by Val Wood
‘I’ll carry ’em back for you, if you like?’ he offered. ‘I’ve just a few things to pick up for ’maister. I’m being kept on,’ he said. ‘Fourth lad I am now; went to ’em as least lad. I’m useful,’ he added, but without boasting. ‘I can turn me hand to most things. I’ll be a waggoner one day.’
‘Where do you work?’ she asked.
‘I’m at Ellis’s farm at Skeffling. Been there for ower two years. I heard …’ He hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s right, but rumour has it that ’maister is looking to buy more acreage and he’s considering land at Welwick Thorpe, where you are.’
‘My cousin Jane is starting work with ’Ellises,’ she told him and he nodded and said he knew her. ‘I’d heard that ’title deeds were up for sale. They’ll have to put in drains and sluices if they want to farm it.’
‘Aye, well, Ellis’s son is tekking ower some of ’estate and it must be his idea. Though it seems right daft to even consider that waterlogged land if you ask me.’ They were pulling towards Patrington now and the tall church spire stood out proudly against the backdrop of leaden, overcast sky. ‘Course, they’re not farming folk, not originally anyway,’ he offered as an excuse for them. ‘Family were in woollens, so I believe, ower in Wakefield or somewhere like that.’
Mary-Ellen made no answer, but smiled to herself. According to people round here, you were a newcomer unless your family had lived in the same area for generation after generation. She was sure that the Ellises had been in Holderness for a very long time.
Jack dropped her off in the market place and asked if he could give her a lift home. ‘I’ll be here until after dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a bite to eat at ’Three Tuns and then mek my way back.’
‘I’ll look out for you,’ she said, ‘but don’t wait.’
‘What about ’taties? You won’t be able to carry ’em all ’way home.’ He seemed anxious to oblige but she gave him a withering glance.
‘Course I will,’ she scoffed. ‘Who do you think fetches and carries all day long when my da’s at work?’
He shrugged. ‘Just trying to save you ’bother, that’s all.’
Mary-Ellen relented. ‘Well, if I see your waggon, I’ll put ’em in ’back, then you can set ’em down at ’lane end. Don’t come down with ’waggon, though, cos you’ll get bogged down.’
‘Bad, is it?’
She nodded. ‘Right clarty. Da says he’ll break up some old bricks to fill in ’holes afore winter sets in.’
‘Is there no chance of you going to live in ’village? Be better for you than being stuck out in middle o’ nowhere.’
‘No. Da’s settled, and ’rent’s cheap. He says there’s everything there that he needs.’
She turned away to leave, but he held her attention again when he asked, ‘What about you then, Mary-Ellen?’ His weathered forehead wrinkled into an embarrassed frown. ‘Isn’t there owt else that you need?’
She looked up at him for a moment as if considering. Then she shook her head. ‘Not at ’minute there isn’t. Nowt that I can think of, any road.’
The market place was crowded and in spite of the dull, rainy day, most people were in a holiday mood. Farm foremen were there to choose reliable men and lads for heavy work. Housekeepers were looking to take on spruced and tidy parlour or kitchen maids. But times were changing. Working men and women were beginning to object to being picked over in public places. It was demeaning and humiliating, and it was the pushy ones, those who didn’t mind being cross-examined in front of others, who gained employment, whilst the quiet ones, the shy or reserved folk, the ones who stood back, were left without a job of work.
Mary-Ellen stood in a shop doorway out of the rain and watched as a juggler entertained the crowd. A man in a threadbare coat was playing on a whistle and a very young girl, a child almost, was dancing in front of him. Her skirt and bodice were of thin cotton and her hair was straggling in wet rats’ tails beneath her bonnet. But she was smiling for all she was worth as with her hands on her hips she hopped, skipped and jigged round the plate on the floor which contained but a few coins.
Poor bairn, Mary-Ellen mused; she’ll not make much money. Nobody has any, only rich farmers and they’ll not be here; they’ll have sent their hinds and foremen to do their bartering for them. Across the street she saw Jack Terrison with a group of farm lads. They were strutting, it seemed to her, with their hands in their pockets and their caps pushed to the backs of their heads. They were laughing gleefully and one elbowed another in a jocular manner. She recognized one or two of them as being from Welwick village, lads who worked on the local farms.
