Hepzibah had never seen Blanche so animated and careless in her talk. ‘Have a care, Blanche. It does not augur well to anger him. There are those who wish to profit from your distress. Give them no occasion to denounce you,’ she warned.
You are my true friend, Sister, and mean well enough. I can take care of this myself but if aught untoward should happen to me, I trust that your hearth would always be open to my child. Shield her from their envy. I do not always hold with your beliefs, nor you with mine. I come here because I must. I can no longer afford to stay away and pay the fines but your heart is ever warm towards us. Nonie is all that keeps me in this vale of tears,’ said Blanche, grabbing Hepzibah’s cloak.
‘Then think on, dear coz, give no occasion of offence to this parson. Of course Anona is welcome any time to visit. You have fought bravely to keep your lands and chattels. Don’t throw them away in one act of defiance. We are kin and who harms you shall have us to answer to, is that not so, Nate?’ she answered, hoping her husband would back her up, but he was striding ahead out of earshot.
‘This parson is but a bag of wind,’ laughed Blanche, tossing her curls. ‘He likes the sound of his own voice. I care not who hears me!’
‘Shush! I fear for your stubbornness but each must behave according to his conscience and Scripture. Where does it say in the Holy Writ that we should worship on Christ’s birthday?’ she argued.
‘I care not for the printed word. It has no flesh or blood,’ Blanche was arguing. ‘I will not desert the old path just because some black crow caws that I should tread only his highway.’ Blanche lifted the child onto a waiting cart and set off away from the church at a pace.
Hepzibah found herself shivering in the cold sunlight, hearing the rooks in the churchyard screeching. Blanche was too proud for her own good. Surely she would not tempt providence by gainsaying a man of the cloth.
Evie ran through the farmyard splashing in the puddles and the tethered sheepdog, Fly, barked. It was black and white with pale blue eyes, jumping up excitedly as she passed. She would play hide-and-seek from her mother, who was slipping and slithering on the cobbles. There was a line of trees and wood where the leaves were fluttering down like golden snow. Then she saw a rabbit dart from the stone wall ahead of her and she chased it. She would hide from Mummy in the wood and jump out.
This was her playground now, fields and fields of it to explore. This was her fairy wood, just like the story she was reading where people lived in the tops of trees and there were lands you could visit. It was going to be magic. There were so many things at her feet to collect: feathers, stones, pine cones and fallen nuts. She could hear birds rustling in the leaves, drawing her deeper into the peppery darkness. She found some toadstools almost in a ring, jumping into the middle to make a wish. It was the enchanted wood and she expected to see houses in the trees but she looked up into the bare branches with disappointment for there was not even one door in the trunk, just a startled squirrel which darted quickly from her gaze.
For a second Evie felt a stab of fear, suddenly aware that someone was watching her, and she spun round to catch a glimpse of a poor lady with long white hair, dressed in a ragged cloak, who stared like a princess lost in a wood. Evie made to talk to her. How strange to see a white candyfloss mist floating through the trees, and there was a smoky perfume in the air.
Evie blinked and looked again but there was no one there, just the smell of a bonfire. She walked on tiptoe, trying to see where the lady was walking through the thicket. It was getting darker and colder, and suddenly her fear returned. It was time to walk backwards until she got her bearings but even so, she came out of the copse not where she went in. It was scary and exciting at the same time.
There was nothing Nik Snowden liked more than an afternoon’s walling, plugged into Bach and a pipe full of rich tobacco. His tape was playing the Double Violin Concerto, followed by a Mendelssohn Octet, guaranteed to set him up for the day. There was something satisfying in repairing a gap in the wall; eye and hand working together in a harmony of skill, knowing which stone to place where or facing a stone with a chisel to fit a space exactly. It was like making your own jigsaw puzzle.
A good wall was built to last. There were two on his land dated to Celtic times with high stones built in top-heavy fashion. This repair would see him out if he built it up well. It was always a sign of a good farm if there were few gaps in the stonewall boundaries. In the days before the cull he could count up to forty gaps in some stretches on the moors alone, and with grants for walling there was no excuse for slackness. Many of his friends had lost heart and made do, could not afford the expense of a decent stonewaller, but he was determined to put his walls in good nick even if his fields were a mess.
He had been taught by a champion waller. His father, Tom, was one of the best. Whenever there was a row with his wife he would always come out to mend a gap. It soothed his spirits and gave him time to think. It was better than any stress management course, alone on the moors with the wind.
Then he saw the girl from Side House sitting on a piece of bulging stone wall that was far from safe.
‘Get off the wall, it’s dangerous!’ he ordered, but she sat with her arms folded.
‘Why?’ she answered him back.
‘Because I say so.’ He looked up at the sharp little face and piercing eyes staring at him, unused to such cheek from a kid like her. ‘I don’t want my wall flattened and your mother on my heels for letting you bash your head. Just get off my wall this minute.’
‘You can’t make me, Mr Grumpy,’ came her riposte.
‘Yes I can. If a wall breaks and sheep get out, I’ll send you both back south on the next train, Little Miss Rude.’ He was trying not to chuckle. Mr Grumpy just about summed him up these days, but he kept a straight face.
‘You’ve missed a bit … There’s a hole in the wall down there.’ She pointed to a small gap through the wall.
‘That hole is for the sheep to go from one field to another, clever clogs. We call it a cripple hole and you should be in school,’ he snapped, carrying on with his work, ignoring the madam in the orange tights and Puffa anorak.
‘What are you doing now?’ she said, pointing as she leaped down.
He could not help but notice she was a funny kid, typical only child, nosy and solitary, old for her years. He should know, he had been almost one himself. Why was she not in school? Kids today seemed to have no respect for their elders.
All he wanted now was a bit of peace and quiet to see his way through next month’s decisions. The fact they had to take in strangers to make ends meet was no comfort. Now he couldn’t even wall in peace with those eyes on him.
‘Where have all your sheep gone?’ the girl asked, pointing out the obvious.
‘I’m waiting for some new ones,’ he answered carefully.
‘Did all yours get killed?’ she asked nonchalantly.
It was his turn to go pink. He nodded, then he saw with relief that her mother was storming down the field, her red-gold hair flying. They were a pair, those two, like peas off a pod.
‘Where’ve you been, Evie? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ shouted the Partridge woman.
‘I was only exploring and I found nuts and leaves and feathers, and a white lady walking through the trees,’ the kid replied.
‘Oh, yes, where did you see her then?’ he quipped, watching the mother’s lips smile