Authors: Freda Lightfoot
Ella nursed the little girl day and night, piling on blankets when she shook with cold, soothing her hot aching head with a cold compress of vinegar and water when she burnt with fever. Amos insisted they soak a sheet in vinegar and hang it over the bedroom door to help prevent the spread of whatever infection she might be suffering from.
‘We don’t know that it is an infection,’ Ella told him, pooh-poohing the notion, but he was adamant that this must be done. He also insisted they keep a bowl of warm water and lye soap in the bedroom and wash their hands before and after they touch her.
‘She doesn’t have the plague,’ Ella said. ‘It’s only a bad chill, because of the soaking she got. Which might not have been so bad had you gone to collect her in the cart, or carried her home.’
Amos looked stricken, but stuck to his point over the washing ritual. ‘You do as I say in this.’
‘Call the doctor if you’re really worried.’
‘Doctors do no good at all,’ he growled. ‘They’re more
likely to bring infection into the house than cure it. Soap and water and vinegar, that’s what we need.’
Seeing his agitation and anxiety, Ella agreed to do as he suggested, and these sensible precautions were duly put in place.
And then the coughing started, harsh and bronchial, which caused the little girl considerable pain and distress, making it quite impossible for her to rest. Mrs Rackett now proved herself to be a veritable expert on old country remedies, and Ella welcomed her assistance as she was at her wits’ end.
The old woman plastered Tilda’s skinny little chest with goose grease and pounded cabbage leaves, kept in place with a layer of brown paper. She also made a concoction from the flowers of the hoarhound, sweetened with honey, which Tilda was expected to drink four times a day. For sustenance she was given beef tea flavoured with thyme, considered to be an excellent remedy for bronchial ailments, as well as an antiseptic for the throat.
‘If’n she don’t start to show any improvement soon, we’ll boil up some thyme and give it to her on a spoon every two hours.’
This they did as nothing seemed to be working and with each passing hour the little girl grew ever more exhausted by the coughing, sinking further into a torpor, her skin pale and waxy looking, and with big purple bruises beneath each eye. There were times when Ella feared for her life. She was terrified the child might suddenly start having convulsions or the bronchitis might turn into pneumonia.
Amos finally agreed to call the doctor the night she started hallucinating. Tilda was convinced rats were running around her room, even on her bed, which terrified the little girl and frightened the life out of Ella too. She herself had never quite recovered from her experience with a rat, despite its aftermath. But it was all in the child’s imagination. Ella called for Mrs Rackett to fill the hip bath with cold water and they sat Tilda in it in a desperate bid to bring down her temperature. By the time the doctor arrived she was back in bed sleeping peacefully for once, and he congratulated them on having done the right thing.
He produced a tincture for the cough, instructed them to keep the child warm and give her plenty of fluids, making sure they always boiled the water first, and left.
‘You can get some rest now,’ Amos told Ella, but she shook her head.
Mrs Rackett went off to her own bed, Ella having reminded the old woman that she’d need to be up early as she must continue to manage the dairy and the other chores on her own until Tilda was better. Then she made herself comfortable for the long night ahead, too afraid to leave her alone for a second.
Ella was slumped in a half doze perhaps an hour later when Amos returned with a tray. He’d made her a pot of tea and a ham sandwich. It was the first kind act he’d ever done for her through all these long awkward, difficult months since she’d arrived as his bride. Ella was deeply touched.
‘Thank you, that’s most thoughtful.’ She noticed how his ears went pink at the tips from the compliment. ‘Would you like to sit with her?’
Amos did so, sitting in silence, as was his way, his large hands that could birth a calf or coax a lamb to its mother’s teat hanging loose between his knees.
Much as he might lavish care on his animals, he’d never demonstrated any affection for his children, no kisses or cuddles, rarely even a smile or show of interest in whatever they were doing. He seemed to see them only as an extra pair of hands to deal with the chores. Yet Ella saw evidence of that love now. It was clear that he was desperately worried about Tilda.
