the bright side, you’ll have moved out,’ Wilfred said. ‘The sale’s completion will coincide with the end of the season, and my men will start work; this place will be demolished within a month. I was under the impression that business was slow in the countryside. Now that I’m here I can see that it never stands still. It’s all very industrious.’
Emily’s insides bubbled and rocked away like a kettle on the range about to whistle for all its worth. Mother was looking anywhere but at her; at least she had the decency to be ashamed. Mother had the power to stop this. If she refused to sign those papers, the sale wouldn’t go through and Wilfred couldn’t pave over their village.
Dearest Emily,
I’m sorry to learn about Theo, but if you want the truth I don’t think you ever needed him anyway.
I have some news to cheer you up; Eleanor has secured the land. It’s the plot near Lingfield in Sussex, not so far from you in Kent. She says the government can go whistle – she’s putting her own money in.
The accommodation isn’t much, but there are four cottages for us to live in. It will be just women; they took our advice on that in the end. We’ll work on the land and make a living from our own smallholdings. Market gardening, livestock etc … They want a supervisor and Eleanor has only gone and asked yours truly to take the position.
