July 1887
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
Friday, July 1st
A high blue sky, little cloud, aye, a grand day for hay making, and all the dale’s sappy new greenness sucked away these past weeks, transformed by June’s bursts of sun to a stronger, sustaining green. Hay green the old men called it, and it came early this year to the grass. The missing spring rains might soak the rest of July and spoil the crop, but then, happen this dry spell’d become a drought. Whatever it would be, she could do nowt about it. Tizzie dropped the curtain, blocking out the daylight, stood in the gloom, thinking. Agnes’d sneak in shortly. Poor lass, her last time at school today. Tizzie curled her bare toes in the knotted pile of her rug. Oh, school broke up now to let everyone finish clipping the sheep, get in the hay and harvest the corn, but all Agnes’s friends would start back in September. Then the lass’d begin to fret, but Night School continued summer through. Gooseberries, strawberries and raspberries needed preserving, red currants turning into jelly, peas and beans to dry, windfalls turned to juice or dried, fattened poultry to dress, who’d have time to go? Not Tizzie, with Maggie demanding her aid the minute she left the dairy, and those extra orders for clotted cream to make this week. Agnes weren’t allowed to Night School now without her aunt, so Tizzie must stir out at night whatever, though she sometimes felt that tired, she could fall into bed. She twitched back her curtains and let the day announce itself.
“Aunt?” Agnes snecked the latch, stuck her head round the door, and whispered. Her face lacked its usual smile.
Now what ailed the lass? “Come in, poppet. Tell me all about it. By, lass, That’s the face your great gran pulled when she went after summat.”
“I never knew my Great Gran.”
“Aye, but tha’s a bonny look of her. Her eyes and smile, and the same good hand in the dairy. She’d help us too. Always kept the poultry money for herself, and a share of market day’s takings. ‘What you earn, you keep,’ she’d say.” Tizzie sat on the edge of her bed and sought her thick boot socks, hiding under her quilt at the foot of the bed.
Agnes ran over and jumped onto the bed. She beckoned Tizzie closer, caught her arm and pressed her lips to her aunt’s ear. “If my Da knew I were planning on leaving home....” She ceased mouthing in Tizzie’s ear and stared at her aunt.
Aye, those big brown eyes weren’t just determined. The lass were terrified. And rightly. If her Mam or Da even guessed that she planned to leave home they’d lock her up forever.
Her ear sightly moist and tickled by the huffed in words, Tizzie responded by putting her own lips to Agne’s ear. “Well, your Da don't and he won't. Don’t you let on, not by look nor sigh. Don’t snap out in temper, poppet, and let your plan slip. Nor cry nor crow over Mike, neither. Let him play the braggart. Hide away here or keep close to me.”
Agnes nodded, solemn faced.
“Come on, lass, your Mam says you’re to work with me all morning. There’s milking to do, cream to separate, pigs to feed and heifers to train.” She tugged gently at Agnes’s dishevelled night-time plait. “It’s a good thing school’s starting late ‘cos of this cricket match, the Society tea and scholars’ exhibition.”
Agnes grinned. “You’ll enjoy the exhibition. We’re reciting all our lessons, having a spelling out contest and an arithmetic challenge.”
Tizzie’s eyebrows rose. “If John-Jack wins the arithmetic, shall you win the spelling?”
Agnes giggled. “I might.”
“We’ll see. Get along with you, and put on some clothes.”
Agnes trotted to the door, opened it wide, and yelled. Tizzie came running, saw Mike backing off as Agnes advanced, whispering fiercely. “Out of my road, toady. What’re you doing, sneaking about. Nothing for you to earwig, Michael Cawthra.”
“Best be off, Mike, and don’t let me catch you creeping up here again. Come and visit me like a Christian, not a thief.” Tizzie glared down at the lad, called out to Agnes. “Go on, lass, dress swiftly, I’ll see to this bad lad.”
Even Agnes stared at her. Tizzie heard it herself. Her voice had rapped out with a fair snap in it. She were learning about authority too. But had Maggie sent Mike, to spy or were he just sneaking around, to see what he could sniff out? Best to distract Maggie with something soon, meanwhile to work and hope to finish early enough to support the scholars in that match. She reached out to grab Mike’s collar, but he fled. Tizzie chased after ‘til she saw him down the stairs and safely away from Agnes.
***
The schoolmaster had arranged a short, school boys’ versus the village team, cricket match. Bert had a place in the school team, and John-Jack kept score for the school. ‘Twere only fifteen overs a side played in the bloom of a late summer afternoon, when milking were over, and main chores finished for the day. That were when the light silvered bright, and people took time to snatch a break before evening chores. Tizzie liked to watch the boys play cricket. Bert could make that ball fly when he bowled, and he could knock it about with the bat. She and Agnes enjoyed whacking a cricket ball with the lads behind the cow barn after milking, giving practise for Bert and John-Jack. She loved the sound of the crack of ball against the bat, and the joy of seeing it soar away. She’d let Agnes slide out early to watch the match, once the bread sat rising for the morning, followed her as soon as she could give Maggie the slip. Maggie hadn’t time for that kind of fooling, said she’d bring Mike down the lane to the village in time for the after match tea. Jack said he couldn’t make it, but he’d make the Society tea. Maggie’d never let him skive off a free tea.
The cricket pitch were a pretty piece, sheltered on the windy side by oaks and chestnuts. Now part of the village green, it saw much use for village sports. Tizzie found Agnes, sat with her among the scholars, giving open support to the school side. Ivy Thetford had sons playing on both teams, other families had fathers on one team and sons playing on the other. They chose to sit on the village side of the green. With so many families divided the atmosphere felt relaxed. This weren’t a village versus village, must-win match. Tizzie wanted to laugh as a good bowl or batting stroke were equally applauded. It’d turned into a regular Christian match, most polite. Vicar’d be pleased, though. He sat on the church side of the pitch with his lady and the few villager families who hadn’t got boys in the school team. As the sponsor of the village team he supported them heartily. They expected to win, but hoped their sons would do themselves proud.
The scholars cheered on their team. Peggy Thetford, with an eye out for the Cawthras, clapped Bert’s bowling, but she looked Tizzie’s way several times. “Go tell her Maggie’s coming down later, Agnes, for the exhibition, then she can stop jigging around watching out.” The lass sped off. Tizzie watched Agnes deliver her message, and smiled to herself as, waylaid, she turned to wave at her aunt, then settled herself with her mates for a gossip.
It were a good match. Schoolmaster and the blacksmith umpired and the school bowlers bowled well, backed up by some sharp fielding, holding the village batsmen to a reasonable total. Then they batted. It were close and tight until the last overs when a few loose balls allowed the boys to slog. Dan Thetford slammed three boundaries for twelve runs. Bert clouted a six, which brought the school side up to three runs behind in the last over, with two balls to go. He’d gone in as third batsman and looked to be there at the end. Tizzie, weary, felt her head nod, let her gaze wander idly round, enjoying the dapples of light winking between the chestnut tree leaves, so she missed the one run Dan Thetford hit. She pinched herself awake to watch Bert facing the bowler for the last ball.
