The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  They were sitting together in the deepening dusk, the only light coming from the glow of the coals in the range. Ella sat on the rug, her head resting against her grannie’s knee, the old hands stroking her hair.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you, lass.’ Esther’s voice was strangely hesitant.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘That mark on ya face. What’ve ya done? Where – where’s it gone?’

  Ella twisted her head and looked up at her, meeting her eyes, dark in the shadows.

  ‘It’s just make-up.’ She laughed. ‘It’s good, isn’t it? Covers it completely.’

  Esther was biting her lower lip.

  ‘What is it, Grannie?’ Ella prompted gently.

  ‘I always felt so guilty about it.’

  ‘Guilty? Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was my fault you got it.’

  Ella shook her head, mystified. ‘How could it be?’

  ‘When Kate came to tell us she was pregnant I was so angry, I lashed out at her. After all I’d taught her. Never to give ’ersen to a man till she had a wedding band on her finger. Never to bring a bastard into the world . . .’

  Understanding now fully what lay behind the old lady’s unbending attitude, knowing the heartache of her early years that had caused her to be so bitter, Ella squeezed her hand.

  ‘I hit her, Ella, right on her cheek and – and when you were born, you had that little birthmark . . .’ she swallowed, and Ella knew instinctively that Esther was not finding her confession easy, ‘. . . right where my fingers left their mark on Kate’s face.’

  Ella knelt up and put her arms about her grandmother. ‘Oh, Grannie. That’s all a load of old wives’ tales. It was just coincidence. Nothing more.’

  ‘I ain’t so sure . . .’ the voice quavered, vulnerable at the telling of a long-buried guilt.

  ‘Well, I am,’ the young girl said confidently. ‘It’s all a lot of nonsense. You’re not to think of it any more.’

  She kissed Esther’s cheek and found herself once more clasped in a fierce bear-hug.

  The words were muffled against her hair, but she heard them. ‘Oh, Ella, I do love you. Really, I do. I always have.’

  Much later when her grannie had gone up to bed and Ella had washed every plate and cup and saucer that Esther seemed to possess, she went outside to shut the hens up for the night, calling softly to her cat. ‘Tibby? Come on. They’ve all gone now.’ But there was no sign of him. She smiled to herself. I expect he’s mousing in the field, she thought.

  It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear, the moon and stars bathing the countryside in their silvery glow. She stood and breathed in the air, listened to the distant sound of the sea, so much clearer in the darkness. She strolled amongst the trees in the orchard and then pushed her way through the hole in the hedge.

  ‘Tibby? Where are you?’ she called again. Even in the moonlight she could see the flattened wheat and sighed. She really would have to tackle this field soon, but she wasn’t quite sure what to do and she didn’t want to worry her grandparents. Maybe she would walk over to Rookery Farm tomorrow and ask Uncle Danny for his advice.

  She heard Rob’s whistling through the darkness long before she heard the rustle of his footsteps through the corn coming towards the hole in the hedge.

  ‘And what brings you out so late, Bumpkin?’ she called.

  ‘By heck. Ya made me jump.’ He laughed and, as he came closer, said, ‘I might ask the same of you, Townie.’

  ‘I’m looking for that stupid cat of mine. I reckon he took fright at all the visitors.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll come back when he’s good and ready.’

  They stood together listening to the sounds of the night. The soft hoot of an owl and a rustling in the hedgerows as the night creatures came awake.

  ‘The old ’uns all right?’ he enquired.

  In the darkness, she smiled. ‘Fine. Tired, but I think they’ve enjoyed it.’

  Again there was a long silence and she heard him shuffling his boot on the ground.

  Then through the darkness came the same words her grandmother had asked, ‘When are you going, then?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Ya mean – ya don’t mean – ya staying?’

  ‘Yes. You won’t get rid of me so easy again.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said simply. ‘They need you. We . . .’ his voice dropped so low she almost missed the words, ‘. . . we all do.’

  She felt his arm come round her shoulder and she let it lie there. It felt warm; it felt right. But there was one question she had to ask; something she had to know.

  Softly, she said, ‘Rob?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘What about Janice?’

  ‘Janice?’ She felt his head turn towards her and, although in the shadows she could not read his expression, she could hear the surprise in his voice. ‘What about Janice? Didn’t you know? She’s gone to live in Leicester. Followed some lads back there in the summer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rob.’

  ‘Sorry? Why are you sorry?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you . . .? I mean, weren’t you and her going out together?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then he threw back his head and let out a guffaw of laughter into the still night air. ‘Me and Janice? You’ve gotta be joking.’

  ‘But – but you used to take her out on your bike . . .’

  His arm round her shoulders tightened and his voice was husky as, close against her ear, he said, ‘Only ’cos I couldn’t take you, Ella Hilton. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No – no, I didn’t.’ Inside her chest her heart felt as if it were turning somersaults.

  Rob cleared his throat and somehow his voice didn’t sound quite steady now as he asked, ‘Could you use a little help with the ploughing tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Right, I’ll be here first thing,’ he said, but he made no move to let her go.

  Tomorrow, she thought as she slipped her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder, together, they would plough the first furrow of the rest of their lives.

