Confident that she had found the answer, and already planning her next visit, when the train for Barnborough chugged to a halt she boarded with a ready step. Come hell or high water, she would bring Jude back from his living nightmare.
But when she was settled on the train, lulled by its persistent clickety-clack, her thoughts refused to dwell on Jude’s predicament, terrible though it was. Before long, she was recalling another family tragedy, one that had its beginnings long before she was born and had ended cruelly and needlessly – and all because of the war.
2
Intake Farm, Barnborough
Spring, 1906
Amy Elliot was curled up on the window seat in her bedroom at Intake Farm, a copy of Pride and Prejudice in her lap. Like many thirteen-year-old girls, she loved romantic stories, but today Elizabeth and Mr Darcy held no fascination. Something was going on below in the kitchen, and with her ear close to the open window Amy was doing her best to hear what it was her parents and her older sister, Beatrice, were arguing about: something serious, that was for sure.
Amy was the youngest of Bessie and Hadley’s children, and Hadley’s favourite child. Blonde and bonny, she was the image of the young Bessie he had ardently courted and won, but she had none of her mother’s guile or bossiness. Amy was a sweet-natured, thoughtful girl, unlike Beatrice whose dark complexion and surly demeanour was, and had been for many years, the cause of Hadley’s present aggravation. Now, as he attempted to silence his wife’s bitter words, he was saddened to think how different the female members of his family were. Amy heard his pleading tones, and thought how like her mild-mannered dad it was to attempt to pour oil on troubled waters.
She craned her neck closer to the open window. They were talking about Beatrice; that much she understood. Her father sounded sad. Her mother sounded furious. What had Beatrice done now, she wondered? Not that it was unusual for Bessie to be angry with Beatrice, for no matter what she did she rarely escaped her mother’s waspish tongue and flailing hand. Poor Beatrice, thought Amy, a sudden rush of guilt at her own privileged rearing making her kind heart ache.
For as long as Amy could remember, Beatrice had always been the wrong shape and the wrong colour as far as her mother was concerned. She didn’t understand why; all she knew was that no matter how hard her older sister tried – and she did try – she never managed to please their mother. Then, she was sullen and cheeky, refusing to respond when spoken to, or answering back in an insolent manner that usually earned her a clout. Bessie’s wooden spoon beat Beatrice’s knuckles and the back of her head or her legs as frequently as it beat pudding batter, and Amy often wondered why she persisted in provoking their mother; after all, she knew what the outcome would be.
Of late, now that she was older, she had begun to question her mother’s cruelty towards Beatrice. Neither she, nor her older brothers, Samuel and Thomas ever felt the weight of Bessie’s hand, or the razor edge of her tongue. Recently, she had taken to defending her sister, but whenever she did Beatrice had turned on her snarling that she needed nobody’s pity, least of all hers. Yet seeing how lost and lonely Beatrice seemed, Amy wanted to befriend her and was tempted to run downstairs. However, cold reasoning telling her it would make matters worse – it always had done in the past – she stayed where she was, her ears alert to the angry voices.
*
Down below, Beatrice sat at the kitchen table with her shoulders hunched and her head down, her long, black greasy hair hiding her face. Her mother towered over her. At the opposite end of the table, her father’s bulbous blue eyes, troubled and slightly moist, looked into his wife’s. Hers flashed spitefully. He ran a fleshy hand over his florid face and said, ‘She’s not the first, and she won’t be the last. Don’t be so hard on her, Bessie.’ He sounded weary.
Hearing her father’s sympathetic tones Beatrice raised her head and, tucking her hair behind her ears, she stared defiantly at her mother.
Bessie glared back. ‘I always knew she’d come to no good,’ she shrilled, ‘bringing shame on this house, and at her age.’
‘What do you mean, my age? I’m twenty-three, well old enough to be married,’ Beatrice said sullenly.
‘Aye, but not old enough to know better,’ snarled Bessie. ‘Oh no, not you. You had to go and get yourself pregnant. Was that the only way you thought you’d get him?’