The scholars yelled and jumped up and down. “Slog it, Bert!” they bellowed. The bowler sent him a fast in-swinger. He couldn’t clout it, but turned his bat, attempting to place it neatly between the two men fielding at cover and middle off. He didn’t quite move the ball enough to go cleanly through the space between the men, but the ball swept swiftly past the fielder at cover and he ran after it, fumbling the stopping of it.
“Run!” Bert bawled. He and Dan scampered furiously up and down the pitch to make the two runs. They’d brought the match to a satisfactory draw.
The scholars rushed out to the wicket to escort Bert and Dan, noisy and triumphant. Peggy kissed her brother, then bussed Bert. He grasped her round the waist, swung her round and kissed her full on the lips. Agnes’s mouth fell open. Tizzie closed her eyes. Thank God Maggie had stayed back. If she’d seen this, Peggy’d feel a lot more than the sharp edge of her tongue, as for Bert... aye, well, Tizzie wondered how he dare. A hissed, indrawn breath behind her set her teeth on edge, made her start and turn, but ‘twere only Ivy Thetford.
“Some nosy interfering body will tell your Maggie about that kiss. She’s not overfond of us Thetfords is she?”
Tizzie shook her head. “Nay, she’s got plans for Bert and expects him to knuckle down to them.”
Ivy sighed. “Aye, I know that right well, but there’s naught wrong with my Peggy.”
“Nay, she’s a grand lass.”
Ivy nodded and chased after her family, joining the crowd of people heading to the Friendly Society rooms where the tea had been laid out.
Phoebe Eddings appeared, coming against the crowd, swimming upstream so to speak. “Tizzie Cawthra, come and escort me to the tea. I’m on my own and not sure of where to go.”
Tizzie gave Phoebe a welcoming smile, feeling that pleased to see her. “I’d like that. Aren’t you going with the schoolmaster.”
Now it were Phoebe’s turn to blush.
“You makes a fine couple, both so scholarly and bookish.”
“Tizzie Cawthra, you stop this at once. Mr Topley is a fine man, of course, but I intend to teach for a few years before even thinking about marriage.” Phoebe had dimples in her cheeks, a saucy smile curving up her lips.
Tizzie swallowed down imps of envy and jealousy. ‘Twere right and proper that Miss Eddings would marry, and marry well. She were young, bonnie and ready for the right man. Perhaps the schoolmaster would become the right man. They seemed so well matched in so many ways. Tizzie remembered how it felt to be with Johnnie, her right man. Her lips curved up into a smile. “Follow the shoal, Miss Eddings, turn about and swim downstream if you want some tea.”
Phoebe laughed and linked arms with Tizzie. “I’m a fish am I? Now tell me what sort of fish. A flounder?”
She’s as quick as Agnes, this one. No wonder schoolmaster’s taken with her. Tizzie patted Phoebe’s arm. “You’re a good sole, never a flounder.”
Phoebe smiled, producing those pretty dimples again. “Then lead me to the tea, please, for I am thirsty.”
Tizzie swung Phoebe round, inserting them both into the flow of people. Agnes and her friends ran on ahead. Tizzie watched their sunbonnetted heads bobbing along, threading through the crowd. Bert, Peggy on his arm, Dan Thetford, and the other lads in the team, streamed across the playing field, pushing and thrusting. They soon came beside Tizzie.
“Oh, see, there’s your Mike,” Phoebe said, pointing politely. Tizzie’s feet faltered, stumbled. Bert halted. Peggy squeaked. The other lads swept on. Phoebe, noting Tizzie’s pinched expression and the other stricken faces, looked puzzled, but said naught.
Bless tha still tongue, Tizzie thought, rearranging her face into a more pleasant expression and smiling carefully. “Fret not, lad, he’ll have sneaked off, or got his Mam’s leave to be here. He wanted to watch.” Tizzie reached out and touched Bert’s shoulder. He nodded and walked on. Tizzie hoped she’d guessed it right.
She hadn’t. Maggie stood, waiting for them, Mike beside her, in the narrow lane between the village shop and the Friendly Society stairway to their upstairs rooms over the pub. Her face stone still, her eyes hooded by half lowered eyelids, Tizzie saw she were beyond rage, waiting in that sea of dangerous quiet at the centre of one of her great furies.
“Off you go, Mike,” Maggie said, “you did well to find me, lad, enjoy your tea.” Mike ran up the stairs as if a dog snapped at his heels.
Tizzie turned to Phoebe, whispered urgently. “Miss Eddings, go quickly, take Peggy to her Mam, find Agnes, tell her her Mam’s here...” her voice trailed off, she jerked her head towards Maggie. Peggy, she pushed at Phoebe, sent them both up the first step. Phoebe, bewilderment plainly writ over her face, continued upwards, swiftly, Peggy racing ahead of her.
“Was that wise, Tizzie? I’ll still have words with Peggy Thetford tomorrow,” Maggie’s voice cut sharp as a northerly blast, sliced through Bert’s first stammering words, froze Tizzie to the cobbles. “I’ll not have a slut like her mar our family’s or my son’s prospects.”
Tizzie moved to tug the back of Bert’s shirt as his face darkened with an angry rush of colour. He opened his mouth to object, but Maggie’s words came first, quiet and diamond hard. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Bert. Then you’ll understand.” Maggie looked at him as if measuring his reaction, liked what she saw, nodded in satisfaction, and turned away, walked briskly up the street.
Tizzie gripped Bert’s shirt tail, holding tightly, until Bert registered what stopped him surging after his Mam, and turned on her furiously. “Bert, listen.”
“How can Mam call Peggy a slut?”
Tizzie released his shirt, grasped his forearm. By, the lad were narked, he fair shook. “Bert, you must use that head of thine.”
Bert flipped Tizzie’s hand away roughly, such a furious twisted expression contorting his face that he looked like the demon gargoyle over the church doorway.
“Nay, lad, forget your Mam for now. Come up to the tea and celebrate your cricket. You played a fine game. Think on what your Mam’s up to tonight, and be ready to counter her tomorrow.”
Bert shrugged, exhaled, then put his brawny arm tight round her shoulders in a swift squeeze. “You’ve the right of it, Auntie Tiz. Not so dizzie-tizzie today, eh? I’ll take my pleasure now and to hell with my Mam.” He shot up the stairs, leaving Tizzie with mouth half cock, knowing she ought to scold, yet unable to say a word. How could she remind him of honouring his father and mother, knowing what his Mam and Da had done.
***
Saturday, July 2nd
Maggie picked her moment. She always did. “Keeps us all wondering, then swoops on down when we’re weary of waiting and fretting ourselves silly.” Tizzie patted a wan faced Agnes softly on the cheek. “Nowt for us to bother about, lass, it’s not you she’s after. Now don’t fret, open the gates and let the cows through.”
