Edgar stood up. “If I’m not welcome here, I’ll leave.”
Ma said: “Don’t be foolish. Sit down.” She looked at the others. “We’re a family. Any child of mine—or grandchild—will be fed at my table as long as there’s a crust in the house, and don’t any of you ever forget it.”
That night there was a storm. The wind shook the timbers of the house and waves of rain crashed on the thatch of the roof. They all woke up, including baby Winnie, who cried and was fed.
Edgar opened the door a crack and peeped out, but the night was black. He could see nothing but a sheet of rain like a crazed mirror reflecting the red glow of the fire behind him. He closed the door firmly.
Winnie went back to sleep, and the others seemed to doze, but Edgar remained wide awake. He was worried about the hay. If it remained wet for any length of time it would rot. Was there a chance they might dry it, if the weather changed again and the sun shone in the morning? He was not enough of a farmer to know.
At first light the wind dropped and the rain eased, though it did not stop. Edgar opened the door again. “I’m going to check on the hay,” he said, putting on his cloak.
His brothers and Ma came, too, leaving Cwenburg behind with the baby.
As soon as they reached the low-lying land beside the river, they saw that disaster had struck. The field was underwater. The hay was not just wet, it was floating.
They all stared at it in the dawn light, horrified and afraid.
Ma said: “It’s ruined. Nothing can be done.” She turned away and walked back toward the house.
Eadbald said: “If Ma says there’s no hope, there’s no hope.”
Edgar said: “I’m trying to figure out how this happened.”
Erman said: “What good will that do?”
“The rain was too much for the ground to soak up, I assume, so the water ran down the hill then pooled on the low ground.”
“My brother, the genius.”
Edgar ignored that. “If the water could have drained away, the hay might have been saved.”
“So what? It didn’t drain away.”
“I’m wondering how long it would take to dig a ditch from the top of the slope across the field to the bank to take the runoff and pour it into the river.”
“Too late for that now!”
The field was long and narrow, and Edgar guessed its width at about two hundred yards. A strong man could do it in a week or so, perhaps two if the digging proved difficult. “There’s a slight dip around the middle of the field,” he said, squinting through the rain. “The best place for the ditch would be just there.”
Erman said: “We can’t start digging ditches now. We have to weed the oats then reap them. And Ma does no work these days.”
“I’ll dig the ditch.”
“And what will we eat meanwhile—now there are six of us?”
“I don’t know,” said Edgar.
They all trudged through the rain back to the house. Edgar saw that Ma was not there. He said to Cwenburg: “Where did Ma go?”
Cwenburg shrugged. “I thought she was with you.”
“She left us. I thought she came back here.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“Where else would she go, in this weather?”
“How should I know? She’s your mother.”
