by Maggie Hope
‘Where were you?’
The question dropped into the silence, just as Elizabeth stretched out her legs and, sighing, turned on her side.
‘Oh Joan!’
Tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes. She closed them tightly and turned her head into the pillow, sobbing.
‘What? Someone didn’t go for you, did they? It wasn’t that bloody Private Wilson, was it?’
Joan was out of her own narrow bed and perched on the end of Elizabeth’s in a second, quivering with indignation and anxiety. She leaned over her friend.
‘I’ll massacre the sod. I will, I will!’ cried Joan.
Elizabeth could only shake her head. It was minutes before she could stutter out, ‘No … not him … not Private Wilson. It was nobody.’
Chapter Twelve
ELIZABETH COULDN’T TRAVEL up to Weardale until New Year’s day, when the swelling in her foot finally went down.
‘You really should be more careful, Nurse,’ Miss Rowland had said. ‘I can barely do without you at the moment, even though some of the patients are away. You’ll have to make yourself useful with jobs you can sit down to do.’
So Elizabeth had spent the week rolling newly washed bandages, mixing ointments, and most important of all to her, keeping out of the way of Captain Benson who had returned to the Hall on the evening after Boxing Day. She had been sitting in the linen cupboard, darning sheets and pillowcases, when he appeared at the door.
‘Lizzie,’ he said. That was all.
‘Good evening, Captain Benson,’ she replied. She had been rehearsing how she was going to handle this meeting all day but she had not thought it would come so soon. She kept her eyes on her work, threading the needle up and down. Her heart beat uncomfortably. She knew he was going to tell her that it had just been a thing of the moment, something that had happened and now was over. And she was determined not to let him see she cared, couldn’t bear to think he should feel sorry for her.
‘How is your ankle?’
‘A lot better, thank you, sir.’
‘Lizzie …’ He watched her. Did her hand tremble or was that just the light flickering? He couldn’t see her face. A lock of hair had escaped from her cap and hung over her forehead as she bent over the darning. The nape of her neck looked bare and vulnerable. Jack sighed.
‘Did you get into any trouble after staying out last night?’ he asked at last. He couldn’t understand why she was being like this. Surely she wasn’t shy with him?
Elizabeth was a while answering. Why was he bothering? she asked herself, and told herself the answer. Because he was a kind man, a lovely man. Though he would never marry a girl like her, he didn’t want to hurt her, that was it.
‘Thank you for asking, sir,’ she said formally. ‘No one found out.’ She looked up at him now squarely, her violet eyes wide and solemn. ‘Please go, sir. Miss Rowland will be angry if she catches me talking to a patient instead of working.’
‘Why do you call me sir? After all—’
‘Please, Captain Benson.’
Jack bit his lip and turned away. ‘Of course, Nurse.’
Elizabeth went over the episode in her mind as she travelled up to Frosterley on the train. She had gone over it endlessly in the last few days. Oh, she loved that man, she did, she thought, but it was no use, she knew it wasn’t. Yet she couldn’t regret the night they were together, she would always treasure the memory of it. As the train drew into Frosterley station Elizabeth picked up her basket with the belated Christmas presents for Jenny and the packet of tobacco she had bought for Mr Peart, not before some soul-searching but after all it was Christmas, and got out.
The wind was against her as she climbed the hill. She had to bend into it, holding the collar of her coat together to stop the piercing blast which blew down from the tops from getting inside her clothes. The temperature was noticeably colder than it had been in Bishop Auckland but she had anticipated that and wrapped a scarf around her hat and she wore the woolly gloves which Joan had knitted her for Christmas. Nevertheless she was thankful to find the overgrown pathway which led down to Stand Alone Farm, even more pleased to see the rowan tree by the gate and the homestead.
The farm looked more desolate than ever. The wind eddied around the yard, lifting ancient dried dung and depositing it against the house wall. An old tin can clattered about then lay still until the next gust lifted it again.