Tizzie watched her run off down the field and leant on the dry stone wall. Its stones felt warm under her cold hands after the day’s sun. It had been a real summer day too, with puffed up white clouds and a cheerful golden sun, but she shivered. Bert weren’t going to take his Mam’s decrees much longer.
The cows appeared, lumbering at a gentle trot up the slope, all orderly and placed by rank. Tizzie straightened up and encouraged them to her. “Cush, cush, my beauties, come along now.” The line slowed as Duchess, then Primrose and Cowslip slurped a drink from the big stone water trough under the wall. Agnes clapped her hands to hurry them on, and Tizzie went ahead to the shippon, to feed out a handful of fresh herbs for each cow before milking.
Jack startled her, waiting in the shippon, with Mike. He and the lad rested themselves, quiet like, against the far wall, but the cows still hesitated. Tizzie had to catch Queen Rosie by the horn and lead her in to her stall. “Nay then, old lady, don’t look askance.” She peeked from the corner of her eye at Jack and Mike. It were their faces told the tale, Jack’s like a granite crag and Mike’s eyes gloating. Tizzie’s neck hairs prickled. Nothing good coming here. She hastened into over-loud speech to warn Agnes they had company. “Nay then, Mike, be still and don’t upset the beasts. Nor torment your sister when she comes, to cause more havoc. Cows need calm at milking.”
“I’ll be the one to speak to my son. You get on with your work, and mind yourself, Tizzie, or I’ll make you mind.” Jack’s voice startled the cows.
Tizzie tried not to cringe, spoke out instead. “Hand down the stools, then. Are you going to carry milk?” Tizzie dared to look directly at Jack. Less able than Maggie at composing his face, she read the contempt, felt his scorn flay the skin off her. What had he and Maggie planned now?
“Nay, it’s your job. You and the lass get on with it.”
So, if he weren’t here to help why were he here, and with Mike? Or should she be wondering what Maggie were up to right now?
No singing or chatting this evening. Agnes huddled into herself, kept quiet and struggled through her milking. Whenever Tizzie turned her head in Jack’s direction he were glaring at her. Sometime between Tizzie emptying the second set of buckets and returning to the shippon Mike left and John-Jack took his place beside his Da. Jack leant his shoulders against the whitewashed wall, narrowed his eyes in a gaze that travelled through the stone and away to the stars. Periodically he huffed out his cheeks in a soughing exhalation. Jack weren’t a great thinker, but he were stirred now into thought. Tizzie sneaked glances and wondered, but it were John-Jack who tried to tell her, pursing his lips, cocking his head and flicking his eyes towards his Da and Agnes, then her. He made a chance to speak, coming forward for the full pails, but his Da jerked him back, yanking him by his elbow, shoving him into the wall.
“Nay, then, lad. That’s your aunt’s work, and Aggie’s, let ‘em earn favours. You mind what your Mam’s just told you.”
Tizzie’s mouth dropped. She closed it with a snap but her thoughts continued. Tha should be helping, brother mine, not lolling around, all lazy and lackadaisical. She schooled her tongue to ask, “What’d Maggie say to idle hands?”
“Give over, Tiz, and shift those pails. I’m master here as you will know. I’ll let the lad milk a cow, you heft those buckets.” Jack laughed, a queer sound, a sort of jeering snort. Tizzie puzzled over why Jack stood as if... that were it, he were on guard, keeping her and Agnes in the shippon. He had plenty to do, for hay cutting began next week, and all the hay rakes, hand scythes and the horse cutter needed fetching, or oiling, sharpening and seeing to. So why? Why were she and Agnes to be kept down here?
Agnes crept past with her full pail, slipped back with an empty one, and Jack said nary a word. John-Jack took his and his sister’s pails of milk to the dairy, without his Da noticing, but it were Bert strolled back with clean pails. Tizzie scanned his face for signs of explosions. Nay, nothing like anger written there. He looked as if he’d been clouted too hard on the head. What had Maggie done to shock him so? She and Agnes needed to find out.
***
Thursday, July 7th
Not even Agnes, silent as a shadow, hovering at doors, ears stretched for any whisper, could discover what had been said, but Bert’d changed. He only went down to the pub with his Da, didn’t slip off. Tizzie were certain he’d not seen Peggy since the cricket match. What ailed the lad? What made him his Da’s shadow? Which reminded her. She dropped the last lump of bread dough into its tin, dusted off her hands and looked across the kitchen table at Maggie. There were time enough before breakfast to settle the usual Thursday problem.
“It’s Night School tonight, Maggie. Will you let the lass go with me?”
Maggie continued scraping off the surplus flour from the table top into the crock, didn’t lift her head or glance at Tizzie. “Fuel the range, check the oatcakes, and make us a fresh pot of tea, Tizzie” was all the reply Tizzie got. She went to fill the kettle and behind her Maggie yelled for Agnes.
Tizzie dropped the kettle lid. Maggie’d shrieked like a tawny owl. “Ow, Maggie.” she protested.
“Aggie.” Maggie’s voice moderated not one jot. “Where is that lass? Aggie, get here, and carry the bread out to the bread oven.” Maggie shot a sharp glance Tizzie’s way. “If she’s hidden away with a book, I’ll burn it, even if it’s one of yours.”
Agnes came flying in through the farmyard door. “I’ve found the fluffy brown hen and her nest, Mam. She’s sitting tight on a dozen eggs.”
Tizzie reckoned the days. “Why, Maggie, she might bring off a late clutch for us, that’s grand. That’s replacement hens or a few more capons for market, eh? She’s been missing long enough.” She smiled at Agnes. “That were good hunting, lass. I couldn’t find her.”
Maggie pinned on one of her stretched lip smiles, her paper smile Agnes called it. “Yes, that was...helpful, Aggie.” She paused, and Tizzie set the teapot to warm. She’s going to tell us something, she thought, and she’s tippy-toeing to do it. Why?
“Tizzie.”
“Sorry, Maggie, what were that you said? I were wool gathering.”
Maggie rearranged her scowl into that pinned on smile again. “I asked for your help, Tizzie. For Aggie.” Tizzie, amazed, felt her eyebrows rise. Agnes let her mouth round into an o. “It’s time we did up your room, Aggie. The housekeeper at Linden Hall has a small rug for sale, came by mistake in the order for the servants’ hall. Cheaper to sell it here than send it back, she says.”
Tizzie caught a swift sideway glance from Agnes. How that lass did talk with her face. Pray God Maggie kept her high humour and didn’t snap.
She did. “Auntie Tiz and I could sew up some curtains and dressing table frills, make you a coverlet and cushions for a chair. Your Da and the lads could brighten up the paint with a spot of fresh white. What do you think?”
Agnes blinked, opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it. A smile spread from cheek to cheek. “I’d like that right well.”
“Then get this bread into the oven and help with breakfast. I brought some samples from the draper yesterday. We can look at them after we finished eating.”
