Sons and Daughters

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘I’ll go, Dad,’ Joe answered him. ‘I’ll go this minute. Don’t fret. Lie quietly. I’ll get him.’

  Reminded of his mother’s passing by his conversation with the doctor, Joe realized that Harry’s health had deteriorated from that time. Only five years after her death Harry had handed the foreman’s reins to Joe and for the last sixteen years he’d lived the life of an invalid, sitting hunched in his chair by the fire or lying in bed. The only person able to raise a smile, apart from his own grandchildren, had been Miss Charlotte. He’d relished her visits, transported back to happier times in his reminiscing.

  Joe touched Peggy’s shoulder lightly as he hurried from the room, murmuring, ‘I won’t be long, love.’

  Mr Iveson arrived, his pale, round face solemn, ready to take the dying man’s confession. Though neither he nor many of the locals were of the Catholic faith, he’d already found during his short ministry that the dying often wished to confide in him in their last, frightening moments.

  As he sat down beside the bed, Harry, calling on his last reserves of strength, pulled himself up. He waved Joe and Peggy away. ‘Go. This is – private.’

  Joe shrugged. ‘We’ll be just downstairs, Vicar, if you need us.’

  Cuthbert Iveson nodded and took the old man’s hand in his.

  Joe closed the door and he and Peggy went down the narrow stairs.

  ‘We should get Jackson to fetch Lily home. And find John too?’ Peggy said. ‘They’d never forgive us if—’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll call him. He’s digging the vegetable patch as if there’s no tomorrow.’

  ‘He likes to keep busy when there’s trouble,’ Peggy murmured. ‘It’s his way of coping.’

  ‘Me an’ all. I’d like nothing better than to get on me horse and gallop round the farm. But I know me duty’s to stay here. I wouldn’t leave ya on yar own, lass, to cope with . . .’ His voice faltered. Peggy squeezed his arm comfortingly.

  She mashed a pot of tea and they sat either side of the range waiting for what seemed a long time before they heard the vicar’s footsteps on the stairs. Cuthbert came into the room looking white faced and slightly dazed. Peggy rose at once and poured him a cup of tea. He sank down into a chair at the table and gulped it gratefully. Then he sat, staring into the middle distance, almost as if he was unaware of the other two people in the room.

  ‘So, Vicar,’ Joe prompted at last. ‘Where’s he want to be buried, then? Lincoln, with me mam?’

  Cuthbert jumped visibly and blinked rapidly. ‘Er – well – no,’ he stuttered, avoiding meeting their eyes. ‘Er – it seems he has a plot already purchased in the churchyard. Next to Mrs Crawford.’

  ‘Next to Mrs Crawford?’ Joe was shocked. ‘A’ ya sure?’

  Cuthbert pursed his mouth. ‘Oh yes. He was adamant. I must look it up in the records, he said. It was all done properly over twenty years ago.’

  ‘But surely, Mr Crawford must have reserved a plot next to his wife? I mean . . .’ Peggy faltered.

  Cuthbert shrugged, but still he avoided meeting their gaze. ‘I presume he’s reserved one on the other side, perhaps. I – don’t know. I’ll need to look it up.’ He rose hurriedly, took his leave and was gone.

  Through the window, Joe watched him go. ‘Ya know summat, our Peg. I’d say yon vicar couldn’t get out of here fast enough.’

  ‘He’s only young. Mebbe he’s not got used to attending the dying yet.’

  ‘Mm,’ Joe said, but the sound expressed his doubt.

  The Warren family gathered around old Harry’s bed as he slipped away. Lily cried openly and there were tears in the boys’ eyes, though they fought hard not to let them fall. Young Tommy was dry eyed but solemn faced. It was the first time someone close to him had died, but he couldn’t remember his grandfather as anything other than a grumpy, bedridden invalid. He had no memories of happier times as had John and Jackson, and even Lily. Peggy and Joe, though sad, couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief, too. The old man had suffered dreadfully, but now he was at peace.

  ‘You know, love,’ Joe said later that night, ‘if you want to help Mary Morgan out now and again, I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘What about Tommy? He needs a firm hand. He runs wild as it is.’

