The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Don’t you be so cheeky, Missy, else . . .’

  Ella placed the kettle on the fire and turned to face Esther. ‘Don’t worry, Gran. I’ll not go tonight and I’ll be up bright and early to help Grandpa tomorrow.’

  ‘You go out tonight, love, if you want to,’ he began.

  ‘It’s all right, honest, Grandpa. I’ll just nip across to Rob’s, though, so they don’t wait for me.’

  She left the kitchen and was about to step out of the back door when she heard her grandfather’s voice again. She paused, listening, and then was sorry she had done so for her grandmother’s reply brought back all the hurt from years ago.

  ‘You’re too hard on the girl, Esther,’ he was saying. ‘She’s a good little lass, willing and helpful.’

  And then came the words Ella wished she had not heard. ‘She’s a right to be,’ Esther snapped. ‘It’s not everyone of my age would take in their daughter’s bastard to bring up.’

  Ella clutched the door jamb and closed her eyes, screwing them up tightly against the hurt.

  ‘Esther, love,’ her grandfather’s deep voice came reproachfully. ‘I know you had a rough upbringing under your aunt’s harsh ways, but don’t do the same thing to Ella. Don’t drive her to walk out, like you did.’

  Ella moved on out of the back door and walked slowly across the yard. What did her grandpa mean? Don’t do the same thing to Ella? What was ‘the same thing’?

  She was tired of all the hints and innuendos about the past, her past. Ever since she had first come here, had been forced by circumstances to stay here, her grandmother had never once answered her probing questions; indeed, often, she had become angry. The words Ella had overheard just now had been like the proverbial ‘last straw’. It was time she found out what all the secrets were; high time she started asking questions and getting some answers.

  But who could she ask?

  Biting her lip thoughtfully, she walked round to the front of the house, squeezed through the hole in the hedge and was soon flying round the edge of the field, no longer a meadow but where tomorrow they would plant the spring wheat, and across the plank bridge towards Rookery Farm.

  Grandma Eland might know. She’d ask her.

  He was driving the tractor into the yard at Rookery Farm.

  ‘Rob,’ she called, and waved, shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun dropping low in the western sky. He parked the tractor in the Dutch barn and cut the engine. Then he leapt down and they moved towards each other.

  ‘I can’t come tonight,’ Ella told him, pulling a face. ‘Gran says no.’

  She felt him looking at her closely, as he said, ‘There’s more to it than that. Her saying no has never stopped you before. You usually come anyway and take what’s comin’ later. So, come on – tell.’

  She pushed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and scuffed at the cobbles on the yard with the toe of her plimsoll.

  ‘She says it’s because Grandpa’s not too well. He does seem very tired and – and I daren’t call her bluff. Not this time.’

  ‘Oh, well, if that’s the case, then fair enough. Besides, your gran wouldn’t say it just to stop you going.’

  Ella glanced at him and smiled to herself. There he went again, sticking up for her grandmother. He’d never altered in his admiration for Esther Godfrey, ‘the Missus at Brumbys’ Farm’, and he wouldn’t hear a word said against her. Ella said nothing to disillusion him but she wasn’t quite sure she agreed with him; not in this instance anyway.

  ‘So you’ll tell Janice and Jimmy?’

  ‘Oh, if you don’t come I don’t think I’ll go either. It’s only a war film. I’m not that bothered about it. Besides, it’ll come again sometime.’

  Ella giggled. ‘Janice won’t like that,’ she murmured.

  ‘Eh?’ Rob looked startled. ‘What you on about? The film, d’ya mean?’

  ‘No, Bumpkin. The fact that you’re not going. Janice has a “thing” about you.’

  He stared at her. ‘Janice? Don’t be daft.’

  Her grin widened. ‘I’m not. Ever since we were ten, when I first came here.’

  ‘Oh, come off it. At ten? Why, I wasn’t giving girls a thought, then.’

  ‘Oh, I know that!’ She put her head on one side. ‘Changed a bit now, though, eh?’

  He had the grace to look sheepish.