‘Now, now, Bessie, that’s a cruel thing to say,’ Hadley chided, ‘she says the lad’s willing to marry her. And like I said, she’s not the first to make her vows with a baby in her belly.’ He added weight to his last remark.
Bessie shot him an agitated glance. The bland expression that met hers stilled the fluttering in her stomach.
‘We don’t even know who he is, Hadley. Her ladyship didn’t have the courtesy to introduce him to us before getting herself in the family way.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll meet him soon enough things being what they are.’
Hadley headed for the outer door, eager to put an end to the wrangling. He was saddened by Beatrice’s predicament but he detested confrontation, particularly when it involved Bessie. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn out to be a grand sort of chap,’ he said, hurrying out to the yard.
Left alone with her mother, Beatrice gazed at her sullenly, her long, sallow face the picture of misery. ‘I’ve never done anything that pleased you,’ she whined. ‘All you care about is your blue-eyed boys and your precious little darling.’ She scowled at Bessie, daring her to deny it. Bessie strode over to the sink, Beatrice’s grievances competing with the rattle of crockery. ‘It’s always been our Sammy, our Thomas and our Amy before me, and once I was old enough you made me skivvy after them like I was a servant. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve never loved me like you love them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Bessie half-turned, spitting out the denial although she knew it was a lie. She hadn’t wanted Beatrice like she had wanted her other children, their blond hair and blue eyes making them the image of herself and Hadley. But then, Beatrice wasn’t Hadley’s daughter.
Bessie turned her back to Beatrice, her thoughts burning with memories of Raffy Lovell. She could still feel his hands about her waist and his thighs pressed to hers, his hot breath on her neck. It had been the night of the Easter Fair, and she had been riding on the Cocks and Hens when he’d jumped up behind her. She’d turned, looking into a pair of mischievous eyes as black as currants. By the time Bessie had known for certain that she was pregnant, Raffy and the fair were long gone.
Drying her hands, Bessie lifted a little dustpan and a bird’s wing from the shelf above the range. At the table she brushed crumbs from the tablecloth, her eyes on Beatrice. She sighed heavily. Whereas Raffy’s dark complexion and finely sculpted features were rakishly handsome, his daughter’s swarthy skin and sharply angular cheekbones and chin made her downright plain, and like him she left a nasty taste in Bessie’s mouth.
‘I thought you’d be glad to see me wed. You’re never done reminding me I’m still on the shelf,’ Beatrice moaned, twisting her lank hair round her work-worn fingers.
Bessie brushed crumbs, her mind on her own marriage and the haste in which it had been arranged. Hadley had courted her for some time, bringing little gifts of a clutch of duck’s eggs or a posy of flowers to woo her. But he wasn’t the sort of man she’d wanted for a husband. More than twice her age, he carried too much weight, and his florid complexion, sparse fair hair and bulbous, blue eyes were in sharp contrast to the dark and dashing good looks of Raffy Lovell.
The bird’s wing idle in her hand, she broke out in a sweat as she recalled the panic and the anxious nights she had spent when first she realised she was pregnant. To this day she still marvelled at how quickly a solution had come to her, amazed that she’d not thought of it sooner. She’d married Hadley Elliot.
Poor dear Hadley, she thought guiltily, as she crossed to the door, tossing the crumbs into the yard for the birds. When he had first proposed, Bessie had prettily refused him, her father
berating her roundly and calling her a fool.
Fool or not, she had faced up to the truth. Raffy Lovell was gone, Hadley Elliot her only hope. And now she was the respectable wife of a prosperous farmer, and mother to his children. When she had given birth to a daughter some six months later Hadley had shown no surprise at the premature arrival of his firstborn, and if anyone else thought it suspicious they were careful not to voice their opinions in his company. As for his daughter’s dark complexion, he merely commented that she must take after his grandmother and that they should name the child for her: Beatrice.
From the kitchen door, Bessie watched a flurry of wagtails descend on the crumbs and felt the sourness of her duplicity oozing through her pores. Shaking her head to dispel the feeling and then turning about briskly, she set the dustpan and feather on the shelf. Pull yourself together, she silently intoned, going over to the sink and dabbling her hands in the washing-up water, rinsing the clamminess from her palms. Memories had made her fearful. She had much to lose should Hadley ever find out.
