to go to work in Caxley. That suits me if it suits you." And he threw the key up to me, and off he goes.'
'Well!' said Mary, flabbergasted. 'And what's it like?'
'Nice little place. Next door to Hundred Acre Field. Good bit of garden and handy for the school. I reckon you'll like it. We'll go over Sunday and you shall see it. Ma'll have the girls, I don't doubt, and we can walk it easy in just over an hour.'
It was the most amazing news, and the family could hardly eat for excitement. By the next Sunday, when Mary had seen it and pronounced it perfect, all that remained to be done was to give a week's notice to their landlord and accept Jesse Miller's offer of a cart to carry the furniture from the Caxley home to the new one.
They were to move on Lady Day, which gave them about a fortnight in which to attend to the multitude of domestic details involved in moving house. For the last few days the Caxley home was almost unrecognisable. Curtains had been taken down, cupboards cleared, boxes stood, roped and massive, in the most awkward places, and chaos reigned.
But for all the bustle and confusion, Mary and Francis smiled. At last, they were leaving Caxley. At last, they were on their way to the open country where their hearts had always been.
Hearing their mother sing, as she washed china and stored it in a box stuffed with their father's thatching straw, the two little girls exchanged secret smiles. Beech Green might be unknown to them, but obviously there was no need for apprehension. Beech Green, it seemed, was the Promised Land.
The day of the move dawned still and cloudless. The Clare family was up betimes and the front door was propped open so that the coming of the farm cart could be instantly seen.
Breakfast was a picnic meal that day, of bread and cold bacon cut into neat cubes placed on a meat dish on the bare table, for such refinements as cooking pots, plates and tablecloths were all packed up.
It had been arranged that Mary and the children should travel on the cart with the furniture, while Francis stayed behind to lock up and return the key to the landlord.
'Jim's going to give us a hand putting our traps in at Beech Green,' said Francis, naming the carter who was to transport them, 'and I should be with you soon after you gets there. We'll be straight afore dark, my love, curtains up and all, you'll see.'
Outside, the early sunshine lit the tiny garden and shone through the open door upon the bare wall of the living-room. Perched on the budding rose bush, a speckled thrush sang his heart out, as if in farewell. It was strange, thought Mary suddenly, that she felt no pangs at parting from this her first home. Here the two babies had been born, and she and Francis had known happiness and misfortune. She had come across that uneven threshold as a bride, and was to leave as a wife and mother, but despite its associations, the house meant little to her. She would be glad to leave it.
There was a distant rumbling, which grew as they listened. Then came the sound of heavy hooves, and Jim's voice.
'Whoa there, old gal. Whoa, Bella!'
'He's come!' squeaked the two little girls, flying to the gate. The adventure had begun.
For the next hour or two Francis and Mary went back and forth from the house to the farm cart, helped by Jim who was almost as strong as the massive mare between the shafts. The children tore up and down in a state of wild excitement, getting in everyone's way, until Francis could stand it no longer.
'You two keep out o' this,' he said firmly. 'Play out the back or upstairs where we've done. We'll all be wore out before we starts.'
Ada skipped out through the back door, but Dolly made her way up the echoing shaky stairs to her empty bedroom. It was queer to see its bareness. There were dusky lines along the walls where the bed, the chest of drawers, and the cane-bottomed chair had stood. A blue bead glinted in a crack between two floor boards, and Dolly squatted down to prize it
'Well!' said Mary, flabbergasted. 'And what's it like?'
'Nice little place. Next door to Hundred Acre Field. Good bit of garden and handy for the school. I reckon you'll like it. We'll go over Sunday and you shall see it. Ma'll have the girls, I don't doubt, and we can walk it easy in just over an hour.'
It was the most amazing news, and the family could hardly eat for excitement. By the next Sunday, when Mary had seen it and pronounced it perfect, all that remained to be done was to give a week's notice to their landlord and accept Jesse Miller's offer of a cart to carry the furniture from the Caxley home to the new one.
They were to move on Lady Day, which gave them about a fortnight in which to attend to the multitude of domestic details involved in moving house. For the last few days the Caxley home was almost unrecognisable. Curtains had been taken down, cupboards cleared, boxes stood, roped and massive, in the most awkward places, and chaos reigned.
But for all the bustle and confusion, Mary and Francis smiled. At last, they were leaving Caxley. At last, they were on their way to the open country where their hearts had always been.
Hearing their mother sing, as she washed china and stored it in a box stuffed with their father's thatching straw, the two little girls exchanged secret smiles. Beech Green might be unknown to them, but obviously there was no need for apprehension. Beech Green, it seemed, was the Promised Land.
The day of the move dawned still and cloudless. The Clare family was up betimes and the front door was propped open so that the coming of the farm cart could be instantly seen.
Breakfast was a picnic meal that day, of bread and cold bacon cut into neat cubes placed on a meat dish on the bare table, for such refinements as cooking pots, plates and tablecloths were all packed up.
It had been arranged that Mary and the children should travel on the cart with the furniture, while Francis stayed behind to lock up and return the key to the landlord.
'Jim's going to give us a hand putting our traps in at Beech Green,' said Francis, naming the carter who was to transport them, 'and I should be with you soon after you gets there. We'll be straight afore dark, my love, curtains up and all, you'll see.'
Outside, the early sunshine lit the tiny garden and shone through the open door upon the bare wall of the living-room. Perched on the budding rose bush, a speckled thrush sang his heart out, as if in farewell. It was strange, thought Mary suddenly, that she felt no pangs at parting from this her first home. Here the two babies had been born, and she and Francis had known happiness and misfortune. She had come across that uneven threshold as a bride, and was to leave as a wife and mother, but despite its associations, the house meant little to her. She would be glad to leave it.
There was a distant rumbling, which grew as they listened. Then came the sound of heavy hooves, and Jim's voice.
'Whoa there, old gal. Whoa, Bella!'
'He's come!' squeaked the two little girls, flying to the gate. The adventure had begun.
For the next hour or two Francis and Mary went back and forth from the house to the farm cart, helped by Jim who was almost as strong as the massive mare between the shafts. The children tore up and down in a state of wild excitement, getting in everyone's way, until Francis could stand it no longer.
'You two keep out o' this,' he said firmly. 'Play out the back or upstairs where we've done. We'll all be wore out before we starts.'
Ada skipped out through the back door, but Dolly made her way up the echoing shaky stairs to her empty bedroom. It was queer to see its bareness. There were dusky lines along the walls where the bed, the chest of drawers, and the cane-bottomed chair had stood. A blue bead glinted in a crack between two floor boards, and Dolly squatted down to prize it
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