Then she saw Jack say something to them, and they looked at him enquiringly and then over their shoulders across and around the market place. Instinctively she drew back into the doorway. She couldn’t hear if Jack was speaking of her, and yet she could tell that he was, by how he pointed with his hand back up the road to Welwick, and the way in which they glanced searchingly about. She had always been an enigma to the young people in the village. Always an outsider from the day she had left Aunt Lol’s to live permanently with her father down the muddy rutted track which led to the estuary.
What do I care about them, or what they think of me? She lifted her chin and tossed back her head. Her shawl slipped off, letting her mane of dark hair fly free. They’re nothing to me. Peasants, every one of them. Scratching a living day to day, just like my da. Getting up in a morning, going to bed at night, and only the daily grind of work in between. No joy, no real happiness.
Someone else was looking at her from across the street. Joseph Ellis had stabled his horse, visited the gunsmith’s, asked the wheelwright to call the next time he was in Skeffling, and made some purchases at the draper’s for his mother from the list she had given him.
‘Be sure to get what I have written down,’ she had said. She was unable to come herself because of a heavy cold, and needed her maid to tend to her. ‘Don’t be fobbed off with a silk thread which is a near match. It must be exact!’
He had been gazing round at the busy scene and wondering if it was too early to call at one of the hostelries and have a glass of ale and a slice of pie. Oblivious of the rain, he had stood with his arms folded, watching the comings and goings, the bartering and the laughter, and thinking of the relief that would be felt by those who had been taken on today for their yearly work. Bed and food provided, and no anxieties about whether the seed would rot in wet ground, or the harvest be safely gathered in, since they’d get their wages anyway. Not like the farmer or landholder, he pondered, who prays every morning for sun and rain in equal measure, and that the price of corn won’t drop, or, worse, be depressed by imports of grain from abroad, as it was beginning to. Once these workers have their contract shilling, they’ll go and spend it on drink, lifting their glass to another year’s employment or the health of some lissom young woman.
Joseph had seen Jack Terrison in the market place with some other horse lads, and thought that, although he might have a glass of ale, the youth wouldn’t get drunk. He was a reliable worker and Joseph had kept him on, as he had some of the other men. He had persuaded his father that this was the preferred way to employ farmhands, apart from the casuals who were hired at harvest time. The hiring fairs were abhorrent to him, even though the custom was an old-established one, and he could not bring himself, or even ask his foreman, to walk up and down the line of workers wearing the badges of their trade. The horse lads with strands of horsehair pinned to their caps, the cowmen with a bit of cow tail, the maids with feather dusters or besoms, all waiting to be chosen. Waiting for someone to nod or tap them on the shoulder, to say, ‘Aye, tha’ll do.’
But his attention had been caught by a girl standing in a doorway opposite: sheltering from the rain, he supposed, and watching the scene as he was doing. She was raven-haired and held her head high. She was different, in a manner he couldn’t quite determine, from most of the other young girls here today. He glanced across to where her
gaze was directed and saw that she was watching Terrison and the group of lads horsing about. She didn’t seem interested in them, he thought, but appeared to be observing them and their actions with a detached and aloof mien.
How does she know them? he wondered. What is any of them to her? Brother? Sweetheart? Or just village lads that she’s known all her life? Why would I be interested? He laughed at himself. But strangely, he was. Was it her long black hair, which was uncovered and blowing about her face, or her shapely figure, partly covered by her shawl? Was it the proud way she held herself, her body alert, like a cat about to spring? He was too far away to see the colour of her eyes or whether her nose was long or her lips were full, but there was something about her which attracted him. He walked slowly across the street to discover what it was.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mary-Ellen saw him coming. Though he walked casually towards the shop where she was standing, she felt his purpose. If he thinks I’m here waiting for custom, then he’ll soon find out he’s mistaken. She had been accosted before when she had been watching people and minding her own business, and there was many a man with a cut lip or smarting cheek for his insolence.
She timed it just right. As he stepped within a few feet of her, she swiftly moved from the doorway and out into the muddy road, dodging between donkey carts, carriers and horse-drawn waggons. She suppressed a laugh of satisfaction as she saw a confused look on his face. Just who does he think he is?
