The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  Esther cried out, more in frustration than in pain. She struggled and kicked the man’s shins. He gave a yell of pain and those close by now turned round to watch the scuffle.

  ‘Not a German, is he?’ some wag shouted, ‘having a go already?’

  ‘Let me go!’ Esther yelled again.

  Suddenly there was Matthew standing before her. The fight went out of her instantly as she looked into his face. His eyes were dark with fury.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Matthew said in a low, controlled voice that held more menace than if he had roared.

  ‘What’s it to do with you?’ asked the stranger, still holding Esther.

  ‘She,’ Matthew said with deliberation, ‘is my wife’

  The man let go of Esther as if she had burned him. ‘Aw, mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’m sorry . . .’ He turned and shouldered his way through the crowd, escaping before the vengeful husband could retaliate.

  Matthew was not concerned about the man. He was glaring at Esther, who was rubbing her forearms where the man had gripped her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  She returned his glare with equal rancour. ‘Making sure you don’t do anything stupid, like volunteering.’

  Colour suffused his face and his eyes bulged. ‘Christ, you’ve got a bloody cheek, woman! You’d do anything – anything to make me look small, wouldn’t ya? I’ve a good mind to go up there this minute and—’

  ‘That’s right, mate, you tell ’er. Don’t you hide behind a woman’s skirts,’ a voice from those nearby joined in their quarrel. Neither Matthew nor Esther took any notice.

  She put out her hands and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Please, Matthew, don’t do anything foolish, anything rash. You’re needed here, on the farm. You have a family now . . .’

  Matthew’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Aye, the farm! Always the farm, isn’t it, Esther?’

  He brought his arm up and knocked her hands away, twisting out of her grasp at the same time. Then he turned and blundered away through the throng. In a moment he was lost from her view.

  ‘Oh, Esther,’ mourned Ma Harris. ‘Ya’ve done it now, lass. He’ll join up just to spite ya.’

  Twenty

  MATTHEW did not join up, but he did not arrive home until the early hours of the following morning, staggering up the stairs to tumble into bed beside her and fall into a state of drunken unconsciousness rather than of sleep.

  Talk of the war dominated everyone’s conversation and seemed to rule their lives, even though it was happening hundreds of miles away in another country between peoples whom Esther had only heard of in her days at the village school. Foreign places became part of everyday speech, and when lists of casualties began to appear in the local newspaper, suddenly it was very real and very close.

  Ernie Harris came to say goodbye, looking somehow bigger, more filled out already. All at once, he was a young man going off to war.

  ‘Oh, Ernie!’ In a sudden surge of emotion, Esther put her arms about him and hugged him to her. ‘Do you really have to go?’

  The boy wriggled with embarrassment at her unexpected display of sentiment. ‘I want to go, missus. I’m a soldier now.’ His thin face beamed at her as she stood back to look at him. She shook her head sadly and murmured again, Oh, Ernie, I – we shall all miss you.’

  ‘I’ll be back, missus, when we’ve taught these Germans a thing or two. Besides, everyone says it’ll be over before Christmas.’

  As she followed him to the gate, it seemed as if everyone who lived at the Point had turned out to wave Ernie off to war. They shouted after him as he walked proudly down the lane, a slight figure growing smaller and smaller. At the curve in the road, he turned and gave a final wave. Then he was gone. The gathering dispersed, leaving the lonely figure of Ma Harris standing in the road staring at the place where her eldest son had disappeared from view.

  Esther went over to her. She put her arm about the older woman’s plump shoulders. ‘Come and have a cup o’ tea with me, Ma.’

  It took some considerable urging to make Ma move, but at last she allowed Esther to lead her into the farmhouse.

  On the Sunday following Ernie’s departure, Esther insisted that they should attend church. As they might have expected, the service revolved round the war. The hymns the rector had chosen were full of patriotic fervour and self-sacrifice, and the prayers appealed for God’s help on the side of righteousness and the fight for freedom from oppressors. Stubbornly, Esther refused to mouth the words she could not believe in. However, when the prayers took on a more personal note, and the vicar prayed for all those from this parish who had volunteered, Esther was glad to join in. Fervently she added her own prayers, closing her eyes and pressing her hands together.

