‘And my Joel, he won’t eat now. He looks up at me like he’s starving, but he won’t eat anything when I try to get him to feed, and he’s wasting away, the poor sweetheart. It’s been three days, and he’s not had hardly anything, not even when I’ve chewed it up and given it to him in a paste.’
‘He won’t suckle?’
‘No. He refuses my breast, just turns his head away when I get it near him.’
Cissy pursed her lips. It was more usual for children to be breast-fed until they were two or three years old, and hearing that the lad refused his mother’s pap was alarming. She had seen Joel only the other day and had thought then that he looked weakly and unhappy, although his belly was large enough. Asleep now in Emma’s arms, he looked restless and irritable.
She was no midwife. Her own boy had been an easy child, although he had become more difficult to feed later in life, growing fussy with his food. For some reason he disliked his father’s meat pies; but no, Cissy told herself sternly as her mind wandered, that was unimportant compared to Emma’s present and very real problems.
‘I have taken him to the abbey, and they have said prayers for him, but what else can I do?’
Cissy sighed. She had remained with Emma for ages, calming her as best she could. If it was God’s will to take the child to His arms, He would, and there was nothing that the people of Tavistock could do about it. All Cissy could do, in all truth, was try to soothe her friend.
‘There is one thing you could do,’ she said suddenly. ‘You could mix some honey with milk, and give that to him. It sometimes works. Can you afford some honey?’
Emma sniffed and wiped at her eyes. ‘Yes. Hamelin gave me his purse.’
Cissy’s eyes grew round as she saw the money in Emma’s hand. ‘Whee! He gave you all that? He must have sold a lot of tin!’
Emma became a little reserved. ‘No, he sold a debt to Wally before he died.’
‘Some debt, girl. When did Wally ever have so much money?’
Emma concealed the money in the purse again. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he grew lucky? There was no report of a man being robbed, was there? If so, perhaps I’d think evil of Wally – but no one has, so it must have been his money somehow.’
Cissy opened her mouth to argue, but then glanced at Joel and her expression softened, ‘Right, well you have enough to do him some good, anyway. Buy honey and some milk from the first morning milking, when it’s rich and creamy. Give him that, and then try him with soft bread dipped in honey too. Once he’s eating again, you can change his diet.’
By the time she had hustled the girl from her door, Emma’s tears were at least a little abated, although while her child refused to eat, she would remain petrified with fear that she was going to lose him. Also, now that her husband’s mine appeared to be failing, she knew that the rest of her children might suffer the pangs of starvation before too long.
It was a terrible thing to lose a child. Cissy hated the very idea. A devoted mother, she adored her children. One boy and two girls, and all fine, healthy, strapping creatures who had given her, so far, seven grandchildren. Her only regret was that all had moved from the shop as soon as they had married. Of course it was usual for a girl to do that, moving in with her in-laws, but it was sad to lose a son. And such a son Reg was! Tall, hair as dark as a crow’s wing, his eyes deep brown; she thought he was perfect. But he had been convinced of his calling, and he had needed to follow it. That was all there was to it. Perhaps in years to come he would marry and give her the extra grandchildren she wanted.
The thought of more children turned a little sour when she saw the state her Nob was in. As she said to him, he made her wonder whether she had married a child and not a man.
After such a long exile from his hearth, Nob was more liquid than solid when he eventually returned to the shop. Not that being overbloated with ale had been the worst of it, of course. She had known what he would be like, and he had more than fulfilled her expectations.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, he snored fit to shake the daub from the walls, and he wouldn’t roll over and shut up even when she prodded him with an ungentle finger. No, he merely lay back with his mouth agape, the fool! And then, just when she was thinking that she was so tired she might fall asleep, he snorted, grunted, and rose to go to the pot. Except, of course, he was fearful of wakening her, so he had lighted a candle that he might see without stumbling. The rasp, rasp, rasp of his tinder had been like a blade scraping on her skull, and the knowledge that there was no point in, arguing with him because he was still drunk did not soften her temper. At last, after making as much noise as the Lydford waterfall, he had returned to bed, but now the second evil of drink had made itself felt. He had broken wind, and soon she was reeling from the foul odour.
Next morning he had woken with a pained expression. It did not succeed in arousing any sympathy from her.
‘I don’t know why you do it to yourself so often. Can’t you get