Agnes lifted the tray carefully, Tizzie opened the door for her, remained by the door, leaning against it, facing Maggie. “We’ll be going to Night School then?”
Maggie compressed her eyebrows in a frown, paused long enough to have Tizzie bothered, finally nodded.
Tizzie fumed, bethought herself an opportunity to find Bert, to ask him outright what had Maggie said to him. She straightened up, ticked off the list. Yes, tea made, old bread sliced and toasted, oatcakes hotted up, sausage fried, eggs creamed and scrambling slowly at the back of the range. Now she could fetch some of the new cream cheese and catch Bert without Maggie guessing.
“Just off to the dairy, Maggie, to fetch some soft cheese for the oatcakes. I’ll call the lads and Jack in on my way.” Tizzie bustled out as she spoke, pulling the door closed on Maggie’s comment.
Bert’d be about the yard buildings somewhere. She hurried across to the dairy, picked up the cheese, and came back by way of the small yard where the cart and implement sheds stood. Someone clattered away in the implement shed, mending hay rakes by the sound of it.
Tizzie poked her head over the half door. “Oh, it’s you two. Breakfast, lads. Where’s your Da? And is Mike with him?”
John-Jack leant his rake against the lumpy cobble wall. “Aye, he is. I’ll fetch ‘em.” He shot past her, headed up the yard for the lamb pasture. “Need to talk to you,” floated in Tizzie’s ear on a thread of sound.
Bert caught the murmur, looked puzzled, glanced after his brother, then at his aunt . “He’d best remember what Da warned him, let alone what Mam said, or he’ll catch it.”
Tizzie surprised herself. The words came easily, tripping out before she’d half thought. “Nay, it’s naught but a guilty conscience, Bert, and over nowt, a lad’s trick. Even the vicar laughed.” A lie outright and she’d not faltered nor blushed. Shameful indeed what Maggie’s plotting and Jack’s deceiving led her to do.
Understanding flashed across Bert’s face, he grinned. “Time he grew out of those tricks of his.” He propped the rake against the bench, laid his tools on it, turned a grave face to Tizzie. “Best not let Mam or Da catch him alone with you, he’ll get a real leathering otherwise.”
“What is it, Bert? What’s to do? What’s going off?”
Bert shook his head.
“It’s not Peggy is it? You haven’t got her into trouble. Oh lad, not that!”
“Nay.” His indignation were tinged with an edge of male cockiness, an ‘I could if I would’ smugness.
“Bert, oh, Bert, please.” Tizzie grasped his shoulders, drew him to her so that she could look directly into his eyes. “Bert, lad, that’s not the way. Never think your Mam will let you marry if Peggy’s carrying your bairn. It’ll just let her shout slut all over the village, and you know the village’ll call Peggy that too. Don’t you disgrace her like that, lad, nor hurt her family so.” Bert’s eyes did not return Tizzie’s stare. “Bert!”
“Aye, I know, Auntie Tiz.” He jerked his shoulders, her hands slid off, he caught one, squeezed it before releasing it. “I like Peggy, I like her a lot but...well, you’d better find out from Mam somehow, what’s been planned. You won’t like it neither. Here.” He picked up her pots of cheese, thrust them at her. “We’d best get into breakfast, and Mam’ll tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Bert strode away without replying. “Bert!” He broke into a lope and disappeared through the yard gate. Tizzie sighed. Oh, Maggie, what have you done now? She followed Bert through the farmyard, caught up with Mike and his Da at the house door.
Jack collared Mike. “Let tha Auntie by, lad. Where’s tha manners?
Mike muttered, but opened the door for Tizzie.
“Why, that’s good and kindly, Mike.”
Maggie, carrying a platter of steaming sausages, looked up. “Aye, that’s my son. We’ll make a gentleman of you yet.”
Tizzie kept a grin off her face with difficulty. The idea of Mike, a gentleman. Nay, this family were good yeoman stock, naught fancy about them. She glanced quickly at Bert and John-Jack. Their glances slid away. Maggie sniffed. Mike, a gentleman? Oh, she never were thinking that?
“That’s your purpose is it? All that money we have to save. To make your sons gentlemen?”
For once Jack bet Maggie into explosive speech. “Don’t talk so fond and foolish. You’re getting notions above yourself. We don’t want any of that here. It’s land, farms, we’re after.”
John-Jack flashed a warning to Agnes, who was stuttering into speech. He leaned his arm, full weight, across the lass’s shoulders, patted her quiet. Mike sniggered. Jack shot a glance at Maggie who nodded at Tizzie.
Tizzie felt her knees give. “You don’t mean buy a farm?” She grasped a chair back for support.
Raucous laughter greeted her words. “You daft old besom,” Jack slapped his thighs. Maggie shushed him.
“Oh aye, Maggie, you’ll tell it right, make her see sense. Sit you down, lads, breakfast’s waiting.”
Maggie set the platter of sausages on the table before her own place. “Fetch the plates and serve up, Aggie.” She reached out and shook Tizzie by the elbow. “Wake up, Tizzie, and think on. There’s farms on the Linden Estate that’ll be ready for new tenants soon. We ought to manage to raise at least two farms’ rent come the Lady Day change over next March.” She began adding sausages to the plates of shirred eggs. “Pass the toast round, Mike.”
Tizzie sat down. With grain prices falling, all that cheap imported butter and cheese, and low prices for beasts, the smaller farms, those without family to work them, who paid labourers, aye, they were struggling. Tough times for everyone, as His Lordship had said. And, His Lordship, it were whispered, had eased up on rent demands from the Naizbits and maybe the Winns. No one knew for sure. But they weren’t the only ones battling to find rent money. Trust Maggie and Jack to use others’ misfortunes for their benefit.
“Family’s all, Auntie Tiz.” Bert, a fork-full of spicy sausage half way to his mouth, paused to explain. “Two more farms’ll give enough grain and fodder for more pigs, beef cattle and good mutton. Enough hay for the stock all winter, and some to sell, we’d not buy owt but have all to sell.”
“But,” said Maggie, “only if we all work together and don’t pay out on more than the occasional day labourer’s wages. We could even rent out the other farmhouses.” She leaned over and served out more sausages to the lads and Jack, dealt the remainder to herself, Agnes and Tizzie. “Give us three years working like that with two farms and we can rent another farm. Then we’ll be comfortable and the boys can move into their own farms when they’re old enough. Bert could have his in a couple of years.”
So that’s what keeps the lad reined in. Tizzie raised her head, glimpsed Bert’s face out of the corner of her eye. To have his own farm, not working under his Da and Mam all the time, that were a mighty temptation, a strong rein to check him. Poor Peggy.
Jack crunched his last corner of toast, reached for another piece, slapped on a wedge of butter. “I reckon we could run six farms between us,” he said. “That’ll see us into old age with pockets a jingling.” He bit into the toast and Tizzie felt his eyes looking her way as he chomped through a mouthful.
