One Of The Flock

Tomas had chosen to be shepherd and had left village life – and Lettie – behind . . .

I’M telling you, Bart, there inna nothing to grow old for,” Jasper said from where he sat at their customary fireside bench in the taproom of the Royal Oak, frothing tankard in hand and holly stick resting against his gaitered leg.

Bart took a slurp of ale before replying, brushing the foam from his lips.

At his feet an ageing sheepdog dozed in the warmth of the blaze, snoring slightly and twitching in rabbity dreams.

“You’re right, Jasper. I remember the time me an’ Bess here walked the hills with the flock, breathing in God’s good fresh air, nowt but the calls of curlews and babble of a stream to shake the peace.

“Grand, it were. Now it’s nobbut tattle and the clop and grind of passing traffic.”

“You must miss it. Leastways I can still help out in the workshop. Our besoms are doing a fine trade.

“There’s been a fair few young fellows calling to buy one for their mams.” Jasper looked thoughtful. “Seems to me it could have summat to do with young Lettie helping out on the shop floor, our Micky being occupied making up more stock.”

Bart nodded.

“Gets bonnier every day, does your Lettie. Tes a crying shame her and our Tomas haven’t hit it off as we’d thought. Happen it’s to do with him taking up shepherding.

“My Edna allus found it lonesome in our cottage up in the hills, especially after our Ruth wed her carpenter.

“Proper cheery Edna’s been since we removed to the village. Likes the gossip and natter, see. Happen Lettie’s the same.”

“Aye, well, that’s females for you. Crave the company of their own kind, bless them. My Cissie’s never happier but when she’s having a jaw with a neighbour over the garden fence.”

The two men sank into reverie, sipping their ale while gazing into the flames.

It had been a long-held wish that Jasper’s granddaughter, Lettie, and Bart’s grandson, Tomas, should make a go of it together, and until earlier in the year this had looked to be the case.

Then Tomas had made the bid to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and become a shepherd, and with Tomas now resident at the hillside cottage and Lettie down here in the village, the promising union appeared to have come to nothing.

“Remember how it were in our young day?” Bart said with a change of tack. “The Psalmody Players? Us two up in the church gallery with the others, you on the flute and me scraping away on me fiddle.

“Now and again we’d lay off the instruments and strike up in harmony to lead the singing. By, them were good times, them were.”

“You’re right there, Bart. ’Twere a bad day when they brought the piano into the church and made us redundant.”

“Surplus to requirement, aye. The Players all fell apart after that. Remember how we got asked to perform at weddings and other get-togethers?”

Jasper nodded.

“The feasting and merriment’d go on until the early hours. Do you still play a bit?”

“I do that,” Bart replied. “I reckon a person’s never lonesome if they can pick out a tune on a fiddle or whatever.

“Tes a crying shame the youngsters haven’t kept up the tradition. Take Tomas. He showed no interest whatsoever in playing the fiddle.”

Jasper swigged down the last of his ale.

“I can’t say that of Lettie. Right from a nipper she wanted to be a fluter.

“Badgered me something terrible to show her the fingering and took it up from there.

“If anything, she’s a better player than I ever were. Reads the notation an’ all. That were all riddle-me-ree to me.”

“Me, too, Jasper. But we got along just grand, playing by ear like them before us did.”

“Exactly so.” Jasper nodded towards the empty tankards. “Want another?”

“I wunna say no – thank ’ee.”

Bart watched his old

Lettie was hurt that Tomas had not consulted her

friend amble off towards the bar, weaving between the knots of drinkers. His mind was still on the joys of the past.

Gratified though he was to have Tomas take up the shepherding, it would have been heartwarming if the lad had shown an interest in the fiddle. Jasper had a lot to be thankful for with their Lettie.

Lettie put down the flute with a sigh. How she missed Tomas now he’d left his home in the village and gone up into the heights to live the solitary life of a shepherd.

Her mind went back to the last time they had spoken. It had been a bleak day in early January, with a cutting wind and the hills snow-capped. She had huddled into the fashionable new coat she had worn especially, reflecting that it was not as warm as her thick woollen shawl.

“You do understand, Lettie? I’ve wanted to be a shepherd like Gramps ever since I can remember. Mam says I’ll tire of the sheer slog of it, but I know I won’t.”

“Your mam grew up there. She knows what she’s talking about, Tomas,” Lettie had replied carefully.

“I don’t doubt it, but I reckon, as with most things, you have to take the rough with the smooth. Mam confessed how hard she found it when she married Da.

“From shepherd’s only daughter to tradesman’s wife. She’d have had to accustom herself to the din from the yard, for one thing.”

Tomas’s father ran his own business in Windsor chairs and made sure his sons were trained up in the skill.

Lettie had loved watching Tomas’s deft hand shaping and polishing the furniture.

She had even dared to hope that one day her own home might boast a sample of his work.

