April 1887
‘April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.’
Friday, April 1st
“Aunt Tizzie, quick, you’re needed in the cow barn.”
“Wha..?” Tizzie woke in confusion, wool witted.
Her door rattled and shook again. “Hurry up, Auntie, you’re needed.”
That were Mike banging on the door. What were he on about? She yawned and yawned, her mouth opening so wide she came near to splitting her jaw. That hurt. She rolled over and sat up. Yawning again, for she couldn’t stop, Tizzie pushed back her blankets and quilts, staggered to her feet, but failed to find her slippers. What time were it? First whole night in a real bed for weeks and she had to be hauled out in this dark, ‘twasn’t dawn yet. What could it be? Perhaps one of her calves sickened, though why Jack were out looking at this hour...? Her fingers knew where the matches and candle stick rested, although the first time she reached she fumbled the matches and dropped one. Too much hurry and too sleepy, she chided herself as she hastened to dress, putting herself together anyhow in the wavering light of the pale quivering flame. Quickly she tucked her bedtime plait up under her knitted tammy and hurried out. Stumbling down her stairs she stubbed her toes as she tried to be quiet. Half way down the passage, Maggie and Jack’s bedroom door opened. Maggie popped her head out.
“Who...Tizzie? Away to the calves then? I thought I heard one of the lads up and about.” Maggie’s head, wrapped in a large night cap to hide the rags rolled in her hair, withdrew.
“Maggie?” but the door closed firmly. Tizzie heard a murmur as if Jack might be in bed and asking who was stirring. Puzzled she continued down to the kitchen and opened the damper, waking the fire. By its light she lit the table lamp. The calendar on the wall explained all. The new page showed the new month, April. One of the boys had pinned a note to it, a large note printed in bold blue capitals: APRIL FOOL!
Tizzie sighed and sat in the wheel-back chair nearest the fire. She’d forgot it were All Fool’s Day. The little devils. And she were too weary to think of a trick to play in return. Oh, and she’d better watch out for Agnes. It would be like Mike to spite her, and Agnes would explode. Jack’d be after her then, and Maggie’d top it all with more punishments. School were the only safe place for the lass. Kept her misery in check there under schoolmaster’s fond eye.
Tizzie yawned again, and again, felt her cheeks crack. She were that fagged out. She had ten cows in full milk to see to, and twelve calves to feed. The quantity of cream increased daily, butter making loomed. She had to put down several barrels of butter for the family and there were orders for butter from big hotels in Bradford and Leeds. She rubbed her eyes, discussing with herself whether to creep back upstairs to bed, or stay up and tend her cows. So much to do. The vegetable garden needed planting. The lads had dug and manured it well last month, Bert and John-Jack planted the spuds. Good lads they were like that, helped out with any digging and heavy work. It were young Mike’s job now to sow and weed, but he wriggled out and had to be watched over. He were as bad as Maggie, who wriggled out also. How she spoiled that lad. It were Maggie’s job to see that there were enough vegetables to feed the family, pickle and store up, but somehow Tizzie ended up toiling away in the vegetable plot. And the piglets came next week. She always fed and watched over them, because it were her whey and buttermilk they mostly ate. Jack usually traded with which of their neighbours would give him the best deal on a couple of weaner piglets to fatten for the family, using offers of the lads working for free during hay making. This year though he’d bargained for four and talked of buying a sow in pig as well and setting up his own piggery.
“Ready for all that extra whey and buttermilk those twenty cows will give,” he told her. “There’s a steady market in fancy hotels for good breakfast bacon.”
Tizzie yawned again, pushed herself out of the chair and blundered over to the farmyard door. She slowly felt her way into her heavy boots, the cow boots. Not pretty, much scared and stained for all the cleanings they got, but even the gentlest of cows could accidentally step on a foot, and when it happened it surely hurt. Workmen’s double capped boots kept her toes unbroken, and her insteps intact. She must see Agnes had a pair, must insist.
The latch clicked behind her. She knew it were Agnes before she heard the pad of her feet. She turned, couldn’t find the heart to smile, couldn’t think how to greet the wan face, simply held out her arms. Agnes darted into their embrace. “There, then, lass.” The joy of comforting Agnes, holding her like this, something she hadn’t done much since Agnes were very small, warmed heart and soul. Tizzie stroked the soft fuzz of unbrushed hair with her free hand, rested her cheek on top of Agnes’s head. “I’m reckoning up what I can do for you, lass. There must be a way.” Agnes squeezed Tizzie hard, stood on tiptoe to kiss her and wriggled free. Tizzie took her by the shoulders, pulled her back into her arms and bussed her soundly on each cheek. “Thou shalt be a teacher.”
Agnes blinked, eyes full and bright, she pulled Tizzie’s head close. “Listen, Aunt Tiz, I’ve been thinking....” The passage floor boards above their heads creaked.
They exchanged a look, Tizzie’s finger flew to her lips. Agnes copied the gesture. “Outside to the calves.” Tizzie whispered, “Don’t want Master Mischief sneaking around, earwigging on us. He’ll tattle to your Mam for sure.”
She dragged on her work coat, smothered Agnes up in one of the lads’ heavy outdoor jackets and a battered bonnet. “Hush,” she said, as they crept out, scurrying away to the cow barn.
“I must milk, lass, then let the calves out with their mothers. Can you talk while we feed the cows first?”
“I’ll help.”
“Feed ‘em in right order, Agnes, or they’ll get stroppy.”
“I know, I ken, Aunt. How many times have you told me?”
Tizzie tisked at her, forking out an armload of hay for each cow. Agnes took it to them in turn. The calves pushed against the hurdles which separated them from their mothers, bawling for their mams and their breakfasts.
“In this noise no one’ll hear us, Auntie Tiz. I’ve been thinking. If I can get the St Columba coin, I’ll have the lambs. I can sell them and with that money I can pay for my teacher’s training.”
“But lass, your Mam....”
“I know right well what she does.” Agnes sounded more disgusted than agonised. Tizzie thanked the Lord her niece didn’t set such store on family justice as she had. She were much more knowing.
“I don’t mean to steal or cheat like she does.” Tizzie swallowed down her automatic reproach. She hadn’t the gall to chastise the child. “No, I’ll not, oh, but Auntie, if we can watch, find some way, then Mam can’t cheat with the coin.”
Tizzie straightened, began to fork more hay, reaching it down from the top of the stack. “Your Mam’ll never let us near. She never has.”
“What if the Vicar’s lady is there, studying like, writing for one of her pamphlets, taking notes of everything Mam does?”
