The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson

like you know about such things?’
    Esther laughed. ‘’Tis nature, ain’t it?’
    Sam sniffed again, dropped his hedge knife and walked back with her to the sty to take a look for himself.
    Esther giggled as she walked along beside him, and added, ‘The chap who used to bring the boar to me aunt’s always used to ask, “Is the sow ready, is she flushed – just like a strawberry – at the back?” ’
    Sam stopped and looked at her. Then a slow smile spread across his shrunken mouth and a chuckle from somewhere deep within forced its way out. ‘Eh, lass,’ he shook his head. ‘You’ll be the death o’ me.’
    Esther grinned back at him.
    Sam reached the sty, opened the door and went inside, whilst Esther watched from the doorway. He stood behind the pig and leant his hands on her haunches. The sow blinked but did not move away. ‘Aye, lass, I reckon you’re right.’ Sam stood a moment looking down at the huge sow with her wiry, curling coat. ‘Well, old girl,’ he said as if to the pig, but at his next words Esther knew he intended her to hear. ‘I reckon this wench here has saved your bacon. If ya d killed yar litter again this year, you were fer me knife come autumn.’
    Sam looked directly up at Esther and laughed wheezily again. ‘Go up to Tom Willoughby’s and ask him to bring his boar as soon as he can. Tell him she’s as flushed as a strawberry. He’ll like that, will Tom.’
    Tom Willoughby did like it. He leant back and roared with laughter, his great belly wobbling, the grey whiskers of his long sideburns quivering, his fat cheeks growing redder by the second. He was a huge man, tall and broad and obviously jovial. ‘So it’s true what I’ve heard about you, lass?’
    ‘That depends on what ya’ve heard, mester.’ She stood before him, smiling at his infectious laughter.
    He drew a large red and white spotted kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Will Benson told us that Sam had got a rare lass working for him now. A rare lass, ’ee said. I reckon ’ee’s right.’
    Esther’s smile broadened but she made no comment. She expected that every farm for miles around on Will’s route would know she had come to live and work at Brumbys’ Farm.
    ‘Aye, lass, tell Sam I’ll be over with the boar tomorrow.’

    Soon the corn harvest was upon them. The work for Sam was not quite as hard for he did not do the cutting but allowed Tom Willoughby to send his new reaper.
    ‘Newfangled thing,’ Esther heard Sam mutter as he watched the sails of the reaper crossing the field pulled by three heavy horses. “Spect me corn’ll be ruined.’
    Sam still worked in the field, tying the sheaves and stooking, all the time keeping a truculent eye upon the machine swallowing up his harvest and spewing it out behind. The stooks stood in the fields for a few weeks to dry in the wind that always seemed to blow across this flat land and when the time came for them to be moved, the wagon was loaded so high at times that Esther held her breath thinking a wheel would crack and it would surely tipple over. But when Sam walked behind the last load to leave the field carrying the last sheaf and placed it on top of the final stack, he knew he had never had a better harvest.
    The cry went up amongst the workers, ‘Harvest home, harvest home.’ Then the gleaners were allowed into the fields and one of the first was Ma Harris, wearing a bag apron over her long skirt in readiness. With her tribe to feed, Ma Harris was thankful that the old traditions still survived. She could usually collect enough corn from all the nearby farms for her family’s needs through the winter.
    When harvest was finally over, Esther noticed that Sam’s walking was more painful, that his back was a little more bent and the joints of his fingers were gnarled with rheumatism. He was tired, yet not too tired to give thanks for a good harvest.
    One Sunday morning in September, Sam Brumby bade Esther put on her best frock and be