The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  One morning Esther caught sight of Will Benson’s cart coming down the lane and heard the blast on his whistle to herald his approach. She halted the horses near the edge of the field that bordered the lane. As the carrier’s cart slowed to a stop she could see Will’s grinning face. He was wearing a greatcoat over his suit, for it was bitterly cold riding on the front of his cart.

  ‘Eeh, Esther lass,’ he said climbing down from his seat high up above the rump of his horses. ‘It’s good to see ya again. My, it seems ages since I was out this way. What wi’ all that snow.’ He looked her up and down, and then searched her face more closely, holding her gaze with his own steady eyes. ‘How’ve ya been, lass? How’s married life?’

  Esther smiled determinedly, ‘Fine, Will. Look . . .’ She took hold of his arm and turned him to look into the field. ‘Matthew bought a pair of horses. Aren’t they fine, Will?’

  ‘By, lass, they are an’ all.’ He looked at her again. ‘But should you be doing the ploughing, lass? Ya husband should—’

  ‘Oh, he does his share, Will, and I likes to tek me turn. I ain’t no slacker.’

  Will’s laugh rang out. ‘No one could ever accuse you of that, lass. No one.’

  ‘If ya going to the Point first on yar calls, I’m nearly done in this field. I’ll come back to the farm and ya can have a bite of dinner with us, Will.’

  ‘Ah’d like that, lass.’

  So it became a regular thing that Will had his dinner with Esther and Matthew on the days he came to the Point on his rounds. Soon he was taking their produce to the town markets and selling it for them, bringing the money he made for them on his next visit.

  ‘Why dun’t you come into the town on the cart, Esther?’ he would ask her. ‘Ah could always bring you back if it’s too far . . .’

  ‘It ain’t that – I ain’t keen on the town.’ She grinned. ‘Tell you the truth, Will, I’d be lost.’

  Will smiled indulgently. ‘All right, lass. But you’d enjoy a trip now and then. Get that husband of yours to take you.’

  ‘Mebbe, Will,’ she hedged, ‘mebbe – some time.’

  When the ploughing was done and the seed safely sown at last, Matthew suddenly said, ‘We should go to church again, Esther. We’ll go tomorrow.’

  She nodded. ‘I’d been thinking the same, it’s what Sam would have done after such a bad winter. He’d have wanted to give thanks that we’d got the crops sown, even if we are a bit late.’

  Matthew looked at her a little strangely then smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right, Esther, just what I’d thought.’

  He went outside whistling. Esther watched him go, a thoughtful look on her face. She had readily agreed to his suggestion, though she was surprised that the idea had come from him.

  The following morning Esther came downstairs in time to set off for church to find Matthew waiting for her in the living room. Her mouth fell open.

  ‘Matthew, what on earth . . . ? That’s a brand new suit. Where did ya get that?’

  ‘I went into town yesterday afternoon an’ bought it.’ His face clouded ominously. ‘Can’t a man buy himself a new suit without being answerable to—?’

  ‘Don’t fly off the handle,’ Esther snapped back. She glanced down at the old dress which had belonged to the long-dead Katharine Brumby. It was already getting very tight around her expanding waistline. Her head came a little higher and her chin jutted out. ‘If ya can afford a new suit, Matthew Hilton, then I reckon yar wife deserves a new frock, don’t you?’

  ‘Suit ya’sen.’ He turned back to the mirror, trying to smooth down his unruly curling black hair but without success. He had shaved, but his dark colouring still gave his jawline a blue tinge however sharp his cut-throat razor.

  ‘I’ve got to admit it, Matthew,’ Esther said, ‘ya look very smart.’

  He turned to look at her again and suddenly he grinned and she glimpsed the old Matthew; the Matthew who had pursued her, who had tried to tumble her in the hay.

  ‘Ya dun’t look so bad ya’sen.’ His eyes roamed over her, taking in her long, glossy hair which she had piled high on her head and fastened with the pearl combs; then down her slender neck and lingered on the generous curves of her bosom. He moved towards her, his eyes glinting wickedly.

