by Val Wood
The hens had stopped laying. Mary-Ellen wrung the neck of one of the older ones to make a meal and some broth to last them a few days. Her father went out one morning to see if there were any rabbits in the traps he had set. He came back empty-handed but told her he had seen Joseph Ellis on the river bank.
‘He told me they’re going to start work on ’drainage as soon as ’weather clears.’ He grunted as he bent to take off his boots. ‘I’d have thought he’d have an overseer to look it over, but he must like to tek charge himself.’
Mary-Ellen’s heart skipped a beat. ‘I suppose there’s not much he can do at ’minute,’ she murmured. ‘With ’weather and that.’
Her father nodded. ‘He asked me if I’d much work on. I wondered if he’d had a mind to ask me if I wanted any labouring jobs, but I told him I was set up with fishing until spring.’
The next morning the rain came and the thaw began and her father set off to walk to Patrington Haven. ‘I’ll have to earn some money soon,’ he said. ‘We’ve no grain left for ’hens and they can’t scratch till ’snow clears.’
As soon as he’d gone, Mary-Ellen put on her shawl and boots and headed for the river. If what Joseph had told her father was true, that work was to begin on the drainage, then they wouldn’t be able to meet. The track would be overrun with working men.
Joseph was waiting. ‘I saw your father go out,’ he said. ‘I hoped that you would come. I don’t know how many times I can make excuses for being here.’
‘Are you not starting ’labourers on ’drainage yet, then? Was it only a tale?’
He smiled. ‘They are starting, but not until spring, so we have until then.’
‘Come back with me,’ she urged. ‘We can’t stay here. Da won’t be back for hours.’
‘Are you sure?’
She saw the hesitation. ‘Don’t you want to?’ she whispered.
‘You know that I do.’ His eyes searched her face. ‘But—’
‘What?’
‘I can’t be responsible for what might happen.’ His voice was low. ‘I’ve been longing for you. Wanting you. Desperate for you, Mary-Ellen. I can’t guarantee that if I come with you now our lives will ever be the same again.’
She looked up at him. ‘I don’t want my life to be ’same,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been anyway, not since that day you brought me home. You’ve made me want more than I have now. I don’t know what it is that I want – at least – yes, I do,’ she said softly. ‘I want you.’
As soon as they entered the door, he took her in his arms, crushing her with his kisses. ‘Stop,’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Wait. This has to be special. This is ’first time for me, Joseph.’
It was the first time she had said his name. He began to unbutton her bodice, fumbling with the strings, and she removed his clumsy fingers to do it herself. He put his hands round her face as she unfastened it, kissing her lips, cheeks and neck, and finally slipping his fingers through the opened bodice to touch her bare breasts.
She heard his short sharp intake of breath and she began to moan as he bent and clasped his mouth round her nipple.
Mary-Ellen barely knew how they came to be on her father’s bed or when he had taken off his coat and shirt and boots, or how she had had the forethought to gather up her own fustian sheet to lay beneath them; but she had surmised that this would be more than sweet and tender kisses. That this would be the beginning and the end, the commencement and the consummation, and that she would bleed.
They were lost to everything but the knowledge of each other’s bodies and the joy that it brought. The seductive touch of flesh on flesh, of mouth on mouth, the heart-beating sensation of delectation and rapture, as each provocative touch brought them to a fever pitch of ecstasy and arousal. ‘Mary-Ellen,’ he breathed. ‘Mary-Ellen!’ Over and over again he mouthed her name as his hands followed the shape of her breasts, her hips, and the silkiness of her thighs.
And when it seemed that she could take no more, when her yielding throbbing body was not her own, but was melting and on the brink of exploding into a white-hot ball of fire, he ardently and overwhelmingly entered her, calling out her name in a clamorous cry.
Later as he buttoned his shirt and put on his boots and coat, and she fastened up her bodice, they glanced almost shyly at each other. ‘What if your father had come back,’ he murmured. ‘Suppose he’d decided to return.’
She lifted her hair away from her flushed face and tucked it behind her ears. ‘He’d have killed you,’ she said simply. ‘Even though you are who you are.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘And then he would’ve killed me.’
