BooksBarbecue
Back Plough the Furrow
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

Jonathan! Oh no! Her lips formed his name, but she made no sound. With trembling fingers she reached out and took the telegram. The young man turned, mounted his bike and pedalled away quickly.

The words blurred before her and she had to blink and read it several times before the truth penetrated her consciousness.

Beneath the heading ‘POST OFFICE TELEGRAMS’ and some small printing which she did not trouble to read, the message was handwritten, the wording terse and impersonal:

OHMS. War Office, London. To Hilton, Fleethaven Point, Lincolnshire. Deeply regret to inform you that Sgt M. Hilton, Lincolnshire Regiment, was posted missing 21st May. Secretary War Office.

There was not even the name of the sender to soften the harsh, dispassionate wording.

For a long time Esther looked down at the piece of paper in her hands, reading and re-reading the words until they blurred before her eyes. She walked slowly into the house. In the kitchen she stood, dazed, in front of the mantelpiece. With shaking fingers she reached up and took down the photograph of Matthew in its silver frame. The postcards stacked behind it slithered down and scattered around her, floating down on to the floor like falling petals. She picked each one up and sat down at the table, resting her arms on the plush green tablecloth. She placed his photograph in front of her and then read and re-read every postcard he had sent.

‘Oh, Matthew,’ she murmured aloud, ‘Matthew, I’m so sorry. I never wanted this to happen.’

She stayed a long time in the house on her own, coming to terms with the news. Learning to live with the knowledge that now she was really on her own. Thoughts of Jonathan intruded, but resolutely she pushed them away. Now was not the time to think of him.

At last she sighed and heaved herself up from the table. She replaced the photograph and the postcards on the mantelpiece and then gently touched the face in the picture with her forefinger. ‘Poor Matthew,’ she murmured.

She went across to the sideboard and opened the drawer. Lying face upwards was the companion photograph to the one in the frame. She took it out and closed the drawer. Picking up the telegram from the table, she left the farmhouse and turned towards the Point.

There was something she had to do.

Esther walked the short distance from her farm to the Point. At this time of day there was no one about outside the cottages or the pub and for this she was thankful. She didn’t yet want to face the inevitable questions. She stood on the bank below the towering bulk of the Elands’ boat home. She waited uncertainly. There was no one in sight and she did not want to venture up the gangway uninvited and unheralded. She heard a footstep on the wooden planking of the deck and saw Robert Eland appear at the end of the wooden jetty.