Free Remembrance Day by Leah Fleming Page A

now so let’s make hay while the sun shines,’ he said, pulling her down onto the grass.
    Selma surrendered herself to this delicious moment. There was so much to learn.
    ‘Miss…Miss, I dropped a stitch again.’ Selma was jolted back to work. No peace for the wicked, she smiled. This secret courtship warmed her heart and fired her resolve. She would not let Guy down with shoddy knitting. ‘Come on now, children, winter is upon us and those poor soldiers need warm fingers, not mittens with holes!’
    Hester sat bolt upright on the horsehair sofa, one eye on the grandfather clock in the corner of the farmhouse parlour. It had a brass face of some distinction, as did the dark oak furniture with fine pewter plates in racks. In her hand a piece of porcelain of antiquity that unfortunately smelled and tasted of musty damp from the china cabinet. The rounds of the sick and elderly were done and she always finished off at the Pateleys’ farm at the top end of the village out on the old high road to Sowerthwaite. It was set back among the trees with a fine view across the valley. Whoever had chosen this site knew his arse from his elbow, as Charles would say.
    She smiled, knowing her dutiful day was done and Beaven would be waiting to return her to Waterloo House for tea and hot pikelets dripping with this season’s raspberry jam. The fire would be roaring in the morning room; they were setting an example of austerity by having only one fire lit during the week to save fuel.
    ‘How’s them young ’uns?’ said Emma Pateley, the farmer’s maiden sister, who kept home for him now he was widowed.
    ‘Ah, growing up too fast,’ Hester offered. ‘Still at school, of course…too young yet for any war work.’
    ‘Is that so? But not too young to go a-courtin’,’ Emma chuckled. ‘I seed one of yourn the other day up the far field walking a horse with a girl on its back. A proper knight in shining armour he looked.’
    ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Hester protested. ‘The boys are busy at school.’
    ‘It were a Sunday afternoon, as I recall; he were on that chestnut mare, fine beast. You were lucky the army didn’t get her on a rope. Tall as a spear, fair lad. The girl were dark-haired like that one of Bartleys’ as teaches school.You know, the one with the funny name. I’d watch it there. Them chapelgoers can be trouble when crossed. They like to match with their own.’
    ‘I’m sure it won’t be one of my boys, Miss Pateley.’ Hester felt herself flushing. Emma could be a gossipy old crone but her eyes didn’t miss much. The boys, it was true did have free periods on Sunday afternoons but surely one of her children wouldn’t make a fool of himself in the village?
    ‘When men and maids meet, there’s allus mischief, my lady,’ Emma continued, unaware of Hester’s discomfort. ‘Lads will be lads, and lasses aye let them…’
    ‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Pateley, but I must take my leave of you. Things to do in these trying times.’
    ‘I ’eard as how old Jones the plumber’s boy copped it last week and him a regular in the army. He’s been out there since it began…He’ll not be the last. My cups are telling me we’ll all be wearing black afore the next year’s out.’
    ‘Yes, yes, perhaps…Now you’ve got some more wool for the socks. I hear you’re one of the best heel turners in the district. We want to send socks, scarves and comforts by the end of next month, parcels for our local boys. I can rely on you?’ Hester wagged her finger, desperate for Emma to stop talking.
    ‘I’ll do my best. Thank you for calling on a poor old soul as is cut off from the world up here.’
    Not so cut off that you can’t find gossip, mused Hester as she stepped briskly into the waiting carriage. There was something about the woman’s ramblings that unsettled her. Could one of her boys really be making a fool of himself with a village girl? How ridiculous, how stupid, to foul on your own