Gentleman farmer, I’ll bet, she surmised. Clean breeches; a good pair of boots, though muddy; an old leather hat which partly covered his eyes, but revealed a generous mouth. As she bent down to examine a box of carrots at a stall, she looked under her arm and saw him watching her and was curious enough to wonder who he was.
He went into the shop and she turned away and continued with her purchases. She bought the carrots and a small sack of potatoes, and then crossed the square to the grocer’s where she bought tea and a bag of flour. As she came out of the shop, the rain began in earnest. Pelting, sleeting, icy cold rain which made everyone run for shelter into doorways or under the awnings of the stalls. She was hampered by her purchases and couldn’t stay in the shop doorway as she was blocking the entrance, so she began to run, the potato sack banging across her shoulder, towards the archway of the smith’s shop.
In his haste to escape the worst of the downpour, Joseph pulled down his hat and ran in the same direction, and crashed right into her. The sack of potatoes fell, scattering the contents on the ground. She managed to keep hold of the tea and the flour, but the paper bag holding the carrots split and spilled those too into a heap.
‘Clumsy oaf!’ she chided, her head bent, intent on picking up the vegetables. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, crouching down to help her. Green, he thought, as, on hearing the timbre of his voice, she turned to look straight at him. Or are they blue? Bluey green, anyway, or greeny blue. He lifted his hat, showing a head of fair hair, and placed the carrots in it. And her nose is neither long nor short, but suits her face perfectly. ‘The bag is useless, I fear.’ He crumpled up the paper bag that had held the carrots and held out his hat. ‘It seems that I must loan you my hat.’
He saw the suggestion of a grin but she pinched her lips together and took the hat from him, tipped the carrots in with the potatoes, then handed it back. ‘You’d best give it a shake,’ she said, and her voice was low and rather husky, with a trace of hidden laughter, ‘or you’ll get mud in your hair.’
They both stood up at the same time and he saw that she was above average height. ‘I’m used to mud.’ He grinned. ‘We’re not strangers to one another.’ As he spoke there was a flurry of hail and Jack Terrison and others came dashing inside.
‘Hey up, you lot.’ The smith came out of his dark workshop smelling of heat and iron. ‘Mek some room fer my customers.’ Then he caught sight of Joseph Ellis. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Ellis. Didn’t see it was thee.’
‘Sorry, Carter,’ Joseph said. ‘Might we stay until the rain stops?’
‘Mr Ellis, sir,’ Jack butted in. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in today. I could mebbe have saved you ’journey.’
‘I had to come in,’ he answered. ‘I’m errand boy for my mother, amongst other things.’ He turned to Mary-Ellen and lowered his voice. ‘I do beg your pardon for my clumsiness. My name is Joseph Ellis. When the rain stops perhaps I could assist you with your parcels, Miss …?’
‘I can manage,’ she said boldly. ‘I’m used to doing for myself. Thanks,’ she added, looking away.
‘Mary-Ellen! Did you get them taties?’ Jack Terrison called. He had been standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out into the rain. ‘I’m going back to ’waggon with some goods. I can tek ’em for you.’ He glanced at Joseph Ellis. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it, sir? I told Mary-Ellen I’d carry ’em back for her to her lane end.’
‘By all means, if you have the space.’ Joseph lifted the potato sack from the ground and handed it to Jack. ‘I think the rain is easing.’
Jack tipped his cap, then nodded to Mary-Ellen. ‘See you about then, Mary-Ellen,’ he said, and departed along with the others.
‘You’ve got very wet,’ Joseph murmured to her. ‘Would you – erm, would you care for a cup of hot chocolate to warm you?’
‘I’m not cold,’ she said. ‘And a drop o’ rain won’t hurt me.’
‘Is that a no, then?’ He grinned.
‘It is,’ she answered flatly. ‘I’m not in ’habit o’ supping wi’ folks I don’t know.’
