Together they moved forward and Esther felt the fear rise in her throat. Even out here in the cold wind she found she was sweating with terror. Behind her the sea, once her solace, had become a malevolent monster waiting to devour her. The water was not deep but Esther could not swim, and there were hidden channels and pools that were always water-filled even at low tide. If she should fall into one of those . . .
The two women moved forwards again, coming closer, ever closer . . .
There was no escape for Esther.
Suddenly, with one accord, they lunged towards her hitting her in the chest and sending her falling, arms flailing helplessly, backwards into the sea.
The waters closed over her face and there was a gurgling in her ears. She struggled, thrashing with her arms, trying to find the bottom with her feet, striving to bring her head above the water. She broke the surface and drew great gasps of air into her bursting lungs. She could not open her eyes for the stinging salt water. A wave hit her in the back and sent her tippling forward again, face down in the water. She lost her footing and now she could not feel the bottom, could not feel firm earth beneath her feet. She twisted and writhed and tried to push herself upwards. Her sodden clothes were now dragging her down and she felt as if her lungs would rupture. She tried to open her eyes but all she could see was murky, swirling sand. There was a glimmer of light above, but so far away, too far away . . . Water filled her nose and mouth. Her heart was pounding, there was a drumming in her ears. She had never felt so frightened in her life. She knew herself to be drowning and she so desperately wanted to live. She must live – for Kate – for Jonathan. In that moment she saw his beloved face in her mind – the smile crinkling his eyes, the flop of fair hair falling across his forehead – and then there was darkness . . .
Suddenly strong arms were lifting her and she was hauled upwards until her head was above water. She was being shaken and her face was being slapped and suddenly she was coughing and spluttering and clinging on to someone. She coughed and dragged in gulps of air and coughed again until she was sick. Hanging over her rescuer’s strong arm, she retched until she had brought up all the sea water that had entered her lungs. Esther was clinging to a man’s arm and being pulled along. She felt herself bump the side of a boat.
‘Come on, Esther,’ said the man’s voice. ‘I can’t lift you in, you’ll have to help me.’ She brushed her hand across her face and blinked. Her eyes were sore and swollen so that she could scarcely open them. But she knew his voice. Her rescuer was Robert Eland.
She tried to speak but could make no sound. Her breathing was still painful and there was a dreadful ache in her chest.
‘Come on,’ he was urging her again. ‘Put your arms over the side of the boat. Try and grasp hold and I’ll heave you in.’
They struggled for a few moments until a helpful wave gave an extra buoyancy to her tired limbs and she found herself sprawling in the bottom of the fishing boat. She was scarcely aware of Robert somehow getting himself back into the boat and rowing away from the Spit towards the mouth of the river and the Point. She neither knew nor cared what had happened to Martha Willoughby and her sister.
It seemed a long time before the boat bumped gently against the river bank, by which time Esther was shivering uncontrollably. Her head ached and her chest still hurt. She kept blinking her eyes to clear her vision. It felt as if she had a barrow-load of sand in each eye.
But she was safe.
Robert was bending over her. ‘Can you get up, Esther?’
Valiantly, she made the effort to pull herself up and he supported her, taking her arm and helping her to step out of the boat and on to the wooden landing stage.
‘Oh, dear Lord,’ she heard a woman’s voice exclaim. ‘Whatever has happened?’
Still with Robert’s arm to support her, Esther staggered on to the land and fell to her knees. She had never been so thankful in her life to feel the firm earth beneath her.
‘What happened?’ came the voice again.
Slowly Esther raised her head to see Beth standing over her, bending down towards her and even holding out her hands to help her rise.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Esther grasped the outstretched hands and hauled herself to her feet. She stood swaying and then she felt Beth’s arm about her waist, supporting her, urging her forward. ‘Come on to the boat, Esther. I’ll get you some dry clothing. Whatever has happened?’ she demanded yet again.
Now, relinquishing the care of Esther to his wife, Robert said, ‘’Twas them two old biddies from Tom Willoughby’s farm. They pushed her into the sea off the Spit. God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t been near enough to get to her in time.’
Though she could not yet speak, Esther echoed his sentiments. God alone knew!