Tizzie paused, mid pitch, and let the fork full of hay drop. “Tha’s a knacky lass. That’s a grand notion and one as could help us spoil your Mam’s plans. She can’t mark Columba’s cake with Mrs Holbrooke watching.”
“Shall you ask her to come, Auntie Tiz? Could you do it, speak to Mrs Holbrooke?”
Tizzie picked up the dropped hay, flicked it into Agnes’s arms, set the fork back in its stand and considered. She could ask the vicar’s lady, but Mrs Holbrooke might wonder why Maggie hadn’t invited her. She might insist on a proper invitation from Maggie. “I’ll think on it.” She led Agnes to the shippon. She felt somehow, for it all to work, and them to escape Maggie’s wrath, they had to arrange the invitation without being seen to have anything to do with it. Agnes turned about, intent on hurrying ahead. Tizzie reached out and caught her by the back of her shawl. “I reckon ‘twould be better, maybe, if we could hint her to it so she asks. Best not have us seen to be in any part of it, or your Mam will find another way and skin us both.”
Agnes nodded, wriggling free. “I will, I must. With that money even if I can only go to Thursday classes with Mr Topley at least I could learn a bit until I’m old enough to become assistant teacher and go off on my own.”
Tizzie held her peace. It were kind of Schoolmaster Topley to suggest teaching the lass, but she knew how she felt after a day milking and caring for ten cows. If Agnes were helping her with twenty cows, the lass’d be that flayed and knackered she’d be asleep by teatime. Then her brain caught up with her ears. “Off on your own? Do you plan to leave, to go away?” The idea smarted like a slap across the face.
“If I must. If they still won’t let me, and I have that money, I can go off to train for a teacher when I’m fourteen. There’s hostels to stay in and proper care taken for trainee teachers. Schoolmaster says.”
“Leave the Dale? Ah, Agnes, lass, where would tha go? Why, I’d miss you.”
Agnes turned from solemn to sunshine, grinned and hugged her aunt. “I’d go to York. Schoolmaster knows people there, he can help me find a school.” She released Tizzie, looked up at her with a mischievous expression. “Come with me. Keep house for me.”
Tizzie hugged Agnes back. “Leave the Dale? I couldn’t do that.” She paused, pondering, reckoning her words and her fears. “But if you’re going maybe I will. I’ll think on it.” And indeed she would. Stay slaving here without the lass? Never. This was her road to a new life too. She shivered. So many possibilities coming so quickly were scary. She hugged Agnes again. “Come now, let’s milk these cows, and stop those calves bawling. And you start a bit of hinting around Mrs Holbrooke, and if she doesn’t jump I’ll try.”
Agnes ran to shove open the shippon door. “Do you reckon Mike will be giving us upside-down eggshells for breakfast?”
“Bound to, but we’ll fool him.” Tizzie brought to mind the ways her brothers had tormented her on All Fool’s Day. “We nearly got him buying pigeon’s milk last year. How about you telling him he should pop down to the blacksmith for a long stand, say your Da needs it for the weaners, and I’ll catch him over undone trouser buttons.”
They shared a laugh as they called in the cows.
***
Wednesday, April 6th
Wednesday was Market Day. Tizzie harnessed Betsy slowly, in pensive mood. When her Mam’d been alive Tizzie’d enjoyed Market Day. Why didn’t she now? Betsy turned her head to nudge Tizzie. “There then, patience, Betsy, nearly done.” Tizzie rubbed the mare’s forehead, began plaiting her forelock. Market Day used to be the day she and her Mam and Nan drove into town. Their rest day it was, setting up the stall for ten a.m. and all sold by noon. Then it were time to chat and see friends, shop a bit, be home by five. A time to get away from the farm and enjoy a day out, all women folk together. Tizzie’s hands slowed as she pinpointed the change. Betsy, restive, mouthed her bit, clinking the snaffle joint noisily. Tizzie returned to the present, tied the ribbon in the mare’s forelock, started weaving ribbons down the crest of her mane to keep it tidy. Under Maggie’s rule - aye, that’s what it were, rule - Market Day were a money making business, urgent, a frantic disruption of each busy week. So much extra work she’d do well without. Tizzie threaded the reins, led them down Betsy’s back, talking to her as she did so. “There you are, Betsy, give me your tail.” She tutted. “My gracious, Bert’s missed a great tangle when he groomed you, bonnie lassie. I can’t plait with that in, it wants cutting out. I’ll have to tuck your tail up and tie it.” Betsy exhaled obligingly, eased her weight, dropped a hip and propped her near hind hoof.
The light diminished, someone blocked the doorway. “Aren’t you done, Tiz? The cart’s loaded. Be quick.” Maggie left, the light returned.
“You’re more patient than Maggie, old girl.” Tizzie could never make Maggie out over Market Days. Hated standing behind the market stall, she said, yet wouldn’t let Tizzie do it on her own. Once Tizzie’d thought that a kindness. Now she wondered if it were to be sure of the money. Maggie kept claiming how poor they were, so she had to be there to see all sold. “You’re that fond and soft anyone could rob you,” she said. Yet Tizzie remembered her Mam and Nan never having anything left on the stall. How they’d split a few curdies and give the wee bairns a taste, often their Mams’d buy a slice. Now they sold whole cheesecakes and curdies, not by piece or part. No more ha’penny pats of butter or tuppenny ends of cheese. And money went into the bank, a tidy sum. Tizzie saw it. Trust Maggie to decide the farm should have a stall every week of the year and include poultry, eggs, vegetables and fruit as well as Tizzie’s butter and cheeses. The cheesecakes and curdies, which used to be made special, to order, now had to be baked by dozens each week. Tuesday evenings Tizzie rarely climbed up to bed before midnight. “Half the money from them is yours,” Maggie would say, and she surely took a share to put into Tizzie’s bank account, the one she and Jack had opened for her at the Yorkshire Penny Bank, but Tizzie’d never had hold of the bank book.
“You’ll only loose it, Tizzie, I know you,” Jack’d said. “I’ll keep it safe in the desk.”
Now she wondered if there might be money to use for Agnes in the account. She leaned against Betsy’s warm ribs, enjoying the scent of groomed horse and the touch of her velvet plush coat. All that money should be hers, must amount to a good few pounds now, but how to get hold of it? She only had to ask, why hadn’t she? She warmed all over, embarrassed and shamed. She were afraid, afraid of Jack’s fist and Maggie’s tongue, afraid of losing her home, afraid of being alone, having to make her way by herself. She’d lived here all her life, didn’t know how to live anywhere else.
