The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘No, but at least he’s actually written to me.’

  They exchanged a glance of understanding. Will nodded but said nothing more, deliberately concentrating on the meat and potato pie she had placed before him. As always, after the first few mouthfuls, Will made a pretence of looking around the room as if he had just remembered. As usual, he said with careful casualness, ‘Where’s the little one, then?’

  It had become a ritual between them. Esther replied, ‘Sleeping upstairs, but I’ll fetch her down before you go.’

  Satisfied, Will nodded. ‘I’ve got a present for her.’

  ‘Oh, Will, really! You spoil the child. You really shouldn’t bring her something every week.’

  Will grinned. ‘Well, if I can’t spoil me – ’ he cleared his throat and finished – ‘me favourite little girl, then I dun’t know who can.’

  Gently, Esther said, ‘Didn’t you ever have any children, Will?’

  There was a long silence whilst Will kept his eyes downcast, concentrating on his plate as he mopped up the last vestige of gravy with a piece of bread, savouring every morsel. Esther thought perhaps she had trespassed too far on his privacy, that he was going to ignore her question, but at last he raised his head slowly and looked directly into her eyes.

  Choosing his words carefully, he said, It never happened with me and the wife, and then not very many years after we was wed she – well – she didn’t like that side of things. Y’know . . .’ Their eyes held together in a steady gaze. ‘But she were a good wife in every other way, every other way. And I – never wanted to see her hurt. I still don’t.’

  Slowly Esther inclined her head. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I can understand that. You’re a good man, Will Benson.’

  Colour suffused his cheeks and his voice was a little husky with emotion. ‘Mebbe I ain’t always been.’

  Esther stood up, not wanting to embarrass him any further. She grinned. ‘Not many of us are perfect all the time, Will. I reckon we’re all allowed a little slip now and again.’

  Will laughed, blowing away the moments of awkwardness between them.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch Kate down to see you.’

  Minutes later as she sat her sleepy daughter on Will’s knee and watched as he pulled a toy from his pocket, his head bent towards the child, Esther knew for certain what had lain hidden in the recesses of her mind, and her heart, for years. If only Will would say the words she longed to hear. But from their conversation a few moments before, it looked as if she would have to wait a long time – maybe for ever.

  There were a number of familiar faces missing at the Harvest Supper that year. All the young men had gone to war, and the last of the harvesting had been left to the old men, the women and children. Esther found herself meeting new people from more distant farms whom the squire had prevailed upon to help, and she in turn had to go some considerable way to help out in turn.

  ‘By, but we’re late getting it all in this year. How’s things with you?’ Tom Willoughby asked her.

  ‘Not too bad, Tom, thanks. We got it all in just before Matthew volunteered.’ Her mouth was grim at the memory of that night, nor could she forget the part Tom’s wife and sister-in-law had played. Esther was fair-minded enough, however, to know it was none of Tom’s doing.

  ‘Come up to my place in the morning, Esther, lass,’ Tom was saying, ‘and hitch a lift with my workers. We’re off to Browns’ Farm tomorrow and it’s five miles or more. You can’t be carrying your little girl that far.’

  Esther smiled her thanks and the morning saw her and Kate perched on the front of the wagon beside Tom Willoughby under the malevolent glare of his wife as the cart trundled out of the yard of Rookery Farm. Tom Willoughby never seemed to worry what his wife and sister-in-law said or did. He was far too intelligent, Esther thought, to be ignorant of their mischief-making, but no doubt long ago he had decided that the best way to treat it was to ignore it. Well, thought Esther, if he can then so can I, though inwardly she had to admit that she still felt resentment towards the two women for having goaded Matthew into volunteering.

  Esther found that her horses were much in demand too, and she received payment from some of the farmers for their use of Punch and Prince.

  ‘You’m lucky you’ve still got yar ’osses,’ Mr Souter told her. ‘They took the team I reckon to borrow from the squire in the first month of the war.’

  ‘What d’ya mean, Mr Souter? Who took them?’

  ‘This government official came – from the War Office, or whatever they call ’em. Commandeered them for service, he said.’

