A Daughter's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  ‘Mrs Wearmouth, please don’t talk about it now,’ Elizabeth said desperately. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, a time to be happy, isn’t it?’ She cast a meaningful glance at her brother, who luckily was saying something to Tommy so that he hadn’t caught the drift of Mrs Wearmouth’s reminiscences.

  The older woman caught the glance. ‘Oh, aye, you’re right. Sorry, hinny, I am that.’ She stared into the fire for a few moments then changed the subject.

  ‘How’re you getting on at the Hall, then, pet? I hear the place is full to the gunnels most of the time. Those poor lads … Eeh, it’s terrible, isn’t it? But I suppose you’ll be learning to be a nurse and you wouldn’t have got the chance before the war. It’s a good trade an’ all. I’m pleased for you, I am that, Elizabeth. I—’

  ‘Me an’ Tommy have to go now, we’ve a long round to do tonight before we go to the Hall. See you later, eh, sis?’ Jimmy butted in.

  ‘I’ll be going too, Mrs Wearmouth, if you don’t mind? There’s things to do …’

  ‘Aye, of course. Well, Merry Christmas, lass.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Wearmouth.’

  It was dark outside but Elizabeth knew the path like the back of her hand by now. She hurried up the incline, swinging her basket. At least she hadn’t to worry about meeting Private Wilson on the way. He was one of the orderlies given forty-eight hours’ leave for Christmas since so many of the patients were going home too. As she crested the hill and saw the bulk of the Hall against the night sky, she felt a quickening of her pulse, an urge to hurry. The windows were shrouded so as not to attract any Zeppelin which might stray in from the coast. The great German airships had been preying on the shipyards and ports nearby. It was reported in the Northern Echo that one had bombed Hartlepool. Yet the dark Hall did not seem eerie or unwelcoming to her. Not, that is, until she remembered that Captain Benson had gone home that afternoon. He would not be back until the day after Boxing Day. A whole three days. Christmas would be dull without him, she thought. Then, shaking herself mentally, she thought of how the other nurses would laugh if they knew her fancies.

  The choir and Sunday School sang in the hall around the tree which Elizabeth had helped to decorate, and Kit’s eyes shone with wonder along with those of the other younger children. Christmas trees were rare in Morton Main, not being a necessity of life. The only other one the children had seen was the one in the Sunday School, a small one decorated with homemade paper chains and precious little glister.

  Elizabeth’s heart swelled with pride when Jimmy sang ‘Still the Night’ accompanied by the leading cornet of the colliery band, who happened to be Jonty Mason, the choir master. ‘That’s my brother, singing,’ she told Captain Bell, and wished with all her heart that Jack had been there to tell also.

  ‘A beautiful voice,’ said the captain sincerely. ‘I predict it will be a full-bodied baritone when he’s older.’ Elizabeth handed everyone mince pies and put twopence in the collecting box when Tommy came round.

  Next day, after the festive dinner had been cleared away and the patients were in their rooms having a rest, Elizabeth found herself with little to do and feeling restless. She wondered about Jenny, what sort of Christmas she’d had, and wished she had been able to go to Stand Alone Farm to see her. But she couldn’t, not until her day off, and there were two more days to go. In the end, she decided to go for a walk, even though the sky was glowering with threatened rain. She pulled on her nurse’s cape, an old one given to her by Miss Rowland, and slipped along the path by the back of the Hall, not thinking where she was going.

  The rain came, of course, as she had known it would but somehow it suited her mood. The path beneath her boots soon became a quagmire so Elizabeth walked on the grass by the side whenever there was space. The ground began to slope away to her left, the rain came in sheets and the grass was slippery with tiny rivulets and patches of mud. Still she did not turn back, the restlessness within her driving her on. Her cape became sodden. She could feel the wet penetrating as far as her shoulders and beginning to trickle down her back. A copse of ash trees was just off to her left but leafless as they were in December they offered little shelter. Further on there was a stone wall, a holly bush beside it. She turned off the path to take what shelter it afforded, at least until the rain eased. She was almost there when her foot slipped on the rank, wet grass and she fell heavily, rolling over and over, unable to protect herself with her arms, as the cape wrapped itself round and round her. There were a hundred little knocks and scratches, a bang on her head, and then nothing.

