Dusters and Dreams Read online

  “I saw your lamp light still moving around and wondered how things were.”

  “Ahh, thank ye. ’Tis a normal night—the action starts once the ewes relax in the darkness.”

  “So, you are busy?”

  “Yep, and Joe too. Look over there. One has just started, and the other side, one’s ’aving ’er second.”

  “Can I help, please?” asked Edward, suddenly longing to do something useful.

  “Well, I reckon ye can. Just roll up that sleeve of yorn and pull out ’er second one—’tis easier than the first—while I see to the tuther.”

  Edward cautiously approached the ewe and was relieved that she didn’t attempt to stand up or run away. With one knee gently anchoring the sheep to the ground, as he had seen Mr. Brookes do, he gently pulled the two slippery hoofs.

  “Just ease them out, one at a time,” instructed the shepherd, keeping a watchful eye while dealing with another ewe.

  Edward pulled, and as he did, a little head appeared, nose first.

  “Gently ease it out, pulling back and down.”

  With hardly any effort, the whole body slipped out, and the new lamb thrashed about, steaming warm in the cold night air.

  “Clear ’is mouth and get ’im to ’is mother.”

  Edward did as he was bidden, then looked in wonder as the contented new mother licked her lamb lovingly and answered its first call with low, reassuring bleats. Within minutes the wobbly wet lamb was trying out its oversized limbs and staggering unsteadily. The mother hauled herself up and followed her wayward offspring. Hunger must have kicked in, for soon the lamb was sniffing out the udder and making erratic lunges toward the teats.

  “It don’t take ’em long,” Mr. Brookes said with a chuckle.

  “It is wonderful,” agreed Edward.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE VICARAGE GRADUALLY BECAME MORE ship-shape, but despite Rebecca and Jack’s best efforts, it did not become cosy or homely. They did their best to ignore the vast middle room. The Brinkhills had left a large mahogany table and matching chairs, and their presence stubbornly lingered. The kitchen was big enough to comfortably hold the Hayworth’s dining table, so they decided to eat there, designating the dining room for high days and holy days—or so they ignorantly thought. The members of numerous church and village committees knew otherwise: this room was pivotal in parish life and the meeting place for all local groups. Not only was the room commandeered into action, but so were the newlyweds. Without so much as a “by your leave,” Jack found himself on every committee from the Church Bell Restoration Committee to the Prince Albert Memorial Fund. Rebecca found herself on every ladies’ committee, of which there was an abundant number.

  The Ladies’ Committee for Charitable Endeavours was made up of all the notable matriarchs in the village, including the church warden’s wife and many of the knitting group. It was undoubtedly the most illustrious women’s committee in the village. Rebecca felt her membership of it had been allowed somewhat grudgingly and that she would have to prove her worth. But she was prepared for the first meeting: the dining room fire was lit early to warm the room thoroughly, she had baked tea loaves and scones to go with a cup of tea, and the house was clean and tidy.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, the ladies started arriving. Some were more successful than others at concealing their curiosity over the couple’s possessions and the changes they had made to the interior of the vicarage.

  Trying to appear more confident than she felt in committee meeting matters, Rebecca breezily suggested they start “with a nice cup of tea and piece of cake.” A sharp intake of breath was audible.

  The sidesman’s wife tutted. “That is not how Mrs. Brinkhill would start the meeting.”

  “We normally attend to the business first,” said another.

  “Then after that she served the meal.”

  The meal! Rebecca’s knees went weak. The Committee of Charitable Endeavours had to endeavour to be charitable to Rebecca as she apologetically explained her ignorance of the normal meeting ritual. They graciously allowed Rebecca to serve tea and cake. Mrs. Collins, the church warden’s wife, presided over the meeting and soon engineered to manage the teapot too. A hard stare from her accompanied by a delicate head tilt toward the pot saw Rebecca hurrying to the kitchen to refill it. On one such visit, she not only took the teapot but also whisked off the almost empty cake plate, determined that Jack would have at least the final slice of her tea loaf.

