by Maggie Hope
‘Is she dead?’
Morgan was standing over them, swaying. His words were slurred and he sounded only vaguely interested in the answer.
‘No, she’s not dead, no thanks to you,’ said Francis. Carefully he lifted her and laid her down on the sofa. ‘She needs a doctor though, someone will have to go for Dr Andrews.’
Morgan sat down heavily. ‘Aw, she won’t die, I wish the hell she would. Her and that damned brat—’
‘Shut your foul mouth! She needs a doctor, I’m not leaving her here alone with you. Go and get a doctor!’ shouted Francis. ‘Perhaps you don’t care if she dies, but if she does, you’ll hang for it, man, it’s your own skin we’re talking about. Are you too drunk to see that?’
‘Aye, and you, you damned hypocrite,’ Morgan went on, completely ignoring what Francis was shouting, as though he hadn’t heard. ‘You stole my cotton, God damn it—’
Francis looked at Mary; was she coming round? Maybe she had concussion, but if she had cracked her head on the solid leg of the mahogany table as she went down, she could have fractured her skull. He couldn’t wait any more. He rose from where he had been kneeling by her and flung himself at Morgan, grasping him around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides, and attempted to drag him out of the cottage.
The chair went over with a crash and they lurched towards the fireplace where Morgan managed to get an arm free and swung it wildly at Francis’s head, connecting instead with the looking glass hanging on the wall and bringing it to the ground, where it shattered into a hundred silvery shards.
They were both big men, though Morgan was more used to fighting, but he had been drinking and was unsteady, so Francis eventually had the advantage, was actually managing to get his opponent to the front door. On the way Morgan’s fist caught him a blow on the head and he staggered into the window and more glass went tinkling out on to a flowerbed. And then there was the problem of getting the door open without leaving hold of Morgan.
Red-faced and grunting, they were struggling when the door burst open and Ben came hurtling into the room. He saw his sister lying motionless on the sofa, the fist that Morgan swung at Francis, this time catching him full in the face as Francis was distracted by the door opening. Both men fell to the floor, Morgan pulled down by the tight grip that Francis still had on him.
Ben’s fists were hardened by years of using a pick and shovel in the mine, and if he could have reached Morgan he would probably have killed him. But as he jumped into the fray, he found his shoulder gripped in a hand almost as strong as his. He was swung round and found himself facing Sergeant Blenkin.
‘Now then, if you’re thinking of joining in, best not,’ the sergeant said heavily and Ben stood panting and blinking, his arms swinging. Desperate as he was to give Morgan a hiding, his ingrained respect for the law held him there.
‘Right then, what’s this all about?’ demanded the sergeant. Francis was staggering to his feet, still holding on to Morgan. On the sofa Mary moaned and moved her head, a little colour coming back into her face.
The room was quiet for barely an instant and then Morgan saw the policeman’s blue uniform cape and helmet and, making a desperate effort, shook off Francis’s hold and ran for the door, knocking into Sergeant Blenkin and bouncing off him, out of the door and into the street. Even as the sergeant turned to follow him there was a wild scream and it was hard to tell whether it was the man or the horse as Morgan ran straight under the animal’s feet.
‘Whoa, there, whoa!’ someone was shouting, the horse was rearing and there was the awful grating of brakes on the iron rims of cart wheels. All three men moved to the doorway and stared at the joiner’s cart with Henry Hind standing up as he still hauled on the reins and the horse puffing and blowing white steam from its nostrils, its eyes rolling as it tossed its head.
Chapter Thirty-five
‘The thing that I’m most thankful for is that we had the children safely in Mrs Teesdale’s kitchen with the door firmly closed when it happened,’ said Eleanor. She was with Mary in the sitting room of Wood End Cottage. She and Elizabeth had cleared away the broken mirror and other ornaments that had been knocked over in the fight. They had picked up the overturned chairs, straightened the antimacassars and put the cushions back in their places.
She and Mary had just waved goodbye to Ben and Elizabeth.
‘I won’t leave you, pet,’ Ben had said to Mary. ‘The Lord knows you have had some terrible shocks today and then being knocked out like that …’
One side of Mary’s face was swollen, she found it difficult to talk and her head ached abominably where clumps of her hair had been pulled out by the roots. But she hastened to reassure her brother.
‘I’ll be fine, Ben, really. You go, you have to be down the pit, I know and you’re late enough as it is.’
‘Well, if you didn’t have Mrs Tait, I would stay,’ he said, unsure what to do. ‘And Mr Tait will be back soon, I’m sure he will.’
Francis was at the police station making a statement. He had been in a brawl, after all, and a man had been killed, albeit accidentally.
In the end, Ben and Elizabeth went back to Black Boy, assuring Mary they would be back at the weekend to see how she and Ruth were faring. Much as she loved her brother, Mary was glad when the room was quiet, her head ached so.
Eleanor made a pot of tea and they sat sipping it in silence, each of them thinking their own thoughts. Emily Teesdale had kept the children with her so at least they didn’t have to worry about them for an hour or so.
