A Daughter's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  He nodded his head vigorously, face breaking into a smile. ‘He’s going to make me a rabbit hutch when he gets in from the club,’ he confided. ‘Mr Allen has some baby rabbits and he says I can have one if I have a hutch.’

  ‘That’ll be grand,’ said Elizabeth. Suddenly the appalling sense of loss she had experienced when her mother died and the family was broken up came back to pierce her, as painfully as when it had first happened. All these years she had lived with a dream. A dream that eventually she would be able to make a home for her brothers and sisters and they would all live happily together once again. It was what had sustained her through all the bad times, the lonely nights in the Home.

  It was no good, she realised that now. Was she the only one who wanted it? Alice wasn’t interested, Jimmy was on the verge of striking out on his own, and Kit, her baby Kit, if she was even able to take him away to live with her, would only hate her for it. She would be breaking up his home as surely as her own had been broken. Oh, God, she thought bleakly, what a cruel world it is.

  ‘I suppose you’d like a cup of tea?’ said Auntie Betty. Elizabeth studied her. She still wore that defiant expression like a child caught out in wrongdoing. But she had lifted Kit up on to her lap and he was leaning against her breast in an attitude of utter trust. No, Elizabeth told herself, she couldn’t break that up. Not that she would have stood much chance. She rose to her feet.

  ‘No, thank you, we had some at Mrs Wearmouth’s. Jimmy and his friend are going to lodge with her, did I tell you? No? Well, no doubt I’ll be seeing you soon, now he’ll be in the rows. He’s going to work at the pit.’

  Elizabeth bent to her brother and kissed him on the cheek though he made a movement away from her. Then, on impulse, she kissed Auntie Betty too.

  ‘Ta-ra then,’ said her aunt, relieved. ‘Christopher, say ta-ra to Elizabeth.’

  She left the house without looking back and set off for the path which led via the woods by Bishop Auckland. There was still Jenny. Her sister needed her, Elizabeth told herself.

  Chapter Six

  ‘MISS ROWLAND WANTS to see you,’ said Joan. She was lying on her bed in the room they shared when Elizabeth got back from Morton Main. ‘Said you were to go to the office as soon as you came in.’

  ‘I wonder what she wants?’ asked Elizabeth wearily. She searched her memory; she didn’t think she had done anything wrong. And just at the moment all she wanted to do was curl up on her own bed and sleep. Maybe she could sleep away the melancholy which had enveloped her since she left Jimmy and Kit.

  ‘You’ll not know unless you go to see,’ Joan pointed out. She sat on the edge of her bed and reached down for her boots. ‘How did your visit go?’

  ‘Awful, Joan. The bairn didn’t know me.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t would he? He hasn’t seen you for years. Did you expect him to recognise you just because you’re his sister?’ Joan knew all about Kit and Alice, less about Jenny because Elizabeth found it painful to talk about her. ‘When I think of that auntie of yours, I’m glad I haven’t got any family.’

  Elizabeth watched as her friend splashed water on her face perfunctorily then rubbed it vigorously with a towel. She dragged her light brown hair back and pinned it with a hairpin then pulled her cap over it.

  ‘You’d best get along there now,’ she advised Elizabeth when her toilet was finished. ‘I think Miss Rowland goes off at six.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get down meself or Cook will be laying into me for being late when all the spuds are to do for supper.’

  Elizabeth went to the tiny attic window when her friend had gone, gazing out over the darkening fields. How was Jenny getting on? she wondered. If only she could get up to see her next week but she hadn’t the fare. She’d had to buy new stockings as the last ones were finally beyond repair.

  Miss Rowland had already tidied her desk and taken off her cap but she sat down again when Elizabeth went in.

  ‘Elizabeth, I was expecting you earlier,’ she said. ‘Never mind, you’re here now. I want you to start upstairs tomorrow, we’re a girl short on the first floor.’

  ‘But … I thought you said …’

  Miss Rowland didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘I did, I know. But I have a girl coming from the Home tomorrow. Daisy Jones, do you remember her? She is to start in the laundry room. Mrs Poskett will keep her right. You can pick up your nurse’s apron and cap from the sewing room at seven, leave your others there. Now, is that clear?’

