Cover
About the Book
Title page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
About the Author
Also by Val Wood
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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A Random House Group Company
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
Published 1999 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Valerie Wood 1999
The right of Valerie Wood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781407069142
ISBN 9781407069142
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
Valerie Wood was born in Yorkshire, where she still lives. Her first novel, The Hungry Tide, was the first winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction.
For more information on Val Wood and her books, see her website at www.valeriewood.co.uk
From shame and imprisonment to a new life...
Emily was only five years old when she was sent away from her Ma and Da and her brother Joe to go and live with old Granny Edwards. Growing up to be a loving and hard-working child, she goes into service at the age of twelve at the house of Roger Francis, whose connections with Emily’s own family prove to be closer than she could ever have imagined. Roger’s daughter Deborah takes a fancy to Emily, and when she moves away to another household in Hull Emily finds that her new employer’s son, Hugo, is to marry Deborah. But Hugo, too, has become obsessed with Emily; he dishonours her and betrays her, bringing her to the very depths of ruin.
Imprisoned, tried and transported to Australia, her life seems finished – until she is reunited with the one man who can save her from her misery and bring her wealth and happiness.
For my family with love
THE HUNGRY TIDE
ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL
EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA'S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY'S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
THE LONG WALK HOME
RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL
HOMECOMING GIRLS
and published by Corgi books
I would like to thank Professor D. M. Woodward, Hon. Archivist, Hull Trinity House, Trinity House Lane, Hull, for information on Trinity House School; Sheila Gardiner for a book list; and Peter Burgess for information on Hull gaols.
My thanks again to Catherine for reading the manuscript.
Books for general reading
Marjorie Barnard, History of Australia (Angus & Robertson, Australia, 1962).
Robert Hughes, The Fatal Shore (Collins Harvill, London, 1987).
N. V. Jones (ed.), A Dynamic Estuary (Hull University Press, 1988).
‘Leave me a dozen eggs and yon hen and tha can tek ’little lass.’
The child stared, first at her mother, who had spoken, and then at the tall, thick-set youth who carried a square wicker basket with a speckled hen poking its beak over the top and she knew that her future was being decided.
The youth’s eyebrows shot up and then down and then up again. ‘Nay, I can’t! She said I had to fetch ’little lad.’
Her mother shook her head in the determined manner which the child knew so well. If this was to be a battle of wills, she knew who would be the victor. ‘’Lad can’t go. I need him here. Tha can tek Emily. She’ll be a good worker when she’s big enough.’
And so it was decided. Emily was sent to put on her boots and shawl, whilst the hen and eggs were handed over in exchange. ‘I’m not sure,’ she heard the boy say as she entered the house. ‘She’ll have summat to say.’
Her father was sitting in a chair by the fire, his head against the chair back, pale faced and his eyes half closed. Emily put on her boots and then stood by him. He gave a slight nod and she lifted each foot in turn so that he might fasten up the laces as he usually did, for she had not yet mastered the art of tying them with knot and bow without them coming undone.
‘Must I go, Da?’ she ventured, clasping her hands in front of her.
He swallowed, the movement seeming to cause him pain for he closed his eyes for a moment before answering. ‘Aye.’ His voice was husky. ‘If thy Ma says so. There. I’ve put a double knot so’s they won’t come undone. Tha’ll be fine, don’t worry.’
‘Will I come back?’
He stroked her blond head so like his own and then patted her cheek. ‘I don’t know, maybe not. Go on now, don’t keep him waiting, it’s a long journey.’
Still she hesitated and glanced towards the open door, where her mother, outside it, was impatiently tapping her foot. She looked around the small sparse room. There was nothing else she needed to take, no possessions or essentials, nothing that was hers alone. ‘We’ve got an old hen,’ she whispered. ‘We don’t need another.’
‘Come and give thy Da a kiss and get off.’ Her father drew her towards him and she leaned and kissed his thin cheek.
‘Shall I see thee again, Da?’ Her lip trembled as she spoke and she kept her eyes on his, willing him to say yes.
‘Get off now, lass. Go on. Don’t be asking questions that I can’t answer.’
Her father, who had always known the answer to every question she ever asked, was reluctant to answer this one. She picked up her woollen shawl and walked slowly to the door, then looked back. Her father had his eyes closed again and his cheeks were wet. ‘I could stay and look after thee, Da.’
He opened his eyes and she saw that they were glistening. He put up his hand and made a gentle movement for her to go; she turned again and left the room.
Her mother fussed in an unaccustomed manner, pinning her shawl and refastening the buttons on her dress. Then she gave her a little push. ‘Go wi’ Sam now and be a good lass. Do as his Gran tells thee.’ She offered no kiss as her husband had done, nor any explanation as to why or where she was going.
Emily looked up at Sam, but he kept his eyes on the ground and didn’t look at her. He had a round, weather browned face and wore a thick grey cotton smock and cord breeches and a floppy brimmed hat on his brown hair. He picked up the empty wicker basket and prepared to move off. ‘Go on then, Emily,’ her mother said again. ‘Don’t keep him waiting.’
