Tizzie

By P.D.R. Lindsay

It was her letter. Dear Tizzie, it read so why had it been thrown away before she’d seen it? Her family wouldn’t do that to her, hide things from her? Families supported and aided each other didn’t they? Especially on a Yorkshire Dale farm, in 1887 where life was tough enough without a falling out in the family. But niece Agnes knew something for she’d found the letter. Perhaps it was time for Tizzie to understand what her brother, Jack, his wife, Maggie, and their children had been up to. ‘It’s nowt good that’s for sure.’ Here she had been working herself down to skin and bones as a dairymaid for them, but what had they really done to her? She dreaded finding out but she must, or Agnes will suffer the same spinster fate. Sharp young Agnes longed to be a school teacher, showed Tizzie things weren’t what she’d thought. Together they uncovered Jack and Maggie's treachery and Tizzie, shocked, robbed of all she wanted in life, determined to set Agnes free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.D.R. Lindsay
• Release date: Apr 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780994103758

P.D.R. Lindsay

p.d.r. lindsay (no capitals please in tribute to a favourite poet, e. e. cummings) makes New Zealand home. Born in Ireland, brought up in Yorkshire, educated in England, Canada and New Zealand, writer p.d.r. lindsay is also Mrs Salmon, Ms Lindsay-Salmon and even for eight years in Japan, Professor Lindsay-Salmon. This wide experience of different cultures colours her writing and keeps her travelling.Social issues are her main concern which is why she writes historical stories about ordinary people, the ones whose names and lives we don't know much about. Reading the diaries and letters of parsons and farmers, wives and daughters, merchants and tradesmen showed her how the basic human dilemmas do not change over the centuries. She finds that certain human trait both good and bad, can be better shown through historical stories than through contemporary ones and hopes that readers will think about those failings as they apply to today.

Book preview

Tizzie

P.D.R. Lindsay

Copyright © 2014 p.d.r. lindsay

Published by Writer’s Choice at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9941194-7-6

REVIEWS

‘Tizzie is a heroine that you will never, ever forget. More, you will never forget her story. The book is that powerful. In fact, you won’t forget any of people portrayed, not the sister-in-law, not the brother, not the nephews, and certainly never little Agnes.’

***

‘This is a harrowing and addictive reading experience in which hope flickers feebly in the dark. But it does flicker, and it is quite impossible to remain unaffected by Tizzie’s determination to ensure her niece will have what she was denied – a life.’

***

‘In conclusion, I would have to say that Lindsay’s unique style of prose has the subtlety of being able to manipulate the reader into the belief that they themselves are in Yorkshire, and could actually help Tizzie and Agnes. Whether it is the continued use of the Yorkshire dialect, or whether it is the undeniable investment the reader gives to the characters, I am not sure. What I would say is this: whichever it is, or maybe it’s both, Lindsay succeeds, so wrapped up was I in the story.’

***

BLURB

It was her letter. Dear Tizzie, it read so why had it been thrown away before she’d seen it? Her family wouldn’t do that to her, hide things. Families support and aid each other don’t they? Especially on a Yorkshire Dale farm, in 1887 where life was tough enough without a falling out in the family. But niece Agnes knows something. She found the letter. Perhaps it’s time for Tizzie to understand what her brother, Jack, his wife, Maggie, and their children are up to. It’s nowt good that’s for sure. Here she is working herself down to skin and bones as a dairymaid for them, but what have they really done to her? She dreads finding out but she must, or Agnes will suffer the same spinster fate. Sharp young Agnes, who longs to be a school teacher, helps Tizzie suspect, see and then uncover Jack and Maggie's treachery. Now Tizzie knows how they’ve robbed her of a life, she starts plotting to free Agnes. How she’ll manage it she doesn’t know but Tizzie is determined to set Agnes free.

DEDICATION

For all the Tizzies who didn’t escape.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful thanks to all the following for their invaluable assistance:

Dawn Keur at zenato.com, for cover design

To the helpful experts who answered my questions with patience and in detail from the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Royal Armouries, the National Railway Museum and especially to the Farm Conservation Adviser, at the Yorkshire Dales National Park Authority.

As a thank you to you readers there’s a link to a free historical short story at the end of the novel.

