Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  I tried to explain this to Ned Plant when he came up to the house to see me.

  ‘That’s all very well, Miss Rose,’ he replied. ‘But there’s work to be done and I don’t know what to tell ’em to get on with. I had a man come sayin’ as Mr ’amilton ’ad ordered a gang to help finish pickin’ mangolds afore the frost set in. How do I know if that’s so? Which field shall I set ’em to? And Benstead’s goin’ on about that cash prize he’s been expectin’ for weeks. Promised his wife a new bonnet out of it, he say. Not to mention…’

  He went on ‘not to mention’ several other problems, until my head was buzzing. I couldn’t hope to handle matters all alone. To whom could I turn?

  Who else but the man who had been friend, guide and mentor ever since Father first took the lease on Orchards?

  George Pooley and I walked the farm while he advised me which fields were ready for the plough, which should be planted with winter wheat, which roots to pull, which holes in the lanes should be filled with stones, which ditches needed clearing. He advised Benstead to bring the bullocks in from the marshes for the winter, while the sheep were folded on ploughed tilth, their hurdle pen moved occasionally so that the whole field would be well manured. Taggart the shepherd was preparing his hut, where he would live during lambing.

  So the shortening days passed. My hands grew calloused, my nails split, my skin roughened under the assault of rain and cold winds. Often, coming in tired, cold and aching, I thought about Victor and wondered what he would think, to see me now, taking his place. Neither of us had ever dreamed of such a future.

  * * *

  In the long evenings, much to Mama’s dismay, I settled myself in Father’s office, acquainting myself with the account books. At first I felt like a thief, prying where I shouldn’t, but as I found my way among the maze of information and began to detect a pattern, I knew that, given time, I could handle it as well as any man.

  Farmer Pooley seemed to agree. ‘You’ve got a good grasp of what’s what, Miss Rose,’ he told me. ‘Why, I’ll wager you could take over the management of the farm – if it were a womanly thing to do.’

  ‘Why should it be unwomanly?’ I demanded. ‘You don’t call Old Dame Rudd “unwomanly” because she runs her farm on her own.’

  ‘Bessie Rudd.’ He rubbed his cheek uncertainly. ‘Aye, well, that’s a different matter, Miss Rose. It’s a smaller property. And she’s a widow woman, and well on in years. You’re a single lady – a young single lady. A gentlewoman.’

  Though I knew that public opinion would agree with him, I argued. ‘I can’t see what difference it makes. I’d make as good a farmer as Victor. At least my heart would be in it. His never was, you know. He did it because it was what Father wanted.’

  ‘Aye, gal, I know.’ He perused me for a long moment, holding his ruddy nose, eyes half buried beneath bushy brows set in a weathered face. Then he laughed and slapped his thigh, ‘By gar, you know who you remind me of?’

  ‘No. Who?’

  ‘Your father. You remind me of your father. Blast my eyes if you don’t!’

  He told me how Father had ridden to his door on the day my mother died – the day I was born – and declared his startling intention to be a farmer. My own ambition was just as unlikely, but, ‘If anybody can do it, it’s Will Hamilton’s daughter.’

  ‘If only Will Hamilton will let her,’ I commented.

  Pooley sobered, nodding sagely in agreement. ‘Aye, gal, you’ll have a hard time convincing him it’s right and proper.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll put a word in for me?’

  That made him smile, his eyes twinkling. ‘Mebbe I might. Meantime, I was wondering… How would it be if I asked my nephew Basil to help keep an eye on the place for a while? He’d be glad to oblige, I know.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t bother him,’ I said at once. ‘I can manage, with your help.’

  ‘Trouble is, Miss Rose,’ he said, pulling at his ear. ‘Mrs Pooley and I hev arranged to go on a trip, to see her sister up north. I’ve been promising her for ages. We thought we might stay over Christmas. I’d feel easier about it if Basil was on hand, now and then. Just in case. He’s no farmer, but you may find you need a man… I’ll ask him to keep an eye. Just as a friend. Just to set my mind at rest.’

  Though Basil was not my idea of an ideal steward, I agreed, simply to let dear Pooley go off on his jaunt with a free mind.

