The Girl with the Amber Comb. Linda Finlay
the fact that Gramfer had aged considerably over the past week and she couldn’t leave him alone all day to manage by himself.
Still, it was no good brooding for, as he was fond of reminding her, time was tucker. And she’d have precious little of that now she also had to look after their cott and continue tending the vegetable plot. With Clem’s help, she’d turned it into a profitable concern that supplemented their income.
Settling herself down on the thin piece of matting, she placed their old flat iron on the lapboard between her legs. Then taking up a pliant osier from the pile beside her, she began making a new basket for the baker at Stathe. To lift her mood, she started singing the song she’d learned as a child.
One cane round, neat and tight,
insert a decent border.
Upset tight, wale alright,
to keep my stakes in order.
Once Eliza had finished up-setting the uprights around the base, she began weaving in and out. Despite working quickly, she prided herself on the standard of her work. Competition was fierce and only perfection acceptable. With the body finished, she picked another, more flexible rod and wound it into a rope handle, finally adding the flower twist that her grammer’s work was known for, which would now become Eliza’s own trademark.
Twisting, binding, winding,
willow wand, now fold.
Handle strong, but not too long,
for ladies’ hands to hold
Her fingers weaving to the rhythm of the words, she worked until the basket was completed. Placing it ready for collection, she went over to the stooks stacked along the walls and selected the strong sticks she would need for the eel traps. Firmly holding three of the thicker ones, she made a split in the centre of each of them. Setting these together and inserting another three horizontally through the holes, she took up a thinner cane and began the figure of eight weave that would become the base. Over and under with another two, pull up the sides, she chanted, determined to get on with her work. As the basket began to spread out, she took the weaver over and under singly and was just inserting the spokes into the base when a shadow fell across her.
‘Marnen, birthday girl.’
‘Clem, how did you get here?’ she cried, looking up from her work.
‘By boat, same as ever,’ he grinned, flicking his unruly dark hair back from his head. ‘Your gramfer said you needed flour and as I was passing the mill at Stathe it was easy to pick up a sack.’
‘But I didn’t give you the empty one and you know what Miller’s like.’
‘Ah, but when I explained it was a special day, he said you could have it with his blessing.’
‘That’s kind of him but …’ she stopped, not wishing to sound ungrateful.
‘You don’t think you should be celebrating,’ he finished, as ever picking up on her thoughts.
‘Well yes,’ she admitted. ‘Grammer’s only just …’ her voice trailed away. As she brushed away the tears that rolled unbidden down her cheeks, Clem leaned forward and took her hand. ‘She were a fine woman and wouldn’t want you grieving,’ he murmured.
‘I know but I can’t help feeling guilty,’ she admitted.
‘Whatever for? It were a natural passing,’ he frowned.
‘But Grammer prophesized it,’ Eliza burst out, anxious to share the worry that had been plaguing her. ‘You know her life revolved around her beliefs in nature, Wicca she called it. Well, the night before she died, she told me that one of the willows had grown so large it had cast a grave-sized shadow over her as she passed by. It was a portent of her death and I took no notice. No, worse than that, I told her not to be so silly.’
‘Mary and her superstitions,’ he smiled sadly, his grip tightening. ‘And that’s what it was, Red. Ma’s just as bad, mind. Thinks if she gets a double-yolked egg it means a hurried wedding’s in the offing. Not that I’ve seen that happen – yet,’ he added, giving her a look that made her feel strangely uncomfortable.
‘Well, getting back to that sack,’ she said, removing her hand. ‘It was a nice gesture and I shall dye it and make a new top. Goodness knows I could do with one,’ she added, frowning down at her frayed and well-worn blouse.
‘You look good from where I’m standing,’ he smiled, shooting her another of those looks that made her flustered. Although they’d been friends since her first day at school when he’d offered her his kerchief after she’d fallen and cut her knee, it was only lately he’d started paying her compliments. ‘Well, it’s been a long day already and I’m fair parched,’ he added, looking at her hopefully.
‘When aren’t you?’ she smiled, pleased to be back on familiar footing. ‘I’ll go and make us a drink.’
‘And I’ll unload the flour and put it in the pantry out of the way of those meddling mice of yours. Then I might have a little something for you myself.’ Giving her a cheeky wink, he strode back to the flat-bottomed trow he used for transporting goods along the narrower waterways.
Eliza watched as Clem tossed the sack over his broad shoulders as if it weighed no more than a feather. It had been a relief to share her worries with him, but then she’d always been able to talk to him she realized, her mood lifting like the mist in the heat of the sun as she made her way towards the cott.
Indoors was strangely quiet without Grammer’s humming. The smell of bittersweet smoke that curled from the smouldering peat fire hung in the air and she grimaced at the cobwebs swinging from the low beams. Still, the sound of the kettle singing was welcoming and Eliza poured water into the pot then set out the crisp pastry filled with her latest preserve.
‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ Clem murmured, blue eyes gleaming appreciation as his muscular frame filled the doorway.
‘I made it fresh yesterday,’ Eliza replied.
‘Hmm, the manchit looks good too,’ he told her, chuckling when her cheeks flushed bright as the berries in the jam. He waited until she’d served their tea then bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Red,’ he said, tweaking her Titian tresses as he handed her a small package.
‘Thank you,’ she cried as, worries temporarily forgotten, she tore excitedly at the wrapping. ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ she exclaimed, running her fingers over the polished handle of a wooden spoon.
‘Like the girl I made it for,’ he said, his gaze holding hers. ‘It’s for your jam pot, being as how you make the best ever,’ he added quickly.
‘Not that the damsons were plentiful this year. I had to mix them with brambles,’ she told him.
‘Well, you’ve certainly worked your magic,’ he grinned, eying the plate hopefully.
‘Go on then, but save some for Gramfer,’ Eliza told him, pleased he’d enjoyed it, though she knew she had some way to go before she reached her grammer’s standards. ‘This really is a beautiful piece of carving, Clem,’ she said, admiring the spoon again.
‘Not as good as those the Welsh carve. Love spoons, they call them. Idris was telling me they give them to their sweethearts as tokens of affection, to show their intentions as it were.’ Again, his clear blue eyes bore into hers, making her blush so that she had to turn quickly away.
‘More tea or anything?’ she asked, her voice unnaturally high.
‘Anything, Eliza?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I … well the thing is …’ he stopped as footsteps sounded outside.
‘Gramfer,’ Eliza cried, jumping to her feet. ‘You’re just in time for a brew. Clem’s brought us a sack of flour.’
‘That’s good of you, my boy,’ George