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instruction. They all knew, had known for years, that Ben
Popple liked his own grain, and no one else’s, used to make up the feed for his own animals.
    ‘After all the trouble I tek to produce a good crop, I dun’t want it mixed in with the likes of old man Tollison’s, full o’ weeds an’ muck,’ Ben Popple would
boom in his loud, carrying voice every time he brought grain to the mill. ‘And don’t you go letting anyone else have my special mix either, Harry Forrest.’ He would tap the side
of his nose. ‘It’s my secret how I gets my pigs fatter than anyone else’s. See to it, Harry.’
    And Harry saw to it, handing out the instruction every time, even to Luke, who knew the foibles of the farmers around here as well as, if not better than, anyone. But Harry Forrest liked to let
everyone know just who was master of the mill.
    Her father’s voice still floated up to her. ‘And it wouldn’t do to upset Ben Popple, now would it, me girl?’ A sly innuendo had crept into his tone.
    Emma climbed on, deliberately scraping her feet on each rung as she climbed to make as much noise as possible so that she could not hear any more. She passed the stone floor where the huge cast
iron spur wheel in the ceiling drove the three smaller stone nuts, each one connected to an upright spindle in the centre of each pair of stones. Above each set of millstones, a wooden spout
brought the grain down from the bin floor above and fed it into hoppers and then, via the vibrating feed shoe, into the centre of the grinding stones.
    Arriving on the next level, the bin floor, Emma sighed. Ben Popple was at least twice her age if not more; fat, pompous, with bad teeth and breath to match. He had never married, yet he acted as
if he thought himself irresistible to women.
    ‘Now then, Emma,’ he would greet her every time he came to the mill, hanging about the yard until she appeared. ‘My, but ya’re a bonny lass. When are you going to let me
speak to ya dad ’bout us being wed, eh? I could do with a good strong wench about me farm and to warm me bed at night.’
    ‘When the sun shines both sides o’ the hedge, Mester Popple,’ she would tease him.
    Ben Popple would roar with laughter. ‘I like a bit of spirit in a wench, an’ all. Harry can keep his lah-di-dah fancy women but you’ll do fer me, Emma Forrest. You’ll do
fer me.’
    At first she had taken his words as the kind of innocent joking between an older man and a young girl, without any offence being meant nor taken. But then one day Harry Forrest had overheard Ben
and he had chosen to view the wealthy farmer’s banter very differently. ‘You could do a lot worse, m’girl, and with your looks, probably not a lot better.’
    On the bin floor she unhooked each sack from the hoist as it came rattling through the trap doors, lugged it over to the small bin in the far corner and heaved in the grain. There was scarcely
room to move between the wooden bins and soon the confined space was thick with dust. It clung to her black hair, tickled her throat and made her blink, but for Emma it was her way of life, and if
not exactly oblivious to the discomfort then she thought nothing of it. Besides, today her mind was filled with what William Metcalfe had told her.
    ‘The Merry Widow’ was a woman called Bridget Smith who had recently come to live in a tiny cottage on the other side of the village. But just how, Emma pondered the problem, as she
heaved and grunted and pushed another sack load into the bin, am I going to get to see her for myself?
    ‘That’s the lot,’ Harry’s voice drifted up from three floors below. ‘You finish off here, I’m off to the house. I shan’t be wanting any tea.’ A
pause, then he bellowed again, ‘You hear me, Emma?’
    ‘Oh I hear you, Harry Forrest,’ she muttered and then raised her voice to shout down, ‘Yes, Father.’
    She bent and looked out of the small window overlooking the yard to see him walking towards the