A Daughter's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  But he was gone, out of the house and into the car which was parked outside, driving away rapidly before he became guilty of matricide.

  He drove along the road which led to Morton Main colliery and the rows of miners’ houses. He had an appointment with Mr Dunne at the mine. He had decided to go down with the night shift men, see for himself the state of the safety precautions. But he was too agitated for that now, he realised. It was something which could only be done in a calm, collected frame of mind.

  Pausing at the entrance to the village, he decided to take the road beyond, through Old Morton and on, driving along any country lane which took his fancy. Not that he saw much of the scenery. His thoughts were bitter and black and all about how he had wasted any opportunity he’d had to secure his future with Elizabeth. And it was his mother, his own mother, who had ended the dream once and for all.

  A cat streaked in front of him, narrowly missing the wheels of the Austin tourer. He braked sharply. Jack had been driving automatically on the almost empty lanes but now he looked about him. He was entering the hamlet where he had brought Elizabeth on that fateful day, the one when Tommy Gibson had been killed. He was almost at the Plough, the inn where he had taken her for something to eat, the inn where they had been so close. The remembrance was so sweet, so precious to him, the thought that he might never see her again an aching wound inside him. He stopped the car and stared at the inn, the gaudy sign with its painted plough hanging straight and unmoving on this warm, windless day.

  Two small boys had appeared and were looking at the car with round, wondering eyes.

  ‘Eeh, can we have a ride, Mister?’ one was brave enough to ask but Jack was definitely not in the mood.

  ‘No. Get away. You don’t want to be run over, do you?’ he snapped and turned the car around, heading back the way he had come.

  If only he knew where she was, if she was all right. He had this anxious feeling deep inside him, one which intensified as time went on and he had no news of her. There was something wrong, she was in danger and he had to take some of the blame for it. He tried to tell himself that of course there was something wrong, she had no money, he didn’t know if she had found work. He worried about whether she had enough to eat and a home. But no one starved to death in the twentieth century, he told himself. Still, the feelings persisted.

  His gloomy thoughts were interrupted as he saw a boy sitting on a grassy bank, leaning against a wooden fence. It surrounded a rabbit warren, known locally as the bunny banks, a wild bit of land, plagued by small pitfalls from ancient workings. It was shaded in part by the copse which grew to one side, a good place to sit and read.

  So this was where Jimmy came to get away from the other lads, a place of peace and quiet. Jack stopped the Austin and Jimmy closed his book and walked over to the car.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to make sense of this Pythagoras bloke.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ll give you a hand with that, if you like?’ said Jack. ‘Get in.’ He spent the next half hour patiently explaining the theory.

  ‘What’s the point of it, though?’ said Jimmy. ‘I mean, what use is it?’

  ‘Surveying, architecture, lots of uses,’ said Jack, and used the only straight tree in the copse to demonstrate it. But he couldn’t keep his mind on it. Thoughts of Elizabeth intruded all the time.

  ‘Look, Jimmy, can you not think of anywhere else your sister might be?’ he asked finally.

  Jimmy closed the book and stuck the stub of pencil he had been using behind his ear. He had been all eager attention when discussing the geometry; his eyes, so like Elizabeth’s glowing with intelligence and the chance to use it. Now the smile was wiped from his face. He looked as worried as Jack felt.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to think.’

  ‘You’re sure? I mean, did she ever say anything about anywhere she fancied seeing? London? Australia?’ Dear God, not anywhere so far away, please, Jack prayed in sudden panic.

  ‘Well … She might have gone up to see Jenny. But, no, she wouldn’t stay there. The old fella wouldn’t let her anyroad. Not when she had no money.’

  ‘Jenny?’ Jack saw a gleam of hope. The blood jumped in his veins. ‘You didn’t mention her before!’

  ‘No, well, Jenny’s me little sister. She was adopted up the dale. But Elizabeth couldn’t stay there. Like I said—’

  ‘Which dale?’ Jack had no time for details, he got straight to the point.