An unexpected wave of sympathy washed over her. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face Beatrice. ‘Aye, well, if you are to be married, and you can’t not be in your condition, you’d better bring him to meet us,’ she said flatly.
Upstairs, from her perch in the window seat, Amy had caught snatches of the angry words enough to make sense of Beatrice’s predicament. Poor Beatrice, but at least the man wanted to marry her; with a home of her own she’d escape Bessie’s cruel tongue. And, Amy acknowledged, what Beatrice had said about their mother favouring the boys and her was nothing but the truth – although she hadn’t liked being referred to as the ‘precious little darling’.
Amy set the unread book aside and got to her feet. She’d go downstairs, pretend she knew nothing of what she’d heard, and be nice to Beatrice. Her sister needed a friend right now.
*
On Sunday afternoon, Amy helped Bessie lay on a spread; Beatrice’s young man was coming for tea. Hadley was already seated at the head of the table ready to make their visitor welcome, and hopeful that Bessie would swallow her bitterness and be pleasant. Thomas, his youngest son, always hungry, sat eyeing the large sponge cake. As Amy set out cups and saucers, she wondered if Beatrice’s young man would be as bad as her mother made him out to be (even though she’d never met him) and how she, Amy, should behave towards him. You could never be sure with Mother who you had to be nice to and whom you didn’t. Amy decided she’d be nice; reasoning that it wasn’t his fault Beatrice was having a baby. Then she took a fit of giggles at her foolishness. Of course it was. That’s what men did. She didn’t know quite how they did it, but she knew that babies didn’t happen without them.
‘What’s tickling you?’ Hadley asked fondly.
Amy wasn’t supposed to know about the baby. ‘The idea of me getting married,’ she lied, as she sat down at the table.
The door opened, Beatrice almost pushing Bert Stitt into the kitchen. Eyes barely focused, he stared at the group round the table: a pretty, young girl with blonde curls; a gormless looking, fair-haired fellow of about twenty and a corpulent older man with blue eyes like marbles whom Bert presumed was Hadley Elliot.
Averting his gaze, he looked into the face of the stout, yellow-haired woman standing guard by the range, arms folded across her bosom, her blue eyes cold and unwelcoming. Beside her stood a fat, fair young man with a slack mouth, his blue eyes equally unwelcoming. Bert quaked, at the same time wondering fleetingly why Beatrice resembled none of them.
Beatrice let go of his arm. ‘This is Bert Stitt,’ she said. Bert mumbled a greeting.
‘Come an’ sit you down, lad.’ Hadley, half-standing, beckoned Bert to the table. Seeing an empty chair at the foot of the table, Bert shuffled into it.
‘Not there, that’s our Sammy’s chair.’ Bert shot upright. ‘Sit there,’ said Bessie, pointing to the chair next to the young girl and then snapping, ‘and if you please, Hadley, I’ll do the bidding in my own house.’
Hadley sank back into his chair, an embarrassed smile creasing his face.
‘You can sit next to me, and welcome,’ Amy chirped, and when Bert sat down she nudged him with her elbow and whispered, ‘Nobody’s allowed to sit in our Sammy’s chair but him. He’s the boss in this house.’ Although she had lowered her voice, her words were still audible enough for all to hear.
‘Now Amy, mind your manners. None of your cheek,’ Bessie reprimanded as she brought the teapot to the table.
‘Aye, watch your lip, girl.’ Samuel threw Amy a threatening look, his expression equally unpleasant when it came to rest on Bert. He sat down pompously at the end of the table, Bessie at his right hand.
Tea poured and sandwiches handed round, Bessie began her interrogation. ‘So, Bert, where do you and our Beatrice intend to live once you’re wed?’
Bert noisily swallowed a mouthful of ham and pickle. ‘A pit house by t’colliery. Grattan Row, there’s one come empty, so I wa’ lucky.’ Words garbled, face bright red, he looked beseechingly at Beatrice. Head down, shoulders hunched, she stared stolidly at her plate.
