Half a Sixpence

by Evie Grace

  Catherine parted from Emily at the mill where one of Emily’s brothers was leaving the bakehouse next door with a basket of bread on his shoulders. He waved at Catherine and held the door open for his sister, like a gentleman, she thought, not like certain other ruffians who lived in the vicinity.

  Instead of continuing north towards the turnpike road that ran between Canterbury and Faversham, Catherine followed the left fork at the crossroads, passing Toad’s Bottom Cottage where the Carters lived. The porch was propped up with a chestnut pole that appeared to have been appropriated from the Rooks’ hop garden, and patches of damp had crept up the walls. Ten people shared the one-up, one-down tumbledown hovel. She’d often wondered how they fitted in, if they topped and tailed in the bedroom under the eaves of rotten thatch, or took it in turns to sleep.

  She began to run, not stopping until she reached her wonderful home: Wanstall Farm. She passed the front gate to the red-brick and tile farmhouse, where a shingle path ran across the lawn to a green door with a wrought-iron handle. The path continued on, disappearing behind a tall hedge into the garden behind it where the Rooks grew fruit, herbs and vegetables for the kitchen.

  Catherine turned into the farmyard, entering through a wooden gate in the wall that made up one side of the yard. To her left was a henhouse, pigsty and woodpile, along with a long timber barn where Pa stored feed and tools. In front of her, twenty brown chickens were cawing and scratching through the chaff outside the granary and stables. Between them was another gate that led out into the orchard and fields beyond while the rear of the house completed the fourth side of the yard.

  Looking up, Catherine noticed that the sash windows were still open from earlier that morning when Ma had sent their live-out maid round to air the rooms.

  She walked past the pump and stepped inside the back door where the cooler air made her skin like gooseflesh.

  ‘Catherine, is that you?’ her mother called.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’ Catherine found her in the kitchen along the corridor from the pantry.

  ‘Where have you been, young lady?’ Margaret Rook looked up from the oak table where she was pitting plums for a pie. She was a handsome woman with clear blue eyes and round cheeks. Silver and blonde strands of hair had escaped from her braids, and it seemed that her figure would burst from her dress if it wasn’t for the ties on her apron.

  ‘I walked straight back home from school with Emily.’ Catherine glanced towards the fireplace where the housemaid was stirring fruit and skimming the stones from the surface of a pan that was suspended above the flames. Drusilla was a country girl who’d been in the Rooks’ employ since she was fourteen years old. Now seventeen, she was a young woman whose hands and knees were calloused from scrubbing floors. Her greasy hair was tied back from a face scarred by pockmarks from an illness she’d had as a child. There were many who wouldn’t have taken her on because of it, but Ma hadn’t been able to afford to be fussy.

  ‘There’s bin no gallivantin’?’ Ma went on.

  ‘No, Ma.’

  Her mother stared and Drusilla gave her a sly glance, but Catherine didn’t waver.

  ‘How many times have I told you not to linger when I’m working my fingers to the bone? Where’s your bonnet?’

  ‘I must have left it behind,’ Catherine said defensively. She couldn’t help feeling that Ma blamed her for coming along so many years after her three siblings. There was Young Thomas Rook who was thirty-two and married with five children. He farmed land to the south of Selling, a moderate acreage that Pa had received in lieu of a debt when he’d rented out horses, waggons and labourers, and provided stock to the previous landowner. Then there was Ivy, who’d married Len the blacksmith. Catherine’s other brother John was twelve years older than her at twenty-five, and destined to be the future tenant of Wanstall Farm, so it was imperative that he find a suitable wife. He’d been courting Mary, a farmer’s daughter, for ages, but she seemed keener on him than he was on her.

  ‘How can you have forgotten it? Don’t you have any idea how much it costs to feed and clothe you? I despair. The sooner you’re wed and off my hands, the better.’

  She was far too young for marriage, Catherine knew, but Ma’s words still stung. At least they were just words, though, not the sting that Emily would have received from her mother’s hand if she’d been the one to arrive home without a bonnet.