  ‘Why, Weardale, where else? Up above Frosterley. We went there once, me an’ our Elizabeth. But the chap who took our Jenny, he was a rum ’un. According to our Elizabeth he—’

  ‘What was the name of the farm?’

  Jimmy pursed his lips. ‘Nay, I can’t remember. Up on the fells it was, though, a tumbledown sort of place, miles from anywhere.’

  ‘Will you show me? We could motor up there today, it won’t take long,’ Jack insisted.

  ‘I cannot,’ Jimmy replied. ‘How can I? I have to go on shift.’

  ‘Take the shift off,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’re leaving at the end of the week in any case.’

  They had arranged for Jimmy to have special tuition from a retired schoolmaster in the town; he had to be able to pass the entrance standard for the grammar school.

  ‘I can’t, man, I can’t let me marras down. With a putter short they’ll not make the wages. Next week’ll be different, they’ll have another putter then.’

  Jack had to give in. In any case, when he thought about it logically it would be almost dark by the time they got to Weardale and some of the roads on the moor were mere tracks, none of them properly made. The car would make heavy going of it, especially in the dark.

  ‘When then? Saturday?’ It was two days to Saturday, forty-eight hours to be got through somehow.

  ‘Aye, all right. Saturday,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I’ll pick you up on the end of the rows, nine o’clock sharp,’ said Jack. At least he was doing something now. The frustration of the last few weeks had been driving him slowly crazy.

  *

  Saturday morning was cold and rain drizzled down. In the gutters from the rows coaly water ran, dirty from where the miners’ concessionary coal had been dumped in heaps for them to shovel into the coal houses when they came off shift. The back street of West Row was deserted. No washing lines were being put out, the wash would have to be dried inside today. A small child ran out of the end yard, crying, and stopped long enough to gape at the Austin tourer, his mouth open.

  ‘Away wi’ ye!’ shouted his mother. ‘I’m waiting for the messages!’ The boy hunched his neck into the collar of his jacket and ran on, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Jack considered shouting him back and offering him a lift but thought better of it as Jimmy came running out of Mrs Wearmouth’s yard. He climbed into the passenger seat beside Jack, huddled up to escape the drops of water dripping from the canvas hood onto the celluloid weather protector above the door.

  ‘Nasty day, sir,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replied. ‘Give the starting handle a turn, will you? This weather’s a bit hard on the starter motor.’

  Jimmy did as he was asked, grinning in triumph as the engine spluttered into life. He was going to enjoy this ride up the dale anyroad, he thought. None of his marras had been in a motor car. And Jimmy was young enough to revel in the fact.

  ‘By, it’s grand, isn’t it?’ he commented as they rolled along the lanes at a fairly steady speed of thirty miles an hour.

  ‘You sure you can find the place?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Why aye, man,’ said Jimmy, and Jack nodded, satisfied. Soon, very soon, he could be seeing Elizabeth. His pulse raced at the very thought.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THEY DROVE INTO Frosterley at about half-past ten, the wheels throwing up droplets of water as they ran through puddles. But the sun was shining on the wet streets, lighting up the terraced rows which had been built in the first place for
lead-miners and marble-quarriers.

  ‘Now which way?’ asked Jack, and Jimmy stared around him in dismay. He couldn’t remember which way.

  ‘We were walking,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Well, then, we’ll stop the car and walk along the road. Do you not remember the name of the place at all?’

  ‘Something Common, it was. And I think the man’s name began with a P.’

  They left the car and walked along the street. Women with shopping baskets over their arms and shawls on their heads gazed curiously at them. A butcher came to his shop doorway and watched their approach. Jack stopped before him.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, and the butcher nodded silently. ‘Is there a common near here?’ Jack asked.

  The butcher stared at him stolidly and folded his arms across his striped apron. ‘Bollihope Common, does tha’ mean?’

  ‘That’ll be it. Was it, Jimmy?’

  Jimmy nodded. The butcher pointed his thumb to the next opening between the houses. ‘That road,’ he said and went back into his shop.

  ‘More of a track than a road,’ said Jack as he drove the car up the bank side. He stopped and considered for a moment. ‘I think I’ll go into Stanhope and get on to the common from there,’ he decided. ‘It’s bound to be a better road.’