  ‘I’ve always had the feeling,’ Ella went on slowly, ‘that Janice only befriended me at the start to get closer to you.’ She frowned, a half-forgotten memory nudging at her mind. ‘I seem to remember her saying something about our families being related. I didn’t take a lot of notice at the time. I was too upset about Mum and having to come and live here. I did ask Gran once, but I got my head snapped off – as usual!’ Ella lifted her head and looked at him. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Me?’ He looked startled. ‘Why should I know? The old ’uns don’t tell us much about owt that went on, d’they now?’

  ‘Worse than that,’ Ella said wryly. ‘They shut up like a clam when you ask them anything.’

  ‘Well, you’re such a nosey little blighter. Can you blame them?’ Then he paused and frowned more thoughtfully. ‘You know, now you mention it, there was something that, well, bothered me for a while . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was when I first saw your mam and my dad together. They seemed – well – very friendly. Too friendly.’

  Ella gaped at him. Such a thing had never entered her mind. From childhood she had seen the affection between her mother and Uncle Danny every time he had visited them in Lincoln and she had accepted it as being perfectly natural.

  The idea that there was anything wrong in it had never entered her head.

  ‘Mind you,’ Rob was saying, ‘Me mam didn’t seem to bother, so I just thought it must be okay. And then, of course . . .’ He left the words unspoken, for they both remembered that only a few days later, Kate had been drowned.

  Ella said slowly, ‘Your dad was dreadfully upset at her funeral though, wasn’t he?’

  Rob nodded and his troubled brown gaze met her candid blue eyes.

  ‘I wonder . . . ?’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ he prompted.

  ‘If your grandma would tell us?’

  He pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Ya can ask her, but whether she’ll tell you owt, now that’s another matter. And I should tread very carefully, if I was you. She gets very agitated if you ask questions. I was asking her about me grandad once. I was only interested ’cos I’m called after him. He was Robert Eland an’ all.’

  ‘He was killed in the pub at the Point, wasn’t he, when the bomb dropped on it?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, but when I said, “Tell me about me grandad”, d’you know, she started crying and I had to leave off.’

  ‘Perhaps it still upsets her to think about him,’ Ella suggested. ‘Anyway, I’ll be careful what I say.’

  Grandma Eland was sitting in an easy chair in the living room, dozing in front of a blazing fire. Her large bulk filled the chair, her head lolling against the back. Her mouth was open and her upper false teeth had dropped and were slightly askew in her mouth. She was snoring very gently.

  Ella stood uncertainly in the room, debating whether to tiptoe out again without disturbing her. Perhaps, if she waited a few moments, Grandma Eland would wake up. Ella sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fire, but the heat soon became too much against her cheek and she moved away to the other side of the room and leant against the sideboard.

  She glanced around the room; it was a cosy little sitting room where Rob’s grandmother spent most of her time now, dozing, knitting or reading. It seemed a dull life to Ella’s mind, totally different from that of her own gran who was on the go from six in the morning until ten at night, and yet Grandma Eland seemed contented enough. She had her family close by, all her own belongings around her, her memories. Ella’s glance took in the pictures on the wall, the ornaments on the mantelpiece,
the shabby furniture that had served a lifetime. Behind her, the carved wooden cuckoo clock whirred as a prelude to striking and then the tiny door flapped open and the bird appeared, ‘cuckoo-ed’ five times and shot back in again, the door snapping shut. Grandma Eland snored on. Ella smiled and turned to look at the clock standing on its white, lace-edged runner on the sideboard behind her. On either side were framed photographs: one of Uncle Danny in RAF uniform and a family group taken on Danny and Rosie’s wedding day. The bride was slim and very pretty, dressed in a costume with a spray of flowers pinned to her lapel and carrying a small bouquet. No white wedding in wartime, Ella thought sympathetically, as she bent to look closer. There were Danny and Rosie in the centre with Grandma Eland to one side. Standing next to her was a serious-looking man, with a full beard covering so much of his face that it was difficult to see his expression. That must be Rob’s grandad, she thought, the man he was named after – Robert Eland. She remembered being told that he had been killed only a few days after the wedding, when Danny and Rosie were away on honeymoon. Poor man, Ella thought. When that picture had been taken, he had only a few more days to live. On the other side of the bride and groom in the photograph stood Walter and Enid Maine, Rosie’s parents, and behind them . . . Now that was strange, Ella thought, she was sure it was her own gran and grandpa. She scanned the tiny faces in the picture once more, but there was no sign of the one person she had expected to see there – her own mother, Kate. But fancy her gran attending an Eland wedding!

