by Pamela Bell
Frank wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’m a big lad,’ he mumbled, clearly parroting what he had been told at the recruiting office. Maggie knew that after nearly a year of a war that didn’t seem to be going anywhere it was getting harder and hard for the Army to recruit volunteers, but surely they weren’t reduced to boys?
‘You’re still too young, Frank. Why did you go along? Aren’t you happy here with Blossom and the cows?’
His face worked. ‘I’m not a coward,’ he said.
‘Who said you were?’
‘Mrs Bainbridge.’
Ava Bainbridge. Was there no end to the trouble that woman could cause? Maggie kept a tight rein on her temper as she coaxed the story out of Frank. Ava, it seemed, had presented Frank with a white feather and told him that it was his duty to sign up.
As carefully as she could, Maggie tried to explain to Frank that Ava was wrong and that his duty was still to stay where he could do most good, at Emmerdale Farm. She would go with him to the recruiting office, she said, and explain that a mistake had been made.
But once an idea had taken hold of Frank, he was unshakeable. He didn’t want to be a coward or be called a shirker. He dug in his heels and insisted that he was old enough to do his duty.
He came to say goodbye, bashful in his new uniform. He took a prolonged farewell of each of the cows and of Blossom and then bent to pat Fly. Maggie’s throat ached with unshed tears as she kissed him. ‘I’m proud of you, Frank,’ she told him, straightening his collar. ‘You’re a good lad, and you’ll be a good soldier. You do what the officer tells you, and when the war is over, there’ll always be a job for you at Emmerdale Farm.’
When he left, she had to press cover her mouth with her hand to stop her face crumpling. How many more goodbyes would there be before this cursed war was over?
And now she had something else to worry about. This was the fourth morning she’d been sick and the first she’d made it to the privy on time.
Leaning against the wooden wall of the privy until the sickness faded, Maggie had been unable to ignore the truth any longer. This sickness in the mornings and the strange tingling sensation in her breasts. She hadn’t had the curse since before Joe came back. Maggie’s mind skittered around the memory of what he had done to her then: the smell of his sweaty palm over her face, the brutal thrusting, that horrifying sense of powerlessness.
And now she was pregnant.
Swamped by a great wave of lassitude, Maggie had to force herself outside and away from the stench and the flies. The privy was no place to linger, especially not in high summer.
Fly was waiting for her, her bright eyes fixed anxiously on Maggie’s face. ‘Oh, Fly,’ Maggie had sighed, bending down to stroke her. ‘Now what am I going to do?’
When Frank had told her about enlisting, Maggie had come so close to giving up. Why struggle on? she had asked herself. Why not let Tom Skilbeck take over? She could go and work in a factory. She could leave Beckindale and all its memories behind.
But now everything had changed. Now there was a child to think of.
Maggie laid a hand on her stomach. There was nothing to feel yet, just the rough cotton of her work trousers but it was there, she was sure.
A baby.
Her baby – and Joe’s.
She could get rid of it. The thought hung in the air. There were all sorts of folk-remedies to encourage a miscarriage. Nobody would blame her if she tried one. Nobody would know.
Nobody would care.
But Maggie knew that she couldn’t do it. Already she felt fiercely protective of the new life growing inside her. It might be Joe’s child, but it would be hers too.
Since Ralph died, she had been existing. She had kept going because there had been no alternative. Now she had a child to work for. Emmerdale Farm would do its bit to feed the country during the war, but it had a future now too. It was an inheritance, to be built up and passed on to this child and to future generations.
So when Tom Skilbeck came sniffing around as soon as he heard about Frank, Maggie told him that she wasn’t interested in letting him have any more. ‘Come on, now, Maggie,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to help you out here. You’ve done well, I’ll give you that, but even Frank’s gone now. Even you can’t think a lass can run a farm like this all by yourself.’
‘I’m getting some help,’ she said.
‘Who? There aren’t many young men left at all, and the older ones won’t work for a woman. No one will work for you, Maggie, and you know it.’
But Maggie only put up her chin. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.
As soon as Tom had stomped off, she put on her hat and walked down to the vicarage. Edith Haywood showed no surprise at seeing her. She made Maggie tea and they sat in the kitchen. All their lives had changed, Maggie thought. A year ago, Mrs Haywood would not have known how to make her own tea.
‘When is the baby due?’ Edith asked and Maggie put her cup unsteadily back in its saucer.
‘How did you know?’
‘I have had three children, my dear,’ said Edith with a faint smile. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘I can’t afford a doctor. Besides, I helped enough lambs into the world earlier this year to know what’s going to happen. It’s a natural process. If the sheep can manage without a doctor, so can I.’
Edith lifted her hands in a gesture of acceptance. ‘Still, you must look after yourself. You’ll be exhausted if you try to do everything yourself.’
‘I know. I’ve changed my mind,’ Maggie said. ‘Do you think your friend from York would still like to come and work on the farm?’
‘I can get in touch with Hugo and ask him to come straight away,’ said Edith. She paused. ‘I think you’re making the right decision but are you prepared for the fact that it won’t make you popular in the village?’
Maggie gave a short laugh. ‘No change there, then.’