The face she’d thought bland now looked drawn, and gaunt with pain. The square, capable hands began to fidget. One would scrape over the stubble he’d forgotten to shave off his chin, or both would rub his knees or his thick strong thighs, pluck at the bedclothes or pick up the medicine bottle to read the label for the umpteenth time. He could hardly bear to sit still, clearly wanting to put things right but unsure how to go about it.
At one point his favourite collie, Beth, nosed her way into the room, circled for a moment with drooping tail, then curled up with a quiet sigh at his feet. And for the first time ever, Amos did not automatically respond to her devotion by patting her head or ruffling her ears. He simply sat gazing at his daughter, willing her to get better.
Ella ventured a question. ‘Has Tilda been ill before?
Did Esther ever have to sit with her like this for some other childhood disease, measles perhaps or chickenpox?’
Amos shook his head. ‘She’s never ailed nowt until now.’
Ella tucked the sheets closer about the little girl’s chin, worried Amos might be blaming her in some way. If so, he surely had no right to do so. He should have gone to collect the children himself. ‘She’s at that age now, I suppose. She’ll catch everything, I expect, one by one, and we’ll just have to cope as best we can.’
He got up then to go to his own bed as he too had to be up at five for the milking, but at the door he turned to her and said, ‘She’s in good hands. Not even her own mother would have taken better care.’
Ella was so startled by this unexpected praise that two huge tears sprang into her eyes, spilling over on to her cheeks. It was the first compliment he’d ever paid her, and the only time to her certain knowledge that he’d expressed a word of criticism over Esther.
Amos was a strange man, intensely private, slow to respond even to his own troubled thoughts, obsessive over this fetish he had for cleanliness, and with the kind of self-imposed stoicism that seemed to be bred in men in these parts. Yet he was a strong man, and as hard on himself as he was on Ella and the children. In the following days, he began to show signs of softening. He never failed to call in on his daughter two or three times each day, and would sit with her for an hour or more of an evening, his face etched with concern.
And bringing trays of tea or snacks for Ella as she
kept vigil became a regular habit. After almost eighteen months on the farm, she was at last given a glimpse of his human side, and marvelled.
The day came when Tilda suddenly opened her eyes one morning and announced that she was hungry.
Relief washed over Ella, and she smiled. ‘Are you, dearest? That’s good. What would you like? Toast and jam or eggy bread?’
The little girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, eggy bread, please,’ and Ella kissed her.
‘Eggy bread coming up then, and I’ll cut it into soldiers for you.’
She ate every scrap and from that day on, with the resilience found only in small children, her recovery proceeded at a pace. Within twenty-four hours she was complaining about being bored and wanting to come downstairs.
‘Perhaps for an hour or two this afternoon,’ Ella promised. ‘But you go straight back to bed when I say you must, no argument.’
Tilda nodded her agreement, eyes shining.
Ella played paper and pencil games with her: noughts and crosses, squares, and crazy mazes. She played I-spy and a silly game, ‘For my dinner I ate ample apples, boiled buttercups, crabby cabbage, dirty dishcloths…’ By the time they reached S for stewed sausages, they were all in fits of laughter, the little girl’s cheeks at last glowing pink, and with no sign of a cough. Mrs Rackett sat nodding and smiling in her rocking chair, watching this healing
process with satisfaction in her faded eyes.
‘Esther will be turning in her grave. I’ve never seen that child laugh so much in all her short life,’ she commented when, at four o’clock, Ella lifted Tilda up in her arms to take her up to bed.
The remark touched Ella, and yet she found it deeply troubling. Why was there never any laughter in this house? Why had the wonderful Esther never prescribed it for her children? Did religion have to preclude joy? And would Amos begin to relax a little more, now that he’d finally revealed that he really did care for his daughter?
More than anything, Ella was determined to ensure that Tilda knew what it was to have the love of a father. Would that she knew such joy.
Josiah sat in his office at Angel’s Department Store, staring at the letter in his hand. It was from Hodson, calling in his loan. It had come three months ago and he knew every word by heart. There was no doubt about it, he was facing ruin. He’d done everything he could think of to raise the cash, and now on the last day of October, he had to accept that time was running out. Here was a further message from Hodson, delivered this very morning, asking him to be so good as to call on his way home from the store, saying there were important matters they needed to discuss. It didn’t take a genius to work out what they would be.
