Half a Sixpence

by Evie Grace

  ‘You will have to ask him. I cannot answer on his behalf.’ She was finding it hard to speak to Stephen, he was so closed off. ‘I think he’d appreciate a visit.’

  ‘I don’t like to intrude. I don’t know what to say to him. I mean, I had plenty of time to prepare for the loss of my dear wife, but his loss came as a shock. Life is cruel. Emily was snatched away so young.’

  ‘Your presence will be a comfort. You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ George turned to his granddaughter. ‘I believe there are tadpoles in the ditch over here.’ He lifted Jessie over the tumbledown wall and showed her the puddle of water at his feet. Jessie squatted down to look. ‘I expect you’ve heard the noows,’ George went on, turning back to Catherine.

  ‘What news?’ she said.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Nobbs have moved out of Wanstall Farm.’

  ‘How come? They’ve only just set up house there.’

  ‘It’s bin a while. They haven’t managed to make a go of it. I think Mr Nobbs bit off more than he could chew, taking on a second place. He thought he was going to run it like your father did in the old times, but the changes he made didn’t work out. He upset the squire, too, grubbin’ out the orchards without a by your leave. I knew he was makin’ a mistake, but who will listen to me?’

  ‘I would, George,’ Catherine said. ‘You’re very wise. Perhaps you know what will happen to the farm? What are the squire’s intentions?’

  ‘Rumour has it that he’s lookin’ for another tenant. I thought he might let the bailiff take it on, but he wouldn’t be any good when all he’s interested in is huntin’.’

  She wondered about Stephen. Was he still thinking of buying and selling horses? Wanstall Farm had a yard with stables. She appreciated that he was still mourning Emily’s passing, but maybe a new enterprise would help him to cope with his grief.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened between our families. I would have gone after Jervis myself if I’d known how it was goin’ to turn out,’ George said. ‘Will you forgive me, Miss Rook?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive. Matty was a grown man, more than capable of making his own decisions. I’ll always wish that life had turned out differently, but there’s nothing we can do to change it. All we can do is make the best of what we have.’ She gazed at the tumbledown cottage with its mossy roof and smoking chimney, and the garden which had been dug over and raked ready for planting the potatoes, marrows, herbs and carrots that George would harvest in the summer. He didn’t have much, but he seemed content with what he’d got.

  ‘I sound like an old man,’ he said. ‘I am an old man, but, Catherine, you’ve been through the mill, and now you must seize your chances of happiness when they come along. Don’t hold back. Just take them.’

  What did he mean? she wondered. Chances of happiness seemed very few and far between as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Jessie,’ she said. ‘We must be on our way.’

  ‘I wanna stay,’ she said, looking up from the ditch. ‘Look at all the wiggle-heads.’ She put her hand in the water, stirred up the mud and wiped it down her dress.

  ‘We have to go,’ Catherine said sternly.

  Jessie scowled and pouted.

  ‘We’ll come back another day,’ Catherine said, wondering how to deal with her. She had to admit that she felt a little out of her depth, managing Emily’s children. ‘I promise.’

  That seemed to satisfy Jessie, because she stood up to let George help her back over the wall.

  ‘Say goodbye to your grandpa.’

  ‘Goodbye, Gran’pa,’ she said shyly.

  ‘I’ll see you again soon.’ He smiled.

  Catherine took Jessie past Wanstall Farm to show her where she used to live and play as a child. The house appeared unloved. The grimy windows were closed and the gutters were dripping water. They walked round to the yard, where a handful of abandoned hens cawed and strutted across the rotten woodpile.

  ‘I’m surprised no one’s had those for the pot,’ Catherine said. ‘Your Uncle Matty would have seen them as an opportunity.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘I used to collect the eggs and sell any extras that we didn’t need. My father said that if I looked after the hens, I could have the profit.’ She looked at Jessie and thought of Agnes.

