by Leah Fleming
‘Mother, hold the baby… just a little more to the left.’ How Netta relished being called ‘Mother’, smoothing and preening Ray’s dark hair with his baby brush, trying to make a quiff. He soon began to wriggle and squirm so out of a basket came the squeaking toy and Ray burst into giggles of delight. Flash! The explosion of light startled him. Netta could afford only two poses, one of mother and child and one of baby alone. Ray was plonked on a rug and Netta lay down in her finery to catch his eye, dangling toys. The stones of the necklace glinted in the lights. Flash! The photographer snapped them both in this intimate precious moment. Just another young mum having her picture taken to send out to hubby somewhere in the Forces, for an anniversary perhaps. It was the first time she had been truly alone with her son.
‘Do you want it hand tinted, Mrs Hunter?’ Archie had not recognised her as Netta Nichols. She nodded. ‘And don’t forget to tint the rainbow colours of the necklace.’
‘Boys don’t usually wear jewellery,’ he commented.
‘I know, but it was my mother’s and I wanted something of her in the portrait.’ Netta smiled sweetly and he accepted this strange request. It was time to change out of their finery and as she sat in the Paul Jones Tearoom to give Ray juice and herself a cup of tea, she awarded herself a brownie badge for all the times she had shut her lips, bent her head and swallowed Peg’s lecturing. It was another hour before the bus took them back to Stratharvar. It was raining and getting dark but Netta stayed under shelter in the shops until the last moment. The portrait proofs were to be ready in two weeks.
By the time she got off the bus at the bottom of the track the rain was lashing and to her horror the pram was no longer tucked under the hedge. She cooried Ray into her thick coat and struggled up the track to the farm. There was a row of strange cars waiting in the yard. She recognised Dr Begg’s Wolseley and Sergeant Kerr’s black Austin Saloon. Something must have happened. Netta dashed into the kitchen to see them sitting at the table supping tea with worried expressions. Every eye turned on her.
‘Where in goodness’s name, have you been? We’ve sent out a search party! How dare you take the bairn out in this weather…’ shrieked Peg, grabbing the child and examining him carefully.
Netta stood stunned by the accusation and the look on Dr Begg’s face. ‘What have I done wrong?’ she answered. ‘I was just taking him out.’
‘You creep out of the house without so much as a word and steal our baby, what do you expect us to think in your state of mind?’ Peg was in high dudgeon, shouting at the top of her voice. ‘We found an empty pram by the bus halt. What were we supposed to think – that you had run away to Carlisle on the train? Netta Nichol, you’ve gone too far this time. I want you out of this house! Dr Begg, you see what we’re dealing with…’
‘Hold your horses! Peg, I just took him on the bus to Kirkcudbright. I left the pram under the hedge for the walk back, that’s all. Just a wee trip, the two of us. When it disappeared I thought the tinkers had been up the lane again. Get him out of those damp things before he gets chilled.’ Netta took off her coat and hung it on the banister knob. Her father saw the dress. ‘What are you all dolled up for?’ he asked.
‘This is my wedding outfit and in this bag is the romper I made for Ray in Park Royal, as if you didn’t know. I wanted us to have our portrait taken at Archie Lambert’s… Just the two of us together.’
‘What’s that thing doing round your neck? You’ve been fishing in my dressing table. Look! She’s even stolen my necklace, Angus.’
Netta yanked the chain over her head. ‘Here’s your bloody necklace. It was my mother’s and you never wear it so I put it over Ray so there was something of a Kirkpatrick in the photo.’
‘She’s barmy! Boys don’t wear necklaces. You see what we have to put up with? That’s why we cannae have her cluttering up the kitchen. Two women in one kitchen never works. It can’t go on,’ Peg pleaded with Dr Begg who turned to Netta.
‘Why didn’t you tell them where you were going, Jeanette?’
‘A mother and her son shouldn’t have to tell the world their business. This was a private outing. I knew there would be trouble if I asked. I’m not an invalid. I can arrange an outing and come back safely.’
‘We thought you’d run away and were worried about wee Gus.’ Her father’s voice sounded weary.
