by Val Wood
Harriet had a sudden misgiving. ‘What’ll happen to Daisy when she’s finished giving milk?’
‘She’ll be put to ’bull. Ready to start calving again.’ She must have seen the anxious expression on Harriet’s face. ‘It’s what they do,’ she said prosaically. ‘That’s their function, to produce.’
Harriet looked at her and gave a pensive nod. So, no different from any other female, she reflected. Rich or poor, that’s our role.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following morning Harriet was downstairs by half past three. Noah was still asleep as she slipped into her old skirt and flannel blouse and put her shawl round her shoulders. Mrs Tuke was already in the kitchen and the kettle was steaming.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come down,’ she muttered as she made a pot of tea. ‘It’s an ungodly sort of morning, but at least it’s not raining.’
‘I’m not a morning person,’ Harriet told her huskily, ‘so you’ll excuse me if I don’t talk much?’
Mrs Tuke nodded. ‘Fine,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t be doing with unnecessary conversation.’
They drank their tea in silence. Then the kettle was filled again for the men’s breakfast drink and they went out into the dark morning, Harriet first pulling on the borrowed rubber boots over her thick stockings.
Mrs Tuke led the way to the furthest end of the yard where a brick building joined the house wall. Harriet could hear the lowing of cows and the rustling of straw. Mrs Tuke opened the door to the cowshed and spoke softly to the two occupants.
‘Now then,’ she murmured. ‘Ready for your breakfast?’ She opened up another stall, and reaching for a hayfork that was leaning in a corner she scooped up a truss of hay and dropped it into a low basket, which the cows could reach. She then opened another door that led into a small brick-floored shed and with a large scoop half filled a wheelbarrow with grain from a wooden chest.
‘They have a weekly ration of seven bushels of grain,’ she said. ‘And they need chopped turnips, but those can be fed to them when they’re outside.’
She’s remarkably strong for such a tiny woman, Harriet thought. She was a good head shorter than Harriet, and yet she handled the barrow as if it was no weight at all.
‘We’ll leave ’em to that and have our breakfast and then come back for ’first milking. They’re milked twice a day. In ’summer I’d let ’hens out at ’same time, but because it’s still dark I daren’t risk it cos of ’fox!’ She glanced up at Harriet. ‘You wouldn’t like ’sight of that when ’fox’s been at ’em.’
Harriet shuddered. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
The door was carefully closed and they went back to the house, where Mrs Tuke cooked bacon, sausage and eggs.
‘This is ’best time of ’day,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘It’s quiet. Nobody here but me and my own thoughts.’
‘And now I’m here,’ Harriet said apologetically. ‘Disturbing you.’
Mrs Tuke gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and then dished up the food on to two plates. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I’d thought you weren’t up to it,’ she said. ‘But you might not want to do it.’
‘I have to do something,’ Harriet said, putting cutlery out on the table. ‘I’m used to earning my keep. If there’s not enough for me to do here, then mebbe there’s somewhere else I could work?’
Mrs Tuke looked dubious; she signalled Harriet to sit down and eat. ‘There’s not much to do round here, except in ’summer, unless you walked into Brough and got work in one of ’hostelries. But Noah wouldn’t like that.’
‘No.’ Harriet shook her head. ‘I don’t think he would.’
After they’d finished breakfast, Mrs Tuke prepared her bread dough and put it in a large pancheon in the hearth, covering it over with a clean white cloth. Harriet was reminded of when Noah had asked her if she’d made the bread at the inn. Was he testing her, she wondered, to find out if she was capable of making bread, or curious to know whether she had a husband and children to feed at home.
‘Can I scrub potatoes or do owt for dinner?’ she asked.
Mrs Tuke thought for a minute. ‘Aye. You’ll find ’taties in a sack under ’shelf in ’pantry, and carrots in a box next to ’em. I’ll chop meat for a stew and then we’ll go back out and see to ’girls.’ She drew in her breath as if caught out in a blunder and added, ‘Cows, I mean.’
It was a shade lighter when they went outside again, but the cloud still hung low and grey. Mrs Tuke had gathered up two clean pails and half filled one of them with tepid water.
‘I don’t like November,’ Harriet commented. ‘It’s such a dreary month.’