Joseph gave a small smile and said, ‘And then he would have hanged, so there’s a sorry tale.’ He buttoned up his riding coat, then reached out his hand to draw her to him. He kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re not sorry?’
‘About being killed?’ She reached up and kissed his lips. ‘No. After being with you it would be ’perfect way to die.’
His eyes were tender as he gazed at her. ‘I love you, Mary-Ellen. You might think, after I’ve left, that what has passed between us was just a man’s desire. Lust, even. But it wasn’t. I love you and always will.’
‘Then that’s enough,’ she said softly. ‘No woman could ask for more.’
She stood at the door watching him walk back up the track. He had left Ebony tied to a tree near the river where he could graze. He turned once and looked back but neither of them waved, and as he walked on she came inside and wrapping herself in the sheet lay down again on the bed. She could smell and taste him on her skin and on the bloodstained sheet. She closed her eyes and relived the emotions she had felt. He says he loves me, and I know I love him. But what will become of us?
The fire was almost out when her father came home and he woke her from a deep sleep. ‘Sleeping during ’day, girl? Are you sick?’
‘No.’ She tumbled off the bed, dragging the sheet with her. ‘Just ’time of ’month. Sometimes it makes me feel tired.’
‘Huh.’ He was slightly embarrassed. ‘Your ma was ’same. I’ll fetch in some more wood, save you ’bother. I’m starting work tomorrow if river’s calm. I’ll be glad to get back. Can’t do with sitting about.’
She suddenly felt guilty about her elation. If her father was out she would be able to see Joseph again.
They met on the river bank a few days later, but only briefly as Joseph had a meeting with his agent. ‘It’s Christmas in three days,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away. My parents always invite relatives and friends to stay.’ Tenderly he stroked her cheek. ‘I must see you again soon, Mary-Ellen. It’s not going to be easy, and I don’t want you to get into trouble with your father, but I miss you, and want you more than I can say.’
‘Somebody’s coming,’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t look round, just point as if you’re showing me something.’
He did as she bid, pointing along the river bank and towards the track.
‘Hello, Daniel,’ Mary-Ellen called out. One of her young cousins was coming along the bank. ‘Where ’you going?’
‘Coming to see you.’ The boy, who was seven or eight, took off his cap when he came up to them and saw Joseph Ellis. ‘Beg pardon, sir. I’ve got a message for you, Mary-Ellen.’ He looked up at Joseph as if undecided whether to say more in front of him, then blurted out, ‘Ma says if tha’s got a spare rabbit, she’d appreesh— she’d be glad of it, cos she hasn’t enough meat for all of us for Christmas dinner.’
‘Have you a bird for Christmas?’ Joseph asked Mary-Ellen.
She shook her head. ‘Onny if I kill one of our own and they’re a bit tough, onny fit for soup.’ She turned to her cousin. ‘Tell your ma that I’ll bring her a rabbit over tomorrow. Da’s going out with his gun tonight.’
‘Are you one of the Marston children?’ Joseph asked, and when the boy nodded he said, ‘My compliments to your mother and tell her I’ll bring her a bird on Christmas Eve. And take care going back home. It’s very m
uddy on the bank.’
The boy stood open-mouthed, staring at Joseph, then put on his cap and touched it deferentially. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
When he was out of earshot Joseph said, ‘Is it all right to do that? Your aunt won’t take offence? Nor your father? We generally give our tenants a bird at Christmas.’
‘Aunt Lol won’t refuse it. She’s got a brood of bairns to feed and not much money coming in.’ There was a touch of pride in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘I can’t say ’same about my father. He might think it charity – and so might I!’
‘Don’t! Please don’t,’ he begged. ‘It’s just that I thought here is an excuse for me to come and see you.’
She looked away, but her features softened. ‘Yes.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘As you say, it’s not going to be easy. Ever.’
He came as promised on Christmas Eve morning, calling first at Welwick at the Marstons’ cottage with a fat goose and then riding on through the village to Welwick Thorpe. Isaac Page wasn’t in; he had gone out at dawn to try for duck or widgeon, Mary-Ellen told Joseph, as he had only managed to shoot one rabbit the other night. She had omitted to tell her father that they were to receive a bird from the Ellises, unable to think how to explain that she had seen Joseph again.