  She wondered how she was and what she was doing. She should have been walking here hand in hand with her daughter, not Emily’s, telling her about the farm, how they’d picked hops every summer, and how they’d danced the night away to celebrate the grain being safely gathered in.

  They walked back towards the forge, passing the churchyard where they stopped to lay flowers – daisies they had picked at the farm – on Emily’s grave. There were flowers there already, fresh ones that must have been placed there that morning, along with a note on a scrappy piece of paper, which read, ‘To my darling wife, how I miss you x’.

  Tears welled up in her eyes. Life was short. Emily’s passing had shown her that. She would always love Matty, but it was time to accept that he wasn’t coming back and that this chapter of her existence was over. She should seize every opportunity that came her way, like George had said, and as Matty would do if he were in her place. She pulled up a handful of weeds that were threatening to encroach on the grave. In the meantime, she was thankful for small mercies. She was back in Overshill for the foreseeable future, until she was happy that Stephen and the children were settled into a new routine, and then she would return to her cottage in Faversham.

  ‘Sleep tight, Mama,’ Jessie said. ‘Shall we go home, ’Rin?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ She uttered a silent farewell to Emily and returned to the forge with Jessie’s hand in hers. Stephen was removing a shoe from one of Mr Hadington’s carriage horses when she dropped by to let him know that they were back.

  ‘We’ve been for a walk, Papa.’ Catherine caught Jessie by the shoulder, keeping her back from the horse as it fidgeted and swished its tail.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Stephen said, his voice laced with the effort of putting on a front for his daughter.

  ‘We saw Gran’pa and I tried to catch the wiggle-heads in the ditch.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed,’ Stephen said wryly. ‘Your dress is muddy.’

  ‘It isn’t, Papa.’

  ‘Oh yes it is. And look at your hands.’

  She glanced down at her grubby fingers and chuckled.

  A smile crossed her father’s face.

  ‘George was gardening,’ Catherine said. ‘I’d like to sow some seeds in the vegetable beds sometime.’

  ‘You have more than enough to do,’ Stephen said. ‘No, leave it. Emily loved the garden.’

  ‘Did you know that Mr Nobbs has left Wanstall Farm?’ Catherine went on. ‘It’s in a terrible mess. It’s very sad to see.’

  ‘I haven’t been down that way for a while, but there’s been talk at the forge. Your pa would never have allowed the orchards to be grubbed out like that.’

  ‘It would make good pasture for horses,’ Catherine suggested.

  ‘I know, but—’ Stephen shrugged. ‘I’ve rather lost heart in that project. It was supposed to be for us, for Emily and the children. What is the point in it without her?’

  Catherine knew when to let the subject go. It was too soon.

  Three weeks passed and the March winds were pushed out by April showers. The children became more light-hearted and Stephen, although still mourning his loss, was more like his old self.

  ‘How are you, Catherine? What kind of day have you had?’ he said as he walked into the kitchen after a long day’s work at the forge. He carried a tankard of beer in his hand. He drained it, the amber liquid trickling down his neck and leaving a glistening trail across his skin. He put the tankard down and took off his boots, revealing the holes in his socks.

  She wondered if she should offer to darn them for him, but he did his own mending to take some of the burden of running the household from her shoulders. He was kind and generous, an
d time had made him remarkably handsome. She recalled a distant memory of the tall, wiry boy who had declared his feelings for her one hot summer. What would her life have been like if she’d given him a chance? What if she had taken heed of Ma’s opinion that she should settle for a man who could provide a home and comfortable living?

  She dismissed that line of thought. Emily had been the sensible one, choosing to settle for Stephen, and it had worked out until fate intervened and cut her life short.

  Catherine had been distracted by her attraction to the more elemental brother, the wilder, more rebellious one who had tried to do the right thing by going about it the wrong way, and realised too late that he had been sucked into a dangerous situation from which he couldn’t escape.

  ‘Something smells delicious,’ Stephen said, bringing her back to the present.