“Ready, Auntie Tiz?” Bert poked his head over the half door. “I’ll back Betsy into the cart if you like.”
That were a kindness and gave Tizzie time to wash and tidy. She struggled to push away her despondent thoughts. “That’s good of you, Bert.” She gave him a quick smile. “Save me putting your Mam in a fret of impatience. She’s a bit snappish right now.”
Bert snorted. Betsy pricked her ears and stared at him. “Aye. If it isn’t that lass, it’s our Mike. You’d think he’d have enough nouse not to stir her.”
Tizzie patted his shoulder as she squeezed by him in the doorway. “Well, you and me, Bert ‘ll keep our tongues snecked and heads ducked down. Happen we’ll have a bit of peace then.”
“Hah!” was the only response. Poor Bert, a good lad, he worked right well doing his agricultural certificate and on the farm, but Maggie never let up at him. Lads needed a longer rein at his age, and he had a wise head for his years. Tizzie crossed the yard at a trot, whishing Maggie’d ease up on him, on them all.
It were down hill the first part of the way to market. Not an easy drive with brakes and drag both full on to hold the cart, and Betsy having to watch her feet. Maggie liked to drive herself, hands other than hers on the reins, she’d say, refusing Tizzie’s offer, made her uneasy. Betsy preferred a loose rein and verbal commands. Maggie kept a tight rein and used the whip to give direction. Tizzie squirmed on tenterhooks the whole journey as Betsy fretted, tossing her head to gain some rein and stretch her neck. The poor pony bumped along, pulling in fits and starts. Maggie’s heavy hands prevented Betsy having her head free to stretch her neck on the steeper slopes. Why couldn’t Maggie see that her niggling made the mare thoroughly uncomfortable? Like me, Tizzie thought, and Agnes and the lads. She keeps me on a tight rein too. Time to get free, time to stop being shamed.
In the market square Tizzie unloaded while Maggie fussed about the stall spreading out the clean white cloths and arranging the wooden platters. “Cart’s empty, Maggie. I’ll take the mare to the pub shall I?”
“That’s it, you step along smartish, and make sure that lazy stable lad doesn’t use our nice little cart. The arrangement was the mare only and no carting any barrels, just deliveries. You tell him plain, and warn him I’ll check up.”
Tizzie nodded. Trust Maggie and Jack not to pay a livery fee, but have poor Betsy working all day in exchange for a good feed at noon and an hour’s rest before she pulled their dog cart home. Only Maggie would think of that. Tizzie stepped up into the driving seat, unwound the reins, and clicked her tongue. “Come up then, Betsy.” Betsy walked off willingly. She knew where they were going.
The Three Nags public house hid behind the main shops, down a winding and constricted cobbled alley. Betsy turned into the arched passage, which ran beside the pub, without being directed. It were a narrow building, lacking fancy bow windows or twisted ironwork, but the clean dark paint and plain rectangular windows gave the place a sober and severe expression, like the landlord himself. Mr Jowett were a lay preacher for the Methodists, preached abstinence. He refused to serve any man more than four pints during an evening. As he had been a famous wrestler when a youth no one cared to argue with him, and serious drinkers drank elsewhere. Tizzie’d heard his stories about throwing customers through the door. They grew with each telling. The mare clattered to a halt, and the stable boy ran out to catch her head. He made a fuss of Betsy as the elder Miss Jowett tripped down the back door steps.
“Put Betsy in the trap shafts and their dog cart in the corner, Dan. You can deliver sandwiches to the bank and sell mid morning pies and pieces down the street in the Square.” As Dan led Betsy away Miss Jowett turned to Tizzie. “Well, and how are you, Miss Cawthra? Did you manage to get your March beer brewed?”
Tizzie didn’t bother trying more than a nod. The elder Miss Jowett had little time to listen, indeed always had an ear angled towards her kitchen, or the pub dining room.
“I’ve a spare barrel or two of my best brew, Miss Cawthra, should your sister-in-law need some. We can trade as usual. Oh, and can you save us a cheesecake, Miss Tizzie, dear?” She had turned, hurrying back to her kitchen, as she said this, the words flying over her shoulder.
“That I will,” Tizzie called, starting back to the market square. She couldn’t dally much, but as she walked out of the alley the bookshop on her right made her pause. She’d never been inside, never bought a book, but she wondered if they’d have anything of Mr Dickens and maybe that Shakespeare. She could buy something for Agnes, and they’d read it together. T’would help Agnes with her plans. Schoolmaster said they should be reading good books, and Tizzie could practise reading parts herself. The Shakespeare were wordy stuff, but she liked the sound of it read out loud.
Dithering by the window, daring herself to walk in and look at the books on the shelves, she heard a carriage draw up, saw the dark reflection in the glass. She drew to one side, turned, and saw the Linden Hall carriage, a groom opening the door. Lady Esther descended, smiled at her.
“Miss Cawthra.”
“M’lady,” Tizzie practised her head bow, but found her knees bumping into a bobbing curtsey as well.
“It’s market day of course, you must be busy with your stall today, but may I have a word?” Lady Esther looked at the bookshop. “Were you going into the bookshop? Shall we talk there?”
Tizzie’s cheeks warmed, the pulse at her throat kicked wildly, pushing against her skin. Were Lady Esther going to offer a way to help Agnes? Would His Lordship intervene after all? “If you wish, m’lady.” She followed Lady Esther through the bookshop door.
As the door bell jangled, the clerks looked up from their writing, the elder clerk, middle aged and spreading at the waist, rose, surged forward with a polite bow, a welcoming smile on his face. “My lady, a pleasure to serve you. Would you like to speak to the manager?”
Lady Esther smiled and shook her head. “No, don’t disturb him. I am sure he will be busy this morning. Please wrap my magazines. Oh, and has ‘The Mikado’ libretto arrived?”
“As you wish, my lady, and I will personally find the libretto. I am sure it arrived yesterday.” He bowed again, his well oiled hair never stirring, and departed. Tizzie felt tendrils of her hair tickling her neck, escaping from under her bonnet, hastily pushed at them, wishing she had taken more time to dress.
“Were you seeking some special book, Tizzie?”
“Aye, m’lady, I thought to find one for Agnes.” She shied away from saying it were for herself too. “We liked that ‘David Copperfield’ or those Shakespeare plays.”
“Have you read Shakespeare’s poems, the sonnets? They are so beautiful.”
“Some, m’lady.” Tizzie noted the word sonnets. So that were what they were called. She thought poems were poems. She ducked her head down, felt the blushes heating her cheeks.
