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  For Mum with love. We miss you x

  CHAPTER ONE

  1913

  ‘Leah, Daisy. It’s half past four. Time to get up.’

  At the sound of her mother’s voice, 16-year-old Leah Hopwood groaned and rolled onto her back. She stared up at the ceiling in the murky, pre-dawn light. From the lane below came the creak of wagon wheels and the slam of a cottage door. She sighed and nudged her 14-year-old sister. ‘Come on, Daisy. Get up.’

  Mumbling incoherently, Daisy rolled over, dragging the bedcovers with her. The gush of cold air on her exposed legs along with the rattle of the stove lid in the kitchen below was enough to spur Leah into action.

  ‘Get up,’ she said, giving Daisy’s shoulder a shake. ‘You can’t afford to be late. Neither of us can.’ She climbed out of bed and dressed quickly by the light of the pale dawn filtering through the thin curtains. Favouring their late father, William, Leah was tall and willowy with dark blonde hair and blue eyes while Daisy, three inches shorter with wavy, light brown hair and hazel eyes, resembled their mother.

  As Leah twisted her hair into plaits, she couldn’t help her gaze straying to the spot on the landing where Freddie’s bed had once stood. She swallowed the lump in her throat. It had been four years since the diphtheria epidemic that swept through the tiny hamlet of Strawbridge had claimed the lives of so many. Leah’s father, older brother and two younger sisters had all succumbed to the disease. Her strong, dependable father had been the first to slip away, followed by Freddie, three days later, dying on the eve of his sixteenth birthday. Mary and Sarah, just eight and five years old respectively, had passed away within hours of each other a few days later.

  Forcing herself not to dwell on how noisy and happy the early summer mornings had once been with all five Hopwood children boisterously preparing for a long day in the strawberry fields, Leah hurried down the stairs.

  The parlour was sparsely furnished. A single lead-paned window looked out onto the lane and the strawberry fields beyond. A large fireplace took up one end of the room, a brass coal scuttle standing beside the empty grate. Upon the mantelpiece, in pride of place, stood a framed photograph of Leah’s parents, William and Hannah. It had been taken shortly after their wedding twenty-one years earlier. Beside it, between a pair of brass candlesticks, stood a photograph of the five Hopwood children taken two years before the epidemic.

  Leah remembered the day it was taken as if it were yesterday. It had been on a rare trip in Southampton. Dressed in their Sunday best, they’d dined at the Crown Hotel before visiting a photographer’s studio close to the Bargate on Above Bar and there had been great excitement when the photograph had arrived in the morning post some three weeks later.

  The sofa stood under the window, its faded upholstery hidden by a red and white crocheted blanket. Pushed up against the inside wall was the dropleaf table and four chairs. An oval mirror hung on the wall above it. On scuffed wooden floorboards were several handmade rugs. Above a small writing desk hung a watercolour depicting Salisbury Cathedral, its spire shrouded in mist, with the water meadows in the foreground. As usual, Leah paused to admire it. Her father had been inordinately fond of the painting, which he had bought off a market stall on a long-ago trip to Salisbury before he and Hannah were married. He had always promised to take them all to see the cathedral, a promise he could now no longer keep, and so the painting had garnered a certain poignancy for Leah.

  Feeling the familiar tightening of her throat, she swallowed quickly and hurried into the warm, steam-filled kitchen where her mother stood at the stove stirring the porridge.

  ‘Morning, Mum.’

  ‘Morning, love,’ Hannah replied, smiling at Leah over her shoulder. ‘Is Daisy up?’ Lifting the heavy-bottomed pan from the heat, she placed it on the metal trivet in the centre of the table.

  ‘She was just stirring,’ Leah said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  ‘It was a mild night,’ her mother said with a quick glance at the clock on the wall above the table. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ve seen the last of the frost.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Leah said, ladling porridge into the waiting bowls. It was warm in the kitchen. Droplets of condensation ran down the misted-up window that looked out on to the back garden and the privy they shared with their neighbours. Theirs was the middle cottage in a row of three. The cottages that made up the hamlet of Strawbridge were grouped in twos or threes, sixteen in all, spread out between the Glyn Arms public house, the vicarage and St Luke’s church.

