Authors: Janice Robertson
She had no time to react.
The dog leapt squarely upon her chest and she landed, with
an agonising thud, on a heap of bobbly windfall apples.
Above her loomed murderous eyes, a flash of jagged teeth. Drool,
with a distinctive sweet-piggy odour, dripped from the dog’s purple tongue onto
the stiffened muscles of her neck.
Before Wasp had a chance to bite, Eppie rammed the swingle between
his teeth. In pained surprise, the dog leapt back.
Dragged to her feet, Eppie felt Martha’s comforting arms
about her.
By now the orchard had become a scene of pandemonium. Dashing
around the fruit trees, the pursuers tried to grab the dog. He was too quick
for them and raced off in the direction of the manor house.
The men and boys immediately charged after the deranged dog.
With a sense of disbelief, Eppie and Martha listened as Gillow’s rows of beautifully
blanched leeks shattered beneath the thundering feet.
Bonneted, cloaked and mittened,
Eppie skipped to Little Lubbock church.
A
long
the way she hummed the melodies she knew Gabriel would be rehearsing.
For weeks there had been almost continuous rain. Passing
Horseshoe Field she spotted a sheep on its back. Weighed down by its sodden
fleece it would soon die if not righted.
‘Grumps, that one’s farweltered!’
Trumpeter, the grey shepherd dog, bounding before him,
Samuel hobbled towards the hapless creature.
Eppie still reeled from the attack on her pigs. Shortly
before Wasp tore into Gillow’s garden, the dog had mauled to death a sick sheep
which Samuel had left in a pen separate from the flock.
Kicking stones along the road, she
recalled the aftermath:
Eppie and Martha watched the men prepare Slodgy’s carcase.
Wakelin wiped the pig’s wet bristles with a wisp of straw. ‘He
were ready for sticking, anyhow.
‘‘How can you speak so harshly?’ his mother rebuked. ‘Have
you no sympathy for the hog and what it went through?’
Gillow set fire to the bed of straw upon which the pig lay.
‘He don’t know the meaning of compassion.’
‘Yur, I’ve got sympathy,’ Wakelin snapped. ‘Sympathy for
Tom’s dogs. Du Quesne forced Tom to hang them all: Gnasher, Ripper, Digger, and
even old Spurt.’
‘Why’d he do such a ghastly thing?’ Eppie asked.
‘For revenge, after Wasp scratched a hole in Tom’s barn.’
‘That makes no sense.’
Henry, who was lending a hand, continued the tale of Wasp’s
escape. ‘Du Quesne was in the stockyard talking to the men about culling the
pigeons. Now that he’s able to house and feed his cattle over the wintertime
he’s not so reliant on the birds’ meat. His lordship said the dovecote ought to
be knocked down and the stone used to extend the beast-house. Bill riled him,
asking whether he and the others could take the meat home for their tables. His
lordship’s a bit sore on that point. Recently, there’s been an increase in
poaching on his land. Several deer have been taken.’
Wakelin looked shifty, purposefully avoiding Eppie’s glance.
‘Du Quesne was making it clear that
he’d no longer deal leniently with offenders when Wasp charged across the yard
and into the kitchen, where he set all the women to screaming. The dog never so
much as got a lick at the venison roasting on the spit. Du Quesne’s a deadeye
shot.’
Eppie wandered past the entrance to Ferret Farm, which lay
to the right of a bend in the lane. Beside the farm entrance was the smithy. Piled
in the cobbled yard were sacks of spilt charcoal fuel and stacks of agricultural
tools awaiting repair. Various tongs, hacksaws and sledgehammers hung on the
wall behind the anvil. Autumn being the usual time for ditching, the blacksmith
was busy shodding a willow spade with iron strips.
Soon
she approached the church. Cropped by sheep, the grass felt soft and springy as
she stepped solemnly past Aunt Zelda’s ivy-strangled grave, and headed towards
the ancient yew with its split trunk. Here, at the back of the graveyard, lay Martha’s
babies, buried in one grave. Nearby was the headstone of Martha’s mother. With
her finger, Eppie traced the name
Euphemia
. She liked sharing the name.
It gave her a sense of connection with the past.
