The Miller's Daughter (49 page)

Emma found she was holding her breath. She was staring at him, but she could not speak.

‘Well,’ Boydie went on with an air of triumph. ‘I’ve been in Lincoln seeing folks. I’ve been to the County Council offices, to a museum, and I’ve talked to
all sorts of people. I’ve been asking their advice, and do you know what we’re going to do with the mill?’ Now, he was beaming happily. ‘We’re going to keep it, but
we’re going to turn it into a museum – a
working
museum, just like that farm. People will be able to come and see what it was like to be a miller in your Grandpa Charlie’s
day.’ His excitement was rising with every word, shining out of his brilliantly blue eyes. ‘And we’ll open up the bakehouse again and bake bread and sell it. Maybe we could even
open a tearoom with homemade jams and scones. Now, what do you think to that, eh?’

‘You mean the Council want to buy it off us?’

‘Well, they might, but we can do it ourselves.’ For the first time a note of doubt crept into his voice. ‘Can’t we?’

Again, Emma glanced at William but his gaze was still fixed on the boy’s animated, eager expression. ‘Now, tell us again, Boydie, calmly . . .’

They talked far into the night but by the time Boydie yawned, stood up, and kissed his grandmother’s forehead, it had all been decided.

As they listened to the sound of Boydie’s feet going up the stairs to bed and heard his whistling, Emma and William looked at each other across the kitchen table.

‘Do you know, Emma,’ William said, with a slightly bemused expression on his face. ‘If you were to tell me that your Grandpa Charlie had been reincarnated in Boydie, do you
know, I think, at this very moment, I would believe you?’

‘Oh, William!’ Emma said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as she held out her arms to him. ‘Oh,
William
.’

William was sitting contentedly on the seat in the orchard, his eyes closed, his face lifted towards the sun.

‘You know, Em,’ he said without opening his eyes, so well did he know the sound of her footsteps, the movement of her, the feel that she was close to him. ‘I could get quite
used to this life of idleness.’ He gave a great sigh of utter contentment. ‘Yes, I could very well get to like it.’ He opened one eye and squinted up at her against the light.
‘What? No tea? I thought at least you were bringing me a cuppa.’

Emma chuckled. ‘High time you waited on me a bit now.’

He made as if to get up until she put her hand on his shoulder, ‘Sit down, sit down. I was only teasing.’ When he sank back into the seat, she said, ‘Mind you, I can see you
don’t need telling twice.’ And they laughed together.

At the sound of whistling, her gaze went towards the mill where she could see Boydie leaning out of one of the small windows on the bin floor, waving a paint brush at a girl walking past the
gate. Then she heard her grandson let out the longest wolf whistle she had ever heard in her life.

‘Well, I never!’ she said, but William only chuckled his deep, rumbling chuckle, closed his eyes and murmured, ‘I don’t think you have any need to worry about the Forrest
blood continuing, Em.’

‘Mm.’ Emma was thoughtful now, listening to the young voices calling to each other, flirting, laughing. A new beginning, she thought. Yes, it was time for a new beginning. Slowly she
sat down beside her husband. ‘William?’

‘Mm,’ he said sleepily.

‘You know what we talked about? You are sure, aren’t you? You really don’t mind?’

His eyes opened and he reached out and took her hand. Gallantly, he raised it to his lips and kissed each wrinkled finger in turn. ‘My dear, sweet Emma. The mill is yours, it always has
been.’ As she opened her mouth to protest, he silenced her gently, but firmly. ‘No “buts”. You do whatever you want with Forrest’s Mill.’ He paused and then said
mischievously. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I agree with you anyway.’

‘Oh you!’ she said and flung her arms about him.

‘There’s a bus into town in half-an-hour,’ he said airily.

‘Right then,’ she stood up, more purpose in her movements than for months. ‘I’ll do it! I’ll go now.’

She was shown into the solicitor’s office. A huge, leather-topped desk stood in the centre of the room, with two telephones, a large blotter and a tray for pens the only
items on its surface. The window was flung open to the spring sunshine.