  ‘Go and feed the pigs and chickens, and make sure you collect the eggs before you come back in here and take over from Drusilla.’ Ma mopped her brow with a muslin cloth. ‘I’ve been on my feet since the crack of dawn, and I’ve yet to call on Mrs Browning.’

  Catherine went outside with a bowl of scraps and meal. She tossed out handfuls of chicken feed and the hens came running. She watched them scrabble for the tastiest morsels, the bossiest hen harrying at the rest of the flock to keep them in their place. Poor Mrs Browning, she thought. The wife of the new vicar was being subjected to a barrage of visits by the other wives of the parish as, like the hens, they established their positions in the pecking order.

  Catherine hunted out the eggs, finding them in the henhouse that her brother John had made, and in the straw in the barn, and even one on top of the threshing machine that Pa had had repaired by the wheelwright and stored safely away in the granary ready for the harvest. She filled the bowl with eggs and returned it to the kitchen where she fetched a bucket of slops to feed to the pigs. Her favourite sow was in pig and it wouldn’t be long before she gave birth to her piglets. As she leaned over into the sty to scratch the sow’s back, she smiled at the thought of their tiny pink snouts and curly tails.

  ‘It won’t be long now, Margaret,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Margaret?’ Pa’s voice cut across the sow’s noisy slurping.

  ‘Pa?’ Catherine jumped and turned to find her father moving up beside her to look into the sty. She noticed how his grizzled hair was thinning on the top of his head.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d given her a name,’ he said, smiling affably.

  ‘I-I-I …’ Catherine stammered, her face hot. She hoped that Pa wouldn’t be cross that she had called the pig her mother’s name.

  ‘She’s rather keen on her rations,’ Pa went on, his brown eyes twinkling with humour. ‘She’s getting a good bellyful there.’

  Catherine had often wondered how Pa had turned Ma’s head. Married for thirty-four years, they were ill-matched in appearance and disposition. Pa was quick-witted, short and wiry-bodied with a tanned complexion. Ma was well spoken but sometimes slow of thought. They were in their early fifties, which Catherine considered to be very old, much older than Emily’s parents anyway.

  ‘Your ma is a good woman, you know,’ Pa said, more seriously. ‘She was born and bred to be a farmer’s wife in spite of all her airs and graces. I always tell her that she churns the best butter in the parish.’ At the sound of the horse and cart rolling into the yard, he turned and raised his hand. ‘Afternoon, George.’

  George pulled the horse up and clambered down to the ground. He looked older than Pa, Catherine thought, even though they were apparently the same age. He could have passed for five years short of a hundred with his stoop and magnificent grey beard. He wore a smock and a hat with a single brown feather.

  ‘The scythes are all ready for the cutters, Tom.’ George started to unload the tools that he’d taken to Len for sharpening. ‘The Irish are at Boughton, itching to start work on the harvest tomorrow.’

  Pa cast an eye towards the sky. He was always on edge in August, looking out for rain that might spoil the grain and worrying that there wouldn’t be enough people to bring in the crop. He would be relieved to hear that the travellers had arrived for the harvest, Catherine thought. She’d watched him out in the fields, breaking open an ear of corn to check it was ripe before leaning on his stick to listen for the snapping sound of the barley as it dried in the summer sun.

  ‘We’re all set for Monday,’ Pa said, confirming her expectation that there would be no mo
re school for a while. All hands would be needed to bring in the harvest, then when all the barley was gathered and carted away to the granary, Pa would provide supper and flagons of beer for the labourers, and they would dance the night away with George and the Carter boys playing the accordion and fiddle. Everyone, even Ma, would be happy.

  George unhitched the horse while Pa closed the gate across the entrance to the yard. Catherine waited to speak privately with her father.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ Pa said.

  George smiled and walked away.

  Pa turned to Catherine.

  ‘He’s a good man. He doesn’t ask for much.’

  ‘That’s because his family steal whatever they want from you,’ Catherine said matter-of-factly.

  Pa’s expression darkened. ‘What did you say, my girl?’