‘Then I’m sorry to have worried you but it’s not easy to be alone with him here, is it, Father? Peg doesn’t trust me.’
‘That’s no true.’
‘It is so.’
‘She has a point, Peg, the girl needs time with the bairn,’ said Dr Begg, for once on her side. ‘You’ll have to learn to share if she stays here.’
‘I’m no having her round my feet forever. She’ll have to find a job out of my hair. You know what I think.’
The Sergeant stood up to go. He was embarrassed by all the argy-bargy. ‘I’ll be away the now, no harm done. Nice to see you back home, Nettie. We were all sorry to hear about your husband. Did you know our Tommy didna make it back either, crossing the Rhine? ’Bye the now.’
Once the policeman had left there was silence around the table. No one wanted to open up the issue again but Dr Begg wanted his say.
‘So, what in name of thunder are you all going to do?’
‘She’ll have to go. I can’t be doing with this carry on.’
‘Angus?’
‘It’s up to Netta, I suppose, she knows what I think.’
‘Jeanette?’ Everyone focused their eyes on her. All the resolve and strength were draining away from her. Netta bowed her head wearily.
‘I’ll go at the end of the week… sort out a job and then I’ll be coming back for Ray. I shall see a lawyer about this too. He’s my son but this atmosphere will make me ill if I stay when I’m not welcome. It doesn’t do my baby any good either. He’s the most important thing in my life from now on. His needs must come first, but I shall be back every moment I can. Don’t think for a minute I’m going to disappear out of his life ever again.’
Saturday, Midday on Shap Fell, 1949
Netta drew the steaming van to a halt by Shap summit. The long drag from Carlisle was taking its toll on the engine. As usual she could boil a kettle on the radiator. It was time for a breath of air, time for a stretch of cramped legs, strolling along the track among the lorry drivers sipping tea from the makeshift kiosk on top of the moors. The bottle of water in the boot would top up the cooling system until she got to Kendal where the engine would have a chance to go cool again. Peg’s package of photographs sat on the passenger seat but this was not the time or place to examine them closely.
The majestic Cumberland fells rose like bosoms in every direction: ochre, purple, grey and green. To the south-west, in the far distance, a shimmer of coastal water glinted on the horizon pointing the familiar route back to Yorkshire: back to the solace of work and friends.
A curlew’s lament echoed her own sadness on leaving the Borderlands. Netta strolled to the fence, away from the car fumes, to clear her head in the stiff breeze, but the pounding drumbeat of guilt thundered in her ears.
How many times had she come south with her heart in her boots? But never as badly as that first time with demons driving her on into the unknown. How many times had she tortured herself with regret that she had not snatched her baby the day when they went for their portrait together? Why had she not taken her chance then? Netta shook her head knowing exactly why.
Because you were always your father’s daughter and duty is your middle name. But how could you just have walked away from your baby? Did you think you were leaving for him or for yourself because you hadn’t the courage to stand up to Peg’s bullying? Were you trying to repay Father for the expense of your treatment? Oh, you coward! You hadn’t the guts to stay there and take the flak, to claim your rights. Was it because you loved Ray so much that you wanted only the best for your baby? Peg and Angus had the best that was going then. And you walked away down that track like an
automaton on a musical box, going through the motions, numb, too fearful to look back. And now you’ve done it again.
If only… but turning back the clock is never an option. Wretched and exhausted from your illness, you just caught the first train south from Dumfries, not bothering where it ended up in that bleak winter of 1946. Nobody cared if you lived or died. They let you walk out of Brigg Farm with a wad of banknotes, in your best coat and hat with a suitcase full of nothing but flimsy promises and a heart as black as coal.
Netta Nichol was doing her duty, leaving her little mistake behind and being the obedient daughter of the house. Little did they know how close she came to finding the perfect solution to the whole sorry mess.
4
Jet
‘Colour of grief and penitence
Treasure of darkness and shadows,
Absorbing all other hues
In its intensity.’