  ‘Matthew . . .’ Esther held out the thing she was carrying in her hands to steer him away from the direction his thoughts were obviously taking. ‘I thought you might like to – to have this. Remember? It was Sam’s. He always wore it to church.’ She held out Sam Brumby’s gold Hunter watch. ‘Would ya like it?’

  ‘Like it?’ Matthew’s eyes shone. ‘Aw, Esther, it’s a fine watch . . .’ He slipped it into the pocket of his new waistcoat and looped the chain across his chest and stood there proudly, puffed out like a pouter pigeon.

  Esther smiled at him. ‘It looks grand, Matthew. Real grand. Well, shall we go?’

  The smile faded a little from his mouth and for a moment she thought he looked uncertain.

  ‘Esther,’ he began, ‘let’s not go to church, lets . . .’

  Remembering the look of desire which had flared in his eyes a few moments ago, Esther tapped his arm sharply, yet with an air of playfulness, and retorted, ‘Oh no you don’t, Mester Hilton. You wanted to go to church, so we’re going!’

  ‘Esther, mebbe . . .’

  ‘Matthew, do come on, or we’ll be late.’

  She saw him hesitate, give a shrug of resignation and then he offered her his crooked arm and murmured, ‘Very well, but just remember – it was you insisted we go.’

  They walked the two miles to the church, Esther’s arm through Matthew’s. She was wondering if now was the right time to tell him her news, but decided to leave it until they returned home. She was loath to spoil this moment, for she had no idea how he would take the fact that she, too, was to bear him a child.

  In the church porch they met the Willoughbys and Miss Jenkins. Tom Willoughby greeted them jovially, asking how their horses had settled down and were they pleased with them? Had they got all their ploughing and sowing done? It was the general talk of the neighbouring farmers greeting each other. A determined smile stretched upon her mouth, Esther glanced at Martha Willoughby and her sister, Flo Jenkins. Their heads were bent close together, whispering.

  She caught the odd snatch of their conversation. ‘Sam’s watch . . . new clothes . . .’ And then something she could not understand. ‘Fancy him daring to come today of all days.’

  Esther’s fixed smile faded and her chin came up a little higher. Loudly she said, ‘Come, Matthew, we’d best take our place in Sam’s pew. I know he’d ’ave liked us to take his seat.’

  With satisfaction, she heard the gasps from the two women and a ‘tut-tut’ as she stepped through the church door, walked up the aisle and took her place in the pew Sam had occupied. Matthew followed her in and sat beside her.

  Just before the service began there was a slight commotion in the porch and the sound of a young baby crying. At her side, Esther felt Matthew stiffen. She turned her head to see the colour suffusing his neck and creeping slowly up his face. He stared fixedly straight ahead at the altar. Esther looked behind and saw Robert Eland and then Beth carrying her child wrapped in shawls into the church and taking a seat near the font. Tight-lipped, Esther too turned back and fixed her gaze upon the altar. Morning service began, but Esther was hardly aware of it. Mechanically, she rose and opened her lips to the hymns, mouthing the words. She knelt and whispered the prayers, yet all the time she was uncomfortably aware of the three other people at the rear of the church.

  At the end of the service the beaming vicar announced that Robert and Beth Eland had brought their baby son to be christened and that all the congregation would be very welcome to stay if they so wished.

  Esther made to stand up to leave, but Matthew gripped her arm and pulled her back down on to the seat. ‘We’re staying,’ he hissed. ‘’Tis the reason we came.’

  Esther gasped. ‘Ya knew? Ya . . .’
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br />   Heads were turning towards the angry whispers between husband and wife.

  ‘Hush,’ someone demanded.

  The vicar cleared his throat and raised his voice above the whispering and the shuffling and began the opening words of the service of baptism.

  Seething with fury, Esther sat where she was. Not because she was afraid to walk out, far from it, but she was not going to be forced into causing a scene in front of the squire and his family, and the vicar, to say nothing of the Willoughbys. By so doing, she realized, it would be she, Esther, who would be made to look foolish.

