Without Jonathan, her world, the land she had once loved so fiercely and fought so hard to win, had become a desolate and melancholy place.
Now she watched for the postboy, praying that Jonathan would write to her. Was he missing her as much as she missed him?
No word came. As the days passed she found resentment against him growing. He hadn’t loved her. He couldn’t have done – or else he would have written. He would have found some way to send word to her – to let her know he was safe, to tell her he loved her still.
She heard nothing.
What had happened to him when he reported back to his unit? Maybe he was safe, she tried to tell herself, in prison for his wrongdoing, but safe. But in her heart she knew that even if he faced charges, eventually they would send him back out to the war front.
Why, oh, why, hadn’t he written to her? He didn’t love her, not really, she tormented herself. Already he had forgotten all about her. Letters and cards came through from the front. Even if he had been sent out to France again, he should still have been able to write to her. Then cold fear would clutch at her heart. He hadn’t written because he couldn’t – because he’d been killed. And here she was hating him for deserting her so coldly, whilst he was lying dead on some battlefield.
Yet she could not, would not, believe that she would never see him again, that he was gone from her for ever. It was the only shred of hope she had and she clung to it with all the tenacity that was in her nature.
One November night about a month after Jonathan had left, a night so calm and still that the sound of the sea drifted in clearly over the land, Esther came wearily down the stairs from seeing Kate into bed when she heard the strangest noise, faint at first, then growing louder. A cacophony of banging and clattering, like copper pans being beaten, rattling pots and whistles and horns. Nearer it came. She stepped outside her back door and saw lights bobbing in the lane outside the gate to her farmyard. Then, distinctly in the black stillness of the night, she heard the sound of chanting voices:
‘Her husband’s gone to war,
‘So she becomes a whore.
‘She leaves her work, she leaves her child
‘Her husband’s name she has defiled.
‘Her sins to the world we’ll tell,
‘Come out, come out, you Jezebel!’
Esther stepped back inside and slammed and bolted the door. She leant against it breathing hard. She closed her eyes and moaned aloud. They were ran-tan-tanning her! Her heart was pounding in her breast. Then a hot anger surged through her. She had not stayed outside long enough to see who was in the group, but now in comparative safety she looked out of the scullery window overlooking the yard. In the fitful light of the swinging lanterns, it was almost impossible to discern the faces, yet there were two figures which were recognizable by their shapes. The tall, looming bulk of Martha Willoughby and the stick-like thinness of her sister, Flo Jenkins, were in the forefront of the mocking group of ran-tan-tanners. Behind them, the other figures, laughing and chanting their crude verses, remained anonymous in the shadows, though she suspected there were one or two from the Point.
As the noise and shouting continued, echoing all around her farmhouse, she heard the frightened wail of her daughter from upstairs. She was about to turn away from the window to go up to Kate, when, for a brief instant as the lanterns swayed, she caught sight of a still, silent figure set apart from the rest, standing on the bank on the opposite side of the lane. Motionless, with her hand clutching a black shawl around her head, taking no part in the proceedings but just standing and watching – was Beth Eland.
For a long moment, Esther stood looking back at the woman, although she knew Beth couldn’t actually see her inside the darkness of her home.
Why was she there? Esther wondered. Had she thought up this escapade? Or had the Willoughby woman and her sister dragged Beth along to see her rival’s humiliation?
At that moment, Esther heard Kate’s sobs closer and turned to see her daughter standing in the doorway.
She went forward now and gently pushed Kate back into the kitchen. Closing the door behind them blotted out some of the noise.
‘What is it, Mamma? What’s that noise?’
‘Just some people had a mite too much to drink, and acting very silly. Tek no notice. Come . . .’ she offered, sitting down in the wooden chair and opening her arms to her daughter. ‘Come sit on me knee near the fire till they’ve gone.’
They sat together, their arms about each other, Esther’s tightly around her daughter’s shaking body, whilst Kate wound her sturdy, childish arms about Esther’s neck and leant her head against her shoulder.