  Beyond the shared privy was a large chicken run and a flourishing vegetable patch, bordered by a hawthorn hedge, beyond which were the grounds of Streawberige House, home to the wealthy Whitworth family.

  Blowing on her porridge to cool it, Leah looked up as footsteps sounded on the stairs and Daisy came bounding into the kitchen, her dark hair flying around her face. She dragged out a chair, its legs scrapping noisily on the slate floor, and was about to sit down when there was a knock at the back door.

  ‘Who can that be?’ Hannah wondered out loud. Setting the brown ceramic teapot on the table, she wiped her plump hands on her apron and opened the door.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Hopwood.’ The young man standing on the threshold grinned cheerfully. He had a shock of black hair and olive skin that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. ‘I brought you something for your supper,’ he beamed, holding up a brace of pheasants. ‘And a posy for the lovely Leah.’

  ‘You’ll be for it if Mr Whitworth’s gamekeeper catches you poaching, Joshua Mullens,’ Hannah scolded, the smile in her eyes belying her stern tone. ‘Come on in.’ She stood aside and opened the door wider. ‘There’s porridge in the pot if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Starving, I am,’ Joshua said. He handed Hannah the pheasants, pausing to remove his dirty boots on the mat before entering the kitchen. ‘Morning, Leah, Daisy,’ he said with a mock bow as Hannah took the pheasants to hang in the pantry. ‘Flowers for the prettiest girl in Strawbridge,’ he said, presenting Leah with a posy of early summer wild flowers.

  She blushed. ‘You’re a fool, Joshua Mullens,’ she chided him, but she couldn’t help smiling as went into the pantry to find an empty jam jar to put them in.

  ‘Will you tell me if you’ll accompany me to the picker’s ball, Leah?’ he asked, as she placed the jam jar on the table and dished him up a generous helping of porridge. ‘Or will you keep me in my agony of torment until I die of a broken heart?’

  ‘You’re silly,’ Leah smiled, but her mirth was not reflected in her dark blue eyes. She was flattered by his attentions. Who wouldn’t be? He was very handsome but… She hesitated, reluctant to hurt his feelings. He was a good man, a little wild but his unruly ways hid a generous heart and, usually, she would have jumped at the chance to attend the ball with him…

  ‘Oh, come on, Leah,’ Joshua said, interrupting her rambling thoughts. ‘Won’t you put me out of my misery?’ he cajoled, dousing his porridge in milk. His grin broadened. He paused and looked up at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘You’re not holding out for a better offer, are you?’ he teased.

  Leah felt the colour rise in her cheeks and quickly averted her gaze.

  ‘I haven’t decided whether I’m going to the ball,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Daisy scoffe
d in amazement. ‘It’s the highlight of the year. No one misses the Pickers’ Ball, least of all you.’

  ‘Who’s missing the ball?’ Hannah asked, coming in from the garden with five fresh eggs in her apron which she placed in a bowl on the table. She looked at Leah questioningly.

  ‘You don’t mean that?’ Joshua said in a wounded tone. ‘You always go.’ His thick, black brows knitted together across his sculptured nose. ‘With me. Why’s this year any different?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘No reason,’ Leah replied. Pushing back her chair, she began to clear the table, conscious of Joshua’s wounded gaze following her about the kitchen.

  How could she explain to Joshua that she was hoping someone else would invite her to the ball? She felt wretched just thinking about it, but… She plunged her arms into the soapy water. She could feel Joshua’s gaze burning into her back. Daisy was telling him something, but she could tell by his non-committal grunts that he wasn’t really listening. But despite her discomfort, she couldn’t deny the tingle of pleasure that raced up her spine at the thought that she’d see him again, very soon.

  His name was Harry. She’d noticed him the day the strawberry picking season started. He wasn’t from Strawbridge or the surrounding area so she’d assumed he must be one of the many ‘Joe Pickers’ who made their way over from Southampton every morning to work on the various strawberry farms around the likes of Hedge End, Botley, Sarisbury and Curdridge.

