Bonfires and Brandy E-Book

Joy Stonehouse

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Jordans of Reighton
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 524

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This is an unflinching portrayal of life in a coastal Yorkshire village three hundred years ago with its folk lore, old farming methods, superstitions and traditional remedies. Mary Jordan shares her damp, chalkstone cottage in Filey Bay with five growing boys and an unsympathetic husband. William Jordan is a farmer and customs officer. In league with the local smugglers, all is well until a keen young excise officer arrives. Mary's boys don't help matters. Young William bullies and plays cruel tricks on his brothers, enjoys all manner of sports and, mentored by his uncle, learns to shoot… which ends in disaster. Francis falls for a woman eight years his senior. He suffers all the confusion of adolescence, not helped by an increasing obsession with his uncle's puritanical teachings. And then there's 'poor John' who is retarded. He's unable to work like the others but finds simple pleasures in nursing a newborn piglet and learning the ways of shepherding. He becomes Mary's one consolation as she comes to terms with a crucial death in the village – that of their only midwife and healer.

Leseprobe

Other titles in the series

Witch-bottles and Windlestraws

New Arrivals in Reighton

Whisper to the Bees

For Tom

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the helpful and friendly staff at the Treasure House, Beverley, and the Hull History Centre; both sites make research a pleasure.

A huge thank you goes to members of Hornsea Writers. They have continued to offer support and encouragement as well as online critiques during lockdown. Without this group, the series would never have been published.

Special thanks must go to Lisa Blosfelds for her transcript of the Reighton parish records—an invaluable aid. She has also been most helpful in loaning local history books and allowing access to her collection of documentary evidence and maps.

Thanks must go also to Pat Sewell whose research into my Jordan family history provided the essential springboard for the novels. I appreciate her continuing encouragement.

Last, but by no means least, thanks to Pam Williams for the first reading and editing, and for painting the book cover (again) and for being the first port of call when the technology throws me a curveball.

Author’s Note

The novels are inspired by the parish records and, although I have carried out extensive research into East Yorkshire in the early 18th century, I must stress that the stories in the series are works of fiction. The names of most of the characters are taken from the parish records, yet some are invented. Any omissions and deviations from these records are made for the sake of narrative interest. See the Appendix for a list of the Jordan family members.

The main characters, and those of higher social standing, speak in Standard English. Lesser characters and the older generation speak with a slight East Yorkshire accent.

Although Reighton is mentioned throughout as a village, the people of the time would have called it a town. I have opted to spell Bridlington as it is known today, though the town was formerly known as Burlington and was often referred to as Bollin’ton.

Contents

Other titles in the series

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Part One: Young Love

Part Two: Idle Hands

Part Three: Choices

Appendix: The Jordan Family Members

Coming soon (The last in the series) Book Five: 1727 to 1734

About the Author

Copyright

Part One

Young Love

Chapter 1

1720

It was springtime and young Francis Jordan was in love. Though he was almost thirteen years old, the object of his adoration, Milcah Gurwood, was twenty-one. The age difference did not matter to him except for one problem—his uncle Thomas. Here, sitting on a log in the garden beneath the apple tree, he could contemplate his chances in peace. After a day in the fields sowing beans, it was pleasant to be outside and alone while it was still light, much preferable to the cramped kitchen. If it wasn’t his young brothers being noisy and fighting for space, it was the chickens and the dog.

He picked at a bit of loose bark, deep in thought. As far back as he could remember, his uncle Thomas had been Milcah’s partner at every feast and celebration. He supposed this was natural since they were the same age, and yet he hated to see them dance together. He recalled only too well how Thomas had won the last bridal race, how he’d swaggered in front of her with the prize ribbon tied round his hat. He couldn’t deny that his uncle was handsome and matched her perfectly for height; the pair could have been brother and sister. Both had the same dark hair and a way of smiling that would melt ice. And he knew that most of Reighton expected Thomas to choose her for a wife.

He stood up, stretched, and strolled round the garden. It had been so fortunate that Milcah had stayed behind in Reighton; she could so easily have gone with her parents and sisters to live in the vicarage at Rudston. It had worked out perfectly for Milcah to live here with her brother, and help his wife and growing family. Now he could visit her whenever he liked, could just turn up at the door to offer assistance. And that was something Uncle Thomas would never do. Francis smiled to himself. His uncle would never fetch water from the well or mind the children. No, and Francis didn’t care what chores he was asked to do so long as he was near the lovely Milcah. She had such shiny hair and sparkling eyes, and was so gentle and graceful.

He took a last look at the buds on the tree, about to burst into leaf at any moment. They gave him hope. Right, he thought, my prospects might not look promising, but I’ll never give up.

He walked into the house, his head held high for a change.

After the usual rush to the table, Francis and his family settled down to eat their supper. Halfway through the meal, his father put down his spoon and stared at Francis.

‘You’ve been working hard lately, son. Would you like to go to Bridlington market with me?’

Francis gulped. His father usually ignored him, and never gave out praise. ‘Yes, please.’ His voice dropped a key unexpectedly as he added, ‘I can buy a present for Milcah.’

His father smiled and shook his head. The boy, he thought, would be a man soon and had a lot to learn.

It was just before dawn, one Saturday in April, when father and son set out for Bridlington. As a child, Francis had found the market a frightening place, but now he was nearly a man he was sure he’d be able to stomach the sights and smells. He sat behind his father on their best horse, sheltered from the worst of the wind and the blustery showers.

They arrived at eight o’clock when the major dealings were over and there was a little more space to move around the stalls. Having left the horse at the Nag’s Head, they ordered trenchers of boiled beef with pots of ale. Francis was unused to the noise and the strangers pushing and shoving. He ignored his father’s attempts at conversation, kept his head down and finished his food as fast as he could. Crowds of men made him uneasy and he was beginning to regret coming. He’d always got on better with women, like his aunt Elizabeth and the maids at his grandfather’s Uphall farm. Now he was afraid he’d let his father down by being such poor company. It was purely the thought of choosing something nice for Milcah that made the day bearable.

