good enough for my father.’
‘It was indeed,’ she said. ‘Right then, you shall help me for an hour. Stir your stumps, young Allan, and we’ll make a start.’
And so it was that when Melissa arrived with her message she found Simon’s son up to his elbows in flour and a wink from Maggie told her that the worst was over.
*
They laid Harriet to rest two days later in the family grave and the sun shone thinly through the autumn mist lending a mystical quality to the proceedings. Allan watched impassively as the coffin was lowered into the ground and he was first to toss in the rosemary twig. His lips moved, then, in a whispered farewell. His sorrow was in his eyes for all to see but his control was greater than anyone expected. The Minister’s voice rose and fell with the familiar words and brought home to the mourners the frailty of life and promised them riches in heaven. He spoke movingly of Harriet’s short life and sympathized with the bereaved. Then he commended her soul to God and the bell began to toll. As the mournful sound echoed in the still air, Allan’s eyes lifted for a moment from his wife’s grave and sought out Maggie’s. Wordlessly, he expressed his gratitude and she acknowledged it with a brief nod of her head. Then, as tradition demanded, he took up the spade, drove it into the loose earth piled beside the grave and scattered it over his wife’s coffin.
CHAPTER THREE
The river which flowed past Heron continued its way through field and moorland and then wound round the bottom of a small wooded hill. Here, half overgrown by bushes, was Nathaniel Gully’s home — a small building, little more than a hovel. It had a hole in one wall which served as a window and a doorway covered by a well-worn hide. The smoke from his fire in winter found its way out through chinks in the turf roof. In summer he cooked outside. Three chickens and a goat shared this humble dwelling and the smell was considerable.
Lorna wrinkled her nose in disgust and said, ‘Pooh!’ Piers nudged her with his elbow but it was too late. ‘Your house smells,’ she told Nat.
Looking up from his netting, he laughed in mock dismay. ‘Don’t you like it, ma’am?’
‘She does,’ said Piers.
‘I don’t,’ said Lorna. ‘It smells horrid.’
Piers, embarrassed by his sister’s honesty, averted his eyes, and wished he had come alone on the long promised visit. He snapped his fingers at Brin and the little terrier heaved himself out of his corner and trotted over eagerly to be patted. Nat’s nimble fingers twisted the hook in and out of the mesh and tugged a new length of string free of the ball.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you don’t like my house? Not as grand as Heron, is it, but it suits me. I’ve a roof over me head to keep out the rain and four walls to keep out the wind.’ ‘But there’s only one room,’ said Lorna.
She and her brother sat side by side on the log that served as a seat. Nat sat on the only stool, making a new rabbit net.
‘One’s all I need.’
‘But where’s your mama and papa?’ she insisted.
‘Dead and gone,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘And my sisters are wed and gone. That just leaves me.’
‘And Brin,’ said Piers, ‘and the goat and the chickens.’
‘Do they lay eggs?’ asked Lorna.
‘Well,’ said Nat, ‘they don’t make honey, that’s for sure!’
She looked at him suspiciously but he was intent on his work once more.
‘To tell you the truth we’re a funny lot,’ he told her, ‘’tis the goat that lays the eggs and the chickens give milk.’
She stared at him wide-eyed while Piers tried hard to keep his face straight. After a moment she said cautiously, ‘What does the dog do?’ and Nat and Piers burst out laughing.
‘He’s teasing you,’ cried Piers. ‘Oh, you should see your face! Serves you right for being impertinent.’
She sprang to her feet, squealing indignantly and the log tilted, throwing Piers off-balance. He cried out and
‘It was indeed,’ she said. ‘Right then, you shall help me for an hour. Stir your stumps, young Allan, and we’ll make a start.’
And so it was that when Melissa arrived with her message she found Simon’s son up to his elbows in flour and a wink from Maggie told her that the worst was over.
*
They laid Harriet to rest two days later in the family grave and the sun shone thinly through the autumn mist lending a mystical quality to the proceedings. Allan watched impassively as the coffin was lowered into the ground and he was first to toss in the rosemary twig. His lips moved, then, in a whispered farewell. His sorrow was in his eyes for all to see but his control was greater than anyone expected. The Minister’s voice rose and fell with the familiar words and brought home to the mourners the frailty of life and promised them riches in heaven. He spoke movingly of Harriet’s short life and sympathized with the bereaved. Then he commended her soul to God and the bell began to toll. As the mournful sound echoed in the still air, Allan’s eyes lifted for a moment from his wife’s grave and sought out Maggie’s. Wordlessly, he expressed his gratitude and she acknowledged it with a brief nod of her head. Then, as tradition demanded, he took up the spade, drove it into the loose earth piled beside the grave and scattered it over his wife’s coffin.
CHAPTER THREE
The river which flowed past Heron continued its way through field and moorland and then wound round the bottom of a small wooded hill. Here, half overgrown by bushes, was Nathaniel Gully’s home — a small building, little more than a hovel. It had a hole in one wall which served as a window and a doorway covered by a well-worn hide. The smoke from his fire in winter found its way out through chinks in the turf roof. In summer he cooked outside. Three chickens and a goat shared this humble dwelling and the smell was considerable.
Lorna wrinkled her nose in disgust and said, ‘Pooh!’ Piers nudged her with his elbow but it was too late. ‘Your house smells,’ she told Nat.
Looking up from his netting, he laughed in mock dismay. ‘Don’t you like it, ma’am?’
‘She does,’ said Piers.
‘I don’t,’ said Lorna. ‘It smells horrid.’
Piers, embarrassed by his sister’s honesty, averted his eyes, and wished he had come alone on the long promised visit. He snapped his fingers at Brin and the little terrier heaved himself out of his corner and trotted over eagerly to be patted. Nat’s nimble fingers twisted the hook in and out of the mesh and tugged a new length of string free of the ball.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you don’t like my house? Not as grand as Heron, is it, but it suits me. I’ve a roof over me head to keep out the rain and four walls to keep out the wind.’ ‘But there’s only one room,’ said Lorna.
She and her brother sat side by side on the log that served as a seat. Nat sat on the only stool, making a new rabbit net.
‘One’s all I need.’
‘But where’s your mama and papa?’ she insisted.
‘Dead and gone,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘And my sisters are wed and gone. That just leaves me.’
‘And Brin,’ said Piers, ‘and the goat and the chickens.’
‘Do they lay eggs?’ asked Lorna.
‘Well,’ said Nat, ‘they don’t make honey, that’s for sure!’
She looked at him suspiciously but he was intent on his work once more.
‘To tell you the truth we’re a funny lot,’ he told her, ‘’tis the goat that lays the eggs and the chickens give milk.’
She stared at him wide-eyed while Piers tried hard to keep his face straight. After a moment she said cautiously, ‘What does the dog do?’ and Nat and Piers burst out laughing.
‘He’s teasing you,’ cried Piers. ‘Oh, you should see your face! Serves you right for being impertinent.’
She sprang to her feet, squealing indignantly and the log tilted, throwing Piers off-balance. He cried out and
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