The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  Amy smiled warmly, loving him with a pain that almost cleaved her heart in two. His eyes widened, and then she felt it: a faint responding pressure, steadily increasing as the squeeze was returned. Amy’s heart lurched. She held her breath.

  She lost track of time as they sat, eyes for no one but each other and her fingers starting to numb as he held on, but she didn’t care – he was telling her something, she was sure of it. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, but Jude did not see them. He had closed his eyes, and the bitter sneer that had been on his lips each and every visit had been replaced by something resembling a smile.

  They had turned a corner.

  9

  Intake Farm

  Autumn, 1912

  On the Sunday morning of the day that Jude was coming to tea, Amy overslept. When she finally wakened, a rush of nervous anticipation overwhelmed her. In a few hours from now, Jude would arrive to meet her family, albeit he had already met two of its members in less than pleasant circumstances. Pushing that unfortunate factor aside, Amy determined to make sure nothing marred the occasion. After all, she told herself as she stepped out of bed, it was her father that Jude was coming to meet, and Hadley held none of Bessie and Samuel’s petty preconceptions. Her dad judged a man at face value. Surely he would see Jude’s true worth.

  Bolstered by this premise Amy ran downstairs, only to meet a barrage of abuse from Samuel. ‘If you think that bloody collier’s welcome to come for his tea, you’re mistaken,’ he said, his tone of voice and face ugly.

  ‘He is coming, and it’s nothing to do with you, Samuel,’ Amy snapped back.

  Samuel’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s scum, only out for what he can get. He’s been wi’ umpteen lasses in Barnborough whose fathers have a bit o’ brass,’ he taunted, smirking as he judged the effect of this accusation.

  Undaunted, Amy fought back.

  ‘You can spin your filthy lies till the cows come home but you won’t convince me. I know all there is to know about Jude, Sammy; I know the truth.’

  Truth! Bessie cringed. What did Amy know? She clutched the sharp stab of pain under her left breast. These unanswered questions were killing her. She glanced uneasily at Hadley. He surveyed the unpleasant scene with utter repugnance.

  ‘An’ I know he’s a playboy out for an easy catch and you, you daft bitch, can’t see it,’ bawled Samuel.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Hadley thrust back his chair and marched across the kitchen to face Samuel. Samuel blinked his surprise as Hadley, his jowls quivering with rage, prodded him sharply in his chest. ‘You’re getting above yourself, lad, and you,’ Hadley swung round to address Bessie, ‘stop egging him on. I’m sick of it, and so is our Amy. Now—’ He got no further.

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s getting into,’ Bessie screeched, fear staining her cheeks a dull red and darkening her eyes. ‘Our Sammy says—’

  ‘Our Sammy says!’ Hadley’s roar bounced off the walls and ceiling. ‘I’m master in this house and I say the lad’s welcome.’ He gave Bessie and Samuel a warning glare, and his tone softening, he addressed Amy. ‘Bring him to meet us, lass.’

  Shocked by Hadley’s intervention and feeling thoroughly peeved, Bessie wittered, ‘We’re only doing it for her own good.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Hadley, his expression cynical and his voice menacing. ‘The pair of you were doing it for your own ends, whatever they might be.’

  Bessie shuddered.

  *

  At a quarter to three Amy was waiting for Jude at the end of the lane, her heart skipping a beat as he strode towards her. How smart and handsome he looks in his good black suit and white shirt, she thought. He even manages to wear his black eye like a badge, a mark of his bravery. She ran to meet him, his confident bearing quelling the anxiety that Samuel had caused.

  Although Jude appeared perfectly at ease, he was a sack of nerves. He had barely slept knowing that the impression he was about to make would decide his future one way or another. Up until now he had been reasonably content to let life take its course but meeting Amy Elliot had changed the way he saw himself and the world. He wanted nothing more than to spend his life with her; share her hopes and dreams as they explored the years ahead. Bessie and Samuel’s animosity didn’t particularly trouble him. It was Hadley he had to impress. He’d pondered on how he should respond were he to quiz him about his rearing; he might be averse to his daughter marrying a bastard foundling. Yet, he had had the finest upbringing and he would make sure Hadley knew it. With this in mind he ran the last few steps into Amy’s open arms.