William scrutinised his eldest son, an odd lad, one he couldn’t fathom. Francis did a good day’s work, had a way of handling the oxen, and all the workers at Uphall appreciated his application. Yet the boy had now reached that peculiar age of being neither man nor boy, and looked uncomfortable and ungainly in his growing body. His nose was too big for his face, his eyebrows bushy, his lips thick and his legs way too long. William sighed; he couldn’t remember being that awkward himself.

‘Come on, lad, if you’ve nothing to say and you’ve finished, let’s be moving on.’

Francis was relieved to be outside in the fresh air, but it wasn’t that fresh. In the marketplace, the smell of blood hung in the air, and he had to step through the slippery waste thrown down by the butchers. The splinters of bone and raw flesh revived childhood memories of men fighting in the street and teeth being knocked out. All of a sudden, he felt queasy.

‘Father—let’s just go to the shops,’ he begged. ‘You see, I don’t know what to get Milcah. Maybe I’ll find something there.’

They threaded their way through the crowd and entered the nearest shop. While William bought sugar, Francis gazed at the yards of lace, the woollen stockings and the small gifts. He hadn’t a clue what to choose and so they came out again.

‘Oh, come on, lad, didn’t you see anything?’ When Francis shrugged, his father slapped him on the back. ‘Right then, let’s have another wander by the stalls.’

‘I was thinking maybe I could get Milcah some lace edging. In the shop it was only two pence a yard.’

‘Don’t bother, I can get it cheaper from a man I know in Hunmanby.’ He winked. ‘It’d be better quality too—from Holland.’

Francis guessed the lace was smuggled. ‘Well then,’ he mumbled, ‘maybe I could buy her stockings. There were some nice red ones.’

‘Don’t buy them from a shop. They’ll be cheaper outside. Come on, we’ll see up there at the knitting stall.’ He marched off.

‘I did see a nice wooden knitting sheath,’ Francis offered as he tried to catch up. ‘Perhaps Milcah would like one.’

His father turned to speak while he carried on walking. ‘You ought to make her one yourself. I made one for your mother when we were courting.’

Francis shuffled up the street behind his father, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. Soon, they reached the trestle table run by the local knitting school. The children showed them a variety of red, blue and plain woollen stockings at a penny a pair. Francis wanted to get Milcah something special, not anything she could knit herself, but he was running out of ideas. Since his father was already tapping his foot and gazing at the sky, he bought two pairs.

As the two of them wandered back down to the Nag’s Head, a quack stepped out, blocked their way and bade them inspect his array of medicines. Francis noticed there were pills to give a healthy complexion and, since Milcah was often pale, he plucked up courage and asked what was in them.

‘Best iron,’ was the reply. ‘Taken by all ladies o’ good breedin’. These put colour back i’ their cheeks. Thoo can ’ave ’em fo’ thruppence a box.’

When Francis saw that his father had already walked on and was chatting to a man draped in rabbit skins, he decided to buy a box. He hid it in his coat pocket knowing what his father would say, that the pills were probably just old iron filings crushed to powder, that they’d likely be mixed with unknown ingredients, and Sarah Ezard would have better things at home in Reighton. He caught up with his father. Neither of the presents were what he really wanted, and now he had no money left.

As he was about to ask if it was time to go home, there was a distant roar from the crowd. The noise came from further along the high street, towards the Priory. Everyone began to run in that direction, and Francis and his father had no choice but to go as well.

‘It’s a floggin’,’ was the general cry.

A pie man behind them yelled, ‘’Is name’s Edward Wilson. ’E was caught red-’anded wi’ stolen tools.’

William pushed Francis forward so his son could get a better view.

The thief was stripped to the waist and roped to the back of a cart. The man’s progress was so slow up the middle of the street, and the crowd cheered each time the whip cut into his back.

Francis saw the man had a piece of leather between his teeth; no doubt it stopped him from shouting out. At each sting of the lash, Francis flinched.

The men and women at each side cried for the whip to strike harder and faster. Their eyes glistened and their mouths drooled in excitement. Compelled to watch, Francis saw blood trickle down the man’s back and onto his breeches. Then he lost sight of him as the cart was towed along to the pillory in the marketplace.

The jeering spectators soon turned to follow the cart, and swept Francis along in their wake. He saw the man untied, lifted semi-conscious and dragged towards the pillory. Edward Wilson was not a tall man; a stool had to be brought for him to stand on so that his head and hands could reach the holes. Twice, he nearly slipped off, and would have choked or broken his skull if someone hadn’t held him in place.

It was the first time Francis had seen anyone in the pillory, and he soon realised it was a worse punishment than flogging; while one was disciplined and didn’t last long, the felon was now left at the mercy of the crowd. At least in the stocks a man could defend himself with his arms, whereas here in the pillory, the wrists were clamped tight. Francis could see Wilson’s fingers tremble as he waited for the onslaught. Being pelted with rotten eggs and cow dung, or even the odd dead rat, was one thing, but Francis saw that a few men had brought half bricks and cobblestones. The man would be lucky to get out alive.

Even William, who’d seen it all before, thought it was too much. He pulled Francis to the back of the mob where the boy puked by the roadside. William had hoped to have a few wagers at the cockfight behind the George Inn, yet it was obvious Francis was not up to it.

‘Come on, lad, cheer up! Let’s get you home. You’ll soon be seeing your precious Milcah.’

As they journeyed back, the sun came out. Francis forgot about the man in the pillory for a moment as he admired the views. The winter wheat was green and healthy, the blackthorn in full blossom, and every step of the horse brought him nearer to Milcah.

When they reached the top field of Reighton, Francis saw his young brother William busy scaring birds from the crops, firing at them with a catapult. On getting closer, he noted there was already a row of dead or injured crows mounted on sticks. Just as he was about to shout at him, he saw Milcah racing towards the field, her gown held up in her hands.

She stopped in front of his brother and looked furious. Francis couldn’t hear what she said, but she was waving her finger at William, and he was putting down his weapon and untying the crows. His father chuckled, amused at the scene as Francis slid off the horse and ran into the field. When he reached Milcah, he saw that she was upset.

‘I am so sorry,’ he cried, shaking his head in shame. ‘I apologise for my brother’s behaviour.’ He then glared at William. He’d seen enough cruelty for one day.

