The Farm

Eliza tied her woollen shawl around her, before stepping out into the farm yard. Although early March, and signs of spring were beginning to show in the surrounding countryside, the wind buffeted and probed her with icy fingers. It blustered and shrieked, chasing the pillow clouds across the blue sky. Crows cawed as they swooped and glided around the farm buildings, sometimes swept sideways by a sudden gust. As she glanced down the valley, the hills on either side were coated with velvety green grass, with grey, lichen covered rocks interrupting this opulent covering. Rock and grass fought for dominance, the higher she scanned, the more boulders there were, until at the tops, there was more grey than green. Dotted around the hills were dark, skeletal trees, with a whisper of green haze about them, giving a hint of buds forming. The continuous cacophony of sheep baaing was occasionally overlaid with the lowing of a cow.

She slopped through the mud towards the barn, her leather shoes sticking and leaking. Her mother had sent her to gather eggs, and she knew that from now on, there would be no rest. No peace for the wicked. In truth, her opportunities for leisure had always been rare, but now there would be none. She was fourteen years old, and her days were spent working on the farm, or helping her mother in the house. She had four siblings, two older brothers, and then her parents had produced a hat trick of girls. She was a thin girl, her ribs and spine, showing knobbly through her skin, her legs long and skinny like a colt’s. Wild, dark hair grew to her waist, but was usually kept tucked modestly in her coif bonnet. Her face was a narrow oval, with intelligent dark eyes, and a slash of a mouth, too generous to match the rest of her features.

Despite her slim stature she was as strong as an ox, easily capable of carrying a basket of logs on her back to equal her fifteen year old brother. She worked hard –they all did, their survival depended on it, and their father demanded it. And she was fast and nimble, being able to run up the track from the farm, and leap from stony outcrop to mossy boulder, as sprightly as any goat. On Sundays, her mother shepherded the whole brood, a mile down the stony trail to the village and into the church. There the family stood at the back, and worshipped a God, who frequently failed to show the poor mercy, whilst the wealthy luxuriated in pews. During, the service Eliza’s keen eyes would wander, and she would observe how her betters were not always so devout, or gaze at the stone tributes to the dead, which adorned the walls. She found it difficult to contain her restless energy, and only the knowledge that, giving in would earn her a thrashing, kept her still.

An hour ago, Mother had finally noticed her swollen belly, demanding: 

‘When was your last monthly?’ Eliza thought for a moment.

‘Twas before All Saints Day.’ In fact, she knew that it was well before that. She had a vivid recollection of blood trickling down her bare legs, and rapidly drying, forming uncomfortable, cracked, brown patterns from her thighs to her knees. The weather was hot, so probably late August or early September. By her own reckoning, she was at least six months along, and she could feel the baby inside her body strongly kicking.

‘You stupid little bitch. Twill be yet another mouth to feed. I’d drown it like a kitten, if twas allowed.’ Eliza concentrated on her task, straining warmed milk through a cloth into a large wooden tub. She had known that this day would come, and had anticipated her mother’s wrath. She kept her eyes on the hot milk, watching its frothing white flow, as she transferred it from one vessel to another.

‘You tell no-one. Do ye hear? No-one. And make sure it stays hidden from Father.’ Her task finished, she looked across at her mother, who was regarding her with angry eyes, and nodded mutely in response.

‘Now get out. Go gather the eggs.’

Eliza had not deliberately concealed her pregnancy. The clothes of the time, shift, tunic and the shawl made essential by the chill for much of the year, obliterated most bodily shapes. And although, she lived on a farm and knew the likely consequence of copulation, it had not occurred to her that this would happen to her. Her condition had stealthily crept into her awareness, gradually altering her body until it achieved its current state, heavy taut breasts, and rounded distended stomach. Marriage was out of the question in her circumstances. She pushed open the heavy barn door, and entered the dark interior. Bands of light, dust moats floating, streamed through gaps in the timbered walls, and the chickens followed her in, pecking the floor for food and contentedly clucking. As her eyes adjusted to the dusky light, Eliza began to search in the straw for the eggs, gently placing them in the basket. Once, she had gathered all the available eggs, she reluctantly returned to the farmhouse, where her mother roughly snatched the basket from her, saying.

‘Get out, and plant those potatoes and onions. I’m going to the village.’ It was not Mother’s usual day to descend into the village. Eliza knew better than to question her when she was in this mood. Instead, she returned to the barn, collected a sack of seed potatoes and the shovel and commenced work in the farm’s vegetable patch. One of her brothers would usually have been given this task, and she suspected that, in the least she was being punished, with the outside possibility that the arduous work might bring on a miscarriage. The digging soon made her hot, and she paused to remove her shawl. The spade’s wooden handle was rough on her hands, and the shoulder of the blade hurt the underside of her foot, as she drove it into the earth. The soil only thinly covered the rocky ground underneath, and only the hardiest plants flourished. Nonetheless, the family continued to cultivate this small area, the fruit and vegetables, which it produced, providing a welcome supplement and variety to their diet. She worked on, the chore making her abdomen ache, her shoulders sore, back painful and legs tired.