Josiah felt as if his world was falling apart. The house echoed with empty rooms. Most of the servants had left for a more congenial establishment, presumably where
daughters of the house were not found hanging from the banister. Even his eldest daughter had deserted him.
Whenever anybody asked why Livia had left, he’d say, ‘The poor lass was confounded by grief. Since then she’s got caught up in her own obstinacy and is afraid to lose face by crawling home with her tail between her legs. But she’ll tire of her “good works” and social conscience soon, then she’ll come back home, see if she doesn’t.’
In truth, Josiah suspected that his eldest daughter had learnt something about Maggie’s death. Perhaps she’d found a suicide note or some such. If so, then she had kept its contents to herself. She certainly hadn’t discussed the matter with him, although the very fact she’d vacated the family home within twenty-four hours of the funeral spoke volumes.
The doctor dealing with the post-mortem had quietly informed him that his daughter Margaret Anne had been pregnant at the time of her death. Josiah had managed to appear shocked and upset, as any father might in response to this news, and the doctor had assured him that the poor girl’s reputation would be protected by professional confidentiality. The matter would never be referred to again.
Josiah had understood then why Maggie had taken this irrevocable step. He felt no guilt, no sense of blame. She had chosen this way out of her own volition, and had raised few objections to his twice-weekly visits to her bed over the years.
At the beginning she’d been too young to understand, admittedly, and later as she’d grown older she’d fussed
a little, almost run off once or twice, striving to show her independence. But he’d impressed upon her how it was her
duty
, as his
daughter
, to make her father happy. He’d found it necessary only once to chastise her. On that occasion he’d tied her to the bed head with a pair of her own stockings, face down, and taken her that way instead. It had really been quite titillating.
She’d never objected again, although she was free to leave at any time, should she have wished to do so, so long as she had the funds to provide for herself. The fact she stayed proved she really quite enjoyed their little sessions, despite her feeble protests.
Hodson, so far as he could tell, was not aware of the reason why Maggie had killed herself. Josiah was almost certain that Livia had not told whatever it was she’d discovered. Too ashamed probably, prissy little madam. Gullible Henry probably thought the girl was unbalanced, or depressed. That’s if he thought about her at all. He seemed far more interested in getting his hands on Livia, and on Angel’s Department Store.
Which brought Josiah back to the letter in his hand. He crumpled it up and flung it in the waste-paper basket.
So far as Josiah was concerned, Henry was welcome to the girl, and to use whatever means necessary to win her. But he would never allow him to possess the store, not while there was breath left in his body. Josiah had worked too hard, paid too high a price, to lose it over something so trifling as mere money.
All that mincing and fawning to win over his former employer for a start, and then having to set aside personal
inclinations to court and marry his whey-faced daughter. Since then there’d been his wife’s failure to provide him with a son, and recalcitrant daughters who’d been the bane of his life ever since.
As for that little madam in the workhouse, his heart had near failed him when she’d called out, addressing him as Father, for some ridiculous reason imagining he’d come to rescue her. Thank God everyone else had simply deemed her to be mad. He’d said as much to the workhouse master, pointing out that the girl was either a rogue and a charlatan, or had completely lost her senses. The man had not demurred when Josiah suggested the birch might curtail her vivid imagination, which had resolved the problem most satisfactorily. Mercy Simpson had been dealt with as she deserved, and there was an end to the matter.
Lavinia, however, was still to be dealt with, and so far as Josiah was concerned, Hodson could have her any way he chose, whether she was willing or not. He was adamant about only one thing: the store would remain firmly in his own hands.
Tea with Mrs Jepson had become a regular feature of Ella’s week, but she hadn’t seen her since Tilda had fallen ill. One afternoon, desperate to get out of the house after being confined for so long, Ella suggested they walk down the lane to see her. She took Tilda with her, judging she too would benefit from a breath of fresh air.