The cottage stood at the end of a track with a small copse behind it. It was part of the estate where her father had been employed until he became ill six months before. Emily plodded behind Sam until she reached the end of the track and then looked back. Her mother was standing by the open door of the cottage, one hand shielding her eyes from the light, the other on her hip. Emily waved, but her mother made no answering sign. She took a few more steps and looked again. Her mother had gone, the door was closed and there was no-one standing by the uncurtained window. The only movement was a curl of smoke above the chimney pot from her father’s fire.
They journeyed out of the hamlet, Emily following in Sam’s large footsteps and noting the women who stood in cottage doorways to watch them pass. They were almost at the limit of the estate when she saw a familiar figure coming towards them. It was her brother, Joe, who since he was eight was helping with the harvest to earn money now that their father was ill. Emily had overheard her parents talking and agreeing that Joe was to be depended upon. ‘There’s nowt else for it,’ her mother had said. ‘Else we’re for ’poorhouse.’
‘Hey, Em! Where’s tha going?’ Joe’s face was streaked as if he had been crying, but his voice was curious.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t know. Ma said I had to go wi’ Sam.’ Sam had stopped a little way off and was waiting for her. ‘Why’s tha not at work?’
He looked away from her and put a fist to his eyes. ‘I’ve lost ’job. Mayster said they didn’t want anybody my age now they’ve finished ’harvest, even though overseer said I was a good worker for a little ’un.’ Joe was small for his age no matter how he stretched himself, not much bigger than Emily, who was only five.
Sam waved for Emily to come and she said hurriedly, ‘He wanted thee but Ma said no; she said I had to go. We’ve got a new hen,’ she added, unsure whether to be proud or sorry for the barter. ‘Tell Da tha saw me, Joe.’
He nodded and set off in the direction of home, then turned back and called, ‘Shall tha be coming back, Em?’
‘Don’t know,’ she shouted back. ‘Don’t be asking me questions I can’t answer.’
They walked all morning and into the afternoon, leaving behind her inland home, crossing the coach road which led towards the town of Hull, and skirting by a tree-lined track, a towered and turreted manor house set within a vast parkland, which was scattered with grazing sheep and cattle. They crossed over meadows and farmland and by the time they reached the bustling market town of Hedon, Emily was almost crying with tiredness.
Sam stopped at an inn and bought a tankard of ale for himself and a cup of water for Emily. They sat in the inn yard and he put his face up to the warm sunshine. ‘Not far now.’ Those were the first and only words he had spoken to her and she looked up at him and blinked, then as he lifted his tankard to take a gulp of ale she put her head down on the wooden table and closed her eyes.
He shook her awake. ‘Come on, I’ll give thee a piggy-back.’ He helped her up on to the table and turning his back to her bent forward for her to climb on. She hitched herself up and, putting her arms around his neck, smelt the familiar, comforting aroma of warm grain, new-mown hay and damp earth gathered within the roughness of his clothes and promptly fell asleep.
When she awoke the sun was setting behind them, suffusing the sky and land with a scarlet glow; the garnered fields were lit as if by a thousand lamps and sheep grazed amongst the stubble. She gave a small gasp at the immenseness of the wide landscape. Her own hamlet of cottages and barns and farmhouses was surrounded by woods and small copses, and she had never ventured beyond its limits. Here, the only signs of habitation were the occasional farmstead in the far distance. She lifted her head and sniffed. The air smelt different. Fresher, sharper, with a hint of saltiness. ‘Sam,’ she whispered, ‘have we come to ’end of ’world?’
‘Tha great daft lump!’ The old woman lifted her scrawny arm and aimed a blow at Sam’s head. He ducked with a dexterity which suggested that it wasn’t the first time such a blow had been directed towards him. ‘I telled thee to fetch ’lad. What’s tha brought ’little lass for? She’ll be of no use nor ornament!’
‘Missus wouldn’t let me bring him,’ Sam blustered. ‘She said she needed him. She said little lass’d be a good worker when she’s growed,’ he offered in mitigation.
‘And who pays to keep her while she’s growing?’ the woman shouted at him. ‘Didn’t tha think o’ that, tha daft beggar?’
Sam shuffled his feet and lowered his head. ‘Sorry, Gran,’ he muttered.
The woman turned her attention to Emily. ‘Does tha know who I am? Did tha ma tell thee?’
Emily shook her head, not daring to speak in case she should evoke a torrent of abuse like Sam had just received. Perhaps, as it was obvious the old woman didn’t want her, she would be sent home again, though she doubted if she could walk back so far again tonight. The darkness was closing in and for the last few miles when they had turned off the road to take small rough tracks before reaching their destination, she had clung to Sam’s hand in case he should lose her in this vast empty landscape, which was punctuated only by isolated farms and cottages and the soaring spire of a church in the distance.
‘Hannah Edwards, thy fayther’s auntie.’ The old woman’s eyes pierced her face. ‘’Onny relative he’s got left. That’s why he’s sent thee here. Is tha a good lass?’
Emily nodded. Da always said that she was, though she was often in trouble from her mother. ‘What do I call thee?’ she dared to ask.
