by Katie Hutton
‘Who is he? Not Chown?’
‘That’s him. Any port in a storm, as you might say. Sam, you look as you’ve seen a ghost. Come back with me and take something – and speak to my poor boy after all.’
‘I can’t, I mun get back, an’ have words with them that took me off, if they don’t kill me first.’
‘There’s more, Sam. Ellen’s had a baby boy. But outside the chapel they was so mocked that life here was impossible for them and they took themselves off.’
‘A baby?’ said Sam, white-lipped.
‘I’m sorry, it didn’t oughter been me to tell you so. Look, the only person as might be able to tell you more is Grace Lambourne. But I don’t know as she’d welcome the sight of you.’
*
Sam trudged back past what had been Ellen’s door, averting his face. He saw the cottage Horwood had described but paused at the little gate.
What you doing this for, Sam? She’s wed, with a baby. Better if I’d never come round from that floggin’.
He was about to turn away when the cottage door opened. Grace was wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Come in,’ she said quietly, ‘before them across the way sees you.’
*
Sam put his hat on the floor and took the cup of tea held out to him. Whilst Grace was in the little scullery he’d glanced round the room, taking in the plain beech furniture, the wall clock, the embroidered tract he could now read, the mantelpiece with the photograph of the young soldier in pride of place.
‘That your Charlie?’ he asked gently.
‘Yes. How did you . . . ?’
‘Ellen spoke of ’en. Often and often. I was at Arras too, Mrs Lambourne. Not that time – the second battle. With Remounts.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go. Ellen and I . . .’
‘Me too. To Verdun, I mean. My brother’s there.’
Grace hesitated. ‘Mr Loveridge, would you like to share my supper?’
*
They finished their simple meal with an apple each; Grace watched as Sam stripped his down to the core.
‘You look as if you’ve not had one of those in a long time.’
‘I haven’t. Not where I’ve been.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word prison. ‘I couldn’t get back. I was ill – and then I was prevented, see.’
‘You broke her heart all over again. Just like when she lost my poor son, only he couldn’t help it.’
‘I’m heartily sorry for your loss, lady. Believe me, though, that I never wanted to hurt her either,’ he said, staring down at his plate. ‘They’ve a baby, though – mebbe that’ll make her happy.’ He looked up at Grace’s sharp intake of breath.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Tom’s a handsome child, Mr Loveridge. Dark as a ’Talian.’
‘Tom, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But she ain’t dark. And nor’s old Chown.’
‘That’s right too.’
Sam stared. ‘When d’you say he was born?’
‘I didn’t. It was in the May. I don’t remember the exact date.’
Sam scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘Where are they? You got to tell me where they are!’
‘I can’t, Mr Loveridge! Only the Quaintons know. I would if I could, believe me. All I know is they’ve gone out of the county.’
‘Don’t cry, Mrs Lambourne,’ said Sam, dropping on one knee in front of her, and taking her hands. ‘I’ll find them. Her and my son. However long it takes. And I’ll remember your kindness to me as long as I live.’
*
His long stride took him quickly through the wood. It was just as he remembered it. One of them times in this wood made me a father. But where on God’s good earth are they?
Finally Sam stood at the edge of the clearing, waiting to see who would look up first and notice he was there. Liberty and Caley ain’t here – that’s a mercy, anyhow.
Lucretia was crouched by the fire with her back to him, stirring the pot, talking to Caley’s wife. Sam’s dog Fred pulled on the string that tied him to the wheel of his and Lucretia’s vardo, whickering. Opposite his wife his mother bent over the fire, feeding in twigs. Then she straightened up and looked directly at him, and her pipe slipped out of her mouth. Harmony Boswell wiped her hands down her skirts and, saying nothing, walked past the others and into his arms.
‘Sam, my Sam!’ she wept into his chest.
He stroked her head, looking over her to the group by the fire. All the faces in the encampment were turned towards him now. He smiled at Sibela, who had lengthened out, a shy young colt. Lucretia stood with her head on one side, hands on hips.
