The Miller's Daughter (46 page)

The boy put his head on one side and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘But how do I know what I ought to tell them?’

‘Oh, you’ll know,’ Sarah said confidently. ‘Anything important that happens in the family and even in the village.’ She nodded and winked. ‘They like a bit of
gossip do Forrest’s bees.’

‘Have we always had bees, Grannie Sarah?’

‘As long as I can remember and before that. Luke used to say that your great-great-grandad started with bees when he built the mill. Bread and honey, old Charlie used to say, the Forrests
will never go hungry if they always have bread and honey.’

‘And have there been bees here ever since?’ The question was innocent enough, but it prompted a swift look of resentment to cross Sarah’s face as she glanced at Emma.
‘There was a time a while back now, when they – went away.’

‘Why?’ came the expected question. ‘Why did the bees go?’

Emma saved Sarah the awkwardness of having to answer. ‘Because for some years there were no Forrests here at the mill. It was my fault, Boydie. I went away, but when I came back,’
the surprise was still in her voice for she had never ceased to wonder, ‘the bees came back too.’ Yet the memory caused her sadness too, for the bees’ return had heralded the news
of the death of a Forrest, her son, Charles.

But Boydie accepted this statement without further question, as if it was to be expected. ‘That’s all right then.’

In the early autumn of Boydie’s eighth year, Lottie said, ‘Mam, I’ve got some news for you.’

Emma looked at her daughter’s pink cheeks and waited. ‘We’re going to have another baby.’

Emma flung her arms wide open. ‘Oh, darling, how wonderful. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to have any more children.’

‘Well, we’ve been trying for a while but nothing seemed to happen. But I saw the doctor yesterday and he’s confirmed it.’

‘And everything’s all right?’

‘Oh yes, fine. He says I can continue to work in the post office until about a month before the birth.’

‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that.’

Lottie laughed and her eyes twinkled. ‘Now then, don’t start fussing. I’ve got enough coping with Micky.’

‘I bet he’s pleased, isn’t he? Does he want another boy?’

Lottie shook her head and, completely unaware of the memories her words would evoke in Emma, said, ‘Oh no. He’s hoping for a daughter.’

A small smile curved Emma’s mouth and she shook her head wonderingly. How times had changed!

‘Lottie, you look very tired. You ought to go home and rest.’

‘I feel so dreadfully sick all the time. I thought that was supposed to go after the first three months and yet here I am almost seven months gone and still getting it.’ She
shivered. ‘And I seem to feel the cold so. And today,’ she placed her hand beneath her rounded belly, ‘I keep getting a niggling pain.’

‘Oh, do go home and rest, love,’ Emma persisted, worried by Lottie’s pale face and dark rimmed eyes.

‘I’ll be all right.’ She sat on the chair behind the post office counter and leant her head on her arms. Her voice muffled, she said, ‘I can’t leave the cashing up.
You know what it’s like on pension days.’

‘Can’t I help?’ Emma asked, fingering the edge of her apron.

Weakly, Lottie laughed and sat up again. ‘Oh, Mam, you and your adding up? No thanks. I’ll manage,’ and she flapped her hand at her mother, indicating that she should go away
and leave her to her calculations.

Biting her lip, Emma left the shop and went through the kitchen and into the yard. ‘William,’ she shouted. ‘Where are you?’

Shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she saw him open one of the windows high up on the top floor of the mill.

‘Here, Em. What’s up?’

She walked across the yard, ‘Can you come down and talk some sense into your daughter. She’s . . .’

It was then that she heard Lottie’s screams. Emma turned and ran. She found her lying on the floor of the shop, clutching her stomach and writhing.

‘Mam, oh Mam! Something’s awfully wrong! Oh, the pain, the pain.’

‘Oh, my darling girl. Oh no!’

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Panting, William appeared in the doorway and Emma turned wide, terrified eyes towards him. ‘Get an ambulance. Quick.’

He paused for the briefest of moments to stare down, with horrified eyes, at his lovely daughter, then he turned and disappeared.

‘Lie still, darling, try to lie still. Oh no!’ she breathed as she saw the blood beginning to seep through Lottie’s clothing.

From the dark recesses of her memory came the awful picture of blood-soaked sheets and the cries of agony from her mother’s room.