  Joe smiled. ‘He’s all right. He can’t get up to much mischief that one of us won’t hear about.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Lily was telling me that he arrived at the manor the other week with two other lads, looking very sheepish. She reckons they’d got into a fight with young Georgie Thornton.’

  Peggy gasped. ‘Oh no! We don’t want to make an enemy of the new squire.’

  Joe chuckled softly. ‘Seems the boys all ended up playing together, so no harm done, eh?’

  ‘Not this time, mebbe. But we’d better keep our eye on him. He’s Jackson all over again. Allus in trouble.’

  ‘Well, Jackson’s not turned out so bad, now, has he?’

  ‘No,’ Peggy agreed. ‘But even so . . .’ She said no more, but Joe’s approval of her helping out at Buckthorn Farm had made her think. If it gave that poor lass a bit more freedom, then she’d do it willingly. The thing was, would that miserly old devil agree to it?

  Nine

  The church was packed for Harry Warren’s funeral. Foreman for Buckthorn Farm for much of his adult life, he’d been well known and liked in the district. Farmers whom he’d met at the weekly markets years before in Ravensfleet, and even from farther afield, attended. Miles Thornton was there as a mark of respect for the family, even though he’d never known Harry.

  Osbert Crawford did not attend. His absence was whispered about, but when they surrounded the newly dug grave, many thought that perhaps he couldn’t bear to see his wife’s grave right next to the yawning hole.

  The headstone bore the wording: Alice, beloved wife of Osbert Crawford. Born 1 August 1876, died 6 June 1905.

  ‘Two days after our mam,’ Joe murmured, standing with Peggy and his family as they lowered Harry’s coffin into the ground. He glanced across at Charlotte, who, white faced, couldn’t help glancing at the place where her mother lay. She’d not attended that burial but the fleeting images of watching the cortège leaving the farmyard still haunted her.

  It was something she knew she’d never forget.

  The committal, spoken by an obviously nervous Cuthbert Iveson, was over. Once the earth had been scattered by members of old Harry’s family on to the coffin, the mourners began to move away.

  ‘A grand feller.’ One burly farmer put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘But you’m following in his footsteps and meking a good job on it, by all accounts. Funny your boss hasn’t come,’ he added, looking round. ‘Old Harry served him well. I’d’ve thought the least he could do was to come to his funeral.’

  Joe gave a wan smile. ‘Well, Miss Charlotte’s here and it’s her that . . .’ He stopped, not wanting to give away the truth about the running of Buckthorn Farm nowadays. Charlotte had always made it very clear to him that no one was to know. Swiftly, Joe altered what he’d been going to say. ‘She’s here to represent them both. Mebbe her father isn’t too well,’ he added, making an excuse.

  The farmer eyed him speculatively, but said no more. He went away muttering, ‘There’s summat funny there. Still, none o’ my business, an’ I’d best be on me way. Me cows’ll be burstin’ to be milked.’

  Charlotte was still standing near her mother’s grave when Peggy touched her arm. ‘We’d like you to come back to the cottage, Miss Charlotte. We can’t ask everyone, but we’ve put a bit of a spread on. Just for the family, old Matty, the Morgans and you.’

  Charlotte turned to her and smiled. ‘I’d love to, Peggy. Thank you.’ She glanced down at the coffin now lying deep in the hole. ‘Your father-in-law was always so kind to me. I’ll miss him too. I used to love our little chats. He taught me so much about farming and country ways.’

  ‘He always said you should’ve been a boy, that you—’ Peggy stopped, appalled at her own thoughtlessness. ‘Oh, m
iss, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Me an’ my mouth. Joe allus ses it’ll get me into trouble one of these days.’

  Charlotte smiled and patted Peggy’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Peggy. It was what Harry used to say to me, though I don’t think he realized just how very true his words were.’

  ‘What he meant, miss, was that you’d be as capable as any man to run the farm. And one day – you will.’

  Charlotte glanced at her briefly and then looked away. So, she thought, Joe had kept his promise. Not even his wife knew that Charlotte already ran the farm.

  Peggy’s voice butted into her thoughts again. ‘Dad was a good man and your visits to the cottage, even after he’d given up work, always brightened his day. But there was something troubling him at the end, and we’ve no idea what it was. He told the vicar that last day, but he wouldn’t tell us.’

