A Daughter's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  Chapter Fourteen

  JIMMY DIDN’T WEEP. At least he didn’t where anyone else could see him. His face looked suddenly small and pinched and white and Elizabeth ached with compassion for him.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked as she went into Mrs Wearmouth’s kitchen. He was unusually clean and tidy for even when he was not covered in coal dust he was usually grubby from hunting in the rabbit warren or roaming over the pit heaps which had belonged to Old Pit. Of which there was little left but an ancient wooden structure over the shaft. The heaps were half-covered with grass now, and in the summer, brilliant with rosebay willowherb and startlingly beautiful. They provided endless opportunities for imaginative games and Jimmy and Tommy were still young enough for boys’ games. Except that Tommy was gone now.

  All this went through Elizabeth’s mind as she sat down in Mrs Wearmouth’s kitchen and accepted a cup of tea. She watched as Mrs Wearmouth spooned sugar into the cup, though she didn’t take sugar. The old lady said it was good for shock.

  ‘Drink it up, lass,’ she said and Elizabeth drank the syrupy liquid.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy, I’m so sorry,’ she said, and the words sounded inadequate in her own ears. ‘I didn’t know it was Tommy, I came as soon as I found out.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Jimmy looked away. He couldn’t stand the sympathy, it threatened to unman him. ‘Well,’ he said, struggling to sound matter-of-fact, ‘it happens in the pit, doesn’t it? He just wasn’t quick enough when they shouted “Gone amain!” He should have jumped out of the road.’

  In her mind’s eye Elizabeth pictured the scene: the tub running backwards down a slope, out of control, the lads behind in its path. She shuddered; she had heard of it happening like that. Nobody’s fault.

  ‘Listen, lad, why don’t you have a walk out in the fresh air? It’ll mebbe make you sleep,’ Mrs Wearmouth suggested.

  Jimmy stood up. ‘I’ll just go to bed instead,’ he said. Perhaps he wanted to be on his own. In his bed he could cry, Elizabeth thought.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said to her, pausing by the door to the staircase. She longed to take him in her arms and hug him but she knew that would only embarrass him.

  ‘I have to go now. I should be at work,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Right then, try to have a sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  When he’d gone the two women looked at each other in complete understanding. ‘I’ll look after him, lass,’ Mrs Wearmouth promised. ‘He’ll have to go to work the morn, though, Tommy not being a relative, like.’

  ‘Yes. I’m very grateful, you know that, Mrs Wearmouth.’

  After she had gone, the old woman busied herself about, clearing the tea things. Tommy was already laid out in the front room, Betty Hoddle had helped her with that. And the pit would pay for the funeral, that was one blessing. Though the owners were getting off lightly, there was no one left to pay any compensation to. Sighing, Mrs Wearmouth got on with her work.

  ‘You weren’t back for lunch,’ said Olivia Benson. She gazed accusingly at her son. ‘I waited and waited for you, I was worried.’ She looked more annoyed than worried, Jack thought, but nevertheless he apologised.

  ‘There was an accident at the mine, a young boy was killed,’ he explained.

  ‘Isn’t the manager there to see to such things?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but—’

  ‘Well, never mind now. But please remember in future that you owe it to Nancy to let her know when you won’t be here for a meal. After all, she has enough to do.’

  No asking what had happened, no sympathy at all, Jack thought as he bathed and changed for dinner. It was as though whatever happened at the mine or the village was nothing to do with the family which owned it.

  His thoughts returned to Elizabeth as they did most of the time now. She was such a warm, sympathetic woman, she was so upset by the news of the accident to the boy. The contrast between her and his mother was striking. Elizabeth. He determined he would ask her to marry him, let his mother think what she liked. She loved him, he was sure of it. This afternoon in the inn he had become convinced of it. He had made up his mind, couldn’t live without her by his side. Surely she wouldn’t refuse him?