The rowan tree was bare but for a few dried up berries in the upper branches, disdained even by the birds. But a desultory line of smoke was coming from the chimney of the house and inside the dog barked. Elizabeth knocked on the back door. There was no response at first. After a minute or two she knocked again and the door opened. Jenny stood there, looking as small and thin and pale as ever, and Elizabeth’s heart went out to her. She took one impulsive step forward and flung her arms around her sister, kissing her on the cheek. Jenny stood stiff and awkward, obviously not accustomed to any show of affection. At last she trembled and a faint pink tinge appeared on her white cheeks. She did not lift her own arms, they simply hung by her sides, and eventually Elizabeth let her go.
‘Hello, Jenny,’ she said. ‘Did you have a nice Christmas? Did you get my card? I’m sorry I couldn’t come before now but I—’
‘Will you get in here and close that bloody door? I’m damn’ well nithered!’ The voice from inside made Jenny jump visibly. She stood aside to allow her sister to enter. Peart was sitting at the table. He rose to his feet as Elizabeth walked forward, astonishing her as it was the first sign of courtesy she had seen from him. What was more, he was reasonably clean. He was wearing a clean shirt, though minus the collar, and his boots were polished, his trousers no longer encrusted with filth. Why, she could even tell the colour, they were a faded brown corduroy.
Was this elegance all due to the fact that she had written to say she was coming? Elizabeth couldn’t believe it. She smiled tentatively at him.
‘Hello, Mr Peart,’ she said. ‘A happy New Year to you.’
He seemed to have got over his little outburst of temper. ‘An’ a happy New Year to you an’ all,’ he replied, with a creasing of his face she took to be a smile. It faded as his glance fell on Jenny.
‘Move yourself, lass,’ he roared. ‘Get your sister a chair.’
‘Yes, Peart.’ Jenny jumped to pull one forward, the habitual anxious expression she wore deepening. She stood back, her hands clasped together, fingers moving nervously, and Elizabeth was reminded of the picture of a little black slave she had seen on the magic lantern which had come to the Sunday School one social evening.
‘Aren’t you sitting down, Jenny? Look, I’ve brought you your Christmas box. Did you have a nice Christmas?’
Elizabeth looked around the bare, comfortless room, the walls devoid of any streamers or decorations, the only card on the mantelpiece the one she herself had sent.
Jenny looked at her doubtfully, gave a darting glance towards Peart. Before she could answer he spoke for her.
‘Why, man, we don’t bother with such silly goings on here. Christmas? It’s just another day. Now New Year, today like, that’s summat else. Today’s the real holiday for us up the Dales.’
Had Jenny had no Christmas at all? Elizabeth was horrified. She blamed herself. Oh, she should have made more of an effort. She should have got up here before. She wept inside for her little sister who was still standing in the same way, looking anxious.
‘Sit down, for God’s sake, Jen, will ye?’ Peart roared suddenly and she slid onto the edge of a chair. Elizabeth lifted her basket onto the table and began to unpack it. Peart leaned forward to look.
‘What you got there then?’
She took out the wrapped parcel for Jenny, the smaller one for Peart. He pulled the paper off immediately and grunted with satisfaction when he saw the tobacco. But Elizabeth wasn’t really interested in him; she was watching Jenny. The little girl was looking at the parcel tied with red ribbon on the table before her and her face was a stu
dy in bewilderment.
‘Aren’t you going to take the paper off, pet?’ Elizabeth asked gently. Heavens, had she not received a Christmas box before?
‘Can I?’
‘Yes, you can.’ Elizabeth stared coldly at Peart, the supposed foster father. ‘Has Santa Claus never been to Jenny?’ she asked.
He looked up briefly. ‘Santa Claus? Don’t be daft, woman. What has a charity lass to do with such fairy tales?’
There was no sign of Christmas here because there hadn’t been one, Elizabeth realised. Poor little Jenny. Oh, when she got back to Bishop Auckland she would write a letter to the guardians, she would! One to scorch their ears off.