  It was almost dark when Elizabeth woke. She felt wet wool on her face, heard a quiet baa-ing around her, and sat up in swift alarm. She tried to stand but the sharp pain in her ankle made her cry out. The sheep around her moved sharply then settled down again; the warm, musky smell so peculiar to them would have told her what they were even without the sound. She raised herself to sit on the low wall and felt her ankle. It was puffy but she didn’t think she’d actually broken it. Miss Rowland would be angry with her, she was supposed to be back at the hospital by four. Well, there was nothing she could do about that now.

  The rain had stopped. A crescent moon came out from behind a cloud and she looked about her, searching for a pit head or farm that would tell her where she was. And then saw the dark shape of a house she recognised. Of course, she knew where she was now. It was the Manor which stood a couple of miles from Morton Main. Without admitting it to herself, she must have been making for it in her long, rain-soaked walk. Drawn to the house where Jack Benson was.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘ALL RIGHT, NANCY, you can go to bed now,’ said Jack. ‘I can manage myself.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Master Jack?’ The old woman’s voice trembled. She was obviously tired out, not only from preparing and serving dinner but from the excess of emotion she had gone through since he’d come home the day before. Nancy was a woman who lived every emotion to the full, suffering vicariously everyone else’s traumas. The tears had welled in her eyes the whole day and Jack reckoned he couldn’t stand another minute of it.

  ‘I’m sure. After all, I haven’t far to go to bed, have I?’ The new girl, Elsie, had helped Nancy make up the bed in the corner. She was a timid little thing, couldn’t bear to look at his feet, actually seemed to be frightened of them. She was only fourteen, though, having just left school the week before.

  Jack forgot about Elsie, sitting before the fire in what had been his father’s study, a whisky and soda in his hand, the decanter conveniently on the small table at his elbow, his sticks propped up by the table. He took a long swallow and stared into the fire morosely. Hell’s bells, he thought, what was he going to do, stuck in this tomb of a house, when he had to leave the Hall? His mother had gone to bed already. There was no one to talk to. Living here, in the back of beyond, he would go steadily crackers. Or descend into alcoholism. Jack took another swallow of whisky and soda and refilled his glass.

  A sudden bump against the window made him sit forward, startled, almost spilling his drink. What the hell was that? The window was draped in dark blue velvet, few noises penetrated inside. There it was again, a muffled thump, then a tapping, a scratching. A dog perhaps? A cat? Was that someone calling?

  If he hadn’t been teetering on the brink between being tipsy and plain drunk, perhaps he wouldn’t have tried to do it. He would have rung the bell for Elsie even though she would be tucked up in bed by now. As it was, he reached for his sticks, stood up, and stiffly and clumsily made his way over to the window. Dimly he realised his stumps barely hurt at all. Bloody good pain-killer that whisky. He grinned to himself. It was a distance of perhaps thirty feet, and he was walking better with each yard.

  Standing tall, he dropped the sticks and reached up to pull the curtains open. At first he could see nothing. The tall old-fashioned sash window was wet with rain. A bush to one side flapped against the glass, the noise must have been that. Oh, well, back to the fire and the whisky. He reached up again
and his hand stayed still: there was a bundle of rags on the ground where the Christmas roses had been blooming only that afternoon. Jack stared at it, swaying slightly when it moved and there was Lizzie, struggling to rise.

  ‘Good Lord in Heaven!’ he exclaimed. In a moment his brain cleared. He was not imagining it, she was there, white-faced and soaking wet. Something must have happened to her. He pushed up the bottom half of the window as far as it would go and leaned out, catching her as she swayed towards him. Pulling her in, he closed the window with one hand and made to carry her to the warmth of the fire. But this time he wasn’t quite up to it and they ended up collapsing together on the carpet.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘But it was the only place there was a chink of light, you see, and there was nowhere else for me to go.’ She was panting with the exertion of hopping and limping over the garden to the window, knocking on the glass, calling to whoever was inside, slipping and falling again in the wet, filthy flower bed. Her ankle throbbed inside her boot which felt incredibly, painfully tight; her face was smeared with blood and stinging from the thorns of the holly bush. She must look a proper sight and of all the people in the house to let her in it had to be Captain Benson. By, she was mortified! She tried to rub the blood from her face with the back of her hand and succeeded only in smearing it with mud which, thankfully, she couldn’t see. She couldn’t bear to look at him and when she did her mortification was doubled. He was laughing at her! He was sitting on the carpet, head thrown back, convulsed with mirth.