  Esther gasped. ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘Huh, can they just!’ Mr Souter said grimly.

  ‘Well, ya’re welcome to borrow mine, Mester Souter.’

  ‘Thank ’ee, Mrs Hilton. I might at that – while ya’ve still got ’em!’

  So it was not quite such a shock for Esther the day a thin-faced, hunch-backed little man with steel-rimmed spectacles and clutching a sheaf of papers under his arm knocked on the back door of Brumbys’ Farm.

  ‘I am sorry to inform you that you are required to give up your two farm horses, Mrs Hilton.’

  ‘I ain’t no ’osses,’ Esther said boldly, but at that moment, Punch decided to kick his stable door.

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he smiled thinly. ‘Really, Mrs Hilton,’ he said. ‘Well, I am informed—’

  ‘Oh, yes, and who informed you, might I ask?’ Esther said belligerently and added beneath her breath, ‘as if I didn’t know.’

  The man cleared his throat nervously. ‘There is another little matter, Mrs Hilton.’ ‘

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her tone was uninviting.

  ‘Yes – it’s about your grassland. Meadows.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘We need you to plough up some of your grassland for—’

  ‘I’ain’t ploughing me grassland up and that’s final!’ Esther’s eyes sparkled with defiance and she stood, hands on hips, facing him.

  ‘Well – er – Mrs Hilton – the Government . . .’

  ‘If the Gov’ment want to plough me land up, the Gov’ment can come and do it! And . . .’ she added menacingly, ‘I’d like to see ’em do it without ’osses.’

  ‘But, Mrs Hilton—’

  She flung her hand out to encompass the cows munching happily in the field to the left of the farmyard. ‘Where are you goin’ to get milk from if the cows ain’t no grass to feed on? You tell me that!’

  ‘Er – well, I don’t rightly . . .’

  ‘Exactly! I’ve never heard anything so daft in all me life. An’ if I lose me hay harvest, I can’t feed my livestock through the winter. If you tek me ’osses, I can’t bring either me hay in nor me corn harvest.’

  ‘Well, I do take your point about the grassland, but the horses, I really must insist—’

  ‘And I must insist,’ Esther said, her tone heavy with sarcasm, ‘that you leave me farm. This is private property.’

  ‘Madam.’ The man’s tone became lofty. ‘There is a war on.’

  ‘Dun’t I know it. Where do ya think me husband is? Out in France more than likely, when he should be here helping with the ploughing and the threshing.’ She took a step towards him and the little man backed away.

  ‘Well – er – I’ll see what I can do. I’ll – er – bid you good-day, Mrs Hilton.’

  ‘Good–day, mester.’

  Through narrowed eyes, she watched him go.

  Early the next morning, as the dawn stretched ringers of light across the sea, Esther led Punch and Prince across the marshland towards the East Dunes. Finding a sheltered hollow, she tethered them to a sturdy elder bush and left them, returning at night to lead them back to the farm to feed and again in the early morning leading them back again into the dunes. So, during the second week when the official came back with two men to lead her horses away, Esther was able to say, quite truthfully, ‘They ain’t here. They’ve gone.’

  ‘You mean someone’s t
aken them away?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, deliberately misinterpreting his meaning.

  ‘Well, really,’ muttered the little man. ‘I really do wish my colleagues would keep me informed of what they’re doing. Good day, Mrs Hilton. I apologize for having wasted your time.’

  Not until the little man and his helpers were safely out of earshot did Esther laugh aloud. It had been worth all the loss of sleep with her early morning and late night treks to the dunes to keep her horses!

  *

  Life for Esther had never been easy nor did she expect it to be, but caring for her child, running the farm and helping others in return for their help was beginning to take its toll even upon her strength and determination.

  ‘You’re losing weight, lass,’ Will told her, and not for the first time, ‘and you look tired.’

  Esther tried to smile but found that her brave act didn’t fool Will Benson anyway. ‘I am, Will. I’m very tired,’ she admitted to him as she would not have done to anyone else. ‘But,’ she added stoically, ‘what else is there to do? I made me own bed, an’ now I’ll have to lie in it.’