She bent her head over her plate, brain fuzzed with confused thoughts. Had John-Jack agreed, given up his plans to be a clerk? Would Mike work to be a teacher now he knew his salary would pay his own farm’s rent? And had Bert truly given in about Peggy because he could have a farm of his own so soon? Would the lads all dance to Maggie’s piping? She seemed sure. And where were Agnes and Tizzie Cawthra in these great plans? Unwed and unpaid dairymaids? Not whilst she had breath in her. Tizzie swallowed her food without tasting a scrap.
“Tea, Tizzie?” Maggie offered a cup full. “Aggie, move up here and look at these patterns, see if you can find something suitable for your room.”
Mike snickered, caught sight of his father’s angry face, and bent over his food. Strange he weren’t bawling and fussing because it weren’t his room being tidied up. Likely Maggie’d promised something he wanted.
***
Monday July 11th
White paint did wonders for lightening Agnes’s little room. A small floral print, Maggie’s suggestion, with Agnes’s colour choice of white, yellow and blue, gave the rest of the room a clean dainty appearance. Bert and Jack had spent two evenings painting, and it were done. Mind you, and Tizzie gave Maggie her due, Maggie had fair raced the sewing on her machine after Tizzie had finished the cutting and pinning. Quick and neat she’d been, a real swift worker Maggie could be if she wanted. ‘Twas good of her to get Agnes’s room done before the harvesting began. There’d be no time to spare then until September’s end when hay and corn were safely stowed.
“Looks grand, lass. Do you like it?” Tizzie kept her voice to a whisper. She put a vase of flowers on the window sill, touched the heavy cotton of the yellow and blue patterned curtains, and admired the new bed spread and sunny yellow cushions on the chair. She tilted her head towards the door, finger to her lips. Agnes checked the door, running to touch it, looking up at the row of new brass hooks screwed into place by her Da, a-dazzle against the shiny white paint. Tizzie watched her turn and mouth something. Tizzie moved closer, bent an ear for Agnes to whisper into.
“It’s too much, Auntie Tiz, Why’s Mam doing all this? I’m scared, frit that she’ll take my lamb money to pay for it all.”
Tizzie shut her eyes, the better to think. Would Maggie do that? Nay, she’d not dare after His Lordship’d spoken. “I’m wondering,” she whispered back, “if it’s not to show His Lordship what good tenants we are. To help get those other farms.” Suddenly amused, she whispered again. “I’m thinking that your Mam means to push for a bathroom put in the house.”
She felt a sharp nudge in her ribs, opened her eyes. Agnes pointed at the door. The latch rose silently. Tizzie pulled the lass round with her, together they faced the window. “Such pretty curtains, Agnes.”
“And the flowers are lovely, Auntie. This room’s splendid, a real lady’s room.”
Tizzie, listening hard for footsteps, heard none, shied as cold fingers gripped her arm. Agnes squeaked.
“Hold your noise.” It were John-Jack. “Mam’s coming. I’ve been trying to warn you, Aunt, ‘cos you’ve not tattled on me and I...” here he squirmed, “I might need your help to...” he eyed Agnes, “for you know what I talked about.”
Tizzie saw Agnes trying to puzzle this out, waved a silencing hand at her. “Aye lad, but....”
“Listen.” John-Jack sidled to the door, looked out, paused, whispered again. “Mam’s had this,” he waved a hand round the room, “planned.” He cocked his head. “She’s coming. Remember she’s had the letter for weeks, she wrote first to fix Bert.” He vanished, creeping away down the back stairs, Tizzie could barely hear him, but she did hear Maggie’s footsteps tapping along the passage.
“Letter?” Agnes mouthed. Tizzie raised her own eyebrows, shook her head. “Shall we hang up your best coat and Sunday dress on those new hooks?” She spoke clearly for Maggie to hear, turned as Maggie entered the room. “My, the light colours have made a difference, Maggie.”
Maggie nodded. She drew a folded paper from her apron pocket. “I’m glad you’re both here. This letter came yesterday, from my sister, your Aunt Martha in Scotland, Aggie. Your Uncle Henry died last year, you will remember I attended the funeral. Your Aunt needs our help.”
Agnes bobbed her head in response. Tizzie watched and waited.
“Your cousin Molly, she’s the oldest girl, has been working very hard. She needs a little break, and a taste of different company. Your Aunt wonders if we could help. Of course, I’ve offered to take Molly for a few weeks. We have a duty to our kin.” Her eyes darted a swift look at Agnes, then to Tizzie.
Tizzie sneaked her hand behind Agnes, gripped a handful of material to tug her bodice, warning her.
“You’ll not mind giving up your room will you Agnes? There’s nowhere else fit for the lass.”
Tizzie feeling Agnes tremble, tumbled into speech. “Share my room, lass. You’ve always said you wanted to.” She looked at Maggie. “What have we for a bed we can put in my room?”
“There’s the old trundle bed, Tizzie. That’ll do. We don’t have money to spend on a new bed now we’ve done up your room, Agnes.”
Tizzie pushed the quivering lass through the doorway. “Up tha goes, Agnes. Choose a spot in my room and I’ll make you a private corner.”
“That’s good of you, Tizzie.” Maggie sounded all graciousness. “Molly’s a bonnie lass, nearly seventeen, and short of proper admirers. Sister wants her away from an unsuitable attachment.”
“Like Johnnie Oldby?” The words spoken quite deliberate, Tizzie waited, wondering what excuse Maggie could find.
Maggie didn’t even blush. “You had a duty to family then, Tizzie Cawthra, and still do. Don’t you forget it.” She made to offer the letter to Tizzie, then drew back her hand, folded the letter into her apron pocket. “My sister has reason to care, there are no young men where they live. But an elderly one is beginning to be too particular, one who must not be offended.”
“Aye, well, I can see why you thought to help, Maggie, but it’s hard on Agnes, it being her new room an’ all.”
“Stuff and nonsense. The lass gets above herself. Don’t you spoil her any more, Tizzie Cawthra.”
Tizzie mumbled something she hoped sounded like agreement, but Maggie’s attention had turned to the room.
“Well and good, all fresh and fit for Molly. We finished in time.” She turned to go. “Don’t forget to start the pickling this afternoon, Tizzie. I won’t be able to.” She departed, footsteps brisk along the passage.
Tizzie massaged her temples. Pickling, and she had those heifers to gentle. Now what was this Cousin Molly business really about? First she must find her lass and comfort her. Agnes would be seething, a spitting kettle, and just as like to boil over and scald herself rather than her Mam. She hurried down the passage and up the short flight of steps to her room.
“Auntie Tiz.” Agnes raised herself off the hearth rug.
Aye, she’d been weeping, her poor face all smeary, her eyes sore. “Don’t cry, poppet.” Tizzie recoiled under the thunderbolt impact, the weight of Agnes hurtling herself into her arms. “By lass, tha’s a heavy lump.” Tizzie smoothed her cheek against the hot head, stroked the damp hair, pulled Agnes close to her. “I know, lass, I reckon it’s not right either.”