  Elizabeth sniffed, dangerously close to howling out her misery. She looked away at the bookshelves on the wall, the fire, the desk in the corner, the bed … anywhere but at Jack.

  Oh, what a fool she was, coming here at all. He must think she was running after him, her, an orphan from the workhouse Children’s Home, a nothing, a nobody. She blinked rapidly, desperately struggling for control.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie, my love, what a pair we are!’ cried Jack, but the laughter disappeared when he saw her expression. ‘Oh, dear, don’t be upset. Look, come to the fire, I don’t know what I’m thinking of.’ He clutched the back of an overstuffed armchair and pulled himself upright. Though he was stiff and clumsy he did it without thinking. He even bent and held out one hand to her, helping her up too, she wincing as her injured ankle took some of the weight. Together they lurched towards the warmth of the hearth until she could sit in his chair.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said, handing her a glass. Elizabeth did as she was told and choked and spluttered as the burning liquid went down. ‘All of it,’ commanded Jack, and she emptied the glass. A warm, soft glow flooded through her. By, it was lovely! The cold, wet, painful endurance test of the last hour or so faded into the background. He had stirred the fire until the cinders burst into flames and she stretched out her frozen toes to the blaze.

  ‘Let’s get that wet cloak off,’ he said, and undid the red ties, dropping the offending garment on the floor. He sat on the padded end of the fender and lifted her foot into his lap. ‘Let me have a look at this,’ he said, and eased off her boot. The feel of her cool skin beneath his fingers, the fine bones of the foot with only a slight puffiness about the ankle, made him tremble. He bent his head to hide the desire which scorched through him.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said huskily. ‘A sprain, I think.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and bound it tightly round the ankle.

  She watched him as in a dream. The warmth and the whisky were having their effect. This really was a dream. She would wake up shortly and be back in her attic bedroom at the Hall. Meanwhile, she was in Heaven and didn’t want to do or say anything which would spoil it.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ she murmured. ‘Jack, you’re a lovely man.’

  Exultation surged in him. He leaned forward and kissed her and her lips clung to his, body straining against him. He lowered his lips to her breast, pulling at the material of her dress, fumbling at the buttons. She laughed softly at his ineptitude and brushed his fingers aside so that she could undo them. And then his hand was there, and his lips as he took the rosy tip in his mouth, and Elizabeth moaned and sagged against him, and they were down on the hearth rug. Above her there was Jack’s face, his beloved face, eyes intent and absorbed as they looked into hers and his hands found her drawers and the secret place within and Elizabeth thought she would surely die, she was so bombarded with the sensations he roused in her.

  There was pain, a sharp pain which made her cry out, and he paused in his movements over her. ‘Hush, now, it’s all right,’ he whispered in her ear. And, ‘Whisht, pet,’ in the ancient language of the north. And in a moment it was all right and then there was such an explosion inside her that she thought she would indeed die.

  Elizabeth remembered little after that. She was vaguely aware that he was lifting her and wanted to tell him not to, she could manage herself, what about his poor feet? But she couldn’t somehow, and anyway he did it, and then she was lost in happy, drifting oblivion.

  Jack woke with a sense of well-being he hadn’t experienced since before the start of the war. He lay for a moment in the dark, gathering his thoughts, before it came back to him why he felt so good. Then he couldn’t believe he had forgotten, even for an instant. Especially as she was lying beside him, the whole length of her against him, of necessity of course because the bed was narrow. He lay there, one arm across her, listening to the soft sound of her breathing, the scent of her in his nostrils.

  It was a sound outside in the hall which made him sit up and reach for his feet in the half-light which had started to enter at the base of the curtains. Quickly he strapped them on, found the crutches which leaned against the foot of the bed and went to the door to turn the key. There was no way he could let Nancy, or maybe Elsie, discover them.