Lady Esther patted her arm in a most familiar way, those Quaker manners of hers. “Come and look here, Tizzie, at these shelves.” She led Tizzie to shelves beside the window. “All William Shakespeare’s plays and poems are here. You can see there are different publishers’ versions of his works.” Tizzie stared, hesitating. So many books, so many different colours. She stretched out her hand, dared to touch the spine of a plain-bound book labelled in bold black, ‘The Sonnets of William Shakespeare’. Many of the other books were leather bound, richly coloured and tooled, with gilt lettering. Then she remembered money, or rather her lack of it, and this time even her ear tips warmed. Hot enough to be glowing coal fire red, Tizzie reckoned, and squirmed.
Lady Esther seemed not to notice. “This would be a sensible copy for a girl. Does Agnes have a favourite sonnet?”
Was this her chance? Tizzie sought her voice, swallowed, tried to speak. “Agnes...” she broke off with a little cough and began again without the wheeze. “Agnes likes to recite ‘Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch, One of her feather'd creatures broke away,’ to me.
Lady Esther laughed. She had such a soft warm laugh, Tizzie couldn’t help but smile. “My favourite is sonnet 116, ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,’. It’s Sir Charles’s favourite too.”
Tizzie shifted her feet anxiously. Maggie would be wanting her, yet how to prompt Lady Esther about Agnes. “My lady, I must...”
“Of course. You have the stall to attend. I will come and speak to your sister-in-law, but first, Mr Topley suggested I ask you what you would prefer.”
Hope, fully awake, leapt into Tizzie’s heart. She were going to patch it all together for Agnes. Schoolmaster and her ladyship’d fix Maggie and Jack. “Yes, m’lady?”
“The Jubilee Celebrations, our Queen’s Golden Jubilee. As you know each village will have its own day and then there will be the grand fête and bonfire at Linden Hall for everyone on midsummer’s day.”
Tizzie blinked. She hadn’t heard all this. She knew only what Agnes and the school had been doing for the village.
“We’d like you to be part of the grand fête. To make a display of dairy work, how it’s improved over the fifty years’ of our Sovereign’s reign.”
Tizzie felt her mouth opening, checked it, gulped and stuttered. Hope withered, collapsed down in her boots again.
“We would like you to use our new dairy to show your arts using the most modern equipment and methods. Perhaps you could demonstrate making curds or soft cheese?”
Disappointment dug deep, weighing her down like lead in her boots. No one wanted to help Agnes but her. She would have to do it, but oh, if only it weren’t so complicated. “M’lady, yes, I can do that, but I’d need to see and work there first.” What modern methods were Tizzie supposed she could discover. Now she must go. “Excuse me, m’lady....”
And the clerk saved her, hovering at Lady Esther’s elbow, coughing politely. Tizzie fled as Lady Esther turned to the man. She fought tears of frustration. Saving Agnes fell firmly in her hands, and the idea scared her. She’d like to load the task on someone else’s shoulders, yet when had she started thinking she needed help to do things? Not when her Mam lived, not when she kept house and dairy for her Da. ‘Twere Maggie, Maggie always made her feel foolish. Keep it simple that’s what she had to do. Sort out what were most important. Seemed like money, having some money came first. Agnes needed a bit put by. She must see the lass got those lambs. Agnes didn’t want to cheat, but Tizzie thought she could. If they got Mrs Holbrooke and even Lady Esther there it might not be difficult to slip a silver thruppence into Agnes’ slice. Tizzie hovered, waiting for a cluster of buyers, arrived back at the stall with them, thus sparing herself Maggie’s recriminations.
Maggie always took the morning’s money to the bank at lunch, then stopped off for her lunch with the Misses Jowett at the Three Nags. Tizzie remembered the cheesecake and wrapped it for Maggie to carry, as Maggie sorted the money into Tizzie’s blue purse and Jack’s larger leather pouch. Tizzie, counting up cautiously and discreetly what of hers had sold, felt sure she’d earned the large sum of sixteen shillings and thruppence. Maggie counted out, dividing up that quick and nippy, shovelling copper and silver into piles and then reckoning farthings, ha’pence, pence, thruppences, sixpences and shillings into purse and pouch so sharpish that Tizzie couldn’t keep up. And Maggie divided the coins out in her lap, with her hands half hidden under the wooden table top of the stall.
“I’d like to buy Agnes a book.” Tizzie stretched, leaned a hip on the stall edge to try and look down on Maggie, watch over her shoulder.
Maggie, surprised, raised her head, inhaling sharply, nostrils pinched. She leaned back to glare at Tizzie. Her hands appeared, and Tizzie saw. Maggie had shown her a half sovereign, from The George for buying a quantity of her best Wensleydale cheese. Maggie’d put it aside specially for Tizzie, so she said. But Tizzie saw Maggie sliding it into Jack’s pouch.
“I’ll not have you spoiling my daughter. She leaves school and schooling behind her in July.”
“I’m improving my reading, Maggie, Agnes likes to read. There’s no harm in that. May I have my money today instead of you putting it in the bank?” Tizzie let her eyes gaze over the market square as Maggie gave her one of her sharp looks. Mustn’t let Maggie think she’d watched. She blew on her fingers and pinched her cheeks. “I’m starved with cold too, Maggie, if I’m to wait my lunch until after you I’d like to warm up with a cup of tea in the tea shop now, before you have your lunch.” And I’ll be heading to the Three Nags for my lunch after you, she thought, no snatched meal for me today or any other market day from now on.
Maggie’s mouth worked as though she had a plum stone in it.
Tizzie smiled and smiled, adjusted her bonnet and rubbed her gloves together. “I’ll wait ‘til after you’ve eaten, Maggie, if I must, but if you’d just let me have the half sovereign.”
“Better to have it in shillings, Tizzie, easier for the tea shop.” She began counting some out into Tizzie’s cupped palm. “...And an eight, a nine, and a ten, and one extra for your tea. There. You haste away now, be back in fifteen minutes. Best buy the book when I’m clearing off the stall.”
Maggie made it all sound so right, but Tizzie’d seen that half sovereign going into the big pouch. Nothing was right – everything was wrong. How much of her money truly sat in her bank account earning interest? How could she find out when Jack had the bank book locked away in the desk? She left Maggie for the warmth of the tea shop. Tea, Eccles cakes and a bit of thought, that’s what she needed. Surely she could make a plan, keep it to herself though, not even tell the lass. Agnes had been speaking to the vicar’s lady about the St Columba’s ceremony. Now it were her turn to say something about it being their last Columba’s Day celebration. Surely Mrs Holbrooke would take that bait.
