The Girl with the Amber Comb. Linda Finlay
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Extract
Sedge Moor, Somerset. Autumn 1834
The harvest moon hung like a buttery orb, gilding the withies that stood like sentinels alongside the dykes. The smell of apple pressings from a cider house drifted across the land. Beyond rose Aller Moor, the black holes scored by peat cutters staring down on the Droves like watchful eyes.
Suddenly the quietude of the night was broken by a piercing scream that disturbed a heron from its roost. Mary cuddled her daughter closer, wiping the sweat from her brow before bending to ease the sac from her body. Although she worked quickly, she knew in her heart it was already too late. Sure enough, as the tiny form whimpered and took its first breath, Della shuddered and breathed her last. Mary shook her head, hot tears bouncing from her cheeks to mingle with the waters of the rhyne that now ran red with blood.
All she could feel was despair for a young life lost and hatred for the man whose selfish lust had been the cause. Another whimper sounded from the withies and she steeled herself to look. Yet even as she stared, the wail became impatient, its insistence demanding attention. It was just as Mary had thought, but now her worst fears had been realized, did she have the nerve to perform the task she’d sworn she would?
Sedge Moor, Somerset. Seventeen years later
‘Oh Grammer, why didn’t I listen to you?’ Eliza cried as, oblivious to the dew glistening like stars in the pale light of early morning, she dropped to her knees on the grass. Gently, she placed her posy between the two graves, one recently dug, the other flattened with time. Grammer Mary now united with her daughter Della, the mother Eliza had never known.
‘May St Michael give you protection from darkness and evil,’ she murmured. The bright blue daisies symbolized farewell and Eliza knew she wasn’t only saying goodbye to the woman who had raised her, but to her own dreams for the future. As the willows rustled their leaves, she dashed away a tear, scarcely able to believe her beloved grammer had gone to sleep the previous week never to wake and greet another new day.
It was now the end of September and the swallows were taking flight from the nearby reed beds on their way to warmer climes and a new life. Eliza wished she was going with them, for winter was fast approaching bringing the wild winds and incessant rains that would batter their home for weeks on end.
Sighing, she got to her feet and stared over the withy beds that glinted yellow in the swirling autumn mist, towards the scattered stone cottages and farmhouses which made up the hamlet of Worth.
‘Happy birthday, Eliza.’ She started as her gramfer came up behind her. ‘Were a time of mixed emotions the day you were born and that’s the truth,’ he said gruffly. Turning, she smiled and linked her arm through his, for he said the same thing every year. ‘You’ve brought such joy and Lord knows how I’d manage without you now that …’ his voice cracked and he turned towards the old oak where the two crosses were flanked by the bright flowers.
Although she didn’t feel like celebrating today, her birthday had always been an occasion to be marked. A specially baked cake followed by a toast to Della.
‘I’m sure Grammer’s staring down from heaven to see what you’ve got for me,’ Eliza teased, forcing a smile as she tried to lift his spirits.
‘Mary were never one to miss out on anythin’.’ His lips twitched, hazel eyes pensive as he stroked his greying beard. ‘I might have a little somethin’ but you’ll have to wait ’til later. Birthday or no, there’s work to do first. Old Man Conger’s callin’ for those eel traps he ordered this art’noon. Mary was that busy she didn’t have time …’ his voice trailed off again.
‘I’ve a basket to make for Mr Batstone then I’ll see to them,’ Eliza assured him, for the man was a good customer who always paid promptly, sometimes even giving them fish for their evening meal. Besides, their flour sack was almost empty and the money would help pay for another.
‘You’re a good girl,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll be out checkin’ the beds. The cattle have made a good job of clearin’ the weeds so hopefully we’ll be able to harvest before the first frosts set in.’
‘I’ll have a brew ready when you return. We can have it with a slice of the bramble manchit I baked yesterday,’ she told him, knowing how he lost track of time when he was checking his precious withies.
‘Your pastry’s almost good as your grammer’s,’ he grunted, his eyes suspiciously bright. Eliza watched as he made his way slowly down the drove, a stout hazel stick supporting the body that was stooped from a lifetime spent bending over his precious beds.
As a fresh breeze blew in from the moors, Eliza shivered and hurried over to the ramshackle barn that served both as store and workshop. The letter in her pocket crackled, reminding her of the decision she’d had to take. Although she loved helping the school mistress teaching the young girls their lessons, with Grammer gone there was nobody else to fulfil the orders for the quality baskets her family were renowned for making. It was up to Eliza to take over the business. There was no way she was letting Izziah Gliddon get his hands on it. The odious merchant had called with indecent haste the moment he’d heard