“But your mam’s been happy living here?” she asked.

“Seems so. She’s a real homemaker, is Mam. It’s not as if I’m leaving them in the lurch over the business.

“They’ve got Davie to take over when the time comes, and young Jared if he’s inclined that way.” Lettie tried again. “But you’re a trained wood-turner, Tomas.”

“And a trained shepherd. Gramps saw to that.”

Lettie suddenly realised that any more argument was futile.

She was hurt that Tomas had not invited her to see the cottage he intended making his home; hurt that he had not shown her the small flock of in-lamb Swaledales he’d acquired at the market.

And as for not even thinking to consult her on his unprecedented decision, well, that was unforgiveable. Plainly his head was so full of dreams there was no room for her.

Her goodbyes when they were said were frosty.

Now, she ran her fingertips over the smooth maple wood of her flute.

Playing for her own amusement was all well and good, but what fun it would be to belong to a group of musicians and entertain a crowd of people, as Gramps had done.

The notion was instantly dismissed. A female Player? Hands would have been flung up in horror.

All the same, Lettie couldn’t help but wonder how they had sounded when they had played at the church services and village events.

It was as though her thoughts had conjured something up. A day or two later, Bart, with dog at heel, came hobbling into the Oak in great excitement, to find his friend already seated, two brimming tankards at the ready.

“Inna you heard?” Bart said, sitting and accepting his ale with a nod of thanks.

“Heard? Heard what?” Jasper asked.

“Well, Edna’s just come in all of a swelter. Turns out the piano at the church is so in need of tuning, nobody can sing to the accompaniment. And with the tuner from Whitchurch being fully booked up, tes not likely to get dealt with in a hurry.”

“Huh, that would never have happened in our day. We tuned up our own instruments.”

“Exactly so. But hark you me, Jasper. Edna says as Parson Dobbs wants us to rustle up the Players. We’re to play up in the gallery, like we used to.

“Parson’s got a special service, see, with dignitaries coming from Shrewsbury. Wants everything shipshape and right as ninepence.”

Jasper took a reviving gulp of ale.

“Well, I dunno! That’s news and a half, that is. What are we waiting for? Drink up, Bart. Let’s get ourselves out there and call up the troops!”

It was a fine April evening and the two men went from door to door, dog following, spreading the news.

Tad Clarke, clarinet, couldn’t reach for his instrument quickly enough, and Micky Carter and Irton Smiles, fiddlers, were the same.

Unfortunately old Lester Poles, bassoon, had passed on earlier in the year, but his son, Alfie, had mastered the art of playing and offered to stand in.

There was a snag. Where necessary, Lester had led the harmonies in his fine tenor voice, but Alfie had not inherited his father’s gift for singing.

“I’d sound like a corncrake with a bad throat,” Alfie said. “One of the others will have to do it.”

The trouble was, though they were equipped with bass and baritone voices, none of the company could sing tenor.

“Stumped, that’s what,” Jasper said in the workshop next morning as he sanded the stave of a besom to a satin finish. “We had a run through last night, the lot of us, and we dinna sound bad at all, considering. It were just the singing.”

Lettie, sweeping up shavings with brisk movements of the besom, paused.

“Tomas can sing. Haven’t you heard him in church? I tried to get him to give us a song last Harvest Supper, but Lester was with us then, God rest him, and Tomas said it wouldn’t be fair to set up in competition, so to speak.”

Jasper snorted. “Owd Lester wunna have minded. He’d have been only too pleased to find another warbler in our midst. Bless you, Lettie, for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Lettie said in tones that had a distinct edge.

Jasper looked at her very hard.

“What’s wrong, lass? Got outa bed the wrong side this morning?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what’s all the grumples about? It inna like you to wear a face fit to sour the cream.” Lettie bit her lip.

“It’s Tomas. We were walking out together – or so I thought. Then he had this whim to go shepherding and I’ve barely seen him since.”

“Well, he’ll have been occupied. A fellow can’t leave his flock to go courting. It’s been lambing time and he’ll have been up all hours.

“It weren’t the best weather for newborns, either. All that wet. There’ll have been sickly lambs to tend.”

Lettie twirled the besom thoughtfully.

“I would have helped.” “Oh, aye? Did you tell him that?”

“Well, no. It all happened in too much of a rush. One minute he was here and the next he was gone. As I said, all on a whim.”

“That were no whim, Lettie. Tomas was cut out for shepherding.

Times were changing – happen Lettie had a point about women

Bart said that from the start. Pity you two can’t make things up, but there tes.”

Lettie’s face tightened. “And another thing. Why is it men can play in the group and not women?”

“Eh?” Jasper looked bemused. “You got me there, Lettie. You’re a good enough fluter. Tes just, well, tradition, that’s it.”

“Tradition? Phooey! You men think all we women are fit for is getting meals and sweeping up.”

Lettie gave the besom a vicious thrust.