  ‘Aye, I know, lass, I know. But ya didn’t reckon on lying in it on ya own.’

  At that moment, Kate came toddling towards Will on her chubby legs, her arms outstretched to him asking to be picked up. Fondly, Esther watched them together, the greying wisps of Will’s hair, which still glinted red in the sunlight, close to the bright red-gold curls of the child as she wrapped her arms about his neck.

  ‘You’ll never guess, Esther, who came on the cart with me this morning.’ Will rocked Kate back and forth in his arms. She chortled and played with his watch chain.

  Esther wrinkled her forehead. ‘No one I know, was it?’

  Will nodded. ‘Young Ernie Harris.’

  Esther’s eyes lit up. ‘Ernie! Oh, that is good news. Is he home from the war? Home for good? He’s not hurt, is he?’

  Will laughed. ‘Whoa there, steady, lass.’ His face sobered. ‘No, he’s got a bit of leave because he’s to be sent out to France very soon.’

  ‘Sent to France?’ Esther’s voice dropped to a bewildered whisper. ‘They can’t send him out there. He’s not old enough!’

  Will shook his head. ‘He’ll have to go, Esther. He signed up.’

  Esther stared at him in disbelief.

  Later that day, Ernie arrived at the farm to see Esther. When she opened the back door to his knock she scarcely recognized the young man in army uniform. He seemed to have grown taller and certainly he had filled out. But his face still beamed at her with the familiar grin of Ernie Harris.

  ‘’Evening, missus. I couldn’t go again without seeing you.’

  ‘Oh, Ernie, how fine you look in your uniform. And how well, too.’ She laughed. ‘The food can’t be as bad as they make out, eh?’

  She held open the door as an invitation for him to step inside. He pulled his cap from his head and manoeuvred his pack through the doorway and into the kitchen.

  ‘Are you leaving already? I thought you only came this morning.’

  ‘I did – but I’ve got to catch the train back tonight.’

  ‘Train! Have you been on a train, Ernie?’

  Ernie nodded. ‘All the troops are moved about by train.’

  So, Esther thought irrationally, Matthew would be getting his longed-for ride on a train. I hope he thinks it’s worth it.

  Ernie looked bulky and awkward standing in full kit in the cramped space of her kitchen. ‘Lynthorpe is a bit of a difficult place to get to by train and be sure to be back in time.’ he was explaining. ‘I mustn’t be late reporting back to camp or I get put on a charge.’

  ‘A charge?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re very strict. You have to stick to all the rules and reg’lations. It’s a good life, though. I dun’t regret going, missus. I’m seeing a bit more of life and I’ve met some great fellers.’

  Esther nodded, her gaze travelling up and down the figure before her.

  His eyes were bright with excitement. ‘I’m really off to France.’

  ‘You – you want to go?’

  ‘Oh, yes, missus, I do.’

  ‘I – I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Matthew?’

  Ernie shook his head. ‘I did ask about him. We’re in the same regiment – the Fifth Battalion the Lincolnshire Regiment – but in different companies. I reckon Mester Hilton’s in the same company as Master Rodney, the squire’s son. If I ever bump into him, missus, I’ll tell him I’ve seen ya.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Ernie’s voice as he talked about his regiment.

  ‘Will he – will they be going to France too?’

  Ernie wrinkled his forehead. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know if we all go together or what, but I’ll keep a look out for him, missus.’ he promised finally.

  There was a moment of awkwardness between them before Ernie said, ‘I’d best be off. Goodbye. I hopes everything goes well on the farm for you. I’ve told our Enid to come and help you when she can. I hope that was all right, missus?’

  Esther nodded. ‘Thank you, Ernie. I’d be glad to have her.’ It would be a little bit of Ernie Harris close to her she thought.

  Esther had been suprised by her feelings after Ernie had gone. She missed him about the farm, missed the help he had given so willingly, and was lost without his cheerful good nature to lighten and days. especially the days when Matthew had sunk into one of his dark, silent moods.