February 1946
The waiting room was crowded: a poky parlour in one of a row of tired terraced houses with a doctor somewhere in the back, living over the shop in a makeshift flat no doubt. This surgery was about as far away from Dr Begg’s gracious premises as it was possible to imagine but it would do, thought Netta. She sat huddled in her camel coat in the corner chair, listening to the thick Yorkshire accents, the hacking coughs and rusty voices of old men in caps and women in curlers and carpet slippers. Now and again someone would glance at her with interest as if to strike up a conversation but she buried herself in the dog-eared magazines, trying to be invisible. She had registered herself as an emergency, a visitor, showed her identity card and was told a Dr Anwar would see her at the end of his list.
How had she managed to land herself in this foreign mill town amongst a forest of black chimneys, cobbled streets and terraces of some West Riding town? It was just like a Lowry painting come to life as she stepped out of the station and made her way up the parade of shops, sheltering from the drizzle under the gracious wrought-iron canopies which kept the shoppers dry enough to browse along the row.
Somewhere behind the main street she sampled the greasy mysteries of a fish and chip bar but couldn’t stomach the food and asked directions towards a decent bed and breakfast establishment. She was pointed towards the Skipton Road where the houses were bigger but still blackened with soot.
Netta knocked on several doors before a landlady eyed the cut of her best camel coat and sensible brogues and decided she was indeed a respectable young war widow looking for work in the district. The room was basic, drab and worn. It would suit her purposes. Netta said she was feeling unwell after a long journey and needed to see a doctor.
‘Up the road, turn right down the side street. Doctor’ll see you, I’m sure, but don’t go falling sick on me in the night. My man’s on day shift. He needs his sleep. Staying long, are we?’ said the landlady in her flowered overall and turban headscarf.
‘Not long, just passing through for the night,’ she replied, feeling utterly exhausted by the slow journey from Dumfries. The train had stopped at every station, from sad memories of Gretna and Carlisle to hill halts on windswept Cumberland moors to country stations amongst rivers and wooded valleys. At each screech of the brakes she just wanted to rush off the train and go back home but her limbs were strangely disobedient to her will. All the energy had drained from her. In her eyes was a picture of baby waving her off with his pudgy hand. Rage burned inside her head. If anyone else had told her that it was all for the best that she should go south and find herself work, she would have hit them.
Dr Begg had arranged for her to stay at some temporary hostel near Leeds. She even had Vida Bloom’s old letter in her hand with her last address, the one ‘kent’ face she could find in a foreign land. There was a regular train service northwards and it was promised she could come back anytime to measure baby’s progress. Peg was full of smiles and Father was generosity itself, putting enough money in her Post Office account to tide her over until she found work.
As the train rattled over the bleak Yorkshire moors and the sky grew grey and dark, so her spirits sank deeper into hopeless despair. What was the point? After sea and shore, hills and streams, this dark industrial landscape of exile sapped the last of her confidence. There was only one thing left to do and once the thought pushed its way into her head, her feet sprang into action and she jumped out of the train at the first busy station.
*
‘Mrs Hunter, Doctor will see you now.’ A loud voice interrupted her thoughts. Netta shuffled down the hall passage, sniffing the surgical spirits and hospital smells of Park Royal again. She entered a small room on the right that was dimly lit by a lamp. It was difficult to focus on the man sitting at the desk in his crumpled tweed jacket. All she could see were the dark pools of his eyes watching her. She shoved her trembling hands into her coat pockets and sat down, averting her own eyes.
‘How can I help you?’ His voice much to her surprise was foreign, cultured but with a curious Scottish lilt. She looked up but the light dazzled her eyes.
‘I can’t sleep, Doctor, I need something to help me to sleep.’
‘I see. You’re not one of my regulars, are you? What part of Scotland are you from? I trained in Glasgow, it’s a beautiful country.’ She bent her head and muttered.
‘From the south, Galloway… but I’ve come visiting and don’t want to disturb my hosts. If you could just give me something to tide me over…’
‘You’re on holiday, then?’ He was quizzing for answers, peering at her closely, and she stiffened. ‘I’m very tired. I need to rest.’
‘You live alone?’
