by Evie Grace
Reluctantly, Catherine tied her bonnet and pulled on her cloak to accompany them. She feared that John would be mocked for his slow, mumbling speech and the way that he walked.
‘The love of a good woman will make him well again. When Mary sees him, her breast will flood with compassion and affection. They will be married within the month. Trust me.’ Pa placed a walking stick into John’s left hand and picked a second one from the stand in the hall for himself. ‘Let’s go.’
The bells rang out as the Rooks strolled towards the church.
‘We should have brought the wheelbarrow for him,’ Catherine remarked. ‘He is too slow, walking along and dragging his foot like that.’
‘He’s got to do it himself,’ Pa said. ‘It won’t be long before he can move faster and be more graceful than a hare.’
They walked along the path between the gravestones and into the church, where they took their places alongside the Millichips. Catherine noticed how Pa settled John at the end of the oak bench beside the aisle, sitting him upright with a hassock tucked under his right arm.
‘How are you?’ Emily asked quietly. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘I haven’t had a moment to myself.’ Catherine returned Emily’s smile, but she could hear the whispers echoing around the nave: He’s an idiot, thanks to that machine. I said no good would come of it.
A draught whisked along the aisle as Mr and Mrs Nobbs rushed with their daughter to their seats.
‘I told you we’d be late, Mr Nobbs,’ his wife grumbled.
‘We’re here to a dot,’ he said, taking off his coat.
‘Oh my.’ Mrs Nobbs touched the brooch at her throat. ‘Look who’s here.’
Mary uttered a small cry.
‘John, it’s you.’
Ignoring her mother’s entreaties to stay at her side, she crossed the aisle to where he was sitting, his body slowly slumping to one side. She leaned across and touched his cheek.
‘John, it’s me, Mary.’
He gazed at her, his mouth half-open and one eyebrow raised.
‘If this is one of your jokes, please stop.’ Mary turned to Pa. ‘Mr Rook, what’s the matter with him?’
‘There’s nothing amiss.’ Pa gave John a hefty dig in the ribs, making him grunt. ‘Son, stop pretending like you’ve never seen your wife-to-be before.’
Deep furrows formed across the left side of John’s forehead.
‘I never seen this lady before,’ he mumbled.
‘Come on. How many times have we talked about Mary? Only yesterday, when we took the cart to market, you were telling me what joys marriage to such a beautiful and accomplished, and I have to add, suitable, young woman will bring you.’ Pa looked straight at Mr Nobbs who was at his daughter’s side, staring at John as if he was trying to associate this John with the engaging young man that he remembered. ‘He was fair aflame with passion,’ Pa said aside to Mary’s father to emphasise his point.
Catherine sensed that Mr Nobbs didn’t believe a word that Pa was saying, which was unfair, she thought, when Pa was never anything but scrupulously honest. She had never heard him tell a lie. He just wouldn’t, but the whole congregation was silent, anticipating a scandal. His words simply didn’t ring true.
‘We must arrange for the banns to be read forthwith, so we can unite our families in celebrating the union of your daughter and my son,’ he went on. ‘Isn’t that right, Margaret?’
‘It is indeed, Thomas.’ Ma played along. ‘There’s nothing that will give me more pleasure than seeing the matter settled.’
‘I shan’t marry a simpleton,’ Mary cut in, her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Mrs Nobbs said. ‘John is still a fine young man. Look at him, sat there in his Sunday best.’
‘It would be cruel to let him down now, after what he’s been through,’ Ma said.
‘I shan’t be made to feel obliged. When we were walking out together, it was John who delayed and made excuses about why we shouldn’t be married. He doesn’t remember me, so it won’t be any loss to him. That’s the only consolation I have, for I was fond of him – as he was.’
‘You’re right, Mary. There are other, more eligible bachelors around here,’ Mr Nobbs said. ‘I don’t see why my daughter should be hitched to but half a man.’
‘Eventually, John will inherit the tenancy,’ his wife said in a shrill voice. ‘They will have security and a good living.’