She rested a hand gently on his arm. ‘I’m sure your brother didn’t mean any harm. No doubt he’s been told to scare off the crows. It’s not all his fault.’

With that, William sneaked off to join his father.

Francis was left alone beside Milcah. He thought she was so kind and thoughtful, like gentle rain on long-parched earth.

‘I’ve brought you something from the market. Wait here. I’ll get them.’

While he took the package from his father, she calmed down and smoothed her rumpled gown.

‘I’m sorry Francis,’ she said as he returned, ‘I shouldn’t let myself get so upset. I can’t help it at times—especially when it’s your brother.’ She glanced beyond Francis at his father sitting placidly on the horse, not interfering. ‘I think young William needs more discipline.’

‘I’ll see to my brother,’ he promised. ‘Don’t worry.’ He waved to his father to carry on home without him; he wanted to walk back with her alone.

They stopped when they reached the garden gate. He held out the woollen stockings in their brown paper parcel.

She opened it, hoping there might be a pretty cotton print inside. ‘Oh, thank you—stockings.’ She hid her disappointment well.

Then he drew the box of pills from his jacket. ‘They’re highly recommended,’ he insisted as he pressed them into her hand.

Puzzled, she read the label. ‘Iron pills?’

‘Yes. Not that you’re pale or anything,’ he added quickly. ‘Ladies of good breeding take them.’

‘Oh… thank you very much.’ Then, feeling sorry for him, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He was a strange boy.

Francis almost skipped home. His day had been worth it after all.

Chapter 2

Throughout the spring, Francis paid court to Milcah. He gathered wild flowers on the cliffs and by the streams and always presented them to her on one knee. On Sundays, he took her and her young nephew George for walks to Speeton and back, carrying the boy on his shoulders while she carried presents of food for her sister Jane. Often, they were lucky enough to see her father as he still took the services there. Milcah’s eyes would light up on seeing him; at such times, she was more beautiful than ever. When the hawthorn came out in May, the lane leading to Speeton became an archway of pink and white blossom, like a bridal bouquet.

‘It’s like being at a wedding,’ he ventured, daring to dream of a future with Milcah.

She smiled but made no comment. As usual, she changed the subject and asked after his mother.

‘She’s well.’ He didn’t want to talk about his mother, now heavily pregnant and about to give birth at any time. The last thing he wanted was to be around when that happened.

On the day that Mary went into labour, Francis was out in the fields with his father. It was late in May, and Mary, left in the house with her three younger sons, had to manage as best she could. She wasn’t worried. Seven times now she’d given birth, and each time was quicker and easier. As soon as the all too familiar pains grew more frequent, she sent young William to fetch Sarah Ezard. Remembering the midwife’s arthritic hands, she sent John out as well to call for his aunt Elizabeth; the poor, backward boy, she hoped, should be able to achieve that at least. She enticed Richard to play under the kitchen table out of the way, and then paced the kitchen rubbing her back. She stopped to grip the table whenever her womb went into a spasm.

Richard, not yet three years old, crawled out and clutched the hem of his mother’s skirt. He pulled himself up and let his hands stray to touch her stomach, so huge, hard and round. He’d seen it quiver sometimes and couldn’t imagine the living thing inside. Whenever his mother gasped, he looked up with wide eyes.

‘It’s alright, Richard. Mother’s alright. Aunt Lizzie will be here soon, and your brothers will take you out to play. You be a good boy.’ Taken suddenly by another contraction, she lurched to grab the table again.

When young William returned with Sarah Ezard, the old woman told him to fill a pan with water and set it over the fire.

‘I can’t deliver bairn o’ me own,’ she warned Mary. ‘Not anymore I can’t.’

‘I know, don’t worry. Elizabeth’s coming—I hope. I sent John to fetch her.’

‘Poor lad,’ Sarah said with a smile, ‘’e does ’is best wi’ what brains ’e ’as.’

The back door opened and John almost fell through in his haste, followed by a concerned Elizabeth. He ran straight to his mother and wrapped his arms round her stomach.

‘Steady, John, you’re going to have a new brother or sister. It won’t be long. Go into the garden with Will. He’ll stay with you. You’ll find something to do—won’t you Will? And take your dog with you.’

Young William nodded. He certainly didn’t want to be around when a baby was born. Seeing Richard holding on to his mother’s skirt, he unlatched the boy’s fingers and dragged him to the door.

‘Come on, me and John will play with you.’ As he opened the door he called to the dog. ‘Come on, Stina— garden!’

As soon as the three women were alone, they moved to the parlour. There, Sarah gave her usual instructions for the birth. The curtains were drawn, candles lit and an old straw pallet placed on the bed. She took Elizabeth to one side.

‘Listen, if owt goes wrong,’ she whispered, ‘it’s thoo that’ll ’ave to deal with it. Me fingers ’ave ’ad it—look.’ She didn’t need to hold up her claw-like hands; the whole village knew of Sarah’s problem.

‘Just tell me what to do,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I’m sure Mary will be content with that.’

They listened for a while to the boys playing rowdily in the garden.

When Mary’s pains strengthened and her waters broke, she decided to kneel on the bed in readiness.

‘Leave tha shoes on,’ Sarah prompted. ‘It’s lucky.’

There was a crash and a flurry of wings outside. Elizabeth fought the urge to look out of the window. The boys were obviously chasing the chickens and they were likely ruining the vegetable plot.

Mary didn’t care. She focussed on the cramps now holding her womb in a vice. She faced the wooden bedhead and held on tight.

When she began to strain, Sarah signalled to Elizabeth to be ready.

Mary ground her teeth and pushed down hard. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed it be over soon. It wasn’t so easy after all. She’d had a baby almost every two years and she was tired. Experience was one thing, but she wasn’t so young anymore, and looking after four boys had taken its toll. Resigned to her fate, she took a few deep breaths and then heard herself grunt like an animal as she gave a final push.

The tiny baby slid out into Elizabeth’s waiting hands. She almost dropped it, not expecting it to come out so fast.

‘Give it a good rub,’ ordered Sarah. ‘Make it cry.’

The moment Elizabeth cleared its mouth, the baby obliged and yelled. Relieved, she held it up for Sarah to inspect.