She wrote to Joe that night. She told him about the baby and that she expected it would be born sometime in January. She told him about Frank and that she had had no choice but to employ a conscientious objector to help with the heavy work. Then she took it down to Hannah Rigg in the post office and sent it off. Joe’s unit had been sent to Egypt and she didn’t expect to hear back for some time. Until then, she would do whatever she had to.
On a sticky August evening when the heat of the day shimmered still on track, Maggie came out of the byre to see a quiet-looking man wrestling with the gate at Emmerdale Farm.
She put down the can of milk and watched as he stopped and studied the gate for a moment before working out the trick of it and opening it so that he could step through. Putting down his suitcase once more, he fastened the gate behind him and turned to see Maggie.
After only a moment’s hesitation, he walked across the farmyard, looking ridiculously citified in his tweed suit and polished shoes. When he got closer, he stopped and lifted his hat.
‘Mrs Sugden?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Hugo Dawson. I believe you’re expecting me?’
‘I had a letter, yes. You’re the conchie.’ Maggie made no attempt to hide her hostility. She might have no choice but to employ a conscientious objector, but she didn’t have to like it – or him.
Braced for a cowardly type, raving about the iniquities of war, she had been prepared to give him short shrift, but the man who had opened the gate so competently didn’t look as if raving was his style. She guessed that he was in his early thirties or so. He was clean-shaven with quiet features and steady eyes. Put him in a uniform and he would make a perfect officer.
And that’s what he should be, Maggie thought fiercely. Hugo Dawson should be out in France doing his bit with everyone else and looking out for the likes of Frank, not standing safely here at Beckindale Farm in his tweed suit.
‘I am a Quaker,’ he said evenly. ‘My conscience does not permit me to fight but I am happy to do what I can to help as long as I am not called upon to kil
l my fellow men.’
‘Conscience won’t help the boys at the front,’ she pointed out with a tart look.
Hugo acknowledged that with a nod. ‘No, but I hope I will be able to help you,’ he said. ‘I understand you are running this farm all by yourself?’
‘That’s right.’ Maggie caught herself up. Approve of him or not, she needed this man if she were to keep the farm going. Think of the baby, she reminded herself.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said ungraciously as she bent to pick up the milk can. ‘I’ll just put this in the dairy.’
‘That looks heavy. Let me take it for you.’
Maggie was about to refuse when she remembered how tired she was. ‘You may as well start making yourself useful,’ she allowed and watched critically as he picked up the milk can with ease. He was stronger than he looked, that was something.
Hugo looked around the dairy with interest. He was full of questions: was it true the elderflower bush at the door kept off flies? What happened to the milk once it was in the churns? Did she make butter, or cheese? How long did that take?
‘Nosy, aren’t you?’ she said at last.
‘Sorry,’ said Hugo with an unexpectedly engaging smile. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I’m a science teacher,’ he explained when she looked at him. ‘I’m interested in how and why things work. Do questions annoy you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’ Joe grunted orders. Frank did as he was told. Dot had known more than Maggie did anyway, or had thought she did. ‘I’m just not used it, I suppose.’
‘Let me know if it does. I have it on good authority I can be a pest at times.’ Hugo smiled, but there was a sadness in it that made Maggie wonder who he was thinking of.
She pointed to the stable. ‘There’s a room in the loft. You’ll see the stair when you go in the stable. It’s not much, but it’s private. You can sleep there, but take your meals in the kitchen with me.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
His politeness made her uneasy. ‘You might not when you find out what a bad cook I am. Have you eaten today?’
‘Not since breakfast.’
‘You’d better come in then.’
Maggie couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had been in the kitchen and she found herself looking at the room through the stranger’s eyes, noting the dinginess of the décor.
At one end of the room the range filled the fireplace, flanked by a rocking chair and the chair where Joe had used to sit, leaning back with his legs spread, his hands gripping the arms while he glared balefully into the fire. A tired rag-rug was laid on the floor in front of the range. There was an old sideboard and a table covered in an oiled cloth and there, near the door, was where Joe had raped her.
Maggie stepped round the spot as she always did. ‘Sit down,’ she said as she brushed crumbs from the table into her hand. She hadn’t taken the time to clear up properly after her dinner, and now she wished she had.
She set out cold beef, some stale bread and home-made butter. ‘It’s not much,’ she found herself apologising. ‘We eat a hot meal at dinner time.’
In the larder, she found the remains of a pie she had made with the last of the apples stored in the barn loft and some early blackberries she had found. The pastry was stodgy but it would have to do. Not for the first time Maggie wished Dot still held sway in the kitchen. She would put up with a lot of grumbling for Dot’s light hand with the pastry or one of the delicious cakes she used to make.
Pulling out a chair, she sat down opposite Hugo and pushed the plate of beef towards him. ‘If we’re going to get along, we should set out some ground rules,’ she said brusquely.
‘That sounds sensible.’
‘I believe in being frank.’ Maggie took a breath. ‘I know you’ve got your own beliefs, but I don’t like what you stand for. There are men I care for at the front right now, and others who will never come back.’