‘I’m glad to see tha’s got a tongue in thy head.’ Hannah Edwards pursed her mouth and considered. ‘Tha can call me Granny, same as our Sam.’ She turned towards the door. ‘Better come in then, seeing as tha’s here.’
The one-roomed cottage, like her parents’ home, was built of mud and straw and rounded cobblestones of varying sizes, but with a roof, not of tiles but of barley thatch. It felt warm and welcoming to Emily, with a bright fire burning and the brass knobs on the door and cupboards gleaming. In a corner of the room was a curtained alcove, where she could see the legs of a bed, and on the fire a kettle was steaming and in the coals beneath potatoes were cooking in their skins.
‘Sit down at ’table but don’t start until we’ve said prayers.’ Granny Edwards sat at one end of the scrubbed wooden table, Sam at the other and Emily sat in the middle, where a place was already laid. In the centre of the table was a large pot of soup and a loaf of bread. She bent her head as she saw Sam and his granny did and peeped from one eye to watch the old woman muttering softly.
‘Amen,’ Granny Edwards said in a loud voice. ‘Amen,’ repeated Sam. They both looked at her and waited.
She glanced from one to another, then tightly closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, repeated fervently, ‘Amen!’
Granny Edwards nodded, apparently satisfied with her show of faith, and proceeded to ladle the soup into large brown bowls. Emily took a sip, it was hot and salty and unlike anything she had tasted before. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and following Sam’s example she dipped in a slice of bread and finished off the bowlful.
‘Tha’s got a good appetite,’ Granny Edwards muttered. ‘Tha’s going to tek some feeding.’ She pointed a spoon at Sam. ‘Tha’ll have to tek on some extra work. If tha’d brought ’lad he could’ve found work on ’farms. This bairn can do nowt.’
‘Our Joe’s just lost his job,’ Emily pronounced. ‘Mayster said he was too little to work. I’m nearly as big as him,’ she verified, ‘and I’m good wi’ hens and cleaning cupboards.’
There was silence as this pronouncement was digested, then the old woman’s face softened. ‘Lost his job, has he? So there’s no money coming in!’ She shook her head in commiseration. ‘That’s hard on thy ma, very hard.’
‘And on my da,’ said Emily. ‘He can’t work ’til he’s better.’
Granny Edwards rose from the table to fetch the potatoes and patted Emily’s arm. ‘God will look after thy fayther, never fear,’ she said softly. ‘It’s thy ma and brother who need our prayers now.’
Emily kept a discreet distance until she came to the conclusion that Granny Edwards’s irascible nature hid a lion heart. It was to the widow Hannah Edwards that neighbours trudged down rutted muddy lanes and marshy tracks for advice, whether on why the jam wouldn’t set or what to do with a wayward son or daughter, and the same son or daughter would come to her door to complain of overbearing parents. These last were given short, sharp shrift and sent home with the proclamation to thank God they had parents at all and were not homeless orphans as some poor bairns were.
Emily, listening from a chair in the corner often wondered if this last statement applied to her, for she often caught sympathetic glances coming her way as this pronouncement was made. The days slipped into weeks and she adapted to the routine of the household, and, having stated that she was good with hens and cupboards, was given the task of feeding the hens every morning and gathering the new-laid eggs, and keeping the food and pan cupboard tidy, at least as far as she could reach.
Sam worked every day, either in his garden, where he grew potatoes and other vegetables and tended the fruit bushes, or as a casual labourer on the local farms, where by his strength and willingness, he was assured of work.
‘He’s an ’andsome lad, our Sam, but not right sharp,’ Granny Edwards announced to Emily one day, ‘but he’s a good lad and a hard worker.’
‘Where’s his ma and da?’ Emily asked, having spent several nights beneath her sheets laboriously trying to work out Sam’s relationship to his granny and therefore to her. ‘Are they dead?’
‘Might just as well be,’ Granny Edwards muttered, more to herself than Emily, ‘for all we ever see of her. No,’ she confirmed, her fingers industriously clicking at her knitting, ‘his ma’s not dead, but she went off when Sam was twelve months old and I’ve ne’er seen her since. As for his da, well God knows where he is, or who he is, for I’m sure I don’t.’
Emily gazed at her; so Sam was one of the poor orphans that Granny talked about and not her after all, she decided, for she had both ma and da and she resolved to be kinder to Sam than she had been.
The cottage sat barely a mile from the banks of the Humber. From there they could smell the salt of the sea, feel the sharp wind on their faces or be shrouded in a sea of fog, which drifted in from the estuary and chilled them to the bone and made them hurry to pile up the fire with driftwood which Sam collected from the river banks and dried ready for use.
Sam walked across the marshy land every day to Cherry Cob sands, returning always with some treasure. He brought home eel, shrimps or mussels, sometimes a bunch of samphire which grew on the marsh, or a rabbit caught by a ferret which he kept in his pocket. His mind was a little slow, but his ability to catch, fish, net or snare was sure, and he always brought something home for the pot, which his granny had ready and waiting.
Emily begged time and again to go with him. ‘I won’t be a bother,’ she pleaded, ‘and I’ll keep ever so quiet while tha’s fishing. Please, Sam, let me come.’
