‘Quite so,’ Mr Marshall had put in. ‘Just sign it at the bottom, my boy, and let me shake you by the hand as my new tenant.’
Matthew had made a great play of signing the Agreement with big scrawling letters, as if he could barely write properly, whereas Esther knew he could sign his name quite easily. She had felt that this behaviour was all part of his punishment of her for having trapped him into marrying her so that she could secure the tenancy of the farm.
Now, as they stood in the kitchen discussing the possibility of buying a pair of horses, for the first time he was showing real enthusiasm in planning their future.
A thought struck her. With a calculated subtlety that was normally alien to her candid nature, she said, ‘Why don’t you have a word with Tom Willoughby? He would probably know how much a pair would cost. He might even know of some for sale?’
Matthew grinned at her, and for a moment he was the old Matthew. ‘Eh, but you’re a sharp one, Esther Hilton. Why didn’t I think of that?’ Then, remembering suddenly, his eyes clouded over. ‘Aye, you’re a sharp one, all right, an’ don’t I know it.’ He turned away abruptly, the tentative signs of a burgeoning co-operation dying instantly.
‘I’ll see Tom some time,’ he said casually over his shoulder and went out to feed the pigs.
Esther sighed and returned to churning the butter, venting her disillusionment by thumping the wooden barrel of the churn over and over vigorously.
With February came the snow.
It fell heavily and almost continuously for three days. A strong wind sprang up off the sea from the north-east, a bitingly cold wind, drifting the snow and cutting off all communication with the town and even with the other farms.
As the snows began, Matthew brought all the cows into the farmyard. As the weather worsened the animals kept to the byre, munching their way through the hay and watching the white world outside with soulful eyes.
On the first Sunday in the month, as they sat either side of the kitchen table eating the roast beef dinner with no word of conversation passing between them, there came a thumping on the back door. They glanced at each other in surprise. Sunday was not usually a day for callers and no one could get down the coast road from the town. Not even Will Benson had been able to get through on his usual calls during the past week.
‘What the . . . ?’
‘I’ll see who it is.’ Esther rose and went to open the back door.
One of Ma Harris’s children stood there, his thin frame shivering in the cold, the snow resting on his cap and clinging to his coat.
Esther gasped, ‘Aw, Ernie lad, come in, do. Ya look like a snowman!’ She laughed and pulled the boy into her warm kitchen. ‘Look at him, Matthew—’
‘I can’t stop, missus, me ma sent me to fetch mester . . .’
‘Who? Me?’ Matthew rose from table and came towards the boy. ‘What is it, lad? Summat wrong? Is it a shout?’ Mr Harris was a member of the lifeboat crew too and often the Harris children were sent running to the neighbouring houses, to the pub and to the farms to fetch the crew, and the horses from Tom Willoughby’s, when there was a launch.
The boy shook his head, scattering the snow over Esther’s floor, where it melted and lay in little puddles. ‘Naw, mester, ’tis Mrs Eland. Me mam’s with her . . .’
‘Beth? What’s the matter with Beth?’ Matthew’s voice was sharp with anxiety.
‘She’s come to her time an’ me mam says things aren’t straightfor’ard. She—’
‘What d’you mean – she’s come to her time?’ Matthew rapped out.
The boy gaped at him, his mouth falling open. ‘She’s havin’ her babby.’
‘
Baby!
’ Matthew’s voice was a strangled whisper. Beth – is – having a – baby?’
‘Oh, yes, didn’t ya know?’ The boy’s tone was matter-of-fact, but he was glancing nervously now from Matthew’s dark face to Esther’s, unable to understand the tension in the air.
The colour drained from Esther’s face as Matthew swung round towards her. ‘Did
you
know about this?’ he hissed at her accusingly.
She hesitated a moment too long. ‘No, no, I didn’t!’
Matthew’s hand shot out and his strong fingers gripped her chin, digging painfully into her cheeks. ‘You lying bitch, you did know! It’s mine, ain’t it? It’s got to be! Did you know before we was wed?’ He shook her roughly, hurting her neck. ‘
Did
you?’
‘No, no,’ Esther cried, but she was remembering Beth coming to the farm asking for Matthew at the time when Sam had been so ill, dying in fact. Twice Beth had come, looking pale and wretched, huddled into a shapeless shawl she must have worn to hide her growing belly. Esther remembered now the desperation in Beth’s eyes and how she had pleaded with Esther to tell her where she could find Matthew.