  As she stood up at the end of the service and looked about the church, she was saddened to see, already, so many empty spaces. The squire and his lady now had only their younger son in attendance, and yet it was their absent elder son who was the main topic of interest. As Squire Marshall passed down the aisle he was stopped at every pew to be grasped by the hand and congratulated.

  ‘A fine boy, Squire.’

  ‘You must be so proud.’

  ‘Good luck to your boy, sir.’

  A few pews in front of where Esther, Matthew and Kate were sitting, and on the opposite side, the Willoughbys waited their turn to greet the squire.

  ‘My best wishes to your boy, sir,’ Tom Willoughby’s voice boomed around the church. ‘He does our little community proud and no mistake.’

  The squire shook the man’s outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, Willoughby, thank you.’ He nodded towards Martha Willoughby and her sister, Flo Jenkins.

  Martha’s shrill voice echoed down the church. ‘There’s some here as might take a lesson from your boy, Squire.’ Her glanced swivelled towards Esther and flickered to envelop Matthew. The gathering still in the church had all fallen silent to listen to the exchange. It was as if the congregation was holding its breath.

  ‘And you, ma’am,’ Martha was addressing Mrs Marshall. ‘What a fine example you have set all women. So brave, so patriotic, ma’am.’

  Flo was leaning forward over her sisters shoulder. There’s some – far be it from me to name names – but there’s some who’d keep their men at home, making out they can’t be spared from the work on the land.’

  Martha nodded vigorous agreement. ‘Aye, and the men are all too willing to stay at home. Slackers, they are, ma’am, and worse!’

  Flo pursed her already thin lips to a slit. ‘Cowards, Squire, that’s what we’d call them. Cowards!’

  A gasp rippled through the listeners and shocked whispering broke out. Beside her Esther heard the hiss of Matthew’s breath and felt it on her cheek.

  It sent a shudder of premonition down her spine.

  She turned to look at him and saw that colour had suffused his face and that his dark eyes were fixed upon the Willoughby family.

  Take no notice, Matthew. It’s all right for her to talk. She’s no sons to send and she knows Tom Willoughby’s too old to be expected to volunteer. She can talk – she’s safe.’

  Through clenched teeth, Matthew muttered, ‘Shut up, Esther. What do you know about it, anyway?’

  Irritated and angered by what she saw as a misplaced patriotic fanaticism, Esther swept Kate into her arms and stepped out of the pew. She hurried from the church before the squire and his party had reached them. No doubt that would give the congregation further cause to speculate about her and her family. It was an unheard-of discourtesy for anyone to precede the squire and his family from the church. Even the vicar, as she swept past him, gaped at her open-mouthed and did not gather his wits in time to speak to her before she was down the cinder path and out of the gate.

  Esther walked home alone, alternately carrying Kate and getting the child to walk a short distance.

  The smell of roasting beef greeted her from the range oven as she stepped into the house. Esther sighed. She doubted her husb
and would return until very late, and more than likely he would be in no state to eat a Sunday dinner.

  At ten thirty that night, Esther was about to turn down the lamp and go up to bed when she heard singing in the yard. She hurried to the back door and opened it. In the bright moonlight, Matthew was standing in the middle of the yard, holding on to the pump for support and waving a bottle in one hand.

  ‘ “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never, never, never . . .” ’ He sagged against the pump. ‘Hello, Esh-ter. Come and kiss your soldier husband.’ He slithered down to sit on the ground propped against the pump.

  Esther moved forward slowly. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘ “Britons never, never, never . . .” ’ he began again.

  ‘No, no, not that. After that.’

  His head wobbled from side to side. ‘I – I forget.’ He took another swig at the bottle as if he wanted to obliterate the remotest chance of remembering.

  She took the bottle from him and flung it across the yard with all her strength. It smashed against the hen house and the frightened birds set up such a squawking that it sounded as if a fox had got in amongst them.