Ella was also suddenly keen to learn more about her predecessor. Up until now she’d considered Amos’s first marriage to be none of her business. He’d held up the wonderful Esther as some sort of saint and paragon of virtue, and was clearly still grieving for the woman. Otherwise, why else would he have turned his back on his second wife? Ella really hadn’t wanted to think about Amos’s first wife any more than was absolutely necessary. She’d been an ominous presence in their marriage, almost as intrusive as her own father. Now, following the remarks made by both Amos and Mrs Rackett during Tilda’s illness, she was filled with curiosity to know more about her.
Wilma Jepson was delighted to see them both. As a widow who lived alone, she was more than ready to pop the kettle on and partake of a cup of tea and enjoy a bit of crack. ‘There are few enough people to talk to round here, so I’ve missed a good gossip these last couple of weeks. Now, what can we find for this little lass?’
She found Tilda an iced fairy cake and, after rummaging through her dresser, an old colouring book and packet of crayons. Tilda was beginning to think that being sick was really quite a treat, something to be savoured and enjoyed.
‘How is the little lass then? She still looks a bit peaky.’
‘She’s making a good recovery at last. Comes downstairs for two hours every afternoon now, when we play lots of silly games.’
‘Games?’ Mrs Jepson said, her mouth falling open with shock.
‘We’ve been very silly, Aunty Wilma,’ piped up Tilda, brown eyes shining. ‘Giggling and laughing and all sorts.’
‘Giggling and laughing? My word, have you indeed? Well, I’m glad to hear it. There’s nowt like a bit of silliness to get over being poorly.’
When the little girl had settled herself on the rug with Mrs Jepson’s cat, enjoying her cake and happily colouring in the pictures, Ella ventured a question. ‘Did their mother ever play with them?’
‘Esther? Nay, that vinegar-faced woman wouldn’t have known how to smile and have fun if you’d paid her.’
‘I must say I’ve searched the entire house from top to bottom looking for some harmless game to entertain them. Snakes and Ladders perhaps, or Ludo, but have drawn a blank. Not even a pack of cards.’
Mrs Jepson laughed. ‘You’d not find owt as sinful as cards, not in a Methodist household. Eeh, but I reckon I might have a set of draughts somewhere, what our Maureen used to play with when she were little. She’s married now, with childer of her own.’
The older woman got up and began to search through the dresser again. It seemed to be stuffed with books and papers, baskets of half-finished knitting, bags of buttons, and any amount of detritus. ‘Here it is, and a Snakes and Ladders too by the look of it. You’re welcome to both.’
‘Won’t your grandchildren want them when they call?’
‘Nay, they consider themselves far too grown-up for childish games nowadays. Go on, tek ’em, them kids need summat to lighten their little lives.’
Over tea and gingerbread, Ella ventured to ask the question that had been nagging her for some time. ‘So what was she like, Esther?’
Mrs Jepson sipped at the tea in her best china cup, and considered. ‘The kindest thing you could say about that woman is that she couldn’t help the way she was because it was all bound up in that religion of hers, and of course she were allus ailing summat.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. My mother was an invalid for years, though we never quite knew what it was that ailed her. Her heart perhaps, or some weakness of the
blood, I’m not sure. She died when I was quite young, so I do understand how it feels to lose a mother. I wish I could explain that to the children.’
Mrs Jepson was looking sympathetic, and patted Ella’s hand gently. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way, you’re a good girl, a good wife to Amos, if he but realised it.’
Ella gently brought her back to her question. ‘Were they happy together, Esther and Amos?’
Mrs Jepson laughed. ‘Oh aye, I’m sure they were in their way. He worshipped the ground she walked on, did everything he possibly could for that woman. But, like I say, I’m not sure she ever understood the meaning of the word happiness. Moan, moan, moan, from dawn to dusk. Nothing were ever right. When I say she was allus ailing, what I really mean is that she imagined she was. There’s a name fer it, hypo-summat.’
‘Hypochondria?’
