On Easter Monday, Susie and Lucy had been busy. They had wrapped hens’ eggs in onion skins, encasing ferns and leaves next to the onion skins, before dropping them into a pan of boiling water. There was a drop of cochineal in another pan of water, to die some extra-hard-boiled eggs – called ‘pace eggs’ – bright red, ready for rolling down the hillside at Black Moss Farm; the holder of the last egg to crack would be declared the winner, a tradition that was as old as religion itself. Susie had also decided to make Adam Brooksbank an Easter Garden, in thanks for his invitation to see the chicks that he had penned up in the yard, along with their mother hen.
‘Do you think Mr Brooksbank will like my garden?’ Susie enquired of Lucy, putting her head to one side and resting it on her hand as she looked at her Easter Garden from every angle.
‘I’m sure he will love it. It’s the most beautiful Easter Garden I’ve ever seen.’ Lucy smiled at her young sister. They had scoured the wall tops along the lanes around their home for the moss that grew on the limestone walls, along with sprigs of white blackthorn blossom, violets and daises, to be placed like a carpet on the metal lid of an old biscuit tin, making it look like a garden with a pond, with the aid of a piece of broken mirror in the centre of the delicate affair. Lucy was in the process of tying two blackthorn twigs together to make a cross shape, to be placed on part of the garden that they had built up high with layers of extra moss to make it look like a hill. She pushed it in firmly to the layer of moss and hoped it would stand upright, and not topple over with the first bit of movement. ‘There now, it’s complete with the cross that Jesus was placed on, to save our souls.’ She sighed and looked at her little sister. All Susie was worried about was that she had made a beautiful garden, and she didn’t care about the fact that it signified Christ’s resurrection and that it had a deep meaning at Easter time.
‘I don’t think I want to give it to Mr Brooksbank. I want to keep it. It’s too pretty to give away.’ Susie pulled a long face and looked up at her older sister.
‘Then you keep it. We’ve got some pace eggs boiling, so you can give him one of those, and we will pick a bunch of primroses on our way to his farm. I noticed some growing in the bankside when I walked down home the other night. They will look nice on his kitchen table.’ Lucy smiled at her young sister.
‘I think I’ll give it to my mam. She’s been poorly and it will make her feel better.’ Susie beamed. ‘And Mr Brooksbank is a bit posh, and I don’t know him.’
‘He’s not that posh – he’s a good man. I enjoy working for him, he’s very kind.’ Lucy thought about her master and felt her cheeks flush as she considered the man she was employed by, and had found herself growing fond of. ‘Now, let’s get these eggs out of the pans and see what they look like. I always like peeling the layers of onion skins off the eggs, to see the pattern it has made on them.’ She reached for the two pans filled with a dozen eggs that had boiled on the fire for the last twenty minutes, then poured the excess water from them, to reveal nicely coloured red eggs in one pan, and six eggs still wrapped in onion skins with a string holding them in place in the other.
‘Woo! Look, pink eggs – I like those.’ Susie clapped her hands.
‘Just you wait until we have taken the skins off these eggs; they should have lovely patterns on them. Heavens, they are hot.’ Lucy juggled the onion-skinned hard-boiled eggs in her hands as she untied the string and peeled back the layer of onion skins and ferns. ‘Now, isn’t that beautiful? Look, the eggs have turned a yellowy-brown and where the fern’s been, it’s left its pattern.’ Lucy looked at the delight on her sister’s face as she passed it across to her.
‘It’s like magic,’ Susie whispered.
‘We will give Mr Brooksbank that one, because it’s perfect and it would be a shame to smash it, when we roll it down the hill. Besides, we have another five to unpeel yet, so there’s more than enough to go round.’ Lucy placed the egg to one side and helped Susie peel the remaining five, each one having a different pattern from the others.
‘Well, you two have made a good job of those.’ Dorothy glanced at the decorated eggs as she came in from the yard with baby Bert on her hip. ‘It’s a pity they will end up smashed, broken and eaten. I don’t know what’s got into your father, Lucy. He’s digging up half the yard, and poor Thomas Farrington is helping him. It might be Easter Monday, but he’s making him work. It must be something important that he’s up to – he’s even got Nathan helping, so he’ll not be joining you on your visit to Adam Brooksbank, as his father says he needs him.’ Dorothy sat down in the chair next to the fire and put Bert down on the pegged rug next to her. ‘Don’t take this one with you, either. He’s nothing but a moaner this morning; his back teeth must be coming through. Besides, I’m feeling a lot better now and I can manage him.’
‘You still look a bit pale to me. Are you sure that you are alright, Mam?’ Lucy asked with concern.
‘I’m right, lass. Now you, Susie and Will get yourselves gone to Black Moss. It will suit them seeing some young chickens and rolling the pace