  In her room, Olivia looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She was annoyed, oh, yes, annoyed and perturbed and generally out of temper with everything, though she had been careful not to let Jack know the real cause. When he had not come home for lunch she had rung the manager, she knew well enough about the accident. But she also knew that Jack had already left the office and that he had been at the Plough Inn with a girl, and what’s more a girl from the lowest level of society. And how she knew was because the landlord’s wife from the Plough was in the same ladies’ group as she herself; they had had a meeting that afternoon in Bishop Auckland, one where they had discussed ways of raising money for comforts for the soldiers.

  Oh, how chagrined Olivia had been when that odious, jumped-up Polly Parker had told her and everyone else in the room about Jack and the girl.

  ‘I do believe they’re in love,’ the woman had said, with that silly smile all over her face. ‘I saw them come in and they were so close together, Mrs Benson, anyone could see. It was written on their faces.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Olivia had said. ‘I shall sue you for defamation of my son’s character if you persist in this tittle-tattle. He was simply comforting the girl, she was connected to the boy who was killed today.’

  Polly Parker had flushed and subsided into her chair, looking as though she was going to deflate altogether. ‘I’m sure I meant no harm, Mrs Benson,’ she mumbled. Even the tips of her ears were beetroot red.

  ‘You shouldn’t make up silly stories then,’ Olivia had retorted tartly. ‘Reading things that aren’t there into perfectly ordinary situations.’

  Ah, but this was something she would have to put a stop to at once. She would find out all about that slut of a girl.

  The funeral was on the following Monday. It was arranged for the morning at ten o’clock, a time when the men and boys who had been on the fatal back shift that day were on night shift and so able to attend. There was a good crowd to follow the coffin into the Primitive Methodist Chapel at Morton Main. Jimmy sang the Twenty-third Psalm and Elizabeth sat beside Mrs Wearmouth, nerves tight as a fiddle string, fearing he would break down in the middle. He didn’t. His voice rose, pure and clear to the high ceiling and he kept calm for the whole of the service but Elizabeth could see beneath the surface and her heart broke for him.

  Captain Benson was there, he had even prevailed on his mother to attend and the villagers were stunned by this unprecedented event, the mine owners attending the funeral of a lad killed in the pit. Elizabeth saw he was there but all her attention was focused on her brother and how he was going to come through the day.

  ‘Take the shift off, Jimmy,’ she advised the lad. ‘Don’t go in today, everyone will understand.’

  ‘No, I’d best go down,’ he replied, and nothing she could say would change his mind. She had to go back to the Hall, she was due back on duty herself at one o’clock. Elizabeth was in a very sombre mood as she walked back through a wood with the trees dripping rain and the path muddy with tiny rivulets from the relentless downpour. She dressed in her uniform in the attic bedroom and went down to the big kitchen which was used as a staff dining room. With a sinking heart she saw Private Wilson was there. She would probably have to spend the afternoon and evening avoiding him.

  ‘The lad got off then?’ said Joan as she slipped into the seat beside her friend. ‘I was sorry I couldn’t go but Cook wouldn’t spare me.’

  ‘It was all right. The chapel was crowded, he had a good turn out,’ said Elizabeth. No one else mentioned Tommy’s funeral. After all, what was the death of one boy in the pit compared with the soldiers dying every day at the front, those dying in all the thousands of hospitals in the country, in
cluding their own? Only yesterday she had had to walk behind a coffin in her cloak and cap as it was carried out to the mortuary, the traditional nurse’s duty.

  She was glad there was a lot of work to do on the first floor that afternoon, preparing two of the rooms for the influx of new patients they were expecting to come in from France that evening. A special hospital train was leaving King’s Cross and bringing convalescent soldiers to the various temporary hospitals in the area.

  Elizabeth was spreading a bottom sheet on a bed in one room, carefully stretching it and folding hospital corners as she had been taught, tucking a draw sheet across the middle in case of accidents, when she heard a sound at the door. Without turning round she picked up a pillow and pulled on a clean pillowcase.

  ‘I’m almost finished here, Nurse Turner.’