“If there was any fairness in the world there’d be female voices singing the psalmody, and female musicians, too. I’d love to play up in the gallery,” she added wistfully.

Jasper went back to his sandpapering, his mind whirling. Things had gone badly wrong between Lettie and young Tomas and no mistake.

As for a female’s place in the order of things, well, times were changing and, though it grieved him to admit it, happen Lettie had a point.

Tonight he’d talk to Bart about getting Tomas to stand in for the departed Lester. With lambing long over and dipping and shearing still a while off, surely the lad could spare a moment to help them out.

Tomas agreed readily to the request, and for the rest of the week the air echoed to the sound of the old music drifting from Bart and Edna’s cottage on the edge of the village, where the Players met to practise.

If Jasper expected Lettie to turn up he was to be disappointed. He noticed Tomas’s gaze slide often towards the door as if half-expecting her to appear, but the door remained firmly shut.

“I dunno!” Jasper said to Bart, following the Friday rehearsal. “Lettie knows Tomas has been here regular all week. Why dunna she swallow her pride and put in an appearance?”

“Happen she’s got her eye on some other young fellow,” Bart said, putting away his fiddle in its battered case.

“Nay. She’s as sweet as she ever were on Tomas. Pride, that’s what it is. And stubbornness. There inna nothing like a female for stubbornness.”

Bart closed the case with a snap.

“I dunno so much. I reckon the lass’s feelings were hurt bad. Our Tomas were too hasty and should’ve asked her opinion, like. Broke her gently to his way of thinking instead of just springing it on her.”

“Happen so. Anyhow, the rehearsal went well tonight. Parson should have no complaints come Sunday when we take up our rightful place in the church gallery.”

“Exactly so.” Bart glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “By, I’ve a terrible thirst on me. If we look lively we can fit in a jar before closing time.”

They managed more than the expected pint and when they parted company to continue to their respective homes at opposite ends of the village, both were more than a little unsteady on their feet.

“Gramps! What’s happened?” Lettie cried out in dismay when she entered the shop next morning to find her grandfather’s right hand resting in a sling.

He grimaced, wincing in pain.

“It’s my wrist. I tripped on the path last night and fell heavy.”

Lettie gave him an admonishing look.

“A likely story. Did you have one too many?”

“Now dunna you start. I’ve had enough lip from your gran. Tes up to you to be on my side.”

“Darling Gramps. I am, you know that. But what about tomorrow? How are you going to play at the church?”

“That’s the question, that is. I’ll not be able to, and there’s the rub. Lettie, you’ll have to stand in for me.”

“Me?” Lettie’s jaw dropped.

“Now, then, no need for that face. You can manage the hymns on your flute, can’t you?”

“Of course I can. It’s not that. It’s more whether the others will tolerate a mere female amongst them in the gallery – it being a purely male prerogative.”

“Oh, ho, getting uppity now, are we? I can see the Players will have to mind their Ps and Qs at tonight’s rehearsal. You will be there, Lettie? Seven o’ the clock prompt?”

“Of course I will,” Lettie said, dimpling.

“Ah, nearly forgot. I were accompanying Tomas’s solo. He’s giving ’em ‘Wake Up My Soul’.”

Even as he spoke, Jasper sent up a worshipful wish that Tomas’s choice of hymn might be heeded in more ways than one. “You are familiar with it?” “I’m sure I’ll cope,” Lettie said tartly.

To the delight of all concerned, the Sunday service was a great success.

Parson Dobbs was heard to congratulate the Players soundly and the visiting clergy agreed that old-time psalmody had a great deal to be said for it.

So much praise was heaped upon it that Parson Dobbs took it on himself to request that the Players performed every time until the piano was tuned, and twice monthly thereafter.

It was all very gratifying, but best of all for Bart and Jasper was the sight, directly after the service had ended – of young Tomas humbly taking Lettie’s hand and the two talking together, heads close.

“Seems them two have sorted their grievances,” Bart said, toasting his gaitered legs in front of the taproom fire, the spring evening having taken a dip for the worse.

“D’you reckon us’ll be asked to play at the nuptial?”

“Sure to, Bart.”

His wrinkled old face alight, Jasper removed his right hand from the sling and reached for his tankard, raising it high.

“To the Players, past and present, not forgetting our talented young members.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bart said, pausing. “Seems to me that sprained wrist of yours has made a miraculous recovery, Jasper.”

“Eh?”

Jasper’s lips described a shamefaced grin.

“Aye, well, tes that embrocation my Cissie makes. Tes wunnerful stuff.”

“Aye, it must be. Best not let your Lettie see how quick it’s healed. She’ll mebbe think there’s been some jiggery-pokery going on.”

The old friends exchanged a glance of perfect understanding.

“Tell you what, Bart,” Jasper then said. “What with Lettie being welcomed into the Players, and a wedding in the offing, too, I reckon there’s plenty to grow old for, after all!”