But not a happy life, Catherine thought.
‘The succession of the tenancy isn’t a foregone conclusion,’ Mr Nobbs said. ‘The squire is at liberty to change his mind at any time. There’s no reason why Wanstall Farm should remain in the hands of the Rooks.’
Catherine could sense Ma bristling with fury.
‘Why, I’d like to get my hands on it, if I could, but not like this,’ he went on.
‘What is John’s opinion?’ Mrs Nobbs said.
There was a pause as they waited to see if he would express a desire for marriage to someone who was apparently a complete stranger to him, but he seemed overwhelmed.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said eventually.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mary unfastened the delicate chain that hung around her neck and let the locket from it slide into her palm. She pressed it into John’s useless hand. It dropped to the floor and bounced under the pew. No one moved to find it. ‘Take that as confirmation that we are no longer engaged.’ With a cry, she ran out of the church with her mother following close behind.
‘Good day, Mr and Mrs Rook, Miss Rook, John,’ Mr Nobbs said. ‘I’m glad we’ve had that out, Mary has been fretting so. I’m sorry for your troubles.’ He put his coat back on. ‘We won’t stay for the service. We’ve bin through more than enough suffering for one day.’
He walked away as the Reverend Browning ascended the pulpit and struggled to attract the congregation’s attention.
‘Why didn’t you stand up for our son?’ Ma hissed. ‘Why didn’t you insist that Mary married him?’
‘Because anyone could see she didn’t want him. She would have made his life a misery.’ Pa scowled at his wife. ‘There’s more than enow misery around here without that.’
The Reverend Browning thumped the pulpit with his fist.
‘I told you not to bring him and you wouldn’t listen to me. You’ve shamed our family in front of the whole village,’ Ma went on, and she would have continued to harangue her husband if Matty hadn’t appeared with the vamping horn and passed it to the vicar, who put it to his lips.
‘I will have quiet!’ His voice, magnified by the horn, silenced her. ‘That’s better. Perhaps members of the watch would like to return church property to its correct place in future.’
‘Perhaps they would,’ Matty said brightly as he headed back to his place in the gallery.
Catherine couldn’t help smiling at the inconvenience inflicted on the vicar. Pa and the local farmers had continued to employ some of the men to look out for rioters during the weeks after John’s accident. The men had borrowed the vamping horn in case they needed it to warn the villagers of impending trouble.
The choir struck up at the required time. The fiddle broke in first, followed by the slow boom of the bassoon, and the whining tones of Jervis Carter, who sounded as though he was still in his cups from the night before. Stephen joined in three beats later, and the whole ensemble sounded like an elegy at a funeral.
‘Stop, stop, stop!’ the vicar lisped.
Jervis stopped singing and peered out over the gallery. The fiddle paused and the bassoon continued.
‘Please, sirs, you cannot proceed,’ the vicar shouted, but the bassoon didn’t stop until the verger went up the steps to the gallery to relay the message.
‘What’s the problem?’ George asked. ‘Do you want us to play something else? A more cheerful toon?’
‘Something to counteract the mournful tone of this service would be most acceptable,’ the squire said.
&
nbsp; ‘Hear, hear,’ came a murmur from the congregation.
‘How about “Who Would True Valour See”?’ George suggested. ‘Or “Salvation! O the joyful sound!”?’
Matty plucked idly at his fiddle strings and Jervis waved at someone seated near the back of the church.
‘May I remind you that you are performing in a holy place as part of our worship, so the utmost care should be taken to avoid this indecent levity? I implore you to avoid strong beer before Sunday service in future.’
‘You can’t make us,’ Jervis muttered.
‘I can lobby the churchwardens to cut your pay if you persist in turning up in an unfit state and unable to enter thoroughly into the sentiments of each chosen psalm.’
‘You can’t tell me how to play. I come from a moosical family,’ George said.
‘So you know that the sound that you make should die away gradually and in harmony. Everyone should follow the same beat so the congregation can sing along with you. At the moment, they are totally lost. I shall have to press ahead with my plan to bring in a singing master,’ the vicar said sternly.
