A Mother's Courage

by Maggie Hope

  ‘May I come in, Eleanor?’

  ‘Just a minute, Uncle John.’

  Eleanor jumped to her feet and smoothed down her dress, which was all wrinkled and creased from the hours she had spent on the bed. Her stomach rumbled; there was a delicious smell of food coming from the hall and not only had she left half her breakfast but she had had no dinner sent up to her at three o’clock. Grandmother’s orders, no doubt.

  ‘I’m ready now, Uncle John.’

  Her uncle came in, closing the door quietly behind him, and came to stand in front of her. For a moment they looked at each other silently. He was a mild-mannered man, tall and earnest-looking. She thought he looked more like a college professor than a mine manager though she knew he ran the pit efficiently.

  ‘Well, Eleanor.’ It wasn’t really a question, nor even a greeting, just a statement. ‘Your grandmother has retired to her room, she is upset and feeling ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry for that, Uncle John,’ she answered. ‘I will pay for the things I bought, just as soon as I get my allowance from Mother. I always intended to. The things were for poor Mrs Buckle, she’s dying, Uncle John, and I couldn’t let her die in the dark for want of a candle, could I? And they were hungry, so I thought flour for bread—’

  ‘Sit down, Eleanor.’ Uncle John waited until his niece sank into one of the two small armchairs by the window and then he took the other. ‘Eleanor,’ he said quietly, reasonably. ‘We cannot look after all the destitute in the village, not you nor I. We simply cannot.’ It was typical of him that he did not ask who Mrs Buckle was; he knew everyone in the village, even though there were hundreds of men working in the mines and living with their families in the colliery rows. ‘I have given the boy employment, he is a trapper boy in the pit, isn’t he? And though we are short enough of cottages for our workers, I allowed them to stay in their home after Mr Buckle was killed. I think I have done my duty. I must remind you, I am but the viewer here not the owner. I am like the servant in the parable of the talents who received five talents from the master. I have to manage the affairs of the mine wisely and make a profit for the mine owner.’

  Eleanor raised hot eyes to him. ‘But Mrs Buckle is so ill, Uncle John. I want to help, I went to Sunday School with Mary, it’s our duty to help those less fortunate than ourselves. And I have been reading about Florence Nightingale in the Ladies’ Home Journal. I can do what she does, after all, she is a lady and—’

  ‘I know well who Florence Nightingale is,’ said Uncle John. ‘A lady of independent means, I understand. You cannot compare yourself with her, Eleanor, you are still a child.’

  ‘I am not a child, Uncle John. I am almost sixteen. Why, when Grandmother was my age she had been earning her own living for almost ten years!’

  Uncle John coughed dryly. ‘Hush, Eleanor, do you want to upset her further? You know she does not like to be reminded of it.’

  Eleanor subsided; she was indeed well aware that Grandmother Wales was very sensitive of the fact that she had never been to school but as a child had worked alongside her brothers on the coal screens, for her family was large. She had learned her reading and writing in the schoolroom at the Wesleyan chapel on Sunday mornings.

  ‘Be a good girl, pet.’ Uncle John changed his tone to one of persuasion. ‘I would be sorry to see you sent back to your mother, you’re a ray of sunshine in this dreary old house, you are. Now my mother has retired, I’ll send you up a bite of supper so you don’t lie awake with night starvation and tomorrow evening you can come with me to the missionary meeting.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle John.’

  Eleanor’s tone was meek, in contrast to her earlier rebellion, for she could tell Uncle John considered the episode finished. Any thoughts of following in the footsteps of Florence Nightingale were to be consigned to the midden, along with her earlier hopes of becoming a doctor. She stared for a moment at the door, which he had closed behind him, and then returned to the window, staring out into the black night that was lit only by a red glow to one side, behind the trees, where the colliery continued its ceaseless working. Though she was frustrated in everything she wanted to do, she told herself, she would do something, oh, she would, she would make her mark in the world and show them all. She would find some way, yes indeed.

