piece off and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He wasn’t expected to talk while he was chewing.
Miles added mint sauce to the mutton on his plate. The slice was a little pink in the middle as befitted roast lamb rather than mutton. Suddenly it reminded him of the goat he had eaten the day before so he put down his knife and fork and took a drink of water.
‘I don’t know why I bother cooking for those two,’ grumbled Cook when Polly brought back the plates with the half-eaten food. ‘The master usually likes mutton.’
‘Never mind, we’ll enjoy it later on,’ said Polly. She had a very healthy appetite and since she had been working here had changed from a thin, pale little girl to a plump, rosy woman.
Back in the dining room, Miles cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take some time off tomorrow morning and go to the station with you,’ he said. ‘If the weather were more clement I might have driven you up to school, but perhaps that wouldn’t be wise in the snow.’ He had to find a way to get closer to the boy, and was suddenly aware of it.
Six
1893
Merry woke in the early dawn of the October morning as she usually did. She had chores to do before she went to the hospital to work. She turned her head on the pillow and felt a twinge of alarm as Peggy wasn’t there. Merry had shared a bed with Peggy ever since she could remember, whereas Ben had a mattress that was newly filled with straw every harvest time. Shivering, for there was a chill in the air, she sat up, pulled on her shoes over her bare feet and ran downstairs.
‘Thank God!’ she said aloud. Peggy was there, asleep in the rocking chair by the dead fire, her feet propped on the fender. ‘Granma!’ cried Merry. ‘Wake up, you should be in bed. You’ll be as stiff as a crutch sitting there. Have you been there all night?’
Merry shook her grandmother’s shoulder, just a little, enough to wake her up. Peggy’s hand fell down by the side of her chair. Merry’s heart beat fast, almostjumping into her throat. Suddenly filled with dread, she forced herself to look properly at Peggy. Her pallor was unmistakable. In her short time at the workhouse hospital Merry had seen too many dead people not to recognise that fact.
‘What’s the matter with me granma?’ Ben came up behind her. She let out a small scream before she took control of herself, turned to him and put an arm around him.
‘Gran’s dead, Ben,’ she said. ‘Run and see if Mr Hawthorne is off shift, will you.’
‘Aw . . . Merry! No she’s not! You’re just saying that!’
But Ben knew she was not. He started to cry, tears running down his face as he stared at his granma. ‘What did she want to die for?’ he panted out at last, and Merry, who was holding him close now, shook her head.
‘She was tired, Ben. She was an old woman.’ How old was she? Merry wondered. Not that old. Not as old as some of the women in the workhouse, any road.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Ben. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and made to wipe his hand on the old shirt he slept in. Merry found a rag in her own sleeve and thrust it at him.
‘Howay now, Ben! Don’t be such a babby. Get away to Winton and tell Mr Hawthorne, will you? He’ll know what to do.’
There was no one else. Merry didn’t know why Peggy shunned her old neighbours; those that had straggled back to the pit villages around. ‘We’ll manage on our own,’ Peggy used to say. There was only Mr Hawthorne who had sold them the goat and Merry had only met him once or twice. But they had managed on their own. Most of the gardens of the houses at Old Pit had been cultivated at one time, and Peggy had used the others to graze the goat. (They did not name the goat now as Granma wouldn’t have it, though Merry vaguely remembered that one goat had been called Nannie and one called Betsy.)
Ben pulled on the trousers which came down to just below his knees. They hung from his shoulders by an old pair of galluses
Miles added mint sauce to the mutton on his plate. The slice was a little pink in the middle as befitted roast lamb rather than mutton. Suddenly it reminded him of the goat he had eaten the day before so he put down his knife and fork and took a drink of water.
‘I don’t know why I bother cooking for those two,’ grumbled Cook when Polly brought back the plates with the half-eaten food. ‘The master usually likes mutton.’
‘Never mind, we’ll enjoy it later on,’ said Polly. She had a very healthy appetite and since she had been working here had changed from a thin, pale little girl to a plump, rosy woman.
Back in the dining room, Miles cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take some time off tomorrow morning and go to the station with you,’ he said. ‘If the weather were more clement I might have driven you up to school, but perhaps that wouldn’t be wise in the snow.’ He had to find a way to get closer to the boy, and was suddenly aware of it.
Six
1893
Merry woke in the early dawn of the October morning as she usually did. She had chores to do before she went to the hospital to work. She turned her head on the pillow and felt a twinge of alarm as Peggy wasn’t there. Merry had shared a bed with Peggy ever since she could remember, whereas Ben had a mattress that was newly filled with straw every harvest time. Shivering, for there was a chill in the air, she sat up, pulled on her shoes over her bare feet and ran downstairs.
‘Thank God!’ she said aloud. Peggy was there, asleep in the rocking chair by the dead fire, her feet propped on the fender. ‘Granma!’ cried Merry. ‘Wake up, you should be in bed. You’ll be as stiff as a crutch sitting there. Have you been there all night?’
Merry shook her grandmother’s shoulder, just a little, enough to wake her up. Peggy’s hand fell down by the side of her chair. Merry’s heart beat fast, almostjumping into her throat. Suddenly filled with dread, she forced herself to look properly at Peggy. Her pallor was unmistakable. In her short time at the workhouse hospital Merry had seen too many dead people not to recognise that fact.
‘What’s the matter with me granma?’ Ben came up behind her. She let out a small scream before she took control of herself, turned to him and put an arm around him.
‘Gran’s dead, Ben,’ she said. ‘Run and see if Mr Hawthorne is off shift, will you.’
‘Aw . . . Merry! No she’s not! You’re just saying that!’
But Ben knew she was not. He started to cry, tears running down his face as he stared at his granma. ‘What did she want to die for?’ he panted out at last, and Merry, who was holding him close now, shook her head.
‘She was tired, Ben. She was an old woman.’ How old was she? Merry wondered. Not that old. Not as old as some of the women in the workhouse, any road.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Ben. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and made to wipe his hand on the old shirt he slept in. Merry found a rag in her own sleeve and thrust it at him.
‘Howay now, Ben! Don’t be such a babby. Get away to Winton and tell Mr Hawthorne, will you? He’ll know what to do.’
There was no one else. Merry didn’t know why Peggy shunned her old neighbours; those that had straggled back to the pit villages around. ‘We’ll manage on our own,’ Peggy used to say. There was only Mr Hawthorne who had sold them the goat and Merry had only met him once or twice. But they had managed on their own. Most of the gardens of the houses at Old Pit had been cultivated at one time, and Peggy had used the others to graze the goat. (They did not name the goat now as Granma wouldn’t have it, though Merry vaguely remembered that one goat had been called Nannie and one called Betsy.)
Ben pulled on the trousers which came down to just below his knees. They hung from his shoulders by an old pair of galluses
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