***
Thursday, April 14th
The school room’s foisty fug of hot stove and boiling kettle had Tizzie’s eyelids drooping. Butter making all morning, teaching the calves to drink from a bucket, milking stepping up to twice a day for the cows whose calves had learnt to drink from a bucket. Piglets to feed, cheeses to turn, and she were already tired from market day baking. So much done and so much to do, yet she wouldn’t miss these Thursday evenings now, gave her time to think back, work out what had happened to her since Maggie and Jack took over the farm. The schoolroom had become a place where she felt almost comfortable. Ah, nay, she’d never be a scholar. She could copy tidily and with a pen, yet it would never come easy. Still she could write a letter now without being ashamed. But she loved the reading. Schoolmaster’d been right when he told her the words would make sense with practise. It were the sound of them she liked, in poetry and plays. She’d bought Agnes two books on Market Day, the Sonnets and a novel, a book the clerk pointed out, saying she’d like it, set in Yorkshire even, about an orphan who became a governess. She and Agnes read it aloud, turn and turn about, each night and cried over Jane’s struggles.
“See Agnes,” Tizzie’d say “here’s another lass who has to make her own way wi’out a parent’s aid. Think on Jane Eyre when your Mam starts at you.” She’d hugged the lass hard.
“But I’ve got you,” Agnes had replied. Tizzie were glad it were the lass’s turn reading, for she’d not have been able to read a word after hearing that. To love the lass as a daughter were one thing, to be loved so in return touched her soul.
Tizzie tuned her ear to the schoolmaster. They were all speaking their parts from a pageant he’d written for the Jubilee celebrations. He helped them remember and made them alter the way they said some words. The lads and Agnes had lots of words to con. Tizzie hid a yawn, blinked twice, and started copying out the lines again. At least her copying were useful for she wrote a neat round hand. She could copy the words for the bairns, in big clear writing which they read better than schoolmaster’s ornate copperplate.
Coal fell in the stove with a clink, and flames spurted up with a warning hiss. The warm metal of the stove she could almost taste on her tongue, so sharp was its tang. Coal dust mingled with chalk dust in motes, danced up with the warming air, catching the light, black and white specks swirling in spirals. Tizzie watched them, felt their tickle in her nose. A breeze, chill and smelling of the moist earth, scattered the motes. The outer door swung shut, footsteps marched towards them.
“Evening, sir.”
Tizzie blinked, saw in John-Jack, surrounded by a cold gust of air, cap off, hair sprinkled with minute rain gems, school bag in his hand.
The schoolmaster rose from his seat in the far alcove and welcomed the lad. “How can I help you?”
John-Jack grinned. “If you can, sir. I can’t work this mathematical problem out and I’ve tried.”
The schoolmaster accepted the challenge, bade his group hear each other, and took John-Jack and the book to his desk. Tizzie watched for a moment the two dark brown heads, nearly touching as they bent over the book. John-Jack pointed, the schoolmaster spoke. John-Jack shook his head, wrote something. The schoolmaster nodded and added more figures. Understanding flashed across the lad’s face. Tizzie blinked, focussed on the copying, started writing again. She’d like to finish it tonight.
“What you a doin’, Auntie Tiz?” John-Jack slid onto the bench beside her, peered at her papers.
Tizzie smiled, ruffled her hand over his head. “Copying, Master Cheek. What art tha doing?”
“Two more problems Master’s set me. To make sure I know the trick.” He picked up a page and read what Tizzie had copied. “Bit of the Jubilee Day is it?”
She took back her sheet and rapped his hand. “Cheeky lad. I’m copying the bairns’s parts.”
He grinned at her, poked her, but gently, with his bony elbow. “Saving our Aggie a bit of work, Aunt?”
She gave him a look. “You do your work, and I’ll do mine.”
“Aye.” He moved down the bench and concentrated on his sums.
Faint moonlight shone through the steamed up windows, turning individual drops of moisture to mirrors. Tizzie watched one slither down the pane, snail-like in its silver trail, to splat on the window sill, returned to her copying. She knew the lines by heart.
“Nearly time to send you home, my scholars.” The schoolmaster called a halt to the memorizing. “That’s been a good night’s work. Well done. Agnes, it’s your turn to choose a narrative poem.”
“The Lady of Shalott,” she piped up quickly. The boys groaned. The schoolmaster shook his head at them. “Listen to the words Lord Tennyson uses to make the story visual and musical, that’s poetry.”
Tizzie hid a smile. “What is it?” John-Jack whispered.
“A right romantic poem about a lady and a knight called Sir Lancelot. Agnes loves it. She can almost recite it herself.”
John-Jack sniggered softly. “And do you like it, Aunt?”
“It’s a fairy story, but a grand one. Hush, Schoolmaster Topley’s ready to read.” Tizzie hesitated, wondering whether to listen with both ears and enjoy the schoolmaster’s reading. Nay, she’d these last three copies to make and that’d be an end of it. Best she finished. Maybe even get that recipe copied too. Besides she almost knew the poem by heart. Schoolmaster Topley’d loaned her Lord Tennyson’s book of poems from the school library, to practise her reading, and share with Agnes. She copied on as the poem progressed, shuddering slightly when the schoolmaster and students together chanted: “The mirror cracked from side to side.”
“It’s good isn’t it?” John-Jack whispered. Tizzie murmured agreement, eyes on her letters. “I’ll sneak out when Schoolmaster’s finished. Will you be coming straight on?”
“As soon as Agnes asks her last questions and picks up her things. The boys and schoolmaster must clear and put away, but we can go straight home because the schoolmaster says lass is too young to be out so late.”
John-Jack put his cap on his head, collected his things, and, when the schoolmaster closed the book, he slipped away.
Calling their goodnights Agnes and Tizzie followed after, hurrying in the half moon’s light.
“Run, Auntie Tiz, it’s mizzly drizzling.” Agnes caught Tizzie’s hand and they ran, not helter skelter, but half paced, eyes on the path at their feet, through the village and down the road to home. Trotting up the lane to the farm they saw John-Jack open the back door and enter, the light from the porch making a yellow oblong on the dark ground before he closed the door.
“Let’s sneak up the back stairs to your room Auntie Tiz.” Agnes tugged Tizzie’s arm. “I can get ready for bed in the warm,” she grinned impishly, “I left my nightie there this morning.”
“Hush then and creep.” Together they tiptoed into the porch. Tizzie eased open the door and they shed wet boots and coats with only the faintest sounds of cloth rustling and boot soles slurring on wood. Tizzie coaxed the back door shut, started for the stairs, but Agnes crept to the kitchen door and pressed her ear against it.