  Jimmy nodded. The track was full of holes and strewn with stones. In the car it seemed worse than when he had walked up it. Besides, he was enjoying the ride. Now the sun was out, Jack had put the hood back and the fresh moorland air, untainted by coal or coke gases, was like wine. By, life was good, the boy thought, allowing himself to feel happy and optimistic about his future after so many setbacks and disappointments in his life. He thought sadly of Tommy for a moment, how he would have loved this ride out. And there was Elizabeth, the daft lass. What a carry-on it was finding her. He’d give her what-for when he did, he would an’ all.

  In a farmyard beside the track, only a hundred or so yards from where Jack had turned the car around and gone back to the main road between Frosterley and Stanhope, Elizabeth was working as a labourer. She was cleaning out the hen house. It was back-breaking work. There was an accumulation of years of hen muck like a dry, hard carpet beneath her feet. She dug and shovelled and filled the barrow and took it outside to tip on the muck heap, forcing herself to go on and on until the floor was clear. She paused once, standing with her head cocked to one side. Was that the sound of a motor on the track? Of course she had seen motor cars before but never one here on the moor. She went to the gate, sparing herself a couple of minutes to look, but the car was disappearing around a bend in the track, going back to Frosterley. She went back to shovelling muck.

  Jack drove the three or four miles into Stanhope, along the wide street to the market place with the old church in the corner watching over it. He parked by the church.

  ‘May as well have some lunch,’ he said to Jimmy. ‘It’s after twelve. Then we’ll go on up. It’s the Middleton road, I know it.’

  They ate mutton pies from the baker’s shop and drank dandelion and burdock pop, sitting in the comfortable leather seats of the car. Jimmy was young enough to stare with an air of superiority at the youngsters who came to touch and see. Afterwards, Jack drove them over the ford and up the other side to where the road was joined by the track from Frosterley. Eventually, they found the path leading to Stand Alone Farm. Leaving the car on the road, they set off, walking through the heather. Just as well he’d brought a stick, Jack reflected. The terrain was very difficult for anyone, let alone a walker disabled as he was.

  ‘It’s deserted,’ said Jack. They had knocked on the door, gone round the side and shouted, ‘Anyone there?’ to no avail.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Jimmy. ‘Though last time Jenny was locked in, poor bairn.’

  ‘We may as well go back,’ Jack decided. He leaned on his stick. His legs throbbed and ached with walking over the rough terrain. He had been so sure he would find Elizabeth. Now she wasn’t here he felt that all the spirit had been knocked out of him and he was deathly tired.

  ‘Leave a note,’ Jimmy suggested. Jack tore a leaf from his diary and, resting it on his knee, wrote:

  ‘Dearest Elizabeth, Jimmy and I came to see how you are. If you’re here, please, please get in touch. I love you, Jack.’

  He folded it in two and wrote her name on the outside then stuck it between the door and the jamb. They were halfway up the slope, going back to the car, when they were hailed.

  ‘Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s him. The fella from the farm,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I’m looking for Elizabeth Nelson,’ said Jack when the man reached them. In spite of his aching legs, he drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at Peart with a hauteur which would have been a credit to his mother. He felt an instant dislike for the man, standing there with his dog at his heels, gun broken over his arm, chin covered in greyish-brown stubble. There was an unpleasant smell coming from him. Jack recognised it from the trenches. His nostrils flared. This man hadn’t washed in weeks, he reckoned.

  ‘Are ye’ now? An’ what would ye’ be wanting wi’ me wife?’ asked Peart, sticking out his chin aggressively.

  ‘She’s my sister,’ said Jimmy, intervening quickly. ‘An’ so’s Jenny. And I want to see them.’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ Peart replied sharply. ‘Jen’s at school and Elizabeth’s out. I won’t have you lot coming here pestering us, like.’

  ‘Come on, Jimmy,’ said Jack. ‘We’d better go.’ He was reeling with shock. He had to get away before he took this man by the neck and choked the life out of him.