  Francis Tait was at the missionary meeting. Eleanor saw him as she came through the door to the schoolroom along with Uncle John, and she felt his eyes upon her, calm and steady and velvety brown. When she returned his gaze, he inclined his head gravely in the manner of a man twice his age, yet it did not make her laugh as it might have done in any other young boy.

  ‘I see young Master Tait is here,’ said Uncle John, looking down at her. His sharp eyes had missed nothing of the silent exchange of greetings between his niece and the boy preacher. ‘He is apprenticed to learn business and commerce at Newcastle upon Tyne, perhaps he has a holiday.’

  There was no time to say more as the meeting was called to order and Mr Nelson rose to introduce the guest speaker. There was a general rustle of anticipation, for it was Mr Mee, a visitor from the Australasian mission field, a man who had worked among the heathen of the savage islands they had heard such tales of – unspeakable tales of pagan rites, the wicked butchering of babies and more, the sin that the people of Hetton hardly dared breathe to each other. Eleanor watched and listened, enthralled, her mind taken completely off her own mundane trials and troubles as Mr Mee described fierce warriors, naked as the day they were born but for a few feathers in their hair, and armed with tall spears, warriors who would kill and eat you as soon as look at you.

  Eleanor felt someone’s eyes upon her and glanced along the row, catching Francis Tait watching her. She lifted her chin and gazed at him loftily, and he blushed, quickly turning his attention on the speaker. Eleanor smiled to herself, feeling strangely pleased even though he was just a boy, years younger than herself. She was glad she had bothered to put on her new straw bonnet with its fringe of lace that hid her unruly hair.

  The next minute she had forgotten all about Francis Tait and everyone else around her as she listened enthralled to Mr Mee describing how the natives had no real doctors, only heathen witch doctors and when they fell ill of even such mild illnesses as the common cold they often died because the witch doctors used the most horrific remedies, which seldom worked.

  For half an hour Eleanor gazed at Mr Mee, but she wasn’t seeing the missionary, she was seeing herself going among sick natives like an angel of mercy, like Florence Nightingale, dispensing medicine and wise advice and saving them from the wicked witch doctors, and they would all adore her and call her the Lady from Heaven. Oh yes, she could be a medical missionary, or at least a nursing missionary, and the heathen hordes would all be converted to Christianity and become civilised human beings.

  ‘Eleanor, wake up, child.’

  Uncle John was taking hold of her arm and the people were getting to their feet. For a moment she was disorientated, her mind still in distant lands, and she didn’t know why they were standing.

  ‘The grace of our Lord, Jesus Christ, the love of God—’

  Oh, yes, of course, the meeting had ended, as always with the saying of the Grace. The members were moving about and beginning to chat among themselves and suddenly Francis Tait was standing before her.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Saint,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Mr Wales.’

  ‘Hello, Francis,’ said Uncle John. ‘You will excuse me, won’t you, I wish to have a word with Mr Mee.’

  Francis and Eleanor were left looking at each other. He has grown, she thought abstractedly, realising his eyes were on a level with her own now.

  ‘Did you enjoy the talk, Miss Saint?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, Mr Tait,’ she answered, full of enthusiasm.

  Francis smiled at her animation, encouraged. ‘I intend to enter the Wesleyan Missionary College in London as soon as I am seventeen. I am greatly drawn to the work.’ He would have sounded impossibly p
ompous except that his voice broke during the last statement and became almost a squeak.

  Eleanor, however, hardly noticed it. The animation was fading from her face and she turned abruptly from him. ‘I must find Uncle John, it is time I was going home,’ she muttered and pushed through the crowd away from him, leaving him staring after her looking suddenly young and dismayed. Why did his voice let him down at the important times?

  It’s not fair, Eleanor was saying to herself as she waited for Uncle John to stop speaking to Mr Mee, her eyes fixed on the scrubbed boards of the floor. He was a boy; he could go away to college and become a missionary, he would have all the adventures, he could do anything. What could she do? Nothing, that was what, nothing at all, except be a good little wife to someone and stay at home and never make a name for herself, never have any fun. That was if anyone would have her and, according to Grandmother Wales, even that was doubtful. She would never be able to follow her dreams, never, she might just as well settle herself to it.