  With an unaccustomed lump in her throat, Esther said, ‘Goodbye and – and good luck. Take care of yourself.’

  He put on his cap, placing it carefully at the right angle, pride in every movement. ‘I will, missus. I’ll be seeing you again.’

  With a cheerful wave, he was gone. Across the yard and out of the gate, where he turned to wave again and then set off up the lane towards the town.

  It was to be the last they of Ernie Harris.

  Twenty-two

  CHRISTMAS that year – the time by which they had all believed the war would be over – came and went. It lacked the usual festive feeling. The adults had to force themselves to make merry for the sake of the children, but a cloud hung over everyone.

  A small package came for Esther who, never having received anything like that before, fingered it nervously before opening it. Inside was a Christmas card from Matthew. There were also two copies of a photograph of him in uniform. On the back he had written, ‘Some of the lads had their pictures took, so I did too.’

  From the photograph, Matthew’s solemn face stared up at her. He looked very grand in his uniform. It looked grey on the photograph, but she knew from having seen Ernie that it would be khaki, buttoned up to the neck. He stood stiffly, with his feet set slightly apart, his legs encased to the knees in a sort of bandage – there must be a name for them but Esther didn’t know what it was. On his feet were sturdy boots. Well, she thought, Matthew’s used to wearing them, but he looks thinner in the face. His eyes, staring straight into the camera, held a scarcely concealed fear. He had been plunged into a strange and violent world, and he must now be seeing sights and experiencing tragedies he had never before imagined even in his worst nightmares. Already he looked a very different man from the one who had left Fleethaven Point only a few months ago. He looked as if he had aged ten years in as many weeks.

  The photographs were identical and Esther wondered why he had sent two. Perhaps it had been a standard fee for so many and, not having had anyone else to send one to, he had sent them both to her.

  The thought struck her suddenly, flashing unbidden into her mind. Perhaps he wanted Beth to have one, but did not like to send it to her direct because of Robert Eland.

  Esther sniffed. Well, he’s had that! she thought with a trace of belligerence and tucked the spare photograph into a drawer, slamming it shut with an air of finality. She carried the photograph of Matthew upstairs. Taking the old picture of Sam Brumbys parents out of its silver frame, she found that the new one of Matthew fitted
perfectly in its place. Downstairs again, she stood it on the mantelpiece in the kitchen. Alongside it she placed the pretty Christmas card. It was the first card she could ever remember having received.

  She picked Kate up and pointed to the photograph. ‘Look, Kate, that’s your daddy.’

  The child pointed. ‘Dadda,’ she said obediently. ‘Where Dadda?’

  ‘He’s away, darling,’ Esther murmured. ‘Maybe for a long time.’ As the child wriggled to be set down to run outside to play, Esther was left staring at the photograph of her husband.

  Three months later on a blustery Friday in March, the news made headlines in the local paper which Will Benson now brought out to the Point each week. Along-side a notice of yet another mass meeting for recruitment with the clarion call to ‘Come and Join His Majesty’s Forces’ were the words:

  BRITISH CASUALTIES

  Local squire’s son and estate worker killed on the same day.

  The sad news has reached our town of a tragic loss to our community. Corporal Rodney Marshall, of the Fifth Battalion, the Lincolnshire Regiment, son of Mr and Mrs Marshall of Fleethaven Grange, has laid down his life for his country. Corporal Marshall was one of the first from this district to enlist when Major Langley gave his stirring address at a meeting in the town at the beginning of September last, only a month after hostilities had broken out.

  Corporal Marshall was born at the Grange and had attended a boarding school in Lincoln where, only this year, he gained a place at Oxford, which, but for the outbreak of war and his immediate courageous enlistment, he would have taken up last October. A fine young man who undoubtedly had a brilliant career ahead of him, has made the greatest sacrifice of all. Our deepest sympathy is extended to his parents and brother, but we share in their pride at the great sacrifice he has made.

  Killed also on the same day and from the same Regiment as Corporal Marshall was Private Ernest Harris, a worker on Squire Marshall’s estate.