  Rebecca had wrongly assumed that the charitable endeavours of the committee were village-based but quickly learned that, for them, charity did not begin at home. Most of their fundraising effort was for overseas missions. This did not prevent a thorough discussion of village life, for “we need to keep abreast with local news to ascertain where there is need for our own private alms giving and prayers,” explained Mrs. Collins in case anyone suspected the women of gossip.

  The Sunday school teachers’ meetings were of a very different nature, although they were in the same room and around the same table. Tea and cake was a welcome innovation, as previously nothing had been served. The Sunday school superintendent, Mr. Grey, opened with reading and prayer and conducted the whole meeting in a very business-like manner, while still allowing for relevant discussion. Each term the teachers would decide on a biblical theme to teach and how best to get the salient points across to each age group. Some teachers emphasised moralizing the children, and some emphasised evangelism. Some thought the children ought to be catechized and learn by rote, while others preferred dramatic, lively storytelling. Mr. Grey veered toward the catechizing camp but diplomatically left it to each teacher to run his or her class as they saw fit and as their talent allowed. Rebecca had the infant class and was definitely of the lively story telling school of thought. After every meeting Mr. Grey politely but sincerely thanked her for allowing them to use the dining room “and for the delicious sustenance so kindly provided,” whereas Mrs. Collins gave the impression Rebecca should be humbly grateful that the good ladies of Capford had graced her with their company.

  If Rebecca did not look forward to committee meetings with unmitigated joy, one thing that gave her great satisfaction in her role of vicar’s wife was visiting the sick or needy. She knew what was expected of her from her mother’s example. A good vicar’s wife must have a discreet ear to the ground at all times to discover who is ill, in need, bereaved, or has recently given birth, and be one of the first to visit, armed with a suitable gift and a relevant Scripture reading. During her employment at Biggenden, she had gained experience in these visitations as Mr. Thorpe had wiggled out of his landlord duty of visiting his ill tenants by calling it ladies’ work and delegating it to Rebecca, his housekeeper. It was a rather uncomfortable arrangement, for she often felt she had no right to intrude into people’s lives at a crisis point and felt like a bit of a fraud playing Lady Bountiful at her employer’s expense. But the tenants were usually grateful for the visit, and Rebecca built up several strong friendships. Now she was the vicar’s wife, no one doubted her suitability to visit, and her work was made easier by the fact that she already knew many of the villagers from her previous role.

  Back in their little cottage, Jack and Rebecca had prayed for guidance regarding where they should serve the Lord and had felt ready to go anywhere for Him and His cause. An inner-city parish, a rough sea-side church—they were willing to go anywhere for His name’s sake. It had taken them a while to get over the disappointment of realising that instead of asking them to up sticks and move some great distance for Him, the Lord wanted them to move a mile and a half down the road, to the dreary Capford vicarage and continue His work there. Their attitude was rather like Naaman’s when he was told to dip himself in the River Jordan. The Lord had to rebuke them, like Naaman’s servant did, and point out that as they would have willingly done a big thing for Him, they should be just as willing to do something seemingly small and unheroic. With touching sincerity, they looked deep within themselve
s and realised maybe pride had made them want to do something amazing, not purely a desire to work for their Saviour.

  But once this problem was dealt with, they both privately committed themselves to Capford and wholeheartedly set to work, with the text “Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might” ringing in their ears. And what their hand did not find to do, they could be sure some villager’s hand would find it and deftly delegate it to the vicarage pair!

  Thus, they were busy week in and week out. Instead of running an organised household like most women, Rebecca often had to abandon her regulated plans for a laundry Monday, baking Friday, etc. and just do chores when she could fit them in—often working late into the evening. She had prided herself on being methodical in her work after a few years in domestic service and having been rigorously trained to Mrs. Milton’s exacting standards, but now she was pathetically relieved if she had managed to press and starch her husband’s Sunday shirt before Saturday evening.

  One evening as the exhausted Rebecca was heating her pressing irons on the kitchen range, Jack appeared from his study.

  “This has to stop,” he insisted. “You are no longer a domestic skivvy; you are my wife, and I am not going to stand by and watch you work yourself to the bone.”

  Rebecca looked up, surprised at this outburst. “So says the man who works in his study every night.”

  “Not anymore,” he replied. “From now on I will plan some uninterrupted time in my study each week, freeing up some evening hours to spend at my own fireside with my wife.”

