Eppie (39 page)

His simple logic rang true to Martha.

Knocking snow from his boots, Dawkin traipsed in, the badger
at his heels, and untied the geese from the rafters. He and Eppie were off to
Litcombe market. ‘I’ll go and stuff these in Dusty’s panniers.’

‘They should sell quickly,’ Martha said.

Of slight physique, he struggled under the weight. He cast a
concerned glance at Eppie. ‘Don’t be long, Ep.’

Yet another night had passed when Eppie had not slept well,
having experienced her recurring nightmare, reliving Gillow’s death. 

Ever since the shock of the killing, she and Martha lived
their lives in a stupor. They went about their day-to-day tasks with an inner
sense of disbelief, verbally acknowledging his loss, never quite believing the
truth of their words.

On a winter’s evening, Eppie would sit on the stool and
stare into the flickering flames, living a world of make-believe. Closing her
eyes, she could smell the rich scent of tobacco from Gillow’s shat pipe as he
relaxed in his armchair after a hard day’s weaving. Above the crackling blaze she
heard his hearty laughter or the wavering tunes of his accordion.

Martha, beleaguered by her emotions, would frequently sink
into a depression of spirits when, in the past, she had usually been optimistic
and light-hearted.

What Eppie could never imagine was how valiantly Martha
struggled against a sense of culpability that Gillow’s death was punishment
from God for the evil that she and Wakelin were committing. For the malady from
which she was suffering was not wholly caused by her anguish at the loss of
Gillow, physical illness, or the long hours she willed herself to work,
sacrificing her health through arduous toil, but mental torture knowing she
harboured Genevieve from her family.

Martha became aware of Eppie, subdued and listless, tears of
weariness in her eyes.  ‘Another bad night?’ she asked gently.

Dawkin marched back in. ‘Ready?’  Seeing Eppie’s distress, he
recalled how she had cried out in her sleep. ‘I’ll go on me own if you’d rather
stay in the warmth.’

Grabbing her cloak, she flung it about her shoulders.

‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t have a tiring day, Ma,’ Dawkin said.

Martha went to the food cupboard. ‘Take these lard cakes to
eat on the way. Give one to Wakelin. Be careful how you go, them roads is slap
with ice.’

Hopping onto the donkey trap beside Dawkin, Eppie tucked the
skirts of her woollen frock between her knees and took Wicker onto her lap.
‘She’s as warm as the gloves Gabriel gave mam last year. I wonder why he hasn’t
returned home from Bath yet. He’s been gone so long.’

Catching her words, Wakelin hurled the axe into his cart. 

‘Why do you need to take that?’ she asked. ‘You’re only
fetching coal, not mining it.’ 

He glared at her.

Dawkin felt guilty about harbouring his knowledge of what
had happened to Gabriel. He had kept quiet, fearful of what might happen to him
if Wakelin found out that he knew. With a flick of his wrist, he set Dusty into
a trot, following Jenny. 

‘Have fun!’ Martha cried from the doorway.

Staggered by this comment, Eppie was jolted into making a
response. ‘Hanging around a market pitch, our feet feeling like blocks of icy pigs’
trotters, you call that fun!’ 

Tugging out a package, she passed it to Dawkin. ‘Seeing as
it’s so cold, I thought you could do with this.’

Handing her the reins, he gleefully dragged out the red
woollen object. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted, umm, what is it?’

‘It was supposed to be a tea cosy. Mam said it wasn’t a lot
of use because it’s gone a bit long and has holes where they’re not meant to
be. It’d do to keep your ears warm.’

He dragged the cap over his wavy brown hair and down to his
neck. Staring through holes, his eyes glittered in amusement. ‘I’m slingshot
Dawkin, the famous highwayman. No one will recognise me.’

Embarrassed about her penurious knitting skills, she tore it
from him. ‘I’ll throw it in the ditch.’

‘Don’t!’ He snatched it back. ‘It’s perfect, and so big it’s
bound to fit me even when I’m growed.’

Satisfied with his enthusiastic response, she planted a kiss
upon his cheek. In turn, he drew her close to keep out the chill air. It was
the first time in many months that she felt truly happy.

A cloak of snow covered the valley. Hills rose and dipped
like enormous waves in a white sea. Icicles hung from cottage eaves. 

Passing Goose Orchard, Wakelin slowed his cart, having spied
logs stacked behind a peppered hedge. Taking a swig from his pocket pistol, he
set Jenny to a quicker pace.