CONTENTS

Reviews

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Contents

Prologue Summer 1897

Ch 1 ‘January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow.’ Agnes finds the letter and Tizzie begins to wonder.

Ch 2 ‘February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again.’ Tizzie learns the truth about Johnnie. She must protect Agnes.

Ch 3 ‘March brings breezes loud and shrill, Stirs the dancing daffodil.’ The fight is on and Tizzie finds the schoolmaster supports them.

Ch 4 ‘April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet.’ Agnes learns her mother’s plan. Tizzie contrives a better one.

Ch 5 ‘May brings flocks of pretty lambs, Skipping by their fleecy dams.’ An offer for Agnes and Tizzie plans to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee.

Ch 6 ‘June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.’ Tizzie ponders how to get Agnes the lucky coin. Mike loses his temper.

Ch 7 ‘Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots and gillyflowers.’ Harvest time, Tizzie’s new idea and Agnes reckons on a four year wait.

Ch 8 ‘August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne.’ Plans undone and Maggie’s newest plot revealed.

Ch 9 ‘Warm September brings the fruit, Sportsmen then begin to shoot.’ Influential friends step in with support, perhaps all will be well.

Ch 10 ‘Brown October brings the pheasant, Then to gather nuts is pleasant.’ Going to Scotland? Tizzie takes desperate measures.

Ch 11 ‘Dull November brings the blast, Then the leaves go whirling past.’ Success, and Tizzie sees Agnes on the way to achieving their dream.

Historical Note

About The Author

Writer's Choice Quality Fiction

Summer, 1897

July 26th

It’s nearly ten years since I stood in this house. I would never have dared return on my own, but my guardian is with me, and we know I’m safe because it’s haymaking, so all the family are up in High Tops and Upper Meadow. I was afraid to return, but my guardian wanted me to see, to understand with adult eyes, what happened here. He is standing in the porch, eyes firmly fixed on the hillside down which any of my family might come.

The paved kitchen floor is shiny. My mother’s still using a splash of milk to polish the flagstones. I can smell it. I can also smell new blacking on the coal range and hear the kettle murmuring as it keeps warm on the hob. It’s ten paces from the back door to the back stairs door, giving access to the small square of rear hallway and my Aunt Tizzie’s stairway. I didn’t know I’d been holding my breath, and it escapes in a pent up gasp when I reach that door. I sneck the latch, and the door creaks open.

There it is. Aunt Tizzie’s stairway with the same blisters in the paint and drab brown drugget on the treads. I lean against the hand rail and look up. How I wish she were here today. I wanted to see her again, see her coming down the stairs and go to milk her cows. And oh, the times she and I sneaked off together. Me clutching her hand, Aunt Tizzie tiptoeing, ready to escape the family, to creep out, away from them all. With eyes closed I can almost feel my Aunt’s hand, her skirt scratching as it catches my legs, and I am nine again, and anything is possible with Aunt Tizzie to help me.

Winter

January 1887

‘January brings the snow

Makes our feet and fingers glow.’

Monday, January 3rd

Tizzie leant against the kitchen range, ears straining. Were that Jack stirring? By, she hoped her brother wouldn’t catch her still inside. He wouldn’t half carry on. She turned herself round to toast her rear and sighed. That were it, Christmas done and gone, Hagman Heigh and the First Footing over ‘til next New Year’s Eve, workaday Monday back again. And a cold one. She pressed closer to the oven door, wishing her spare frame carried more fat. She were as bony as a starved cow, so Jack always said.

A good New Year it’d been, one lightened by a rare time of neighbourliness ‘twixt the village and her brother and his wife. Grand to see Jack and Maggie join in the community celebrations. Tizzie reckoned up the New Years. Twelve it’d been since their Da died and Jack and Maggie moved onto the farm, and they’d only been First Footing for maybe four of them. It didn’t go down well this cutting themselves off from the village. When had it started? And how had it grown to so deep a divide? She hated it, missed the company, missed the chat.