‘Mary,’ Sarah announced, ‘thoo ’as another lad. Lisbeth—wash ’im an’ wrap ’im i’ yon sheet. In a while thoo can tie cord. Take me string, but wait till cord’s stopped throbbin’, then tie a good knot ’ere an’ ’ere.’

While they waited, Mary turned cautiously onto her back, minding the navel cord that lay heavy between her legs. The baby was passed to her and she tried to fit a nipple into his mouth. A dark red, puckered face was all that was visible from the sheet; he looked healthy enough.

‘Thank God,’ Mary whispered. ‘I don’t think I can do this much more.’

Sarah glanced at Elizabeth. Both were thinking the same—women didn’t have much say in that.

‘Come on, cheer up,’ Sarah said. ‘Keep tryin’ to feed ’im. It’ll ’elp tha womb to clean out.’

Almost immediately, the cord grew longer, and Elizabeth gasped. ‘Shall I pull it?’

‘Nay, for God’s sake! Stick yon sackcloth under Mary.’

The two helpers watched as the afterbirth flopped out and fresh blood clots followed. Sarah stood over the mess and examined it. She prodded and inspected it from all angles.

‘Aye, I think it’s all there. Now, Lisbeth, cord’s stopped throbbin’ so tie it where I said.’ She then passed Elizabeth her sharpest knife. ‘Cut it i’ one go. I know it looks thick an’ gristly, but yon knife’ll cut through it like butter.’

Elizabeth’s hand shook as she sliced through. Only a little blood appeared which she soon dabbed away.

‘Now I’ll show thee ’ow to make sure there’s nowt left inside. Thoo’ll ’ave to rub Mary’s womb. I’d do that but…’ She waved her useless fingers. ‘Press down wi’ both ’ands.’

Elizabeth did as she was told.

‘Steady—not too ’ard,’ advised Sarah. ‘Be firm though. I can’t explain… tha gets to know by feelin’ around where to press most. That’s right—move lower down.’

Mary felt the hot blood spurt between her legs. Soon there was just a trickle.

Sarah smiled with relief. ‘Thoo can stop now, Lisbeth. Clear it all away. Thoo can burn it o’ fire later—or bury it.’

Elizabeth folded the mess up inside the sacking and took it to the kitchen.

‘Thoo’s done well, lass,’ Sarah crooned as she stroked Mary’s damp hair away from her face. ‘Thoo doesn’t need me anymore, so I’ll leave thee to rest. Lisbeth will wash thee an’ swaddle tha bairn, an’ I’ll come back later.’

Mary thanked her and closed her eyes. All she need do now was let her body go limp and wait for her sister to wash her. Other women would arrive as soon as Sarah broke the news. They’d prepare the dinner and see to the boys, do all the cooking and housework. William would return from work with Francis, see the baby, and then he’d spend the next few weeks with his parents and family at Uphall. She smiled as she recalled how, years ago, she used to dread their separation. Now, she knew it was the best part of childbirth—to be left to recover in peace. She peered down at her new son, now asleep. Something about him reminded her of her brother Matthew. Maybe it was the high forehead. Perhaps he would prosper too.

Elizabeth returned to the parlour with warm water and began to wipe Mary’s arms. It was quiet—even the boys had calmed down outside. The only sound was the distant bleating of lambs and the ewes’ answering cries.

Mary closed her eyes again. The rite of being washed after giving birth was a time to cherish. After a while, as her legs were cleaned right down to her toes, she yawned and stretched.

‘Do you think I should call him Matthew?’ she murmured, half asleep.

‘I thought you were going to call your next son Ben.’

‘I was,’ she sighed, ‘yet the baby looks a bit like our brother, don’t you think? It might be lucky to name him after one who’s doing so well.’

‘I suppose so.’ Elizabeth still felt that the boy should be called Ben, but it wasn’t her decision. ‘Oh, alright,’ she conceded, ‘call him Matthew. He’s worked hard. It’s thanks to him that the Smiths are doing even better than the Jordans.’ She rinsed out the cloth and gave Mary’s legs a last wipe. ‘You should see his cattle herd now and the amount of pasture land he uses.’

Mary opened her eyes wide. ‘And he knows folk in high places. He won’t tell me, but I know he’s had money from smuggling.’

‘I bet you don’t know what he’s used his profits on—shares in that South Sea Company. He’s done it with a group from Hunmanby, probably Sir Richard Osbaldeston himself.’

‘Fine then, it should be a good omen to name the baby Matthew.’

Chapter 3

The birth of Matthew coincided with the annual spring fair at Bridlington. William thought it might be a good idea to take his three eldest boys. It would be their first experience of the Whitsun Fair, and would keep them away from all the women flocking to the house.

When Mary heard of the plan, her only concern was for John; the boy had little understanding and was small for his age. He might well have a face like a blessing, as the previous vicar used to say, yet he was a simple soul and easily hurt.

‘Promise me you’ll take good care of him,’ she pleaded.

‘Yes, yes, don’t fret. Thomas and Samuel are going with me—we’ll have a boy each.’

‘Alright then,’ she agreed, though she doubted that William’s brothers would be of much use.

On the day of the fair, Mary summoned the boys to her bedside. It was a bright, sunny morning with a clear blue sky, perfect weather for a ride to Bridlington. She eyed them up and down as they gathered round the bed, scrubbed clean and in their best Sunday clothes.

Young William grabbed Stina by the collar. ‘Can I take the dog?’

‘No, and listen, boys, when you get there, mind the gypsies. If you’re not careful, they’ll cut your pockets and steal your money. Stay close to your father and uncles at all times—and keep away from the beer booths and the dancing. Now, don’t look so glum. I do want you to have a good time—just don’t forget what I’ve told you.’ She smiled. ‘And bring me back something nice.’

They promised to behave and took turns to kiss her goodbye. Young William also kissed the dog.

As they left the room, she held on to Francis for a moment. ‘Keep an eye on John. See that he doesn’t get upset. I can’t trust your father or especially your uncle Thomas.’