Agnes wriggled free, tugged Tizzie over to the bed. “She doesn’t care, she’s never cared, it was all for that cousin, you heard what John-Jack said about the letter and Mam writing first? My Mam knew, she planned it. She didn’t pretty up that room for me. ‘Twas all for this cousin, Molly.”
Too quick for her own good and sharper to the point than Tizzie hoped she’d be.
“Aye, Agnes. That’s why John-Jack spoke, to warn us, lass. We must be careful now. Your Mam’s got great plans, I only wish I could guess rightly as to what they all are and how they’ll affect us, but I’ll see us safe.”
Agnes began to sob, noisy gulping sobs.
“Hush now, don’t take on so.” Tizzie held Agnes tightly, wrapping arms round the shoulders which shook and heaved. “Gently, gently, my dearling lass.”
“She’ll never love me, will she, my Mam? She’ll never care for me like she does for the lads.”
The words dealt such a blow to Tizzie’s heart, its beat faltered. The lass had the right of it. My Mam loved me, and my Nan did too. Cherished I were. But Agnes is not, but by me. “I love thee, lass, right well I do.”
Agnes sobbed harder, pressed her face into the quilt and wailed. Tizzie leaned forward to catch what she said. “But you’re not me Mam.”
Oh, that hurt. Tizzie patted the heaving body, brushed hair off Agnes’s face. “Aye, but I wish I were, lass.”
Agnes squirmed around, wriggled against Tizzie, pushing herself into Tizzie’s lap. “Why doesn’t my Mam love me? She’s my Mam.”
Tizzie knew that feeling, of believing your love not returned. She’d thought Johnny had been like that going off to Leeds without a word to her. It were a pain which never vanished, like a permanent tooth ache, always there. “Aye, well lass....” She paused, removed Agnes’s elbow from her stomach. “Yon’s a bony elbow you’ve got, lass, stick it elsewhere please, my dearling.” She stroked Agne’s flushed forehead. “I can’t know what your Mam or Da think and feel lass. But they’re wrong if they don’t love or care for you. You’re a grand lass and I’m not the only one knows so. You think on. His Lordship and the schoolmaster, they picked you for a teacher. Remember that.”
Agnes sat up, sniffling more quietly, leaning against Tizzie, her body still trembling. “If tha loves me, why can’t my own Mam?”
Tizzie felt the damp kisses pressed on her cheeks, pressed her lips to Agnes’s sticky forehead, gave back two of her own. “Remember this, Agnes Cawthra, the fault is not yours, but your Mam’s.” She tipped Agnes’s face up so that she could see the lass understood. Aye, she did. “You do your duty to your Mam as a proper Christian, let your Mam learn her error.” She patted Agnes’ cheek. “Remember Jane Eyre and her nasty old aunt?”
Agnes managed a wobbly chuckle, grasped Tizzie’s hand, bent her thumb inwards, stuck up the four fingers. “I reckon on that. Just four.” She touched each finger.
“That’s my poppet.” Aye, she’d do, she’d got a hold now.
Tizzie felt Agnes’s bony arms wrap around her waist. She hugged her back. “Tha’s a clever lass, see if you can find out more about this Molly coming from John-Jack, or even Bert. I hope she’s not a flighty piece.”
***
Friday, July 15th
The trouble with hay time, Tizzie thought, stretching her arms, then arching backwards, hands resting on her hips, supporting herself, is the reaching and scraping which makes every muscle move in strange ways. She wriggled. And the bits of grass and seed head itching their way under a bodice or into a seam. She leaned on her rake and let her eyes wander from person to person down the long row of mown grass. Right across High Ellers the grass lay in swathes, Jack had cut it early this morning, sparing the horses by working in the cool first light. This and Low Ellers were their best meadows for hay. Pray God the weather held, and it were all hands to work to get it laid right to dry.
The sun sat hot and high, warm enough to shimmer the air. “Real hay-timing weather,” Silas Naizbit called it. Jack had made a deal. Silas and his farm labourer worked with them in exchange for Jack and the lads making Silas’s hay and keeping a third of it.
Watching Silas and his man spreading the grass out in careful rows Tizzie wondered if he resented Jack’s bargain, but then Silas had small choice. He must get a hay crop in this year to pay his rent. Poor Silas, did he guess Jack were after his farm for Bert? And would Jack play fair or try and cheat? Well, His Lordship had his men, and a hired gang, which he were putting into anyone’s hay fields as wanted them, after his own hay were done. Hay fetched good money in West Riding towns, and His Lordship meant to have every scrap of grass on his estate accounted for and sold. No fool he, for then he’d get his rents paid. Silas had asked for the gang, and His Lordship’d surely catch any tricks of Jack’s and see all done right for Silas.
“Hey up, Auntie Tiz,” Bert shouted, “get that last bit of row raked out and we can grab a break.” Tizzie sighed, envying him the ease with which he could removed his cap to fluff up his wet hair, noting his glance down the field to where Molly and Agnes were carefully raking and re-raking at the end of the row to spread out every blade of grass. Team work it must be, and that Molly’d made herself part of the team. No flighty piece, she had a shrewd mind. Agnes already asked her to go to Night School, those romantic poems being bait to catch Molly, who liked ‘em as much as the lass. Out in the meadow she and Agnes worked together, chattering like sisters. That smarted, yet ‘twere right, Tizzie thought, though she had less of Agnes now, but ‘twas proper the lass had young company, and after all, Tizzie were a mother to her. She said so every night when they said prayers together.
“A breather, Bert,” Tizzie loosened her sunbonnet ribbons, pushed the bonnet off her sweating head, retying the ribbons to let it dangle down her back. Molly and Agnes kept on raking. No, never a flighty piece that one, a real beauty in both nature and form, well, seeming so. She couldn’t forget that this was Maggie’s niece, her mother, Maggie’s sister, and brought up in like fashion to Maggie. Small wonder, though, Bert were dumbstruck. Tizzie reckoned Maggie’d counted on that, for with skin white as dearest porcelain, damson plum dark hair shining purple-blue in the sunlight, and the prettiest grey eyes Tizzie’d ever seen, cousin Molly’s charms would bowl any lad. And charm she did. Tizzie tugged her bonnet on, grabbed her rake and began pulling out the grass. It’d taken, maybe two days, to turn Agnes from stiff to friendly. Bert had been stand-offish, and he were still careful around Molly, but she worked hard to please him. Aye, she well saw what Maggie had in mind, a planned distraction from Peggy Thetford, and another willing family member to slave away. Knowing Maggie, there’d be some waspish sting in the plot. Ah well, what would be, would be and dealt with when it happened. Tizzie raced Bert for the last swathe of the grass, and he cheered when they’d scattered it.