The parlour clock struck six. The cows waited, and Jack’d be clattering down stairs, champing to get some milk into cans and off on the milk train to Leeds. Best move now she were warmed up. Tizzie bent to place her hands as close as she could to the fire door. At least she’d take warm fingers out to start with. Footsteps boomed overhead. Jack, already in a bate by the weight of that tread. Best keep out of his way, or he’d start her day with name calling, older brother insults, Skinny Lizzie, or Twiggy Tizzie, them being the most polite, and go on to ranting about sisters who didn’t do their duty or their proper share. Not the best way to start a day’s toil being on the rough end of a Cawthra temper storm. She grabbed her woollen hat, gloves, and scarf, flung her heavy work shawl over her homespun jacket and slid quickly out of the back door.

Aye, the weather’d jumped right into hard winter. She fumbled into her gloves and hat, wrapped the scarf around her head and face and caught up her candle lanthorn. The moonlight showed blackthorn hedges, which fair crackled under the sharp frost, and every stone in the field walls shone, iced bright as a new silver thruppence. The frost lay that thick and white, it looked like icing on the Christmas cake. It were right pretty, but bitter cold. The frost had breath, pinched and nipped her fingers and toes even through the new woollen gloves and thick knitted socks in her stout leather boots. Like an ice wind, the frost gnawed down to the bone, sang in her ears ‘til they ached. She scurried, clattering on the cobbles in the upper yard, slowing to a cautious walk when she reached the frosted mud and frozen puddles marring the unpaved part of the cow yard. She reached down the lanthorn from its peg in the shippon, lit it, hung both lanthorns, and sought the cows.

Cush, cush, come up, she called. Come on, come in, she coaxed as she opened the gate. Her cows, snug in their well strawed yard, followed her to the shippon door reluctantly, but, bless them, entered in good order. It were that cold the farm cats hadn’t venture down from the hay loft. Sensible creatures, they’d stay warm, knowing she’d squirt the first draw of milk into an old pot for them to find later. Tizzie breathed in the warm gassy-sweet cow smell, set to her task. She had reared every one of her cows. ‘Twas worth the hard work for each patiently stood for her, untethered. Puffs of cow breath hung, frozen like clouds, in the air. Tizzie huffed her own out and sang softly. Her fingers kept moving, but, ouch, her toes, little lumps of ice they’d become.

Milking done, Tizzie gave each cow a pet and pat, smoothed comforting hands along their swelling bellies, checking their growing calves. All doing fine and well, thank the Lord. She opened the shippon door. Come then, my beauties. She watched them sway past her into the yard. Her brother’d been narked over the depth of the straw she used in the yard. He always stinted little things that mattered, but Tizzie gathered enough bracken each summer to eke out the threshed straw. Jack never would heed that her cows, snug in the warmth, rewarded her with more milk than anyone else’s. Cussed contrary her brother was.

She could eat her hot porridge right now, but the milk must be sieved and set out for the cream to rise. The yard were empty. At least one of those lads ought to be here to help, ‘twere Mike’s task usually, but Maggie’d let him stay in and keep warm if Jack didn’t need him. She adjusted the yoke and lifted the pails. Her fingers were turning white as she pulled on her gloves. ‘Twas a pity you couldn’t milk with gloves, not even fingerless mittens. She’d just have to thole it and hope the waiting would make breakfast all the sweeter. On a day like this she’d rather freeze once, early in a day, for then she could stay inside and keep warm until afternoon dairy tasks drove her out again.

With the milk set out, she ran down the passage to the cheese room, stamping each booted foot hard to put some life back in her unfeeling toes. The cheese room, sheltered between the dairy and shippon, and sharing a double wall with the house, kept an even cool temperature. It ought to feel cold, but today it felt warmer than the dairy. Tizzie smelled each cheese, investigating the forming rind as she rubbed it with her salted cloth. She didn’t want aught to spoil her best cheeses. Still these were looking good, smelling fine and feeling right. Maggie’d be pleased, another batch of Tizzie’s specials to sell for a high price. Maggie were good at that, found markets in the West Riding, not just locally.

Came a clatter at the door, the latch snecked. Tizzie looked up. She’d wondered where Agnes had got to. There she were, hovering, wanting to slip in. What a lass.

Auntie Tiz?

Now then, Agnes, what did I say about coming into my cheese room? Tizzie made her voice a bit sharpish as her niece tried to sidle in. Out of here, missy, you know I’ll not have anyone come breathing over my cheeses.