A few hours later, rows of seed potatoes and onions were planted, and the spade returned to the barn. Eliza wearily entered the house. Her mother was back in the kitchen, so intent had she been on the digging, that she had not noticed her return. Without a word Mother handed her a wooden tankard. For a few delightful seconds, she believed herself to be forgiven, and that Mother had taken pity on her exhausted state, and was offering her refreshment. One sniff of the liquid within the vessel belied this thought. It smelt vile, causing Eliza to gag as she looked down into the contents.

‘Drink it.’ Her mother instructed from between clenched teeth. She did as she was told, retching as she put the tankard to her lips, and then heaving as she swallowed.

‘Keep it down.’ Growled her mother. She did her best, but watched owl eyed by her younger sisters, she could not resist. She rushed out into the open air, and spewed violently onto the rough ground. Her mother followed her, and swiped the side of head with a calloused hand, saying.

‘That cost me a pot of our finest honey.’ And now Eliza understood, this was a potion brewed by and bought from a woman in the village who was knowledgeable about herbs, to end her pregnancy. Some of the medicine must have reached her stomach, because several hours later, she had an uncontrollable urge to evacuate her bowels. She had been sent out onto the hills to search for sheep’s wool, caught on bushes, when she experienced a vice like grip on her stomach. Crouching behind a boulder, liquid faeces ran, stinking between her shoes, and mingled with clumps of grass. Every time, she thought that she had finished, another spasm would grasp her, releasing a further explosion of fetid liquor from her anus. Eventually, the attack passed, and she weakly staggered back home. Over the next, few days Mother would eagerly enquire.

‘Have you passed anything?’ or ‘Is it still moving?’ Until, she tired of asking. Approximately, a week later Eliza returned to the farm house after milking their cow, to find the woman who knew about herbs, her aunt and two older cousins there. Her sisters were nowhere to be seen. When she entered the women ceased their chatter, and turned to face her. Without preamble, Mother directed her to lie on the sturdy oak table. Guessing that something was afoot, and that it was not going to be pleasant, she began to edge back towards the door, only to find her way blocked by Cousin Rachel, a hefty girl, two years older than herself. With one accord, the women advanced upon her, grabbed her, and threw her, kicking and screaming on to the table. Her aunt stuffed a dirty rag into her mouth, whilst the others held her down. The herbalist wrenched up her shift and tunic, exposing her bare belly. She poked and felt it with cold hands, until shaking her head said.

‘I darenst. She’s too far gone. T’would most likely kill her.’ With that, the women released their hold on her, she leapt from the table, out of the door and fled up into the hills. She ran as fast as her advanced state of pregnancy would allow. She had no idea where she was going, until she could run no further, and collapsed sobbing onto the ground. Eventually, her weeping was spent, and she continued to sit disconsolately pulling at tufts of grass. She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Dusk was beginning to fall, she rose slowly to her feet, and descended to the farm house. By the time, she reached home, night had fallen, her parents were seated either side of the fire, her mother sewing, her father sleeping. Her brothers sat at the table, tankards in hand, engrossed in a game of dice. She passed wordlessly by them, and went up the stairs and joined her sisters in the box bed, which they all shared.

The cock crowing woke the three of them the next morning, but there was something else. There was a dampness on the mattress beneath them. Suspecting that ten year old Mary had wet the bed again, the girls jumped from the bed, only to see a bright, circular crimson stain on the indentation where Eliza had lain. The back of her shift was similarly soiled. Mary rushed and fetched their mother, who without preamble asked.

‘Any pains?’ Eliza shook her head. ‘Right. Girls go down and make the men’s porridge. Say nothing about this. If they ask where we are, tell them that I’m feeling unwell, and Eliza is helping me.’ When the girls had departed, she considered for a moment, before deciding.

‘When the men have gone, we’ll get you to the barn. You can have it there, and I can clear up here.’ Eliza nodded, and once they heard the door slam, the men’s heavy footsteps outside, and their voices begin to fade down the lane, she stood up to leave. Her body was wracked by a searing pain, doubling her over, clutching her stomach. When it passed, she straightened up, and Mother commented with some satisfaction.