  She bent over him – as always when she was angry, hands on hips, feet spread apart. ‘Matthew Hilton, have you gone and volunteered?’

  Suddenly he seemed painfully sober. ‘I – I think I must have done, Esther.’ Slowly from his pocket he pulled a piece of crumpled paper. Awkwardly, he dragged himself to his feet, but Esther made no move to help him. Instead she took hold of his arm roughly and pushed him towards the house. ‘Then you’d better go back and un-volunteer.’ Inside she steered him into the kitchen. ‘Just you sit down there, me lad, and let’s have it. Just what have you done in your drunken state?’

  Matthew fell back into the wooden chair and passed a hand, which shook slightly, across his forehead. Beads of sweat glistened on his face. ‘Oh, Esther, I don’t know what I’ve done.’

  ‘Have you volunteered?’

  Matthew raised apologetic eyes to look at her. Slowly he nodded.

  ‘Whatever made you do such a stupid thing? You can’t go. What about the farm? I can’t manage the farm on my own.’

  Matthew’s smile was without humour. It was a smile of sadness. Soberly now, he said softly, ‘You don’t need me, Esther. You never did.’

  ‘Of course I need you, Matthew. Don’t be so stupid. If you can’t think about me and the farm, what about your daughter? What about Kate?’

  ‘Kate?’ He spoke her name almost as if he didn’t remember who she was. ‘Oh, Kate. Well, she dun’t need me either. You’re mother and father to her. We both know that.’

  ‘Matthew, will you stop being so – so deliberately stupid,’ she screamed at him.

  As her tone grew shriller, his by contrast grew softer and more patient – more resigned to what he had done. ‘Stupid? Yes, I’m stupid. At least I was.’

  He sat staring into the glowing embers of a dying fire. Esther, stunned by his manner, was quiet now.

  ‘I knew you only married me to get the tenancy of this farm, Esther,’ Matthew was saying quietly. ‘At least I didn’t give much thought to it afore we was wed The ironic smile twisted his mouth again. He had sobered swiftly, yet he was more talkative, more expansive and confiding than she had ever known him. She sank down on to the rug watching him as he talked, his face half in shadow illuminated only by the red glow from the fire.

  ‘I – ain’t been quite fair to you, Esther. I know that now. I blamed you for tricking me into marrying you, when really I – I should have married Beth.’

  There, it was said now, Esther thought, but she remained silent, sitting on the rug, hugging her knees up to her chest and staring into the glowing coals.

  ‘I wasn’t being fair to you, Esther,’ he repeated. ‘You were right when you said it was me who asked you to marry me. I did – ’cos I was mad to have you. I wanted you as I never wanted anyone before – not even Beth – in that way.’ He leaned forward and touched her cheek with unexpectedly gentle fingers. ‘Oh, Esther, I still want you – that way.’

  She bent her head and for a moment pressed his hand closer to her cheek, but she could not speak.

  ‘But I – I never stopped to really think things out/ he went on. ‘Beth was always there, had always been there for me, and –’ he sighed and moved restlessly – ‘and daft-like, I suppose I thought she always would be somehow. I never realized, y’see, that Beth was the only one who really loved me.’ His voice broke as he added hoarsely, I’m sorry, Esther. I’ve not done right by you –or Beth. Mebbe, just mebbe, I’ve chance now to prove I’m not all bad.’

  She moved then, knelt in front of him and put her arms around him and leant her head against his chest. ‘Oh, Matthew, you’re not bad, not wicked at all.’ She hugged him tight. ‘Don’t go, Matthew.’

  He buried his face in her hair and for once held her close in an embrace that was affectionate rather than lustful. Oh, Esther, I’ve no choice – now. It’s too late.’ His voice broke on a hoarse whisper. ‘Too late.’

  They clung together in a timeless moment, closer, now that they were to part, than they had ever been.

  The following morning when Esther opened the back door to go out to do the milking she saw that a swirling fog was rolling in from the sea, enveloping the farm, cutting it off from the outside world. How she wished that they could stay like that, cut off from everything outside the farm gate, a little island of their own, safe from the war and the cruel tongues of neighbours that had driven Matthew to prove himself not a coward.