  In the kitchen at Intake Farm, the table was set for afternoon tea. At Hadley’s insistence Bessie had reluctantly prepared a spread of boiled ham and roast beef sandwiches, cake and biscuits. ‘Let’s show the lad we know how to entertain,’ he had joshed, ‘let him know that our Amy’s used to nothing but the best.’

  Bessie had curled her lip.

  Now, seated in his place at the head of the table and dressed in his Sunday best, Hadley looked from one son to the other, Samuel lounging in a chair by the hearth and Thomas at the table. ‘Think on now. Behave like gentlemen,’ he said, the faintest warning colouring his tone.

  Samuel jerked upright. ‘We’re not stopping. I’ll not sit at the same table as that fellow,’ he said haughtily. ‘Come on, Thomas, we’re leaving.’

  ‘But… but…’ Thomas gazed longingly at the cake and biscuits.

  ‘Up! Now!’ Samuel bawled.

  Thomas jumped to attention.

  When Jude and Amy entered the kitchen, Amy was relieved to find neither of her brothers present. Hadley welcomed them warmly but Bessie fussed over the teapot, avoiding Jude’s courteous greetings.

  ‘My, my,’ said Hadley, noting Jude’s black eye, ‘you look as though you’ve been in the wars, lad.’ Yet again, Jude trotted out the same lie. ‘Accidents happen all the time down the pit.’ Bessie stole a glance at his bruised face and murmured something about taking more care.

  Amy ushered Jude to a chair at the table and sat beside him. Bessie brought the teapot and sat down. Hadley began talking about the dangers of working in the pit, chuckling before saying, ‘I thought our Amy had brought home a brawler – you know – one of them chaps that likes to fight after a few pints in the pub.’

  ‘Oh, Dad! You couldn’t be more wrong,’ said Amy.

  ‘She’s right, Mr Elliot. I’m no fighter.’ Jude paused. ‘But I can handle myself when needs be.’ He grinned at Hadley and then looked across at Bessie, surprised to find her gazing at him watchfully. Did she doubt his story, he wondered? Had he been able to read Bessie’s mind, he would have learned that she was regretting having wasted her money; if a black eye and a grazed cheek were all that the Bensons had managed to give him then he was a fighter, and they weren’t worth paying. And why was he telling the tale about getting hurt down the pit?

  They began to eat. Shedding their nervousness, Amy and Jude soon settled into easy conversation with Hadley, the subjects flitting from one to another: Jude’s occupation and his plans for the future, the politics of the day (Amy quite animated when the talk turned to the suffragettes and Mrs Pankhurst’s recent imprisonment), and Hadley equally animated as he told Jude the history of the Elliot family and Intake Farm.

  Bessie spoke little, her sullen demeanour not escaping Jude’s notice. Rather than distress him, it made him all the more determined to win her over. He started by praising the splendid tea, adding that he hoped Amy was as wonderful a hostess as her mother. Bessie blushed at his flattery and Jude, quick to spot this, told her it wasn’t difficult to see where Amy had inherited her beauty. Bessie found herself warming to his charms, her vanity almost her undoing. Then she remembered; he was Raffy Lovell’s son.

  *

  On Monday evening Amy called with Beattie. Bert’s whippet, Towser, lay in the doorway. Amy stepped over him and then picked her way round Albert and Fred sprawled on the linoleum. Emptying a chair piled high with cast-off garments she sat oppos
ite Beattie, feeling as though she had successfully completed an obstacle course.

  ‘Jude came to tea yesterday,’ Amy said, leaning forward so that her sister could hear over the children and Bert’s chatter.

  ‘And…’ Beattie’s dark eyes flashed with curiosity.

  Amy grinned. ‘It wasn’t half as bad as I thought it might be. In fact, Jude was so charming I think he won Mother over.’

  ‘My, he must be a charmer if he managed that,’ Beattie hooted. ‘I can’t wait to meet him.’ Then, she too leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and said, ‘But watch out for her. Mother can rip the heart out of things quicker than you can bat your eyelids.’ She didn’t add, ‘and I should know,’ but Amy knew Beattie thought just that.