‘I wish that nice man was still here with us,’ she murmured. ‘He’d make them stop. He’d make them go away.’
Esther stiffened and held her breath. ‘Who – who do ya mean, Katie?’
The noise still went on outside, but the child seemed less afraid now. She wrinkled up her smooth brow as if trying to remember. ‘The man who made me a shrimpin’ net – I don’t remember his name.’
Esther said quietly, ‘You mean J—Mr Godfrey.’ To herself, she added, and he’s the reason that mob’s outside yawping their heads off. Thank goodness you can’t understand what they’re calling your mother!
Suddenly the noise ceased. The woman and the child sat up, glanced at each other, then Kate slid to the floor and Esther got up. Hand in hand they tiptoed out to the back door. Making as little noise as possible in the silence that followed the din, Esther slid back the bolts and lifted the latch. They were still there, the lanterns swaying, feet shuffling, but they were quiet. All the banging of pans and whistling and chanting had stopped. In front of them stood the huge, avenging figure of Tom Willoughby.
‘. . . Get away to yar homes. Ashamed of ya’sens, y’ought to be. As for you, wife – if you ever, ever, do this sort o’ thing again to this lass and her bairn, I’ll tek off me belt to ya. Aye,’ he wagged his finger in the faces of those grouped behind Martha and Flo. ‘Aye, and then you’ll have cause to ran-tan-tan me as a wife-beater, won’t ya?’
‘She’s a bad ‘un, Tom, is Esther Hilton,’ came an unidentifiable man’s voice from the back. ‘No better than a tramp when she came and—’
Tom knew the speaker. He raised his voice. ‘Oh, aye, young Percy Souter. Does yar ma and pa know yet that you’m got a lass in Lynthorpe in the family way, eh?’
There was a ripple of embarrassed laughter amongst the crowd, but no answer from the youth. Tom was not finished yet. ‘And what about you, Joe Bridges? Why, I remember when we was lads together . . .’
‘Eh, steady on, Tom lad. Fairs fair, no need to rake up a young fellers wild oats, not when he’s a respectable married man.’
‘Respectable married man!’ Tom threw back his head and let his roar of laughter ring out into the night. ‘Eh Joe, that’s the best yet!’
‘All right, Tom, you win. We’re off home. Come on, lads, let’s get away afore he ses any more. You know a mite too much, Tom Willoughby, a mite too much.’
‘That I do,’ Tom said, his tone grim now. ‘There’s not one here amongst you that has the right to cast the first stone at her. Not one!’
It was as if the biblical reference finally shamed them all, for one by one they melted away into the blackness until only Tom was left to take a none-too-gentle hold of his wife and sister-in-law and march them off up the lane back towards Rookery Farm.
The weeks and months dragged on. Christmas was a hollow sham for Esther. She had hoped that she and Kate might still be invited to the Harrises’ as they had been on the two previous Christmases since Matthew had gone to war.
‘It’ll be company for the bairn being with my lot and I expect you could do with the company, lass,’ Ma Harris had said that first year in her warm, all-embracing way.
This year, no invitation came.
Since their quarrel Ma Harris had never come near Brumbys’ Farm, though she still allowed Enid to help Esther with th
e dairy work and to look after Kate. Even the younger boys helped about the farm and Enid still took Kate to her home. By what Esther could gather from Kate’s chatter, Ma treated the child no differently.
It’s just her mother she’s no time for now, Esther admitted ruefully.
She had thought that even Ma might relent in her coldness towards her at Christmas, if only for the child’s sake, but on Christmas Eve Kate hung her stocking on the kitchen mantelpiece and went alone to her room, whilst Esther sat in front of the range and thought of Jonathan. There was a goose cooking slowly in the oven and holly decorated the living room. There were mince pies and puddings in the pantry and only the two of them to share the festive fare.
How stupid and useless it all seemed, yet she had to try, she was obliged to try, for Kate.
But all she wanted was to go down to the beach, even in the cold of the winter, to their special hollow and try to relive those stolen hours in Jonathan’s arms.
