I look at the page before me. It was untouched, unmarked. And now it has my scratchy ink lines on it. The writing looks unsure to me, whether the lines should be there or not. A fraudulent attempt by one of the very many who was never taught the art? Aye, this is my first attempt. Scratchy, overlarge letters that make a slow and irregular descent as I moved from left to right. It doesn’t look good at all to me.
“Don’t worry, mama. You will soon be writing just like me” Ethel says, giving me a conspiratorial hug. “This is just the beginning.”
“It’s a big step for me, Ethel dear,” I reply. “I am too old to learn something like this.”
Ethel chuckles.
“You and papa are old, but you can’t help that. He has been helping you read, and now you have me teaching you to write. You will do fine.”
I do not doubt my ‘daughter’, but I am not convinced. Yet this is something I want to do, and I also am old enough to realise such mastery as Waelden possesses comes through much practice. Ethel practices a lot too. But she has some years to catch up with her papa’s steady flow of words.
Never did I think one such as I would read or write. I am but a crofter’s daughter. But I will not let my family down. I have seen the joy that both Ethel and Waelden have in their continuing short letters to each other. I know both have some letters still hidden around the house that the other has yet to find. I have found them and left them in their place, but I keep that to myself.
I would join in that game. I would surprise my dear Greybeard with a letter to him, in a clear and steady hand. And Ethel, as is increasingly the case, is my co-conspiricer and mentor.
“You will be able to write love-notes to papa,” Ethel laughs louder, then makes her usual face at such a thought. “And more usefully you can start a book of herbal treatments? All the things you know that you would teach others about herbs, you can write them on pages and we can get them bound? Then others can learn even if you are too busy to teach them.”
Both her suggestions were good ideas, I thought.
“But for now, you and I can both start our own Book of Days.”
I looked at the page again, then at her, questioningly.
“It’s sort of like a diary that the wealthy folk sometimes have, mama. A record of what happens day to day, or of thoughts or interests.”
“Some days not much happens.”
Ethel rolled her eyes.
“Well we don’t have to write ‘cooked the breakfast, washed my face, went to work in Northgyth’s shop… We write things that are important to us. Or thoughts we may want to come back to someday. Dreams, hopes, recipes? Look, we both write, and I will show you what I do, most of it, and then you get your own ideas? We can make small drawings as well. But I am teaching you to write, not to paint. Can you paint?”
I had been able to make sketches of the herbs in my younger days, and sometimes of scenery that caught my eye. I told her that. She seemed interested.
“We can do that later in the year then? But now I will leave you alone to write a bit more, eh? It’s almost time for me to go to the forge. Show me later, when papa is taking a smoke maybe?”
Then my dearest Ethel was off about her day.
Having returned so recently from our trip to Wildermore, both Waelden and I had lots to do about the house and land. The weather wasn't helping, with frequent rain and the occasional flurry of snow, so apart from the animals we both were concentrating more on matters indoors.
I would make good use of the short times with Ethel, in the morning, and sometimes a little before she went to bed. I would make her proud.
So I set my slightly shaky hand to the pen again. Ethel had told me I was holding it wrong, but she would correct that soon.
‘Book of Days’, was scratched at the top of the page, the letters themselves of various sizes.
Then: ‘My first try at writing. It does not look neat. I will practice every day that I can though. ‘
I added: ‘I will make my family proud that we can all read and write. I will make this a book for myself. I will also write a book about healing when I can. Ethel will not be a healer. That is not her fate. But if this can ever help her in any way, it is worth it. I cannot thank her enough for letting me into her life, for becoming so close. I will do all I can to see her life is a good one.
Today I am thinking about how we make the food last until later spring. Maybe Waelden and I will visit the market soon? Maybe Ethel will come with us? We have left her alone for some few weeks, and we both missed her so much. Well I did. Waelden does too, though he is more used to it.
I drew a flower at the bottom of the page, then realised my drawing needed as much practice as my writing.
Ah well!