  ‘But anyway,’ he assured me bracingly, ‘your father’ll be back afore long, I don’t doubt. He’ll be back and take up the reins again as if nothing had happened, don’t fret your pretty head about that. I’ve seen him like this afore. It’s the way grief takes him. Hard. He takes it hard. But once he’s worked through it he’ll be his old self again, you’ll see. Then you can forget all this nonsense about managing the place yourself.’

  * * *

  Grace’s eighteenth birthday came and went in quiet fashion: her friend Maria Kinnersley stayed for a few days and there were cards and presents, but Father’s absence – and the yawning gap where once Victor would have stood – were achingly apparent. Grace spent most of the day sulking. As a result, when she was invited to stay for a while with the Kinnersleys in Lynn, Mama agreed, on the understanding that she must observe her mourning obligations and not be too gay.

  It became my habit to ride out every day, partly as a means of exercising Dandy, Victor’s horse. At first he was uneasy with me, and with the side-saddle which had once belonged to Mama. However, after a while we reached an agreement to get along. Where the dogcart might have bogged down, the horse stepped along the verges, allowing me to oversee the farm despite the increasing muddiness of the lanes.

  Yes, I knew that tongues were wagging; I was not behaving as a decent young woman should. But the farm had to be kept going until Father got over his melancholy and there was no one else to do it. Farmer Pooley had gone away and, though Basil did call about once a week, his knowledge of farming was scanty. I neither needed nor wanted his help.

  But Basil did entertain poor, sad Mama. He told amusing stories and he flattered her until she turned blushing coy like a maid of sixteen.

  ‘Really, I never before noticed what a very pleasant young man he is,’ she remarked. ‘Don’t you think so, Rose? He may not, be a gentleman, but he has an engaging way with him, don’t you think?’

  ‘He can be very agreeable when he chooses,’ I conceded.

  ‘And he’s very fond of you,’ she observed.

  ‘As an old friend of the family, he’s fond of us all, I dare say.’

  I took care not to give Basil any encouragement, but I confess that I was beginning to revise my opinion of him. He never became intrusive; he was polite, supportive, a welcome antidote to the gloom that often gathered over Orchards. It was a comfort to know he was there, if we needed him.

  I tried to tell him as much, taking care to emphasise that it was Mama who most benefited from his company: ‘She seems to blossom when you’re here. You’re good for her.’

  ‘She’s a lovely lady,’ he said. ‘The pleasure’s mine.’

  ‘Well, I’m grateful.’

  He stood looking at me, hat in hand, ready to leave, his blue eyes bright as they surveyed my face. ‘That’s all I need to know, Miss Rose. So long as I’m being of some use to you.’

  * * *

  On 1 December, the county celebrated Princess Alexandra’s twenty-first birthday, with public buildings specially illuminated in Lynn, teas and suppers held, a party for local schoolchildren at Sandringham Hall itself, and a ball at the big house in the evening. Mama and I saw some of the celebration fireworks, shooting stars sparkling across a frosty sky, rockets flaring tails of orange fire. But we didn’t watch for long. Mama complained of feeling cold.

  ‘Draw the curtain, Narnie,’ she instructed, moving away to sit huddled by the fire. ‘Come and sit with me, Rose. Don’t you feel the cold, too? How you can be about the farm in this weather…’ But the subject was distasteful, so she discarded it
. ‘Next year, you and Grace will be able to attend the Birthday Ball. By then, you will have put aside your mourning and be able to enjoy yourselves without feeling disloyal to Victor’s memory. Oh, my dear,’ she added as she saw my face, ‘he would not have wanted you to be unhappy. He wanted you to have a good life, to find a husband and—’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t want a husband,’ I said.

  She exchanged a glance with Narnie before settling a troubled look on me. ‘That’s your aunt Agnes speaking, not you, Rose.’

  ‘I’d rather stay single than have some man treat me as Father treats you.’

  Behind me, Narnie muttered her agreement.

  But Mama’s mouth trembled and as she bit her lip a tear welled up and dripped down her cheek. She wiped it away with a handkerchief, saying hoarsely, ‘Your father is out of sorts at present. That’s all it is. Of course you want to be married. What else will you do – become a governess, as Agnes plans?’