‘Aye, it is,’ Mrs Tuke agreed. ‘But we’re almost out of it. December in a couple o’ days.’
‘Is it? I’ve lost track of ’time since my ma died.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Yes. She was all I had. My onny brother went off to Australia, or somewhere, years ago. Said he had to get out of ’poverty we were living in.’
‘Why didn’t you go with him?’
Harriet slid back the bolt on the cowshed. ‘Ma was afraid of going. She didn’t want to leave Hull and all that was familiar to her. I would’ve gone but I couldn’t leave her, not to fend for herself.’
She felt Mrs Tuke’s eyes on her, scrutinizing her. ‘She held you back then?’
‘Oh, no!’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘I never thought of it like that. She begged me to go, but I said no. I told her that I felt ’same as her, that I didn’t want to leave, that I wouldn’t feel that another country was home.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But it wasn’t true.’
Mrs Tuke put Daisy in her own stall and gave her a small amount of grain and extra hay, then dipped a clean cloth into the bucket of water and carefully washed the cow’s udder and teats. She showed Harriet how to start the milking, by bumping the udder, as a calf would, she explained. To begin with Harriet was squeamish as she sat on the low stool, her forehead against the cow’s warm belly, gently squeezing the teats, but she soon got into the rhythm and felt a surprising satisfaction as the milk began to spout into the milk bucket.
‘Goodness,’ she said as she stood up to let Mrs Tuke continue. ‘I’d never have believed I could do such a thing!’
When the milking was finished Daisy was washed again, and as they came out of the shed Harriet saw two cats sitting outside the door. Mrs Tuke dipped a ladle into the milk bucket and poured the contents into two old saucers.
‘That’s their treat for catching mice and rats,’ she said, watching as the cats lapped with their long rough tongues. ‘Now, if you open ’gate into yonder field cows’ll find their way through on their own. We take ’milk into ’dairy and cover it wi’ a cloth and let it settle and then it’s time to cook a second breakfast.’
Harriet did as she was bid and opened the gate, watching as the two cows ambled across the yard and on to the muddy grass. She fastened the gate after them and called, ‘What about ’turnips?’
She couldn’t be sure from that distance but she thought that Mrs Tuke gave an approving nod. ‘Later,’ she called back.
After a few weeks Harriet had begun to settle into a routine. She fed the hens each morning and let them into the field, then gathered the eggs, what few there were, and washed them. She helped with the milking three or four times a week, as Mrs Tuke said there was no need for her to do it every morning. Harriet didn’t object as she thought that perhaps her mother-in-law liked some time to herself.
One morning Mrs Tuke told Harriet that she would be taking the trap to Brough to stock up on food supplies. ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ she reminded her. ‘And although we don’t mek much of it, I like to have a few extras in.’ She chewed on her lower lip and didn’t look at Harriet as she muttered, ‘Come, if you like.’
‘Oh, yes please,’ Harriet said eagerly. ‘I’d like to. Is it a big town?’
‘No. Not like Hull,’ Mrs Tuke said. ‘Not that I’ve been there. Brough’s not much more than a hamlet, alth
ough ’railway train stops there, as it does in Broomfleet. But I know someone who lives down by Brough Haven. She keeps bees and has her own honey and we do a bit of bartering now and again, and – and I like to go sometimes to remind myself that there are other folk in ’world apart from us.’
Harriet thought she caught a touch of wistfulness in her voice, but she continued, ‘Brough’s an old place; and then there’s ’ferry that goes across to Winteringham, and ’road from there will tek you to London, should you ever feel ’need to go.’
The next morning they finished the milking, fed the hens, cleared up after breakfast and at eight o’clock set off, Mrs Tuke having first asked Fletcher to harness the old mare up to the trap. Mr Tuke was still in bed but she had left his breakfast plate sitting on the shelf at the side of the range where he could help himself.
‘He’ll probably stay there until dinner time,’ she said, clicking her tongue at the mare to move off. ‘Then at ’end of day he’ll think he’s missed a meal.’
‘What about Noah and Fletcher? Their dinner, I mean?’