He’d glanced at Granny Edwards, who shook her head. ‘Not yet. ’Tide’s fast and watter’s deep. Too deep for a bairn like thee.’
‘But ’other bairns go, I’ve seen them.’ She had watched the snake of youngsters wending their way across the marshland towards the mudflats. ‘And they go on their own.’
Granny weakened slightly. ‘They’re older than thee and know where to go and where not. Maybe when tha’s growed a bit.’
So she left it at that until a month had passed, but now winter was coming, a thin film of frost began covering the marshy land and the wind blowing in from the estuary was sharper and keener. They filled a sack with straw and pushed it into the window aperture so that no draught could penetrate and brought out a heavy blanket to cover the door. Driftwood was carried inside and Emily tied bundles of dry kindling with straw and stacked them in a corner of the room. Martinmas had passed, when the farm workers, ploughmen, dairymaids and labourers stood by the market cross in local towns and bid for the next twelvemonth’s work. Sam went to the town of Patrington and came home with a huge beam on his round face to say that he had been taken on as a regular labourer at one of the neighbouring farms. ‘I’m not sleeping in, Gran. I’ll come home every night.’
His granny gave a satisfied nod, pleased with him even though it meant her getting up at four-thirty each morning to make sure he had a breakfast of gruel or oat dumplings before he set out on his several miles’ walk. His midday meal he would eat at the farm and on his return a dish of rabbit stew or mutton broth and barley bread would be waiting for him before he finally tumbled wearily into bed.
Time hung heavily for Emily now that Sam had gone to regular work. She fed the chickens and swept the yard and did a few jobs of work, but when those were done and the old woman sat dozing over her knitting by the fire, Emily would stand outside and wonder what to do next. There were no children in the immediate vicinity and the ones she had previously watched going to the river bank no longer came through the day. By teatime dusk was closing in and there was not a soul to be seen in that vast, awesome landscape. She missed her brother, Joe, for they had always played together, and she wondered if he had managed to get another job of work.
So she stood one midday, after eating her dinner of bread and cold bacon, and looked across to the far reaches of the skyline. The winter sun was bright, glistening on the patches of frost which hadn’t cleared and outlining the stark bare branches of elm and ash in the distance. Granny Edwards had fallen asleep by the fire and the afternoon loomed long before her. Then Emily made a decision. She would go to the river. She could walk and just take a look, no more than that, and then come straight back home. Nobody will know, she pondered, and when I get back I can tell them that I was big enough to go by myself.
She slipped back inside for her shawl and to check that Granny was still sleeping, which she was, her mouth slack in a gentle snore and her knitting idle in her lap. Emily gave a little satisfied shrug and crept out again. The hens scuttled out of her way and she skipped along towards the track at the top of the dyke which she knew Sam always took to go to the river.
Though it was but a mile, it seemed much longer, for the track was muddy and stuck to her boots and slowed her down. Sometimes the path disappeared into a morass of mud and taking care not to slip down into the deep, water-filled ditch, she jumped down into the soggy grass. She kept on walking and thought she could hear the murmur of the tidal waters beyond the distant, low, green bank.
On she tramped, lifting her mudborn boots from the sucking ooze until she finally reached the bank. She scrambled up, crushing nettle and dead heads of sea aster beneath her feet and pushing her way through prickly, red-berried thorn and bramble; and there before her triumphant gaze lay the shining mudflats, which shimmered in the winter sun and harboured hundreds of curlew and redshanks which searched and fed on the crustaceans beneath the mud. Beyond the mudflats lay the broad waters of the Humber and the banks of Lincolnshire on the other side.
She heaved a sigh of satisfaction. She had got here by herself, without assistance from Sam or anyone else. ‘I am big enough,’ she declared aloud and jumped down on to the grassy shore and found herself almost knee-deep in water. The grass which looked so firm from the bank was marshland with hidden pools and rivulets. The mud beneath the water sucked and oozed around her legs and with difficulty she splashed and pulled and made her way back to the bank, where she found a dry patch and sat down to take off her boots. She tied them together with her laces and hung them around her neck, wrung out the hem of her dress, then, cautiously and gingerly watching where she put her feet, she walked towards the river.
The tide was out and the quaggy mud sucked between her toes, but she ventured further until she reached shallow water and stepped into it. It was icy cold around her ankles and she quickly came out again, though she lingered on the edge and searched for pebbles to throw into the water, but found only a few shells and some chunks of driftwood, which she threw into the waves, disturbing the bobbing gulls and shelducks which were resting between the crests. A fleet of ships, with their canvas sails filling in the sharp breeze, was sailing downriver towards the mouth of the Humber on their way to the sea, and she waved her hands to them, wondering where their journey was taking them.
‘I’d like to go on a ship,’ she murmured and she bent to peer downriver towards the spit of Spurn peninsula, trying to see as far into the distance as she could. There seems to be no beginning or end to it, she thought, where does it go to or come from?