  Charlotte glanced again at her mother’s grave. ‘Perhaps it was because he couldn’t be buried beside his wife, d’you think?’

  Peggy sighed. ‘Maybe so, but he could’ve been if he’d asked. At least, we could’ve found out if it was possible, but he never asked. He never asked,’ she repeated, the unspoken question hanging between them. Why?

  Far from being a sad occasion, the little gathering at the Warrens’ cottage drank a toast to Harry and reminisced about the years they’d all worked alongside him. Charlotte recalled him teaching her to ride and instilling in her a love for all the animals in their care.

  ‘He always said,’ she reminded those present, ‘that it was a funny mixture being a farmer. We breed and raise animals sometimes to be slaughtered, but we should always respect and care for them. He couldn’t abide cruelty to animals in any form and he would travel miles to find the best slaughterhouse.’

  ‘He always told us you had a gift with animals, miss,’ Matty told her. ‘Healing hands, he said you’d got. And he was right.’

  Charlotte’s cheeks were pink with a quiet pleasure. She wasn’t used to compliments or praise.

  Peggy touched her arm and drew her a little aside. ‘Mebbe I shouldn’t say this so soon, miss, but – well – now poor old Harry’s gone and my boys are old enough to fend for themselves a bit . . . I mean, even young Tommy’s always out with his pals. What I’m trying to say, Miss Charlotte, is that if ever you need any help at the house, I’ll be only too glad.’

  ‘That’d be wonderful, Peggy. I must ask Mary, of course. I wouldn’t like her to think I felt she wasn’t coping.’

  ‘She’d not think that, miss, I promise you. Why, she said—’ Peggy stopped and bit her lip. Perhaps she was betraying a confidence by repeating what the older woman had said on the night of the dinner party.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Mary had muttered to Peggy when she’d thought Charlotte was out of earshot. ‘That lass should be in there sitting in a pretty frock and playing the hostess. But no, he’s ordered that she’s here in the kitchen working like a scullery maid.’

  Charlotte smiled, patted Peggy’s hand and said softly, ‘I know exactly what Mary thinks. In fact, let’s go and ask her now.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you talk about it without me there? I mean . . .’

  Now Charlotte chuckled. ‘No, no, Mary Morgan has never been afraid to speak her mind. If she doesn’t want you there, she’ll say. Have no fear.’

  But Mary was delighted, as Charlotte had known she would be. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Peggy. And it’ll give you more time, Miss Charlotte, to keep up with the books and such.’

  Charlotte actually giggled and put her finger to her lips. ‘Shush, Mary, no one’s supposed to know.’ Until a few moments ago, Charlotte had presumed that Joe would have confided in his wife about the unusual setup at the farm. Obviously, he had not.

  Peggy blinked and glanced from one to another. ‘Know? Know what?’

  Charlotte and Mary exchanged a glance. ‘Well, if you’re coming to work at Buckthorn Farm, you’ll soon find out. But you’re sworn to secrecy. Isn’t she, Mary?’

  Mary shrugged as if she didn’t agree, but she murmured, ‘Aye well, if it keeps his lordship happy . . .’

  Peggy almost laughed aloud to hear that Mary Morgan had the very same nickname for Osbert Crawford as she did.

  What Peggy found out after working a few days at the farmhouse was that Osbert Crawford idled away his days reading and smoking in the sitting room.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Joe. Why did you never tell me that it’s Miss Charlotte who runs the farm?’

  ‘Not allowed, love. There’s only me an’ the Morgans know.’

  ‘What about John and Jackson?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No, they haven’t guessed. An’ as far as I know, neither’s Matty, for all that he’s worked there for years. Me dad knew, ’cos he was the one who taught her the most when she was a young lass growing up and taking on more and more. She’s always asked his advice right up until he got so ill. When he was still foreman, of course, Miss Charlotte wasn’t old enough, but since I took over, Mr Crawford has left more and more to her and now she’s running the whole place.’

