Free Paupers Graveyard by Gemma Mawdsley Page B

felt abroad tonight.’
    Timmy knew his mother had always been fey, it was as though she could see the future. Stupid old wives’ tales, his father called them, but she was always right in her predictions.
    â€˜I have four children,’ she continued. ‘All as healthy as the times allow and of the four, you were the only one who was in a hurry to get here. You came from my womb crying lustily and with clenched fists ready to take on the world. So I’m telling you this, child. If all around you are dying you must stay alive to take care of the other children. Promise me that you’ll live.’
    â€˜I promise Ma, but I don’t understand. I’m only twelve. Why would I die?’
    â€˜Because I heard it today, as clear and sharp as the death-knell.’
    â€˜What did you hear?’
    â€˜The wind, child, the wind called my name. You know how it was today with the gusts so sharp and cutting. From early morning it beat itself against the door and I knew that it would be a cold night. So, late this afternoon, I went to gather dry kindling. As I walked about the fields I heard it. At first I wasn’t sure, I had to stop and listen, and then it came again. It was a voice I knew, a well-loved voice that has long been silent and had come to warn me.’
    She said no more, and he lay there for a while with his head on her breast, listening to the beating of her heart, until the cold got to them and she sent him to bed. ‘You’ll remember my words, won’t you, child, remember what I’ve asked of you?’
    â€˜I’ll not forget Ma, I’ll do as you ask.’
    Had her powers of prediction been greater, she would never have asked of him the thing she did.
    ****
    He noticed the strange smell on his way to work the next morning. It seemed to be all around him. He stopped and sniffed the still air; he had never smelt anything like it before – it was really bad, putrid. It followed him all the way to the Hall.
    The stable-yard was unusually quiet and he could hear murmuring coming from the door leading into the kitchen. He wanted to go and ask what was happening, but was afraid that Black Jack might be there and his curiosity would earn him a clip across the ear.
    As he walked towards the kitchen door, the voices inside grew louder, but they made no sense, just a droning. Then he realised that they were praying. His heart thudded as he edged his way down the hallway and into the big room. Everyone was there. The few farm hands that were left, Mr Ryan the estate manager and even the butler, who in normal times would have shooed him away, took no notice of him. Some of them held rosary beads, which clacked together as they passed them through their fingers. Someone must have died, he thought, perhaps it was the master. He hoped it wasn’t her ladyship or one of the children.
    Annie was crying and some of the men seemed near to tears as well. They would hardly be crying if it were the master. He waited with head bowed in reverence for the prayers to end, but when they did, no one spoke for a few moments. With some effort Annie stood and went to the range, filling the large black teapot with boiling water. He watched her place extra cups on the table and fill each one with the blackest tea he had ever seen. The farm hands sat down at the big wooden table as though born to it, and he moved slowly over as one of them beckoned him to sit. He took the cup and sipped the scalding liquid, all the while watching the others. There was a plate of bread and butter in the middle of the table, but no one moved to take any of it. He was hungry, as always, and would have loved some. The old man sitting next to him reached over, took a slice and handed it to him as though reading his thoughts.
    â€˜I dare say you’ll eat that, lad.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ Timmy took the bread and bit into the thick crust.
    Still no one spoke, and his curiosity finally got the better of