‘That’s it. If she heard tell of some illness or other, a flu epidemic, tummy upset, rheumatic fever, even pleurisy or neuralgia, she’d be sure to catch it, or think she had. For years she insisted she had ammonia.’
‘Do you mean she was anaemic?’
‘Aye, summat of the sort. I allus thought it were Esther’s way of avoiding work. She left most of the hard graft to Mrs Rackett. There were nought Esther liked more than sitting with her feet up, even if she didn’t do anything more exciting than eat currant sad cake and read her Bible. But she were very particular about how things should be done, wanting the house to be clean as a new pin with not a cushion out of place. Nay, not a cushion in
sight, more like, as they might harbour germs.
‘She was a Puritan of the worst sort, was Esther, issuing daft rules for the childer: no nursery rhymes or stories, or toys of any sort, as if they were a sin sent by the devil. Right little spoilsport she were. It all started from the time Amos would come home roaring drunk. The pubs were open till midnight and he’d go from one to the other, then he did it once too often for her liking. Esther did not approve.’
‘Amos got roaring drunk?’ Ella could scarcely believe it.
‘All the farmers did. Nothing unusual in that, but Esther put a stop to it and insisted he sign the pledge. After that she became obsessed with religion, wanting complete silence for her prayers and meditations with no noisy childer racketing about. I suppose Amos joined in out of shame, and he were that grateful she’d not left him. Anyroad, he could see no wrong in her and believed all that gobbledygook she spouted at him. He adored the woman even though she played him for a fool.’
‘What do you mean by that? In what way did she play him for a fool?’
Something closed in Wilma Jessop’s face. ‘Nay, I’ve said too much already.’ But then apparently gave the lie to this statement by blithely continuing, ‘Anyroad, after she’d enjoyed bad health for years, she really did fall sick, which she didn’t enjoy at all.’
‘Why, what happened?’
‘The pair of them went into Kendal, as they generally did every week to attend the market, only on this occasion
there was an epidemic of scarlet fever starting. Esther had never suffered from owt worse than a bad cold up until that point, despite her imaginings, but she caught summat that day. It was terrible to see the poor woman suffer. Poor Amos did everything he could to save her.
‘The doctor called, issuing instructions about how to restrict the spread of the infection by keeping the children out of the way, hanging a vinegar-soaked sheet up at the door, all of that stuff. He told Amos to keep his hands scrubbed scrupulously clean, then he left, insisting isolation on the farm was the best thing for her.’
‘So that’s why he insisted I put them up for Tilda?’
‘Oh, aye, Amos followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter, and from that moment nursed his wife all on his own, wouldn’t allow anyone else near. Mrs Rackett looked after the childer and practically ran the farm single-handed for a while. By the time Esther died the poor man had become so fixated with cleanliness and fighting the infection he couldn’t seem to stop. He’s still the same to this day, so far as I’m aware. Neurotic on the subject, he is.’
‘I’ve noticed that he can’t seem to stop washing his hands,’ Ella agreed.
‘It’s partly out of fear for the children, of course. He’s terrified they too might get sick and then he’d have no one. That’s the reason he holds himself back and won’t show them the least bit of love or affection. He daren’t risk it in case he loses them too.’
‘Oh, Mrs Jepson, that’s dreadful.’ Ella had listened to this sorry tale with deepening horror. ‘Does he
blame himself then, for his wife’s death?’
‘Oh, aye. He sees Kendal market now as a den of iniquity and won’t go near it. That’s why I offered to take his produce in to sell, for the sake of them poor bairns if nowt else. He needs the income. He thinks the doctor failed her too, which is a bit unfair. Many others died of that dreadful disease at the time, and if it’s God’s will there’s nothing anyone can do, that’s what I say.’
Ella leant forward in her seat, her eyes brimming with tears as she saw the misery that had engulfed this small family for years. How the poor man must have suffered. ‘So what can I do to help? How can I make things better for the children, and for their father?’
Mrs Jepson gently patted her hand. ‘It might not seem so by the po-face he carries on him, but that man is besotted with you, lass. He does want to please you and make you happy, it’s just that he doesn’t know how. He’s far too serious for his own good, and a bit shy and lacking in confidence.’