  *

  The mellow autumn weather of late September and early October lent a vivid background of scents and colour to every meeting Amy and Jude now shared. Snatched meetings no longer necessary, they freely walked the streets of Barnborough or, time allowing, wandered further afield to Wentworth Park or Stainborough Castle delighting in the mystery of these historic places and each other’s company. As the last leaves withered on the trees and the nights chilled, they stayed in the comfort of Lily Tinker’s happy little home, or at Intake Farm.

  Hadley welcomed evenings spent with his lively, sweet-natured daughter and the knowledgeable young man he had grown to respect and was much better company than his bickering wife and sullen sons. They always found plenty to talk about, Amy loving the way Jude leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees as he listened earnestly to Hadley reminiscing about days gone by, and Hadley impressed by Jude’s knowledge of country matters, or laughing heartily at Amy’s amusing accounts regarding the peculiarities of some of the library’s clientele.

  Bessie hovered on the edge of these gatherings, ever watchful should Jude reveal what he knew about his upbringing but, as winter approached, her fear of being incriminated lessened. He talked fondly of Jenny and Henry Leas, giving no indication they were anything other than his natural parents. There were, however, one or two sticky moments that made Bessie’s blood run cold.

  One evening, Jude remarked on the insularity of his home in Bird’s Well. ‘It was my father’s home place, not my mother’s. She came from Barnborough. She was Jenny Parkinson to her own name.’ He glanced at Bessie. ‘You might have known her,’ he said.

  Bessie denied it with an impatient shake of her head. Hadley frowned, and gave her an enquiring look. ‘Wasn’t that the name of your friend? The one you ran about with afore you married me.’

  ‘She was Patterson, Jenny Patterson.’ The lie flew from Bessie’s tongue far more fervently than she intended.

  Amy blinked at the vehemence of Bessie response. ‘There’s no need to get cross,’ she said, thinking not for the first time how oddly her mother behaved in Jude’s company, her watchful nervousness quite at odds with her usual bossiness.

  Another occasion was when Hadley asked Jude how he came by his name. ‘It’s not common in these parts,’ he said. ‘Is it a Leas family name?’

  Jude chuckled. ‘I didn’t have a name when my mother got me and seeing as how she believed St Jude was the saint of lost causes, and that her cause was lost until I arrived, she named me after him.’ He smiled at the explanation.

  Samuel, who had come into the kitchen a short while before, sniggered. ‘That’s a funny way of putting it. Nobody has a name when they’re born. You sound as though she found you under a gooseberry bush.’ He smirked at his own wit.

  Bessie clasped the handle of her teacup so tightly it snapped off with a sharp click. Tea spilled into her lap, the colour seeping from her plump cheeks as she waited for Jude to confirm that he’d been delivered in a basket. By a woman called Bessie Elliot.

  Jude, realising he had said too much, and still of the opinion that being a bastard foundling was his business and no one else’s, rushed to her rescue. ‘Here, mop it up with this.’ He handed her a teacloth and then asked, ‘It didn’t scald you, did it?’ He smiled sympathetically into Bessie’s stricken face. She essayed a smile, touched by his concern. What a pity it was that he couldn’t have been someone else’s son. He was kind and gentle, intelligent and hardworking, and no doubt he’d make Amy a good husband, thought Bessie. But although Jenny Leas is dead and Raffy Lovell long gone, I can’t be sure my secret’s safe as long as he’s around.

  Towards the end of the evening, Samuel announced he was going to check on the animals. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Jude, and when they were out in the yard he bluntly asked, ‘Was it you set the Bensons on me the other night?’

  Samuel looked blank, and then spluttered, ‘What are you on about?’ Jude told him, and after a brief interrogation, Samuel robustly denying having any involvement, Jude was left believing him. Amy had been right, but if Samuel wasn’t the Bensons’ accomplice then who was?

  Back in the kitchen, helping Amy into her coat, Jude was aware that Bessie was observing him in that strange manner he had seen many times before. He frequently sensed she was waiting to catch him out – but in what, he didn’t know.

  *

  Amy wanted to share her happiness. She also wanted to make Beattie happy. So, on some Saturday nights she and Jude went to the house in Grattan Row and babysat whilst Bert and Beattie went to the Miners’ Welfare Club. At other times they all stayed in, Bert fetching bottles of beer from the pub for himself and Jude and bottles of milk stout for Amy and Beattie.