It was some time after midnight when Emma walked alone into the orchard. Beneath the trees, where the moonlight dappled the grass, she stood motionless watching the hives. She
lifted her head once and looked towards the mill, half expecting to see a swarm already there.

But there was nothing and in the cold, black night, there was only silence.

Her voice low, she said aloud, ‘How could you let it happen? To Lottie? To my darling girl. Why? Why? Oh,
why
?’ She sank to her knees, the frosty grass crunching beneath her,
oblivious to the cold soaking through her dress.

Half an hour later, it was where William found her, kneeling on the ground, just staring at the silent bee hives.

Holding his own grief in check, he said firmly, ‘Come along, Em. Micky’s come back from the hospital. He needs you. And so does Boydie.’

As if the weight of her misery hampered every movement, she lifted her head slowly and stared at him with unseeing eyes. ‘Boydie?’ She blinked and said again, ‘Of course,
Boydie. Does he know?’

William, his voice hoarse with the tears he was trying to hold in check, said, ‘The little lad’s still awake and asking questions. Micky’s telling him now.’

‘I must go to him.’ William put his hand beneath her elbow and urged her to get up from the icy ground. Stiffly, she unbent her body and clinging to him, dragged herself to her feet.
She stood a moment until the feeling returned to her legs and then she murmured, ‘My poor little Boydie . . .’

Freeing herself from William’s supporting arms, she set off towards the house, leaving him to follow.

They buried Lottie in the churchyard on the hillside overlooking the mill near to where Harry Forrest and Luke lay, and in sight of old Charlie Forrest’s grave. At the
funeral Micky was inconsolable and it was Emma’s hand that Boydie clutched. He stood beside her, white and solemn-faced. His dark blue glance went from the grave to his weeping father and
back again and his grip on Emma’s hand tightened.

It had all happened so very quickly that none of them could believe that their beloved Lottie was really gone.

‘She was, in the end, just like my mother,’ Emma said to Sarah sadly. ‘I’d thought, when Boydie’s birth went so well, that she would be all right.’

‘Aye, aye,’ the old lady, shrunken in her own sadness for the loss which touched them all, shook her head. ‘You never can tell.’

‘By the time she got to hospital she’d already lost so much blood that – that she went into shock and – and . . .’

Sarah patted her hand. ‘I know, I know, Emma lass.’ Heavily, she added, ‘Poor Micky, and Boydie.’

Emma sighed. ‘It’s William I feel so for. He’s taken it very badly.’

‘She was his only child, don’t forget. You’ve suffered the loss of a child before, Emma, and, terrible though it is, you’ve come through it once and you can again. But
this is the first time for William.’

‘I know. But you don’t ever get over it, you know. Not really. You just learn to live with it. I don’t think I could have coped when Charles died if it hadn’t been for
William’s love and support.’

‘Well, this time you’ve got to help each other. And Micky, well, he’s heartbroken now, but he’s young.’

A cold hand touched Emma’s heart. Yes, Micky was young. Young enough to love again. Young enough to find a new mother for Boydie.

‘Why don’t you both come back to us for a while, Micky? You’ll have to get back to work and I can look after Boydie, so you don’t have to worry about
him.’

Micky looked suddenly very young and vulnerable. Robbed of his cheery smile and the light in his eyes, he seemed lost.

‘I suppose so,’ he said listlessly and just seemed to sink deeper into the armchair.

‘That’s settled then,’ Emma said briskly, taking his disinterest for agreement. ‘I’ll meet Boydie from school this afternoon and take him home with me. All
right?’

‘Whatever you say.’

The boy walked slowly across the playground towards her, ignoring the other children, skipping and shouting all around him.

‘Hello, Gran,’ he said, slipping his hand into hers. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘At home, love. But you’re both coming to stay with us for a while just till, well, till your dad feels a bit better.’

‘At the mill? We’re going to live at the mill – for ever?’

She looked down into the upturned face and, for the first time since he had been told the news of his mother’s death, there was a spark in Boydie’s eyes. They stopped walking and,
still hand in hand, turned to face each other.

‘Is that what you would like, Boydie?’

‘Yes, oh yes.’

She said no more, for she was very afraid that, in the long term, Micky would not agree.

The months that followed were difficult for them all. Micky turned to his work as his salvation and gradually, life began to return to something approaching normality.

