Jack lifted the latch carefully and edged the heavy wooden door open slowly, trying to keep noise to a minimum. The cottage was dark, though he'd seen a glow of coals through the window, and he guessed that his mother had gone to bed. Not wanting to disturb her, he crept through the kitchen and into the back room, from which the stairs to his room led.
"Jack," said a voice softly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Mother!" He spun round. She was sitting in the rocking chair he'd made her three years ago, wrapped up warm in a blanket by the dying fire. He came out of the shadows to stoop and hug her gently. "I didn't realise you would be awake still."
"I was worried," she admitted, smiling up at her tall son. He was everything to her, and had been ever since her husband had died. "And I couldn't sleep."
"Have your pains come back?" he asked, instantly concerned. "You've been taking the powders Dr Harcomb prescribed, haven't you?"
"Oh, you worry too much, Jack," she chided him. "I'm fine. Did you have a nice time with your friends?"
"Yes, very nice. I won two games, and probably would have lost the third if Aileen hadn't dragged me out of it." As he spoke, he was pulling forward the little footstool so that he could sit by his mother and look up at her.
"Aileen?" she answered, her voice suddenly a few degrees colder. "The Byrd girl?"
"That's the one. She asked me to walk her home, and I… What is it?"
"Nothing, dear." She stroked his brown hair with a smile and listened to him as he told her more about his evening, but her mind kept wandering. She didn't like the way that girl was clinging to her Jack. It had become more noticeable recently, and while she was almost certain that Jack was more or less unaware of the whole thing, she was also certain that nothing on earth would make Aileen stop in her pursuit of something she wanted. Just like her mother, more than twenty years ago.
She knew that she was being selfish. Jack had to marry some time. But she'd always put the thought off, relegated it to the 'we'll-cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it' pile. Now it was becoming a serious possibility, she couldn't quell her panic. What if he decided to marry Aileen? He would provide for her, she was sure of that; Jack was a good boy. But Aileen was unlikely to want a crippled woman in the house who needed constant attention. What if Jack left home, and hired a nursemaid to look after her? She couldn't bear that; she needed to be with her son.
She made a restless movement and he paused in his flow of talk. "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want another cushion?"
"No, no, dear," she said soothingly. How she loved her good, caring Jack. He would make a girl a wonderful husband some day.
But not, reiterated that stubborn voice in her head, to Aileen Byrd.
Jack woke early the next morning, as was his habit. He got the morning chores done, casting a loving eye on his still sleeping mother as he washed the floor, started the fire, and so on. She slept so little that it was a gift when she did; he knew that despite her protestations to the contrary, she was in pain most of the time, and sleep provided a much-needed respite.
Her illness had begun years ago, dating from the still-birth of his older sister, Martha. Anne had caught an infection of some kind during the difficult birth, sparking a dormant genetic condition that, it seemed, had been passed down through her family for generations. It was regressive, and throughout Jack's life she had deteriorated to the point where it now caused her intense pain just to move. Recently, most of her days were spent out in the garden, where Jack would carry her to a comfortable bench, employed with a bit of knitting or crocheting which was all she could do. She knew perfectly well that she did not have much longer to live, but she was happy in Jack's company and content with her poor lot. Pain and difficulty had beautified her spirit, rather than embittering it, and she was rarely ungrateful or sharp. Only when it came to the thought of Jack's marriage and inevitable departure from her side was she inconsolable. But this she had kept to herself, and her son knew nothing of it.
Had he known of the thoughts that often kept her awake at night, he would have ridiculed them. Of course he would never leave her. Wasn't he her son? Didn't he love her? But at the moment his mind was occupied with something else altogether – this problem with the garden.
As usual, he gathered what he could from their sizeable garden – expanded slowly over the course of many hard years – to take to the stall in the market where he sold their fruit and vegetables. Generally there was a lot, but today, as in the past few days, there was a noticeable decrease in produce. And, he noted with concern, those that were not blighted were smaller and less desirable than healthy fruit would have been.