  When it came to the point in the service where the vicar addressed the parents of the child, Esther felt Matthew make an involuntary movement as if he were about to respond. Now it was her turn to grab his arm and hiss at him, ‘Oh no, ya don’t. Ya sit where you are.’

  He shot her an angry, hate-filled glance, but did as she bid.

  Just you wait, Matthew Hilton, she thought savagely, till this is all over.

  By the time they were half-way along the lane towards home, Matthew did indeed begin to wish he had never thought of attending his son’s baptism uninvited. His wife castigated him, her voice rising shrilly, echoing across the fields until he felt the whole parish must hear her.

  ‘How dare you, Matthew Hilton? Ya knew, didn’t ya, that it was his christening today? Didn’t ya?’ she insisted until he admitted grudgingly that he had overheard the men talking in the pub and had learnt that Beth Eland’s son was to be christened that Sunday after morning service.

  ‘I almost changed me mind this morning, when you gave me that watch. But you,’ he added, trying as ever to lay the blame on her, ‘insisted on us going – if you remember.’

  ‘Whatever possessed you to do such a stupid thing? How could you think you’d be welcome there? Ya’ve made a fool of all of us.’

  He stopped and turned to face her. She stopped too and they stood either side of the narrow lane, the wind whipping loose sand from the dunes around them, the sound of the sea in their ears, and the gulls screeching above as if the wheeling, diving birds were joining in their heated quarrel.

  ‘What d’ya mean?’ he argued belligerently. ‘Ah’ve a right to be there. Daniel’s my son.’

  He uttered the name he had heard the boy given with pride in his voice and his tone was not lost on Esther. But it served only to fuel her outrage.

  ‘Aye, ya bastard son!’ Her country dialect became even more pronounced in her blazing anger. ‘Ya’ve made a fool of ya sen, and me! An’ if that dun’t mean nothing, did ya stop to think what Beth must feel to see ya there? And what about Robert Eland – what must that poor feller be feelin’?’

  ‘Beth? Why would Beth mind?’ He touched his nose as if remembering Eland’s punch. ‘And Ah dun’t care what he thinks! He’s leaving me out of the lifeboat crew now on purpose,’ he added in an aggrieved tone.

  Esther cast her eyes to the scudding clouds above them. ‘Are ya so stupid? Can’t ya see?’ She leant towards him, trying to make him understand. ‘Everybody knows he’s your child, you’ve made sure of that! But you shamed her and she had to marry another to give her bastard a name . . .’

  ‘If that’s anybody’s fault, it’s yours, Esther. You knew before you got me to marry you . . .’

  ‘I didn’t get you to marry me, an’ well you know it. You asked me and I said yes, that’s all.’

  ‘Only because you held out on me, because you wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Aye, but Beth would and did,’ Esther said quietly now. ‘And look where it left her. I was always honest with you, Matthew. I always telled you I wouldn’t bring a bastard into the world, and I meant it.’ She paused a moment and then added softly, ‘But I’m carrying your child now, Matthew. Your child conceived and born in holy wedlock!’

  He stared at her, but his face was expressionless.

  ‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘Ah’ll have sired two calves in a year, eh?’ A smile twisted his mouth, but it was a sardonic cynical smile, with no pleasure at her news showing in his eyes. ‘Quite the young bull, ain’t I?’

  Sixteen

  IT was not the way Esther had imagined giving her X husband the news, but it was done now and over the days and weeks that followed Matthew made no mention to Esther about their coming child. He made no enquiries after her health, nor any deference to her condition by trying to help ease her workload. Not that Esther expected anything different. She had seen her aunt work in the fields until a few hours before the birth of a child. She had been brought up to regard such a condition as perfectly natural and not an illness or an excuse for idleness.

  Matthew was right about being left out of the lifeboat crew deliberately by the coxswain, Robert Eland. Privately, Esther could well understand why and yet Matthew was a good crew member; whenever the maroons went up throughout that following summer, she would see him start forward as if to race down to the boat-house for the launch. Then angrily he would return to his work but it would unsettle him. He would be watching the lane to see the men return, to catch someone to ask what the shout had been, and had it been successful, and more importantly, had they had a full crew? But no request ever came for Matthew to join them again; no sound of Ernie Harris’s flying feet across their yard to pound on the door shouting for ‘the mester’.