  They looked at each other, both suspecting this plan might fail but sincerely hoping it would succeed.

  “And as for you, my dear,” he continued, “you need to hire a daily maid.”

  “That would be an expense!” Rebecca argued.

  “An expense well worth paying for if you can relax in the knowledge that the household chores are taken care of.”

  Rebecca gave Jack a big hug. “That sounds a lovely idea—how kind of you to think of it!”

  “Good. Now I will shut my concordance. Take those pressing irons off the heat and put the kettle on instead. Tonight we will pretend to be in our dear old cottage.”

  The following afternoon Rebecca purposefully left the vicarage with two missions. One involved Mrs. Kemp and the other, Mrs. Brookes. Mrs. Kemp had been the former cook at Biggenden while Rebecca was employed there. She was a kind, motherly sort and now lived with her rapidly aging husband in her daughter’s family cottage in the village. Mrs. Kemp lived a very stationary life, moving from her armchair next to the kitchen stove only when strictly necessary. This was due to rheumatism. But that kitchen was the heart of the house, where her daughter toiled and her grandchildren played, so Mrs. Kemp was perfectly satisfied. Rebecca knew she would receive a warm welcome and was not disappointed. The children were at school, leaving the kitchen comparatively calm. Mr. Kemp was in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, fast asleep with a blanket over his knees, and there he remained for the duration of Rebecca’s visit. After exchanging news over a cup of tea, she explained her mission.

  “Mrs. Kemp, I need your help.”

  “I ain’t no ’elp to no one these days.”

  “You like knitting, don’t you?” Rebecca persevered.

  “Well, ya right, tha’ is somefing I can do.”

  “Every week, or so it seems, I have to pay a visit to women with newborn babies. It is all very nice, but I feel some sort of knitted garment is expected of me for the new little one, and there is no keeping up with it. Do you remember how slow I am?”

  “So ya want me ta make bonnets, blankets, and the likes?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “If I don’t mind! Why ya know I am no ’appier than when I’ve got a pair of knitting needles clicking away!”

  “So, would you?”

  “Of cou’se, my dear.”

  “I can supply the wool.”

  “I’m ’oping soon ta be knitting for you.”

  Rebecca ignored this comment and changed the subject. After a little more chat, she left to go on her next mission.

  As Rebecca neared Mrs. Brookes’ house, she reflected on the motherly woman’s kindness to her. Her daughter Agnes had been a housemaid at Biggenden, and through her, Rebecca had met this lovely, large-hearted woman. It was Mrs. Brookes who insisted Rebecca spend Christmas with them when it was discovered she would be alone, despite having a house full of family already. It was Mrs. Brookes who gently put Rebecca to bed, as if she was a child, when she fell and twisted her ankle. It was Mrs. Brookes who, along with her now mother-in-law, enthusiastically organised Jack and Rebecca’s wedding breakfast, and it was from the Brookes’ residence that Rebecca left for their marriage service. To sum it all up, Rebecca felt greatly indebted to this capable lady. And now yet again she needed her wisdom and advice as she sought a suitable maid.

  Rebecca was relieved to find Mrs. Brookes at home, for she was frequently out helping her daughters with their big families. Over yet another cup of tea, they chatted animatedly about recent events. The older lady laughed heartily at Rebecca’s mistake with the Charitable Endeavours group, and Rebecca wondered aloud why Mrs. Brookes was on no committees.

  “Me on a committee? Not likely!” Mrs. Brookes roared with laughter at the idea. “I couldn’t stand the meetings and anyway, if all those rich ladies on the committee dug a bit deeper into their silken pockets for their ‘charitable endeavours,’ there would be no need trying to wheedle the money out of the poor by organising bazaars and the like.”

  Rebecca laughed heartily.

  “Moreover,” she continued, fully warmed to her theme, “I maintain that most committees are established because something needs doing or paying for, and all the members want it done but are unwilling to do it or pay for it themselves.”

  “I think you have it in a nutshell,” Rebecca said with a smile. “I must remember that summary to tell Jack tonight.”

  Mrs. Brookes listened quietly as Rebecca explained their domestic situation, a smile playing on her lips.

  “Well, that is what I call providential!” she exclaimed.