  ‘I have a pig’s head in the oven,’ she said with a smile. ‘There’s freshly baked bread too.’

  ‘It’s been a good day. Daniel’s finally got the hang of making a decent shoe, and Squire Temple is sending his carriage horses to be shod. He’s discovered the hard way that I’m more reliable than the blacksmith down the road in Boughton. One of his horses was nail-bound so I removed the nail and taught his groom to poultice the foot so the poison came out. The horse is sound now, so I’ll put the shoe back on tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope he’s going to pay you handsomely for that.’

  ‘He’s paying a retainer to look after all his horses, the hunters as well.’ He paused. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re more cheerful than of late.’

  Stephen frowned.

  ‘I’m not being critical. It’s good for you and the children.’

  ‘I know. I haven’t been very good company lately. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s natural to grieve. We all mourn in different ways.’

  ‘Papa.’ Jessie came inside from the garden with a basket with four freckled brown eggs lying in the straw at the bottom. She struggled determinedly to put it on the table.

  ‘Jessie.’ Stephen squatted on his heels and held out his arms. His daughter ran towards him, throwing her hands around his neck and planting kisses. He hugged her and looked up towards Catherine. ‘You’re right, of course. Life has to go on, for the children’s sake if nothing else.’

  She finished cutting slices from the loaf. Matthew toddled up, waving his hand.

  ‘What do you say?’ she said sternly.

  ‘Please.’

  She handed him a slice of bread and turned back to Stephen.

  ‘Shall I fill your bath? I didn’t realise you would be back quite so early.’

  ‘I’ll take my bath later. Daniel’s clearing up in the forge. I thought I’d do some work in the garden as you suggested some time ago.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I might have left it too late, but never mind.’

  ‘Mrs White left some stocks and strawberry plants this morning. I was going to put them in the bed nearest the back door,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Oh no, that won’t do. It’s in the shade for much of the day. No, I’m going to dig over the beds at the end of the garden. They’re full of weeds.’

  Stephen ate his supper with relish, wiping the plate clean with the last crust of bread. Catherine put Daniel’s portion aside for when he came in later, then she fed the baby and put the children to bed, kissing each one in turn.

  ‘Is Ma looking down on us from heaven?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘She smiles upon you all every day and night. You have been good children today. I’m very proud of you.’ Catherine looked at how Jessie snuggled down with her brother. The baby cooed and gurgled from his cot. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Her chest tightened at the thought that she would soon have to leave them. If she didn’t return to her cottage in the next week or two, she would barely be able to scrape together the next month’s rent. She was in danger of losing it altogether and then what would she do? She would be back on the street.

  She stepped out through the back door into the garden, remembering a time long ago when she and Ivy had had the conversation about her parentage. At the time, she’d felt that her world had been turned upside down, but she’d learned since that it was nothing, that all love was precious, no matter how you were related or not. Ivy had loved her in her own way, letting her go to Wanstall Farm for a better life than she could have provided. In turn, she had done the same for Agnes. One day, she would visit Ivy to let her know that she had forgiven her.

  She surveyed the scene. The fruit trees were in bud and the weeds, a carpet of forget-me-nots, had taken over the vegetable beds. Stephen was digging, stripped to the waist so she could see the rippling contours of his loins as he wielded the spade.

  He thrust the blade into the soil, burying it in the chalky loam, digging deep as if he were burying some of his memories. He placed his foot on the lug of the blade and levered it through the soil, bringing up the loam from the depths and turning it into a heap on top of the bed. He then sliced through it several times to break it into a crumbly tilth. Every so often, he would stop to throw away a flint or stone. He continued along the row until it was complete, like a scar across the bed, the weeds torn up and tossed aside.

  Catherine picked up the rake and followed along behind him, raking the tilth smooth as the sun sank low in the sky.