  ‘Lizzie,’ he said gently, sitting back down on the edge of the bed with a sigh of relief, ‘Lizzie, wake up.’ He thought rapidly of how he could get her out without anyone finding her. He was going to marry her, that was certain, but he had to protect her now. He leaned over and kissed her lips, then her cheeks, rosy with sleep. She smiled and snuggled towards him. ‘Lizzie,’ he said again, and she opened her eyes and smiled dreamily at him. It was all he could do to stop himself from going further and making love to her again. ‘Lizzie, you have to go. Come on, love.’

  Elizabeth opened her eyes fully with a dawning realisation of what he was saying. He wanted her to go. Oh, God! She sat up abruptly, causing her head to thump sickeningly, the room to whirl around her. She was ill, she was dreadfully ill … no, as memory of the previous evening returned in vivid images which made her blush for shame, she knew she must have been drunk. She had not drunk a drop of alcohol before in her life but she knew the symptoms well, had seen them in others, and the after-effects too.

  ‘You must get dressed, sweetheart, you must,’ said Jack. ‘One of the maids will be wanting to come in here shortly and you don’t want them to see you, do you?’

  Elizabeth wasn’t looking at him, she couldn’t. He wanted to get rid of her – she was mortified with shame. She scrambled out of bed, gathered her clothes together and limped painfully behind a chair. Pulling her clothes on any old how, still she didn’t look at him.

  There was a knock at the door, the handle was turned but of course the door was locked. ‘Captain Benson? Can I come in? I have to light the fire.’ It was Elsie, her voice expressing surprise at the locked door. Elizabeth froze, her dress half buttoned, and stared at him in horrified appeal, expecting him to do something, say something.

  ‘Come back in half an hour,’ called Jack. ‘I don’t wish to get up yet.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Sorry,’ Elsie replied and there were sounds of her going away. Elizabeth let out her breath and finished dressing. She looked around for her boots.

  ‘Don’t look so frightened, please,’ said Jack, almost in her ear. She turned quickly and he was there, his arms coming out to draw her to him and hold her. And she let him, an in
credible weakness sweeping over her. Oh, she had no shame, no shame at all, she chided herself.

  ‘For your own sake, you have to go, Lizzie,’ he whispered. He picked up her cloak from the floor and wrapped it round her. She pulled on her boots, having to leave the right one completely unlaced, and was ready.

  ‘Take one of my walking sticks,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll help you out of the window. Go along to the end of the lower path and turn to the kitchen door. Just say you were out walking and hurt your foot. It will only be old Nancy. She’ll get the handyman to take you back in the trap. You can’t possibly walk on that foot.’

  Within ten minutes of waking Elizabeth was bundled out into the cold morning air. He leaned after her to kiss her, began to say he would see her soon and they would decide what to do then. But she didn’t hear, she didn’t look back. Last night was no longer the wondrous, beautiful night of love it had seemed. Oh, it was still one she would remember for the whole of her life but it was spoiled. She felt dirty and squirmed at the thought of it. She had thrown herself at him, she knew it, offered herself to him and of course he had taken her. Oh, he had been kind but what must he think of her now? She had some ideas. She thought of the sneering, knowing face of Private Wilson. How he would laugh if he knew he had been proved right. She was Jack Benson’s whore. Her mind flinched from the thought.

  Elizabeth had little memory of the journey back to the Hall. How Nancy had looked at her, staring in disbelief.

  ‘But where were you going?’ she asked.

  ‘A walk, that’s all,’ Elizabeth mumbled. By the time old Joe, the handyman from the Manor, had driven her back to the Hall, her foot was throbbing painfully and she felt tired to death. She dragged herself upstairs to the attic, almost fell into the room. Joan was still in bed. Elizabeth could hardly believe it was still not yet seven o’clock. She dropped her clothes on the wooden chair by her bed, shivering uncontrollably in the unheated attic, and crept into bed. Thank goodness it was Boxing Day. She had a whole half-hour to warm up under the clothes before she had to get up and attend to the few patients who had spent the holiday there. And thank goodness Joan was still asleep, no explanations needed there.