  As she finished milking and was carrying the pails across the yard, Matthew came out of the back door, dressed in his Sunday best suit. Sombrely he met her gaze. Slowly he drew the Hunter watch from his pocket and unhooked the gold chain from his waistcoat. He held it out to her. ‘Here, Esther – ’ he cleared his throat – you’d best keep it till – till I come back.’

  Carefully, she set the pails down and took the watch from him. ‘Of course, Matthew, I’ll keep it safe for you – till you come home again.’

  They stared at each other wordlessly.

  She saw Matthew swallow, saw him pull in a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘I’d best be off then.’ He tried to smile, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘I – I don’t want ’em to think I’ve changed me mind.’

  ‘Have you seen Kate?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye.’ He glanced away and said gruffly, ‘Look after her – and ya’sen.’

  ‘Do you want me to come into town with you?’ she asked softly.

  He shook his head. ‘No – no, thanks.’

  ‘You’ll write, won’t you?’

  He shifted his feet. ‘I’m not much for writing, Esther. But I’ll try to let you know where I am and, well, if I’m all right — if ya want.’

  ‘Of course I want.’ She was about to add ‘don’t be stupid’, but for once she bit back the sharp retort in time.

  There was an awkwardness between them as if neither knew what to say and yet didn’t want the final moment to come.

  He bent and picked up the pails of milk. ‘I’ll carry these in for you.’

  Surprised, she merely nodded. She followed him into the house but stood in the scullery whilst he took the milk through to the pantry. She leant against the wall at the side of the window, her hands still cradling the watch. He came back and stood before her.

  ‘I’ll be off, then.’

  She nodded. ‘Take care of yourself, Matthew.’

  He nodded and stepped out over the threshold. Esther stood by the window near the back door watching Matthew walk across the yard and out of the gate. She could just see his shape through the swirling mist as he pulled the gate to behind him and turned towards the town. Then she saw him hesitate and stop. Slowly he turned around and took a few steps in the opposite direction towards the Point.

  Beth, she thought, he’s going to say goodbye to Beth – and to his son.

  She saw him
falter and stop again. He stood in the lane, a lonely figure, gazing towards the Point, straining to see the Elands’ boat home through the mist.

  Esther closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the cool glass.

  ‘Oh, Matthew, Matthew,’ she whispered.

  When she opened her eyes and looked again, he had disappeared from view.

  Twenty-one

  LETTERS had always been rare amongst the small community at the Point. The arrival of one used to cause anything from delighted surprise to worried consternation, and everyone knew about its coming within minutes, sometimes even before the real recipient.

  Now, letters, cards – news of any sort – were eagerly awaited and pounced upon. The first card, delivered by Will Benson on his rounds, came from Ernie Harris telling his parents he was still in training and had not yet heard of being posted abroad.

  A month after Matthew had left, a postcard arrived from him addressed to his wife. As Will handed it to her, Esther read the words Matthew had written so laboriously. ‘I am well. I hope you are too. Matthew.’ As an obvious afterthought, he added at the bottom, ‘And the child’.

  Esther sighed and a wry smile twitched her lips. Which child was he really thinking about, she wondered. Kate? Or his son who lived in the boat on the river bank?

  She pulled the back door wider. ‘Come on in, Will, ya dinner’s on the table.’

  ‘Eh, ya’re a grand lass and no mistake.’

  ‘You’ve always been good to me, Will. An’ I never forget those that’s done me good turns.’

  Will grinned amiably, and said shrewdly, ‘Aye, an’ I reckon you dun’t forget those that’s done you a bad turn either, eh, lass?’

  Esther laughed aloud, her bright eyes glinting. ‘How well you know me, Will Benson.’

  ‘Aye,’ Will murmured more to himself than to her. I reckon I do at that.’

  Esther handed Matthew’s postcard back to Will for him to read. He smiled. ‘Not much of a letter writer, is he?’