‘A good man! He’s a bloody gypsy, I’ll not let…’ Samuel struggled to rise. None too gently, Bessie prodded him back into his chair. When he opened his mouth to object, she shouted him down.
‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ she snapped, fetching him a smart clip across his ear. Samuel’s bulbous blue eyes moistened and his bottom lip wobbled, but it didn’t soften Bessie’s heart. She marched over to the dresser, and returning to the table with a ledger, she slammed it down in front of Samuel and flicked it open. In a voice thick with scorn, she read out the list of debts. ‘And who’s going to settle them? Tell me that, Samuel.’
For a moment there was a deathly silence, Samuel too shocked and Thomas understanding none of it. Bessie raised her hand and Samuel flinched but Bessie simply ruffled his hair. ‘Let’s not fall out, love, you know I’m right, and now’s the time to make some changes.’ Lies tripping from her tongue she said, ‘Raffy worked for your father before you were born. He’s an old friend and your dad trusted him; so do I and whether or not you like it, he’s here to stay.’
Samuel and Thomas looked at one another and then at Raffy, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and dislike tinged with relief. Raffy eyed them back sombrely. ‘You’m a bit late for planting, lads,’ he said, ‘but get the seed in today and ye’ll have a crop of sorts. An’ I be thinking that if ye sells the bull it’ll cover much of what ye owe. He’m knackered, but only ye know that so don’t be letting on.’
Sullenly, Samuel nodded his head. He had fallen for Bessie’s story that Raffy was an old friend of his father’s – he vaguely remembered seeing a gypsy about the place when he was a small boy – and if the old fool wanted to do the work then he’d let him. Lazy as Samuel’s brain was, it told him the farm might not survive otherwise. Thomas gave Raffy a sloppy smile, all teeth; if this man was a friend of his dad’s then he must be a good man.
Raffy now hired, he chivvied Samuel and Thomas out to Top Clough, Sammy carrying the sacks of seed and Thomas the drill. Bessie watched them go with a complacent smile; Intake Farm was in safe hands, and she had got her man.
*
On Sunday afternoon, Amy and Jude walked to Intake Farm to tell Bessie she was about to become a grandmother yet again. They walked in silence for much of the way, each turning over their thoughts on the matter, Amy conscious that her mother would make some objection, and Jude reflecting on his lost opportunity. When they entered the kitchen, they found Raffy Leas sprawled in a chair at the hearth. Amy blinked her surprise. She looked to her mother for answers. Bessie looked flustered as the same lies she had told Samuel and Thomas sprang from her lips; she’d fooled her sons into believing her story and had been certain Raffy would keep her secret, but now, faced with father and son together in her kitchen she panicked.
Afraid her lies would find her out, Bessie fluttered and fumbled as she made tea and Amy, puzzled by her mother’s highly nervous state, almost forgot the reason for her visit. Bessie received the news with a distracted frown and a curt, ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’
Raffy congratulated them heartily, adding, ‘You’m going to be a grandmother, Bessie.’ She curled her lip, and what should have been a reason for celebration wasn’t mentioned again. Amy wanted to cry.
Bessie clumsily poured tea, her nerves jangling like a hurdy-gurdy as Raffy engaged Amy and Jude in conversation. ‘Have you no work to attend to?’ she asked pointedly, nodding her head at the door. Raffy’s eyes narrowed wickedly. ‘None that can’t wait,’ he said nonchalantly. Bessie pursed her lips.
Within the next hour, Raffy successfully gleaned Amy and Jude’s histories, Bessie quaking when Jude recalled his younger days in Bird’s Well. Twice she slopped tea from her cup into her lap, Amy anxiously asking if she was feeling unwell.
‘Just a headache,’ Bessie retorted, ‘I’ll lie down when you’ve taken yourselves off.’ The hint unmistakeable, Amy and Jude took their leave. After waving them off, Bessie flopped into a chair fanning her blazing cheeks and waiting for her heart to resume a steady rhythm.
Raffy watched, his eyes steely, his mouth twisted in a cynical smile. ‘You’m a liar, Bessie Elliot,’ he said. ‘My boy didn’t die, you gave him away when he was a babe, an’ now he’s back and wed to your daughter.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Bessie snapped, ‘Jude’s not your son. He told you he belonged to a couple in Bird’s Well.’
‘Aye, he did, but I suspects it was you gave him to them. I trusted him into your care.’ Raffy’s voice was heavy with disappointment.
‘You didn’t care what happened to him,’ screeched Bessie. ‘You couldn’t wait to offload your responsibilities. And I’m telling you, Jude’s not your son.’
‘You be right I abandoned him,’ Raffy said solemnly, ‘but if he’s not my son, why do he carry my mark?’
*
‘That was uncanny,’ Jude said to Amy, the minute they left the farmhouse. ‘They say everyone has a double, and give or take twenty years, I’m Raffy’s.’
‘It’s like I said, I thought I knew him from the moment I first saw him, but now I realise it’s his similarity to you that had me thinking that way.’ Amy pictured Raffy’s lazy smile, so achingly familiar before adding, ‘He must have been awfully handsome in his younger days.’
‘He’s a real charmer, no doubt about that. A mystical gypsy with a tale to tell.’
Amy giggled. ‘I couldn’t help thinking of Jane Eyre’s Mr Rochester – that bit where he disguises himself as a gypsy – or then again, he’s a bit like a pirate.’