  ‘Aye, an’ don’t come back!’ snarled Peart.

  ‘You tell her to write to me,’ said Jimmy. ‘You tell her, do you hear?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Peart.

  Elizabeth was working as a day labourer on the farm near Frosterley. Peart had come in one evening from his wanderings on the moor and as he was eating his supper had looked up, his mouth full of fried onions and meat. He had spluttered half-chewed food across the table.

  ‘You’re to start work the morn. Seven o’clock sharp, mind, the bloke said.’

  Elizabeth had gazed at him in astonishment. ‘What bloke?’

  ‘The farmer, of course. Down by Frosterley, it is. So Jen can go wi’ you for a couple of hours before she goes to that bloody school, then come back to you at four until you finish at six. Ten bob a week. Mind, I know how much you’ll be getting so don’t think you can keep any back. The lass’ll get half a crown. Though, if I wasn’t so bloody soft, she’d be working wi’ you all day, never mind wasting time on book learning. The man has no wife and no labourer and now his lad’s gone off and joined the army. So mind what I tell you, seven o’clock sharp.’

  Elizabeth had stared at him dumbly. It was a good two miles away, she knew the farm he meant. ‘But what about your supper?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I don’t mind waiting till you get home,’ he said magnanimously, and started to clean out his ear with a matchstick, inspecting it with interest before wiping it on his waistcoat.

  Elizabeth walked across to where Jenny was sitting on the settle by the fire and sat down beside her. Her sister had been listening mutely to Peart. Now she slipped her hand in to Elizabeth’s.

  ‘Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll help you when we get home, I will. I’ll do the taties and that.’

  Elizabeth squeezed her hand. ‘I know you will, petal,’ she whispered back. She sighed. Her body ached from Peart’s attentions every night, her days were filled with work and she seemed no nearer to getting Jenny away from here. The one bright spot was that her sister was going to school now and, what was more, doing well. She never spoke of it when Peart was in the house but when the sisters were on their own she would chatter away to Elizabeth, telling her of the other girls she had met, how nice the teachers were, how they were all knitting socks for the soldiers at the front.

  ‘I can turn a heel now,’
she said. ‘And I didn’t drop a single stitch.’

  ‘Well done! Oh, well done, Jenny,’ Elizabeth exclaimed. She washed out Jenny’s knickers and pinafore every night, staying up late to iron the pinafore because Jenny didn’t have another one to change into. Clothes weren’t really a problem, though, because most of the children came from hard up families in any case.

  She didn’t really mind going to work, thought Elizabeth after Jenny had gone up to bed. At least it meant time away from the dread of Peart coming home unexpectedly and demanding sex, no matter what she was doing. He didn’t defer to her at all now; she supposed he thought he didn’t have to. And he was back to his snide remarks about having to keep her and feed her and wasn’t it time she was earning her own bloody keep? He would take her quickly and roughly, and if she tried to stop him he slapped her hands away and took her anyway.

  At least Jenny is happier, she’s going to school, Elizabeth told herself again. But she knew she should do something about the situation. She wasn’t completely a doormat, was she? Yet she was so tired, so worn out. She would plan something tomorrow, when she felt better. Every day, every night, she thought about Jack. She dreamed they were together again and happy, Jack loving her, she loving him. But she knew it was just a dream. Any life she might have had with Jack Benson was over before it had had a chance to begin.

  As Jack and Jimmy climbed into the Austin tourer, Peart was entering the back door of the farmhouse. He saw the note stuck in the door frame and took it out, taking it over to the window to read in the fading light. He smiled grimly. So the toff loved his Elizabeth, did he? He pictured the man, standing before him and looking at him as though he had just crawled out from under a stone. Well, he wasn’t going to get what was Peart’s, he damn’ well wasn’t. Peart grinned and crushed the note in his dirty hand, throwing it amongst the peat on the fire.

  ‘She got married and didn’t even tell us!’ said Jimmy as he climbed back into the car after winding the starting handle. ‘I can’t believe it of our Elizabeth, I cannot.’