  In the evening following a shout, Matthew would go down to the Seagull to try to join in the chatter and the talk of the rescue. But he was on the fringe now, not welcome amongst the crew members. On such nights he would come reeling home drunk, shouting and singing, only serving to exclude himself further from their number.

  At harvest time, their neighbours came to Brumbys’ Farm once more to help. Mrs Harris and her brood of children, and workers from Rookery Farm, all came.

  This year Robert Eland stayed away.

  ‘He goes out in his little boat cod-fishing more and more now, missus,’ Ernie Harris told Esther. ‘Mester Eland reckons the land’s not for him. His life’s the sea, he ses.’

  Ernie now helped out frequently at Brumbys’ Farm. As Esther’s time approached, he would slip in quietly to have the milking done before she came out in the morning. He would arrive again in the evening, often milking the cows out in the field before she came to herd them to the farmyard. Esther smiled to herself. If her own husband had no thought for her welfare, it seemed that the young boy was doing his best to help her.

  Ernie was a thin, wiry lad of fifteen now. His brown hair flopped forward over his eyes and he had the habit of flicking his head back and grinning at Esther from under the unruly lock of hair. His face was thin, almost gaunt, but his hazel eyes were bright and he was a quick, ever-cheerful lad. Esther, as her belly swelled, came to rely on Ernie’s help more and more. At the end of each week she would pay him for the hours she knew he had worked and then she would add a little for good measure, for the boy never asked for payment, and she was for ever finding jobs that had been done when she knew Matthew could not possibly have done them.

  ‘He’s a good lad, our Ernie,’ his mother agreed readily when Esther praised Ernie’s kindly actions. ‘Ah dun’t know what Ah’d do wi’out him sometimes. He keeps an eye on the younger ones. Anyway, enough about my brood. How are you feeling, lass? Ya can’t have long to go now. Want me to tek a look at ya some time?’

  ‘I’m hoping I can hang on till harvest’s safely in.’

  Mrs Harris laughed. ‘Only if young ’un decides to let ya, lass. They have a will o’ their own. They’ll come when they’m ready and there’s nowt ya can do about it.’

  ‘It’s been so wet this year – it’s going to be a difficult one. Some of the fields are flooded.’ Esther wrinkled her forehead worriedly. ‘I’m sure we’re going to lose some of the crops.’

  ‘Aye, Ah’ve seen it happen here afore. Some years back Sam had to take his oats over to one of Tom Willoughby’s fields – one of them way over yonder’ – the older woman waved her hand westward – ‘to spread it all out to dry afore we could stack it.
’ She glanced again at Esther and said as if warning Esther not to be too hopeful, ‘Late we was, that year, gettin’ it all in.’

  Esther’s child decided to wait, however, and when the last sheaf was stacked after a very difficult harvest, Esther heaved a great sigh of relief.

  Now nothing could spoil the birth of her child.

  *

  It was another two weeks, well beyond the time that Mrs Harris had predicted, before Esther felt the tell-tale pain low down in her groin. She carried on milking Clover, murmuring soothingly to the cow as she always did. The pain subsided and died, and Esther pulled steadily on the beast’s udders, never slowing, never losing her easy rhythm. She stood up slowly and eased her back. Then she covered the two pails of milk with the wooden lids and picked them up.

  She had begun to walk across the yard towards the house, when a second pain struck suddenly and with such intensity that she gasped aloud and doubled over, the bottom rims of the pails catching on the floor and tippling forwards. She gave a cry and tried to pull them upright, but the lids toppled forwards and the milk gushed out on to the yard.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Esther cried aloud. The pain was receding now, leaving her vexed and angry with herself for spilling the milk. Half the contents of each bucket was lost and, pursing her mouth, she picked up the two pails and went quickly into the house. If they were to keep up the supply to their regular customers, her own household would have to go short for a day or so. She stroked her swollen belly and glanced down at it.