Blessing The Plough

On this special day anything might happen, and I had made a wish . . .

PLOUGH MONDAY came in cold this time. The sky billowed with yellowish-grey clouds and there was a whiff of snow on the wind.

“’Twill be coming down heavens hard before long,” Mam said from the doorway, letting a blast of wintry air into the steading kitchen.

She brought an armful of logs to the hearth, where I was winding balls of yarn spun on St Distaff’s Day ready for knitting.

“Be you still going to the procession, our Lettie?” “Yes, Mam.”

It would take more than a whirl of snow to stop me. Arthur had said he would be there.

Arthur, Pastor Redbrook’s lad, who had shown me how to read and write and was curbing my country vowels into more acceptable speech.

Arthur, my secret childhood companion, now a handsome youth with a smile that tugged at the heart-strings.

Many’s the time I had wondered what he saw in me, a farm lass with wind-burnished cheeks and raggle-taggle locks that no amount of brushing could tame. I was a far cry from the lily-pale creatures I would have expected him to favour.

But favour me he did, and those stolen kisses in the woods were sweet.

“Wrap up well. Best take my shawl. Tes thicker than yours.”

Mam examined a twist of yarn, nodding in satisfaction.

“’Twas a good Distaff night, wunna it, daughter?”

Never one to take her ease, she went through to the scullery to strain the milk Jem had brought in from the dairy.

St Distaff’s Day, the women’s equivalent of Plough Monday, when the menfolk dragged a plough through the streets of the town to bring blessings on the farming year ahead, had been held at our steading this time.

Farmers’ wives and daughters had come to spin their yarns and partake of the feast we had prepared.

Along with the yarn, covert spells were spun, mine amongst them. Make Arthur love me. Make him ask me to walk out.

Make him come to Da, cap in hand.

The very thought of being Arthur Redbrook’s wedded wife took my breath away!

Time was getting on. Dropping the final ball into the reed basket with the rest, I threw on Mam’s shawl and went out into the raw chill of the January morning.

Jem had harnessed the pony and trap and was waiting for me by the yard gate. His frank face under the mop of tow-coloured hair broke into a grin of welcome.

“In you get,” he bid me. “Dandy dunna like standing about in the cold.”

“Listen to you!” I retorted, clambering up beside him. “You haven’t been here two minutes, so less of your cheek, Jem Hazeldene.”

He laughed goodnaturedly, shaking the reins, and Dandy moved off, settling into a spanking trot along the road to town.

We were old sparring partners, Jem and me. He’d come to Lark Steading as a boy and was now Da’s right-hand man.

“Bonfire’s still burning, by the reek of it,” he said, sniffing the air. “Lasted well this time.”

Old customs die hard. We still lit Twelfth Night fires in our district, and woodsmoke wafted from the embers on the fell side.

“Mam says it’s a good sign. It means the harvests will be plentiful.”

“Omens an’ superstition,” Jem said teasingly, provoking a tut of response.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” “Tes fancy talk, that. You nivver used to talk fancy, Lettie.”

True, but if I was to be hand-fasted to the most cultured fellow hereabouts, I needed to keep up appearances. Gone were the days Jem and I yattered together like plotting magpies.

I gave my nut-brown head a disdainful toss.

“We’d best not be late for the procession. I wonder who the straw man will be this time?”

“Him who picked the longest straw,” Jem replied.

“You know?” My breath quickened. “Is it . . . would it be Arthur?”

“Artie Grieves? Nay, Artie’s got a missus and a brood of little ’uns. Him’s long outa the running.”

“Arthur Redbrook, I mean.”

I bit my lip, doubtful. Could I see Arthur in a robe of barley straw, his face hidden but for the eyes and a wizard’s hat on his head? Not exactly.

Then again, leading the Plough Monday procession was an honour bestowed on few. Perhaps he would relish the part.

“Be you sweet on him, then, Lettie?” Jem enquired.

“I might be. Why do you ask?”

There was no

answer, and the clatter of Dandy’s iron-shod hooves invaded the silence that fell.

I tried again.

“I expect you’ll be pulling the plough with the others.” Jem nodded tersely.

Dandy kept up a good pace and before long the church tower came into view.

Candles glowed in the jewelled windows for the Lord’s blessing on the efforts of farmers and their men.

Scattered cottages marked the approach to the town.

A steading or two, a wheelwright’s, smithy and woodyard. Then we were clattering down the main street to the Barley Mow tavern where the horses were stabled.

In the tavern yard I climbed down from the trap. Jem cast the sky a dubious glance.