‘I’ll help you, will I?’ she said to Jenny. She showed her sister a little nurse’s apron and cap with red crosses sewn on. Elizabeth had made them herself from sheet remnants she had begged from the sewing room. There was a bag of mint humbugs and one of hazelnuts she had gathered from the woods in the autumn. And a bright red knitted jumper and floppy hat with a band of artificial silk around the edge. And a doll, a second-hand doll with a tiny worn patch on the nose of the waxen head which Elizabeth had disguised as best she could with a little white paint.
‘You’ll spoil the lass, I won’t be able to do a thing with her,’ Peart said. ‘Anyroad, what does she want a doll for, a great lass like her? She hasn’t got time to play wi’ dolls, she has work to do.’
Jenny started up from the table at his words. She picked up the doll and took it into the corner where she knelt with her back to the room, cuddling it fiercely.
‘Leave her alone,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She’s only a bairn. Every little girl likes a doll.’ She glared at Peart, the realisation that Jenny had probably never had a doll before increasing her dislike of him. She went over to her sister and sank down beside her. ‘Howay, petal,’ she said gently. ‘He’s not going to take it away, I promise you. What’re you going to call her?’
Jenny looked from her to the doll and back again, doubtfully. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, look, why don’t we take her for a walk? You can wear your new jumper and hat and we can think of a name for her on the way.’
‘The lass has the tea to get,’ said Peart. But he had a strange look on his face, his tone unexpectedly mild.
‘She’s a little lass, not a slave,’ Elizabeth replied sharply. ‘It looks like she’s had no Christmas, she’s due a holiday.’
‘Aw, go on then,’ he said, turning away and taking a pipe out of his pocket and filling it with the tobacco Elizabeth had brought. He pointed the stem at Jenny. ‘Mind, while you’re out you can check on the ewes.’
Jenny opened her eyes wide in obvious amazement but she said nothing, only scampered across to the table and put on the jumper and hat. Still clutching the doll, she turned shining eyes to her sister.
Outside, the wind had died down. The winter’s afternoon was grey and bleak but it was still light enough for them to walk a short way up the fell side to where the sheep were clustered by a broken-down fold. There were a few strands of hay about, showing that Peart had subsidised their grazing on the barren moor, but still, to Elizabeth’s eyes, they were a sorry lot. She leaned on a stone wall and watched as Jenny went in among them, talking gently to them, and they baaed quietly, moving over for her, reminding Elizabeth of the sheep near the Manor on Christmas Day. Was it only a week ago? She thought of Jack, the feel of his arms around her, and her heart melted within her in sad, aching yearning.
Jenny came back and stood before her, hugging her doll and gazing earnestly at her.
‘Elizabeth,’ she said. It was the first time Elizabeth had heard her speak before being spoken to. Jenny spoke more easily to the sheep than she did to people, she thought sadly.
‘Yes, petal?’
‘Somebody else used to call me petal, I think,’ said Jenny, her brow wrinkling as she tried to remember.
‘Oh, Jenny!’ Elizabeth pulled the thin little body to hers, holding her sister close, though the doll was between them.
‘Can I call my doll Petal?’
‘Why not? Of course you can, Jenny.’ They began walking up the fell, Elizabeth holding Jenny’s small, work-roughened hand in hers. But they hadn’t gone far when Jenny began to look nervous. She kept looking behind to where the homestead lay hidden in a fold of land.
‘He’ll be wanting his tea,’ she said at last.
‘We’ll go back, then.’ Elizabeth was dying to ask all sorts of questions about Jenny’s life but decided not to rush at it all at once. But she did ask, ‘Did you like going to school, Jenny? You went when Mrs Peart was here, didn’t you?’
Jenny considered the question gravely. ‘I liked school. Except when the others made fun of me, said I was dirty.’ She looked down at the skirt of her dress showing beneath the bright jumper. ‘They said I was always raggy. I’m not now, though, am I?’
‘Did you like her though?’
Jenny put her head on one side. ‘When she went, he said I had to do everything or he would put me out on the top of the moor. But I’m good, aren’t I, Elizabeth? I work hard, don’t I?’
They were back in the farmyard by now. Inside, the dog gave a couple of desultory barks.