Hugo’s eyes were an unusual colour, somewhere between green and brown, and flecked with gold. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Maggie doubted that he did but he was here now and it looked as if he was the best he was going to get.
‘Have you ever worked on a farm before?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Ever milked a cow?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Used a scythe?’
‘No.’
‘Harnessed a horse?’
He shook his head regretfully.
‘Well!’ She blew out an exasperated breath. ‘What can you do?’
‘I’m a quick learner,’ said Hugo with a faint smile.
‘You’d better be,’ said Maggie, unimpressed. ‘You’ll need to be up at five in the morning for milking.’
The dew lay thick on the grass the next morning when Maggie showed him how to bring the cows in from the meadow. When Buttercup was in place, she hooked the milking stool closer with her foot and she sat on it to demonstrate how to squeeze the teats so that milk squirted satisfyingly into the bucket. Buttercup was missing Frank and played up, kicking half a bucket of milk into the straw, but Hugo seemed to get the knack of it eventually, and although it would be a long time before he was as quick as Frank, Maggie grudgingly acknowledged that he had coped better than she had thought. There was a calmness about him, too, that seemed to reassure the cows.
After a breakfast of bread and cheese, milk warm from the cow and the remnants of the blackberry and apple pie, Maggie told Hugo that she wanted him to start harvesting the oats that were already cracking and past their best.
‘I want you to cut the field in rows,’ she said, handing him the scythe.
Hugo examined the scythe carefully, weighing it in his hands for a few minutes before taking an experimental swing and neatly slicing the top off a stand of oats. ‘Like that?’
Maggie stared at him suspiciously. ‘I thought you hadn’t used a scythe before?’
‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘But I obviously need to work out the most effective angle to hold the scythe and how to use the weight of my body. I’ve seen men scything in the fields, of course, but I never realised quite what hard work it was.’
‘Hmm.’ Maggie watched him complete the first row. It was far from perfect but she had to admit that it was much better than she could have done. ‘I’ll bring you out some dinner and something to drink later,’ she said as she left him to it.
By the time she went back, Hugo had cut half the field and was bright red in the face and sweating profusely.
‘Have a rest,’ said Maggie irritably. ‘You’re no use to me if you pass out.’
Hugo collapsed gratefully into the long grass and accepted the bottle of home-brewed beer she gave him, tipping back his head and drinking thirstily.
Unwrapping the bread and cheese she had brought out to the field, Maggie was annoyed to see that Fly was greeting him effusively, her tail wagging as she nudged her nose under Hugo’s arm. She had been used to Frank, but was otherwise usually wary of men. Joe’s kicks had taught her to give them a wide berth. But here she was making a ridiculous fuss over the conscientious objector.
‘She’s a lovely dog,’ said Hugo, patting Fly.
‘She doesn’t usually like men,’ Maggie said.
‘Dogs have good instincts,’ Hugo glanced up at Maggie in her old trousers and a white shirt open at the throat, her arms folded warily. ‘She knows she can trust me not to hurt her.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cursing the damp that set the ache grinding in his bad leg, Levi limped down to the ruined watermill. It was a misty October day and he skidded on the wet leaves in his haste. He was late, and terribly afraid that Rose wouldn’t have waited.
He hardly saw her nowadays. She was always rushing off to that blasted hospital instead of staying to talk to him. Sometimes she could barely wait to snatch Mick’s letter from his hands and give him hers in return before she claimed that Sergeant This or Private That was waiting
for her and that she had to go.
Levi had taken to hanging around the vicarage in the hope of seeing her and exchanging a word. If Rose was on her own, he would catch up with her but she still tried to brush him off. It annoyed him.
‘Please, Levi,’ she said, walking very fast even though she knew it was hard for him to keep up with his bad leg. ‘We can’t be seen together.’
Did she think he was stupid? He only ever approached her if the road was empty. He spread his arms and looked around. ‘Who’s to see? There’s no one here.’
‘This is a village. There’s always someone to see,’ said Rose. ‘I just don’t want my father to get suspicious. If he got it into his head that I was keeping unsuitable company, he’d be able to make your life extremely difficult. And if you weren’t here, how would I contact Mick?’
It was still all about Mick, Levi thought resentfully. He had thought she would have tired of Mick’s stupid letters by now.
Levi nearly slipped on the wet stones, but at least Rose was still there. She was pacing up and down in a long coat and a hat, banging her gloved hands together for warmth.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was just leaving when Will asked if I could give him a hand with some boxes.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You seem a bit tense,’ Levi said anxiously. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘The man I love is fighting in a war that shows no sign of ending. What on earth could be wrong?’ she snapped and he recoiled.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you.’
Rose took a deep breath. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind me, Levi. I’m just cold and I’m upset because Sergeant Donald died yesterday. He was my favourite patient.’
Levi couldn’t understand why she was so obsessed with the wounded soldiers. ‘I bought you some chocolates,’ he said in an attempt to cheer her up, but that didn’t work either.
‘Oh, Levi, I wish you wouldn’t.’ She sounded impatient. ‘You know I can’t take presents home without questions being asked.’
‘I thought you would like them as a treat,’ he said, wounded. It was so frustrating not being able to impress her with gifts.