Eppie had read his mind. Joyfully, she belted out her
version of her favourite Christmas song. ‘Good King Wakelin got so drunk he was
sorely stew-ed. Jour-neyed home late that night pinch-ing win-ter fu-el!’ 

Grabbing the axe, he made pretence of throwing it at her.  

Sniggering, her eyes drifted
over the sprinkling of snow scattered upon the torn thatch of Pear Tree
Cottage. Abandoned after its occupants had moved away in search of better-paid,
all-year-round work in Malstowe, the home had a desolate air as though it were
inhabited by ghosts. It reminded her of the tale that Kizzie had told the
threshers:

Ensconced in the Swan Chamber, Maygott had experienced several
unnerving visitations. At first he kept them to himself, not wishing to appear
hysterical.

In the morning, whilst splashing his face at the washstand,
the door would burst open when there was no draught to account for it. At
night, he would wake to the sound of creaking, like the swaying bow of a
phantom rocking horse. Always these experiences were combined with the
sensation of an icy breeze down his neck.

The final straw came late one night.

He slept in the grand bed in which Lady Constance had passed
away. Jerking awake, he found himself being hoisted through the air, as though
he were a plaything, or so he had related to du Quesne after he had run,
screaming, through the manor and woken the household.

He had been placed on his feet in a sheep fold beside a toy shepherd,
the spitting image of Samuel Cobbett. From this vantage point he could see into
a baby-house. An effigy of his lordship was pinned to the ceiling by his
buckle-breeches, his neck broken and stuffing leaking.

Kizzie said that Lord du Quesne looked mortified at this
part of the tale.

Talia, a beautiful river maiden, gargantuan compared to the miniature
doll figures, had floated towards the baby-house, her sky-blue frock caressing
her body as though she were drifting through water. Fetching a baby doll out of
the toy cradle, she laid it on a rug and wrapped it in a ragged cloth.

It was at this moment that Maygott spotted a distorted face
staring in at the miniature bottle-glass window of the baby-house nursery. Though
shrouded in gloom, its dominant chin and thick lips standing out against
seemingly invisible cheeks, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Wakelin Dunham,
the son of the deceased weaver.

Du Quesne firmly denied the chamber
was haunted, although Kizzie did not think he looked so sure when Mrs Bellows
pointed out the slithers of riverweed lying in puddles beneath the washstand.  

Dusty topped the summit of the hill. Around the Lyn hills
the temperature had plummeted in the winter blasts. Scattered hummocks of
tussock grass spiked through crisp drifts of snow, arched white and frosty. Trench-like
valleys on the far side of the mere had vanished beneath a sheet of glittering
snow. Children swooped down slopes on homemade toboggans, their squeals of
excitement, mingled with shrieks of terror, cutting through the air.

Ranged along the nearside of the lake were gaily-coloured
stalls.

The air was thick with celebratory anticipation; folk smiled
hugely at friends and sang out good tidings.

Eppie was ecstatic at the jolly sight. ‘The market’s here
today!’ Her shrill voice brought Dusty to a startled standstill, ears pricked.

Skaters skimmed over the frozen surface of the lake.

‘If only we had some … ’

‘Skates?’  She had not noticed Wakelin approach. In his
upraised hand he held two pairs.   

‘They’re wonderful! How did you know about the market? That’s
why mam said have fun, isn’t it?’

He was delighted to see her revel in the cleverness of his
craftwork. ‘Gramps gave me the sheep bones for blades and I fixed on the
leather straps. Say hello to Ezra for me. He’s singing for a hunk of cheese,
an’ a draught o’ ale. Some folk have all the luck.’ The dog sat beside the
donkey trap, a front paw raised. ‘Twiss wants to come with you. Can’t say I blame
him. See ya.’

As usual, Dawkin drew attention to himself as people stared at
the badger ambling by his side. He always carried a stick in case Wicker was
attacked by dogs. Since Wicker had been brought up with Twiss, however, she
acted more like a dog and even smelt doggish.

Upon the stalls were heaped all manner of basic necessities,
giving shopkeepers and householders their last chance of stocking up for the
winter. Grocers mixed blends of tea, and spices, ground coffee, sold oranges
and hot gingerbread. A savoury-smell arose from tripod stoves where
market-goers queued for pies.