Tizzie turned, padded cat-foot to grab her arm, pressed her lips to Agnes’ ear to whisper, “Shame on you.”
Agnes snatched at Tizzie’s hand, pulled her close, beckoning.
Tizzie started to pull away, heard John-Jack exclaim, “Auntie Tiz!” She hesitated, then put her ear against the door panel. It surprised her how well she could hear.
“Aw, Da, who put the notion in your head? Schoolmaster and Aunt Tizzie? Why, she dursn’t open her mouth near him. He sits with his chosen four, the three lads and Aggie. They read books and poems, studying for teaching. Auntie Tiz waits for Aggie in the far alcove, away from them. Tonight she did a bit of copying for the Jubilee, had a recipe book she read.” John-Jack’s voice faded.
Maggie’s rose. “If you say ought to anyone, lad, it’ll be the worse for you. Don’t put the idea in their heads.” Chair legs scraped across the floor, Maggie’s voice sounded nearer to the door. “You see, Jack, ‘twas just Ivy Thetford romancing. I told you a schoolmaster’d look higher if he’s thinking of getting wed. Our Tizzie’s an old maid and a dunce with it. Schoolmaster Topley’d want a lass who can read and write, not an ignorant dairy maid like Tiz.”
Jack snorted with laughter. “Aye, ignorant she is. Of everything.” His chair scraped over the flagstones. “Get off to bed, lad, but pop down to Thursday Night School again if you want, check her for us, though I reckon you’re right.”
Agnes looked up into Tizzie’s face, pity shining in those pretty brown eyes, her horrified expression twin of what Tizzie felt. Tizzie clasped her warm hand, tugged her away, and they fled on tip-toe up the stairs, along the passage and up Tizzie’s little flight of steps to her room.
“Quick, get undressed afore your Mam catches us.” She wanted to add, “Don’t eavesdrop like that again,” but she had done it too and heard nothing good either. Isn’t that what they said: ‘Eavesdroppers hear nothing that’s good’?
“That wasn’t kind was it?”Agnes, voice muffled by her petticoats, wriggled out of her clothing and allowed Tizzie to swipe a wet flannel over her neck and face.
“No, it weren’t.” It hurt to hear, although it proved her thoughts correct. She’d been listening wrong for the past twelve years. If you heard words, but didn't expect trouble, then you didn't hear trouble. But words could be said as though to mean one thing when the speaker intended something else. The sneer in Maggie’s voice, Jack’s guffaw, they were the truth. “You say nowt, lass, nor look big with secrets neither. We shouldn’t have listened.” Tizzie made herself sound fierce.
“But that’s the only way I can find out what’s happening, Auntie Tiz. If you want to know what’s truth maybe you should eavesdrop too.”
Tizzie puffed out her cheeks with a huff, making a rueful face. “If it’ll help us, happen I will.” She bundled Agnes into her nightdress, gave her a comb. “Get started on your hair.” She placed her own bonnet carefully in its box. “Your Mam’ll be up soon, look as if you’ve been here a good while, or no, we’ll get you down into your own bed. Come on lass.”
They met Maggie by Agnes’ bedroom door. She scowled at them both.
“Sorry, Maggie, just been hearing Agnes’s part, but she’s ready for bed. In you go, lass, and say your prayers.”
Agnes fled and Tizzie trailed meekly behind Maggie down the stairs to start the bread, setting a sponge ready for morning’s baking and have a think about what to do. The pain she tucked away, because weeping was all she knew to cure a hurt, and these last weeks’d showed her that weeping cured nowt.
***
Sunday, April 24th
Mild April, with weather sulky as a child, turning each day from showers, to sunshine, grey sky then to blue, vanished overnight. The muffled hush and brightness shining through the curtains alerted Tizzie. Once dressed she allowed herself a moment to stand at the windows and enjoy the sight. The snow smoothed out the sharp square outlines of the buildings, flattened the rough surfaces of the fields, polished them with a coating of pure white. The loveliness eased the tightness in her chest, let her draw breath more easily. She couldn’t beat Maggie and Jack, not yet. She’d to beat her fear first, then she’d to reckon what they’d do next. Figuring round their yeses which meant no, their smiling deceits, their way of killing her by false kindness, that were a problem still. Nay, think on today’s trick, the vicar’s lady. Today she aimed to plant a seed and coax it to grow. She’d cheat if it got Agnes those lambs. Now for milking, feeding calves, pigs and churning butter, and those lads were coming to help or she’d raise a rumpus. She wanted to be free to go to church, in time, clean and neat, and she had to manage so much on her own during the week she felt wracked. Shutting the door carefully, she padded stocking footed down her little flight of stairs. Agnes she let sleep, Master Michael would be churning butter this morning.
“Up, up,” she urged, opening the boys’ bedroom door. The beds were empty. Jack must have chased them out, happen he wanted them to help move the ewes and lambs because of that fall of snow. Grand. She’d be able to get her work done too and be at church in good time.
They were. “We’ll sit nearer the front shall we, Aunt Tizzie?” Agnes nudged her with a pointed elbow. “We’ll join the Jubilee volunteers. We’re meant to be helping too.”
Tizzie joined the volunteers moving down the centre aisle. Agnes scampered ahead, settled with her friends in the pew behind the vicar’s lady. Tizzie sat with them. This was her chance. Maggie and the family would sit at the back of the church, the far right pew, the Cawthra’s usual place. She could catch Mrs Holbrooke and say her piece without Maggie hearing or knowing she’d started the talk. Ivy Thetford and the adult volunteers for the Jubilee all sat here. Good, she’d look like one of them. The rustle and bustle died down, chatter turned to coughs, heads turned, smartly returned to look altar-wards. Sir Charles and Lady Esther had entered the church, the vicar and choir waiting behind them in the porch ready to process when they had seated themselves. Tizzie, wanting to see what Lady Esther wore, angled herself sideways to look. Clad simply in a pretty blue coat over a paler blue dress the lady were, with a dark blue bonnet. There were something elegant about that restrained Quaker style. Tizzie fancied it never wore out of fashion.
Three strides down the aisle Sir Charles stopped, laid a hand on his wife’s arm to halt her too. With his head high and thrown back so he looked down his nose he was every inch a lordship. But his angry expression mirrored his Da’s when t’old Squire were in a wax. Tizzie wondered who he were going to bawl out.
“Ah, Cawthra, what’s this I hear? You aren’t letting that clever daughter of yours stay at school and become an assistant teacher?”
Agnes froze like a stoat-charmed rabbit. Tizzie pressed her lips together and turned her eyes to the front, shrinking into herself. Her hand reached for Agnes’s hand. It felt as cold as hers, trembled as it squeezed hers tightly.