Agnes halted, stepped back over the door sill, and leant against the door frame, sniffing the cheese room’s old milk and ripe mould scents. A thin and wiry nine, she had, so everyone said, a strong look of her aunt. Tizzie wished her niece better, hoped she’d grow into a softer prettiness that were more attractive to the lads. Now though she regarded the expression on Agnes’s face. Compounded of guilt and reluctance it cried ‘Here’s a problem,’ and Tizzie knew the problem was hers to sort. What is it, lass?

See what I found. It’s got your name on, Auntie Tiz. Agnes drew a folded sheet of paper from her apron pocket, then pushed vainly at the straggles of brown hair escaping from her ribbons to tickle her neck. I’m sorry, Aunt, I had to open the page to read the name. She looked away, eyes downcast, scuffed her feet.

Don’t fret, poppet, I’ll not scold you for reading my letter.

Agnes glanced back, checked Tizzie’s face, and smiled tentatively. I didn’t read it, Auntie Tiz. ‘Twas in the pile of Christmas papers and cards in the box put aside to be burnt. Mam said I could cut out any from there for my keepsake book. Agnes frowned, her voice rising slightly, puzzled.

Well, I thank you for rescuing it, Agnes. Tizzie wiped her hands on the linen towel pinned to her apron waistband and took the letter. We’ll think naught about it, eh? Agnes smiled her broad grin of relief. She clattered off, her boots tap-tapping along the stone flagged passage way. Tizzie hesitated. Why did she feel the need to call out and warn Agnes to say nowt? Agnes mayn’t be bonnie, but she were quick. She knew things when Tizzie didn’t have a glimmer, aye, she often set Tizzie aright, and three big brothers had surely taught her to sneck her tongue rather than wag it.

Tizzie turned the letter over in her hands. Where were the envelope? Who had opened it first, before Agnes found it? She unfolded the creased, dog-eared sheet and read the bold signature. Tom! Dear little brother Tom. It’d been hard sometimes being the one lass in a parcel of brothers, but they were family. Tizzie had a fondness for every one of them and especially for her youngest brother. She didn’t see ‘em much any more. They’d all left home bar Jack and her. Jem had gone for a soldier out in India. A Sergeant now. Harry worked with Da ‘til he’d married a lass who came into a farm of her own, away in the West Riding. Sammy bossed a lot of mill girls, working as foreman in a woollen mill over in Haworth, but Tom, he’d wanted more than a rented farm. He’d worked double shifts, saved his mill wage, and gone out to New Zealand. He’d asked her to go with him, but there’d been a young man she fancied then. Tizzie shook her head. Nearly ten years ago that would a’ been. No young men came calling now.

Of course! Tom would have put this letter in with his Christmas letter to all the family. That’s why it were open. Tizzie’s thoughts faltered, she rubbed her forehead, blinked, and looked at the page. The address were right queer, Cawthra House, Keri Keri. She near laughed out loud, Cawthra House sounded that grand. And what kind of name were Keri Keri? Slowly she spelt out the letter.

‘My dear Tizzie,’ it read. ‘Here I sit on my verandah, enjoying a sunny summer day on my farm. We have plenty of sun here in December, I’m used to a summer Christmas now. Change your mind, lass, come and join me. It’s a good place for them who can work, and I know you’re a worker. There are some fine men here need a good wife. There’s a happy future for you in New Zealand. You think on, and let me know if you change your mind. I’m well set and can pay your fare and give you a comfortable home. I need you, Tiz, someone as good as you has to teach the girls here how to look after a dairy, churn sweet butter and make prize cheeses like you do.’ He’d signed off as: ‘Your affectionate brother, Tom.’

Well, Tom always had been the kindest of her brothers, not into tormenting and bullying like Jack and Harry. Good of him to write. And looking at how things were now, her seeming set an old maid, and still living in the family home, perhaps she should have gone to New Zealand. She paused. Too late now. She were twenty-nine, long past a maid’s age and past seeking to be wed. Spinster she were in all eyes now, even her own. If only Johnnie... she stopped that memory and looked again at the address, noticed the date. Christmas, 1884. Two, no, it were three Christmases ago now. Three years? Where had the letter been? Carefully she folded it into her apron pocket, wiped her hands, and quietly shut the cheese room door behind her. Only then did she allow herself to lean against the whitewashed passage wall and try to understand why she’d never seen the letter. Who’d had it? And had there been others? Yet she’d never had but that one chance to go when Tom first set sail from Liverpool near ten years ago. Did he write other letters, asking her again to come? She’d never seen any such. Wondering why, she reached down her shawl from the hook on the dairy wall and wrapped herself in its thick woolly comfort. She’d run in now and catch Agnes over breakfast, learn more about the finding of this letter.