‘It’s started.’ The contractions came quickly and strongly, so much so that she needed her mother’s support to cross the yard. Once in the barn, she nigh on collapsed onto the straw covered floor. Mother left her there, commenting that she ‘had jobs to get on with.’ A couple of hours later, when she reappeared with a pitcher of water, Eliza was already getting the urge to push. She felt the need to lift her pelvis from the floor. Mother showed her how to grip the back of her thighs and part her legs when she pushed. She gave her a strip of leather to bite on, and bathed her forehead from the pitcher. It was agony, pure torture, and she expected and hoped to die. Eventually, one final push and with a rush of fluid, something slid from her body. It was a baby, a tiny, lifeless, blue tinged doll of an infant. She went to pick it up from beneath her legs, but her Mother was quicker and stooped and scooped the child up.

‘It’s a girl.’ She said, as she wiped a tear from her cheek. Eliza rose unsteadily from her feet, and from then on was expected to continue as if nothing had happened. Mother disappeared from the barn, taking the small bundle with her. She never saw it again. A few days later, she was again in the barn, when her eldest brother Zachariah entered. He was seventeen, short and stockily built.

‘Now, you’ve pupped, how about we have a bit of fun again?’ His erection was already forming a tent beneath his tunic. Eliza went to push by him, but he roughly grabbed her arm. ‘Ah, come on. You know you like it.’ It was true, sex had provided a welcome distraction from her drab existence, but never again did she want to repeat the pain of the past few weeks. She raised her hands to his chest and shoved him backwards with all her might. As he staggered, struggling to remain upright, she dashed past him, across the farmyard, and into the house, where her mother stood, kneading bread.

‘Mother, Mother. Twas Zack who did it to me.’ Her mother did not pause, as she replied.

‘And you’ll do it again if he wants to.’ It dawned on her then, that her mother had never asked who her baby’s father was. She had known all along who was responsible.

‘You knew! You knew it was him.’ Mother stopped her work, turned and grasped Eliza’s bony shoulders, and hissed in her face.

‘Listen to me. You keep him happy. If he leaves, or worse still, marries and brings another woman here and then bairns, we’ll starve. We need him for the heavy work, and we can’t feed any more. Understand?’      

Nearly three centuries later, Josh watched as the plaster of the interior wall crumpled, revealing an ancient fire place. He had been sent here, in disgrace, for the duration of the summer holidays. His grandparents had recently brought the derelict farm, and were in the process of renovating it, with a view to converting the buildings to holiday lets. He hated the place. To say it was remote, would be an understatement, and its intermittent Wi-Fi service was a never ending source of frustration to the social media addicted fourteen year old. His main source of entertainment was watching the local builders as they tore the old buildings apart. He felt that he was being unreasonably punished.

A few weeks previously, Zara’s mother had arrived on the doorstep, asking to speak to him and his parents. His mother had invited her in, and called him down from his room. Mrs Davelski (Zara’s mother) had sat awkwardly on the edge of her armchair. His parents sat together on the sofa, and he had perched on its arm. She had refused his mother’s offer of a cup of tea, and chosen to keep her coat on. He knew what this was about, but could see no way of avoiding the ensuing confrontation. Mrs Davelski began.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but thought you should know about something.’ His mother had nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s about Zara and Josh. She got pregnant.’ As she said this her face crumpled, her voice wavered and tears began to stream down her face. His mother moved across to her, offered her a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and then sat on the arm of her chair, gazing down, sympathetically at her, before asking.

‘And you think that Josh is responsible?’

‘Yes, I know so. She’s had a termination, but I thought you should know what has been going on.’

‘Yes, thank you. We certainly need to speak to Josh about this, don’t we?’ His mother had said looking pointedly at him. When they were alone, his father had exploded.

‘You stupid little bugger, don’t you know to double bag it?’

‘George, we haven’t heard what Josh has to say yet.’

‘He doesn’t need to say anything. It’s written all over him.’

‘Josh, please go upstairs.’ He didn’t need asking twice, he’s scuttled back to the comfort of his room and his on-line gaming as fast as his adolescent legs could carry him. Even from the safety of upstairs, he had been able to hear snatches of his parent’s raging argument. Back and forth the accusations flew. Contraception and lack of supervision were raised, each blaming the other. Subsequently, they agreed that, he could not be left to his own devices for the duration of the long summer holidays, and a consequence of his irresponsible actions was that he should be sent to the farm to stay.

One of the builders pulled a bundle of rags from the side of the fireplace. He handed it to Josh saying. ‘I found this on the proving shelf.’ He explained that, these shelves had been an integral part of a home’s construction when families made their own bread. They placed dough on the shelf, where the heat from the fire, caused the bread to rise before cooking. Disinterestedly, Josh unravelled the dusty rags, revealing a selection of small, desiccated bones. The builder, looking curiously over his shoulder, commented.

‘Lo