  “Why providential?”

  “Well . . . ” Mrs. Brookes rose to close the back door, as if scared of being overheard. “It’s about our Violet.”

  Violet was the Brookes’ youngest daughter. When they had been extra busy at Biggenden Manor due to guests or dinner parties, Violet was often conscripted to do the duty of a scullery maid. After Rebecca had left, Violet was given a permanent role as kitchen maid and as far as Rebecca was aware, all was going well.

  “A week ago, a cousin of Mrs. Thorpe, Christopher, came to stay. As far as I can make out, ’e is a ’andsome young man who has never done a day’s work in ’is life, but spends ’is time either socialising or shooting, all at ’is doting parents’ expense. Well, as you know, our Violet isn’t bad looking, and she is such a dreamy romantic, filling her silly ’ead with ridiculous love stories from Mrs. Thorpe’s discarded copies of Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.

  “So, she was a sitting duck for this Mr. Christopher’s advances, flattery, and vows of undying love. Somehow, through lying and deception, he engineered a meeting in the stables. I dread to think what would ’ave ’appened ’ad not they been disturbed by the farrier, who just ’appened to be calling in. He knows my ’usband well, so was quite shocked and angered at seeing Violet thus compromised. He immediately stalked off to find Mr. Thorpe, who was unfortunately not at ’ome. The situation was dealt with by Mrs. Thorpe.”

  “What did she do?” Rebecca asked, agog.

  “Yes, that is it. Violet was instantly dismissed, and apparently, Mr. Christopher was gently admonished over a friendly cup of tea.”

  Rebecca seethed with the injustice of the situation.

  “When Violet came ’ome in tears, I wanted to go straight to Mr. Christopher and give ’im a piece of my mind. Give him a few ’ome truths like he probably has never ’
eard in all his pampered life. But Mr. Brookes stopped me, reminding me that Mrs. Thorpe had the power to dismiss him from his shepherding job and kick us out this ’ouse.”

  “Could no one speak quietly to Mr. Thorpe about it?”

  “Rebecca, really! As if ’e would go against ’is wife? And wiv apologies offering Violet ’er job back? And send Christopher off the premises? Not likely!” They sat in silence, mulling over the incident.

  “So that is why your coming is so providential,” explained Mrs. Brookes. “Violet needs a new position. She is ’ere, moping about like only fifteen year olds can. You need a maid, and as you know, when she sets ’er mind to it, Violet can work ’ard. She would be in safe ’ands wiv you at the vicarage.”

  Rebecca nodded. Yes, it did appear to be a good solution. She had worked with Violet and knew she was honest and hard-working. It would suit her and please Mrs. Brookes.

  “But what would Violet think?”

  “Think? I know what she should think! She should be grateful for a second chance.”

  “So, you will ask her for me tonight?”

  “Ask ’er? No, I will tell ’er tonight, and she will be wiv ya first thing tomorrow morning.”

  On returning home, Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from bursting in upon Jack in his study to triumphantly inform him about her two solved problems. Jack had clearly been miles away in thought so took a little while to register the news, and Rebecca immediately felt guilty for disturbing his spiritual musings.

  After his wife apologized, Jack chuckled guiltily. “Oh no, I wasn’t considering elevated matters. I was trying to work out how many seed potatoes to order.”

  They discussed the employment of Violet further over supper. Jack had been suitably shocked at her treatment at Biggenden and was pleased they could help out the Brookes family, who were loyal and undemanding church members. Rebecca went to bed happy with the day’s outcome and was just about to fall asleep when Jack said, “I hope we are not breaching some kind of domestic diplomacy, taking on a neighbour’s dismissed servant.” Then rolling onto his side, he fell into a peaceful slumber, whereas Rebecca, now fully awake, wondering what she would do if Mrs. Thorpe—or even Mr. Thorpe—called to complain about her conduct. She also began wondering how far the story of Violet’s impropriety had spread. Her fellow maidservants Molly and Clara would probably be unable to resist spreading such a juicy bit of scandal in the quiet rural village where the last big excitement was a roving ram breaking into a neighbouring farmer’s flock of ewes. Was Rebecca about to incur the united wrath of the various committees she sat on?