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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

Sam grunted doubtfully. ‘Reckon you can manage them great horses of Tom Willoughby’s, d’ya, wench?’

Esther grinned at him, her green eyes sparkling. ‘You just watch me, mester.’

So on the first day that Tom brought his pair of heavy horses to Brumbys’ Farm, both he and Sam followed Esther as she led the animals out to the field; stood watching her as deftly she harnessed them to the plough. She marked out a rig and then cut her first furrow, true and straight. Her clear voice rang out across the field, ‘Gee-back, gee-back,’ as she guided the horses on a right turn at the end of the rig and began her way back down the field towards the two men. As she approached, Esther’s concentration never faltered, her hands stayed firmly on the plough, yet she was aware of their critical scrutiny.

Tom’s rumbling voice carried to her ears. ‘By heck, lass, that furrow’s as straight as I could do mesen. What d’you say, Sam?’

Faintly, she heard Sam’s now-familiar sniff. ‘Aye, it’ll do,’ was all he said.

From Sam Brumby that was praise enough.

So day after day Esther took turns with Matthew in following the horses borrowed from Tom Willoughby, guiding the plough as it carved furrow after neat furrow until her legs ached and her ankles were sore from all the miles she had walked on the uneven ground. Her hands were chafed raw from holding the plough handles but doggedly she plodded on through the rain and mud of autumn. The days seemed to grow rapidly shorter and the weather turned colder. Seagulls shrieked above her diving down on to the freshly turned furrow in search of food. Mile after mile she trudged and then, cold and wet, she would return to the farmhouse at night, but only when the horses had been brushed and fed with corn and chaff did she allow herself any respite. In front of the glowing fire in the range she would fall asleep in the wooden chair in the corner by the hearth, often too exhausted even to eat.

Life at Brumbys’ Farm fell into some sort of routine for the three of them – Sam, Esther and Matthew. Matthew did not work full time for Sam, Esther found. He helped out on all the local farms and so several days could go by without Matthew being there. Then suddenly he would appear again, grinning cheekily, winking at her and, given less than half a chance, slapping her buttocks, although he was quick to dodge out of the way of her stinging right hand returning the slap.