“Break time, drinks and a piece,” Agnes said, hurrying to the basket sitting in the shade of the high stone wall. “What did you put in for us to eat, Aunt Tizzie? I’m as hollow as a drum.” She unwrapped three cloth bundles, placed them carefully beside the basket. “Filled breads, meat pies, oh, and mint pasties, still warm.” She spread out a napkin for each person, used a cloth to pick up the food, and divided it into six parcels.
Silas and his man joined them. Molly hefted the beer jug, poured light ale for the men, and waited to refill the mugs, having now learned how fast the first mugful emptied. She blushed prettily and lowered her gaze like a modest lass ought as the men teased, demanding a buss and cuddle. Bert settled himself near her, propping his back against the wall. Tizzie poured elderflower cordial for the lasses and took a beer for herself.
“Sit awhile,” Silas told his man. Jamie were his name, but he were that bashful and shy, when Molly handed him his refilled mug of beer his face turned redder than hers. Tizzie’d found him wary around womenfolk, head down, and nary a word out of him for all she’d tried. Happen he were a bit simple. Silas lowered himself beside Jamie, reached out as Agnes handed them their bundles.
“Nay, lad,” Silas poked Jamie in the chest, giving him his bundle. “Speak up. Agnes’s but a bairn and Molly’s from Scotland like you.”
Tizzie, amazed, saw Jamie sit straight, lift his head, his delight like a flame in his eyes. Nowt simple there. He spoke to Molly then, words tumbling out, but like nothing Tizzie’d heard.
Molly replied, fumbling her speech, her tongue slow to find the words. Tizzie thought she had to search for each one.
Jamie smiled.
Agnes swallowed her large mouthful incompletely chewed, scattered crumbs over Tizzie when she spoke. “Is that Scottish Gaelic, Jamie?”
Tizzie understood. He weren’t slow, he didn’t speak English much, if at all.
“Can you speak English?” Agnes bounced, full of excitement. Poor Jamie ducked his head and stuffed his mouth.
Silas laughed. “Aye, lass, he knows a little English. He’s down here to work, saving money to take home to his family. His Mam’s wanting a cow.”
Agnes turned to Molly. “Can you teach me to speak Gaelic?”
Tizzie smiled to herself. That lass’d learn anything if it were new and a challenge.
Molly shook her head. “Only a little, Agnes, my Mam didn’t want us to speak the Gaelic over much. English is of more use.”
Agnes turned back to Jamie. “Please teach me. Let’s start with names. What’s this?” She held up her bread. Jamie mumbled, Molly helped him out. Tizzie inhaled the drifting scent of Queen Anne’s lace and ladies’ bedstraw, lay back on the drying grass, listening.
A curlew bubbled, such a, what were that word, that poetry word? Plaintive, that’s what the schoolmaster’d call its cry. A lark rose singing, faint bleats floated down from the sheep on the moor top. The smell of cut grass she loved, so sappy and green, for if green had a smell it would be like this, this were a perfume she’d wear. She closed her eyes, let her fingers rub the drying fragments of grass and flowers, breathed in the smell.
“Eat up, Auntie Tiz, we might get this field raked out before you and Agnes head back to milk.” Bert’d rolled over to reach out and poke her.
“Easy, Bert. There’s a couple more meat pies and some mint pasties. Someone might yet be hungry.” Tizzie checked the faces. That Jamie were a big boned fellow, too lean in the cheeks. He must be around Bert’s age or a little older. He’d be hungry. Happen he’d have difficulty finding English to ask for another pie.
Agnes eyed the mint pasties, then her aunt.
“Aye, Agnes. There’s a couple of pasties just as you like, sticky with minty sugar gone to toffee, one for you and for Molly.” She passed them over. “Silas art done? And Jamie, would you like more pie?”
Silas nodded. “That were grand, thank you, Miss Cawthra.” He began to lever himself up carefully. Bert scrambled up before him, caught his elbow and boosted him to his feet. They both dusted down their trousers, sending a cloud of grass fragments and crumbs whirling earthwards. Bert nabbed a pie as they walked off. Agnes took Molly’s hand, pulled her to her feet, and they followed the men, eating their pasties as they went.
“Jamie? Here lad, eat up.” Tizzie thrust the pie into his hand, bent and filled his mug again. She settled beside him, at a decent distance. Mustn’t give him a scare. She poured herself a drink of cordial.
Jamie’s skin, freckled and pinkish-white, took on a darker hue, his eyes met her gaze, slid away. Tizzie turned, folded the cloths and napkins into the basket. He’d be like Bert and mind her noticing. “Eat up, lad. There’s a pasty or two left an’all.” She closed the lid, picked up her mug and sipped the cordial, glad for the savour of the elder flowers after the sticky mint toffee taste of her pasty.
“I thank you.” Jamie’s English were slow, each word carefully sounded.
“I always bring enough and more.” Ah, he didn’t catch that. “Jamie?” He looked at her. “In here,” Tizzie patted the basket, “two pies,” she lifted two fingers, but he nodded, “two bread, two pasties for Bert, for Silas, for Molly, for Agnes, for Tizzie and for Jamie.” He nodded again. “Silas ate one pie,” again she held up a finger, waited until Jamie nodded, “and one bread. Jamie can have Silas’s pie and bread.” Aye, he reckoned that right enough. His grin showed all his gappy teeth. He stood, took the extra food and pocketed it, wiped his hand down his trouser leg and offered it to Tizzie.
“That’s kind of you, Jamie.” She put her mug on the basket and let him raise her to her feet. She shook out her skirts and looked for Bert. He’d started work with Silas. “You rake with me, Jamie.” His mouth full of pie the lad could only blink agreement at her.
Later she were always thankful for that unlooked for chance. There weren’t much chatter betwixt herself and Jamie, but what they’d managed to say to each other told her something Maggie wouldn’t have wanted her to hear.
***
Saturday, July 30th
If she never saw another hay rake nor had to rake and toss drying grass again she’d be happy. Tizzie stretched a hand to lean against the wall and peered over into her private valley. At least the weather had helped, very little rain, a good breeze or two after any showers, and a lot of sun. The hay from High and Low Ellers had dried well, so it were top quality. Today the men were stacking it in the stack-yard. Now she, with Agnes, were sent to clamber about, scraping up the hay scythed from the slopes and odd corners on the higher pastures. There were never enough to make proper swathes and haycocks, just bitty heaps dotted all over, but it helped feed the sheep at lambing time. Lass’d rake and she’d pitch it onto the sledge. Once loaded and tied down both of them struggled to push and pull the sledge to the sheep barn, in the field below, but the valley beckoned, tempting. She could smell the honeysuckle.
“Dare we?” Agnes tipped her head on one side and watched her aunt. “It’s cool in the valley under all the trees.”
There’d be flowers to see, little wild raspberries and brambles fruiting, the scent of ripening sloes and crab apples, ah, but then those pesty midges. Tizzie pursed up her lips. “We could say we wanted to see how the blackberries were coming on, but it’s moist in the valley, the midges’ll be biting.”
Agnes, a hot streak burning at Tizzie’s side, leaning with her back to the wall and the valley, jerked sharply, muttered words which sounded, in Tizzie’s ears, like a curse.