‘Soup.’ Mrs Tuke cracked the whip above the mare’s head as they drove up the long rutted drive to the gate. ‘It’s ready. All they have to do is eat it!’
The day lightened as they bowled eastward in the direction of Brough; the sky was streaked with thin yellow light as the sun rose but there were also flimsy white clouds which Mrs Tuke said meant snow was coming, and it was much colder and sharper than it had been. The raw dampness of the previous weeks had disappeared.
Harriet looked about her at the wooded plantations and copses, the ivy which climbed the silver-rimed hedges and the bright red berries on the holly bushes. She didn’t know the country at all, having lived all her life in Hull; she pointed as a rabbit ran across the road and a little later she gave a startled exclamation as an animal like a large dog bounded in front of them, clearing the hedge in a graceful leap.
‘What was that?’
‘A deer. Have you never seen one before?’
‘Never! How lovely it was. So graceful.’
‘Aye, they are,’ Mrs Tuke agreed. ‘Flavoursome too.’
Harriet turned to look at her. ‘Oh, but you couldn’t kill it!’
‘We can’t anyway,’ she was told. ‘They’re not ours to kill. They belong to Master Hart.’
‘He’s your landlord?’ Harriet said. ‘Is he gentry then?’
‘He is. A gentleman through and through.’
‘Hah!’ Harriet said. ‘I don’t know if I’d believe that of any man.’
Mrs Tuke didn’t answer, but a little further on she said, ‘That was his house back there, set amongst ’trees. Did you see it?’
‘No. I must have been looking ’other way. Will you point it out on ’way back?’
Her companion nodded, concentrating on the road, and Harriet continued to look about her. There were occasional glimpses of the glinting estuary through the trees, and finally they turned off and took a narrower road which led to Brough Haven.
The small cottage that Mrs Tuke was heading for was close by an inlet leading to the estuary. A track wide enough for a horse and trap, and a ditch with a wooden plank across it, separated the cottage garden from the deep water. Rowing boats and cobles tied up at wooden posts further round the haven were gently dipping and bobbing on the eddying water, rigging clanking and rattling.
An elderly woman came to the door as they pulled up outside her gate. It must be nice here in the summer, Harriet thought. There was something brown and twiggy growing up either side of the small wooden porch, which she thought might be roses. A small garden was filled with grey spriggy clumps and other small bushes, and there was a tree with small maggoty apples that she imagined had been left for the birds.
‘Come on in, Ellen,’ the woman said. ‘I thought I was due a visit, but I see you’ve brought somebody wi’ you. I didn’t think you knew anybody but me.’
‘I don’t, Mrs Marshall,’ and Harriet, still feeling uneasy about her position within this hostile family, thought she detected a derisive note as Mrs Tuke answered. ‘This is my – daughter-in-law, Harriet.’
The woman, as round as a barrel, opened and closed her mouth. ‘Are you telling me that that fine son of yourn has got himself wed at last?’
Mrs Tuke stepped down from the trap and Harriet followed suit. ‘No,’ she heard her mutter. ‘This is Noah’s wife, not Fletcher’s.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Because of being introduced and then invited into the cottage, it was a moment or two before Harriet absorbed Mrs Tuke’s remark. What did she mean? Had Mrs Marshall said Fletcher’s name? She tried to recall the exact words, but they evaded her.
The cottage had low wooden beams and a beaten earth floor. A bench stood near the fire, which was set in a shiny black grate on a stone hearth and had a steaming kettle on a long chain hanging over it. A jug of winter greenery sat in the middle of a wooden table, and a curtain was drawn discreetly across a corner of the room. Harriet assumed it was hiding a bed.
‘So how are you, Ellen?’ Mrs Marshall said.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mrs Marshall.’ Mrs Tuke lifted the cloth covering the contents of her basket. ‘I’ve brought you a dozen eggs. Hens are not laying many just now.’
‘Ah, they’ll be going into ’pot afore long, then,’ was her friend’s reply, and Harriet shuddered.
Mrs Tuke dug deeper in the basket and brought out a plucked chicken wrapped in waxed paper. ‘Indeed they will, and I’ve brought you ’first one. It should be all right until Christmas if you keep it cool.’ Then she produced a jar of thick cream, with the top firmly secured.
