Terroir by Graham Mort Read Free Book Online

father was transported – seven years under the Night Poaching Act – the Seddons became disreputable. Though even some chapel folk were glad of the rabbits and pheasants her father brought by when the mine owners had laid them off. They made them shareowners in the mines so that each man was entitled to a part of the profits. But when the lode ran out and they were drilling bare rock, there was nothing for them. Bloody simpletons, her father called them. A share of nowt is nowt. He couldn’t read and write, but he knew that much. He’d been gone four years.
    She’d worked since she was twelve years old. Scullery maid, cheese presser, drudge on a local farm. The poorer your employer the harder they rode you. She was nineteen now and on the Parish. She’d given away the only thing she had that was worth anything. Call it virtue. Call it love. Some did. Michael had liked her though. She knew that. He’d have wanted the child. She knew that too, or thought she did. She wasn’t stupid. Men were men in the end. They were made a certain way and it couldn’t be helped.
    Ellen sat in her father’s chair, kicking off her clogs, watching water pool on the flagstones and darken them. In winter they gave you wicked chilblains. She placed her hands flat on her stomach, watching the fire wax into flame, feeling the child. She was four months pregnant. For the first three she’d been sick as a pup every morning, emptying her guts into the midden under the hard eyes of her neighbours. They’d know why, where, when and with whom. She was a dirty little slut to the chapel - going Methodists and teetotallers. She didn’t care. She’d been kissed and fondled by Michael Simpson out back in the pub yard with drunken miners stumbling past and pissing up the wall. And after three gins and a plate of hot peas, she loved it. Loved his beery kisses, the tickle of his beard, the warm feeling of him inside her. Fingers at first, their tips rough from work, working their way towards her. Then they found more private places to meet and he’d grown bolder. He liked her as well as wanted her, she knew that. He died under a ton of rock in Swinton Level. Never uttered a word, just sputtered blood and broken teeth and gave up the ghost. The brass band turned out for his funeral and the mine bosses paid for a barrel of beer. Another life bought cheaply. Tha’ll do me, Ellen, was all he’d said, after that first time, kissing her nipples and closing up her blouse. Tha’ll do me.
    When they took her father away to Richmond assizes they searched the house from top to bottom, but they hadn’t found his gun. He’d made a special hiding place for it under the roof beams in the bedroom so that it was pushed between the plastered lath and the slates. They kept him in the stables at the Hall, word spreading that he’d been caught red - handed. She’d fetched him some food and spare clothing. He winked at her, putting a finger to the side of his nose as they took him away chained to a farm cart, expecting a few days in jail. He’d heard of the new game laws but taken little notice. Nay , he’d said, they’ll never thank us for tekkin’ what’s there’s. Though what’s theirs is ours by rights. They’d expected him back within the month but he never came. It was Billy Crapper the carter who brought the news. Transported . Van Diemen’s land, he reckoned, though he wasn’t sure where that was.
    Her father had taught her how to catch pheasants with raisins stuck through with a bristle to choke them, how to peg a wire snare, get rabbits with a purse net and ferret, and how to shoot his little rifle. They’d caught him snaring hares on the squire’s land this time and they’d fought viciously in the dark. It was winner take all. He laid out two of the under keepers with his fists, but the head keeper produced a lantern and a pistol and put