Esther was relieved when Christmas was over. In the first few days of the New Year the weather had suddenly turned bitterly cold and, still struggling alone with the ploughing, Esther was in a state of near exhaustion each evening.
‘Esther, Esther!’
From the depths of fatigue she was roused by a loud banging on the back door and someone calling her name. She must have fallen asleep on the rug in front of the range, for the fire had gone out and the ashes were cold.
She shivered and pulled herself to her feet, staggering almost drunkenly with the tiredness that never seemed to leave her now, to open the door.
Robert Eland stood there in the darkness. ‘Esther, I’m sorry – but one of Tom Willoughby’s stacks is afire and the others are in danger. We need everyone we can get to help put it out. Will you come?’
‘Oh – of course,’ she hesitated, ‘but I must make sure Kate’s all right first.’
Robert Eland nodded and hurried away whilst Esther ran lightly upstairs to check on her sleeping daughter. Kate was not given to night terrors any more. Esther stood over the bed looking down upon the angelic face of her child. She bit the edge of her thumb and glanced around the room. The night-light! She dare not leave that burning. She put it out and then drew back the curtains. It was a clear, frosty night and the moonlight flooded the room. Kate would not be frightened now, even if she awoke.
Downstairs Esther checked that the fire in the range was out. Now everything was safe, she reassured herself. Within minutes she was half-running, half-walking up the lane towards the Grange and branching off towards Rookery Farm. The coldness of the night banished all sleep from her eyes. Ahead of her she could see the figures of the other men and women from the Point, all hurrying towards the glow in the sky that all farmers dread to see. As she neared the farm, she could smell the acrid smoke and see sparks showering into the night sky, dancing against the blackness and drifting dangerously towards the other stacks in the yard.
Between the burning stack and the well, they formed two chains, one to pass the water and one to return the empty containers for refill. They used anything they could lay hands upon. Two boys – Peter and Luke Harris – worked the well bucket, and the women and children made up the human chains, whilst Tom Willoughby and Robert Eland were nearest to the burning stack.
‘I don’t see Martha and that, sister of hers taking their places . . .’ Esther remarked to the woman nearest to her and, turning to glance at her, found herself looking directly into the dark eyes of a familiar face illuminated by the flickering light from the fire.
Esther caught her breath. ‘Beth!’ The name escaped her lips before she could stop herself.
‘Hello, Esther,’ Beth said quietly. As she passed a full bucket of water to Esther, their eyes met and held for a moment, until Esther turned away briefly to pass on the bucket. Her gaze was drawn back to the woman at her side standing patiently waiting for the next bucket to reach her.
Esther searched about her mind for something to say. But it was Beth who asked, scarcely above a whisper, ‘Have you heard any news from him lately?’
There was no need to ask who she meant.
‘No – no, I haven’t had a card for months now.’ Esther paused, but she felt Beth was waiting for her to say more. ‘They can’t always write, you know. It dun’t mean that anything awful’s happened to him. Besides, if it had, I’d have heard from the authorities . . .’ She stopped, suddenly aware of the strange circumstance. Here she was standing in a farmyard in the middle of the night whilst the flames of a burning stack leapt and danced and cast eerie shadows and grotesque shapes, trying to comfort Beth of all people! If it hadn’t been so heartrending, it would have been comical.
Beth said nothing. Esther watched her, wondering about her. There was a calmness and a quietness about Beth now. She seemed so much older than the girl who had shaken her fist in Esther’s face and laid a curse upon her for taking the man she loved. It was as if Beth had grown old in the space of a few short years. The promise of beauty that had been in her young, round face had never flowered. She was much thinner than Esther remembered, the high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks giving her a gaunt look, accentuated by the flickering shadows. Her eyes were dark, unfathomable pools of loneliness.
Was that what the loss of true love did to a person? Esther wondered. Would she, Esther, grow old, too, waiting and longing for Jonathan?