  Her gaze flickered over the other pictures and came to rest on a silver-framed one at the very back. The photograph, sepia and faded with age, was of a young man in an old-fashioned uniform, standing very stiffly, his legs bound tightly knee to ankle. The jacket, buttoned up to his throat, looked tight and uncomfortable and in his eyes, staring straight at the camera, there was a strange look; not exactly fear, Ella decided, but certainly apprehension. He was not very tall, but stockily built and, though it was difficult to tell from the faded image, his hair looked to be dark and curling. Although the picture was obviously old, the young man’s face staring out at her reminded Ella of Rob.

  Ella frowned thoughtfully. The picture was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t remember having looked at all Grandma Eland’s treasured photographs before and yet . . . Maybe as a child, she had seen them and forgotten. She was turning away, when the door opened and Rosie came in carrying a tray.

  ‘There now, I’ve brought you both a cup o’ tea and a slice of plum bread.’ Her glance took in the still-sleeping Grandma Eland. Setting the tray on a small table, she moved towards the old lady.

  ‘Don’t disturb her, Aunty Rosie,’ Ella said softly, but Rosie only laughed and said, ‘It’s high time she was awake anyway. It’s almost tea time.’

  Ella watched as Rosie touched the old woman’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Grandma. Wakey-wakey. Ella’s come to see you.’

  As Grandma Eland lifted her head and blinked, Ella thought again how much older she looked than her own grandmother and yet they must be about the same age. Beth Eland’s hair was almost completely white, long and pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was round and on her fat cheeks were little red veins. She gasped as she heaved herself upright, straightened her dentures and said, ‘Why, Ella love, how nice.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a cup o’ tea,’ Rosie said. ‘You can sit and have a nice little chat.’

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Ella perched on the chair at the side of the fire again and began to pour out the tea, ‘I promised Gran, but I just wanted to ask you something.’

  She looked across at the old woman. What had they both been like, Esther and Beth, when they’d been young girls? ‘I – I just wondered. Did you know my gran when she was young?’

  The smile on the round face before her faded; the open, loving look in the dark eyes became wary. Beth’s hands, lying in her lap, became suddenly agitated, the fingers twisting together. ‘Why – why do you want to know?’ Her voice was only a whisper.

  Ella shrugged. ‘There’s something funny. Some sort of – of – mystery.’

  She heard the old lady draw in a sharp breath, saw the old eyes widen with a look of fear in their depths.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but – but I just wondered if you knew what my grannie was like as a young girl. Who brought her up? She sort of – well – hints that she had an unhappy childhood. She seems very bitter, yet when I ask her she shuts up like a clam and won’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ The relief on Beth’s face was immediately apparent. ‘Oh, well, I can’t tell you much, love.’ The smile was back on her shiny round face, the fear gone from her eyes in an instant. ‘All I know is that she’d been brought up by her aunt. Her mam had died when she – ya gran, that is – was born. And, by all accounts, the aunt just used her as a skivvy to help look after her own large family. About seven kids, I think she had; it was a lot anyway. Esther walked out one night when she was about sixteen . . .’ Beth was looking at her, but now her eyes had misted over and she seemed to be seeing pictures from the past rather than the young girl sitting in front of her. ‘About the age you are now. She came here to find work with old Sam Brumby.’

  ‘Brumby?’ Ella said quickly. ‘Sam Brumby? Is that why the farm’s called Brumbys’ Farm?’

  ‘Aye.’ Beth nodded. ‘His family had been tenants of the old squire’s family for generations. But when Sam died there was no one left to carry it on. And Esther wanted that farm. Oh, how Esther Everatt wanted that farm!’