  The door closed behind her and she looked around in surprise; they didn’t normally work with the doors closed. It was not Nurse Turner, it was Private Wilson. Elizabeth dropped the pillow and rushed to get to the door but of course she had to pass him and somehow he caught hold of her from behind, in such a way that she could not defend herself. He threw her on the bed and himself on top of her, trapping her arms and scrabbling at her skirt. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  ‘No Captain Benson here now, is there, whore? Your fancy man’s gone away home and forgotten all about you, hasn’t he?’ Wilson mumbled thickly, catching both her hands in one of his and putting the other over her mouth as she opened it to scream.

  ‘These old walls are thick,’ he said, voice full of menace, and fear and horror rose in her. ‘But still, you’d best not make a noise, had you?’

  He took his hand away and clamped his mouth to hers. His breath stank like a badger’s and she gagged. He was unbuttoning his trousers; she moaned deep in her throat.

  ‘Nurse Nelson! Private Wilson! Get off that bed this instant, do you hear me?’

  Miss Rowland’s voice it was. Private Wilson rolled off her and stood by the bed, hurriedly buttoning up his trousers.

  ‘She wanted it, Matron, she was dying for it. What can a man do?’ he gasped. Elizabeth sat up, dazed. She was pulling her clothes together. All she could think of was the relief of getting him off her.

  ‘Go to your room, Nurse Nelson.’

  Matron’s voice was cold and forbidding. Startled, Elizabeth looked at her. ‘But he attacked me, Miss—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear another word, Nurse. Do you hear me? Go to your room this instant or I will have you removed.’

  It was unreal, Elizabeth thought, it couldn’t be happening. Surely Miss Rowland wasn’t taking Private Wilson’s word, was she? She’d known Elizabeth for years, how could she believe this of her? She stumbled across to the door, pausing as she came to the other woman.

  ‘Matron,’ she appealed, but the contempt on the other’s face seared her and she broke off.

  ‘I know what I saw, Elizabeth, now go. I don’t want you consorting with any of the rest of the nurses. Go and wait there until I find time to see to you. Private, you can try to explain your actions to your commanding officer.’

  Elizabeth waited in the attic bedroom, going over and over in her mind what she was going to say to Miss Rowland. In the event, she had no chance to say anything for the Matron refused to listen.

  ‘I want you with your box packed and out of here within the hour, Elizabeth Nelson,’ she said grimly. ‘I will not have the young girls working here corrupted by someone such as you.’

  ‘But, Matron, you know me. You know I’m not like that!’ cried Elizabeth. Miss Rowland held out a brown paper envelope which held Elizabeth’s pay up to date.

  ‘I thought I knew you, I realise now I did not. Now, if you are not gone by two-thirty I will have you put outside the gates. In the meantime you are not to speak to anyone in the Hall. Do I make myself clear?’

  After she had gone, Elizabeth gathered her pitifully few possessions together, took her straw box from under the bed and packed it, tying it round with a belt, working all the time in a daze. How could this be happening? She couldn’t believe it. Maybe it was a nightmare, maybe she would wake up. She wasn’t even to be allowed to say goodbye to Joan. But nightmare or not, she found herself outside the grounds with the gate shut behind her, her box in her hand and ten shillings in her purse and no idea what she was going to do, where she was going to sleep that night.

  Miss Rowland watched her go from an upstairs window. She had never been so disappointed in a girl, she told herself. She had felt physically sick when she had opened the door of that room (and anyone else could have opened it and gone in, it wasn’t locked, thank God no young nurse had done so), opened the door to see that soldier and the orphan girl she had taken a special interest in, had offered to sponsor for training at a large general hospital. Had seen them doing such unspeakable things on a patient’s bed! The punishment of the soldier was up to his commanding officer, but as for the girl … she couldn’t bear the sight of her. Elizabeth had to go and go at once. Yes, she’d done the right thing, never had she been so mistaken in the character of anyone before.

  Elizabeth stood at the gate of the Manor, gazing at the windows, close-curtained in heavy velvet and shrouded with lace net. She remembered the last time she had been here, Christmas night. Oh, please, God, let Jack be in. He knew how Private Wilson had pursued her, could speak for her to Miss Rowland, perhaps even get her to change her mind. Surely, surely, she would change her mind? Tomorrow everything would be back to normal; tomorrow she would be able to go back to the Hall to work. Her heart beat wildly, hammering against her ribs. On the way here she had been physically sick and now her head throbbed. Worst of all, she could still feel the hateful marks where Wilson’s fingers had dug into her, the small cut on her lip which his teeth had made when he’d kissed her so violently.