  ‘Come along, Eleanor, it is time we were going.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle John.’

  She followed her uncle out of the hall, not even looking to see if Francis Tait saw her going. What did she care if he did or not; waves of envy were sweeping over her and in that moment she hated him.

  Chapter Three

  Eleanor stood by Mary and her young brother and sister as the minister recited the burial service and the plain deal box, which was all the Poor Law Guardians allowed, was lowered into the grave. It was the corner of the churchyard where all those who were buried on the Parish were laid to rest and it was behind the church, out of sight of the imposing tomb-stones of the more affluent dead.

  Prue was whimpering, for the corner was dark and damp, and what could be seen of her feet between the patches of mud was blue with cold. Automatically, Mary bent down and swung the child up in her arms and rested her weight on one hip. Mary’s face was set and white but she did not weep and neither did nine-year-old Ben; he simply stood there and watched as his mother’s body was laid to rest.

  The service was over and the small gathering of neighbours began to move away, most of them glancing curiously at Eleanor, the viewer’s niece, in her plain black dress and poke bonnet. But the day was cold and they didn’t linger. After all, there would be no funeral tea to send off poor Mrs Buckle, no, and no doubt it would be the workhouse for the little lass too, for the family had no kin left to help them. Young Ben might manage to get a family to give him house room, as he was used to the pit now and in a year or two would be earning good money as a putter or even a hewer of coal. Housewives with more girls in the house than boys looked appraisingly at Ben and both Eleanor and Mary knew exactly what they were thinking.

  ‘Come, Mary, we should go now,’ Eleanor said when everyone had left and the minister had given them his condolences and gone back to his manse. ‘At least Uncle John has agreed to let you keep the house for now and there’s coal in the coal shed, Prue can get warm.’

  ‘Aye, Mary,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s away, I have to go down with the night-shift men the night.’

  At first Eleanor thought Mary hadn’t heard, she was standing so still, simply looking at the grave. Then, holding Prue with one hand, Mary delved inside her apron and pulled out a bedraggled bunch of snowdrops and laid them at the head. Shaking her head, she turned away, her mood completely changed.

  ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘We’d best get back out of this wind or we’ll all be taking our beds.’ She started to stride towards the gate and then stopped and looked at Eleanor. ‘Do you need me up at the house today, Miss Eleanor? I can leave Prue on her own now, she knows not to do anything daft, she’ll be all right at home in the warm.

  ‘No, no, of course not Mary,’ answered Eleanor. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough I’m sure.’ Though she would have to explain to Grandmother that she had given Mary the rest of the day off, thought Eleanor ruefully as she turned away and started to walk home on her own. She had been going to accompany the family back to their cottage but some instinct told her now that they wanted to be by themselves to mourn in their own way. At least there was bread in the house, she knew that, for Ben had been paid his fortnightly wage yesterday, along with the rest of the men.

  Mary walked back to their tiny cottage in the row with Ben and Prue, her thoughts bitter. Poor Mam, these last years had stretched out for her, filled with such pain that her daughter had longed for her to go. Yet when the end did come it had filled Mary with a wild anger and sorrow. Why had it had to happen? Was it not enough that Da had been taken in the pit? What did God have against them? Why was He punishing them? God didn’t care, she decided. He probably didn’t even know the Buckles existed. If He was there, that is. Maybe He was just an invention to keep the poor folk down, folk like them.

  There was Eleanor Saint an’ all. Thought she was a proper Lady Bountiful, dishing out lavender water to Mam as though that would cure what was eating away her head, bringing them flour and dripping and beef tea when Mam couldn’t eat bread—all she had wanted was strawberries, she’d murmured about them all the time, remembering when she and Da was young and Da had taken her into Durham and bought her them in the market. Eleanor could have got her strawberries, of course she could. Eleanor had plenty money even if that old witch Margaret Wales plagued her all the time. But when Mary had asked her, she had tut-tutted and said strawberries were too expensive and unnecessary.