Neither of them heard Jack’s reply. Nor did Sir Charles.
“What’s that you say? Speak up, man.”
“She’s needed at home, sir.” Maggie’s voice sounded firm, clear and definite.
“Nonsense. Do you realise how much she’d be earning for you, Maggie Cawthra?” There was no audible reply. Sir Charles humphed, waited, then continued. “Now listen here. I’m prepared to have her work in one of my schools, pay her full rate. That means she can live at home and increase your income with all of her salary. What do you say to that?”
Tizzie found her head turning to watch openly. She wasn’t the only one. All members of the congregation swivelled their body round or swung their face in Jack’s direction. Agnes, beside her, was whispering, “Make Da say yes, please God, make him say yes,” over and over. Tizzie quaked. The old Squire had been known for an occasional outburst in church, shaming the drunkard or work shy, but this, this was new and frightening, for Tizzie could see Jack was enraged, and Jack enraged hit out.
“Our Michael will be the teacher and do that for us, sir. Agnes has her daughter’s duty to do at home, as all daughters must.” Maggie had her hand tight round Jack’s arm. Tizzie saw resentment in her whitened knuckles, the way her fingers worked, pinching up into pleats Jack’s jacket sleeve.
Happen Lady Esther understood Jack’s fury for she touched her husband’s arm. He inclined his head to her, and she put her mouth to his ear murmuring softly. He nodded.
“Think about it, man. You could have two teachers if your son qualifies and double the money.” He bowed his head courteously, smiled down at his wife and tucked her hand under his elbow. “Come, my dear.” He escorted her to their elaborate box pew at the side of the church.
Where he can watch us all, Tizzie thought as she patted Agnes’s hand with comforting little pats. Is he going to tackle every one of his tenants like this? Church’ll be no place for peace if he does. What’ll vicar say? And what’s Jack going to say, let alone do to Agnes?
The deacon announced the first hymn and all the congregation faced the altar, preparing to sing. Tizzie took a deep breath, then another, found a wavering voice to quaver the first line. Even the choir sounded wobbly. No one would be taking His Lordship lightly after this display.
Agnes, still white faced, whispered urgently. Tizzie shushed her, squeezing her hand.
Agnes sang softly with the hymn. “What’ll Da do. He’ll be after me.” Her voice, just audible to Tizzie’s ears, sang of terror.
In the fuss of sitting at hymn’s end Tizzie managed a quick, “We’ll be busy with Jubilee rehearsal.” Between coughs and moving feet. Agnes found a faint smile for response.
It didn’t help that the vicar’s choice of reading and studying for the children whilst he preached his long sermon was the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, chapter twenty five, verses fourteen to thirty. Tizzie nearly groaned aloud when he announced that. Not the parable of the talents, not today of all Sundays, but it were. She knew Jack’d take it personally.
It might have been a good sermon but Tizzie couldn’t concentrate. She shivered. What would Jack and Maggie do now? The air felt chilly despite the sunshine laying red and blue patterns over her coat as it streamed through the stained glass window beside her. Never had Matins been so long. She might ignore the nippy air, but that plink plunk of dripping snow from gutter to ground making a kind of music only irritated. She sighed, squeezed her eyes shut and prayed hard for a miracle for Agnes. The Vicar’s final announcement, calling for all those involved in the village Jubilee celebration to remain in the church, came as such a relief Tizzie’s legs nearly folded her onto the pew again. Agnes clutched Tizzie’s arm sighing gustily. Safe for a while.
Sir Charles and Lady Esther led the departure, walking down the centre aisle, tossing “Good mornings,” across the pews to members of the congregation who followed after.
Mrs Holbrooke turned to leave. Tizzie stiffened her spine, strove to speak loud enough to catch her ear, yet failed to raise more than a whisper. Agnes, catching Tizzie’s effort, leapt in for her.
“Mrs Holbrooke, excuse me, m’am...” her voice died away as she looked up at Tizzie.
The vicar’s wife addressed Tizzie first. “Good morning, Miss Cawthra.” She then spoke to Agnes. “Agnes, did you wish to know if the paints have arrived? They have. Your schoolmaster will be arranging when you are to paint the masks. Go and join that group around Mr Topley.”
Agnes bobbed, thanked and excused herself properly, mannerly like she’d been taught, slipping across the church to where her friends waited as the schoolmaster directed John-Jack and his peers. Good lass. Now it were Tizzie’s turn to help.
Tizzie drew a quick breath. “I wondered, Mrs Holbrooke, if the recipe booklet were finished?”
“How kind of you to enquire, Tizzie. My husband will take the booklet to the printer’s this very week.” She raised both eyebrows in query. “Why are you asking, Tizzie, do you now wish to give me your secret cheesecake recipe?” Her smile teased.
“No, indeed, m’am, though I have that Yorkshire curd tart recipe you may like to use. It were my nan’s...er...grandmother’s. I wondered if you were wanting more details about Saint Columba’s Day and the cake. And,” an idea arrived unexpected, in a rush, startling her, “and perhaps I could help sell the booklets, on Market Day, from our stall.”
Mrs Holbrooke radiated delight. “How wonderful, Tizzie, such a kind offer and what an excellent idea.” She produced from her large, crazy quilt reticule a silver notebook case with its attached pencil. “I think we have enough for the booklet about the St. Columba’s Day, but your curd tart recipe I would like to include. It’s one of my favourites, as you know from our weekly order.”
Tizzie felt herself blush, knew her cheeks would be turning scarlet, but tried again. “Are you sure about the St. Columba’s cake, m’am, for it’s the last time we’ll be having the celebration. Wi’ Agnes turning ten in July, Maggie feels it’s time to stop.”
Mrs Holbrooke, head down, pencil raised, waiting to write, looked up and gazed at Tizzie, disappointment moving like a cloud across her face. “Oh no, Tizzie, how sad, I looked forward to seeing the cake made and cooked, but this year, with the Jubilee preparations, I am so busy and....” She stopped talking, frowned, sighed. “Oh, dear, I must...perhaps...” her voice tailed away again.
Tizzie waited, hoping and praying that the vicar’s lady would now ask Maggie if she might watch. Footsteps clopped down the aisle behind her, a man’s long pace and firm tread. Tizzie turned. It were Bert coming, face set. My, he did have a look of his Uncle Sam in a temper. Trust Maggie to set him a-doing when he longed to be free with his mates. Tizzie smiled at him. Bert ignored her, directed himself to Mrs Holbrooke.