  Epilogue

  On 19 September, 1964, the marriage between Robert Eland and Danielle Hilton took place in the local church, the bride walking proudly down the aisle on the arm of her father. As the bridal party came out of the church into the blustery sunlight, the two grandmothers, Esther and Beth, walked side by side, their arms linked, beaming proudly. The bride paused as she walked down the path and, lifting her long white gown, she moved amongst the gravestones to lay her bouquet on the grave of her mother, Kate. Then she stooped and from the bouquet she plucked a single red rose and laid it on the grave of Matthew Hilton, the grandfather both she and her new husband shared.

  Mr Arthur Marshall, still the owner of the Grange and all the surrounding farmland, save that belonging to Esther Godfrey and Brumbys’ Farm, was delighted to sell the crumbling, derelict house that had once been his family’s home to the young Mr and Mrs Eland, and though he still retained the ownership of the land surrounding it, he granted them the tenancy to farm the land too.

  So Rob and Ella painted and decorated and rebuilt their new home and moved into the Grange where Rob had always vowed he would one day live.

  Two years later, Ella was able to say, ‘And now we’re a family,’ as she laid Rob’s son in his arms, the two old ladies hovering impatiently in the background for a sight of their first great-grandchild.

  Two more boys were born to Ella and Rob and then a little girl with bright red curls and a smile like the sun appearing after storm clouds; a little girl they named Esther Elizabeth.

  Peggy retired from her job in Lincoln and came to live in her own rooms in the Grange, becoming self-appointed nanny to Ella’s growing family, and Philip Trent was a regular and frequent visitor, bringing his mother, too, whenever her failing health permitted.

  In the winter of 1975, Jon
athan Godfrey died peacefully in his sleep and four weeks later, losing the will to live without him, Esther faded, withered and died. At her bedside, Beth Eland sat holding her hand until the end.

  They’re all buried in the small churchyard now: Esther and Jonathan, alongside their beloved Kate; Beth beside her husband, Robert Eland; and only a few feet away from them all, lies Matthew Hilton.

  Danny and Rosie still live at Rookery Farm, although now, Danny’s working day is more in the capacity of foreman.

  And Brumbys’ Farm? Of course, it now belongs to Ella and forms part of the land which Rob and she farm together. But the house lies empty, waiting to love and be loved once more.

  Though it is not entirely forgotten, for on summer days Ella will walk down the lane, over the stile and across the fields to squeeze through the hole in the hedge. She wanders through the empty rooms, pauses in a shaft of dusty sunlight, and hearing ghostly voices from the past, whispers in reply, ‘I’m here, Grannie, I’m still here.’

  Acknowledgements

  My special thanks to Ruth Walker, Museum Assistant at Lincolnshire County Council’s Church Farm Museum, Skegness, on which ‘Brumbys’ Farm’ is modelled, for all her interest and help in my research.

  I am also deeply grateful to those who so generously gave me their time and expertise and also shared their memories with me; Caroline and Gwyn Morris; Renée Bradford; Linda and Terry Allaway; Pauline Griggs; my sister and her husband, Robena and Fred Hill, and all the staff at Skegness Library for their ever cheerful and friendly responses to all my ‘difficult questions’.

  To all of you, my love, my gratitude and my thanks. Your kind interest is a constant source of inspiration.

  M.D.

  Skegness, 1996

  The Fleethaven Trilogy

  Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

  Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-four further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy. Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands, the stories included not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham. The Workhouse Museum at Southwell in Nottinghamshire inspired Without Sin and the magnificent countryside of Derbyshire and the fascinating town of Macclesfield in Cheshire formed the backdrop for the story of Paupers Gold. Wish Me Luck returned to Lincolnshire once more and the county was also the setting for Sing As We Go. Part of the story in Suffragette Girl took place in Davos, Switzerland, but Sons and Daughters was set solely in the flat marshlands near the East Coast. Forgive and Forget centres on the rich history of the beautiful city of Lincoln, while Jennys War is divided between Margaret Dickinsons beloved Lincolnshire, wartime London and the rolling hills and dales of Derbyshire.

  ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON

  Sow the Seed

  Reap the Harvest

  The Miller’s Daughter

  Chaff upon the Wind

  The Fisher Lass

  The Tulip Girl

  The River Folk

  Tangled Threads

  Twisted Strands

  Red Sky in the Morning

  Without Sin

  Without Sin

  Pauper’s Gold

  Wish Me Luck

  Sing as We Go

  Suffragette Girl

  Sons and Daughters

  The books in this trilogy are works of fiction and are entirely a product of the author’s imagination. Although specific settings have been used in the interests of authenticity for a regional saga, and duly acknowledged, all the characters are entirely fictitious and any similarity to real persons is purely coincidental.

  For Dennis, Mandy and Zoë

  Plough the Furrow first published 1994 by Pan Books

  Sow the Seed first published 1995 by Pan Books

  Reap the Harvest first published 1996 by Pan Books

  This electronic omnibus edition published 2012 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-3542-2 EPUB

  Copyright © Margaret Dickinson 1994, 1995, 1996

  The right of Margaret Dickinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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