  ‘Oh! Thank you, Miss Rowland, I never expected …’

  ‘No. Well, that’s all right. You can go to supper now.’

  Miss Rowland was brisk, she opened a drawer and bent to look inside. When she straightened up Elizabeth was still hovering before her desk. ‘Well? Is there something else?’

  ‘If you have a minute, Miss,’ said Elizabeth. She had been thinking of it all week, wanting to ask but never summoning the courage. It was now or never, she thought.

  ‘It’s about our Jenny, Miss, me sister. She was fostered up the dale – oh, years ago.’

  A slight look of impatience crossed the older woman’s face. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, you know I can’t discuss placings with you. At least, I couldn’t when I was employed at the Home and now I’ve forgotten most of them.’

  ‘She’s my sister, Miss, and me and our Jimmy went to see her last week.’

  Miss Rowland closed the drawer and sat back in her chair. She remembered now, how Elizabeth had found out where her sisters were.

  ‘I suppose now you’re older, you’re your own boss, so to speak, no one can stop you from visiting her. But you know the guardians liked our placings to have a fresh start with their foster families. They don’t like their former families upsetting the children.’

  ‘She is my sister, Miss Rowland, and if you saw the place where she is you would understand why I’m worried. She’s not with a family, the woman is gone, there’s just her and a horrible dirty old farmer …’

  ‘That’s enough, Elizabeth! It must be all right. The inspectors would have visited the place. And if she was unhappy she would have had plenty of chances to tell them.’ Miss Rowland stood up again and moved to the door. ‘Now, I must go. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating. If I were you I’d leave well alone. You have enough to think about, you have to get on with your own life.’

  She went to the door and stood holding it open, plainly considering the subject closed. Elizabeth had no choice but to leave.

  ‘I’ll go back to Weardale, though,’ she said aloud to the empty bedroom when she reached it. ‘I’ll go back as soon as I can raise the fare. I’ll go back to Bollihope Common as often as I can.’

  Next morning she presented herself at half-past seven to the desk on the first-floor landing where Nurse Turner, the nurse in charge of the first-floor rooms, together with the VAD, Nurse Middleham, were taking the report from the night nurse. Elizabeth was thrust into the middle of it immediately.

  ‘Oh, you’re here,’ said Nurse Turner. ‘Good. Well, you can assist Nurse Middleham in making the beds and turning out the rooms. ‘Go on, now, no time to spare.’

  The young VAD hurried Elizabeth away. There were eight bedrooms on the floor, four with two occupants each and four singles.

  ‘There’s never any time to spare.’ Nurse Middleham smiled at Elizabeth as she opened the door of the first room. ‘Don’t worry, though, I’ll show you what to do.’

  She found herself dusting and sweeping, washing out bowls and urine bottles, helping patients out of bed, making the beds (thank goodness she already knew how to make hospital corners, from her time in the Home), fetching and carrying for the men and giving them breakfast, all in a race to have it finished by nine o’clock and her own breakfast time.

  ‘Doctor’s rounds today,’ said Nurse Middleham. They had just finished the seventh room and at the door she turned and cast an experienced eye back over their handiwork. ‘Just turn that bed wheel in, would you?’

  Eliz
abeth went back and turned in the offending wheel, smiling to herself. It was, after all, only eight weeks since Nurse Middleham had come to the hospital after only the briefest of training. But she had Nurse Turner’s voice and manner off to a ‘T’.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Benson,’ the nurse said brightly as she opened the door to the last room and Elizabeth felt a slight sense of shock. Of course, this would be Captain Benson’s, she told herself. The room was on the end, at the back of the house, overlooking the vegetable garden and the drying ground where she caught a glimpse of Mrs Poskett and Daisy already pegging the linen on the lines.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jack Benson asked baldly. ‘Where’s Katie?’

  ‘This is Nurse Nelson, Captain Benson,’ Nurse Middleham said formally. ‘Katie had to leave yesterday.’