  No, thought Mary as she opened the door of the cottage and stepped in, keeping her eyes averted from the empty bed in the corner, Eleanor knew nowt really, she didn’t. She was just playing at being a Saint by nature as well as name.

  ‘Howay then,’ Mary said sharply to Ben. ‘Get your pit clothes on, we can’t afford for you to miss the cage going down the day.’

  Mary knew she was being unfair, both to Eleanor and Ben, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She was full of rage against God and the world.

  Ben’s face was white and drawn, his eyes full. Listlessly he changed and picked up the battered bait tin containing his jam sandwiches and slipped the water bottle into the pocket of his coat.

  ‘I’m off then,’ he said and went out of the door, joining the stream of night-shift men making for the pit head.

  It had taken Uncle John to persuade Grandmother that Mary was suitable to be her maid, mused Eleanor as she walked home.

  ‘What does the chit want with a maid?’ Grandmother had asked. ‘It’s a waste of money, that’s what it is, and mark my words, she’ll be putting on airs next, think she’s as good as the gentry.’

  Which was a bit much coming from Grandmother, who put on airs all the time and was always disciplining Eleanor for mingling with the pit folk.

  ‘Miss Barnes has a personal maid,’ Uncle John remarked slyly and that silenced Grandmother. For Miss Barnes was the daughter of the agent, the man who oversaw all the mine managers such as Uncle John, and Grandmother tried to follow the agent’s wife in all things.

  ‘She’ll have to help in the kitchen as well then,’ Grandmother had said and so it had been agreed. Mary had come to the viewer’s house to work and was allowed to sleep out to enable her to see to her family, although it turned out that in practice she was more of a kitchen maid than a personal one.

  As Eleanor took her cloak and bonnet off in the hall of the viewer’s house, all her sad thoughts disappeared. There, propped up on the hall table, was a letter. A letter from London – oh, it had to be a letter from Florence Nightingale, surely it would tell her what to do, how to break out of her narrow, boring little life. Snatching it up, she carried it upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door so she could read it in privacy. Her heart beat fast as she stood with her back to the door and opened the letter, noting the address: the Institute for Sick Gentlemen. Seeing the notice in The Times that Florence Nightingale had been appointed superintendent of the Institute had been the spur that had prompted Eleanor to write to her. Oh, she was ready to run away to London tomorrow to join Miss
Nightingale; she was willing to scrub floors, clean out bedpans even, anything, if only she could train as a nurse, a proper nurse.

  Miss Nightingale did not want her. That was the gist of the letter. Set out in forthright terms, it told her she was not educated enough, she was not old enough, even that she was not quite of the class from which Miss Nightingale intended to draw her nurses. And it advised her that even if she had been she would need written permission from her guardian.

  ‘Miss Nightingale suggests that if you really feel you have a vocation then you will find a niche in your own community.’

  The ending was polite but curt and it wasn’t even signed by Florence Nightingale but some secretary whose name Eleanor couldn’t decipher.

  Crushing the letter into a ball, Eleanor threw it under the bed and herself on top where she beat at the pillow with her fists, anger surging through her. So she wasn’t good enough to train as a nurse, that was the nub of it. Well, she’d show them, oh yes she would, she’d show them all, Miss Florence Nightingale, Grandmother, Uncle John, everybody. She would train herself, work among the pit folk, help Dr Andrews, send away for books out of her allowance. Turning over on to her back, Eleanor set to work making plans. Florence Nightingale had started on her own, hadn’t she? Well, of course, she had gone to Germany to undertake some training, but what could the Germans teach Eleanor that she couldn’t teach herself?

  Francis was in his lodging house in Newcastle packing his bag, which stood open on his bed. At last he was beginning to realise his ambition, at last he was giving up the world of commerce and dedicating his life to the service of God. He paused for a moment, a spare pair of stockings in his hand, and gazed out of the window of the lodging house on the quay, over the river to Gateshead, though he wasn’t seeing the Tyne or the coal staithes dropping their coal into the keel boats. No, he was seeing the Thames at Richmond and the Wesleyan College where he was soon to begin his training. A river as different from the Tyne as … as heaven was from earth, he thought.