Snowflakes in the Wind

by Rita Bradshaw

  Once jets of milk were pinging into the bucket, Abby relaxed and let her tired mind – which during the day was often tormented by thoughts of her mother and father – be soothed by the peace of the byre. The smell of straw, cows and paraffin; the flickering shadows cast upon the wall by the lantern; the rattling of cow chains and other movements of the animals in their stalls, and the occasional rustling of mice in the straw, was a step out of her busy and gruelling existence. The fact that Lotty was such a placid and obliging cow that never kicked out or tried to upset the milk bucket the way some of the workers’ cows did, made the time pleasant, and sometimes one of the farm cats would appear from nowhere, purring as it rubbed against her hoping for a sup of milk.

  The women had also promised to show her how to plant and tend her grandfather’s vegetable garden at the back of the house in the spring, and see to the potato planting and lifting in due course. They were kind, all of them, but none of the women or any of the farm workers knew the truth about what had caused Abby and Robin to turn up at the farm. Not the whole truth. Wilbert had told the children to say only that their parents had died, and if questioned further, to say it was the fever that had taken them and nothing more. The farm was far enough away from Sunderland, and the Border community sufficiently remote, for this to go unchallenged, and for news of the murder not to reach them. Wilbert had written to Betty Hammond to tell her the children were safe and well and would make their home with him, but he would appreciate them being left alone to readjust to their new life. If she could let him know the outcome regarding their father in due course it would be greatly appreciated. Betty had replied saying she would do that, and so the matter had been left.

  Wilbert had forbidden Abby to enter into communication with anyone from the time before she and Robin had come to the farm. The past was the past, he had declared firmly when she had objected to this, saying she would like to write to Mrs Hammond and Shirley. It was best forgotten. She had more than enough to do in the present without keeping in touch with folk she would never see again.

  Abby disagreed. The Hammonds had been wonderful at a time when she and Robin had never needed help more, but as her grandfather had made it clear that he would not be swayed over the issue, she had to admit defeat. And in truth, he was right about her having enough to cope with on a day-to-day level. Besides her jobs at home, she and Robin had to adapt to their new school at Linton which was half-an-hour’s walk from the farm. There were just under forty pupils who attended from neighbouring farms and a tiny hamlet to the south of Linton.

  The school consisted of two rooms and a tiny annexe of a cloakroom with a small paved yard outside holding the one privy. The infant class took children up to the age of eight, and Miss Crawford was in charge, an elderly spinster with a soft voice and fluffy grey hair.

  Mr Newton, the headmaster, taught the older children of whom Abby was one. He was a different kettle of fish from the gentle Miss Crawford. A strict disciplinarian, he ruled his pupils with a rod of iron and could strike dread into the most wayward child with one look. He had no compunction about using the tawse on the older boys if he considered they deserved it, and was universally feared and respected. A great believer in education for the working class, he made sure each boy and girl in his school received a good grounding in the three R’s, history and geography, whether said child wanted it or not.

  Abby had always possessed a keen desire to learn and had enjoyed school in Sunderland as much as Robin had hated it so the lessons were no problem for her; the playtimes and lunch break were a different matter. Robin had made a couple of friends of his own age within the first week of attending the school, and as the boys and girls always seemed to play separately in the school playground she didn’t see much of him during the day, which wouldn’t have been a problem if she had had a friend of her own. As it was, with sixteen boys in the class and only five other girls – two of whom were due to leave school in the summer and the other three being over two years older than her – the first few weeks were a lonely time.

  She wasn’t aware that Mr Newton had noticed her predicament until one lunchtime, some weeks after she had started at the school. Everyone had finished eating the food they brought from home and the class was ready to file out into the fresh air despite the bitter wind that carried the occasional snowflake in its icy blast, when he asked her to stay behind as the others left.