  She sensed the weight of her father’s disappointment, whether it was in the Carters or in her for telling him something he didn’t wish to hear, she wasn’t sure.

  ‘Is this hearsay, or do you have evidence?’

  ‘I seen it with my own eyes and heard it through my own ears. Matty confessed to filching onions.’

  Pa rubbed the ridge of his hooked nose with his forefinger.

  ‘You shouldn’t go around telling tales.’

  ‘It’s the truth. I thought you should know, Pa. The onions are your property and there are some who would make an example of him.’

  ‘Every family has their struggles, some more than others. The Carters have more children than they can look after, and the pure strain of having all them children has taken a toll on Ma Carter. The eldest is only a few years younger than our Young Thomas, and the littlest littl’un is barely out of swaddling clothes. Ma Carter might be younger than your ma, but all that child bearing has made her an unwell, weakened woman. She can’t do much, except for a little basket-making. The poor family can’t afford for Matty to be charged with larceny for the sake of a few onions.’

  Catherine shrank a little under Pa’s disapproving frown. She wished she’d held her tongue.

  ‘A long time ago,’ Pa began, reminding her of when she was a little girl and he used to sit her on his knee to tell her a story, ‘when George and I were littl’uns, we were larking about at the pond. There were a couple of branches leaning across the water and I reckoned I could balance on the top with my arms outstretched and walk the furthest. I got to the end and turned to come back, waving victorious, when there was a loud crack.’ He clapped his hands together to demonstrate. ‘The branch fell away and I went with it. I felt this sharp blow to my head and the chill of the water, and when I tried to swim up to the surface, the ghosts kept dragging me back.’

  Catherine shuddered as he continued, ‘I thought my lungs were going to burst. Then I heard George’s voice telling me to calm down and lie still. He fought off the spirits and saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would have drowned there and then in Ghost Hole Pond. I’ve never forgot. I swore I’d treat him as a brother from then on. Always.’

  It made sense now. Pa had persuaded the parish to pay the apprenticeship fee for Stephen to be bound by indenture to the blacksmith. He had employed Jervis, in spite of his reputation for unlawful behaviour, and ensured that Matty had attended school for long enough to have learned the basics of reading and writing. No doubt he would support the younger Carter children in similar ways.

  ‘I’ve had a bit of luck – the squire has always favoured me for the way I can coax more bushels of barley than anyone else from an acre of ground. I’ve risen in the world while others have stayed the same or been lowered, but I will never forget my roots. In my opinion, everyone, even those like Matty from the most humble background, should have the opportoonity to better themselves and make a good living for their families. The Carters have very little, Catherine. The littl’uns often go to bed with empty bellies. How would you feel if you were in their situation?’

  Catherine felt ashamed. She’d only wanted to protect Pa’s interests, but she wouldn’t have said anything if she’d known all the facts beforehand.

  ‘True friends are few and far between – make the most of the ones you have. And keep your own counsel in future. It’s a principle that’s served me well. No harm’s been done so that’s all I have to say on the matter. You’d better run along. Ma has a great deal to do’ – Pa grinned, revealing his crooked teeth – ‘as she takes much pleasure in telling me.’

  Catherine returned indoors. While Ma went to call on Mrs Browning, she boiled some eggs and helped Drusilla prepare a cold supper for the evening, along with potatoes and carrots for the Sunday roast which they would eat after church the following day. The shelves in the pantry were groaning with food for the workers’ lunches on Monday, which only added to Catherine’s guilt. Everyone knew that the Carters were poor, but she hadn’t understood how bad things were for them. It occurred to her that she could apologise to Matty in a practical way. No one would notice if some pie and cheese and a jar of preserves went missing, and who would condemn her when it was for a good cause?

  While Drusilla was distracted, standing on the slatted wood mat in front of the sink in the scullery, washing the dishes, Catherine slipped out with a wicker basket of provisions on her arm.