The curlews called their flute-like cry and above her redshanks flew, whilst behind her on the banks, woodpigeons rustled and foraged amongst the berries and haws. She played for a while, splashing in the pools and collecting small pieces of driftwood to take home for the fire, until she began to feel a chill. The sun had gone, disappearing behind a thick bank of cloud and a mist began to drift in from the river; it settled on her hair like raindrops and her shawl felt damp. The tide too was rushing towards the shore. It gushed and babbled, trickled and frothed and percolated into all the muddy pools and gullies, absorbing them into one.
She decided to return home, for she wanted to get back before Granny Edwards awoke from her sleep, but she had mistaken the time it had taken her to come and the time she had spent by the river, and as she pulled and tugged her wet boots back on to her cold red feet, she realized that the light was going, the mist was getting thicker and that she must run if she was not to be found out.
Behind her she could hear the rush of the tide as the waters of the estuary travelled their journey, but in front of her, as, frowning, she endeavoured to locate her path home, there seemed to be only a lonely silence in that isolated vista. She shivered, the stillness wrapped around her, cocooning her in a thick, damp curtain. She shook her head to dispel it and turned again to the river to welcome its rushing sound, but the gesture increased her isolation as she realized that her only way was forward, to march into the silence and break it by her own presence.
‘Sam,’ she called bravely, ‘Granny Edwards! It’s me, Emily. I’m coming.’ Her words echoed around her, swirling like the mist, which was becoming thicker by the minute. She stepped forward. She must run. But which way? She had lost the defined path and the dyke which she had followed here, and there was only hummocky grassland and patches of watery waste, which once more sucked and snatched at her boots.
She wandered for what seemed like hours and the darkness descended and the mist became thicker and colder. She stumbled straight on at first, but not coming across the dyke she then veered right, searching for the slight incline which would indicate its presence, but she heard again the sound of the river, louder now than before and a faint creak, creak which was eerie to her ears, and peering through the darkness she saw the outline of masts and a huddle of small boats moored in a creek, their masts and rigging creaking as they swayed gently in the water. On the far side of the creek a dim light glimmered, but she couldn’t see a bridge or road and she was afraid of falling into the water. She shouted again and again, but there was no answering shout and she turned and struck out once more back the way she had come.
Tears started to fall, but she stumbled on. She was cold and hungry for it was long past her suppertime. Her hands still clutched the driftwood which she had collected and her wet skirt rubbed against her legs making them cold and sore.
‘Sam,’ she shouted, ‘Granny Edwards! It’s me, Emily!’ She listened, but heard nothing. ‘Da! Da! I need thee. Come and get thy little Em. I’m onny a little bairn.’ She sank down on to the wet grass and started to sob. ‘Da. I want my da!’
She laid her head down on the grass and as she did, found that it rose in a slight incline. She reached out with her hands, discarding the driftwood, and stretching up realized that the ground rose higher. She clambered on hands and knees up the incline and came to the top. Below her lay the dyke, the waters rushing and gurgling from the river through the fields and wetlands and towards home.
She hurried on, slipping and sliding, but keeping to the edge nearest the field so that if she fell she would fall into the land rather than into the water. Then she stopped. There was a sound. Muffled, but there it was again. Someone was shouting. Voices were shouting her name.
‘Sam,’ she shrieked, ‘Sam! It’s me, Emily!’
Again came the call. ‘Emily! I can’t see thee. Keep shouting!’
‘I’m on ’dyke. Come quick.’ Her voice rose in sudden panic now that help was near. ‘Come and get me. I’m lost.’
The voices grew louder and soon she could make out distant shapes looming through the fog. Lanterns sent out an eerie, fluctuating light and soon she saw the broad figure of Sam running towards her. ‘Emily! Come on, tha’s all right now. I’ve got thee.’
He picked her up, crushing her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry, Em. Tha’s safe now. We’ll soon have thee home.’
Another man wrapped a blanket around her and two young lads with him gazed at her curiously. ‘Tha should have asked us,’ one of them said. ‘We’d have taken thee down to ’river if that’s where tha’s been.’
She didn’t answer, but looked with streaming eyes at the small crowd who had been searching for her and started to shake, with cold and fear at what might have happened to her and relief at being found.
‘Will Gr-Granny Edwards be mad at me, Sam?’ she whispered as they neared the cottage. ‘I never told her where I was going.’
‘Aye, I expect she will be,’ he answered bluntly, ‘but she’ll be glad that tha’s safe, so don’t bother too much if she rattles on at thee.’
But Granny Edwards didn’t rattle on at her, she seemed curiously subdued as she took off her wet things, Sam turning his back as she stripped Emily down to nakedness, and with a rough towel rubbed her vigorously all over until she was glowing, then, wrapping her in a warm blanket and with her feet in a mustard bath, she sat her by the fire. ‘Here now, drink this down and tha’ll soon be right as rain.’
She put a spoonful of honey in a small tankard and half-filled it with ale, then taking the poker from the coals she plunged it into the liquid. It sizzled and steamed and withdrawing the poker she grated a nutmeg into the ale and handed it to Emily. ‘Tha’ll mebbe not like ’taste, but drink it down anyway.’
