The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson Page A

answer’s yes. If you mean owt more . . .’ Her green eyes glinted. ‘Then you’re quite wrong.’
    The expression in his eyes lightened a little, but he did not smile. His mouth was completely covered by his wiry beard. He was a dour man, who saw little humour in life in general and even less in his own. ‘Aye, I heard of your little – er – rumpus – with Missus Willoughby and ’er sister.’ He was glowering again. ‘Aye, an’ that’s not all I’ve heard about you. You took the job my Beth went after.’
    ‘
Your
Beth, but – but I thought she was Matthew’s girl.’
    The scowl deepened. ‘Huh,
him
!’ Robert Eland muttered. He seemed about to say more, but then turned away angrily. As he brushed past her and headed for the gangway to his home, Esther thought she heard him mumble, ‘Ah, what’s the use?’
    Esther walked on and came to a place where the river widened and joined the waters of the sea. On her left – to the east – was marshland, the beach and the North Sea to the horizon and beyond. To the west lay mile upon mile of flat farmland as far as she could see.
    Esther shaded her eyes and looked out towards the sea. In the far distance she could see the Spit jutting out into the water, further out even than where she was standing. She retraced her steps past the cottages and the boat and took the path leading across the old marsh until she came to the dunes. Pushing her way through thick clumps of spiky marram grass, she came to the Spit and walked along the narrow ridge of scrubland to the end until she was surrounded on three sides by the sea. At high tide, the point of land could afford boats a haven from the treacherous currents and sudden squalls of the North Sea. At low tide the River Lynn still wound its way through the mudbanks.
    All around her was a magnificent bleakness. She turned slowly in a full circle, but every view was the same – flat as far as the eye could see. With the land so low and level, the glorious sky seemed to surround her entirely. There was so much space, it gave her such a sense of freedom.
    She threw back her head and breathed in the exhilarating air. She closed her eyes as the sea breeze wrapped itself around her, lifted her skirt and ruffled her curls, like a man flirting with her. The sound of the waves gently lapping at her feet was soothing.
    Whatever happened in her life, she thought, the waves would continue to break upon the shore and the tide would ebb and flow. It gave her a feeling of constancy, a sense of security. Behind her was the land that she loved already. Before her was the sea that she would come to know, too. She belonged in this place, she would make this place her own. She bent and picked up a fistful of the sand. She revelled in the feel of it in her hand. Then she flung it high into the sky and laughed aloud as the particles showered around her.
    Esther – unwanted and unloved all her young life – had found a place to stay, a place to love. She had found her home.

Eight
    T
O
Esther’s disappointment, Christmas Day in Sam Brumby’s house was little different from any other day. She had cooked and baked for most of Christmas Eve, so that there was a chicken and vegetables to be cooked on the day itself, and a pudding to be warmed. Even her aunt had made more of Christmas than this, Esther thought disconsolately, as she remembered the shouting and laughter of her young cousins, her uncle carving at a huge goose and the dinner table loaded with all manner of food that they never tasted at any other time of the year. It was the first – and probably the only – time she would think kindly of her aunt.
    That night Esther’s sleep was disturbed by dreams of a family of children, her own children, with a husband sitting at the opposite end of the table. At first the man in her dream was just a shadowy, indistinct figure, but then the features took shape and it was Matthew who sat at the head of her table. She awoke early, sweating