  ‘I may decide to stay and help Father run the farm.’

  Her mouth formed a little ‘o’ of dismay and she clapped her hands to it, staring at me across them.

  ‘Take no notice of her, Miss Flora,’ Narnie said, bustling across to knead her neck. ‘Mr Hamilton will never let her do that, and she knows it. She only says these things to startle you. Off with you, Miss Rose. Your mama needs to rest. Go and find something to do.’

  I got to my feet, wearying of the conversation. Mama seemed to think of nothing but marrying me off as quickly as possible. She never talked about anything that really mattered. ‘Someone has to help Father,’ I said. ‘With Victor gone, who else is there but me? And I could do it. I know I could.’

  ‘Ruin your hands, and your complexion,’ Mama fretted. ‘You can’t mean it, Rose.’

  I hadn’t fully realised it until that moment, but I did mean it. Every word.

  * * *

  The weather turned frosty, red skies at night, clear stars blazing, mornings rimed with ice as thick as snow. We kept the bullocks in deep straw in the home yard, and Benstead picked out the most promising ones, putting them in individual boxes to fatten them up. Taggart, the shepherd, wanted ‘his ewes’ to have some grazing on the grass of the fallow field, so I agreed that he could let them in there during the day and take them back to their fold at night.

  Despite the weather, threshing was going ahead – in the old way, by flail and winnow, building heaps of golden corn in the barn – and in the lanes one passed laden carts taking roots for chopping into winter feed. I thanked providence that most of the mangolds were piled warm under straw; frost could ruin them. Some ploughing continued, and harrowing, and I kept the work-gang on to pick stones in new-ploughed fields to fill the holes in the lanes. It was a mystery where all the stones came from; some of the country folk believed they mated and bred in the night.

  The shooting continued unabated. Nervous pheasant, partridge and hares, driven from their homes, haunted the orchards, and once I came across an exhausted woodcock that hardly had strength to move even when I stroked it. Occasionally a hunting horn could be heard winding, far away, the sound carrying on the still air, and once I saw the hounds streaming across a hillside like blown leaves. But, fox-hunting being incompatible with game-rearing, a finding was rare – most adult foxes were poisoned or shot by game-keepers in West Norfolk, though cubs were reared to ensure the survival of the sport.

  One day I found it necessary to take the train into King’s Lynn to see Uncle Jonathan at the bank and arrange for some cash to be made available. Father’s continued absence was becoming an embarrassment. My uncle provided temporary financial coverage, but he was concerned to know that Father was still away and promised to write to him at Thetford. I had luncheon at Weal House, together with Grace and her friend Maria Kinnersley. Grace was in no hurry to come home.

  Once again darkness was falling as I arrived at Wolferton, but this time Benstead met me and drove me home. I was able to give him his belated cash prize from the agricultural show, for which he was pleased. He actually stopped grumbling for several minutes but soon the complaints started again – his rheumatics were playing him up; his potatoes had got the blight; there were too many hares about, they were eating all the green tops and taking food out of the mouths of his beasts… I was tired, and his litany of woe wearied me.

  As we drove up the incline to the house, I saw a fine sporting gig tethered by the porch. My heart contracted painfully as I recognised the vehicle, but the door of the house opened and, against the glow of lamplight from within, a lanky figure appeared – not Geoffrey, but his father, Sir Arthur Devlin.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded as he strode up to me with a curious hopping gait – one of his long legs didn’t bend at the knee. ‘What’s this? Your father not here? You managing the farm? What next? My God, what next, I say?’

  ‘Good evening, Sir Arthur,’ I replied, climbing from the trap.

  ‘What?’ He peered at me in the twilight, head thrust out and slightly tilted, as if he were deaf. ‘Ah – yes. But it’s not a good evening, Miss Hamilton. Not a good evening at all. Not when your animals have broken through my hedge and got into my best turnips. It’s too bad! Your father and I have had words about this before. Done it deliberately, I shouldn’t wonder. Done it deliberately to aggravate me. Well, let me tell you this – I’ll put my solicitor on to it if it continues. I’ll take you to court and have them decide who’s right. Good evening to you, Miss Hamilton.’