Emily sipped it, the taste was bitter but with an overlying sweetness and she felt the heat trickling down her throat, warming her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I didn’t mean to be a bother.’ Tears started to spout again and her mouth trembled as she spoke, ‘I wanted my da. I shouted for him, but I knew he wouldn’t hear. He’s too far away.’
Granny Edwards drew her chair nearer to Emily. ‘Aye, he is far away, but I reckon maybe he did hear thee and that’s why tha was found.’
Emily looked at her, not understanding. ‘I might as well tell thee ’news now, as wait till ’morning,’ the old woman said and looked at her with sorrow in her eyes. ‘I got ’message this afternoon. They woke me up from my nap and I knew tha’d gone off somewhere, but I had to wait till Sam came home to look for thee, even though I called and called.’
Emily hung her head; so she would have been found out even if she hadn’t got lost and been late home.
Granny took hold of her hand in an unaccustomed show of affection. ‘I got ’message to say that thy da died two days ago. He’s in heaven now I have no doubt, for he was a good man. And thy ma and brother have gone to ’poorhouse.’
Emily’s grief was deep, for now she knew that she wouldn’t see her dear da again, whereas, if she had previously thought about it at all, which she meditated guiltily hadn’t been very often, she had felt that her stay with Granny Edwards would be temporary and that she would eventually return home.
‘If tha’s good and say tha prayers every night,’ she was assured, ‘then tha’ll meet him again at heaven’s door.’
Emily sniffled. ‘Does that mean I have to be good every day for ever, Gran?’ she asked doubtfully, for if that was the case then she feared that she would not be there to greet him. It was very hard to be good all of the time.
‘Tha shall go to chapel wi’ me on Sunday,’ Hannah said determinedly. ‘We’ll pray for his soul and for thy ma and brother’s bodily comfort and trust in God. And, we’ll ask Him to look down on thee,’ she sighed deeply, ‘and me too, to give me patience and fortitude to bring up yet another bairn.’
Emily looked skywards when she was out of doors. She wasn’t sure that she wanted someone watching her the whole time. Just suppose, she thought, just suppose I do something bad by accident, will God think I did it on purpose and still punish me?
She was dressed in a clean dress and warm shawl on the following Sunday and followed Hannah, who in her best black dress and cloak strode out down the four-mile road towards the village of Thorngumbald, where she attended chapel every Sunday, wet or fine, sun or snow. She had never suggested taking Emily before and neither did Sam attend. Emily was quite excited. Perhaps there would be other children there whom she might play with or talk to, perhaps those who visited the river, though, she considered, perhaps she had better not mention that subject just yet or Granny would start muttering again that ‘she might have drowned and in my care at that’.
Hannah shook her umbrella in the air. ‘We’ll have a fresh going on now that tha’s here for good.’ She looked down at Emily. ‘Thy ma sent word to ask if I’d be thy guardian. Well, what could I say?’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Can’t see this bairn going to ’poorhouse along with ’other one.’
‘Tha’d rather have had our Joe, I expect?’ Emily ventured.
The old lady stopped abruptly. ‘Why, I never said that! When did I say that?’
‘When I came. Tha shouted at Sam and said he should have brought Joe.’
‘Huh! Tha’s got sharp ears for a little ’un.’ She walked on and then glanced down. ‘No, I reckon tha’ll be all right. Tha’s willing enough and not a bad lass. I expect we’ll get along.’
Emily smiled and skipped along after her. The praise was sweet. She’d try to remember to include Granny Edwards in her prayers.
As she came out of the chapel clutching her new prayerbook, she looked curiously at the small group of children who were gathered there waiting for their parents to finish their conversation with other members of the congregation. They were scrubbed and clean, the boys with well-brushed hair and shiny faces and the girls neat in black stockings with starched pinafores over their dresses. Emily waited for Granny Edwards, who was in earnest discussion with the minister. She kept nodding over to Emily and the minister too looked her way and shook his head in a commiserative kind of way. He shook a finger as he spoke and they both turned their heads towards the building next door.
A young boy came across to Emily. ‘Thou’s little lass that got lost down by ’river!’
Emily nodded in agreement. ‘I shan’t get lost again,’ she said defensively. ‘It was only ’cos it was foggy.’
‘It’s allus foggy down there.’ He looked down at his boots. ‘If tha likes, we’ll tek thee next time we go. Mebbe next Sat’day if it’s fine.’
She looked towards Granny Edwards, who was bearing down on her. ‘I’ll have to ask,’ she whispered. ‘If she says I can, I will.’
The boy scooted off towards the group of other boys and girls who were waiting for him and she turned to ask the question, but was forestalled by Granny, who was saying, ‘Well, that’s got that settled. Minister says he’ll put in a word for thee wi’ schoolmistress. Now our Sam is in regular work we’ll be able to manage. Tha’s nearly six, so all being well tha’ll start school after Christmas.’
She couldn’t wait to start. Some of the children who called for her the following Saturday said that they went to the Thorngumbald school. The boy, Dick, who had spoken to her outside the chapel, another boy, Jim, and two girls, Dora and Jane. The girls were both aged seven and were only allowed so far from home under the safe keeping of the boys, who were eight and had been threatened with the strap if they came to any harm. The other boys in the group said that they didn’t go to school because their parents hadn’t any money, but in any case, said one, ‘Larning is a waste o’ time, I already know how to plough.’