‘We’ve never had any complaints before,’ George said, his tone one of sadness and confusion.
‘We sing as we feel at the time,’ Jervis said.
‘Can’t you discuss this at the next parish meeting?’ the squire said impatiently. ‘It’s irrelevant to the rest of us.’
‘Irrelevant? It’s in everyone’s interest to have a competent and clean-living choir to assist us in our worship.’
‘I’d be more interested in finishing in time for an early luncheon so I can ride out before dusk than quibbling over the rules of music-making,’ the squire said.
‘I’m very hungry,’ John said loudly, causing a ripple of laughter. ‘Mama, what’s for dinner? I should like bread and jam.’
‘May these disruptions stop!’ the vicar exclaimed. ‘Mr Rook, please remove your son from the church.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my John,’ Pa said, his eyes gleaming with fervour.
‘And some tripe and onions, and a slice of brawn,’ John added.
‘He can return when his head is mended and he no longer behaves like a child. He is driving me to distraction.’
‘There is nothing wrong with him,’ Pa repeated.
‘I shall keep him in my prayers, hoping that it pleaseth the Lord for him to make a complete recovery, but he can’t stay here.’
‘Look at him. He’s walking and talking like he was in the months before the accident. Stand up, lad.’ Pa held out both hands to help John up. He struggled to rise from the pew, knocking his arm against it as he extricated himself from his seat.
‘Are we going home for dinner now?’ he said.
‘Hush, John,’ Pa said.
‘Oh, he is sadly changed,’ Mrs Millichip observed. ‘He has but half a smile on his handsome face.’
‘He is like a baby,’ said her husband.
‘Don’t listen to them,’ Emily whispered so only Catherine could hear.
‘It’s the Rooks’ punishment for their greed,’ Jervis called down from the gallery.
‘Tom Rook is a good man,’ George interjected. ‘I won’t hear of anyone speaking badly of him.’
‘Come on, John. And you, Ma, and Catherine,’ Pa said, his back stiffening. ‘We aren’t stopping here to be made fools of by those who are more foolish and feeble-minded than us.’
The Rooks’ silent trip back down the aisle was the longest walk Catherine had taken in her life. It was shameful and embarrassing, and she doubted that Pa would ever bring John to church again.
During the ensuing week, she continued to care for her brother and do more than her share of the chores. She cooked mutton with rosemary, churned butter and scalded milk. She packed apples in crates of straw and made spills from waste paper, putting them in a box in the hall for lighting candles and fires for the winter while Ma bewailed her situation: having a mad man for a husband and a son who could no longer work on the farm or hope for marriage now that everyone in Overshill knew exactly what damage his fall from the threshing machine had done to him.
Pa hardly spoke. He spent many of his waking hours wandering through the woods and vales while George assumed responsibility for the farm in his absence and Matty stepped up to help his father, working every day except for Sunday.
On the Saturday night, Matty joined the watch that Pa had organised with Squire Temple and some of the farmers, including Mr Nobbs, to look out for the gangs that were roaming the countryside as part of Captain Swing’s campaign for fairer conditions for the labourers who worked on the land. The previous week had been quiet, but there had been rumours of a group of about twenty men armed with bludgeons and matches going around the villages of Chartham and Chilham to the south the night before.
Normally, Pa would go and speak to the men and boys who were on the lookout at the top of the church tower to raise their spirits and find out if they’d seen any signs of trouble, but tonight, he complained of an attack of gout that kept him off his feet.
He couldn’t be that worried about the possibility of the rioters targeting Overshill, Catherine thought, as she took it upon herself to deliver beer and food to the church. She picked up a lantern and basket, and hurried past Ghost Hole Pond in the dark, praying that she would avoid a confrontation with the spirits. She reached the church tower safely, and climbed the steep spiral staircase to the top where she stooped to pass through the tiny doorway onto the roof.
‘Is there anyone there?’ she called.
‘Me,’ Matty said. ‘I’m over here.’
