explode. Like to give me
a hand shifting this lot to Ducker’s Field? I’ll carry ya. Don’t want ya daggling
in the mire and spoiling yer clothes.’ He prodded woolly rumps with his cruck.
‘Here, Fidget!’ he shouted as they crossed the field. ‘That
lass is getting timeworn. Twiss was one of hers from years went. I’ve bred from
the Fidget family since I was a lad. I’m training Trumpeter, one of her young
‘uns.’
‘I’m training Twiss. If he sits when I tell him, and if he don’t
bark I give him a treat.’
‘What kind o’ treat?’
‘I break crimps of pastry off the edges of mammy’s pies. She
keeps ‘em in the larder.’
‘Don’t yer mother notice?’
‘She thinks it’s the mousies.’
‘Well, take a tip from an old plodder, I wouldn’t keep doing
that. You don’t want yer ma upset; especially now she’s got another bairn on
the way.’
Solemnly, she agreed.
They drew near the field gate.
‘Does Fidget like rabbiting?’
‘I don’t let her run wild; she needs a concentrating mind to
work the sheep.’
‘Twiss hates it when Wakelin takes him rabbiting. I helped mammy
make a rabbit and onion pie. Wakelin says the man at the manor house, with
caterpillars on his head, don’t like him. Wakelin wants heaps of money.’
‘Well, he’s landed on his feet; he’s doing fine at the
finishing shop. I know our Martha’s proud of him.’
Fidget drove in the sheep.
‘Best get ‘ee home afore the clouds start emptying again.’
Crossing Miller’s Bridge they saw Martha stomping towards
them.
‘Now we’re in for it, One-Quart.’
‘Want to know where I’ve been?’ Martha demanded. ‘All the
way to the embankment, searching for you. Look at my frock, the hem’s soaked!’
‘She followed the sheep,’ her father apologised. He tweaked
Eppie’s ear. ‘You’d best not run off like that ag’in. ‘T’ain’t right ya should
cause yer ma such fretting.’
‘I’m not angry,’ Martha repented, seeing Eppie’s sorrowful
face, ‘though I see I’ll have to pin you to my apron like the glove-makers do
to their children.’
‘No, Mammy!’
‘I’m only speaking in jest.’
Hearing laughter, Samuel said, ‘Seems there’s a mite o’
merrymaking in your yard.’
Eppie dashed into the garden. Scrambling onto her wooden
block, she peered into the pigsty. Bubbles surfaced from the puddle into which
the Tamworths’ snouts were sunk. ‘Why ain’t Pease and Pudding walking? Is they
dying?’
‘Far from it,’ Gillow answered. ‘They’re stewed.’
‘Can’t you smell the beer?’ Claire asked.
Contented snorts and grunts came from the prostrate
creatures.
‘It was the bucket of barley and pea-meal that you
gave them, wasn’t it?’ Martha asked.
Eppie stared at her, nonplussed.
Martha nipped into the wring-shed. ‘It’s still here. You’ve
fed them liquid ale must!’
Chuckling, Henry made to leave. Though only in his middle
years, he had a distinctive crop of shoulder-length white hair. ‘See you later at
The Duck for a game of skittles, Gillow.’
Claire prodded her husband in the back. ‘Aren’t you forgetting
something?’
‘Huh?’
‘Like the reason we dropped by in the first place?’
‘Malstowe’s expanding,’ Henry said. ‘More labourers are
journeying to the town in search of work. That means more wagons on the lanes.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’ Martha asked, mystified.
‘Sometimes you make me want to rip out my hair, Henry,’ said
his wife. ‘You have such a round-about way of telling folk things.’ Claire
turned to her sister. ‘We all get tired of the lane, don’t we? The potholes are
frequently clotted with mud and rainwater and easy to trip over.’
‘And into.’ Martha grinned knowingly at Eppie.
‘The long and short of it is, our lane needs improving,’
Henry said. ‘Prisoners from Malstowe jail are being drafted in to lay an improved
surface.’
