D’you hear?’
Sadie nodded and stood up as Ella unlocked the door with a key hung inside her petticoat on a long grubby string and took out the black leather purse of coins. When she got to the door she
called back, ‘Lock it after me, I said.’ And Sadie slid the two bolts on the inside, though the door frame was that rickety and rotten she doubted it would hold up against someone who
was really determined to get in.
She turned her back on the bolted door and saw anew the small square box they lived in. It was smaller than the stall they kept their cows in at home. The pang of homesickness took her by
surprise. A longing that seemed to spring straight up from her heart. She pulled her shawl more closely round her shoulders and tied the ends. It was one she had knitted herself with Herdwick wool.
She brought it up to her face and inhaled. It was shabby and worn, with a tatty fringe, but it smelt of Westmorland. She liked it better than the cloak Ella had bought her.
The smell took her straight home. She pictured her father’s back straining against his yoked shirt, bent over the fire to see what was cooking. She missed her da. Fifteen years she had
spent hating him, dreading him coming home, fearing his drunken footsteps outside the door. At night she used to lie awake and dream about the day Ella would come back in her fine lace and satin
and take her away from him. Ever since she was small she had been his scapegoat, someone he could hit when he was angry, someone who would cringe and beg, make him feel powerful, like a man, when
in truth he wasn’t a man at all – just bones held together by beer. Yet now she missed him and it shamed her. But at least he was predictable, not like Ella who blew hither and thither
like chaff in the wind.
She went to the window and opened the shutters to look out on the street. She wondered what Da thought when she had disappeared. Since coming to London she played out imaginary scenes in her
head, where he wept and told her he loved her, begged her to come home, said he’d never forgive himself. Maybe he was out searching for her right that minute. But deep down she knew he would
not, that he had just drowned it as usual.
She turned away from the window and hoicked the bowls out of the sand where Ella had left them, then dried them on her apron. She rubbed the cloth around the inside, staring into space. Da. The
memories flooded back. She realized she had not thought of him since Christmas Day. She knew it was Christmas Day because she and Ella hunkered up in front of a big fire with a meal of roasted
pigeon and boiled taters, courtesy of selling another pair of candlesticks, and Ella had even bought a sprig of holly for the windowsill. At the first mouthful of pigeon she had felt a sudden
grief, wondering how he was managing with nobody to fetch their share of the goose from their neighbours. That day Sadie saw Ella’s faraway look and knew that, like her, she was remembering
other feast days and holidays, the May Day carousings and the warm fires of the Candlemas supper. But there was no snow in London, no village fiddler coming door to door, no mummers play, and the
grey damp was unabated.
She had reached across the table then and given Ella her last boiled tater, even though she’d been saving it till the end because it was the biggest.
Sadie looked down at the two bowls. What was she doing standing about like a lummock? She stacked the bowls on the shelf and pushed her memories away. The pain of them scalded her too much. She
ached for the beauty of the hills – the open skies with their scudding clouds, the hawthorn’s scarlet berries, the sweet tang of cow dung. She sat back on the hard wooden chair, winding
her hair in her fingers, the stench of horse urine, bird droppings and soot in her nostrils, the incessant noise of iron-shod hooves drowning out the vermin scratching in the rafters.
She waited for Ella to return and wondered if she had ever
Sadie nodded and stood up as Ella unlocked the door with a key hung inside her petticoat on a long grubby string and took out the black leather purse of coins. When she got to the door she
called back, ‘Lock it after me, I said.’ And Sadie slid the two bolts on the inside, though the door frame was that rickety and rotten she doubted it would hold up against someone who
was really determined to get in.
She turned her back on the bolted door and saw anew the small square box they lived in. It was smaller than the stall they kept their cows in at home. The pang of homesickness took her by
surprise. A longing that seemed to spring straight up from her heart. She pulled her shawl more closely round her shoulders and tied the ends. It was one she had knitted herself with Herdwick wool.
She brought it up to her face and inhaled. It was shabby and worn, with a tatty fringe, but it smelt of Westmorland. She liked it better than the cloak Ella had bought her.
The smell took her straight home. She pictured her father’s back straining against his yoked shirt, bent over the fire to see what was cooking. She missed her da. Fifteen years she had
spent hating him, dreading him coming home, fearing his drunken footsteps outside the door. At night she used to lie awake and dream about the day Ella would come back in her fine lace and satin
and take her away from him. Ever since she was small she had been his scapegoat, someone he could hit when he was angry, someone who would cringe and beg, make him feel powerful, like a man, when
in truth he wasn’t a man at all – just bones held together by beer. Yet now she missed him and it shamed her. But at least he was predictable, not like Ella who blew hither and thither
like chaff in the wind.
She went to the window and opened the shutters to look out on the street. She wondered what Da thought when she had disappeared. Since coming to London she played out imaginary scenes in her
head, where he wept and told her he loved her, begged her to come home, said he’d never forgive himself. Maybe he was out searching for her right that minute. But deep down she knew he would
not, that he had just drowned it as usual.
She turned away from the window and hoicked the bowls out of the sand where Ella had left them, then dried them on her apron. She rubbed the cloth around the inside, staring into space. Da. The
memories flooded back. She realized she had not thought of him since Christmas Day. She knew it was Christmas Day because she and Ella hunkered up in front of a big fire with a meal of roasted
pigeon and boiled taters, courtesy of selling another pair of candlesticks, and Ella had even bought a sprig of holly for the windowsill. At the first mouthful of pigeon she had felt a sudden
grief, wondering how he was managing with nobody to fetch their share of the goose from their neighbours. That day Sadie saw Ella’s faraway look and knew that, like her, she was remembering
other feast days and holidays, the May Day carousings and the warm fires of the Candlemas supper. But there was no snow in London, no village fiddler coming door to door, no mummers play, and the
grey damp was unabated.
She had reached across the table then and given Ella her last boiled tater, even though she’d been saving it till the end because it was the biggest.
Sadie looked down at the two bowls. What was she doing standing about like a lummock? She stacked the bowls on the shelf and pushed her memories away. The pain of them scalded her too much. She
ached for the beauty of the hills – the open skies with their scudding clouds, the hawthorn’s scarlet berries, the sweet tang of cow dung. She sat back on the hard wooden chair, winding
her hair in her fingers, the stench of horse urine, bird droppings and soot in her nostrils, the incessant noise of iron-shod hooves drowning out the vermin scratching in the rafters.
She waited for Ella to return and wondered if she had ever
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