Esther did not go to the Elands’ boat home. She wanted to get to the farm as quickly as possible and Beth took her. Only when she had seen Esther stripped of her wet clothing and sitting before the range with a cup of hot tea, did Beth leave Esther in Kate’s care.
Esther recovered quickly and all she told the child was that she had been foolish enough to walk along the Spit on a blustery day and at high tide, and had fallen into the sea.
‘And Mr Eland rescued you?’
‘Yes, yes – he did,’ Esther croaked, for her voice was still ragged. ‘I – I think he saved my life.’
Kate, full of importance, said, ‘I must go and find Danny and tell him.’ In the next moment the child had rushed from the house and Esther had not the strength to stop her.
The following day, Esther opened her back door in answer to a knock and was surprised to find Tom standing there.
‘Tom – come in,’ Esther invited, her voice still croaky.
Tom hesitated a moment and then eased his bulk through her scullery and into the kitchen.
He pulled his cap from his head and stood twisting it in his huge hands. ‘Esther, lass,’ he began, ‘Eland told me what happened yesterday. I want you to know – I’m sorry.’
‘Tom . . .’
‘No, lass. Hear me out – please. They’ll not bother you again, I’ve seen to that. But I’d just ask ya to keep away from me farm for a while – an’ mebbe church an’ all. Just for a time, like.’ The cap was still revolving through his restless fingers. ‘I’ve never in me life raised me hand to me wife an’ I dun’t intend to, but, by God, when Eland told me – I came close to it, lass.’
Esther shook her head sadly. ‘Tom – I’ve told you before, I never wanted to cause trouble between you and your wife . . .’
‘I know, I know.’ He shook his head, wonderingly. ‘I just dun’t understand her mesen. You’re like a red rag to her, Esther, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘Tom,’ Esther asked, suddenly remembering, ‘were you related to Sam Brumby? Is that what started it all?’
‘Oh, aye, but years back. Now let’s see – my grandfather’s sister was Sam’s mother.’
Esther nodded. ‘There’s an entry in Sam’s old family Bible. I did wonder.’ She sighed. ‘Martha thinks all this – ’ she waved her arm to encompass all Sam’s belongings in the house – ‘should have come to you.’
Tom shrugged. ‘Mebbe, Esther. To tell you the truth, I never give it a thought.’
Esther believed him. It was only Martha and her grasping sister who resented her.
She also believed Tom when he said that their persecution of her was at an end. For that, she was thankful, yet his advice to stay away, not only from his farm but from the church too, would isolate her from the community more than ever.
Like Ma Harris, but not as bluntly, Tom was saying they wanted no more to do with Esther Hilton.
A few days later, when she had fully recovered, Esther went to the point in search of Robert Eland..
‘I came to thank you, Robert. You saved my life.’
The man looked up at her from where he was sitting on the river bank, mending his fishing net. He nodded briefly in swift acknowledgement of her thanks. Then, looking back down at his nets, he said, ‘I reckon we’re equal now, then. For yar man saved my life that night.’
She knew she was referring to the time Matthew had gone out in the lifeboat and had rescued Robert.
‘Please – thank Beth for me, will ya?’
There was a pause, then Robert nodded and muttered, ‘Aye, I will.’
There was no more to be said. To say any more would have been an embarrassment to them both. Robert Eland might have saved her life but it had changed nothing in the attitude of the people of Fleethaven Point towards Esther Hilton. Not one thing.
It was the farm that devoured Esther’s time and strength through the rest of the summer, autumn and even the winter of 1917. Thankfully, her growing daughter, happy at school and always welcomed by her friends at the Point even if her mother was not, was little trouble. Kate never seemed to suffer from childish illnesses, she was sturdy, strong for her age, and healthy. If anyone’s health was in question during those months, it was Esther’s.
Apart from Will Benson, she saw no one but to say that she was utterly alone was not quite true for she had two very willing helpers, and for their age and strength they were remarkable.
Kate – and Danny Eland. Without their help she would have lost more of her crops than she did, for when winter set in with a vengeance there were still two fields uncut. As for the rest, Esther cut the corn with a hand sickle. She had tried Sam’s scythe but found it too heavy and unwieldy. Day after day she moved slowly down the field locked into a stooping position, grasping a bunch of corn in her left hand and cutting it with the sickle in her right. Day after day until she thought she would never walk upright again, until every limb in her body ached and cried out for rest. Still she drove herself on. On and on until the pain in her body drove out the ache in her heart and left her mind dulled and unable to think of Jonathan. At night she fell into bed exhausted and slept at once.