‘Mr Revill will be with you in a minute, Mrs Metcalfe. Please, won’t you sit down?’ the briskly efficient secretary said.

But as the door closed leaving Emma alone, she moved towards the open window and stood beside it looking out. A bee flew in and buzzed around the room and Emma smiled. It seemed like an omen.
She waited only a minute or two before the door opened once more and a young man entered, coming towards her with his hand outstretched.

‘Mrs Metcalfe. I am Duncan Revill. My father, who I believe has always looked after your legal needs, retired a while ago now. I do hope you will allow me to be of whatever service I can
to you?’

Emma felt a stab of disappointment but when she looked into his young face, she liked what she saw. She nodded and took his proffered hand. He guided her to a chair placed for clients but as she
sat down, she saw him become aware of a noise in the room.

‘Oh, there’s a wasp. Let me . . .’ He reached down into the waste paper basket at the side of his desk and picked out the discarded morning paper. Rolling it into a truncheon,
he began to chase the insect. The bee swooped around his head and he lashed out wildly.

‘It’s a bee, young man,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You should never kill a honey bee.’ She got up from her chair and went back to the window, pushing the open casement
even wider. A fresh blast of air wafted into the room and the bee flew towards the window, encountered the glass and buzzed frantically for a moment. Emma leant forward and said softly, ‘Away
and tell your friends. Everything will be all right.’

The bee felt the draught and flew out. Emma watched it and then closed the window. ‘Now, young man,’ she said briskly. ‘Where were we?’

‘Well, not very far, actually.’

‘Ah yes, well now,’ she sat down. ‘I want to leave Forrest’s Mill to my grandson. But I don’t want to wait until I’m dead and gone. I want him to have it now,
or at least as soon as he’s allowed to own it legally.’

It took an hour for them to agree all the terms but at last Duncan Revill looked up and said, ‘Well, I think that’s about everything, except I need the beneficiary’s full
name.’

‘To Boydie—’

The young man was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Metcalfe, but isn’t that a nickname?’ Emma’s eyes, still their unusual brilliant colour, sparkled with mischief as
Duncan Revill said gently, ‘I shall need the boy’s proper name on a legal document.’

Emma allowed her glance to roam out of the room, through the window towards the sky. She saw the clouds scudding across the sun, blown by a good milling wind, and fancied old Charlie could be up
there looking down at her, smiling and nodding his approval.

So, she thought, you’ve got your way at last, Grandpa Charlie.

As she turned back to Mr Revill waiting patiently with his pen poised, a small playful smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. She could hardly keep the triumph from her voice as she said,
‘To my grandson,
Charles Forrest Smith
.’

Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape. Her ambition to
be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of 25. This was followed by eleven further titles, including
Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed
and
Reap the
Harvest,
her Fleethaven trilogy. Married with two daughters, Margaret Dickinson combines a busy working life with her writing career.

This book is a work of fiction and is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. Although specific settings have been used in the interests of
authenticity for a regional saga, and duly acknowledged, all the characters are entirely fictitious and any similarity to real persons is purely coincidental.

‘Forrest’s Mill’ has been inspired by Lincolnshire County Council’s Burgh-le-Marsh Windmill. My sincere thanks to the volunteer members of the
Burgh-le-Marsh Mill Group, who staff and work the mill on open days, for their interest and help in providing technical information.

My very special thanks to Mrs Marjorie McClory for the loan of family papers written by her father, Frank Dobson, whose family owned the mill from 1930 until 1965.

I am also very grateful to Phillip and Joyce Garrad for sharing their memories with me.

As always my love and thanks to my husband and daughters, Dennis, Mandy and Zoë, for their constant support and encouragement, never forgetting those who read and comment on the novel in
the early stages: Linda and Terry Allaway and Pauline Griggs.

And to Darley Anderson – the very best of agents – I am so glad I found you!

First published 1997 by Pan Books and simultaneously in hardback by Macmillan

This edition published 2001 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-330-53464-2 EPUB

Copyright © Margaret Dickinson 1997

The right of Margaret Dickinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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