Friendship's Bond by Meg Hutchinson

tell them. She had determined to find out if she would be told the same, but a visit to his home and then the chapel had failed to locate him.
    A soft exclamation recalled her to the present. Leah looked to where Ann was staring down at a pat of butter on the ground, her hands pressed to her mouth.
    Leaving the board to lie where she had placed it she moved to the girl’s side saying briskly, ‘Don’t give no mind to that, won’t go wastin’, old Betsy likes a dab o’ butter.’
    She scooped up the soft mound and dropped it into a bucket of whey drained from an earlier pressing of curd and put aside for feeding to the pig housed in a sty set alongside the privy at the furthest end of the yard.
    ‘I thinks we could both be doin’ wi’ a cup o’ tea.’
    After she had cleaned her fingers on a scrap of cheesecloth Leah touched Ann’s arm. ‘Go you put the kettle to the pot while I teks old Betsy her treat.’
     
    The wench had gone on the round as usual but her smile had made no appearance.
    When she returned to the dairy Leah placed a series of weights on top of the wooden board covering the muslin-wrapped curds then, leaving them to drain, turned her attention to milk left overnight in a shallow stone vat to settle. She scooped the cream from its surface to transfer it to a wooden barrel-shaped churn banded about with brass and attached to a trestle. A few drops from a bottle of carrot water added a richer colour to the resulting butter. She locked the lid of the churn before turning the handle to rotate it, all the while her mind dwelling on Ann.
    Leah watched the steadily rocking churn without seeing it. That it was a different matter to the one spoke of – a murder in that Russian square – left it plain to see there were fears other than that plaguing Ann Spencer, for her were sensible enough to know them happenings were in the past, and naught of them could follow her here to Wednesbury.
    But was it here in this town had come cause for fresh worries? Was it the wench had heard for herself the backbiting being mouthed by Lottie Hopcroft and that snipe-nosed Jinny Jinks?
    Leah’s hand tightened its grasp, setting the churn to rock unevenly.
    That woman had a tongue sharp enough to clip branches from a tree.
    Straightening, Leah pressed a hand to her aching back.
    ‘Ar,’ she murmured aloud, ‘Jinny Jinks, you be a ranter when it comes to preaching the faults of others regardless whether or not them faults exists but one thing you don’t be, you be no mullock when it comes to your own well-bein’, you knows that to clip one more branch from Ann Spencer’s tree will ’ave you answerin’ to Leah Marshall an’ that meeting be liable to put an end to your well-bein’ for many a bright day.’
    Once the churning was finished Leah removed the golden yellow curds, washing them to remove any trace of buttermilk, then using the broad ‘Scotch Hands’ patted it for several minutes to clear it of any excess moisture. Finally she set it aside for later shaping into blocks.
    Leah stood for a moment, feeling weary. She could take a few minutes, make a cup of tea, sit beside the fire while drinking it; but sitting never got jobs finished.
    The advice, though sound, would not ease the tired ache of her bones. She turned back to the cheese curds draining beneath their weighted board. She unwrapped the chunks, sliced them thinly then worked them between her fingers until they resembled fine breadcrumbs. Then she sprinkled on a little more salt and tied them in fresh muslin this time banding them with a metal hoop which would allow the cheese to take on its rounded shape on being returned to the sieve. But the process was not finished; like the butter she had just patted the cheese crumbs needed to have the last drops of whey pressed out.
    With a long drawn sigh she placed the large sieve on a rigid perforated board beneath a ‘queedle’ – a strong plank Joshua had planed himself before bolting one end firmly to