  ‘With your help, of course,’ Peggy said proudly.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what his lordship tells everyone. He doesn’t give her an ounce of credit. Not for anything. But it’s her I go to now for advice. And when we go to market, although I do the bidding, it’s always been talked over between us afore the sale starts. She’s done the picking and choosing and she tells me what price I’m to go to.’

  ‘Really? Well, I never!’

  ‘And I’ll tell you summat else not many know. She’s a very good little artist.’

  ‘An artist?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Sometimes when she’s riding around the farm, she brings her sketchpad with her and her Brownie Box camera.’

  ‘What does she paint?’

  ‘Scenery mostly, I reckon. The fields, the marsh, the farmhouse – but I caught her one day in the stable yard doing a lovely sketch of one of the shires. I’d love to know if she ever did a proper painting.’ He sighed. ‘It’s another little secret she’s got. I asked Mary about it once and you should have seen her face.’

  ‘Why? What d’you mean?’

  ‘Frightened to death, she was, that I was going to let the cat out of the bag.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Evidently, the old man doesn’t approve. Ses Charlotte’s wasting her time. A woman will never become a famous painter. So, the lass has to keep her drawing books and paints in her bedroom.’

  Peggy shook her head slowly. ‘That man’s not right in the head, if you ask me. Fancy denying the poor girl a bit of pleasure. I don’t expect she even thinks about being famous. She just does it as a hobby. Like I do me knitting.’

  ‘True, but your hobby keeps us warm in winter with all the lovely jumpers you knit. I suppose he thinks painting pretty pictures doesn’t produce anything useful.’

  Peggy glanced around the rather bare walls of their cottage. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind one of her pretty pictures on my wall if she’s as good as you say she is, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘She’s good all right,’ Joe said firmly. ‘Just a pity her father doesn’t appreciate her a bit more. And not just for her painting, either.’

  Ten

  The return invitation to dine at the manor came towards the end of May. And this time, because Miles had insisted on Charlotte being present, Osbert could not avoid taking her.

  Charlotte had no choice of fine gowns to wear. Her one good dress – a deep purple, plain, shapeless garment that reached to her ankles and had not a scrap of likeness to the fashionable shorter skirts that were all the rage of the mid-twenties – would have to suffice. She scraped her shining black hair back from her face and plaited it, coiling it up into the nape of her neck. She did not possess even one item of jewellery to brighten the drab garment and what she thought of as her one good feature was masked by her round, steel-framed spectacles. No wonder, she thought as she regarded herself solemnly in the mirr
or, her father didn’t want to take her anywhere. She was a sad disappointment, as he never tired of telling her. Not only was she not the son he so obviously desired, but she was also plain and had inherited none of her mother’s beauty. With a sigh, she left her room and went down the stairs to find him waiting impatiently in the hall.

  ‘I don’t know why it takes you so long to get ready,’ he grumbled. ‘However long you spend in front of the mirror you’re not going to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Come on, we don’t want to be late. It’s impolite. And I don’t want to offend the Thorntons.’

  Charlotte handled the reins of the pony and trap, whilst her father clung on to the sides.

  ‘Not so fast, girl. Are you trying to have me thrown out?’

  Charlotte pulled the horse to a slower speed as they entered the gates of the manor and trotted up the drive. Coming to a halt outside the front door, Osbert clambered down.

  ‘Take it round to the stables,’ he ordered. ‘You can come in the back way.’

  Grousing under his breath, he mounted the steps up to the front door and rang the bell. As Charlotte manoeuvred the vehicle round the side of the house to the stable yard, Miles Thornton’s manservant, Wilkins, opened the door.

  As Osbert stepped inside, Georgie ran towards him across the wide hallway. ‘Good evening, Mr Crawford,’ the boy began, smiling a welcome. Then his face fell. ‘Where’s Miss Charlotte? Hasn’t she come?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the older man said irritably. ‘She’s taken the pony and trap round to the stables.’

  Georgie beamed once more. ‘That’s all right, then. I’ll go and meet her.’ He skipped towards the front door, which Wilkins began to open for him. But Osbert’s next words stopped the boy in his tracks. With a growl he said, ‘I’ve told her to come in the back way.’

  Georgie turned and stared at the man for a moment before marching purposefully back across the hall towards the door leading to the kitchens.