Catching Agnes were easy, finding her on her own proved difficult. All the family crowded the large table at the far end of the long farmhouse kitchen. Tizzie mentally pinched herself. She’d forgotten that school didn’t start until next week. The boys had been out helping their Da check the in-lamb ewes and wanted their breakfasts. Jack sat at table waiting to be served. Agnes helped her mother, carrying bowls of porridge to the table as Maggie dished up from the porridge pot, ladling generous amounts into each bowl. She allocated cream and sugar with a careful hand, all the while her eye on the frying pan, where thick slices of bacon popped and sizzled. Tizzie waited by the range, her hands and feet thawing, twinge by tingling twinge.

Bert, mindful of his duties as first born, poked his little brother. Move along, young Mike, Auntie Tiz is here. Mike sniffed, lifted another spoonful to his mouth. A stronger nudge from both his brothers got him moving, and the boys made space for her, hastily shifting their chairs. John-Jack nodded hello, his mouth bulging. Bert moved round, put Tizzie’s chair next to his Da. No, this weren’t the time to ask Agnes about that letter. Tizzie settled on the chair beside her brother.

By, I can feel the cold coming off tha, Tizzie, Jack said. You need more than that shawl outside on a day like this.

Maggie served her husband his porridge smothered in cream and sugar. Double sweetening for you, she said, placing the bowl carefully in front of him. She turned her head Tizzie’s way. What about your woollen coat, Tiz? Do you want to use it for work now, and we’ll get you some more stuff and a new coat made for Sunday Best? The bacon spluttered and spat, the sudden tang of burning sent Maggie hastening to the pan.

Tizzie thought about a new coat as Agnes gave her a bowl of porridge, well sugared and double creamed too. The sneaky lass had taken advantage of her mother’s absence to give herself and her aunt extra. She grinned up into Tizzie’s face and slipped onto the stool beside her, half turned towards Tizzie to shield her bowl from Mike’s eyes. Mike wasn’t looking. He was arguing with his brothers. Sheep talk again, the St Columba's Day gift of that year’s lambs.

Good crop of lambs due this year, John-Jack said. He looked sideways at his young brother. Be a good year to get the lucky slice of St. Columba’s cake with the coin in it. Shame I’ve had my share.

You’ve both had the silver thruppence twice times, I’ve only had it one time. Mike took the bait and missed his brothers’ winks.

I’ve never had it, indignantly from Agnes.

Born unlucky you are. Mike jabbed his sister in the ribs with a well placed thumb. Agnes shot upwards, only Tizzie’s quick hand saved her porridge bowl.

I’m not. She rubbed her poked ribs.

You are. You’re a lass, that’s unlucky. Everyone knows lasses are useless.

Maggie interrupted the argument, bringing a plate of bacon, sausage, eggs and potato cakes to Jack. No more from you, missy, she rapped her daughter hard upon the head, and you’d better be extra good and work hard at school, Master Michael. It’s only the good as find Saint Columba’s silver thruppence and the lambs.

Jack rose from his chair. I’m away to the sheep barn again, Maggie. You ken, lads, be quick and follow when you’re through eating, we’ve more ewes to bring in. Bert, you finish the horses first. He added his bit to the banter. Your Aunt Tizzie is always good, Mike, happen she’ll get that lucky coin this year.

Bert and John-Jack laughed, sneaking glances at Mike.

Aye, maybe this time it’ll be grown ups, and they don’t count. Bert elbowed his brother so that Mike coughed over his bacon. Won’t be you, bad lad, but it might be Aunt Tizzie. You heard Mam, that silver thruppence’s the Saint's gift to a good child. Good, mark you, Mike. Mike scowled, but kept his hands to himself.