As they made their way to Uphall, Francis glared at his brothers and wished they were not going with him. Young William hobbled along with such a lopsided gait it was embarrassing, and poor John shuffled alongside like a stray lamb. He hurried them up the hill as best he could. Even so, when they reached the stable, he found his uncles mounted and ready to go.

His father, annoyed by the wait, shook his head in exasperation and then hoisted up the youngest boys to sit behind their uncles. ‘Come on, Francis, I’ll give you a leg up. You’re with me.’

He led the way out of the yard, and the group rode three abreast up the hill and out of Reighton. Once they were on the top road, he began to explain to his sons what they might expect.

‘You know it’s mostly a cattle fair? You must have seen your uncle Matthew’s herd moving out of Reighton yesterday. Apart from the Smiths’ cattle, there’ll be lots of milk cows, some near calving, as well as heifers and bullocks. They’re driven from all over and put to pasture near the Priory. Today, they’ll be sold.’

Francis wasn’t listening. It was very early in the morning and he was feeling at one with the fresh glory of the day. The hawthorn trees were still heavy with blossom, their branches weighed down almost to the ground, and the grass at the side of the road was lush and studded with dandelions. In a trance, he gazed at the profusion of colours—golden yellow standing brilliant against clusters of violet-blue bellflowers. Red campion, and what Milcah called soldiers’ buttons, filled the hedgerows, the various pink and red flowers swaying in the breeze. He lifted his nose to catch the scent of wild thyme, and sighed as he imagined Milcah sitting there amid the grass and flowers.

His dream was broken as a group of men appeared suddenly behind them and yelled at them to make way.

As his father drew the horse to one side, the men raced past. ‘They’re eager,’ he grumbled. ‘Must be cattle dealers.’

‘Aye,’ Thomas agreed, ‘you boys’ll be seeing lots of them soon. As we get nearer town, there’ll be big crowds and everyone will be heading to High Green.’

On the approach to Bridlington, young William and John hardly knew where to look. So many farmers and their families were arriving, and they were such a noisy lot.

‘They’re after a good time,’ explained their uncle Samuel. ‘You can’t blame them. They’ll want to meet up with people they haven’t seen for a year.’

Thomas turned in his saddle and grinned. ‘And tonight there’ll be a pleasure fair on the green. There’ll be even more folk then.’

‘Yes,’ his father snorted, ‘and there’ll be no grass left after all their stomping about.’

When they’d left their horses at the Nag’s Head, they set off to walk to the green. On the way they passed a gang of lads leaning idly against a wall. Young William, sensitive about the way he walked, was sure the lads meant him when he overheard one snigger and remark to the others.

‘’E’s got one leg shorter than t’other—or is ’e a mariner who’s lost ’is ship? ’E wants to be down at quayside. ’E’d fit i’ there right enough.’

Young William kept his head down. He told himself that he mustn’t rise to the bait, must ignore them.

As they strolled on, John was puzzled and pulled on his father’s sleeve. ‘Why is Will upset?’

‘I’m not upset,’ his brother growled.

‘Your face is red.’

‘Shut up. You don’t know anything.’

‘Father, his face is red.’

‘Leave him alone John. I’ll explain later. Come on, let’s get to the fair.’

They carried on in silence, John still frowning and sneaking glances at his brother. So far, John was not enjoying his first trip to Bridlington. Like Francis on his first visit, he was shocked. It wasn’t the smell that bothered him; he was used to sweaty bodies, pissy straw and shit. What upset him was the noise. It was very quiet in Reighton, but here the men and women shouted and swore and laughed so loudly. And the animals were scary; cattle bellowed, pigs squealed as if being slaughtered, and the sheep bleated pitifully. Women jostled past him carrying live chickens upside down with their legs tied together and, as he went by the large pond at the bottom end of the green, there were dead rats floating in the scum.

His father hurried him past a stall displaying rows of freshly killed rabbits. They were hanging upside down with their noses dripping thick, dark gobbets of blood onto the grass. When he bumped into people, they all seemed to have something wrong with them, either a mouth full of broken, brown teeth or their faces scarred by pockmarks. A few even had an arm or a leg missing. Seeing ugliness and filth on every side, he began to cry.

Francis, although he’d suffered similarly as a child, showed no sympathy.

‘Grow up. You’re at a fair, not at home with Mother. What did you expect?’ Yet Francis was not immune to the sights and noise. To distract himself, he thought of Milcah’s smile and the way she smelled of lavender. He was daydreaming about how pure and clean she was when his uncles pointed out the sideshows. A placard advertised a female Samson.

They paid the small entry fee and squeezed into the tent for a peep. Francis turned up his nose; the place was hot and stuffy and stank of stale sweat and sawdust. His father pushed him and his brothers to the front where a rope prevented them getting any closer. There they saw a man standing beside what looked like a woman with a beard. Black hair sprouted from her armpits, and her bare arms bulged when she flexed them. The man prodded her various muscles with a cane and praised her extraordinary strength.

Francis hated her. She was the very opposite of Milcah. Why any woman would want to behave and dress so indecently, let alone grow a beard, was beyond him. He watched, disheartened, as the man fastened her long hair to an anvil and announced that she would lift it.

The crowd murmured in disbelief as the man counted to three. With a few grunts and then a great intake of breath, the woman’s hair took the strain. The anvil rose into the air, a foot off the ground. The crowd applauded, impressed, and the anvil was lowered and her hair untied. The man then set up two chairs for her to lay across with her head and shoulders on one chair and her feet on the other. He asked for volunteers to come forward and sit on her stomach.

To Francis’s shame, his father stepped under the rope to join two other volunteers. The first man sat very gingerly on the woman. The audience gasped as she took the weight.

The second man approached and decided to clamber over as if mounting a horse. The spectators laughed as he swung his legs back and forth.

‘Gee up!’ he shouted.

‘Gee up!’ echoed John.

‘Shush,’ Francis snapped. ‘It’s not right. And don’t laugh. It’s not funny.’

The boys held their breath as their father moved forward for his turn.

Francis crossed his fingers. ‘Please,’ he murmured through gritted teeth, ‘sit on properly.’

His father stood by the woman, undecided where to add his weight. When he did sit down, the crowd cheered.