‘Oh, you’re too good to me,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘I’ll put it in ’meat safe outside ’kitchen window. You’re not depriving yourself now, are you?’
‘No, I’ve got another hanging in ’shed which I’ll pluck in ’morning ready for Christmas Day.’
As they chatted, Harriet realized she was seeing another side to Ellen Tuke: not the dour woman she normally was, but one who could relax and talk in the company of an old friend. Mrs Marshall pulled the chain holding the kettle further down to the fire, and whilst waiting for it to boil brought out a loaf of bread, some cold ham, a jar of horseradish sauce and an apple pie and placed them on the table.
‘These are my own apples,’ she said. ‘That’s such a good tree. I’ve got plenty in store if you’d like to tek some, and plums too from ’back garden.’ She turned to Harriet. ‘I don’t bake so much now as I used to.’
‘Mrs Marshall was ’cook at Hart Holme Manor,’ Ellen Tuke explained. ‘That’s how we met, when I was in service.’
‘You were in service?’ Harriet said. ‘Was that at ’house you were telling me about?’
Ellen Tuke nodded. ‘Same,’ she said, turning her gaze away. ‘Until I married Mr Tuke.’
‘And how is Mr Tuke?’ Mrs Marshall asked. ‘I’ve not seen him in many a year.’
‘Much ’same as always, Mrs Marshall, thank you for asking.’ Ellen’s face was expressionless. ‘He doesn’t change much; not for ’better, at any rate.’
‘No,’ the older woman said. ‘I don’t suppose he does. I seem to recall saying as much the day you said you were going to marry him.’ She pressed her lips hard together as she poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘Ellen, I says, that’s a man that won’t change, no matter what.’
‘I seem to recall you saying a few other things as well.’ Mrs Tuke gave a thin smile. ‘And not very complimentary, but there, I—’
‘Made your bed and now must lie on it,’ Mrs Marshall finished and Mrs Tuke nodded and looked wistful.
They’ve had this conversation before, Harriet mused as she drank her tea and accepted a slice of ham, a chunk of bread and a spoonful of horseradish sauce, which was hotter than she had ever tasted and brought her out in a sweat. I expect they have ’same discussion on every visit. They must constantly hark back to the old days.
After they had eaten and
talked some more, Mrs Marshall put on a pair of rubber boots and took them on a walk by the Haven. A pale sun was partially obscured behind ragged white and grey clouds, throwing moving shadows on the water.
‘We’ll have snow afore ’week’s out,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘Mark my words if we don’t. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Do you live alone, Mrs Marshall?’ Harriet asked. ‘It seems a solitary sort of place.’
‘Aye, I do, m’dear, but I’m never lonely. Every day there’s summat different to look at, a fresh sunrise and sunset every day of ’week, and I defy anybody to say there’s a better one anywhere in ’world. A whole rainbow of colours displayed for me every morning and night. Purple, rose, gold and all colours in between. A whole palette o’ jewels. And then fishermen come by most days and sometimes they bring me some of their catch and I cook it over ’fire and we share it. And mebbe they’ll bring me a sack o’ flour or a bag o’ corn that they’re delivering from down ’river or from ’south bank . . . that’s Lincolnshire, you know. After Hart Holme Manor, this is ’best place in ’world,’ she repeated, ‘that anybody could have ’good fortune to live in.’
Harriet smiled. There was no wonder that Mrs Tuke liked to visit. Mrs Marshall positively exuded good cheer and well-being.
They walked a little way with her and then Mrs Tuke said they ought to be getting back as she wanted to be home before dark. A chill wind had got up, lashing the waters of the Haven into frothy crests.
‘You do right, m’dear,’ her friend agreed as they turned back to the cottage. ‘Darkness soon creeps in at this time of ’year, but afore you go I must give you some of my chutney and preserves. There’s a nice batch o’ quince jelly and a jar of bramble jam, and for ’fine men in your family a bottle of elderberry wine.’
Harriet looked on in amazement as the eggs, cream and chicken were exchanged for preserves and chutney, apples and plums and a bottle of dark red wine. She had never seen so much food, but realized that it was all home-made, gathered from the earth with effort and satisfaction.