  Quaking in her boots she had gazed into his bewhiskered face wondering what she had done wrong, but instead of the reprimand she’d expected, he had said quietly, ‘I intend to set up a small library here at the school, Abigail.’ He always called each child by their full name, having a bee in his bonnet about nicknames being an affront to God, not being the name they were christened with in church. ‘Pupils from both Miss Crawford’s class and mine will be allowed to borrow books, once they have mastered the art of reading, and the library will be arranged in order of appropriate age and so on.’

  Abby stared at him. As one who loved to read she thought the notion a wonderful idea, but she wasn’t so sure some of the boys would feel the same. At home in Sunderland a couple of her friends had had a storybook or two and she had envied them; there had never been any spare money for her to receive such a gift. On arriving at her grandfather’s she had found he possessed an old and revered family Bible which she and Robin were not allowed to touch, but he didn’t read books as such. He didn’t take a daily paper but got the Scotsman handed down from the farmhouse now and again when it was a few days old, along with the Southern Reporter which was sent to the farmer every week by post from the Selkirk office. Whenever she had a spare moment, which wasn’t often, she devoured the contents of these although they weren’t the kind of reading to take her into another world the way storybooks did.

  ‘Well?’ Mr Newton surveyed her from under bushy eyebrows. ‘What do you think about helping me with it?’

  ‘Me?’ It was all she could manage, she was so taken aback.

  ‘Yes, you.’ Stanley Newton allowed himself a small smile. He liked this child. She was as bright as a button and old for her years, but then having lost her parents recently he could understand the air of sadness and aloneness that set her apart from her contemporaries. ‘I have many books at home – my children have long since flown the nest and their section of my bookcase merely sits gathering dust. There are books on various subjects as well as novels and so on, even adventure stories to tempt the most unlettered of the boys. It would have to be done properly, of course. I wouldn’t like to think of them being taken home and never returned so each withdrawal would be noted down along with the child’s name and a date given when the book must be brought back. Are you acquainted with how a library runs?’

  Abby shook her head.

  ‘No matter, I’ll show you. First I’ll arrange for Mr Lee from the joiner’s shop to come and construct some shelves in the alcoves over there’ – he pointed to the back of the room where either side of the stone fireplace containing the paraffin stove two recesses holding some old stacked chairs and other bits and pieces reposed – ‘and then I’ll start bringing some books in and you can begin an inventory. That’s if you have no objection to working through playtime and part of your lunch break some days?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said eagerly. It would be heaven to stay in the warm classroom rather than wandering round in the freezing cold with no one to talk to. ‘I’d like that, sir.’

  ‘Once the library is set up you will be in charge of recording the books in and out along with inspecting them for damage when they are returned, among other things. It is a very responsible job, Abigail, so think carefully before you agree to do it.’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it, Mr Newton.’ Her face, if she had but known it, had already told the teacher how thrilled she was by the prospect. ‘I would love to do it. Thank you, thank you so much.’ She would be able to read books, to handle them and learn different things as well as enjoy stories and adventures through the e
yes of the writer. Suddenly this new life which had seemed so hard and lonely and strange just minutes before was transformed. And Mr Newton had entrusted her with this important role.

  The teacher’s smile widened. He wished all his pupils were as thirsty for knowledge as this child. She stood out among the children presently at the school. He would hate to see her go into service or work in the fields when she was older, but private service or farm work were about the only choices for farm girls. Maybe he could see to it that this child got into Kelso High School when she was old enough? Of course her grandfather wouldn’t be able to pay the fees, or at least he doubted it, but there was always the bursary available for such pupils who were able to pass the entry examination and he was sure Abigail would do so. Places were strictly limited, and her grandfather might not be willing to see her remain at school longer than the age of fourteen? But there, he was crossing a number of bridges before he came to them. The girl was nine years old, there was plenty of time before she reached the age of twelve and they took them at the High School. She might lose her desire to learn and better herself; he had seen it happen before when puberty hit. But – he looked into the grey-blue eyes with their thick lashes a few shades darker than her silvery hair – he rather thought that wouldn’t happen with Abigail . . .