Francis, oh goodness, what would happen to Francis? Surely the church would understand, they wouldn’t penalise him for defending a helpless woman against a violent husband? That’s what he had been doing, not really fighting but simply trying to hold Morgan, to keep him away from his wife.
Was Mary mourning for Morgan? After all, she had married him, she must have loved him at the beginning. Eleanor looked across at her as she lay, propped up on the sofa with cushions as she drank her tea. Mary’s colour was much better now, she saw. No, surely she couldn’t be mourning him, not like a bereaved wife normally would.
Dr Andrews had been and examined her. No serious damage, he had said, slight concussion perhaps, the bruising of course, and shock.
‘Keep her warm and quiet,’ he had said. ‘Plenty of hot sweet tea and a light diet. I’ll come back in the morning just to make sure.’ Eleanor had walked out to the gate with him.
‘A bad business,’ he had said. ‘A bad day altogether. I dropped in on poor Mrs Hopper earlier. All those wee children, half-starved by the look of them.’ He paused and closed the gate behind him before asking abruptly, ‘Are you intending to stay much longer, Mrs Tait? I have noticed how much good you have done in the village since you’ve been here. I remember when you were a girl, how you tried so hard to help them. So eager to learn, you were. You could help the Hoppers a lot, I think, and there are others …’ He stopped speaking and gazed across the street pensively. ‘Aye, it’s a sad world, is it not, Mrs Tait? There’s a deal of missionary work to be done here, I’m thinking. But of course you must go where your husband goes. I’ll bid you good day then.’
Lifting his hat, he opened the door at the back of his tub trap and climbed aboard. Eleanor went back inside.
‘Perhaps you should go to bed before I bring the children home,’ she suggested to Mary. ‘If your head aches they won’t help it.’
‘No, I’ll wait, it will only worry Ruth, she’ll know I’m in bed because I was hurt.’
‘Will you tell her how Morgan was killed?’
‘I’ll have to, she would find out anyway. Best it comes from me.’
Henry had heard the row at Wood End Cottage as he was returning the horse and cart to the stables after taking the body of Jim Hopper home to his wife. He was in a state of shock after the accident and he couldn’t stop talking; he had to explain it all to the sergeant, to anyone there.
Poor Henry, thought Mary, what a day he’s had an’
all. As she lay on the sofa she had heard his voice in the doorway as he explained to the police sergeant. By, what a good job it was that the sergeant was there! At least he had seen that it was an accident and could tell his superiors so.
‘I jumped back on the cart and drove straight here, I thought she needed me,’ Henry had said, nodding his head towards Mary.
‘Mrs West, do you mean?’ asked the policeman.
‘Yes, well, her being on her own … And then he just ran straight out at me, I hadn’t a chance, the horse wasn’t even going fast, we were slowing to stop—’
‘Aye, I know, son,’ said Sergeant Blenkin. ‘I was there, don’t forget. But why would she need you in particular?’
Henry’s colour changed from white to red. ‘Nothing, only, well, I had been working on her alterations, I knew she was a woman on her own, like.’
If it sounded lame, the sergeant didn’t comment. Just nodded his head in understanding. On the other hand he had been quite curt with Francis.
‘You will have to come down to the police station with me, Minister,’ he had said. ‘We will need a statement from you.’ He had gazed at Francis, his eyes expressionless, and Eleanor didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not. It bothered her; it was still bothering her.
‘I’ll go for the children,’ she said now, rising to her feet. ‘It’s dark already, I’ll give them their supper and get them to bed. They’ve had enough for today – I hope there are no nightmares.’ Fleetingly she thought of John and his disturbed nights after he and his brother were kidnapped. No, she thought, please God, no more nightmares.
Mary nodded silently. She didn’t seem to have the energy to speak. A great weariness had taken hold of her; she was only keeping herself awake because she felt she had to for Ruth’s sake. After she had seen Ruth, talked to her and reassured her, perhaps gone to bed with her so that they could lie in each other’s arms, then she would be able to sleep.
The children thanked Emily for having them; Eleanor took Edward in her arms and they walked to Wood End Cottage, the older children quiet by her side. But as they neared the cottage, Ruth hung back, unwilling to go in.
‘Come on, Ruth,’ said Eleanor. The night was cold, the wind biting and she was exhausted, not just because of the happenings of the day, but with worry for Francis.
‘Pa’s there,’ said Ruth.
‘No, he’s not,’ Eleanor said. ‘He’s gone, Ruth, he’s never coming back.’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No, pet. It’s the truth.’
But the child could not be persuaded and Eleanor cast about for a way to get her inside without actually forcing her.
‘If the boys go in first and make sure he’s gone, will you believe them?’ she said at last.
Ruth nodded dumbly.
‘I’ll go,’ said Francis William and darted to the heavy door, lifting the sneck and pushing it open with a grunt. After a moment he came out again, Mary by his side. ‘He’s gone!’ he shouted.
‘Howay, lass,’ said Mary. ‘Come inside. It’s nice and warm and there’s no one here but me.’
It was near on eleven when Francis returned. The lamp had burned low and eventually gone out and Eleanor was sitting by herself in the flickering light of the coal fire.