  With that, he swung awkwardly up to the gig and with his stiff leg sticking out to one side was off before I could collect wits enough to reply. The thin high wheels sent a spray of mud to splatter my skirts as a parting insult.

  ‘Oh, Lor’, Miss Rose,’ Benstead sighed. ‘Don’t say Taggart went and let them ewes get out of that field. I coulda told you that would happen, if you left ’em too long in that fallow.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ I asked in exasperation.

  He looked at me in amazement. ‘’Tweren’t my place to question orders, Miss Rose. I’m only the yardman.’

  I was even more angry when I learned how Sir Arthur had harangued a bewildered Mama and left her in tears. Without pausing to change my clothes or take a cup of tea, I went down to the yards in search of Plant, in hope of explanations.

  Our sheep had grown tired of eating grass and, unerringly finding their way to the place where the boundary hedge was thin, had pushed through and found a succulent supply of their favourite food – turnips. How were they to know the turnips in question belonged to Sir Arthur, and that they were a type being grown for experimental purposes with the aid of superphosphates, an artificial manure known by all shepherds to be harmful to ewes? There had been a rare to-do catching the sheep: Taggart, anxious for his stock so close to lambing, had come to blows with one of the Ambleford men; and then Sir Arthur had arrived, shouting and cursing and threatening litigation.

  ‘Like he alluss do,’ said Plant. ‘No love lost between him and your father, Miss Rose, that’s fer sure. If he en’t over here shoutin’ he’s a-writin’ letters, or sendin’ Mr Geoffrey to lay down the law.’

  As I discovered from a file in the office, a heated correspondence between Father and the baronet had ended in August with Sir Arthur saying he would see to the hedge ‘as soon as my men have leisure to attend to such trifles’. In my current mood, the tone of the letters seemed typical of the Devlins – arrogant and uncaring, going their own selfish way, careless of consequences to those less able to defend themselves, I was thinking bitter thoughts of Geoffrey when I wrote to Sir Arthur, demanding that he should have the hedge mended at his earliest convenience.

  * * *

  One afternoon I rode the lanes, keeping an eye on progress. The day was cold, a brisk wind driving clouds that threatened sleet. In one field the harrows were at work, covering seed; in another a boy whirled a clapper and yelled in a hoarse voice to scare away the clouds of rooks that came hungrily reconnoitring. A mongrel dog barked noisily
and went streaking after a hare and, further on, the work-gang bent along muddy furrows picking stones, tossing them into a line for others to hurl into a cart.

  Most of these workers were women and children. Whatever the weather, they walked the long miles from Castle Acre six days a week; all day they pulled mangolds, or picked stones out of cold, wet, sometimes frozen, ground, until the light was failing, when they trudged the weary miles back home at night, their boots and clothes thick with mud, muscles aching, fingers and toes hot with chilblains. Rough labourers they might be, but I did not envy their lot.

  Hearing a loud voice raised, I peered over the bare hedge and saw the gang-master stride along the headland to where, not far from the gate, what looked like an old, muddy sack lay crumpled. It was not a sack; as the man bent and jerked at the bundle I realised that it was a child. I heard it whimper as the man dragged it up by one arm, cursing it in language too coarse to record.

  ‘Get up, you lazy little toad,’ was his gist. ‘Get up and work. What do I pay you for? No work, no snap. Hear me?!’

  The child was no more than five or six, a sickly, underfed little scrap almost too weak to stand, feet encased in sodden rags buried in balls of clinging mud, coat made of sacking, belted with rope, little hands thick with the mud that clotted its clothes and hair. As the overseer cursed on, one or two of the other workers, aching backs too stiff to straighten, lifted their heads and looked on with sullen, watchful eyes. None of them made a move to intervene.

  Thrusting the child ahead of him by jerks of a heavy hand at its shoulder, the overseer forced it back into line and stood over it, pointing at a heavy stone embedded in a clod. It was evident that the child hadn’t the strength to pull the skin from a bowl of hot milk, much less a boulder from half-frozen soil, but the overseer lifted his knobby stick and the terrified child bent its small, slimy hands to grasp at the stone.