Manfield ordered his driver and servant back to the coach. “Coming m’dear.” He pointed at the body of Gilly with his crop. “I trust you’ll tidy this off the path right away, eh.”
The coach rumbled off down the path. Agnes got her own way as usual; she was allowed another sugar stick to keep her quiet.
Giles Bodkin looked after the departing coach and spat on the earth. “Blast all the gentry, an’ damnation to yeh, Squire. Treats your beasts better than your workers. Killin’ a child o’ mine an a worryin’ more about your precious coat ‘n’ britches. Aye but that’s your right, ain’t it? The power of life an’ death o’er the likes of us.”
Gilly was buried with scant ceremony. Wrapped in sacking he was bundled doubled up in a deep hole his father and brothers had dug by the side of the path, close by where he had died. Several of the young Bodkins stood watching as it was filled in. Afterward they helped their father roll a huge boulder on the grave to mark the spot. Gilly’s mother sniffed as she wiped her eyes on a tattered shawl.
“He were always a-gettin’ daft notions, mad he were for ought that was sweet. Lack a day, what’s done can’t be undone. We’d best be about our work, t’wont get done by itself.”
Shooing the little ones before them like so many chickens, Giles Bodkin and his wife went back to chopping turnips for the Squire’s livestock, and themselves. The grave stood forlorn at the pathside.
A moonless rainswept night had descended over ditch, field and hedgerow. The wind keened mournfully, scouring the wintry countryside, singing a bleak dirge of colder days to come.
Gilly’s head ached.
He sat on the boulder at the side of the path feeling very puzzled.
What was he doing outside on a night like this? Normally he would have been huddled around the fire with his family. The mystery intensified when he realized that in spite of the rain, he was neither cold nor wet, though his head ached painfully.
Slowly he rose and started making his way homeward. His mother and father would scold him when he got back, calling him silly for being out in such weather. Pushing through the gap in the hawthorn hedge Gilly tramped across the turnip field. At first he put his slow progress down to the fact that it was always difficult crossing ploughed soil when it was raining. However, he was surprised to see that his feet were not at all muddy or bogged down with soil—it was as if he could not feel the earth beneath him. He tried hurrying, but to no avail; something was drawing him back to the path. Resolutely he pressed onward, doing his best to resist the unseen force. With agonizing slowness he drew near to the low, miserable building that was his home, finally arriving at the churned-up mud in front of the door.
Try as he might Gilly could not go any further.
He heard the voices of his family inside and called out to them, “Father, Mother, Effie, Perce! Can ‘ee hear me, ‘tis Gilly all left ‘ere alone in rain.”
There was no reply. He made his way around to the single window on the south side. It lacked panes, but was loosely shuttered against the weather. Gilly could peer through the cracks and knotholes of the warped woodwork. They were crouched around a smoking fire in the center of the single low-beamed room, eating cooked turnips and supping a broth made from winter greens. He tried once again to attract their attention.
“Be you all gone deaf? ‘Tis Gilly, take me in for pity’s sakes!”
His sister Effie dropped her bowl and screamed with fright. “Yeeek! Mother, did ‘ee ‘ear that? ‘Twas our Gilly a-callin’ out!”
Giles Bodkin promptly cuffed her on the ear.
“‘Old thy tongue, girl, ‘twas only the rain an’ wind outside. Silly young mare, a-wastin’ good broth like that. You lay down on yonder straw an’ get ‘ee to sleep afore I take my belt to thee.”
Outside in the mud and rain Gilly stood shaking his head wearily. It was raining and yet he was dry; it was muddy and yet he was clean; he was standing outside his own home and yet he could not enter. He tenderly touched his aching head and began drifting slowly back across the fields. For some reason Gilly felt a little better sitting on his boulder at the side of the path. His head ached less and his thoughts became clearer. He began talking aloud to himself.
“Ah, ‘tis sad an’ lonely for a pore boy sat ‘ere alone. Though I think I could manage to eat one o’ those sugar sticks. They must taste sweeter’n an apple.”
Muttering away, he began searching through the wet grass and sludgy puddles.
“Mayhaps Squire’s ‘orse didn’t eat it all. Likely he left a morsel for pore Gilly.”
After a while he gave up and went back to sit on his boulder. “So be it, I’ll bide my time an’ sit here to await the coach a-comin’ back from town. Squire’s stallion ‘urted my skull last time it passed this way, so they’ll be sure to take pity an’ give me a sugar stick from that basket, just one.”
It was more than a month later when Squire Manfield and his family returned from their visit to the town. Gilly saw the coach coming from afar. He stood eagerly awaiting until it drew near, then leaping up he ran alongside, shouting despite his headache.
“Kind missies, throw me a sugar stick, ‘tis I, Gilly Bodkin!”
The Squire’s white stallion reared up and threw him again. Once more he was unhurt but caked with mud. Inside the coach his daughter Agnes gave vent to a fat little squeal.
“Yeek! It’s that nasty boy again. He wants a sugar stick, Mamma.”
Lady Manfield was a picture of dignified fury, pursing her lips and waggling a ringer at her daughter.
“Agnes! Hold your tongue, miss, you’ve made yourself sick from gobbling too many sweetmeats. Sugar sticks indeed! I’ll have Bessy give you a good physicking with brimstone when we get home.” She leaned out the coach window and began berating her husband. “Rupert, look at your best velveteens! I told you not to drink two bottles of Malmsey at breakfast, but you know best, don’t you!”
Gilly was still prancing about like a march hare, pleading aloud, “What be the matter with ‘ee all, you uns gone daft? Can’t ‘ee see Gilly? Throw me my sugar stick an’ I’ll leave ‘ee in peace.”
Agnes buried her head in Bessy’s apron and sobbed hysterically. Squire Manneld tethered his stallion to the back of the coach and climbed inside after throwing his ruined coat to the driver. “I’m bound to sell that stallion at the next fair, too skittish; that’s the second time he’s unseated me. It had nought to do with Malmsey, m’dear. Drive on up there, before I catch me death sittin’ here in me shirt, and, Agnes, stop whinin’, gel, stoppit!”
Gilly knew he was not able to pick up mud to sling after the coach; he slumped moodily on his boulder grizzling to himself. “Rotten ol’ Squire an’ his mizzuble little herd.”
The Manfields never used the path again. The Squire gave orders to use another way that separated his route from Gilly’s grave by two fields and a wooded copse. The Bodkin family grew up and left, one by one, to seek a better life in other places. Erne was the last to go, taking her aged parents with her. They went without even a backward glance at the long forgotten resting place of Gilly. As it does with all things, time took its toll of the Manfield family’s fortune and lands. The Squire, being without a son, took heavily to drink; his wife died scolding him. The four daughters had married well long before this event, and moved to other parts. Manfield died alone and impoverished, overburdened by ruinous land taxes and unpaid tithes. Manfield Hall fell into disrepair as nature reclaimed the entire area, buildings, fields and lands. Gilly Bodkin still sat on his boulder by the side of the overgrown path, fervently hoping that one day a carriage containing little girls and sweetmeats would pass his way. He talked a lot to himself and nursed his headache. And waited.