He was not going to be deterred. ‘I have introduced myself,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘But I’ll remind you again in case you’ve forgotten. My name is Joseph Ellis—’
‘Well, Mr Ellis,’ she interrupted, ‘so we’re halfway to being introduced.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘You heard Jack Terrison name me Mary-Ellen and as he’s an employee of yours you could no doubt find out my surname from him, so I’ll save you ’bother. Mary-Ellen Page is my name and I live with my father at Welwick Thorpe.’
She saw his eyebrows, slightly darker than his hair, rise up at the mention of Welwick Thorpe. ‘Ah,’ he murmured, and then said humorously, ‘So now that we know each other, will you come?’
She gave a sudden laugh. ‘No, I won’t!’ she said, but she was amused by his persistence and the merriment in his eyes. ‘I telled you, I don’t dine wi’ strangers.’
He nodded his head slowly as he gazed at her. ‘But if, by chance, we should meet again one day and I lifted my hat to pass the time of day, as we would no longer be strangers, but acquaintances, would you then consider the invitation?’
Mary-Ellen looked back at him. He was, she thought, the finest specimen of manhood that she had ever seen. Thick fair hair, discerning, confident blue eyes, and a wide mouth which lifted without any effort into a smile. Tall, too, so that he had to bend his head to look at her. ‘I think, Mr Ellis,’ she said, ‘that you should reconsider that question once you’re safely back home. Perhaps discuss with your mother whether or not you should invite a low-bred lass to tek a cup o’ coffee with you!’
He folded his arms in front of him. ‘Chocolate!’ he pronounced. ‘I said chocolate, not coffee! And I don’t ask my mother what I should do any more. I’m too old for that.’
Mary-Ellen shook her head, but there was warmth in her eyes, and, he thought, wistfulness, as she said, ‘It’s still no!’
The rain was coming down in a steady drizzle as she tramped back on the Welwick road towards home. She was beginning to feel shivery and hoped that the fire which she had banked with a mound of dried moss would still be in. She had bought shin of beef and pig’s kidney from the butcher and was thinking of making a stew for their supper, for her father would be back late from his day at the hirings. I’ll eat without him, she decided, for he’ll be at the Hildyard Arms until they throw him out.
She turned to look over her shoulder as she heard
the sound of hoofbeats. A lone rider in hat and rain cape was trotting towards her. She stood back on the grassy verge to let him pass, but the rider slowed and, as he reached her, lifted his hat.
‘Miss Page! We meet once again! May I offer you a ride on my sturdy steed?’ Joseph looked down at her. ‘Or do you not accept rides with mere acquaintances?’ His eyes creased in merriment. ‘My horse is called Ebony.’ He patted the sleek black neck. ‘Say how-de-do to Miss Page, Ebony,’ he instructed, and his mount obligingly nodded his head and blew through his nostrils.
They both laughed. ‘You’re very wet,’ Joseph said. ‘You’ll catch your death, as my old nanny used to say. Won’t you come up?’ he asked, appealing. ‘I can have you home in half the time.’
Mary-Ellen hesitated for only a moment. She was very cold and very wet and so far there had been no-one else on the road to offer her a lift. People were obviously still at the hirings, making the most of their day off work in spite of the rain. Jack Terrison must have gone ahead much earlier, she thought, unless he was still in one of the hostelries.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I can do.’
He leaned down and put out his hand to help her up. He was wearing soft leather gloves. Then he realized that her parcels were bundled under her shawl, and said, ‘Just a minute.’ He swung himself down. ‘Let’s put your packages into my bag.’ He was wearing a large leather knapsack across his back and he took it off and unfastened it. ‘Put your things in here. It will keep them dry.’
She put in the tea, the flour and the parcel of meat. At the bottom of the bag was a paper parcel. ‘Will they hurt anything?’ she asked. ‘’Meat’s a bit bloody.’
‘Nothing,’ he said, gazing down at the top of her bent head. ‘Nothing that matters,’ and thought that he would think of some excuse to give his mother if her embroidery silks were spotted with blood.
He mounted again, putting the knapsack in front of him, and again leaned over and put out his hand to help her up. She put her left foot into the free stirrup and sprang so that she was sitting astride behind him. ‘All right?’ he asked. ‘You can hold on to my belt. Here, take my gloves. You must be frozen.’