Her
hands clasped behind her back, she trod towards the oak door. Over it, angels
were carved into an arch, trees appearing to sprout from their heads. Enchantment
awaited Eppie whenever she chanced to find herself alone in the church; it felt
as though she were in direct communication with God. Shafts of sunlight
streaked through the stained-glass windows, casting a reflected myriad of
pastel hues upon her white frock.
Behind
her the door grated open. She span around with a smile upon her lips, imagining
Gabriel to have arrived. Realising her mistake she dived, soundlessly, into a
box pew. Blinkinsopp, the sexton, had clearly been in the process of cleaning,
for upon the seat was a greasy rag and an uncorked jar of polish.
Her
first thought was how scandalous it was to be crouching in the box reserved for
the du Quesne family. The poor churchgoers congregated upon the rows of
benches. She never minded because, sitting at the aisle end of the seventh row,
she would lovingly run her fingers over the curvy tail on the carving of a field
mouse.
Her
second thought was why she was hiding from Wakelin? The answer was simple -
because it was odd to see him in church. Despite being pestered by Gillow and
Martha, he rarely attended. ‘So why is he here now?’ she wondered.
Studded
boot soles clicked on stone as he passed, close.
She waited an age, or so it seemed, breathing in the musty
smell of hassocks stacked on the floor. Bored, she rose cautiously to her knees
and peered around. Failing to see him, she assumed he must have left by the door
that led to the vestry. She was about to step out when she spotted a figure
behind the decorative wood panelling, standing amongst the du Quesne tombs. She
craned her neck to get a better view.
Wakelin was making drunken, blubbering sounds. He seemed to
be talking to himself. As though he had been stabbed in the back, he slumped
over a chest tomb, sobbing.
‘What do you think you’re up to?’ Thurstan’s voice echoed around
the hammer-beam rafters.
Eppie’s heart leapt. Instinctively plummeting, she accidentally
knocked over the jar containing
Slick’s Finest Lick, Lubrication of Quality
.
In alarm, she chewed Elizabeth’s club-hand, watching the rancid, glutinous
liquid, interspersed with nodules of beeswax, wend its way over the bench.
The sound of a scuffle filled the church, followed by
Wakelin’s cry, ‘Tek yer filthy hands off me, ya scum!’
Manhandling Wakelin along the nave, Thurstan called to
someone, ‘I caught this drivelling pustule making off with manorial church
treasures.’ To which Wakelin protested in his ugly, swearing voice.
Eppie was relieved at not having been spotted, but was also
filled with sorrow for Wakelin.
Baffled, longing to know what he had been up to, she stood
up and gazed at the tombs.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Gabriel grinned. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. Your brother
must be impossibly drunk, mistaking the church for the parlour of The Fat Duck.’
‘I’ve slapped this sticky stuff over your bench,’ she said,
filled with shame.
He peered over. ‘It looks like the chewed mouse my cat cast
over father’s tome of
Alchemy for Poore Beasts
. I’d left the book on my
desk to look up a reference. When father tried to turn the pages, he found they’d
stuck together. I told him that I’d placed my chocolate drink upon it and it had
tipped over. When he asked me to account for the fur and bones I was stumped. He
guessed Prince Ferdinand was to blame and demanded that I confine my cat to the
scullery. Before the doctor arrives, I’ll show you my great-great-grandfather’s
tomb.
‘This is his, with the statue of the knight on top. Resting
with his feet on the lion shows he died in battle.
‘Mother has a morbid fear of the tombs. That’s why she never
attends church, preferring private services at home with Parson Lowford. She is
terrified that Doctor Burndread will declare her dead when she isn’t. Waking in
her coffin, she’ll bang and scratch on the lid. Nobody will hear her.’
Eppie stroked the ears of a stone kitten curled at the foot
of an alabaster carving of a baby girl. ‘I like this one best. It’s the tomb
Wakelin fell over.’
‘What do you mean? This is Genevieve’s … ’
Behind them came the sound of quick tapping shoes
.
‘Forgive my lateness, Master Gabriel,’ said the wigged,
black-suited tutor. ‘I was detained trying, in vain, to stop a scuffle between
your cousin and a coarsely-spoken lout disguised in liquor. What are you doing
back here?’
‘I was, umm, admiring the weepers.’ With the tip of his
flute, Gabriel gently tapped a kneeling figure, meant to represent a mourner,
on the top of its head. ‘They’re a pretty sorrowful bunch.’