The children took on the job of raking, tying the sheaves and stooking. Esther cut down the handles of two rakes to make them more manageable for them and their merry laughter as they worked was the only sound in the fields, normally alive with noisy chatter from the numerous harvest workers. The fields at Brumbys’ Farm were silent, waiting their turn under Esther’s lone sickle – and some would wait in vain.
‘Ya’ll kill ya’sen, lass,’ Will told her bluntly.
‘What else can I do, Will? I can’t lose it all. I won’t lose it all.’
‘Ask the squire for help, Esther. After all, it’s his land.’
‘I dun’t want him to think I can’t cope. I don’t know what he intends – now Matthew’s not coming back. He might only need the slightest excuse to take the tenancy off me.’
Will was silent, scratching his head in defeat.
‘And,’ she added bitterly, ‘I dun’t want him to know why none of the others are helping me this year.’
‘I ’spect he knows,’ Will muttered under his breath, but Esther’s hearing was sharp.
‘I suppose you’re right. I can’t understand them,’ she said angrily. ‘They all came last year, when Jonathan was actually here. They liked him – everyone did. So why are they punishing me now?’
‘They didn’t blame him, Esther lass,’ Will told her gently, unknowingly echoing Ma Harris’s words. ‘At first he was a hero in their eyes. A soldier wounded in the war and going to go back. But then
you
kept him here. To their way of thinking it was
you
turned him into a deserter. They blame you for everything.’
Esther closed her eyes and swayed slightly as her loss swept over her again. Tiredness made her vulnerable. Whilst for the most part the hard work blotted out her memories, when those same memories did intrude, she had no resistance to the hurt. She groaned and sank down into a kitchen chair and leant her head on her arms on the table.
‘Why was it so very wrong of me to fall in love with him?’
‘Because you were married – are still, for all we really know – and to one of their own. More than anything else, they can’t forgive you for that, Esther.’
‘It’s different for men, isn’t it?’ Her voice was muffled, but there was no mistaking her resentment. ‘They get away with it. They can have affairs, even bring – bring bastards into the world and are just thought “a bit of a lad”. Even envied by other fellers. But a woman! Oh, no, she’s a trollop and a whore . . .’ She stopped, appalled that she was talking to Will in this way, that she was thrusting the knife of her years of resentment into him of all people.
Will Benson sighed but said nothing. What was there that he could say to her accusation?
‘Me husband’s dead,’ Esther went on. ‘Am I supposed to live the rest of me life alone, just because . . . ?’
‘No, of course not, Esther. You jumped the gun, that’s what’s caused the resentment. You hadn’t even had word that he was missing before you took up with Jonathan Godfrey.’
It was a fact that she could not deny and it was that fact the people of Fleethaven Point could not forgive.
Through the long winter, Esther threshed the corn in her barn by hand with Sam’s old flail, spending long hours in the cold, with the wind whipping between the two sets of open doors, blowing away the chaff and leaving her the precious harvest of grain.
There was no news of Jonathan. Was he dead too, like Matthew? Or was he still out there in the muddy trenches? Did he ever think of her? she wondered. Did he remember Fleethaven Point and the warm sand and the soft, lapping sea, music to their love-making?
By the spring of 1918 the news from the war front seemed no better – worse if anything. The newspapers which Will still brought each week were gloomy. The Germans had launched massive attacks on the Western Front and British-held trenches were overrun and captured. The British faced defeat and fresh fears swept through those left at home. Had they lost so many young men in vain?
Then, like the turn of the tide, the British and their allies were marching forward, breaking through the Hindenburg Line and marching on and on and people began to speak as if victory could be a reality.
One morning she heard Will’s whistle; not one blast as usual to herald his arrival, but three shrill notes piercing the air. Esther set down the egg basket she was carrying and ran to the gate. Will was standing up on the front of his cart, excitedly waving a newspaper and climbing down before his horses had stopped. ‘Esther – Esther lass. It’s over. It’s really over.’