Even Francis was astounded. It was no mean feat to support three full-grown men. He was relieved when the show was over and his father rejoined them; now they could go back outside.

‘Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?’ William prompted his sons.

‘I liked it when she was a horse,’ cried John, full of excitement.

Francis rolled his eyes.

‘And,’ added young William with a whistle, ‘I thought she’d never be able to take three men!’

‘I’ll take you to other shows. There’ll be lots to see.’

The tent with the mermaid was a disappointment. They could see it was just a young woman with a pretend tail attached, and Francis felt sorry for her having to lie in a trough of cold water all day. He had no idea what John was thinking; the boy gaped in silence, probably storing away things he couldn’t understand. Having seen a live sheep with two heads, which was certainly real because he stroked both the heads, John had no reason to believe the mermaid was not real either.

The tent with the dwarf and the giant was interesting, though people shouted out bawdy questions. Francis could tell that the dwarf, at least, was getting angry. The giant, however, looked half asleep and seemed content to be gawped at for a half penny a time.

As the boys grew accustomed to the noise and bustle, they began to enjoy the day. There were jugglers on the green and dancing dogs wearing fancy hats. Music came from all sides, and brightly coloured flags waved from above the tents. They passed a whole hog roasting on a spit, the smell of burnt crackling making their mouths water. At this point, Thomas and Samuel slipped away to the ale booth, and William, seeing that the boys were hungry, bought small beer and pies.

They sat down on the grass, leaning against a tent, and sucked warm, greasy mutton through the hole in the top of the pastry. In no time, John had gravy dribbling down his front, ruining his best shirt.

Francis was disgusted. ‘You’re almost six! You should be able to feed yourself better by now.’ He wondered if John would be like this all his life.

Once the piecrusts were eaten, William announced that there was one more thing they ought to see.

‘Come on,’ he said, brushing crumbs off his breeches, ‘your uncles’ll be there already. They’ll want to place a bet.’

Francis pulled a face as he stood up. ‘But Father, we won’t have time to spend our money. We have to take something back for Mother.’ And he wanted to buy a gift for Milcah.

‘Oh, you’ll have time for that. You can buy your trinkets and toys or whatever you want afterwards—and then we’ll go home.’ He grinned and rubbed his hands. ‘We really don’t want to miss this.’

Francis crossed his fingers again. He hoped whatever it was would be pleasant and wouldn’t take long.

Chapter 4

William led his sons through the crowd, and then managed to wriggle them to the front where they could see a bull tethered. The butchers of the town were displaying their dogs and taking bets. The boys’ uncles were also at the front; they were eyeing up the dogs, searching for scars of former fights and assessing which dogs looked most ferocious and primed for action.

Francis, trapped by the crowd, realised with horror that he was about to witness a bull baiting. The dogs had caught the scent of the bull and were slavering and pulling on their ropes.

His father pointed to them. ‘See their jaws? That bottom one overlaps the top so it can get a good grip and not let go. They’re bred specially.’

As he said this, the dogs shook their heads. Saliva and froth flew in every direction.

‘And do you see their flat noses that stick up? That means they can still breathe if they have a chunk of bull in their mouths.’

Francis didn’t want to know the details, but his father hadn’t finished.

‘And look at all those folds of skin on their faces. Those wrinkles let the blood drain away—it won’t get in the dogs’ eyes.’

Young William was impressed. He watched open-mouthed and gulped at the thought of what was to come.

Francis longed to escape. The spectators were rowdy and never stopped jostling for a better view. He thought of Milcah, tried to imagine himself in the garden with her, and presenting a better gift than last time.

Young William noticed the glazed stare in his brother’s eyes and gave him a hefty shove. Francis was caught unawares and he fell forward towards the bull. He leapt back immediately.

‘You fool!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for?’

His brother had a smug grin on his face. ‘You were dreaming again.’

John was silent, his face gentle and blank as he gazed at the curly-headed bull.

His father followed his eyes and remarked on the beast. ‘Yes, John, it’s a fine, young bull—just over two years old, I reckon. It’ll make good eating. See its broad shoulders? It’ll fight well, I’m sure. And those horns, look… I bet they could do some damage.’

‘Will the bull come at us?’ asked John.

‘No, son, don’t worry. You can see the rope round its horns—it’s fixed to that ring in the ground over there. It can’t come any nearer than this. The rope will hold it.’ He didn’t tell him that a frantic bull did sometimes snap the rope and charge the crowd; it was part of the excitement and entertainment. Though he’d never seen it happen himself, he trusted his brothers to help save the boys if anything went wrong.

John pressed back into his father’s legs. Despite his fear, he liked the bull. It had a white blaze on its face and tawny curls between the horns. Its body was the colour of burnt gingerbread. He didn’t like the look of the butchers. They held their dogs by the scruff of their necks or by their ears and, as the dogs growled to be set free, the men shouted and swore. He wondered why one of the men blew pepper up the bull’s nose. The bull obviously hated it, and stamped its feet and shook its head, pulling against the rope.

Francis detested any kind of fighting, but there was no way out. The men had drawn lots as to which dog would go first and, at last, a dog was set loose. It was young and ran straight at the bull’s head. The bull was quick to react and flipped the dog up with one horn. To the delight of the crowd, the dog flew howling high into the air while the butcher who owned him ran forward with a long pole. He wielded the pole so deftly that the dog slid down it and landed at his feet. After a quick inspection, the dog was found to be only slightly injured. It was deemed fit enough to be sent in later.

The next dog was older and had a torn ear. The butcher struggled to hold it back as it snarled and foamed at the mouth. Suddenly, it was released and set at the bull. This time the dog was sly. It crouched low, almost on its belly and inched forwards. The bull lowered its head in defence, ready to gore and toss its attacker. As the dog crept round in a circle, the bull kept track of its path. All at once, the dog sprang at the bull’s head, intending to bite its nose, but the bull swivelled and the dog locked onto one ear instead. The bull roared in pain as the dog hung there, refusing to let go, blood spilling from the ear and flying into the crowd.

When young William’s face was spattered, Francis couldn’t tell whether his brother was pleased or horrified.

Uncle Thomas laughed. ‘It’s good for you, boys—it’ll make men of you.’