Now she was nervous and uneasy. ‘Da should’ve been back by now. He must have gone down to ’Wheatsheaf at Welwick. Come with me,’ she said to Joseph. ‘And bring ’fowl with you.’
He’d brought a large capon freshly killed and he followed her to the cow shelter where he hung it up high on a beam. Then he turned and put his arms about her. He could feel her heart beating and felt her nervousness.
‘Are you afraid your father will come after me with his gun?’ he quizzed.
‘Don’t joke,’ she snapped. ‘He would!’
‘We’ll see him coming from here.’ He gazed at her. ‘This isn’t what I want,’ he whispered. ‘Not hiding away as if this is something sordid or shameful; it isn’t just gratification. I need you, Mary-Ellen. Want you. Love you.’
She stopped his mouth with her own. ‘I know. I know,’ she breathed into him. ‘I believe you.’ She lifted her eyes to the dilapidated roof. ‘We must make believe this is a palace.’ She leaned against the wooden stall. ‘And imagine this is our bed of fine satins.’ But know in our innermost hearts, her head cried out, as gently he tantalized her, that it can’t last.
By mid-afternoon, dark cloud had lowered and the rain begun again. Isaac still wasn’t back and Mary-Ellen was beginning to worry. She had plucked and cleaned the capon, and scrubbed the potatoes and carrots. She went out onto the track and looked up and down it.
I wonder if he’s with Uncle Ben. Sometimes the two men walked to the hostelry together and propped each other up on the way home until their ways parted. She went back inside and decided to put the capon in the oven and partly cook it in readiness for the next day. It was a large bird and would feed them for a week.
Darkness came down and still her father hadn’t returned. Mary-Ellen made a decision. She wrapped her shawl round her and set off for Aunt Lol’s house.
It was a single-storey dwelling of two rooms in a lane running from the main street, but not as isolated as the cottage where Mary-Ellen and her father lived. She knocked on the door and waited, for she knew that at this time of day the door would be bolted. Her aunt called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Mary-Ellen, Aunt Lol. Have you seen Da? Is he with Uncle Ben?’
The door creaked open. Her aunt had the baby at her breast. She looked tired, her face creased with lines. ‘Not seen him at all today. Come in. Come in,’ she said and Mary-Ellen stepped inside. There was a delicious smell of roasting goose. ‘Ben’s here by ’fire, where he’s been for ’last hour,’ Lol added with a slight note of resentment.
Ben took his pipe out of his mouth and yawned. He’d caught her comment. ‘Aye. I work hard enough every other day.’
‘Da’s not come home,’ Mary-Ellen said urgently. ‘He’s been out since early morning. He went to shoot wildfowl but he’s not been back.’
Ben looked keenly at her. ‘He’d surely have come home afore going to ’hostelry?’
Mary-Ellen nodded. She was beginning to feel sick. What if her father had had an accident? How would they find him in the dark? I should have set out earlier to look for him. I should have gone to the river.
Her uncle got up from his chair. ‘I’ll tek a lamp and go and look,’ he said, and took a scarf from the peg behind the door. ‘You’d better stay here, lass, till I get back.’
‘I – I can’t,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve put ’bird in ’oven. Mr Ellis brought us a capon this morning.’
‘Aye, he brought us a goose,’ her aunt said. ‘I’m cooking it now; it’ll tek all night.’ A frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘Why did your da go out shooting when Ellis had promised you a bird?’
‘He – Mr Ellis told Daniel he’d bring you one. He’d heard him ask me for a rabbit.’ Mary-Ellen felt herself flush. ‘I – I wasn’t sure if he meant he’d bring one for us as well.’ And so the lying begins, she thought. Is this how it’s going to be? What if Da finds out? He could have been at home and not on the river bank. ‘I’d better get home,’ she said. ‘In case he comes back. He’ll wonder where I am.’
She bent to kiss the baby on his forehead. He smelt of warm milk. ‘Will Janey be home tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Lol said. ‘I thought she might have sent a note to tell me, but she’s no great shakes at writing, our Janey. It’ll be nice if she is, and she can help us eat this goose.’ She gave a grin. ‘This’ll be ’first Christmas we’ve had such a feast.’