‘Where’ve you bin all this time, then?’
Sam stared at her. It was as if the last year hadn’t happened, and he’d merely been for a walk. Oh, those walks!
‘You know well where I bin. Stir.’
‘I know that, boy! But you’ve been out days.’
‘I bin looking for work. There ain’t any for me. Not here.’
‘What do you mean, no work?’
‘None of ’em would hardly speak to me, let alone give me work,’ said Sam.
‘Not even Horwood?’
‘Civil enough, but said it was more than he could do.’
‘So me and the other gals’ll go bikinin24 the pegs in the morning, whilst you sits here? That’s how we’re to live? ’Tis as well, Sam Loveridge, that you could put no child in me.’
Sam shouted, ‘’Tain’t me! ’Tis you, Lukey, the cause of that misfortin, always was! So help me God, but I could raise a fist to you now, though I never have to any woman, whatever her provokin’!’
‘You try it, Sam, just you try and see how my brothers serve you next! You’ve a short memory for how you left here!’
‘I wunt be here at all only I can’t leave Mother alone with you longer’n you’ve made me do already. An’ I remember well enough what happened here – I’ve a fine biti chavvi, Lukey! She gev me a fine boy!’
Lucretia paled, but recovered quickly.
‘What makes you think the chavvi is yourn, then? Your fine young lady mebbe makes a habit of showing her minge to other women’s men in the woods!’
‘A curse on your filthy mouth—’
Putting his mother to one side, he lunged towards Lukey, ignoring the tightening circle round them. Then at the sound of a whistle somewhere in the trees, the circle shattered as when a stone hits the surface of a pond.
‘The gavvers! ’ The bobbing helmets of four constables came into view.
‘Out of here now!’ bellowed the first of them, a shiny-faced man whose reddened neck flesh curled over his tight collar. ‘Now, or you’ll all be summonsed for trespass! Come on, hop it, look alive!’
‘Please, sir, have pity on an old body who means no ’arm, and has been a coming here nigh on thirty years and never troubled no one,’ cried Harmony, grasping his sleeve.
‘Out of my way, old woman! And get this fire out before the trees catch alight!’ Before anyone else had a chance to move, the policeman kicked over the fire and the kettle on its crane, sending hot sparks everywhere. Two of the smaller children who had been closest to the flames screamed and beat down their ragged clothing, more from fright than actual danger. The tethered dogs set up a universal howl, and the horses stamped and reared in response.
‘This is your doing, Sam!’ hissed Lucretia. ‘I don’t know where we’ll find as good an atchin’ tan as this. Nothing before Wycombe as we know of, and that twelve hard miles with the ridge in the way, and only an hour left of daylight!’
*
Deer Cecil,
I promised to send you news but it is not good at least not all. I wish I cud be back in the gaol and still wating as it would be better than nowing what I no. I got a baby boy on Ellen but she has wed an old man becos she never seed me to tell me and he has taken her away I doant no where to. I am back with my wife for I have no place to go tho I hate her for it near a
s much as I hate myself and I doant no how I should mannidge on my own for work is short and I must go with my wife’s brothers where we are alreddy nown or starve or go back inside. In the hole world I have only my old mother and you if I hav lorst Ellen but Mother says I am not to despare for I will find her but I think she says this so I do not go mad. I went to her villadge but her mother shut the door agen me but a kind lady sed was she was gorn and wed with a dark baby but not where. Then the police was sent and we was turned off our stopping place so we are at Wycom it is not a good place. I have no plan for where I mun start looking but I will never stop looking.
I hav no adress for you to write to me but you shud not for they doant let you write when you want and you shud write to Beth not me. I hope they hole back my letter and gev you hers in sted.
Your friend Sampson Loveridge
23 Boy
24 Selling
CHAPTER 20
The Lord hath sought Him a man after His own heart.