  ‘Stay in at playtime to sort out a load of old books?’ Robin’s voice was full of disgust. ‘You’re barmy, Abby.’

  They were walking home from school in the thick twilight in the company of several other children who walked their way, and she had just related Mr Newton’s idea to her brother, fully expecting him to react the way he had. Robin begrudged every minute he was stuck in the classroom and lived only for the playtimes and lunch break when he could be with his new pals.

  One of them, a small but sturdy lad called Humphrey, now joined them, along with his two older brothers who were in Abby’s class. The oldest boy was hauling a sledge behind him on the hard-packed snow, a home-made affair of wood nailed together with two stout sideboards to which were fixed iron runners obtained from the smith. Lots of the country children had sledges their fathers had cobbled together, some single seaters and others long enough to hold two or three children seated one behind the other.

  Abby and Robin had discovered the other great winter pastime among the country bairns was sliding on the ice, and they had their own name for it called slying. At one of the farms in the district there was a curling pond, used now and again by the farmer and his friends and family. This made an ideal playground in hard frozen weather for the locals, and Humphrey and his brothers had taken Robin along with them the week before although Abby had refused the invitation. Robin had come home, red-cheeked and sore-bottomed, reporting that he’d had a rare old time and that a number of the young men and lassies round about had come to join in the fun once evening had drawn in, it being a moonlit night. None of them had possessed the luxury of skates, he’d said – they were an extravagance enjoyed only by the well-to-do – but some of the lassies in particular had been amazing to watch, pirouetting and gliding round the pond like birds.

  Now Frank, Humphrey’s oldest brother, ruffled Robin’s hair as he said, ‘Fancy a bit of sledging on the way home? There’s a grand hill a hundred yards on.’

  ‘Can we?’ Robin looked at Abby. ‘Please?’

  ‘Just for a bit then. There’s jobs to do when we get home and I need to get the dinner on for Granda.’ She always prepared whatever they were having before she left in the morning; that way she was ready to pop the food in the range as soon as they got in, unless it was a pot roast or a stew she could leave slowly cooking all day.

  A couple more of their companions had sledges, and when they reached the allotted place – an extremely steep hill with a mass of old bramble bushes at the bottom of it – Abby stood holding the hands of two little five- and six-year-old sisters from Robin’s class who had no wish to sledge. All the lads, on the other hand, were fired up by the excitement, more than one coming to grief in the bramble bushes when their sledge went too far.

  The sun was setting in a blaze of glory as they stood watching the spills and thrills below them, the bitterly cold icy air carrying the shouts and laughter for some distance. Somewhere in the fields on the other side of the lane Abby heard the haunting ‘tu-whit, tu-whoo’ of a tawny owl, the plaintive sound making her shiver. Her grandfather had told them that to some country folk the owl was a symbol of death and was feared, being credited with supernatural powers. He hadn’t said whether he believed this to be so, but Abby thought the bird’s nocturnal habits and eerie cries enhanced the creature’s supposed magical qualities. She turned and then, just for a few moments, she saw the owl silhouetted against the dying sky before it swooped down, presumably to catch its prey in its powerful talons.

  She shut her eyes for an instant, her hands instinctively tightening round those of her two small charges, and when she opened them again her head turned to see a horse and rider galloping up the lane towards them. She just had time to pull the two little girls closer to her, the three of them stepping perilously near to the edge of the slope in the process, before the big black stallion and its rider was upon them in a flash of lethal hooves. She was still getting her breath when the horse cantered to a halt, and then the rider turned the animal and glanced towards them. He looked to be a youth of eighteen or thereabouts, dressed as the gentry dressed, and both his attitude and voice confirmed this when he said, ‘What the hell were you doing standing in the middle of the lane like that?’