‘Shy?’ Not for the world had Ella imagined any man could be termed shy, not with the kind of father she had. And she certainly hadn’t considered Amos would suffer from such an affliction.
‘Indeed he is, and taciturn, as many farmers are in these parts. He doesn’t see enough people to buff up his social graces. You’ll have to teach him how, dear. But look at that child, at her rosy cheeks, and how content she is playing wi’ them crayons. I’d say you don’t need any advice from me. You seem to be managing very well by yourself.’
* * *
Later in the week, the blacksmith called on one of his regular visits to shoe the horses and Ella asked him if he would make the children a hoop and stick each for them to play with. Losing Maggie, and almost losing Tilda, had taught her how precious life was. And talking to dear Mrs Jepson had given her the courage to decide that it was time to stop kowtowing to the edicts of a
long-dead
woman.
‘Children need to play,’ she stoutly remarked, lifting her chin as if daring anyone to defy her.
Amos was clearly startled by the unexpected request, and Ella saw that his first instinct was to open his mouth in protest. But then she saw something change in his eyes, and he closed it again. He said nothing as the blacksmith laughingly agreed he’d be delighted to make them each a hoop and stick. He’d get right on to the job first thing in the morning and see they had them by the time Emmett came home on Friday, by which time he hoped Tilda would be well enough to play with it.
When Friday came, Tilda and Emmett were so thrilled by the gift they could hardly speak for joy. They both glanced nervously at their father, wondering if perhaps he might issue some rule that they could play with it only at certain times, or if he might take it away from them altogether. But to their surprise and delight he said, ‘Aren’t you going to thank your stepmother for this lovely present? I should think she deserves a kiss at least.’
A kiss? Unheard of in this household!
Tilda instantly flung herself into Ella’s arms to hug her tight around her waist and Ella duly bent down to receive
a smacking kiss. Emmett followed his sister’s lead more slowly, but offered her a shy kiss on the cheek, and then blushed to the roots of his tousled brown hair.
‘Now your turn, Pa,’ Tilda said, her young face bright with mischief.
‘I wonder if that would be wise,’ Amos replied.
Ella half turned away, embarrassed by Tilda’s forwardness, but then, to her complete astonishment, she saw that Amos was smiling. His whole face seemed to light up, revealing an entirely different man from the one she’d come to know. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his flat cheeks lifted and he looked almost reborn.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Tilda. I need to thank Ella for taking such very good care of you. I should show how much I appreciate all she has done for us these last weeks by bringing our precious girl back to life.’
And then, before she could protest, Amos caught Ella’s chin in his hand and kissed her soundly on the lips. There was a shyness to it, a fumbling embarrassment between them and a bumping of noses. It wasn’t anything like the kind of kiss Ella remembered from their previous two encounters. Oh, but it felt so good.
Ella was dimly aware of the two children laughing and cheering them on, and when he lifted his mouth from hers, he smiled at her again.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Not just for Tilda, but for…for everything. For being here…with us.’
Ella was so astounded she couldn’t think of a thing to say in response. Turning to the children, she said, ‘Come on then, you two, let’s see how good you are at bowling that thing.’
And with a shout of laughter the children snatched up their new toy and set off around the farmyard, slapping and striking the iron hoop in an effort to make it roll. They were soon all in fits of laughter, even Amos, as the hoop bowled anywhere but where the children wanted it to. Emmett struck his so hard it set off down the lane at a dangerous lick, heading straight for the river. Fortunately, he managed to catch it in time. Tilda’s actually rolled right over her at one point, knocking her to the ground, and both Ella and Amos rushed to pick her up, still grinning from ear to ear, colliding with each other in the process so that Amos had to catch her in his arms to steady her.
By seven o’clock, when Ella called them in for a supper of hot milk and buttered Chorley cakes, they were
near-masters
at the skill. Simple happiness had at last arrived at Todd Farm, and with it had come the realisation that something else had changed too. Ella had fallen in love with her husband.