The bull bucked and spun round, trying to rid itself of the dog yet without success. A minute later, another dog was sent in to distract the bull while the other was prised off. Half the ear came with it.

John was disturbed. There was a lot of blood about and the air smelled of rusty knives. As the men around him grew excited, they gave off a sharp smell; it was all very unsettling. He held onto his father’s arm for comfort.

‘You see,’ his father explained, ‘the idea is for the dog to pin the bull to the ground by the nose, and keep it still. The nose is rather tender.’ He stood tall again and grinned at his brothers. ‘Of course, there are other very tender places, though I wouldn’t like to be the dog hanging onto those bits!’

As if William had tempted fate, the next dog did just that. It ran round the bull, shot under its hind legs and made a grab for the scrotum. The bull, however, twisted its head in time and managed to slide a horn under the dog’s belly. The poor dog was tossed into the air. It landed close to the bull and was trampled. Three men ran forward with poles. They kept the bull off and dragged the mangled body to one side. The owner cursed and spat into the dust, angry at losing his bet. He then clubbed the dog on the head to put it out of its misery.

Both Francis and John were speechless. They had no time to recover for the crowd yelled for more action as the next dog was set on.

‘That’s a champion,’ declared Thomas. ‘We’ve seen it perform at Kilham. That’s why my money’s on it. Look—it’s been stitched up a few times.’

Samuel turned to him. ‘Do you remember that time they tied a cat to the bull’s tail? That was at Kilham. We had fun that day.’ Both uncles watched transfixed as the dog flattened itself to the ground and crawled forward, bull and dog eyeing each other closely.

‘That dog,’ boasted Thomas, ‘can bite the bull’s snout if any dog can. You’ll see.’

For what seemed like ages, the dog manoeuvred around the bull, waiting for the moment to pounce. Then, without warning, it leapt up and grasped the bull’s nose in its jaws. It held on tight as a vice, and hung on defiantly while the bull shook its head, stamped and kicked in an attempt to shake it off.

The spectators sensed the danger of the game. They shouted at the dog to keep hold, and cheered every futile move made by the bull.

Francis guessed a lot of money was riding on the outcome. All about him were contorted faces mad with excitement, yelling abuse at the bull and each other. A couple of butchers began to brawl, and the crowd cheered them on too. He knew his mother would never have wanted them there. He glanced at his father and saw only enjoyment in the flushed face and wide eyes. His brother John was so pale he might be sick any moment, while his brother William and his two uncles stood craning forward like young warriors out for the kill.

The bull had lost a deal of blood and, unable to rid itself of the dog, it began to tire. The disappointed spectators grew restless. One of the butchers sensed the mood of the crowd; he walked right up to the bull and threw salt at its torn ear.

The people had their fun a little longer. Enraged, the bull made a last attempt to shake off the dog, and yet the loose jowls were suffocating it and it soon tired again. Now, down on its knees, it was ready for slaughter. The dog still gripped the bull’s nose, but the owner stepped forward and eased its jaws apart. He then held it up as the victor.

Thomas and Samuel grabbed each other and jumped up and down as the losing spectators wandered off, not interested to see the bull killed.

Francis and John did not want to see any more. They turned their backs ready to leave.

‘We can’t go yet,’ said their father. ‘Your uncle Thomas hasn’t got his money. Anyway,’ he added with a smile, ‘it’ll be good for you to see it to the finish.’

Francis took hold of John’s hand. They could see the bull’s head lolling wearily on its huge shoulders. It looked as if it was crying, for its face was wet below the eyes. When they saw a butcher walk towards it carrying a sledgehammer, they closed their eyes. This didn’t stop them hearing the crack of the skull. They opened their eyes to see the bull being untied and hauled off through the dirt by two horses.

‘Why?’ Francis cried. ‘Why can’t bulls be killed like pigs? Kill them quick and have done with it?’

‘You know why,’ his father answered. ‘You know perfectly well why bulls are baited before slaughter. Anyone will tell you the meat’s better. It’s the struggle of the fight—it makes the meat tender. You’d be glad to eat it. I can get you some if you like.’

‘No, thank you. I’d rather starve.’

‘Alright then. Next time we have beef I’ll remind you.’

‘I’ll have his share,’ piped up young William.

His father smiled and ruffled his hair. At least he could understand one of his sons.

As promised, there was time to walk round the stalls that sold local goods and trinkets. The men spent a while buying leather straps and belts, allowing the three boys freedom to choose whatever they wanted. Young William bought a small knife and tucked it proudly into his belt while John chose a tin trumpet. Francis spent his money on an embroidered handkerchief for Milcah. Between them, the boys bought a bag of bright red and green boiled sweets for their mother and, in their pleasure over their purchases, Francis and John forgot about the bull for a while.

On the journey back to Reighton, Francis looked forward to giving his gift to Milcah. The ride would have been pleasant but for disturbing thoughts about Uncle Thomas. Having seen the cruel pleasure on his uncle’s face during the bull baiting, he was now more certain than ever that Thomas should never marry Milcah. How he might prevent such a match was as yet a mystery.

Chapter 5

Milcah felt sorry for Mary confined to the house and garden in June with her latest child. As her young nephew George could now walk for longer distances, she was able to take him down the hill to St Helen’s Lane and so spend time there with Mary. The women could sit in the garden together and enjoy the warm weather. They could both sew and mend while minding the children. She knew that Mary’s boy, Richard, was a restless child, yet having another toddler around focussed his attention and calmed him down. As for the new baby, Matthew was docile, took his milk without fuss and slept for hours at a time—by far the easiest of all Mary’s children.

While the two women sat in the shade of the apple tree, they enjoyed long conversations. Mary wondered how Milcah had ever earned a reputation for being quiet, for the young woman had opinions on everything. It soon became apparent that Milcah did not get on too well with her sister-in-law. One afternoon, they sat knitting peacefully in the shade of the apple tree while the boys played at their feet with balls of wool.

‘I love my brother,’ Milcah confided, ‘but I really can’t see that Dorothy and I have anything in common—apart from my brother of course. All Dorothy wants to talk about is London fashions. And she never asks how George has been, she just wants to know who I’ve seen and who’s doing what. She loves to gossip.’