Granny agreed that Emily could go with them as long as they were back before dark. The morning was sharp, frost lay across all the marshland and when Emily took a deep breath she could feel the icy air freezing her nostrils.
That winter morning was the start of friendships and quarrels and of a discovery of life on the river bank, when they dug in the mud for crabs and shrimps, fished for flounders and gudgeon with homemade rod and line, or stole eels from the baskets laid out on the mudflats. They chased foxes and rabbits and whispered together if they spotted a solitary heron or stood silently watching the mass influx of wildfowl, brent-geese and waders.
They clambered in and out of the small boats moored in Stone Creek, which in daylight was peaceful and no longer threatening as it had been on the night she had been lost. They made believe that they were sailing away over vast oceans and the girls had to be lookouts and bailers whilst the boys were captain and mate who planned the voyage. They were only disturbed by the shouts of men on the shore to, ‘Get off those boats, tha young peazans!’ and they scuttled away laughing to find other pleasures on those lonely shores.
That first winter came on hard and fast and the other children stopped coming for almost a month when the fields were thick with snow and the road was impassable and even Granny couldn’t make her usual visit to chapel. Sam stayed on at the farm, for he couldn’t get home and Emily and Hannah made the best of their time together. The pump in the yard froze and to get water for their cooking they had to break off icicles which hung from the door lintel.
They brought in more wood and kindling which Sam had stacked by the house wall and the cottage was warm if smoky. Hannah taught Emily to knit and to bake, and sat during the long winter evenings and spoke of her own childhood spent much as Emily was doing, in the depths of the Holderness countryside. She told her that after she married, her husband was made manager of a farm and she had taken over the running of the house, feeding as many as eleven to fifteen men three times a day as well as bringing up her own daughter.
‘Old Mr Francis ran the estate then and later, when his father died, young Mr Francis said I’d allus have a roof over my head, and even after Mr Edwards died he kept his promise. He let me have this house for onny a peppercorn.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what’ll happen to our Sam, though, when owt happens to me.’ She glanced up from her knitting. ‘And let’s trust in God that afore I go tha’ll be in service or wed.’
As soon as the road was clear, Emily was prepared for school. She was wrapped in new flannel bodices which Granny had made and in thick wool vests, which she had helped to knit and which itched and tickled as she got warm. Two new pinafores were made from cotton sheeting and new boots ordered from the cobbler in the market town of Hedon were delivered by the carrier.
‘I’ll tek thee this once and meet thee half-way home this afternoon,’ Granny said as they set out on the long trek. ‘So tek notice of which way to go.’
Emily clutched her bag, which contained her dinner of bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, a piece of chalk and a clean handkerchief, which she had hemmed and painstakingly embroidered with the initial E.
She was eager and quick to learn and soon she could write her name, Emily Hawkins, and was mastering her numbers. The mistress was strict and made them sit up straight and speak clearly and properly, for, she said, she couldn’t understand their rough country speech. Dick jeered at Emily’s cleverness because he stumbled over his reading and writing, though he could add up quickly enough, but like the other boys he longed for spring, summer or autumn when they could help on the farms and had ready excuses for not going to school.
By the time she was eleven Emily was head and shoulders over the other pupils both in ability and height. Her hair was long and blond and was kept firmly under control in two plaits. Her shape was changing and she started to stoop to hide her swelling breasts. One morning she arrived at school in time to see Jane hand their teacher a note, and at dinnertime when Emily and Dora went outside to eat their dinner and go to the privy, Jane stayed behind and sat with her head on the desk and the teacher said not a word in admonishment.
‘What’s up with Jane?’ Emily asked. ‘Is she poorly?’
Dora shook her head and whispered in her ear. ‘She’s started her flux!’
‘Started her flux?’ Emily asked. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You know!’ Dora blushed and would say no more until they were well away from the flapping ears of the boys.
Emily that day learned the facts of life from Dora, or at least as much as Dora knew, which wasn’t much for she hadn’t been told either, except by an older girl, and Emily walked home in a daze, pondering on whether to impart her new-found knowledge to Granny Edwards, for as she was so fond of saying, she hadn’t had much learning and Sam was no scholar and that was why she had sent Emily to school.
Every spring they renewed their weekend visits to the river, but as they got older sometimes Jane and Dora couldn’t come. They now had more tasks to do at home, smaller children to look after, bread to make or kitchen floors to wash, and Emily found that she was increasingly irritable with the boys’ behaviour as they clowned around in their last days of childhood before leaving school.
‘You’re always showing off,’ she grumbled as they fought with one another, or tried to stuff a dead rat down someone’s shirt, or dared each other to jump from one boat to another without capsizing it. They were noisy and boisterous, they chased rabbits down holes and pelted birds with homemade catapults. They generally went home wet and muddy and sometimes they manhandled Emily too when she complained of their stupidity, pushing her to the ground and holding her down with their sweating, panting bodies until abruptly they would let go of her and run off, their faces red and unable to look at her.