Samuel 1:13–14
David
Canterbury, February 1925
‘Easier this time, wasn’t it?’ said Judith.
Ellen stared down at the baby’s crumpled face. ‘Oh yes – in all ways, and worth waiting for. I shall learn to love him.’
‘Ssh, silly. Of course you will! He’s a dear little baby; how could you not love him?’ said Judith.
‘I’m afraid of him taking Tom’s place. Tom has only me.’
‘He has a sister too and I’ll not hear different!’
‘Dear Judy. Will you go for Harold?’
‘I’ll go now. I’ll get the midwife another cup of tea and see if she’ll stay a few minutes longer. If not, there’s always next door.’
‘Oh no!’ Ellen sunk back into the pillows. ‘Not old Clerk. I don’t think I could cope with her just now.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Bring Tom up before you go.’
*
‘Oh Tom! How big you are!’
It was true. Ellen marvelled at the toddler’s sturdiness, his size and solidity against the frailty of the little bundle in her arms.
‘My brother?’
‘Yes, Tom. If you two are friends you’ll never be lonely.’
‘But your tummy was very big. He isn’t,’ said Tom sceptically.
‘He’ll grow. You did. Look at you now!’
‘Did it hurt?’
‘A bit.’
‘Like doing big browns?’
‘Yes, but not so smelly . . . Get up here properly so’s I can cuddle you.’
‘Are you going to have more babies?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We’ll need to ask Pa that.’
‘Will Pa like this baby more than me?’
‘Oh Tom! Of course not!’
‘And what about you?’ asked Tom.
‘Me? Well, I’ll love you more, Tom, because you’ll be a big brother. Big brothers need love so they can love, you see.’
‘He’ll want my toys.’
‘We’ll get more toys for him. But some you can share.’
‘I’ll decide,’ said Tom.
‘All right. What if you help me choose the toys for him?’
‘Yes. There’s Pa coming up now.’
Harold loomed in the doorway, still wearing his overcoat, bringing with him the coldness of the day and a miasma of soot and yellowing paper. Tom scrambled off the bed and stood warily to one side.
‘I’ve a brother,’ he said.
‘I’ve a son,’ said Harold, looking at Ellen and the child. He stepped forward and sat heavily on the side of the bed.
‘Oh Ellen, you have made me so awfully happy!’
Poor man, thought Ellen; her eyes moistened with pity.
‘May I?’
She held out the bundle; the baby mewled and bubbled.
‘David,’ said Harold. ‘The second son.’
*
‘What’s the matter, Ellen?’
‘Would you pass me that Bible, Judy?’
‘What do you want with that now?’
‘Please!’ said Ellen.
She riffled the pages, trying not to displace Harold’s numerous markers. ‘I used to be much quicker at this, Judy. I even won prizes.’
‘Sunday school prizes! Books no child would want to read!’
Ellen found the text and read it to herself, her lips moving.
And when he had removed him, he raised up unto them David to be their king; to whom also he gave testimony, and said, I have found David the son of Jesse, a man after mine own heart, which shall fulfil all my will.
‘Ellen, what is it?’ said Judith. ‘You’re all pale. I’m going to bring you that stout like the midwife said, whatever Pa says. You need building up. And sit up a minute whilst I sort those pillows.’
‘No, Judy, listen. Saul – the first born. His place is taken by his brother David.’
Judith stopped punishing the pillows.
‘Don’t, Ellen. I can’t think he means it like that. And whatever he thinks, makes no difference to how I love Tom. Just don’t take against the poor baby for it.’
*
Harold got up from the floor. Ellen had said her prayers kneeling up in the bed.
Standing looking down at her, he cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking, Ellen, to do as we did before. I shall continue to sleep downstairs until—’
‘Until I am fit again to receive you?’
‘Vulgarity does not suit you!’
‘It’s what you mean, though, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what I’ve done to annoy you so, Ellen, other than my continued existence. I had hoped, now that we have this child . . .’ He tailed off, sitting down on the bed and reaching for her hand. She let it lie inert in his.
