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Back Plough the Furrow Save as PDF
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four
  38. Thirty-five
  39. Thirty-six
  40. Thirty-seven
  41. Thirty-eight
  42. Thirty-nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-one
  45. Forty-two
  46. Forty-three
  47. Forty-four
  48. Sow the Seed
  49. Reap the Harvest
  50. About the Author
  51. ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Copyright page

Matthew would be gone, slamming the door behind him. With Will Benson, however, Kate had no need to provoke his attention – it was hers without asking. For him, Kate was all smiles and dimples and angelic behaviour. He fussed over Kate like a hen with one chick and when she began to walk it was as if he would like to cocoon her against all hurt.

‘Should you be letting her play in the yard, Esther?’ he asked one bright, breezy washing day, when Esther let the child play whilst she moved between the wash-house and the clothes line in the front garden. ‘Won’t she get dirty?’ A worried frown creased his forehead.

Esther laughed as she slapped the wet clothes on to the mangle and turned the handle rapidly, the suds flowing back into the dolly tub. Then the garments fell into the cold rinsing water in a tub on the other side of the mangle. ‘A little dirt won’t hurt her. Let her play,’ and added softly as she remembered her own harsh childhood, ‘children need to play.’

‘But what about the pond? What if she fell in?’

‘Oh, I’ll mind she doesn’t get near that,’ Esther promised him. ‘I’ll have it fenced off by she’s really walking.’

The subject of their conversation turned solemn eyes from one to the other as they spoke and Esther smiled as Will squatted down and pulled a tiny doll from his jacket pocket. At once Kate scrambled to her feet and tottered towards him, her chubby hands outstretched. A smile of satisfaction spread across his face.

Esther shook her head. ‘I dun’t know, Will Benson, you’ve a way with the women even yet,’ she teased him, as he swung Kate up into his arms and walked round to the front of the house with Esther as she carried a basket of wet clothes to hang on the line.

‘Eh, lass, I ain’t been round the front here lately. You’ve done wonders with this garden.’

The trees had been pruned and promised apples and pears and plums in a few weeks, and the grass beneath had been neatly cut. At the far end, an oblong had been dug to make a kitchen garden and already Will could see potatoes, cabbages and carrots growing.

So the year of 1913 and the first half of 1914 passed peacefully enough for the small community of Fleethaven Point and Brumbys’ Farm prospered under Esther’s hard work and common sense.

It was a time of calm before the storms that were to follow; storms that were to tear asunder the fabric of their lives.

Eighteen