“What was that you said?” she began, but felt a bony elbow nudge her.
“Aw, hecky thump, Aunt, Mike’s on his way up.”
It took effort, but Tizzie did not turn to stare. “Quick, lass, you hop over the wall here, and have your drink, pie and piece in the valley. I’ll make that rapscallion work so hard he’ll soon trot back to his Mam.”
Tizzie felt a hand squeeze hers then Agnes bent to grab her bundle, straightened and scrambled up and over. “Then you’ll come and seek me out, Auntie Tiz? You will won’t you?” floated back as Agnes disappeared down the slope into the valley.
“Aye, lass, not too far in now or I’ll lose you.” No reply. Tizzie sighed, happen she’d have to take a long rest hunting her, she could do with one. They’d raked nearly all the hay into heaps between them, another thrice times up and down with that sledge maybe would do it. She grasped Agnes’s rake and piled up more hay, reached for the pitchfork, her ears pricked to hear Mike thundering up behind her.
When she heard his boots clumping into the hillside, she turned to observe him. “By lad, you’ve been dashing a bit.” He had, for he were pink faced and huffing. “What is it? What’s wrong? For he had that look about him.
“Mam needs you.” He glanced up the slopes, then along the wall. “Where’s Aggie?”
“Mike, what’s to do?”
“She ought to be working. You’ve let her off again, Auntie, I’ll tell Mam.”
“You hold your noise, spiteful young monkey, and tow this load down to the sheep barn.” Tizzie thrust the rake and pitchfork against the wall, where they clattered, bouncing against the stones. She’d give him a hefty twilt on both ears if he didn’t watch his mouth and sneck his tongue. She cupped her hands round her mouth and called into the valley. “Agnes, your Mam wants me. I’m going down to the farm. You eat your lunch and fill up the sledge again.” She snatched up both tow ropes and thrust them into Mike’s hands. “Move, Master Slowtop. Why’s your Mam wanting me?”
A hard push and the sledge began to slide. Much as she’d like to let the sledge bowl the lad over she daren’t. She’d be the one picking up the spilled hay. She wrapped her hands into her apron skirt for a bit more protection from blistering, and grasped the rear brake ropes. “Heave away, Mike, and tell me what’s up.”
“It’s John-Jack, shamming it with a belly ache.”
“It’s you that shams it, John-Jack’s got more sense.” She kicked the back of the sledge to push it over a ridge. “Give it a heave, lad, stop laiking about, do some work”
If John-Jack only had stomach ache he weren’t ailing. Why did she have to come? What did Maggie want?
“I could sit on the sledge and ride down.” Mike stopped, stepped sideways, and tried to jump on the load.
That lad. Tizzie yanked her ropes hard and pulled the sledge sideways so Mike landed half on, half off.
“Aw, Auntie. You can ride too.”
Tizzie gave him a look. If you’d been Agnes, she thought, we’d both be riding down, carefully, and enjoying it, but I’ll not let you try. You’d smash us both to bits with your silliness. She shook her head. “Nay, lad, tha’d spill the both of us, upset the load, to say nowt of spoiling the hay.” She kicked the rear of the sledge again. “Get moving, Mike, your Mam needs me, and if she’s snippy with me I’ll land you in it.”
Mike swore.
“Wash your mouth out, Michael Cawthra. I’ll cuff you if you say that again.” The impudent monkey stuck out his tongue. Tizzie reached out to slap his head. He ducked, the little demon ducked the slap, and began to slog down the steepest part of the hill.
At the sheep barn Tizzie left him. “You unload and you get that sledge back up to Agnes.” Mike glowered, lower lip extending. “Do it, or I’ll set your Da on you. He’ll take none of your lip. That hay has to be got in today.”
Maggie weren’t in the kitchen, nor were John-Jack. If this were one of Mike’s pranks she’d truly have Jack tan his hide. Tizzie wiped her forehead and looked to see if the tea pot had a cosy on, keeping a brew warm. No, the teapot were empty, drat it. She’d have liked a cup.
Steps sounded overhead. Maggie’s voice called out, words indistinguishable.
Tizzie opened the back stairs door and called up. “I’m in the kitchen, Maggie. What do you need me for?”
“Come up here, Tiz, to the lads’ room.”
Tizzie went, padding up the stairs, shuffling stocking feet along the passage. She poked her head round the door. “What’s to do?” Then she saw John-Jack. “Eh, lad, you’re in a bad way.”
John-Jack lay on his bed, curled up on his side, his skin pale and glossy with sweat. His eyes were half closed, his breaths light, fluttering and catching. “Where’s the pain, John-Jack?”
He moaned, his hand moved over his stomach before it fell back. Maggie stood beside him, looking at him, bent to touch his hand,.
“How long’s he been like this, Maggie?”
“He’s been complaining, on and off, all week of a stomach pain. Jack came looking for him just now, because he’d sneaked off. We found him here.” She touched his face. “He’s feverish, Tizzie.”
“Best cool him down then, Maggie, I’ll fetch cloths and cold well water.”
Poor Maggie, it were strange to see her in a dither. There she stood, frowning, rubbing her hands round each other. “ I’m going to town for the doctor, Tizzie. I’ll get Jack to harness Betsy,” She stopped washing her hands together and grasped Tizzie. “Keep him cool and...” she broke off. “Help me get him into a nightshirt and into bed. I can’t do it on my own.” She stamped her foot. “Quick, Tizzie for goodness sake.”
John-Jack moaned and whimpered. It plainly hurt him to move, to stretch out, to be rolled into bed. Tizzie felt his pain, winced as she touched him, could have wept with him. Maggie departed for the doctor. Tizzie hurried down to the kitchen, found the soft cloths, filled a bowl with water, added her Nan’s cooling concoction of lavender, peppermint, mallow and feverfew and hastened back to the lad. He had his eyes open, his face were lined like an old man’s.
“Be still now, lad, we’ll have you right soon. The doctor’s coming. He’ll know what to do.” She dabbed the liquid across his brow, then wiped it with a damp cloth. A drip rolled towards to his eye, Tizzie blotted it away. She hadn’t much experience of doctors, but Mrs Mullins swore by them, saved one of her children, she said
John-Jack caught her hand. His hand felt hot and dry. “Would you like a drink, John-Jack? Hot tea or cold barley-water? There’s elderflower cordial if you want it sweet.”
He managed a whisper for tea.
Down in the kitchen Jack demanded a cup himself, clumped around the room and muttered. “Lad’s never ailed before, and at harvest time. We’ve all the hay to get in.”
“Best finish bringing in the hay, Jack, and fetch Mike and Agnes in from collecting hay in Upper and Lower Shants. There’s nowt for you to do here. Wait for the doctor. He’ll say what we can do for the lad.”
“Aye, you’ve the right of it, Tizzie. Go take him his tea and fuss over him. That’s what he needs. We must have him right for harvest.”