There was nothing else Esther could think of to say so they just carried on working side by side to save what they could of Toms stack.
By the time dawn was spreading cold fingers of light across the flat land, the fire was out and the helpers were trudging home, smut-faced and weary. Esther turned away, sickened by the sight of the blackened and smouldering hay which the men were still spreading and turning to make sure it would not blow up again into a blaze.
She felt someone grasp her arm and as she began to turn to see who it was, a hand slapped her face hard. Caught off balance by the sudden attack, Esther fell to the ground.
Martha Willoughby stood above her. ‘So, you thought you’d have revenge for your ran-tan-tanning by setting light to our stack, did you?’
Esther opened her mouth to protest, but the tirade was not finished. ‘Well, let me tell you, Esther Hilton. They all know you now round here for exactly what you are. A scheming hussy who tricked a dying man into leaving her everything that rightly belongs to others; who stole another girl’s sweetheart and her baby’s father and then – to cap it all – when he went to fight for his country, took another man, a deserter no less, into her bed. You’re a trollop, Esther Hilton. A whore and—’
Anger flooded through Esther and she struggled to her feet. She stood facing Martha, her eyes flashing fire, her hands on her hips. But before she could utter a word, Tom’s booming voice rang out in the early morning light.
‘That’s enough, Martha.’ He stepped between them, but his face was in shadow so that Esther could not see his expression. When he spoke his voice was so hard and cold that Esther was shocked. ‘Ya’d better go home, Esther.’
She stood before him now, swaying slightly. This was too much. Martha’s malice she could take, but not Tom’s animosity. Never Tom’s. The fatigue of the night’s work, her own very personal misery and now this threatened to overwhelm her. Esther’s shoulders sagged and her arms hung limply at her sides. All her strength drained from her. She looked up at Tom and tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, ‘Not you too, Tom. You don’t believe I’d fire ya stack? Surely you don’t!’
Tom shook his head as if not knowing what to believe. ‘Just – go home, Esther. It’d be for the best, lass.’
Martha was quiet now, watchful and triumphant. For a moment it had seemed as if her husband was going to take Esther’s side, but he had not. Even though he had not exactly taken his wife’s side either, Esther could feel Martha’s sense of victory.
She turned away hurt and sick at heart.
One day merged into another, each the same as the last. The work she had onc
e loved, had revelled in, became drudgery.
Where was the reason to go on living now that he was gone?
She wandered the shore, grieving as if Jonathan were already dead, lost to her for ever.
During the time that he had been with her she had attended church infrequently. It was as if she had been afraid of retribution, for her early childhood had been spent beneath the flailing arms and chest-beating, fire and brimstone preacher in the pulpit, who had instilled fear of eternal damnation into the young child, which even the maturity of later years and reasoning found hard to dispel completely.
Now she returned taking Kate with her and hoping to find comfort and understanding. Unashamedly – though only in the silence of her own heart – she prayed for Jonathan’s safety.
‘If only I could know that somewhere he is alive and safe, then I could find the will to go on living.’
She emerged from the church to shake hands with the vicar and nod to the members of the congregation she knew.
‘Ah – er – Mrs Hilton. Good morning. Er – so nice to see you.’ The vicar greeted her, but he seemed oddly ill-at-ease, and his handshake was swift and too brief. He seemed to snatch his hand away after the merest contact with hers, and turn away quickly to greet, with an exaggerated enthusiasm, the couple walking behind her.
Esther nodded to two or three people she knew by sight, but there was no courteous raising of hats by the gentlemen or answering smile from the ladies. One or two pointedly turned their heads away, deliberately cutting her. Esther held her head high, her chin jutting forward defiantly as she marched down the pathway and out into the road. It was obvious they had all heard about her and the soldier who had come to the Point, no doubt thanks to Martha Willoughby. So what? What did they know about falling in love and being loved by such a man as Jonathan Godfrey! Never, ever, would she allow anyone – least of all these people she hardly knew – to make her feel ashamed of loving Jonathan.
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 27
