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

An hour later she had a fire glowing white hot under the copper and was staggering to and from the water-butt at the end of the house with heavy buckets to fill it. Each time she climbed on to a stool and tippled the cold water into the huge bowl. Satisfied at last that she had enough, she covered it with the wooden lid and, leaving the water to heat up, she came out into the yard. She glanced at the sun and reckoned it must be nearly midday. The rumblings in her own stomach told her so. There was no sign of Sam Brumby or of Matthew but she prepared a simple meal of bacon and bread and left it set on the table. Then wiping her hands down her skirt, she took a deep breath and opened the door leading from the kitchen into the house beyond.

It led into an ordinary living room with an armchair set on either side of the fireplace and peg rugs on the floor. A table covered with a green plush cloth stood in the centre with four straight-backed dining chairs set around it. In the middle of the table stood a blue and white pot holding an aspidistra, long since dead, its withered leaves rotting and filling the room with a pungent mustiness. The window was covered by yellowing lace curtains which were falling into holes and two huge blue velvet curtains, lined with dust, hung from a wooden pole across the top. The wallpaper had once had a pretty green pattern but now it was faded and dirty. Around the room were several pictures – a large one depicting Jesus in the Temple, with smaller landscape paintings around it. On the far wall at the side of the window was a photograph, brown and faded, of a stern-looking woman, her black dress buttoned to the neck, her dark hair parted in the centre and drawn back severely behind her head.

In the corner, diagonally opposite where Esther had entered, was another door leading further into the house. She moved slowly past the table, letting her fingers feel the soft fabric of the tablecloth, but it was sticky with dust. She opened the door and stepped into a small hallway. To her left was the front door which she knew would lead out into the garden and orchard and to her right the stairs climbed steeply to the floor above. Opposite was another door leading to what she presumed on entering to be the ‘best parlour’.