Tizzie smiled down at Agnes. Then it’s your turn this year. You’re always good.

Agnes stirred, opened her mouth, but kept her peace, eyeing the distance between herself and Mike. He glowered at her. Tha’s a knowing lass, Tizzie whispered, keep still and he’ll not bother you.

Agnes nodded.

Any more bacon, Mam? Mike thrust his plate at Agnes. You fetch me it, naggy Aggie. He looked pleased with his rhyme. Naggy Aggie. That’s what sisters do, nag their better brothers.

Maggie paused, looking at Tizzie then Agnes. Tizzie, still wondering about her letter, didn’t catch Maggie’s hinting glance. Maggie shrugged and turned to Agnes. Little lasses don’t need as much as growing lads. I’ll give you more porridge, Agnes. Come, bring up your bowl and your brother’s plate.

Agnes spluttered into her porridge bowl. But I’m hungry too, she began. Tizzie touched her shoulder. Agnes rose and went to her mother, muttering.

Don’t you complain, Agnes Cawthra. Your brother’s been out in the cold with the sheep whilst you’ve been underfoot in this warm kitchen. Maggie sent her daughter back to the table with a sharp shove.

Mike snatched his plate and pulled a face at Agnes. Agnes stuck out her tongue, and he pinched her hard. Little sisters must behave, nor do polite lasses do that, he told her.

Agnes opened her mouth to retort, but Tizzie, returning with her plate of bacon, eggs and tatie cakes, shepherded Agnes away from troublesome brothers and into her seat. She dragged the spare stool from under the table with her foot, sat herself on it and put her plate in front of Agnes. Share with me, if you’re still empty.

Mike humphed, threatening to complain to his Mam. Tizzie spoke softly to him. What’s wrong with you, lad, that you can’t be kind to your sister?

Mike glowered and hunched his back at them both, playing with the extra bacon on his plate. His brothers muttered something to him, and he began to eat. Maggie returned to the table, cast a thoughtful eye over her three sons, then sat herself down with a cup of tea, placing the tea pot within Tizzie’s reach.

Draper’s got some nice bottle green stuff would make you a coat, Tiz. T’would look good with a bit of military braid for trim, go with your new black boots. Or we could see what Sam might get from the mill.

Tizzie nodded and poured Agnes some tea, then filled her own cup. If we shorten that coat of mine to three quarter length, it’d be better for working in, and we could make Agnes a warm jacket for school.

Maggie took the tea pot, steadying it with her hand before replying, We could. She plumped the teapot back on its stand and said no more.

Agnes, beside her aunt, kept silent, but Tizzie felt her stillness, her wanting, knew her eyes would be bright with hope. And Maggie’d not nay-sayed the suggestion. Happen the lass’d get a warm coat this year.

She could come up and help me cut and hem my coat now, if you can spare her, Maggie.

Maggie paused, then shook her head. It’s Monday, and there’s all the extra Christmas linen still to wash. I need you both to help this morning. Tomorrow between the starching and baking you can squeeze a few moments.

Tizzie nodded. Her life always ran like this. Never time to sit and think, to understand or work things out. Who could she ask about Tom’s letter? Agnes’d only know where she’d found it. Tizzie daren’t ask Jack, nor Maggie, it would be like accusing them of hiding it. They wouldn’t do that surely?

***

Tuesday, January 4th

Overnight the cold snap vanished. Tizzie left off her jacket, glad the frost had broken, leaving a rare, soft day. There were even a thin sun, so far up beyond grey clouds it looked whitish pale, valiantly tried to force rays through any gap amongst the lowering grey layers. Tizzie scoured and cleaned the setting pans, the milk pails, and her utensils, swinging the pump handle vigorously. She barely noticed the chilled water stiffening her fingers. Inside her head, Who? and Why? tolled in counterpoint like the church and chapel bells. She couldn’t stop worrying about it. Had Tom written other letters, and why hadn’t she seen them? She scarcely saw Agnes running in, plaits bouncing, without cap, coat or shawl.

Auntie Tiz.

Tizzie startled, came back to the present. Eh, lass. Where’s your shawl? And did your Mam give you leave?