The physician pointed to a miniature oil painting, his fat
finger shaking. ‘Also note this picture representing peasants working in your
father’s fields. Most of your father’s labourers are illiterate so such images
help them to understand the teachings of the Bible.’
Hector Lowford joined them. ‘And God willing, it is to be
hoped that I will soon be able to rectify the labourers’ deficiency of
knowledge, although his lordship seems disgruntled about my notion of
organising a vestry school, being of the opinion that there is little to praise
in the idea of lessening the ignorance of the lower classes.’
‘Father and Thurstan believe it is wrong to meddle with what
they call the
natural course
of things. They think that workers must
know their lowly station in life and be obedient to their masters.’
The parson looked as ruffled as the frills on his white
cravat. ‘And what is your view, Master Gabriel?’
‘I believe the school to be a most commendable notion, sir.’
‘I am pleased, at least, for your support. And you, Eppie Dunham?
Do you think that my benevolent venture will be welcomed by the village
children?’
Feeling foolish at having so easily given away her hiding
place, she sidled out from behind the stone kitten, and nodded in agreement.
‘I cannot imagine what is keeping the itinerate musicians,’ Doctor
Burndread said, glancing at the door. ‘We had better make a start.’
Whilst Gabriel played, Eppie closed her eyes, imagining she
was a star quivering in the blue night sky.
Finally, the velvety notes drifted away.
‘Stupendous!’ cried the parson, clapping ecstatically. ‘Would
you not agree, Doctor Burndread?’
The tutor nodded seriously like a judge. ‘You have an
exceptional talent, Master Gabriel. Such spirited resonance do you lend to the
instrument that I find myself quite transported by the dulcet notes.’
Eppie’s eyes shone in gratitude at the men’s kindly words. Her
rapture was short-lived.
Clad in riding attire, Robert du Quesne marched up the
aisle. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Carry on. I have a matter to
discuss with Lowford regarding this ridiculous school.’ Spotting Eppie, his wrath
amplified. ‘Strawhead, you are fast becoming the bane of my life.’
She shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t mean to be
a pain, thing, sir.’
He pointed to the door.
‘The child is doing no harm. Surely she may listen?’ the
parson asked.
The expression on du Quesne’s face was enough to provide the
answer.
Clutching Elizabeth, she trod gloomily away.
An air of stern rigidity was in du Quesne’s voice. ‘Whilst I
am here I might as well listen to you play, boy. Get on. I have no time to
waste.’
Filled with a blithe spirit, Eppie glanced around. Du Quesne
stood in the aisle, his back to her, hands on hips. Opening the door a crack,
she put all her weight behind it and slammed it. The boom echoed through the
church. The parson shrieked in surprise. Du Quesne glared toward the
disturbance, but by then Eppie had scurried into a shadowy corner.
Gabriel’s music sounded torpid and emotionless. Every now
and then his gaze drifted from the score as he nervously eyed his father. In
his trepidation he forgot where he was up to, stopped, and restarted the
melody.
Quaking with fury, his father cried, ‘Keep your mind on what
you’re doing, and stand up straight, boy.’
Seeing him throw back the door to the box pew, Eppie gasped
in horrified anticipation.
‘I shall remain until I hear you apply yourself to the
instrument in a proficient … what the!’ Staggering into the aisle, he performed
an undignified twirl in an attempt to discover what was sticking to his behind.
Gobbets of
Slick’s Finest Lick
plopped around his feet.
With all the kafuffle, Eppie forgot that she was supposed to
be in hiding and trotted forwards, interested.
Du Quesne’s cream breeches sagged with the orange gelatinous
mess. It looked not unlike the witch’s
butter fungi that she and Gabriel
had seen swelling on a decomposing log. She stuffed her mitten into her mouth
in a vain attempt to mask her giggles.
Chicken-legged, du Quesne squelched towards her. ‘You!’
She backed off, wrinkling her nose against the rancid whiff.
‘By the deuce, if you were any daughter of mine I would give
you such a thrashing that you would not be able to sit down for a year.’
Hooting and guffawing filled the church. The look of anger
that du Quesne had bestowed upon Eppie was transferred to the tipsy musicians
and singers, whose members had arrived for their rehearsal, fresh from The Duck.