‘Do I revolt you so much, Ellen?’
‘No.’
‘Did you think I never notice that when we embrace – as husband and wife must do – that you turn your face away whenever you think I want to kiss you? And you’re angry with me. I came up this evening wanting to tell you, my dear, that today has made me the happiest I think I have ever been. Happier than the night Judith was born – though you must never tell her that. I thought – now that we have David – that our circle is complete. That we can live out our lives in peaceable companionship, do some good perhaps. I know that you do not love me, Ellen, and that you cannot be made to. It’s enough for me to love you, even if I’m not very good at showing you I do. I suspect you’d like me no better if I were.’
‘If you love me,’ said Ellen energetically, ‘then you must love my son too. I only took you for him!’
Harold flinched.
‘Tom? I do. He’s a fine little boy. A credit to you, and I hope, in some ways, to me.’
‘But you’d put David above him. You’d remove him to make way for David.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You should know. You’re the preacher!’
‘Do keep your voice down! Nobody’s removing Tom.’ And then the penny dropped. ‘Oh Ellen, David was my father’s name. That’s all! And he is a second son – our second son.’
‘He’s waking up. I shall need to feed him.’
Harold stood up and lifted the baby from his crib, handing him to his mother, but he turned away as Ellen unbuttoned her nightdress.
‘You can choose some other name, if you prefer,’ he said.
‘No. I’m sorry I lashed out.’
‘Why did you choose Tom? I’ve never asked you.’
‘Sam’s grandfather.’
‘Oh God . . . I never knew the man’s name.’
‘Sampson, not Samuel.’
‘Sampson. Please, Ellen, do not mention him again.’
‘I won’t. But it doesn’t matter now, Harold. He never knew about Tom. The man means nothing to me, and he hasn’t for a long time.’
*
‘Oh Mother, I wanted you here!’
‘Why? I wasn’t much use to you the first time.
’
Ellen brushed this aside. ‘It’s usual, isn’t it, for a girl to want her mother? It wasn’t so bad, you know . . . Quicker . . . though David was bigger. And Judy was here all the time, so I think he came faster for all the laughing.’
‘Have the chapel people been good?’ asked Flora.
‘Oh yes. They’ve been most generous. Harold is very respected here, you know. I sit below the rostrum now. He’s kept very busy on the circuit. He’s away half the Sundays in the month. And Mr Deakin – the solicitor – says he can’t do without him.’
‘Are you happy, Ellen?’
‘Happy? You’ve asked me that before. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, I hope you are. Now that everything has worked out so well.’
‘I suppose it has.’
‘But you look so sad.’
‘Oh Mother . . . I shall live – for my babies, I mean.’
Flora leaned forward to take her daughter’s hand, and something crinkled in her pocket.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, only a letter I’ve forgotten to post, dear.’
‘It’ll be very crumpled. I hope it’s nothing important.’
‘No – not important at all.’
CHAPTER 21
The rustic dwellers in our villages, as well as the inhabitants of the large towns and cities, are better able to appreciate the truths of the gospel when they are presented decently and in order, and accompanied with the gifts and graces of a cultivated mind, than when they are flung pell-mell from the voluble mouths of ignorant and totally unlettered men.
Primitive Methodist Magazine, 1871
John
‘Oh, John! It’s been far too long.’
Ellen embraced her brother.
‘Look at you, sis!’ He held her at arm’s length.
‘I’m respectable, John. That’s what I am, if nothing else.’
‘Oh Ellen . . .’
‘Never mind me. What’s your news? It must be important if you’ve come all the way to Canterbury to tell me. And look how smart you are! You’ve filled out nicely, little brother.’
‘I am to be married.’
‘John!’
‘But not just yet. I’ve other news. I’ve got through my probation and I’ve been accepted for training for the ministry. I’ll be going to Hartley.’