Agnes nodded. She told me to get out from under her feet for twenty minutes. Mike wanted her. We’ve to go back when you’re finished, to pan the bread. The bread oven’s fired, Mike lit it, and the furze caught fast, gave him a burn.

That’ll make him hop. Tizzie continued her swilling. Mind your feet, pet, you’ve not put your clogs on and you’ll get your boots soaked.

Auntie Tiz. Agnes stopped, blinked at her aunt and abruptly began again. My birthday in June. Ten, I’ll be ten.

Tizzie swooshed out the last of the water and nodded. Double figures, getting old, little lass. But I’m still nineteen year older than thee, tha’ll never catch up to me.

I know that. She dodged a finger of water. Listen, Aunt Tizzie. Mam says this’ll be the last Saint Columba cake she’ll make. Agnes fetched down a bunch of dried horse tails and swished them round the milk pails.

Good lass, thank you. Tizzie paused, thinking. Your Mam didn’t tell me, so I didn’t know that. She considered some more. Well, maybe you are getting a little old. It’s a custom meant for bairns and with you turning ten and Mike being twelve, happen it is time to give over. She watched Agnes working. Make sure you catch any scrap of milk. That’s it, brisk and steady, but don’t scratch the wood.

Auntie Tiz, I’ve never had that lucky coin in all the years Mam’s been baking the St Columba’s Day cake.

Tizzie reckoned the numbers. Fair wonder it were, over the twelve years since Maggie introduced the custom, how all of Agnes's brothers found that coin. Worked out at twice each it did for Bert and John-Jack, once for young Mike. Real valuable for starting them off in life. All three boys had a bit put by on interest in the bank from the sale of those lambs. Agnes didn't though. She'd never been lucky enough to find the silver thruppenny piece.

Auntie Tiz, Mike says he’ll have the thruppence this year.

Tizzie, in the midst of arithmetic, trying to figure out how many times the adults had received the lucky coin instead of a child and if it worked out fair over twelve years, paused. Don’t be so foolish, poppet. He’s joshing you like always.

Nay, Aunt, Mam told him.

Nay, lass. Tizzie turned away. ‘Twas a puzzle that Agnes should think her own Mam would do that. Trying to find words to reject the tale, she went to open the window for a through draft, tipped everything to face the brisk January breeze and left the lot to dry. She wiped her hands on her towel and offered an end to Agnes. Here, wipe those hands, you’ll chap your fingers else.

Aunt? It were a plea this time.

Give over, lass, that’s nonsense, You’re making summat of nowt. Here, hold out your hands.

Agnes sighed, offered her red hands and let Tizzie rub them for her.

Tizzie sighed too. Mike’s not a kind lad right now. He’ll grow out of it, same as your Da did. He and your Da are very like.

But Da hasn’t... Agnes saw Tizzie’s face and stopped herself, began again. I saw Mam speak to Mike.

Tizzie wrinkled up her nose and her brow in a deep frown. Did you hear what she said?

Agnes shook her head.

Well, then. That’s your brother’s spiteful tongue at work.

Brothers! They always get everything.

That they do. Tizzie wrapped an arm round Agnes and drew her close. Brothers do, lads do, men do. That’s the way it is. We lasses, we women, we must give and support. They provide. She found herself thinking again about Tom’s letter. She couldn’t keep a still tongue, she needed to know. Did you find plenty of pictures and letters in that box for your keepsake book? There, that was as near to direct as she could come.

Agnes drooped her head, avoided looking at her aunt.

Agnes.

You want to know about that letter, if there were more. It came out a half whispered mumble.

Too quick for her own good, were Agnes. Tizzie smiled to herself and placed a cold hand under Agnes’s chin. She regarded the flushed face with a questioning expression.

I found one the Christmas before, but Mam said not to upset you with it or you’d be moping up and down the house for weeks. Agnes looked straight into Tizzie’s eyes then, her own polished with tears. It were wrong weren’t it, not to let you have the letters? I took that one ‘cos I wanted you to know.

For a moment Tizzie held still, unbelieving, then let her commonsense tell her to think about it later, for the lass were upset. She slid her arm around the knobbly shoulders and squeezed Agnes until the tears stopped. It were wrong, lass, but there’s naught we can say or do now. It’s too late for this Christmas any rate. She patted Agnes’s arm. "How