‘You’re a collier then? It’s not a job I’d choose,’ Samuel said, his tone indicating he had little respect for those who did. ‘Crawling about in t’pitch black wouldn’t suit me, an’ you’ve never done but what you’re on strike half the time.’ He helped himself to another sandwich, and then carefully considering which was the largest slice of cake, he lifted that also.
‘Sammy’s scared of the dark,’ Amy whispered.
Bert choked back a giggle before responding to Samuel. ‘Sumdy’s got to do it, an’ we only strike ’cos we want better wages an’ conditions,’ he said.
Samuel’s sneer was ugly.
Hadley intervened. ‘It takes a brave man to go underground and dig for coal that we might be warmed at the fireside.’ He gave Bert a nod of acknowledgement.
Buoyed by her father’s praise for Bert and annoyed at Samuel’s antagonism, Amy said, ‘You couldn’t work down the pit if you wanted to, Sammy. You’d get stuck in the seams.’
Beatrice sniggered. Sponge cake exploded from Samuel’s lips.
‘Amy! I won’t tell you again. Any more of that and you’ll leave the table. Apologise to your brother.’ Bessie patted Samuel’s arm comfortingly. Amy mumbled an apology and Bessie turned her attention back to Bert. ‘What I want to know is, can you keep our Beatrice in the manner to which she’s accustomed?’ she asked imperiously.
Beatrice sniggered again.
‘I think so.’ Bert didn’t sound too sure so Beatrice answered for him.
‘Me and Bert’ll manage just fine. After all, I’m not accustomed to much, am I?’ Her challenging gaze met Bessie’s. Bessie was the first to look away.
For the most part of the next hour Bert silently observed the members of the family he was about to marry into. Although he was not markedly astute, he couldn’t help but notice his future mother-in-law’s discrimination. She fussed over Thomas as though he was half his age and was almost deferential to Samuel, paying particular attention to his every word.
However, it was Bessie’s attitude towards Beatrice that struck him most, indeed hurt him, for whenever she addressed her daughter there was a hard edge to her voice.
Beatrice pretended not to notice, sullenly obeying Bessie’s orders to replenish the teapot or mend the fire. Had Bert been an impetuous man he would have jumped to her defence, but wisely he held his tongue concluding that his heroics could only cause Beatrice more suffering in the long run; her mother was a termagant, her eldest brother a lout, the younger lad a simpleton and her father henpecked. Only Amy had made a good impression.
Bert left Intake Farm with the distinct impression he was rescuing Beatrice.
3
Barnborough
Spring 1912
‘Another whodunit, Mrs Winterbottom? You love a good mystery, don’t you?’ Amy took one of Sexton Blake’s books from the elderly widow’s hand.
Nellie Winterbottom chuckled. ‘Since you put me on to him I’ve read nowt else. Your advice has filled many a lonely hour since I lost my Freddy.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it; there’s nothing like a good book to keep you company,’ Amy said, placing the date stamp firmly on the flysheet. Nellie smiled her thanks and trotted out of the library.
‘I’ll put these back on the shelves,’ Amy said, addressing the other assistant librarian, Freda Haigh, and indicating the cart full of returned books. ‘You can take over here for a while then go for your tea-break.’
Freda was Amy’s friend from schooldays, and it was Amy who had recommended her for a job in the library – something she now regretted. From the outset, Freda had made it quite plain that she envied Amy’s position of superiority, and she frequently attempted to undermine her. Now, she jumped at the chance to work behind the desk checking books in and out. It was an improvement on dusting shelves and rearranging books. However, she was fully aware that the borrowers preferred Amy. They even said so, asking to be attended by the pretty young lady. Yet another thing that rankled, for Freda was a plump, pasty girl with a protruding jaw. She lifted the date stamp to attend to her first client.
Mr Porter, the chemist, shoved the books he was returning across the counter, gruffly enquiring, ‘Where’s the girl who knows what I like to read? She knows every book in this library.’ Freda clenched her jaw and then, imitating Amy, she plastered on a smile and attempted to placate the chemist, at the same time sourly and silently admitting that what he had said was mainly true.
The Collier’s Wife Page 2