‘Us too,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘I hope Da’s all right,’ she added anxiously. ‘He doesn’t usually stay out so late on Christmas Eve.’
‘He’ll be waiting for you at home with ’strap at ’ready,’ Lol said. ‘He’ll be thinking you’re out meeting some young fella!’ She gazed quizzically at her. ‘Which you should be doing,’ she added, ‘’stead of just looking after your fayther.’
When Mary-Ellen got home she sat down by the fire and dropped into a doze. She awoke with a start and could smell the crisp aroma of the cooking capon and got up to take it out of the oven. ‘It’s nearly ready,’ she muttered. ‘Whatever time can it be?’
The skin on the bird was browned and crisped and she prodded it with a skewer. The juices ran clear and she realized that she must have slept for longer than she had thought. Wherever has Da got to? she worried. I hope he isn’t drunk and has fallen over somewhere, not able to get up.
She heard a sound outside and listened intently. Is that him? Then came a knock and a shout. It was Ben.
‘I can’t find him,’ her uncle said as she opened the door. ‘I’ve been to ’Wheatsheaf and he’s not there. Not been in at all today and he won’t have gone further than that in this weather. And I’ve walked along ’river bank, but it’s too dark to see owt.’
Ben had a crumpled weather-beaten face most of the time, but now she saw the deep furrows of anxiety. ‘Wha – what do you think’s happened?’ she said. ‘Do you think he’s had an accident?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t look too good, do it? I’ve asked some of ’men at ’Wheatsheaf if they’ll come out at first light and we’ll search for him. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Can’t do more’n that, can we?’
‘It’s Christmas!’ she whispered. ‘He’d be sure to come home if he could.’
‘You’d best come back wi’ me,’ he said. ‘No sense in you stopping here on your own.’ Ben had always had a soft spot for her when she had lived with them, even though he had so many children of his own, but she shook her head. ‘He might come home,’ she said. ‘I have to be here.’
She waited a few minutes after he’d left and then put on her shawl; she put another log on the fire and turned the lamp down to save the oil. Then she went out into the night up the track towards the estuary.
There had been so
me rain earlier and underfoot was wet and muddy. The cloud still hung low but here and there in the breaks, stars could be seen in the sky. She looked for the brightest one, something she had done since she was a child, when her mother had told her it was the holy star and always appeared on Christmas Eve. She reached the estuary and could hear the swell and lap of the water, the suck and slurp as the tide filled the channels and runnels and covered the hummocks in the saltmarsh. I wonder if he took the boat out? she pondered. He had not known there was no need for him to do so. She cautiously set off in the direction where it was kept, but it was difficult to see the path and after a while she stopped. If I slip in, I shall be here all night or even for ever.
She shivered and turned about. The Humber could be treacherous and had to be treated with respect. If the tide came in high it flooded the banks, washing over into the land below. ‘Da!’ she shouted. ‘Da! Where are you? Hello! Can you hear me?’
There was a croak from the scrubby blackthorn behind her as her call disturbed some nesting bird. She walked on, then stopped. A dark shape lay sprawled over the bank and she thought at first it was a spar or log that had been washed up and wondered how she had missed it as she had walked past. She bent down, then put her hand to her mouth in horror. It was her father.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isaac was too heavy to lift but she managed to turn him over. He wasn’t drowned as she had thought, but shot; a dark stain had steeped through his clothing in the area near his waist.
She bent over him, cradling him in her arms, and sobbed. ‘This is my fault,’ she wept. ‘If I’d told you we were being given that damned bird you wouldn’t have gone out shooting. Da! Da! I’m so sorry! Forgive me. What am I going to do?’
His legs were hanging over the bank but she couldn’t pull him out and was afraid that he might slip into the marsh and be carried away. I’ll have to run for help. Get Uncle Ben to come back with me. ‘I’ll not be long, Da,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be quick as I can.’ As she rose to her feet she saw her father’s fowling gun lying on the muddy ground and a long skid mark beside it.