‘How’s Mary?’ he asked as he closed the door and turned the key in the lock. His voice was barely audible, it was so husky.
‘Sleeping. I think she will be all right now.’
Eleanor took down the candlestick that stood on the corner of the mantelpiece and lit the candle. It had begun to snow around ten o’clock and she waited while he went into the kitchen, shook the snow off his greatcoat in the brownstone sink and came back to the fire, sitting down and stretching his hands out to the blaze.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Just a minute, let me catch my breath.’
‘I’ll bring your supper then, you must be hungry.’
‘Just bread and cheese for me, it’s a hot drink I need.’
She put the kettle on and went out for the bread board and the cheese and laid a tray for him so that he could eat by the fire. When the kettle boiled she spooned tea into the pot and poured the boiling water over it. All the time she was in an agony of impatience.
Francis took a sip of the tea and cradled his hands around the cup. He cleared his throat and took another sip and then he was ready to speak.
‘Sorry, I know you’re anxious. But I’ve been talking for hours, or so it seems, I had to have a drink.’ He sat back in his chair, ignoring the bread and cheese.
‘You’re not in any trouble with the law, are you, Francis?’ she couldn’t help asking.
‘No, no, don’t worry, love. But I had to explain everything that has happened. In the end they attached no blame to me, they accepted that I was merely trying to keep Morgan West from hurting his wife. And of course, the accident was no one’s fault but his own. He had been drinking, you see. And evidently, there was some trouble with him in Durham, he got into an argument with the police there, he spent last night in the cells, drunk and disorderly. So you see, there was no need to worry about me, none at all.’
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God, Francis,’ she said.
‘Indeed.’
The next morning the whole village lay under a foot of snow and more was falling, drifting softly down and building up on the window sills so that it was almost impossible to see out. When Francis opened the front door there was a wall of snow drifted up against the wood and the children stared in wonderment, everything forgotten but the magic of the changed world. Snow was something they had seen in pictures, but they had not really believed in it.
‘Who is going to help me clear the paths?’ he asked and there was an eager chorus from the children. Even Ruth appeared to have put the trauma of the day before behind her and she rushed to get dressed as quickly as the boys and stood impatiently while her mother wrapped a scarf round her head and across her chest and tied it at the back.
There was a tremendous crashing and banging as the pit wagon came down the road, dragging the snow plough and tossing snow high in the air to land on the hedgerows.
‘A waste of time,’ said Francis as he ducked back into the doorway to avoid being covered. ‘It’s still coming down.’
But the back shift men had to get to the pit, snow or no snow. ‘No work, no pay,’ said Mary from her place on the sofa.
It was not until the following day that the snow stopped and the pale watery sun picked out sparkling lights on the icicles hanging from the eaves. The road was a horrible brown mush by then, alternating with sheets of ice. But the boys and Ruth joined the rest of the village children and spent the afternoon sledging down the bank behind the paddock. Some intrepid souls had a go down the side of the slag heap when no one was looking and were chased by a banksman with a broom when they were seen.
‘Little beggars!’ he shouted at them as they fled into the open fields. ‘They’ll be tipping there any minute, do you want to be covered in slag?’
Eleanor and Francis went to pay their respects to Eliza Hopper the day before the funeral. She sat in her threadbare front room, the coffin set on trestle tables in the middle and her children by her side, a kind of dignity surrounding them. Afterwards the whole village turned out, but for the men on shift, to see Jim Hopper buried.
The next day it was the turn of Morgan West. He was laid to rest next to Jim.
‘Accidental death,’ the coroner had said at the inquest. ‘I extend my sympathies to his widow and child.’
Mary stood by the graveside with Francis and Eleanor beside her and for the first time, she shed tears. Not for the man who was dead, she could not be sorry about him, but for the man she had thought she was marrying, the dashing American who had been so sympathetic when her sister ran away in Sydney. And the dreams she had had, the marriage they could have had. But when the service was over she turned away from the grave without a back
ward glance and walked away with Eleanor and Francis on either side of her.
Francis was away a lot during the next few days, though Eleanor hardly had time to notice; she was happy going round with Dr Andrews, taking up her old role as voluntary nurse to the miners and their families. Though, with the bad weather, the threat of cholera had receded, there were plenty of diseases that were impervious to the cold.
John and Francis William were attending the Wesleyan School, as was Ruth, though she was upset that she had to go in a separate entrance to the boys and sit with the other girls.
‘I have decided to take a house here,’ Francis said, almost casually one evening, in the privacy of their own room. ‘We really cannot impose on Mary any longer.’
Eleanor paused in the act of rolling down her black woollen stockings, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Take a house here?’ she echoed.
‘Yes.’ He came and sat down beside her on the bed, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘I think we should not go back to Fiji. Australia maybe, I’m not sure.’ He paused and looked at her sideways, gauging her reaction. ‘There is work to do here.’
‘Really? I mean, you really want to stay?’ Eleanor asked. He nodded.
She threw her stocking on to a chair and lay back in the bed, holding back the bedclothes invitingly. ‘Come to bed, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Let me warm you.’
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