  He was tall and well-built, with fair hair and pale blue eyes. Within days of working in the fields she had watched in veiled amusement as his face and forearms bloomed an angry shade of crimson before turning a deep shade of honey-brown.

  On that first day she’d been packing straw around the base of the vulnerable young plants. It was backbreaking work and as she’d straightened up, rubbing the base of her spine in an effort to relieve the ache in her back, she’d happened to glance up at him. He was standing on the back of the cart, on a mound of straw, tossing clumps of it to the ground with his pitchfork. As she caught his eye, he’d smiled a smile so infectious, she couldn’t help but grin back at him. After that, she’d watched him surreptitiously, inwardly smiling as she caught him looking over at her each time she glanced his way. Over the days that followed their smiles had progressed to brief exchanges when they happened to meet when emptying their baskets, or queuing for a drink of water at the trough. After a while she began to notice, whether by accident or design, he was usually working close to her. Now, two weeks had passed and she was certain he was working up the courage to invite her to go walking with him.

  ‘Will you join us for supper this evening, Joshua?’ Hannah asked, interrupting Leah’s daydreaming as she bustled past to empty the teapot in the slop bucket.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t, Mrs Hopwood,’ Joshua replied, sounding disappointed to be missing an opportunity to spend time with Leah. ‘I’m collecting the new curate from the station.’

  ‘Well, you know you’re welcome anytime,’ Hannah assured him with a warm smile.

  ‘Thanks Mrs H,’ Joshua grinned. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pushed back his chair. ‘I’d better get off. Thanks for the breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you for the pheasants,’ Hannah countered, walking him to the backdoor. ‘Give my love to your nan.’

  ‘Will do, Mrs H. See you, Daisy.’ His expression softened. ‘I’ll see you later, Leah?’ he ventured, hopefully.

  Leah nodded. ‘Thanks for the flowers,’ she said, as an afterthought, as she dried her hands on a tea towel. Joshua nodded. He looked as though he wanted to say something else but decided against it. Instead, he raised his hand in a jaunty salute and with a quick ‘goodbye’, ducked out of the back door and disappeared around the side of the privy.

  ‘You shouldn’t string the poor lad along,’ Hannah said sternly, rounding on her eldest daughter. ‘If you don’t want to go to the ball with him, you should tell him so.’

  ‘I’m not stringing him along, Mum,’ Leah contradicted her. ‘I just haven’t made up my mind whether I want to go with him.’

  ‘I’d go to the ball with Joshua,’ Daisy said, picking up a tea towel with which to dry the dishes. She gave a wistful sigh. ‘If only he’d ask me.’

  ‘Daisy,’ her mother admonished her. ‘You’re too young to be thinking about boys in that sort of way.’

  ‘You were fourteen when you started courting Dad,’ she retorted stoutly.

  ‘I was almost fifteen,’ her mother replied with a smile. ‘Your time will come,’ she said, giving Daisy’s shoulder a quick pat. ‘But I do believe Joshua’s heart belongs wholly to our Leah.’

  They were interrupted by the chiming of the church clock.

  ‘It’s a quarter past five,’ Hannah said briskly, clapping her reddened, workworn hands. ‘Come along, girls. You need to get a move on, or you’ll both be late for work.’

  * * *

  Draping her shawl around her shoulders, Leah followed Daisy hurriedly out of the door, almost colliding with her neighbour, Dora Webb, in her haste.

  ‘Oh!’ Dora exclaimed, taking a step backwards. ‘You are ready. I was about to knock for you. I dare not be late again.’

  ‘Well, you won’t be,’ Leah assured her cheerfully, tucking her arm through her friend’s.

  ‘Good,’ Dora smiled, wearily. ‘I can’t afford to have my wages docked. What with my father’s doctor’s bills, it’ll be hard enough making the rent this month as it is.’ She put her hand in front of her mouth, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Bad night?’ Leah asked as they crossed the lane, dodging the horse-drawn carts lining up along the verge in readiness to ferry the first of the day’s harvest to the railway station.