  Elizabeth glanced at her curiously. Katie had only been here a month or so, she hadn’t known who it was she was replacing.

  ‘Hmm.’

  Jack said no more, though he frowned heavily. He had an idea why Katie had had to leave; she had been thick with Private Wilson but these last few days she had appeared with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks and Private Wilson had made some excuse and run every time she came near him.

  Elizabeth immediately thought the captain was frowning because of her. She reddened, then lifted her head high and glared at him.

  ‘Fetch the orderly, please, Elizabeth,’ said Nurse Middleham. ‘We’ll need him to get the captain into his wheelchair.’

  Elizabeth’s heart sank but she went out into the hall where Private Wilson was polishing the brass door handles.

  ‘You’re wanted in Captain Benson’s room,’ she said stiffly, from a distance of about eight feet.

  ‘What? Did you say something?’ he asked, cupping his ear and leaning towards her in a parody of a deaf man so that she had to go nearer. She repeated her request, more loudly, and he grinned, dropping the pretence and stepping so close to her she could smell the faint but rather unpleasant body odour which came from him.

  ‘Well, I’d better come then, hadn’t I, sweetheart?’ he said, and grinned even wider when he saw her expression. ‘You’ll have to get used to me now, lass, we’ll be working together.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she hissed at him, recovering a little of her equilibrium. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of this drawback when she had decided to take up nursing.

  ‘It took you long enough, Private,’ said Jack as they went into his room. He frowned as he glanced from Elizabeth to Wilson but said no more about it. ‘Come on, you can push me out in the grounds, Wilson.’ The nurses were left to finish the cleaning in peace and shortly afterwards the breakfast bell rang and they went downstairs for their break.

  Elizabeth was used to hard work in the laundry but now she felt as though she had done a shift down the mine and it was still only nine o’clock.

  *

  ‘You can push me down to the lake and back, Wilson,’ Jack decreed. He wanted to get away from the other patients who were scattered about the grounds, some in wheelchairs as he was and some on crutches, while one or two of the blind were being led about. He had something to say to Private Wilson and to be fair to the man, it was best said where no one else could hear.

  ‘I have the brasses to finish, sir,’ he objected.

  ‘Yes, well, you can do them later. If anyone objects, refer them to me.’

  The day was fine and sunny, the dew on the grass just beginning to disappear. A family of ducks was on the water, the youngsters no longer babies but almost fully grown. Behind him, Jack could hear the ‘brrr’ of a mower as one of the gardeners began to cut the grass.

  ‘It’s my half day, sir, I have to get the work done if I want to get away,’ ventured Private Wilson.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Jack. They were by the lake by this time, Wilson had turned on to the path which ran alongside it. ‘If ever I hear that you are molesting that girl, if I see anything or find her distressed because of you, you’ll find yourself in front of Major Davies so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Do you understand me, Private?’ Jack challenged him.

  Wilson had stopped pushing the chair. Jack could hear him breathing heavily but he didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you hear me, Private Wilson?’ he roared, losing his temper.

  ‘Yes, sir. I hear you.’

  ‘Well, then, believe me. I mean it. Now take me back to the house, I have an appointment at ten.’

  In fact the appointment was with the surgical appliance fitter from Durham who was bringing Jack his new feet for a first fitting. In spite of his doubts, he was looking forward to the chance of looking at the world from an upright viewpoint once again. He’d done his bit for the girl, he reckoned. Major Davies of the RAMC, the doctor in charge of the military staff of the hospital, was a man who believed in discipline. The orderlies, men who were on the whole not Al physically or else slightly older, were aware that he could send them to the front. Consequently, they had a healthy respect for him.

  But as Private Wilson returned to his brass polishing in the upstairs hall, he nursed a bitter resentment against both that workhouse brat of a girl, as he thought of Elizabeth, and the high and mighty Jack bloody Benson. It was his guess the captain wanted the lass for himself, that was the trouble. And he should stick to his own kind, that was a fact.