  Normally Abby might have felt a little intimidated by the young man’s obvious wealth and the cultured voice that held no evidence of a northern accent, but the fact that but for her quick thinking he could easily have charged into them with disastrous consequences, and clearly was unrepentant of his actions, brought her temper to the surface. ‘What was I doing?’ She glared at him, angry colour in her cheeks. ‘More to the point what were you doing, riding like a madman? If you want to kill yourself that’s up to you, but this is a public road and people walk down it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  The youth sat up straighter on the horse that was prancing slightly, clearly eager to be off. His eyes narrowing, he said somewhat imperiously, ‘And who are you?’

  Abby’s chin rose a notch. He wasn’t going to browbeat her with his highfalutin voice and fine clothes. ‘My name is Abigail Kirby, not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Well, Abigail Kirby, do you know to whom you are speaking?’

  She didn’t know where her fury was coming from; maybe it wasn’t just this situation but the events of the last weeks that made her want to scream and shout into the good-looking, haughty face viewing her with such disdain. Her voice quivering with rage, she said loudly and distinctly, ‘No gentleman, that’s for sure, in spite of your clothes and the fancy saddle on your horse.’

  ‘Why you little . . .’

  He moved the restless stallion a few paces towards them, and as he did so Abby felt the two little girls either side of her shrink back which made her even more angry. He was a bully, that’s what he was, for all his grand appearance. When she next spoke it was how she would have addressed any bully in the playground. ‘You don’t frighten me, you and your horse.’

  ‘What’s going on, Abby?’

  She hadn’t been aware that the confrontation had caught the attention of the other children, but now she found that Robin and most of the other boys had scrambled up the hill and had come to stand behind her. It was Humphrey’s brother, Frank, who had spoken and he moved slightly in front of her as he did so, eyeing the youth on the horse bravely but with caution.

  ‘He nearly ran us down and then he blamed me.’ She was so angry she was shaking. ‘He’s a bully boy.’

  The young man surveyed them all from the vantage point of the horse. Then, his lip curling, he turned the powerful animal in one movement and dug his heels into its sides. Within moments he was lost to view in a turn in the road.

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p; Abby heard Frank breathe out loudly. ‘Phew.’ He faced her, shaking his head. ‘Do you know who that was?’

  ‘He asked me the same thing and I told him he was no gentleman however he looks.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Frank’s voice held a note of awe. He looked at the others clustered behind them. ‘She told Nicholas Jefferson-Price what for – what do you think about that?’

  Robin had come to stand with Abby and it was he who said, ‘Who is he then, this Jefferson-Price?’

  ‘The laird’s son, that’s who.’

  ‘The laird?’

  ‘Aye, the laird.’ And then seeing their puzzled faces, Frank said, ‘They own most of the land hereabouts, didn’t you know that? Aye, well they do, and even the farmers have to mind their Ps and Qs.’

  Abby and Robin’s eyes widened. They knew that scarcely any of the farmers sent their children to the village schools; instead they were packed off to boarding school at an early age for a better education which generated the ‘them and us’ attitude between farmers and their employees. Abby had supposed the farmers were at the top of the pecking order in the community, but apparently not.

  ‘Most of the farmers are tenant farmers and the laird makes sure they remember that,’ Frank went on. ‘He’s an evil so-an’-so, the laird – that’s what me da says anyway. They live in a great big house called Brookwell and the estate is run like a military establishment because the laird’s an ex-army man and can’t forget it. Me da knows the head gamekeeper quite well an’ he says, the gamekeeper I mean, that the laird’s a devil. Set about one of the little lads belonging to one of the estate workers with his riding crop one day because he found the bairn rifling a pheasant’s nest. Anyway, him, Nicholas Jefferson-Price, is the only son. He’s usually away at his private school this time of the year so you wouldn’t see him about.’ Frank paused. ‘And you gave him a mouthful, lass.’ The note of awe was back. ‘Bet that’s the first time he’s been spoken to like that by the likes of us.’