‘You do, pet,’ her sister assured her. She stopped walking and, putting a hand on Jenny’s shoulder, turned her to face her. ‘Jenny, I’m your friend as well as your sister, you know that, don’t you?’
Jenny nodded. But now she was back home she was looking careworn and worried again. She pulled away and ran towards the door. ‘He’ll be wanting his tea,’ she said again.
Going back home on the train Elizabeth reflected on the afternoon. By, how she wished she could stay longer, maybe take a room in Frosterley, see more of Jenny. Could her sister even read? She’d sent her a Christmas card, had she read that? I’ll have a word with Miss Rowland again, she decided.
Then there had been the peculiar behaviour of Peart. What a strange man he was. It was funny the way Jenny just called him Peart, and Elizabeth had fallen into the same way of thinking of him. Most normal foster fathers liked to be called Dad or even Daddy. But Jenny hadn’t been taken in as a daughter, that was plain. She’d been taken in to train up to work, a skivvy, a slave, which was what she was. How could the authorities in Auckland have let it happen?
Another thing, though, Elizabeth brooded over: Peart was looking at her in a way she had learned to recognise. She would have to be careful with him, that was for sure. She was troubled with so many worries and apprehensions, she couldn’t think straight.
Joan was in the attic bedroom when Elizabeth got back, sitting up in bed, looking at the pictures in an old Tatler she had found somewhere in the house.
‘You’re back then,’ she greeted Elizabeth. ‘Was the bairn all right when you got there?’
‘All right? I think so.’
Elizabeth hung her coat behind the door and stripped off her clothes. She poured cold water from the jug into the chipped pottery basin and washed, shivering as she reached for her nightdress and jumped under the bedclothes.
‘Look at this lot – all la-di-da and dressed up to the nines in their fancy clothes. It makes you think, doesn’t it? Aye, well, our turn will come – Elizabeth, what’s the matter with you?’ Joan flung down the old magazine and jumped out of bed to stand beside her friend’s. ‘I thought you said Jenny was all right?’
Elizabeth was weeping silently. Now she searched for the piece of rag under her pillow which did duty for a handkerchief and blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
‘I don’t know, Joan,’ she said and pulled back the blankets so that her friend could get into bed with her. Joan doused the lamp first and the two girls lay side by side as they had done so often when they were orphans in the Home and comforted each other.
‘What?’ Joan asked. ‘You might as well tell me it all.’
So Elizabeth related everything about her afternoon at Stand Alone Farm: how timid Jenny was, how quiet, how she ran to do Peart’s bi
dding, how he treated her worse than he did his dog.
‘She doesn’t go to school, I’m sure she doesn’t. I don’t think she can read and write properly. And I’m sure that was her first doll and she’d had no Christmas at all, she hadn’t. I wish I could get her away from Bollihope Common, I do.’
‘If you were married, had a place of your own, mebbe you could,’ said Joan. ‘Any chance of that?’ Joan was thinking of Christmas Day or, more likely Christmas night, and what had happened then, Elizabeth knew. She felt a great burst of longing. By, it would be perfectly grand, it would, if she were living at the Manor with Jack. A warm glow began in the pit of her stomach at the thought, grew until she could actually feel the warmth of a blush in her cheeks. She could have Jenny to live with her, maybe even Jimmy would come, go back to school, get out of the pits. And there would be Jack, her lovely man.
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that, Joan,’ she said.
‘You never know,’ said Joan. ‘But, look, there’s no use in fretting over something you can do nothing about, is there? Jenny’s been there all these years, a bit longer won’t hurt.’
‘Hmmm. Well, I’m going to ask Miss Rowland again.’
But there was no chance to ask Miss Rowland for quite a while. The Hall was filling up again with more and more casualties, patients at earlier stages than they had been at before, so Dr Hardy had to have another local doctor to help him, and an army surgeon, Major Scott, was assigned to help Major Davies, attending three mornings a week. Of course, most patients who needed operations had already had them when they arrived at Newcomb Hall, but some of them only a week before, and consequently, they needed expert care. Elizabeth found herself taking over more and more nursing duties; she was learning fast because she had to.