Read Online The Silk Factory by Judith Allnatt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith Allnatt
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and everything bright as a vision. He looked back over his shoulder and their eyes met as he raised his hat to her. She gazed at him without smiling. Effie knew that men meant Trouble. Nonetheless, even though it was only half-full, she picked up her basket so that she could straighten up and watch his departing back as he clip-clopped on along the lane, smart as paint. As he passed the other women who were working at the far end of the nuttery, she saw him tip his hat to them and felt unaccountably disappointed.
She tutted at herself and bent back to her work. What a fool to let her eyes wander after a man, however handsome, she berated herself, and a soldier at that! Better to concentrate on filling her baskets; the carter would be here within the hour to collect them and then she must get back home to start work on Mrs Millington’s washing. She set her mouth in a firm line and returned to her gathering. The rent was due and paying it would mean little left to tide them over until Tobias and Beulah brought their wages home at the end of the week. On top of that she would have to endure Hob Talbot’s visit to collect his money, with his constant reminders that they had no right to the tied cottage since her father had passed away and were only living on his farm through his grace and favour. He would invite himself to her fireside and ask for a drop of ale and her ‘good company’, and watch her as she poured his drink, with the hungry look that made her flesh crawl.
She picked another handful of the tiny flowers. Her fingers were bare for the delicate work, her hands covered only by fingerless gloves that gave little protection. She placed the flowers in the basket, packed more of the stinging snow around to keep them fresh on their journey and then rubbed her palms together in an attempt to restore some life to stiff, numb hands. Despite the arduous work, bent double and aching with cold, Effie had not grown immune to the beauty of the flowers as had the other women, who talked in a businesslike way of ‘cropping’ and ‘packing’. She still found the flowers beautiful and took pleasure in their perfect shape and the thin line of green that traced the edge of their petals. She observed them in all their moods, the way they fluttered in an icy breeze or hung, drooping, when it was still. She marvelled that something so frail could push through the frozen earth and the crust of snow and thought of them as dogged little flowers, each year achieving their reassuring miracle.
Jack rode on through the village and out past the water mill until he came to the woods. He turned off the main track and coaxed Maisie haltingly along a track bounded by the lumpy snow-covered shapes of brambles and dead bracken. A crow landed on a branch a few feet away, showering the path with snow, and Maisie whinnied and shied so that he had to throw himself forward over her neck to avoid hitting his head on a branch above him. Swearing, he gripped on tightly to avoid being thrown and reined her in firmly, turning her in tight circles to stop her bolting, as the crow, disturbed by the noise, flapped away again. Maisie snorted and shook her head. She planted all four hooves firmly on the ground and wouldn’t give an inch.
Jack knew this mood of hers and sat tight, giving her time to calm herself. He let the reins go slack so that she could drop her head and investigate the fallen snow that had alarmed her. He patted her neck while she flicked her tail. The wood, muffled in snow, seemed silent at first but as he sat, relaxing in the saddle, small sounds reached him: a stream trickling with meltwater, a robin’s high piping song, the sough of branches as a breeze passed through and was gone. He felt a restless happiness he couldn’t name. Each sound fell upon his ear with an intense sweetness, as though his senses were suddenly attuned to a new pitch. The very branches cradling the snow seemed charged with light. Beside him, beads of water
She tutted at herself and bent back to her work. What a fool to let her eyes wander after a man, however handsome, she berated herself, and a soldier at that! Better to concentrate on filling her baskets; the carter would be here within the hour to collect them and then she must get back home to start work on Mrs Millington’s washing. She set her mouth in a firm line and returned to her gathering. The rent was due and paying it would mean little left to tide them over until Tobias and Beulah brought their wages home at the end of the week. On top of that she would have to endure Hob Talbot’s visit to collect his money, with his constant reminders that they had no right to the tied cottage since her father had passed away and were only living on his farm through his grace and favour. He would invite himself to her fireside and ask for a drop of ale and her ‘good company’, and watch her as she poured his drink, with the hungry look that made her flesh crawl.
She picked another handful of the tiny flowers. Her fingers were bare for the delicate work, her hands covered only by fingerless gloves that gave little protection. She placed the flowers in the basket, packed more of the stinging snow around to keep them fresh on their journey and then rubbed her palms together in an attempt to restore some life to stiff, numb hands. Despite the arduous work, bent double and aching with cold, Effie had not grown immune to the beauty of the flowers as had the other women, who talked in a businesslike way of ‘cropping’ and ‘packing’. She still found the flowers beautiful and took pleasure in their perfect shape and the thin line of green that traced the edge of their petals. She observed them in all their moods, the way they fluttered in an icy breeze or hung, drooping, when it was still. She marvelled that something so frail could push through the frozen earth and the crust of snow and thought of them as dogged little flowers, each year achieving their reassuring miracle.
Jack rode on through the village and out past the water mill until he came to the woods. He turned off the main track and coaxed Maisie haltingly along a track bounded by the lumpy snow-covered shapes of brambles and dead bracken. A crow landed on a branch a few feet away, showering the path with snow, and Maisie whinnied and shied so that he had to throw himself forward over her neck to avoid hitting his head on a branch above him. Swearing, he gripped on tightly to avoid being thrown and reined her in firmly, turning her in tight circles to stop her bolting, as the crow, disturbed by the noise, flapped away again. Maisie snorted and shook her head. She planted all four hooves firmly on the ground and wouldn’t give an inch.
Jack knew this mood of hers and sat tight, giving her time to calm herself. He let the reins go slack so that she could drop her head and investigate the fallen snow that had alarmed her. He patted her neck while she flicked her tail. The wood, muffled in snow, seemed silent at first but as he sat, relaxing in the saddle, small sounds reached him: a stream trickling with meltwater, a robin’s high piping song, the sough of branches as a breeze passed through and was gone. He felt a restless happiness he couldn’t name. Each sound fell upon his ear with an intense sweetness, as though his senses were suddenly attuned to a new pitch. The very branches cradling the snow seemed charged with light. Beside him, beads of water
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