  ‘Be quick an’ shut that bloody door. It’s bringing t’smoke down t’chimney,’ Bert Stitt yelled, one blustery November evening as Amy stepped inside, Jude at her heels. A gust of black pother clouded the fireplace, Beattie flapping at it with a newspaper and calling out, ‘Come in, come in.’ She was wearing a neat brown dress and her hair was smoothly coiled; she looked almost pretty. Amy could tell she had cleaned the house in honour of their visit. It pleased her.

  ‘Auntie Amy! Uncle Jude!’ chorused the young Stitts, happy to greet the aunt who brought treats and the uncle who showed them magic tricks. Jude had bought a game of Ludo and whilst he showed Maggie, Albert and Fred how to play it, Amy helped Beattie put Henry and Mary to bed.

  ‘Your Jude’s gorgeous. I bet he’s smashing in bed,’ Beattie gushed, as she stripped Mary down to her knickers. ‘If I wasn’t wed to Bert, I’d make a play for him meself.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Amy expostulated, at the same time wondering when it was that her sister had acquired a lust for men other than her husband. Beattie was a strange creature, and Amy never really understood what was going on inside her head.

  Later, all the children in bed, the two sisters and their husbands sat gossiping and playing cards, Beattie flirting with Jude and Amy thinking how different her sister’s temperament might have been had the younger Beattie been exposed to the fun and friendship she now enjoyed. Amy had never understood Bessie’s apparent dislike for her firstborn child. It was at complete odds to the affection she showed for Amy herself and her brothers, and somehow Amy felt responsible for this. Therefore, making Beattie happy had its rewards – as long as she kept her hands off Jude.

  When the card game ended, Beattie and Amy went into the kitchen to make suppertime tea and sandwiches. ‘And how are the good folk up at Intake Farm?’ Beattie asked archly.

  ‘Dad’s being lovely as usual. He’s really taken to Jude, but he’s mad as hell at Sammy for not fixing the barn roof. Mam’s never done refereeing the rows between them.’

  ‘How’s she taking to him?’ Beattie flicked her thumb in the direction of the parlour and Jude.

  Amy responded with a puzzled frown. ‘Strangely,’ she said slowly. ‘She’s not openly unpleasant like she was when they first met, but neither does she waste any of that old Bessie Elliot charm on him. In fact, she seems almost afraid of him – you know, dithery and distracted, as though she’s expecting something awful to happen.’

  ‘What! Bessie Elliot, queen of the kitchen, mistress of all s
he surveys, nervous of your Jude. I don’t believe it.’ Beattie looked smugly pleased.

  ‘It is hard to fathom,’ said Amy, grinning at Beattie’s show of delighted revenge before sarcastically adding, ‘Maybe she fancies him for herself, like you do.’

  They both burst into laughter.

  At times like this, Amy and Beattie felt more like sisters than they ever had before.

  And whilst Bessie’s initial coldness towards Jude had been replaced by jittery acceptance, Amy was still wary of her mother’s moods. As Beattie said, she could turn in the wink of an eye.

  *

  When Amy announced that she and Jude would marry early in the New Year, Bessie bitterly objected. ‘You haven’t known one another long enough,’ she argued on one occasion. ‘It’s an unseasonal time for a wedding, wait till spring,’ was another of her excuses. One day she said, ‘Why don’t you get married after Jude’s completed his college course?’ Secretly she hoped the romance would run its course, for although her fear of Jude revealing her secrets had lessened, she still didn’t want Raffy Lovell’s son for a son-in-law.

  10

  Raffy Lovell hobbled down the deserted street, the pack on his back weighing heavier with every step. His feet were paining him badly, the sole of his boot flapping on the pavement where it had parted from the upper. Head down, he plodded on, his steps faltering as a sudden sharp wind threatened to unbalance him. It was close on midnight, shops and houses in darkness, the town’s inhabitants safe in their warm beds, and Raffy was looking for a place to sleep on this cold November night. He had been travelling the roads for three days to come this far, hitching rides from the borders of Wales to Barnborough, and walking for much of the way.