Resourceful stallholders were quick to humour customers in
their patriotic fantasies.  Men’s hats, cocked in the military or naval
fashion, were providing an excellent last-minute Christmas success on a
milliner’s stand. Women flocked around a souvenir stall, eagerly seeking
anything from teacups to bed linen embellished with illustrations of their revered
British fleet. 

Ezra stood amongst a band of journeymen who had set up a
stall inside a pink and yellow striped marquee. A barrel, decorated with clumps
of holly berries in nests of evergreen leaves, contained lamb’s wool; a
beverage of hot ale blended with spices, sugar, cream and roast apples. It was
beside this tent that the children set up pitch.

‘Get yer Christmas geese ‘ere!’ Dawkin yelled into the
crowd. ‘Can I interest you in a goose, guv’nor?  Been hangin’ ten days, nice n’
tender.’

Wandering past a cooper’s stall, Thurstan looked every inch
a dandy in his moleskin trousers, tailcoat and high collar. Most striking about
him were his curls which were brushed forward for an unruly, wind-swept look. Millisande
Crocker, the only daughter of the wealthiest attorney in Litcombe, had her arm
curled around his. Shivering and sucking comfits the impressionable girl
giggled at his every word.

Even Lord du Quesne was here for this festive occasion. He
was ridiculing Lord Rowland Wexcombe for his notion of enforcing, on Saint
Stephen’s Day, the bloodletting of cattle, purportedly to protect the beasts
from sickness throughout the coming year. Wexcombe, a short gentleman with a
knob of a head that blended into his neck like a terrapin, arched his eyebrows
at du Quesne’s condescending words, but kept his button mouth firmly shut.

Ezra blew a blast upon a cow-horn. ‘Wes hal! Fellow countrymen
come drink and be merry. Drink to health and prosperity this Christmas.’

Attracted like bees to a honeycomb, rich farmers drew to the
wassails.

Twiss yammered along, looked on bemusedly by Wicker, as the
band sang, ‘
Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green.’

Du Quesne had long since given up the bob-wig as passé. His
head of fair hair, grizzled about the ears, was adorned by a high-crowned black
beaver hat which tipped precariously backward as, with avidity, he supped the
heady liquor.   

Since it was considered unlucky for anyone who drank from
the barrel to refuse alms to the singers, each gentleman dipped into his
pocket, all except du Quesne, Bulwar and Wexcombe, who made a swift exodus. 

Having sold the geese, Eppie and Dawkin mingled with the
throng. Beets, as big as bulls’ heads, were being fed into a root-slicer. An
operator cranked a flywheel, rotating knives to demonstrate this novel means of
preparing mangel-wurzel for in-wintering bullocks and dairy cows. 

Jostled in the crush, the children overheard a man explaining
to farmers how land could be drained by use of his innovative pumping mill. The
impressive model, complete with sails, was drawing a good-sized crowd, amongst
them Lord du Quesne. Above the general discourse he could be heard bragging to
Bulwar and Wexcombe about his competence in raising stock of the highest
quality. ‘My hogs are the largest you would ever wish to set eyes upon, with
immense hocks and bellies. As for my longhorn oxen, they are noted for the
massive accumulation of fat on the rump.’

Humouring his lady-friend with his wit, Thurstan snatched a
cushion from a stall and shoved it up the rear of his tailcoat in a burlesque
gesture, caricaturing du Quesne as a country bumpkin. 

Detecting amusement going on at his expense, du Quesne glared
around, eyebrows knitted, though he witnessed nothing untoward. Thurstan,
knowing full well it was a risky undertaking to perform any parody of his uncle
had whipped out the incriminating article in a twinkling, and now cast him a syrupy
smile, feigning innocence.

His nephew’s self-aggrandizement being apparent in his
attire, du Quesne said, ‘Your business is clearly proving lucrative in these
times of competition.’

‘Indeed,’ Thurstan answered. ‘Coaching is by far superior to
sheep shearing.’ 

‘Never underestimate a sheep. My Leicesters have the finest
wool combined with exceptional carcasses.’

The last thing Thurstan wanted was to be drawn into a
discussion about the merits of his uncle’s beasts. ‘Spin around the lake, Milli?’
He turned to Fulke, his driver. ‘Clopton, fetch the skates from the phaeton.’

‘Thurstan, darling,’ Millisande implored in a watery voice, raising
a white palm in alarm; ‘I lack your dexterity and would rather that my feet
remain on terra firma.’