‘You’d better be careful then,’ advised Mary. ‘She’s from Bridlington, and a woman like that can cause trouble. Watch what you say.’

‘I don’t tell her anything, but I can tell she hates me for it.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. She’ll just be disappointed.’

‘She needs me—I look after George. That’s the only reason she’s polite.’

To change the subject, Mary asked after Milcah’s brother.

‘Oh, John—he’s the same as ever. Every night he plays his fiddle. He’s started buying sheets of music from that chapman who calls round. There are some lovely tunes—you know, for the children’s rhymes. Maybe he could come here one night and play for you and the boys.’

‘Only if you promise to come too, and sing for us.’

Milcah blushed. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ll sing for the children, but only for them.’ She was quiet for a moment and then sighed. ‘You know I miss my sisters so much, and my parents, especially in the evenings. I know I see my father sometimes on a Sunday, but it’s not the same. I loved it when we read together.’

Conversations often ended like this. Mary knew it had been Milcah’s choice to stay in Reighton when the rest of her family moved to Rudston, yet she understood the girl’s regret. She missed the vicar and his wife too; they’d been a comfort for so many years, and the Gurwood girls had brought life and colour to the village.

‘Are your parents and sisters settled in their new home?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes. It seems even Mother likes it. There’s more room, and Cecilia even has her own bed.’

‘You’re not thinking of joining them?’

‘No. I’m happy here.’

Mary could see that Milcah was putting on a brave face. She decided she must befriend her more, include the girl in tasks around the house and garden.

The fine summer weather meant that the hens were often giving two eggs a day. Mary and Milcah searched the garden with the two young boys and scrabbled about in the hedge bottom. Mary was keen to remind Richard about safe egg collecting. She called to him to come and feel one of the eggs.

‘Is it warm at one end and cool at the other?’ When he’d felt it against his cheek she asked, ‘Has it just been laid then? Is it fresh?’

After gathering a basketful, she put any dubious eggs in a bucket of water. She stood Richard in front of it. ‘What do we do? We throw away any that float.’

They also picked shepherd’s purse to feed to the hens. ‘That’ll give darker yolks,’ she explained.

One day, Mary noticed that the hens were bullying and pecking the smallest one, and it was losing its feathers. She sent Milcah to get pine tar from Sarah Ezard and then showed the boys how to smear it on the sore, bald patches.

‘That’ll teach those hens,’ she said as she wiped her hands on the grass. ‘When they try pecking her now, they’ll get tar all over their beaks. They’ll spend all day trying to get it off.’

Mary was so much happier having Milcah as a companion, a female presence in her all-male household. She often wondered if her own daughter, had she lived, would have grown to be such a close friend. Now, Mary woke up each morning in optimistic mood, knowing the day ahead would be shared with a sympathetic soul. She began to experiment with food again—something she hadn’t done for years.

The children never knew what they’d eat next. Even their breakfasts were different as Mary added fruits in season or put raisins in their porridge. One day, she flavoured their omelettes with tansy leaves. The older boys didn’t mind, but the younger two held their noses.

She laughed. ‘That’s why we use the leaves to keep flies off the meat.’

Milcah took an interest in Mary’s herb garden and, over the summer, they made a variety of sauces together. William grumbled at first, yet grew to like the fennel sauce and the unnamed ‘green’ sauces his wife concocted. When he mentioned them to his father, he got a terse reply.

‘Brown gravy an’ white sauce,’ he muttered, ‘it’s all we ever ’ad, an’ more than some poor folks got.’ William didn’t mention Mary’s food again. He should have known his father wouldn’t approve of anything fancy.

Both women looked forward to their long days together. When the weather became hot, Mary got William to put a large tub outside and fill it with water.

‘When Milcah arrives,’ she explained, ‘we’re going to take all the bedding outside. We’ll get rid of the winter bugs and give everything a good clean.’

They arrayed the various beds and mattresses about the garden until it resembled an auction sale. The boys toddled in and out of the rows while the women gathered the linen and put it in to soak. Mary made a flour paste to rub in wherever there were soiled patches. After much scrubbing, they held the sheets out between them and twisted them hard to get out most of the water.

By this time the boys were tired and so Mary wheeled two barrows into the garden; in one went the wet linen, in the other she put the boys.

‘Wait, Milcah, while I get the baby. I’ll strap him to my chest and then I can wheel one barrow and you can wheel the other to Uphall. William’s told his mother to have a big pot of hot water ready.’

As they pushed the barrows up the hill, Mary knew she could not have done all the laundering on her own. Milcah was a godsend.

One morning, Mary chose to sweep the chimney. With Milcah’s help, she moved every utensil and every bit of kitchen furniture into the garden. Then she improvised a pen outside for the children. As soon as the two boys were out of the way, and the baby was asleep in his crib in the parlour, she fetched the goose wing. With no warning to Milcah, she shoved it right up the chimney.

Milcah leapt back as more soot fell out than expected. Mary’s bonnet, her face, her hands and her arms were black.

‘Oh, Lord,’ gasped Milcah and began to giggle. ‘Oh, Mary, you should see yourself.’

‘Don’t laugh,’ Mary spluttered and then began to giggle as well. ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll chase you with my sooty hands.’ With that, she lunged at Milcah who dodged out of the way and escaped into the garden. Mary ran after her and chased her round the children’s pen. She stumbled and laughed while the two boys clapped their hands in excitement, and then she collapsed onto the square of grass, still giggling.

Milcah joined her, holding her aching sides. ‘I think, Mary, you’d better find cleaner jobs for us. Come on,’ she cried, and wiped the tears from her eyes with her new handkerchief.

Mary noticed the embroidery. ‘That’s pretty.’

‘Your Francis brought it from the fair.’

Mary remembered she’d been brought nothing but boiled sweets. ‘I hope he’s not bothering you.’

‘No, not really. He’s kind and thoughtful.’

Mary was not so sure. She hoped the silly boy wouldn’t make a fool of himself. ‘Come on, there’s the kitchen to put back together, and then we must wash ourselves. Dorothy won’t want you bringing soot into her house. Tomorrow, let’s go out and collect wild herbs.’