  Jack, for his part, wondered vaguely why he was going to such trouble for Elizabeth Nelson, a pitman’s girl, he would put money on it. But there was something about the girl … and it wasn’t just her lustrous dark hair and eyes so deep blue they were almost the colour of wood violets. Or her white skin, the grace with which she moved … His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. His visitor had come.

  Elizabeth went up to Weardale again on the last Saturday in September when the hedges flashing past the train window were heavy with brambles and rose hips, bright splashes of colour in among the dusty green. She was on her own this time. She hadn’t seen Jimmy all week now he was working at the colliery in Morton Main and living with Mrs Wearmouth. But she had no worries about him somehow; he would be fine there with their old neighbour. Pit work would hold no fears for him either, since mining was in his blood. He would soon make friends, enjoy the camaraderie of his ‘marras’.

  Elizabeth tramped purposefully up the track from Frosterley, getting higher and higher until she paused for breath and gazed back over the little town and around at the great sweep of the hills, up to the tops of the moors and down into the shadow of the valleys. The wind was quite sharp, an autumn chill had already arrived in this upland place. It brought a deep colour to Elizabeth’s cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. She pulled her old coat closer around her. She had bought it from a second-hand stall in the market and it was a size or two too big. But it was a good wool and a pretty reddish-brown and would last her all through this winter. She even might grow into it before next. She hoped so, she was barely five foot two inches and had an ambition to be tall and statuesque, as she was sure she remembered her mother being.

  Coming to the sign with ‘Peart’ written on it in faded letters, she made her way through the heather and bracken and on to where the path got slightly better, then at last to the gate in the broken-down fence. She noticed a sign nailed to the rowan tree. It had lost one nail and now hung on its side. There were red rusty streaks from where the nail had been. It looked as though the tree was bleeding, she thought.

  Funny, she hadn’t noticed the sign last time she was here. She turned her head sideways to read it. ‘Stand Alone Farm’ it said. Stand Alone. Well, it certainly did that. Looking at the desolate yard, the tumbledown house and the moor around, with dead bracken more in evidence than heather or grass and not another habitation in view, she felt the name fitted it exactly.

  She gazed at the back of the house, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the ancient midden in the yard. Was Mr Peart in? Would Jenny answer the door? She took a deep breath and went up to it, knocking on the grey woo
d that was bare of paint.

  There was silence. Jenny wasn’t singing today. In fact, Elizabeth began to believe she’d had a wasted journey. Her sister must be out, it was so quiet. She stepped back from the door and looked up at the chimney. There was no smoke that she could discern. She put a hand up to the guttering and felt along it for the key as Peart had done when she and Jimmy had come. It was there. She fitted it into the ancient lock and turned it and the door swung open.

  ‘Jenny?’

  Hesitantly, Elizabeth stepped inside, straight into the main room of the house. Her sister was huddled up in the corner of an old wooden settle. She lifted her head as Elizabeth spoke then jumped off the settle and stood there, shaking.

  ‘Jenny? What’s the matter? It’s only me, your sister Elizabeth. Don’t be frightened of me, please!’

  She took a shuddering gasp of breath. ‘You shouldn’t have come in. You know he’ll think I opened the door and I didn’t!’

  ‘No, he won’t, the key was outside anyway. And I’ll tell him I opened it myself. Jenny, Jenny, come on … don’t be scared. No one’s going to hurt you, I won’t let them, I promise.’

  Elizabeth stepped over to her little sister and impulsively flung her arms around her, feeling the thinness of the little girl’s body, the trembling in her limbs. A fury was growing in her. She longed to burst out in anger, rail against this man who kept Jenny like a terrified rabbit. But she had to hold it in. Instinctively she knew that anger would only make Jenny more frightened.

  Jenny stood passively in Elizabeth’s arms. She didn’t lift her own arms to hold her sister, she didn’t move. It was as if she had no idea how to respond. But her trembling lessened, her breathing became easier. And Elizabeth stepped back to look at her.

  ‘Mind, our Jenny,’ she cried, ‘you look like our dad, did you know that?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Well, you do. Just the same bonny hazel eyes, you have, just the same nut brown hair. You were the one who took after him. You’ll be too young to remember him, though.’