  Swapping it from one arm to the other, she made her way back up the hill to Toad’s Bottom. She couldn’t open the cottage gate which was firmly stuck on its hinges, so she climbed through a gap in the wall where the flints had fallen away, and walked up the path to the door. She stepped over several pairs of boots that were filled with grass, and raised her hand to knock. The door opened and Matty appeared in front of her.

  ‘Od rabbit it!’ he exclaimed roughly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  A small boy of about four, naked from the waist down, clung to his leg, staring at her. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes glittered with hunger.

  ‘I’ve brought some food for you,’ she said, sensing she had made some kind of mistake. She held out the basket.

  Matty pushed it aside as a woman’s voice called weakly from somewhere inside the dark depths of the cottage.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Nobody, Ma,’ Matty called back. He glared at Catherine. ‘We don’t need the Rooks’ charity.’ The timbre of his voice was more like a man’s than a boy’s.

  ‘I wanted to say sorry for accusing you of stealing. Well you did take the onions without asking, but I understand it wasn’t thieving. Why won’t you accept these things? You’re more than happy to receive money and food from my father.’

  ‘That’s in return for a favour done in the past. This is charity,’ Matty said emphatically. ‘You know it doesn’t suit you, going around with your nose stuck in the air like you’re better than everyone else.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she stammered. ‘That isn’t fair.’

  ‘You think you’re so special. Even your parents treat you different—’

  ‘How?’ she cut in.

  ‘Your ma wishes you’d never bin born while your pa puts you on a pedestal.’

  It was close to the truth, but she didn’t like to hear it. She often thought that Ma didn’t like her, and Pa did spoil her a little, but she assumed that was because she was the youngest and the last child in the line.

  ‘There are some around here who say you’re a changeling with your pale skin and long black hair,’ Matty went on, taunting her, ‘but you’re flesh and blood, the same as the rest of us.’

  ‘All I’m doing is trying to help. I can’t bear the thought of the littl’uns having empty bellies.’

  The child began to wail. Matty scooped him up and held him on his hip. He kissed his forehead and stroked his face, calming him down.

  ‘Be on your way.’ He closed the door in Catherine’s face, leaving her standing on the step, wondering how she could have misjudged the situation so badly. She was upset that Matty had rejected her offering, but what really hurt was the way he had expressed his opinion of her.

  She left the basket on the
wall, hoping that he might give in and take it before she returned from fetching Emily’s bonnet, which she found torn by the brambles where they had left it to dry. On her way back to the farm, she collected the basket, disappointed to find that its contents had been left untouched.

  ‘Catherine, wait for me,’ she heard Ma call. She turned. She was in the mire now, she thought with a jolt of panic. Her mother was almost upon her, giving her no time to hide the basket in the hedge, but Ma was too distracted to notice, her head filled with the lingering excitement of her visit to the vicarage.

  ‘Oh, you have no idea what a lovely time I’ve had,’ she sighed as they walked back towards the farm. ‘Mrs Browning is truly a lady of quality and merit. Her son, Hector, is a handsome fellow – he returns to school in Faversham in September. Her daughter Jane is a beauty to behold, a little pale maybe, but that’s because they’ve been living in London for the past several years. Mrs Browning allowed me to recommend the salt marsh lamb to her cook. That will soon put some colour back into her daughter’s cheeks.’

  ‘What about the vicar?’ Catherine said, keen to encourage her mother along this train of thought to divert her from the basket and its contents. ‘What is he like?’

  ‘He was out preparing for a meeting of the vestry, so I can’t say. We’ll find out soon enough. Mrs Browning says that he is determined to encourage the congregation to return wholeheartedly to the fold.’

  Catherine smiled to herself. The previous incumbent had been an unassuming man whose dreary sermons had sent his flock scattering across the countryside on a Sunday as he grew fat on his annual stipend paid from the tithes contributed by all the residents of the parish, rich and poor. He’d retired and the Church had given the Reverend Browning the living at Overshill. The church would no doubt be filled with people eager to view the new vicar. Ma began to stride ahead as they approached the farmhouse. Catherine hung back so she could deposit the basket’s contents back on the shelves in the pantry.