‘At the moment. I’m a war widow. Just give me something to sleep, please. Then I can get on with things…’
‘Mrs… er… Hunter, I’m not in the habit of dishing out sleeping tablets to people I’ve never met before. Why should you be the exception?’ Netta was trembling with embarrassment. Trust her to find the one over-concientious doctor in the district who wanted a history from his patient before he prescribed anything.
‘Because, Dr Anwar, I’ve just come out of Park Royal near Dumfries. No doubt you’ve heard of that establishment? After eight months in there I need to make a fresh start and I’ve used up my medication. I’m tired and don’t want to be a burden on anyone.’
‘So what took you in to Park Royal? If I’m to help you, I’ll need to know all your details.’ He sat back in the shadows, patiently awaiting her reply.
Netta began slowly with just the barest details: the baby, the fever, Peg and Angus. Then out it all poured, the whole sorry tale: Rae, her disgrace, this banishment. What did it matter if he knew the truth. Who was there to tell but strangers? ‘Now you see why I need to rest.’ Tears rolled down her nose and she fumbled for a handkerchief and buried her face from his gaze.
‘I’ll give you something just for tonight but I want you to call in again in the morning… just to make sure. Where are you staying?’
Netta mumbled the address. He stood up but she did not look at him, too ashamed. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to the door.
‘Hang on! Don’t forget this chitty to take to the dispensary down in the back room. They’ll need to see your identity. And please, Mrs Hunter, make another appointment for tomorrow. You can talk to me again then.’ Netta sensed him searching her pallid face with the dark circles under the eyes. She took the prescription, blindly nodding her thanks, went to the dispensary then fled out of the back door.
She wandered the streets aimlessly, feeling the box in her pocket for comfort. She bought a cheap bottle of medicinal brandy, splashed out all her sweetie coupons on a big bar of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate. Why shouldn’t her last hour on earth be comforted by childhood favourites?
The bedsitting room would have done Dickens proud. It was threadbare and stale smoke from the previous occupier fouled the air but it was clean enough and the bed had enough blankets to coorie under. There was a gas fire with a meter. She had everything she needed for her purposes.
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Inside the pill box there were only two tablets: not enough to send a mouse to kingdom come, but with a gas fire turned on and a towel stuffed by the locked door, she would know nothing about it.
She would leave no note so nobody could be blamed or little Ray shamed. Just a tragic accident. Perhaps she had better not block up the door, though… It was the only solution. Netta could not go on living with this constant pain in her heart. She was tired of struggling, of failing, of making mistakes. Why not clear the decks and leave them all to it? Time to sleep for eternity. If she were lucky Rae would be waiting for her.
Netta swallowed the tablets with the brandy and sucked away the bitter taste with chunks of chocolate. She closed the curtains and turned on the fire, sank into the pillow and all her sorrows rose over her head. How easy it was to go to sleep when you are tired of living, was her last thought.
*
Somewhere far away there was a banging and a crashing. Voices and rough arms were pulling her this way and that, dragging her out into cold air, walking her away from the warm bright tunnel of light. She was gasping for air, gulping down draughts, vomiting, choking, and the urge to keep breathing grew stronger, but still she cursed them wildly. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Mrs Hunter… Mrs Hunter, can you hear me? Come on, young lady, wake up. For the love of Allah, wake up! Take some deep breaths, damn you! Wake up!’ Netta opened her eyes, a strange and yet familiar voice echoing in her ears. ‘Let me go back to sleep,’ she muttered, going limp.
‘Just keep her walking, let me check her pulse… The ambulance will be here soon. Poor woman.’ Somewhere there was a screech of wheels and the ring of a bell, a stretcher and the slamming of doors and then darkness once more.
Netta woke up in a hospital ward, contained tightly by stiff sheets, feeling sick, her head thumping. This was not heaven and the nurses who clomped past her bed tutted as they passed her by. ‘Whatever possessed you? You should be ashamed of yourself, taking up a busy bed. It’s a sin against God to commit such a crime. Think of all those poor dead soldiers who gave their lives for us, and you try to waste yours!’