“If the snow starts, dunna you linger. Get Dandy harnessed and drive home as quick as you can.” “What about you?”

“I’ll doss down in the stables overnight. Tell Gaffer I’ll be there for the milking in the morning, given luck and a following wind!”

I left him to attend to Dandy and made my way towards the church from where the procession started, thinking how Jem calmly took things in his stride, and how dependable he was.

I came to the manse, a stark greystone dwelling, grumpish in its winter-bare garden.

Was Arthur looking out from behind the lace hangings that graced the tall windows?

Wise to his dislike of impulsive display, I resisted the urge to wave and walked on, snowflakes dancing in the air.

People had gathered outside the church gates. Nodding a greeting, I joined them.

Presently came the rattle and scrape of the ploughshare on cobblestones, and along came the procession, headed by the straw man.

His head was high; the tall, pointed hat made him look all powerful.

Was it he? I tried to distinguish Arthur’s lithe frame, but the bulky robe of straw was all concealing.

The procession set off for the main street, chanting loudly.

“God bless the plough! God bless the plough!”

We moved together in a wave, children capering and dogs barking while overhead the sky unleashed its burden of snow.

The weather worsened. As we approached the Barley Mow I thought to leave and head for home as Jem had advised.

But then we were joined by more followers. Up and down the narrow thoroughfares we travelled, our faces buffed by the wind and eyes watering in the cold.

“God bless the plough! God bless the plough.”

On reaching the town square, the procession pulled to a stop.

“Straw man, choose your maiden!” went the cry.

A hush descended as the eyes within the straw mask searched the crowd. Children stood in awe; even the dogs were quiet.

My heart began a hopeful beating. Was it Arthur? If so, would he choose me?

The snow was now all but blinding, the choice of lass nigh impossible to make. But make it he did, and I thought I might faint when his gaze fell on me.

Gently, I was drawn out of the throng.

He paused, waiting for me to play my part and remove the mask.

I snatched away the disguise and let out a gasp of shock. It was Jem’s homely face peering down at me, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

To the delight of the onlookers he placed his hands on my shoulders and smacked a kiss on my cheek.

“You rogue!” I stammered. “You might have hinted at what you were up to.”

“Would I do that? You’d have run a mile. Now, get you gone, lass, before the blizzard takes hold. Give Dandy his head. Mind me.” “But you –”

“You know how tes – the straw man gives the toast at the feast. I’m biding here. Away with you.”

There was no arguing, and I left, fighting the bluster of the wind and snow in my eyes as I headed for the tavern where Dandy awaited.

It was a wild drive home, but the pony knew the way, and Da was watching for me at the gate.

“Praise be you’re back safely, daughter. No Jem?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“He was straw man; he had to stay. He said he’d be here for the milking tomorrow.”

It was only as I unharnessed the pony and rubbed him down that I realised that, despite his promise, Arthur had not been part of the throng, or if he had, he had not sought me out.

It wasn’t the first time he had broken a promise, whispered an inner small voice.

With mixed thoughts I tossed Dandy some hay and headed for the warmth of the house.

Next morning, the snow had stopped; the world lay under a dense white mantle. There was no Jem, and Mam voiced her concern.

“Happen he’s lost in a drift. He could be half-frozen to death!”

Da was pulling on his top-clothes to attend to the milking, and I donned a smock and joined him.

After it was done, I seized my cape from the hook in the milking shed and sneaked off across the snowy yard and out into the lane.

It was hard going, trudging through the thick, soft drift. Every so often I paused to call Jem’s name.

“Jem! Jem!”

No response. There was nothing for it but to continue, drifts towering like castles on either side.

And, at last, a figure approached.

“Jem! Oh, Jem, I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Nay. I set out in good time and came across Chad Morgan looking for his sheep in the deep snow. Chad’s getting on in years. Had to give him a hand, dinna I?”

“Did you find them?” “Every last one. But what of the milking?”

“All done. We were worried about you. I was near frantic.”

“Aye? And I were thinking you dinna care. Thinking to leave, get me a job elsewhere.”

Leave? The thought was intolerable.

No Jem with his cheery grin and roguish twinkle.

No Jem singing as went about his work.

I dismissed those summer kisses with feckless Arthur in a wink.

“I dunna want ’ee to go,” I whispered, unwittingly lapsing into the slow, sweet drawl of before.

“That sounds more like ’ee,” Jem replied, and there and then he drew me to him and kissed me.

It is midsummer, and Jem and I are hand-fasted. Those woodland trysts with the pastor’s lad are in the past.

I praise the day I saw sense – the day I went blessing the plough. ■