  Stephen set up straight lines for the rows with sticks and string and Catherine sowed the seeds – ones that Emily had kept in the larder from the year before. There were peas, beans and carrots. Stephen raked the earth to cover the seeds and Catherine watered them to start them off.

  Stephen began to sing, his voice filling the air as he planted the stocks and strawberries. He pressed the last plant into the earth, treading it down with his feet, then looked towards her.

  ‘Let me have the bucket,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll water them in.’

  ‘I’ll do it. You have done more than enough for one day.’ He took the bucket from her and poured the water over the new plants. He turned to her and smiled. ‘You can tell you were brought up on a farm.’

  ‘Are my manners that bad?’ she said archly.

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ He blushed.

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve enjoyed being out here this evening with the sun setting over the vale. It reminds me of the farm.’

  ‘I assume that it reminds you of Matty as well.’ He didn’t wait for her response. ‘I miss my brother. Jervis deserved everything he got, but Matty, well, he had the best of intentions. I think of him often. If he’d stayed – and Emily had lived, we four and our children would have been as happy as larks.’

  ‘We would,’ Catherine sighed.

  ‘I’ve made you sad again,’ he said.

  ‘A little. You know, you have made much of yourself. You should be very proud.’

  ‘Who would have thought that Stephen Carter from Toad’s Bottom would have come up to the top like the cream on the milk? Let’s go indoors.’

  ‘I’ll fill your bath.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Put your feet up. Lord knows, you deserve it.’

  She went inside and sat on the chair, watching the world go by out of the front window. Mr Hadington’s carriage and four passed by at speed, black horses and a dark carriage disappearing into the night. A bat darted across the view of the cottages opposite where most of the windows were in darkness, the inhabitants having already retired to bed. A dog barked twice and a pair of shadowy figures stole past.

  A shiver ran down her spine. They reminded her of the day she had been ambushed in the woods by Jervis and Drusilla. She took a breath, telling herself that it was over now. She would never be troubled by either of them again, except in her nightmares, the ones she still had, of the encounter in the clearing, of Jervis imprisoned in that room at the Red Lion with Matty, of the judge giving his verdict at the Assizes, of finding Drusilla of all people at the wo
rkhouse.

  She wished she could put it all out of her head for good.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the present. Stephen was splashing about in the tin bath behind the screen in the kitchen, just a few feet away from her. Another couple passed by, their conversation drifting in through the window. Catherine thought she recognised Mrs White and her errant husband, the wheelwright.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind betting she’s giving him more than comfort,’ Mrs White said. ‘It’s all over the village.’

  ‘Hush, my good wife. Someone will hear.’

  ‘I don’t care if she does. It i’n’t right, her being dead less than three months ago.’

  ‘We have no evidence.’

  ‘You know yourself the power of lust, Mr White,’ his wife said haughtily. ‘A woman should be able to control such base urges.’

  ‘If she has any,’ Mr White said.

  Although hurt by Mrs White’s insinuations about her moral standards, Catherine smiled at the irony in her husband’s voice as they carried on along the street.

  It was all very well, though. People were talking about her and Overshill’s master blacksmith. It wasn’t fair!

  But, she thought, it was uncomfortably close to the truth.

  She was falling for Stephen.

  She checked herself. She couldn’t let herself do that – Emily had been her childhood friend and Stephen didn’t need any complications. It was far too soon.

  She turned to find him standing alongside her in his trousers and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His hair was wet and tousled. His chest was glistening with droplets of water.

  ‘I was thinking that I should go home soon,’ she whispered.

  ‘To Faversham?’ he said huskily. ‘I’m being selfish keeping you here for so long. I worry about how I’ll manage with the house and the children without you, though. Jessie and Matthew are very fond of you. I know they’ll be distraught when you leave us.’ The regret in his voice tore her apart. ‘I should take steps to find someone to take over from you, but it will take time …’

  ‘I’ll stay a little longer,’ she decided.

  ‘Thank you. I feel guilty now because the last thing I want to do is impose on you any further.’