Esther should have guessed, but she had shut her mind – deliberately – to the obvious. She hadn’t wanted to know. Then again, after Matthew had married Esther, Beth’s hysterical outburst had been caused by much more than just her love for him. She had been pregnant – and desperate!
‘I – I swear I didn’t know, Matthew,’ Esther faltered. But her words sounded unconvincing, even to herself.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Matthew said, through gritted teeth.
The boy, who had been watching them open-mouthed with astonishment, seemed suddenly to remember the urgency of his errand. He tugged at Matthew’s sleeve. ‘Mester – ya’ve got to fetch the doctor from town. Me mam can’t manage the birthing. The babby’s wrong road on.’
Matthew seemed to have forgotten young Ernie Harris’s presence. Suddenly he flung Esther away from him and turned back to the boy.
‘What? What d’ya mean?’
Patiently, seeming suddenly older than his fourteen years, Ernie explained to the uncomprehending man. ‘The babby’s coming feet first, like calves do sometimes, mester. Y’know.’
Matthew nodded grimly. Esther saw him close his eyes and heard him groan. She knew what he was thinking. She had seen him have to put his arm inside a cow and pull out her calf, with the animal in terrible pain and the man, fearing for the life of the unborn, heaving and sweating and covered in slimy birthing fluid. She could sense his agony. If it was anything like that – half as bad – for Beth . . .
Esther watched as Matthew pushed the lad aside and lumbered towards the back door, snatching his coat from the peg on the back door as he went. Ernie too, darting a glance at Esther’s face, scuttled outside after Matthew.
Slowly, Esther moved to the scullery window. She saw Matthew reach the farm gate and turn towards the town, wading his way through the knee-deep snow, his arms flailing from side to side in an effort to keep his balance as he went.
Out to the east, over the sea, the sky was low and heavy with more snow as Esther stood alone by the window watching her husband trudge determinedly towards the town to fetch the doctor for the woman who was about to give birth to his child.
It was almost twelve hours later, gone midnight, when Esther, still huddled over a dying fire in the range where she had sat for most of the day, just staring into the glowing coals, heard a loud rapping on the back door.
The sudden noise in the silence of the night made her start suddenly and her heart began to pound.
‘Matthew . . .’ She jumped up and, snatching the lamp from the table, hurried to the door to open it. But it was Ernie Harris standing there again.
‘Missus, me mam sent me to fetch ya.’
‘Why, what’s wrong? Is it Beth? Mrs Eland?’
‘Naw, that’s all over.’ Even in the pale flickering light from the lamp, Esther could see the delight spread across the young boy’s face. ‘She had a lad, missus. Doctor were there. Yar man fetched him, but . . .’ The smile faded now. ‘’Ee’s bin in the pub ever since, an’ now . . .’ The voice faltered and the boy dropped his gaze as if embarrassed to look into Esther’s eyes.
She put out her hand and gripped Ernie’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, what is it? What’s happened?’
The boy looked up again, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Yar man’s roaring drunk, missus. An’ he’s standing outside the boat – Eland’s boat – shouting and carrying on. There’ll be a fight, missus, if ya don’t come. Me dad and some of the other men at the Point have tried to pull ’im away, but . . .’ the boy shrugged. ‘He’s fighting mad, missus. Do come.’
Esther turned back into the house and took down her cape from behind the door and pulled on her boots. Taking the lamp, she snecked the door behind her and bending her head against the sleeting wind, she trudged out into the snow.
Luckily, there had been no further heavy snowfalls so she was able to follow the path trodden by the comings and goings earlier in the day. She followed Ernie’s wiry form as he leapt and bounded through the snow. Long before they reached the Point, she could hear Matthew’s voice.
Then, as Ernie helped her clamber up the slippery Hump, she saw him.
A small group of people from the Point cottages were standing in a huddled semi-circle behind him, holding lanterns high as if to light the drama going on before them.
Matthew was at the foot of the wooden jetty leading up to Robert Eland’s boat. At the top of the gangway stood Robert Eland, shaking his fist at Matthew below.
‘Come down here, Eland, and fight like a man – if ya call ya’sen a man. That bairn’s mine. There’s a cuckoo in ya nest, man . . .’
‘Go home, you fool, to your own wife and let mine be,’ Eland shouted back.