‘Can I look down tha frock, Em?’ an older boy said one day. ‘I’ll give thee a bite of my apple if tha’ll let me.’
She stared at him, then felt herself blush. No matter how she pushed them down, her breasts always protruded. ‘No you can’t. It’s rude.’
‘Aw, go on.’ He came nearer and tweaked the buttons of her dress. ‘Just a quick look.’
‘No.’ She turned away, but he grabbed her and placed a hand over one breast, clutching it tightly. She swung out with her fist and caught him under his chin, making his teeth chatter, and he dropped his hand and looked away.
‘Some lasses let us,’ he muttered. ‘They think it’s a lark.’
She walked away, not looking back. Her cheeks burned and she felt a pulse throb in her throat. She was embarrassed, humiliated and confused. I’ll never go with them again, she vowed. Never, never, never.
Instead, whenever Sam had time off she went to the river with him and he taught her how to fish. He borrowed a boat from Stone Creek and they rowed upriver, keeping close to the shore and watching out for hidden mudbanks. She gazed at the shore in all its seasons as they pulled hard, seeing the lonely salt-marsh flatlands and meandering creeks from a different view, empty of habitation except for the winter-feeding wader birds; a thousand curlew which rose in sudden flight, the dunlin, plovers and gulls. Once she caught a young salmon on its way back to the sea and she carried it home in triumph. Sometimes, if the wind was not too strong and the tide was low, they would row down towards Spurn Point, the curling tongue of land which retreated from the sea to dip into the Humber mouth. The tidal flow carried them down on its journey to the sea, around the bulging Hawkin’s Point of the reclaimed land of Sunk Island, to tip them ashore on a narrow fringe of marsh and mud and sand, where buckthorn scrub and sea lavender grew and they would slop through the oozing mud of the river’s edge, then race up and over the sandy dunes, Emily’s legs going at double the pace of Sam’s lumbering long stride, vying to be the first to view the mighty German Ocean on the other side of the bank.
During Emily’s last winter term at school Hannah was unwell. She had caught a cold which attacked her chest and dosed herself with honey and marshmallow root, but wouldn’t stay in bed no matter how Emily and Sam tried to persuade her. Reluctantly, Emily went to school one morning and told the teacher she wouldn’t be coming back until Granny Edwards was better. ‘She needs me at home,’ she explained to the startled mistress, who was unused to her pupils taking the initiative. ‘She doesn’t know that she does, but she does.’ She stayed until dinnertime and then went home.
In the evening Granny took to the bed which she shared with Emily. ‘I’ll give Sam a note for ‘doctor to come,’ Emily said to her. ‘You’re not getting any better.’
‘That tha’ll not! I’ve never had a doctor in my life.’ She tried to rouse herself from the pillow, but sank back again. ‘Only once has he been over this doorstep and that was when our Sam was born.’
‘Time he came again, then,’ Emily said firmly.
‘Oh, do as tha likes.’ Hannah closed her eyes wearily. ‘I haven’t ’energy to argue with thee.’
When the doctor came the next day he listened long and hard at Hannah’s chest, moving aside the thick embrocated flannel that was covering it. He pursed his lips and gazed at her. ‘Well, Hannah,’ he began.
‘Don’t be telling me owt I don’t already know,’ she croaked. ‘’Good Lord will decide whether I go or stay.’
‘That’s true.’ The doctor closed up his bag. ‘There’s nothing I can give you. Just stay in bed and try to rest.’ He turned to look at Emily. ‘And this is a niece I believe? We haven’t met before.’
‘Aye, almost a niece – my late nephew’s daughter. I’ve brought her up as my own.’ Hannah wheezed and coughed and sweat stood out on her forehead. ‘She’s been a good lass, I hope she’ll manage on her own.’
A sudden fear clutched Emily. Was Granny Edwards going to die? To leave her and Sam? She followed the doctor out of the room to the door, where he paused and lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Edwards has pneumonia. Give her plenty to drink and wash her with a cool cloth if she’s feverish.’
‘Will she die?’ Emily stared at him with wide eyes. ‘She won’t, will she?’
He patted her shoulder. ‘Everybody does, child, sooner or later. There’s no cure for death.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll come again.’
Emily boiled water, which she cooled to make Granny a drink, then whilst she was sleeping she prepared a meal for Sam. She skinned and jointed a rabbit which he had caught and put it into a pot with potato and onion and placed it over the fire to cook. She swept the floor and polished the brass knobs and filled up a bucket with water from the pump. Then she carried a basket outside and filled it with wood for the fire. When she had finished she carried a chair next to the bed, where Granny was now sleeping, and sat down to watch over her.
When Sam arrived home Emily was fast asleep and he had to waken her, the fire had burned low and she hastened to build it up. ‘Your dinner’s ready, Sam,’ she said, lifting the lid off the pot and carrying it to the table, ‘and I’ll make some tea in a minute.’
Sam lifted the curtain and looked down at his granny. ‘She don’t look very good,’ he said ponderously as he sat down at the table. ‘One of ’hosses at ’farm was wheezing like that and ’master shot it.’
Emily drew in a deep breath. ‘What’ll we do if she dies, Sam?’