  ‘I hardly slept a wink,’ sighed Dora. ‘Dad’s head kept him awake most of the night.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Leah said, with sympathy as they joined the queue to clock in and collect their baskets from Beatrice Turner, the overseer’s wife. ‘I expect he’s in a filthy temper, then?’

  Dora rolled her eyes. ‘The worst. He threw his porridge all up the wall this morning. I hope he’s calmed down by the time your mum goes in later.’

  ‘You know Mum won’t take any nonsense from him,’ chuckled Leah.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without your mum, Leah,’ Dora said, welling up.

  ‘Hey, come on,’ Leah said, giving Dora’s arm a squeeze. ‘You’re exhausted, Dor. Why don’t you come round to ours for your tea tonight? Have an hour off?’

  Smiling wistfully, Dora shook her head. ‘It’s nice of you, Leah but it’s not fair for me to leave Dad on his own too often. He gets so lonely stuck in the house by himself while I’m at work as it is.’

  ‘Mum says it’s his own fault. If he hadn’t driven all his friends away with his bad moods, he wouldn’t be on his own all the time,’ Daisy said, scanning the fields which were, despite the early hour, already teeming with pickers. Leah nudged her roughly and shot her a warning glare. ‘What?’ Daisy scowled. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Your mum’s not wrong,’ Dora said glumly. ‘He doesn’t mean it, though. He just gets so frustrated, you see?’

  ‘It can’t be easy for him,’ Leah sympathized. She shot her sister another warning look, though Daisy had only spoken the truth. In Leah’s opinion, the man who had once been her father’s closest friend had become a bad-tempered, ill-mannered boor who treated his daughter like a slave. Many were the nights she and Daisy had lain in bed listening to the ruckus going on next door as he shouted and ranted at her.

  ‘Good morning, girls.’ Leah’s train of thought was interrupted by the cheerful voice of Beatrice Turner as they reached the front of the queue.

  ‘It looks like we’re in for a fine day,’ Beatrice remarked, smiling as she ticked their names off her list.

  In her early fifties, she was an attractive woman with greying auburn hair and bright green eyes. She’d moved into the cottage adjacent to Leah’s two years earlier when she married Mathew Turner, and had become
good friends with Leah and Daisy’s mother.

  ‘Help yourselves to a basket,’ she said, indicating the fast-depleting mountain of wicker baskets off to the side.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Turner.’ Leah glanced over her shoulder. ‘Is Alice not here yet?’

  ‘She should be along any minute,’ responded Beatrice, her gaze shifting to the bend in the lane. ‘Ah, here she comes now,’ she said, as a young woman rounded the bend on a bicycle.

  Leah followed her gaze, grinning at the sight of her friend peddling furiously up the lane. The skirt of her green-sprigged dress billowed out at the sides and one hand clamped her straw hat to her head, while the other clutched the handlebars as she precariously steered her way between the ruts on the road.

  ‘Hello, Alice,’ Leah called out with a wave of her hand. Cautiously releasing her grip on her hat, Alice waved back, the bike wobbling precariously as she braked hard, and rolled to a halt outside the pub.

  ‘Leah.’ Daisy patted Leah’s arm. ‘I can see Lizzie and Nora. I’m going over to pick with them.’

  ‘Okay,’ Leah replied absently, as she waited for Alice to prop her bicycle against the pub’s grey-stone wall and hurry across the lane towards them.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Grandma’ she panted, her cheeks pink with exertion. ‘I got stuck behind Farmer Troke’s cows on the ox drove.’ She brushed a strand of chestnut brown hair from her damp forehead and smiled at Beatrice. ‘Mother said to remind you about supper tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice. I certainly hadn’t forgotten.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘You’d better get along now,’ she said to the three girls, turning her attention to the group of women coming up behind them.

  ‘See you later, Grandma,’ Alice said as she leaned over to plant a kiss on the older woman’s soft cheek. ‘How are you both?’ she asked Leah and Dora as they made their way along the rows of strawberry plants. The ground was soft underfoot from the recent rain and the air smelled earthy and fresh. ‘How’s your dad, Dora?’