‘Beth’s mine. Her bairn’s mine, an’ ya know it, Eland. I’ll not have my son live on a rotten boat that might get swept out to sea wi’ the next tide.’
Esther drew in a breath to shout his name, but before she could utter a sound, Robert Eland had run down the gangway and from about half-way up had leapt down upon Matthew, falling on top of him and tumbling him to the ground. They rolled in the snow, grappling to get a hold, trading punch for punch. They staggered to their feet, holding on to each other in the effort to rise. Then they swayed back momentarily and came at each other again, fists swinging. Matthew caught Robert Eland high on the side of the head, whilst in the same second Eland’s knuckles found Matthew’s nose, and blood, black in the fitful light from the lanterns, spattered the snow.
Esther pushed the lantern she carried into Ernie’s hands and ran forward. ‘Stop it – stop it, Matthew. You have no right. Robert – please . . .’
Matthew swung his arm back to aim a punch at Eland, but caught Esther full in the chest, knocking her into the snow. She lay there winded, but her attempt at intervention galvanized the other men amongst the onlookers to take action. They moved forward as a body, some to take hold of Matthew, others to grasp Eland. The women amongst the group rushed to help Esther.
‘Ee, lass, what a to-do.’ She heard Ma Harris’s warm voice in her ear.
‘I’m – fine,’ Esther gasped, not quite truthfully, as they helped her upright. Just help me – get him away from here – home.’
She looked across at her husband. He was slumped forward, only held up from falling into the snow by the other men. He was sobbing now, a wretched, distraught figure.
‘Beth – oh, Beth. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Ya should have told me . . .’ He talked to the empty air because, of course, Beth was not out there in the snow to hear his anguish.
Esther moved forward, resolutely pushing away the memory of Beth’s stricken face asking to see Matthew, of her distress at hearing of his marriage. Now Esther put her shoulder under her husband’s arm and felt his weight sag against her. She swayed a moment and then straightened.
‘Thanks, Mester Harris. I’ve got him now.’ Esther braced her shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried her husband up the lane towards their home.
As soon as they were some distance up the lane, Esther said firmly, ‘Shut up now, Matthew. What’s done is done. Ya mekin’ a right fool of ya’sen.’
He lifted his head briefly. ‘Ya made the fool o’ me, Esther Everatt. I hopes ya satisfied.’
Still, she thought, he thinks of me by my maiden name and not by the one he has given me in marriage. More than anything, this seemed to accentuate the bitterness he felt towards her.
They stumbled their way through the snow, Matthew still rambling about Beth and his son, and venting his anger upon his wife. By the time they reached the back door of the farmhouse, Esther was exhausted. There was a pain in her chest from Matthew’s blow and his weight seemed to grow heavier and heavier. Inside, she pushed him thankfully into the chair by the range and sank down on to the rug herself. The coals still glowed with a little welcome warmth. It was several minutes before she could drag herself upright and move towards the kitchen to fetch a rag to wipe away the blood still trickling from his nose. Two dark shadows were swelling beneath his eyes.
She fetched a bowl and spoon. ‘There’s some broth here still warm.’ Her tone was sharp. ‘Come on, Matthew. Stir ya’sen. It’ll do ya good.’
There was no response. Matthew leant his head back against the wooden chair and closed his eyes.
‘Please ya’sen,’ Esther muttered impatiently, but nevertheless she fetched a blanket and wrapped it around him.
Then she went upstairs alone to her bed.
W
HEN
she came down the following morning, the blanket had been tossed aside and Matthew was not in the house.
Esther cleaned out the range and relit the fire. She laid the breakfast table and was about to go out and start the milking, when he came in. He sat down at the table, picked up the spoon laid ready for him and began to eat the porridge which Esther had spooned into a bowl.
‘Ya know,’ he began between mouthfuls, his eyes cast downward. ‘I reckon we could just afford a pair of ’osses. I was talking to Tom Willoughby at the pub last night an’ he reckons he knows of a chap who’s got a couple of crossbreeds for sale.’
Esther almost gasped in astonishment. Matthew was acting as if yesterday, and more especially last night, had never happened. She looked closely at him. There was no way he could forget last night’s escapade though, she thought grimly, with two black eyes and a bruise across the bridge of his nose. Esther shrugged slightly. Oh, well, she thought to herself, if that’s the way he wants it, it suits me. Aloud she said, ‘They might be a bit pricey for the likes of us, but there’s no harm in ’aving a look, Matthew.’