  Steeling herself, Elizabeth put down her box behind the garden wall and walked up to the front door and pulled the bell. It was answered by the old woman, Nancy, the one she had seen that morning after New Year.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Captain Benson in, please?’

  Nancy’s eyebrows rose. She looked Elizabeth up and down.

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘Who’s that, Nancy? Someone collecting for the war effort again? Tell her I’ve given a cheque this month – oh!’

  Behind Nancy, Elizabeth could see Mrs Benson, Jack’s mother. She remembered seeing her in chapel that morning.

  ‘What do you want?’ Mrs Benson said baldly, quickly recovering from her surprise.

  ‘She wants to see the Captain, ma’am,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Never mind, Nancy, I’ll deal with this.’ Mrs Benson’s lips compressed into a thin, hard line. ‘You get back to the kitchen, I’m sure there’s plenty to do there.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  When the kitchen door closed behind the old woman, Olivia Benson beckoned to Elizabeth to follow her into a small room to one side of the hall, brown and bare except for a row of pegs with macintoshes and a shelf holding boots and galoshes.

  ‘What is your name?’ Mrs Benson asked, with no preamble whatsoever.

  ‘Elizabeth Nelson.’

  ‘Well, Elizabeth Nelson, I’ve heard of you. How you are pestering my son, importuning him! What do you want with him? Though, I assure you, whatever it is, you won’t get it. He wants nothing to do with you. He’s told me all about you, how you follow him about … Good Lord, you don’t really think he could be interested in you, do you? Where’s your sense of decency, girl? He doesn’t want you, that’s all. You should be ashamed of yourself, pestering a poor, injured, crippled soldier who’s fought for this country …’ Her voice rising, she advanced on Elizabeth, face a mask of hatred, and the girl stepped backwards. Yet she had to have one last try.

  ‘But Jack said—’

  ‘Jack? Jack, is it? How dare you call my son by his given name? A guttersnipe like you! Get out of my sight before I call the constable, do you hear me?’r />
  She was shouting now, shouting as loudly as a fishwife herself, as no lady should shout, face purple with rage. Elizabeth turned and fled through the open front door, down the garden path and out to where she could hide behind the wall. She felt as though she could never show her face again to anyone, the shame was unbearable.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ELIZABETH WALKED TO the outskirts of the town before she realised her box was still behind the wall at the Manor, so she walked all the way back again, praying she would meet no one she knew on the way. In this at least she was lucky; she found the box and carried it into Bishop Auckland. The trouble was, she had no idea what to do when she got there. She stood in the road by the workhouse hospital and looked along the road to the Children’s Home where she had been brought up, but there was no help there.

  It was already getting dark, a hard, deadly, cold darkness which deepened by the minute and seeped into her bones. She had left her gloves at the Hall and her fingers went white and numb as she transferred the heavy box from one hand to another. Slowly she began to walk towards the lights of Newgate Street, the warmth of the shops. On Station Bridge she looked over and saw that the train for Weardale was standing at the platform. On impulse she hurried down the steps to the ticket office.

  ‘A single to Frosterley,’ she said. Then, ‘No, I mean Stanhope.’ Stanhope was just as close to Stand Alone Farm as Frosterley and it was bigger, there would be more chance of work there.

  ‘Make up your mind, lass, or the train will be gone,’ said the man behind the glass. ‘That’ll be fivepence.’

  Elizabeth took five pennies from her purse and handed them over, putting the purse down on the counter as she changed the box to her other hand yet again. The guard was closing doors, lifting his flag, the train starting to move.

  ‘Make sharp, lass, or you’ll miss it.’

  Grabbing the ticket, Elizabeth ran and the guard obligingly stood by a door until she reached it.

  ‘Hey, lass …’ The man from the ticket office was chasing her on to the platform but she was on the train, she didn’t hear what it was he was shouting. Whatever it was it couldn’t have anything to do with her, she’d paid for her ticket.