‘Prisoners!’
a hand shifting this lot to Ducker’s Field? I’ll carry ya. Don’t want ya daggling
in the mire and spoiling yer clothes.’ He prodded woolly rumps with his cruck.
‘Here, Fidget!’ he shouted as they crossed the field. ‘That
lass is getting timeworn. Twiss was one of hers from years went. I’ve bred from
the Fidget family since I was a lad. I’m training Trumpeter, one of her young
‘uns.’
‘I’m training Twiss. If he sits when I tell him, and if he don’t
bark I give him a treat.’
‘What kind o’ treat?’
‘I break crimps of pastry off the edges of mammy’s pies. She
keeps ‘em in the larder.’
‘Don’t yer mother notice?’
‘She thinks it’s the mousies.’
‘Well, take a tip from an old plodder, I wouldn’t keep doing
that. You don’t want yer ma upset; especially now she’s got another bairn on
the way.’
Solemnly, she agreed.
They drew near the field gate.
‘Does Fidget like rabbiting?’
‘I don’t let her run wild; she needs a concentrating mind to
work the sheep.’
‘Twiss hates it when Wakelin takes him rabbiting. I helped mammy
make a rabbit and onion pie. Wakelin says the man at the manor house, with
caterpillars on his head, don’t like him. Wakelin wants heaps of money.’
‘Well, he’s landed on his feet; he’s doing fine at the
finishing shop. I know our Martha’s proud of him.’
Fidget drove in the sheep.
‘Best get ‘ee home afore the clouds start emptying again.’
Crossing Miller’s Bridge they saw Martha stomping towards
them.
‘Now we’re in for it, One-Quart.’
‘Want to know where I’ve been?’ Martha demanded. ‘All the
way to the embankment, searching for you. Look at my frock, the hem’s soaked!’
‘She followed the sheep,’ her father apologised. He tweaked
Eppie’s ear. ‘You’d best not run off like that ag’in. ‘T’ain’t right ya should
cause yer ma such fretting.’
‘I’m not angry,’ Martha repented, seeing Eppie’s sorrowful
face, ‘though I see I’ll have to pin you to my apron like the glove-makers do
to their children.’
‘No, Mammy!’
‘I’m only speaking in jest.’
Hearing laughter, Samuel said, ‘Seems there’s a mite o’
merrymaking in your yard.’
Eppie dashed into the garden. Scrambling onto her wooden
block, she peered into the pigsty. Bubbles surfaced from the puddle into which
the Tamworths’ snouts were sunk. ‘Why ain’t Pease and Pudding walking? Is they
dying?’
‘Far from it,’ Gillow answered. ‘They’re stewed.’
‘Can’t you smell the beer?’ Claire asked.
Contented snorts and grunts came from the prostrate
creatures.
‘It was the bucket of barley and pea-meal that you
gave them, wasn’t it?’ Martha asked.
Eppie stared at her, nonplussed.
Martha nipped into the wring-shed. ‘It’s still here. You’ve
fed them liquid ale must!’
Chuckling, Henry made to leave. Though only in his middle
years, he had a distinctive crop of shoulder-length white hair. ‘See you later at
The Duck for a game of skittles, Gillow.’
Claire prodded her husband in the back. ‘Aren’t you forgetting
something?’
‘Huh?’
‘Like the reason we dropped by in the first place?’
‘Malstowe’s expanding,’ Henry said. ‘More labourers are
journeying to the town in search of work. That means more wagons on the lanes.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’ Martha asked, mystified.
‘Sometimes you make me want to rip out my hair, Henry,’ said
his wife. ‘You have such a round-about way of telling folk things.’ Claire
turned to her sister. ‘We all get tired of the lane, don’t we? The potholes are
frequently clotted with mud and rainwater and easy to trip over.’
‘And into.’ Martha grinned knowingly at Eppie.
‘The long and short of it is, our lane needs improving,’
Henry said. ‘Prisoners from Malstowe jail are being drafted in to lay an improved
surface.’
‘Prisoners!’
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