Free The Miller's Daughter by Margaret Dickinson

with you now, is he, young Emma? I’m forgotten, I
suppose.’
    Emma gasped and shook her head slowly in disbelief. ‘What’s got in to you, Jamie Metcalfe? You’re not the same—’
    Harshly, he said, ‘Of course I’m not the same. The things I’ve seen . . .’ Suddenly she saw the pain of remembered horrors in his eyes before he turned his head away from
her saying roughly, ‘And nothing’s the same here either, is it? It’s all I thought of – out there. All I clung to, the thought that home was always here, just the same as it
always had been. And now . . .’ He gave an angry sweep of his arm encompassing not only the house, but the smithy and the wheelwright’s workshop too. ‘Oh, what’s the use . .
.’ Roughly he pushed past her and went out of the door banging it behind him with such force that the whole cottage seemed to shake.
    Emma stared at William in disbelief. The young man ran his hand through his hair in a hopeless, distracted gesture. ‘Oh, Em, I’m sorry you saw all that. You came at just the wrong
moment.’
    ‘What is it? What’s the matter with him?’
    William shrugged. ‘I suppose it must be hard for him, coming back to all this,’ he gestured with his hand. ‘And – and – ’ his glance went to the mantelpiece
where a matching pair of framed photographs of their parents stood, ‘and them not being here.’ He moved to the fireside chair that had always been Josiah’s place and sat down
wearily in the worn, comfortable seat. A fire burned in the grate, the only light in the room. William leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The flickering firelight illuminated his
gentle, youthful face that was, at times, still vulnerable and yet, at this moment, Emma saw a strength in his features, a mature understanding of the harsh realities of life. Quietly she moved
forward and knelt on the peg rug on the hearth.
    ‘I suppose,’ William went on, thinking aloud. ‘Like he ses, he carried the picture of us all still here, the home as he had always known it, the forge, everything. Imagining it
all to be still just as he’d left it. It was what kept him going. I mean—’ He lifted his face to look at Emma. Though his eyes were in shadow and she could not read the sorrow in
their depths, she knew it was there; she could hear it in his voice. ‘I mean, there have been some dreadful tales about what it was like out there, in the trenches. He must have been through
an awful lot, you know. Mebbe all the while, he was carrying this mental picture of his home with him, clinging to it. It must be a dreadful shock for him to come back and find –
this.’
    She was quiet too for a moment, staring into the flickering flames. Slowly, she said, ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Then she was scrambling up. ‘I’m going to find him.
I’ll talk to him.’
    ‘Oh no, Em, don’t. I don’t think it will do any good.’
    But Emma, intent on putting matters right, was not listening to William’s words of caution and did not see, as she hurried from the room, his gentle, troubled gaze following her.
    Outside, she stood listening. Through the deepening dusk of the winter’s evening, she could hear sounds coming from the forge. Pulling her coat closely round her, she bent her head against
the wind, thinking briefly that at least her father would still be in the mill, and made her way into the blacksmith’s yard.
    Jamie was standing in the middle of the cluttered yard, picking up pieces of metal, bits of wood and hurling them with frustrated anger into the farthest corner.
    ‘It’s like a rubbish tip,’ she heard him mutter. ‘Gone to wrack and ruin.’
    ‘Jamie.’
    Startled, he swung round.
    ‘What are you doing? Creeping about like that?’
    Stung, she retorted heatedly, ‘I’m not “creeping about”.’ She moved closer and asked more gently, ‘Jamie, what is it? What’s the matter?’
    ‘The matter? You ask what’s the matter? This – ’ he flung his left arm