She found him sitting under a blanket with the hood of his cloak over his head. He was looking out between the stone balustrades.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘It’s just me for now.’
‘I’ve brought your supper. Pa is unwell.’
‘He hasn’t been himself since John had his accident.’
‘It’s been a terrible ordeal for him. He had his heart set on him taking over the farm one day.’
‘He says there’s still a chance that he’ll mend.’
‘Yes, he is hopeful,’ Catherine affirmed.
‘But you aren’t?’
She shook her head.
‘Poor John,’ Matty said softly.
‘Pa blames himself for making the situation worse by taking him to church last Sunday,’ she said, relieved to have found someone with whom she could talk about John. It was impossible to talk to Pa because he was refusing to face up to the truth about John’s recovery, and whenever she asked Ma for help looking after him, her mother would dash back her tears and tell Catherine it was her duty to care for him as a loving sister.
‘Squire Temple won’t sign the tenancy over to my brother, having seen that performance played out,’ Catherine went on. ‘Once Pa is gone, the Rooks will lose Wanstall Farm.’ An icy gust of wind made her shiver.
‘I’m sorry. That will affect the Carters, an’ all. Come and share my blanket.’ Matty patted the floor, inviting her to sit beside him. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he added when she hesitated.
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know that Ma would approve.’
‘She isn’t here.’ Matty’s teeth flashed white from the darkness.
‘This might be one of your tricks.’
‘I promise you it isn’t. I’m not at Old Faggy’s now. Please, Miss Rook. You’ll catch your death.’
His chivalry took her by surprise.
‘I shouldn’t stay,’ she said, marvelling at the changes she’d seen in him. It seemed that they were becoming friends, having put the Ghost Hole Pond incident behind them.
‘I could do with some company to keep me awake.’ He yawned. ‘Jervis was supposed to take over from me, but he hasn’t turned up.’
‘I’ll sit with you for a while,’ she said, relenting. The idea of spending time away from the farm appealed to her. John would be safe with Ma. She placed her basket and the lantern on the floor, cat
ching sight of a book in its soft yellow light. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your pa lent it to me. I asked him.’
‘It’s all right. I believe you, although it does seem odd that you would want to read about’ – she picked it up and flicked through the pages – ‘sheep farming.’ A chuckle threatened to erupt from her throat.
‘Why do you laugh at me when I’m trying to better myself?’ Matty sounded hurt.
‘I’m not mocking you,’ she said, feeling guilty. ‘But can you read it? L’arning wasn’t one of your strengths.’
‘I can get the sense of some of it. Would you teach me some of the long words that I’m not familiar with?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, wanting to be helpful.
He smiled. ‘Don’t tell anyone, though.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in being bookish.’
‘Promise you won’t breathe a word?’ he said fiercely.
‘I promise.’ Catherine sat down beside him. He laid his blanket across her shoulders.
‘If you would be so kind as to read from the first page.’ He started to eat one of the slices of pie from the basket.
‘You haven’t got far. You didn’t tell me why you were so interested in sheep all of a sudden.’
‘You’ll laugh at me again.’
‘I won’t.’
‘It isn’t long ago that I turned fourteen, and I’m already feeling like an old man. I have a lifetime of labouring ahead of me. I work in the fields, rain or shine from dawn till dusk. I dig and hoe, pull onions and pick hops for a few shillings a week, just enough to buy bread and meat. I strive until my arms and legs ache, and my clothes are dirty and my boots are falling off my feet. When I get home, I help my little sister make meals and do the laundry because Ma can’t do it. I put out buckets to catch the water that leaks through the roof when it rains. I have to beg and steal wood for the fire. By night-time, I’m asleep as soon as I rest my head on the pillow. All that I have to look forward to is more of the same.’
Catherine didn’t know what to say as he continued, ‘I wish I’d been born Squire Temple or even Hector Browning.’
‘The vicar’s son?’
‘His hands are always clean and white – haven’t you noticed them? He wears clothes that are neither too big nor too small.’