Still wavering between telling his mother and not wanting to worry her, he made breakfast for the two of them: a simple porridge of oats and watered down milk, with a handful of their own dried berries to sweeten it. Once Anne had woken up, he made sure that she had eaten and then carried her out to the garden. He would return at midday for lunch, and then leave her again while he manned the stall during the afternoon. The evenings were spent in tending the garden and only then would Jack allow himself to spend time with his friends.
Every day was spent in the same way. It was a hard life, but like his mother, Jack was content. It was not in his nature to rail against the injustice that had dealt him poverty or hard labour. Even this new worry could not completely unbalance his good temper.
With a wheelbarrow full of produce, he made his way through the village to the market square, giving and returning greetings as he went. It did not take long to set up his stall, and soon he was busily employed along with everybody else there: buying and selling, haggling prices, cheerfully exchanging gossip with the other stall-holders.
Eventually, it got to a point at mid-afternoon when the morning and lunch time rushes were over and things were calm enough for all stall-holders to sit down and relax for a bit, enjoying one another's company. The stall opposite Jack's was run by old Grace Lea and sometimes her daughter, and Jack was on fairly good terms with the older woman. She was there today, sitting in a chair and carding some wool. She was always busy, no matter what she was doing, though she was well into her seventies and many women her age would have retired to a comfortable life in bed.
"All right, lad?" she called, and Jack waved and came over for a brief exchange.
"Afternoon, Mrs Lea," he said politely. "How is business today?"
"Not bad, not bad," she said. "Sit down, boy. And I've told you to call me Grace a hundred times." Grace Lea was not one to mince her words.
"Thank you," said Jack, accepting a cup of her delicious homemade mint tea, cool and refreshing. "How's Bridget?" Her daughter was a teacher at the little village school, and it was no secret that their relationship was somewhat strained. Jack had never been quite certain of the details and was not one to search out gossip, but he had an idea it dated back to when Bridget's daughter – who had been born out of wedlock, something that had scandalised the village – had died from some childhood illness. Gossip aside, everyone agreed that there was something not quite right about Bridget. She had been a bright girl, but after her daughter's death something odd had happened to her. She had a habit of staring into space when you were talking to her, and of refusing to answer even the most harmless questions, which was disconcerting, to say the least. Jack had once come face to face with her at a midsummer party and tried to engage her in friendly conversation, only to realise with horror that she had begun to cry. After that, he'd done his best to maintain a polite distance.
"Bridget is Bridget and always will be," she replied briskly. "But she is well, thank you. And how is poor Anne?"
"She is…" He tried to find a word that wasn't a lie, but didn't sound too depressing. "She is, well…"
"I understand," nodded Grace. "Poor, poor Anne. How did the broth go down that I sent round last week?"
"Oh, very well, thank you," he answered gratefully. "It did seem to ease the pain a little, and she slept very well that night."
"Good. I'll make up another batch and send it round," she decided, and waved away his thanks. "It's the best I can do. I was fairly close to your grandmother, you know. Right, off you go, lad. You've got better things to do than to gossip with an old woman."
"You're not old," protested Jack with a grin, but he got up and was crossing the road when a thought struck him and he turned round. "Mrs Lea – Grace – have you had any problems in your garden?"
"What's that, boy?" She looked up at him sharply and he found himself thinking no wonder Bridget Lea is a frightened mouse with a mother like that. "In the garden? You've seen it too?"
"It?" Was it as he'd suspected, then – some kind of disease?
"Vegetables rotting in the good earth. Fruit falling apart before it's ripened. Is that what you've had?"
He nodded, sudden fear sending a cold shiver over his skin. Grace's face was serious. "If you've got it too, boy, things are worse than I thought. Try not to worry about it too much for now, but take this." She held out a little paper bag, twisted shut. "It won't reverse the effects, but it can prevent the sickness getting hold if you mix it into the plants' water."
He took the little bag gingerly, unsure of whether he wanted to use it, and thanked her. She nodded and went back to her carding, but she was frowning now, and when he returned to his own stall he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding.
Something, he was sure, was wrong.
Sorry that these last two have been pretty boring - I promise the action will start at some point :)