‘Mother, you’ve been wonderful,’ he said at last, putting his arm about Emma’s shoulders. ‘But it’s time Boydie and I made a home for ourselves. I – I
still can’t face returning to the house up the street. I don’t really want to live there again.’

‘You can stay here. You know you can . . .’ she began, her hopes rising, but at his next words the fragile world she had clung to since Lottie’s death began to crumble.

‘I’ve been offered a Head Cashier’s job in Lincoln. It’s a wonderful promotion for someone of my age and I think it could be just what I’m looking for. Boydie and I
can make a fresh start.’

Emma knew the colour drained from her face and she felt suddenly weak and sick and every minute of her seventy years. But she said nothing. She could not. Boydie might be the child of her heart,
the boy who was, to her, her grandpa Charlie reborn, but he was not her son. There was nothing she could do to stop Micky taking him away.

With a hand that trembled, she reached out and clasped Micky’s hand. ‘Just promise me one thing, Micky?’

‘Of course. What is it?’ he said, infinitely tender, knowing how his decision must be hurting her.

‘Don’t ever let him go to live with your father, will you?’

Micky’s smile was amused and yet sad at the same time. ‘Oh no, Mother. That I can promise you.’

The boy faced his father, his face mutinous, his dark eyes resentful. ‘I won’t go. I’m staying here with my gran. I’m staying at the mill.’

Micky’s eyes clouded. ‘You’re my son and you’ll do as I say.’

At eight years old, there was nothing the boy could do, but the day his father forced him into the back seat of his car, slammed the door and got in behind the driver’s seat, would live in
Emma’s memory for the rest of her life. Boydie’s white face, streaked with tears, watched her from the rear window of the car, his little hand waved as the car drew out of the yard and
turned into the road. She raised her hand and found her sight of his face was blurred by her own tears.

‘I’ve let him down. I’ve failed him,’ she wailed, turned and buried her face against William’s shoulder. ‘I should have fought Micky to let him stay here. How
can he look after a little boy and do his job properly?’

‘There’s nothing we could do. He’s Micky’s son, and we’ve no say in the matter.’

‘But I’ve lost all my children, one way or another,’ she mourned. ‘And now I’ve lost Boydie too.’

This time, even William could not comfort her. Emma was beginning to wonder just how cruel the world could be.

In the three years that followed Boydie ran away from Lincoln a total of five times. On the first two occasions he was spotted by a friendly policeman in the city who thought
that a boy of eight or nine should not be out alone. The third time, Boydie caught the bus to Calceworth but had money for only half the distance and Micky travelled to Horncastle to take him back
home.

By the time he was eleven, Boydie planned his escape with meticulous care.

‘Is he with you?’ Micky’s voice came distantly down the wire to Emma, but she could hear the anxiety in his voice.

‘Oh no, not again, Micky,’ she groaned and then said, ‘no, he’s not here.’

‘He must have gone this morning. The school says he’s not been there all day. I dropped him off at the gate on my way to the bank, but . . .’ Micky sighed heavily. ‘Oh,
Mother, I’ve got to admit it. I can’t control the lad. Even when he’s not actually running away, he roams the streets, doesn’t come home till all hours. He’s only
eleven for Heaven’s sake, yet I can’t do anything with him. I’m so afraid he’ll be getting into trouble, real trouble.’

For Emma, it was like an echo from the past. Years ago she had said the same words about Billy, and yet she had always had such faith in Boydie. She could not believe that he would turn out like
Billy, a runaway
and
a rogue. She sighed heavily. But, she reminded herself, Boydie did, of course, have Leonard Smith’s blood in his veins too.

‘What are we going to do, Micky?’

‘I don’t know. I’m at the end of my tether with him. If he comes home safe and sound, I’ll try and have a talk with him at the weekend. We can’t go on like this.
We’ll have to try and sort something out.’

Emma replaced the receiver slowly and turned to answer the question in William’s anxious eyes. When she had finished telling him, William shook his head.

‘Poor kid,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t help but sympathize with him, y’know. Micky does his best, and I’m not criticizing him, but it’s not the same as if .
. .’ He left the words hanging between them.

‘No,’ Emma said quietly. ‘It’s not the same as having a mother around, is it?’