The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson

and the weather turned colder. Seagulls shrieked above her diving down on to the freshly turned furrow in search of food. Mile after mile she trudged and then, cold and wet, she would return to the farmhouse at night, but only when the horses had been brushed and fed with corn and chaff did she allow herself any respite. In front of the glowing fire in the range she would fall asleep in the wooden chair in the corner by the hearth, often too exhausted even to eat.
    Life at Brumbys’ Farm fell into some sort of routine for the three of them – Sam, Esther and Matthew. Matthew did not work full time for Sam, Esther found. He helped out on all the local farms and so several days could go by without Matthew being there. Then suddenly he would appear again, grinning cheekily, winking at her and, given less than half a chance, slapping her buttocks, although he was quick to dodge out of the way of her stinging right hand returning the slap.
    With the ploughing, Matthew was needed at Brumbys’ more than usual. On Mondays Esther washed and ironed, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays she helped with the ploughing when Matthew was needed elsewhere, then on Thursdays she baked and cooked enough food to last the week. Fridays and Saturdays she worked outside again, sometimes more ploughing, sometimes with the stock. But on Sundays, she found that Sam was quite happy to do a minimum of work.
    ‘It’s the Lord’s Day,’ he said gruffly one Sunday morning when he found her black-leading the range. Even the animals were given as little attention as possible.
    ‘Give ’em a sharpener on the Lord’s Day,’ Sam told her. ‘One feed a day instead of two on the Sabbath – they’ll be all the more ready to come to the trough tomorrow.’
    So on a Sunday, Esther found she had time for herself.

    Walking down the lane from Brumbys’ Farm towards the Point one Sunday afternoon, when the winter sun lay low in the southern sky, streaking the fields with a golden glow, Esther hummed to herself and every so often she gave a little skip of sheer happiness. She came to the stretch of grass between the cottages and the river bank. Four of Ma Harris’s children were chasing each other in a noisy game of tag. Esther smiled to herself. Sabbath or not, Ma Harris would never manage to keep that brood quiet.
    ‘Is yar mam at home?’ she asked a boy with a runny nose.
    ‘Nah, she’s away yonder,’ he pointed inland with a grubby finger, ‘there’s a babby bein’ born at Souters’ Farm.’
    ‘A babby?’
    ‘Aye, the missus is having her fifth babby. Me mam alius goes to ’elp when a babby’s getting borned.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed noisily.
    Esther nodded, said goodbye, and walked on towards the river bank.
    Now she had time to take a look around her, at the sea and the sand and the river that joined the sea. She was fascinated to see the little fishing boats moored along the river bank, and she followed its curve until the bank gave way to the sea. Esther paused in her walk to look at the huge boat where Robert Eland lived. It was lodged half on the bank, and shored up by sleepers and wooden poles dug deep into the bed of the river. At high water, it would seem to be almost afloat and yet the vessel was firmly anchored and would not move from its place. There was a narrow wooden jetty built up from the firm ground running on to the boat. Esther stood looking up at it in wonderment. She had never seen anything like it. It was a strange place for a man to make his home, she thought. She accepted, though, that there were those who felt an affinity with the sea as she did for the land she helped to work.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    The voice came from behind her, interrupting her reverie. She turned to find Robert Eland standing beside her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
    ‘You’re Sam Brumby’s wench,’ he stated bluntly.
    Esther bristled. ‘If you mean I work on Mester Brumby’s farm, the