“Good morning, m’am, Will our Aggie be wanted for much longer? Mam would like her home.”
Tizzie closed her eyes momentarily. Aye, Maggie might well be wanting Agnes, but not for aught good.
Mrs Holbrooke eyed him. “Bert, you know all the Jubilee volunteers are needed. Today we must organise costumes and hear that everyone knows their part. There is so little time left before the day.”
Pattering footsteps heralded another approach. A scent of honeysuckle, a rustle of silk, and Lady Esther stood beside Mrs Holbrooke. Like a bluebell she looked. She gazed calmly at each of them. “Are we ready to begin?”
Bert stood firm. “Will Agnes be long, m’am?” He bobbed his head to Lady Esther, but spoke to Mrs Holbrooke.
Tizzie’s face burned. He sounded as truculent as his Da. It wasn’t like Bert to be rude, and Mrs Holbrooke looked fit to come the high and mighty and tell him to watch his manners in front of his betters. Tizzie stepped beside him. “Agnes is in the opening part, Bert. We’ll be home before milking.”
Lady Esther smiled sweetly up at Bert. “You are Agnes’s oldest brother, aren’t you?”
Bert tipped his head. “Aye.”
Tizzie prodded him discreetly in the back. “Yes, m’lady,” he amended.
Tizzie noted, from the corner of her eye, the other adult helpers, Ivy Thetford included, drifting their way, ears flapping. The vicar’s lady had her back to them, Lady Esther faced Bert. “Could you do something for your sister? Could you speak for her and persuade your father to consider letting her study to be a teacher?”
Bert stared at Lady Esther as if she had taken leave of her senses. Tizzie poked him again. His shoulder blades twitched in annoyance, a darker colour surged under his skin, racing up his throat and across his cheek bones. “It’s not my place, m’lady. Agnes is the only lass. It’s her duty to stay home and help Mam. And she’ll run the dairy for me like Aunt Tizzie does for my Da. It’s a family decision, m’lady.” His voice tone said that was final, and he stood, rock-like, forbidding other questions.
“You do know that Agne’s earnings as a teacher would pay for a dairy maid?”
“Aye, m’lady, but she’s a lass and Mam’s right. Education is wasted on girls, they only get married.”
“But, Bert,” Lady Esther’s voice sounded so sweetly reasonable, “education is never wasted.”
Mrs Holbrooke joined in. “If Agnes were a teacher, Bert, she might well marry a teacher. He could obtain top positions in the best public schools because his wife was a trained teacher, able to help with the boys in his school house.” She reached out to tap his shoulder. “And don’t you think there are many men who would welcome a wife who was a teacher, simply for the benefit she’d bring to the raising of their children?”
Bert pressed his lips together firmly, but bit down on his tongue, for Tizzie was gently tugging the back of his jacket. He inclined his head politely, saying nothing with obvious difficulty.
“What if there’s a Johnnie Oldby for Agnes. Will you do what your Da did to Tizzie? Will you do that to Agnes too?” That were Ivy’s voice. The congregation had left, the porch end of the church was empty, but the schoolmaster and his scholars filled the Lady Chapel side of the altar, and the dozen or so volunteer adults crowded round them in the aisle. So many ears to hear.
Bert shot an angry look at Ivy, looked awkwardly at Tizzie. “You shouldn’t have said owt...” he began, accusing Ivy.
“Why, all’t village knows. All of us knows what happened bar Tizzie. An’ I reckon she knows now Johnnie’s back.”
Tizzie wished she could turn into a beetle and crawl down a crack between the wide stone flags on the aisle floor. She would have rushed away, but Lady Esther’s puzzlement and Mrs Holbrooke’s pity, the eager gossipy faces round her, forced her into stumbling speech. “It’s not for you to say, Ivy Thetford. It’s all past, it’s ten year past, stale cake and flat beer now. There’s nowt to be done to right old wrongs.”
“Well...” Bert temporised.
“Are you then?” Ivy attacked again. “Are you going to hide Agnes away when her young man comes to ask her to wed? Are you going to write a note and say it’s from him?”
Tizzie’s head throbbed. She’d burnt Johnnie’s note a long time ago else she could have now examined the writing again.
The other villagers crowded round, intent.
“Nay, I’ll see her right.”
“How can you when Maggie and Jack Cawthra’ll still be calling the tunes? You’ll do as your Mam and Da say.”
Tizzie found her voice. “Enough. You’re not to shame us like this, Ivy.”
“Time you did summat for yourself, Tizzie Cawthra. Your family’ve done you out of home and bairns, marriage to a good man. All daughters owe their family duty, but you’ve done that and more. They owe you.”
“Enough, Ivy.” Tizzie spoke as firmly as she could force her voice to be. “I’ll see Agnes has her chance.”
“How can you, Tizzie?” came from several voices.
Ivy shook her head. “Ah, Tizzie, we women work for our families, it’s our duty, but some ask more than duty from their sisters and daughters. You could not stop Jack and Maggie.... ”
“Ivy, please....” Her words stung, for indeed Tizzie hadn’t managed for herself. But now she were going to, she’d manage for Agnes and for herself. She gave Bert a gentle push. He resisted, stood firm, glaring at Ivy.
“We’ll not forget you showing us up like this,” he warned her.
“You shame yourselves treating Tizzie like you do, tricking her over Johnnie Oldby”
“That were nought to do with me,” he roared. “I were a nipper ten years ago.”
Tizzie, ear tips burning, face flaming hot, seized Bert’s arm and walked him down the aisle and out of the church. “You go on home, lad. I’ll be back with Agnes when Your Da’s calmed down and your Mam’s worked off her fretting elsewhere.” She gripped his arm, shook it gently. “Go find your mates, and you’ll duck her tongue, but remember what you said. You’re not to do to Agnes what your Mam and Da did to me.”
Bert shrugged her off, took four paces down the path through the graveyard, stopped, turned. “You’re too soft, Aunt Tizzie, that daft and fond. You don’t know the half of it. Anyone can fool you.” He spat the words at her. “Agnes’ll not let us fool her like you have.” He strode off briskly between the gravestones.
Tizzie rested, catching her breath and her composure, not quite sitting on the nearest upright gravestone, a fine piece of granite put there for Hetty Foster. She’d rather go home, even face Maggie, rather than face them all in the church again. “Ah, Hetty,” she murmured, “I’d swop places with you right gladly.” She counted the clouds, then recited as much of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ as she could remember, before standing up in readiness to return. She’d write out that recipe for the vicar’s lady then do a bit of painting for the schoolmaster. And heaven help any one who said ought else to her about Johnnie Oldby.