  Suddenly there was a flash of fire in the old eyes, a spurt of red anger in her rounded cheeks. ‘She didn’t care what she did to get it neither . . .’ Her hands, the veins standing out sharply on the back, grasped the chair arms. ‘Didn’t care who she hurt . . .’

  ‘Hurt? What do you mean? Who did she hurt?’

  ‘Eh? Oh . . .’ With a start Beth seemed to come back to the present, became aware of exactly what she was saying to Ella. ‘Oh – I – er – I shouldn’t be telling you all this. It’s water under the bridge now, child. It doesn’t matter any more.’

  Suddenly tired, the old lady leant back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ she whispered again. But Ella had the uncomfortable feeling that it still mattered very much – whatever it was. And not only to Beth Eland. The shutters were down once more; Ella could probe no further even though she had not yet asked whether their two families were related somehow.

  If all the secrecy and mystery were anything to go by, there were several people around here who were still haunted by the past, events that had shaped their lives and still echoed down the years from generation to generation.

  Eighteen

  The roaring noise came closer. Ella stood up from where she had been bending over the milking machine and caught her grandfather’s glance.

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ he began, and then, grimacing a little as he eased his aching limbs into an upright position, they went out of the cowshed together. On the seat of the Ferguson tractor parked near the barn wall, Tibby stood up, his back arched, his fur fluffing out. Ella moved across to him. ‘It’s all right, Tibs, it won’t hurt you.’

  Tibby, at six years old, had grown into a large, sleek cat, showing a deceptive idleness that disappeared with the twitch of a whisker at the appearance of a mouse or young rat. Neutered, he displayed a condescending disinterest in the female of the species and seemed to spend his time either relaxing in the sun on summer days, stretched out in the yard in the shade of the pump or, in winter, curled up on the peg rug in front of the range, until shooed out by Esther when he got under her feet.

  ‘Useless, lazy animal,’ Esther would mutter, and Ella would smile to herself and tickle Tibby under his chin until he stretched out his neck, closed his eyes and purred blissfully. He spurned the attentions of anyone except Ella; only for her was there ever a welcome. He would walk across the yard to greet her, placing his white-tipped paws car
efully one in front of the other as he moved, his tail straight up, but the end crooked like a question mark. Now, under Ella’s touch, his fear subsided and he sat down again, curling his tail around himself and across his paws.

  But his huge green eyes were watchful.

  The noise was coming closer. Ella shaded her eyes and looked up the lane towards the town. ‘It’s a motorbike,’ she said. ‘But who . . .?’

  ‘One of the summer visitors from the town, I expect.’ Jonathan was about to turn away to go back into the shed, when the machine came hurtling round the last bend in the lane and into view.

  ‘Oh, no, it isn’t,’ Ella said, excitedly, ‘it’s Rob!’

  ‘Rob?’ Jonathan turned back, his interest at once re-kindled. ‘Rob on a motorbike?’

  But Ella was already running towards the farm gate and leaning over it as, the engine throbbing loudly, Rob pulled up and manoeuvred the motorcycle round to stop near the gate. He turned off the ignition and the engine spluttered and died. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat, his white teeth gleaming, his brown eyes sparkling.

  Jonathan came and stood beside Ella, resting his arms on the top of the gate. His eyes sparked with mischief as he said, ‘And where did you get that from, young feller?’

  The young man’s grin widened. ‘It’s mine, Mester Godfrey. I’ve been saving hard and me dad said he’d put the rest to it for me birthday.’ He looked at Ella. ‘I’ve come to take you for a spin.’

  She was climbing the gate, not bothering to open it, her leg thrown over the top, when her grandfather said, ‘Hold on a minute. You’re not supposed to carry anyone else until you’ve passed your test, are you?’ He pointed at the red L plates emblazoned on the front and rear of the machine.

  ‘Well, no, but no one’ll see us on these quiet lanes.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Rob, and you know it.’

  ‘Oh, Grandpa,’ Ella said, ‘don’t be such a killjoy.’ And she jumped down on the other side of the gate and swung her leg over the pillion, and, seating herself comfortably, wrapped her arms around Rob’s waist.