‘Aagh, shiver me timbers an’ pieces of eight,’ cried Jude, walking down the lane with a rolling gait, his hands a pretend telescope to his eye. They reached the road, and reverting to his normal stride, he said, ‘Gypsy or not, the fellow’s pulling the farm back into shape. Your mother must be pleased about that.’
‘She didn’t seem overly thrilled about the baby,’ Amy said dismally. Although she had expected it, she was surprised by how hurt she felt at Bessie’s reaction.
Jude flinched. She isn’t the only one, he thought miserably. Then, cursing inwardly at his disloyalty, he pulled Amy into a warm embrace saying, ‘It’s the most wonderful thing in the world and as long as it makes us happy, why care about anyone else?’ He saw the delight in Amy’s face as she heard the words but, even so, he couldn’t resist adding, ‘I suppose your mother’s just as shocked as I am.’
After that they barely spoke as they walked back home to Wentworth Street.
*
Beattie was delighted to learn of Amy’s pregnancy; yet another reason for her to consider them equal. Considering herself an expert, she gave Amy countless lectures on childbirth, her lurid descriptions of what to expect both fascinating and terrifying. When Amy could no longer hide her condition from Phoebe Littlewood, the head librarian pursed her lips distastefully and issued her with a month’s notice.
Out of work, and watching every penny she spent, Amy endured long, lonely hours in the little house in Wentworth Street. Now, for the first time, she became startlingly aware of its inferiority, the initial excitement of married life having masked the poverty of her surroundings. She stood by the window watching the snow fall relentlessly into the yard, making igloos of the closets and ash pits, and whilst everything was pristine white out there, her thoughts were black. Dismally, she walked out of the kitchen.
The parlour with its lone couch looked ridiculously bare, its only saving grace the green velvet curtains and the fire grate she had polished till her fingers were raw. The kitchen, lit by one tiny window was a small, depressing room. Even the newly limewashed walls and cupboards that Jude had painted a bright sky-blue could do little to detract from the ill-fitting doors and the worn flagged floor. Inside the cupboards were pots, plates, mugs and cutlery, two of everything, and against the wall two shabby kitchen chairs and a table. Beneath the window there was an ugly stone sink and a worn slop board. However, the range gleamed blackly and the brass knobs twinkled brightly in the gloo
m, further evidence of Amy’s polishing.
Upstairs, their bedroom held nothing more than the bed and an old chest of drawers, more of Bessie’s cast-offs. The second bedroom was bare, as were the floorboards throughout the house. Miserably, Amy came to the conclusion that compared to the spacious, well-appointed rooms at Intake Farm, her own home was no fit place to raise a child. Before, it hadn’t seemed to matter. They had happily denied themselves comforts to save money for Jude’s college fees. Now, without Amy’s wages to support them whilst he studied, he would have to be the breadwinner. The money they had so far saved was needed for an equally important shift in their domestic arrangements.
‘I won’t be extravagant. I’ll buy secondhand,’ she told him, after listing the furnishings she thought they needed.
Jude listened to her proposal. Sombrely, he agreed, but Amy could tell by the way he clamped his lips and the darkening of his eyes that it pained him to see his hopes and dreams turning to ashes. It pained her also.
*
Deep underground, in the gloom and stink of the pit bottom, Jude crawled under the low coal seam in which he was working with the ease of a contortionist. Rhythmically swinging his nadger, the short-handled pick bit out shining black lumps of coal, his movements so fluid that the pick appeared to be an extension of his muscular arm.
And as Jude hacked at the seam he thought about Amy and the baby.
He loved Amy; of that he was sure. She was his soul mate and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, make a happy home and a family. So why was he blaming the baby for condemning him to hacking coal for the foreseeable future? He hadn’t so much minded being a collier when he’d known every penny he earned was going towards furthering his education in order to obtain a fulfilling job and make Amy proud of him. He hated feeling this way, but he couldn’t help it. He wondered if he would fall in love with the baby as easily as he had fallen for Amy.
Jude rolled out from under the overhang and stood upright, flexing his aching shoulders. Pallid streams of perspiration coursed through the black dust coating his skin, his torso streaked like a roadmap. He took a swig of cold tea from a bottle in his snap box. ‘Is there any more word of us striking?’ he asked the collier working alongside him.
Bill, a Union man, grinned. ‘Aye, we’ll be putting it to t’members at next meeting. We’ve asked for ten bob more an’ so far t’owners have offered nowt. We’ve given ’em till t’end o’ t’week, an’ if they don’t meet our demands we’ll call a strike. If we get enough votes to carry it, we’ll be out afore t’month’s end.’
Jude smiled cynically. If he had to be a collier, he’d be one who fought to improve working conditions and wages. ‘You can count on my vote,’ he said.
*
Amy had sensed a change in Jude from the moment she had told him she was pregnant. Outwardly, for much of the time, he was the same loving, caring Jude, content to sit and talk about matters of interest or share views on whatever it was they were reading. They still made love (passion somewhat diminished) and they still laughed at the same silly things, but Amy couldn’t deny there was an undercurrent of altered feelings and unspoken words. They no longer speculated as to what they might do and where they would go once Jude had gained his qualifications, nor did they weave dreams for the future, a favourite topic before the pregnancy. Now their future was planned for them and, at times, Amy felt as though Jude was simmering inside; that, if she were to open him up, red-hot lava would gush out.
He had taken Bill Gascoigne’s words to heart and was now a prominent member of the Mineworkers Union. He attended every meeting, often stopping off in the pub afterwards to continue airing his, and his workmates, grievances. He borrowed books from the library on social inequality and read Union documents in detail. According to Bert he was looked on as a leader, his knowledge and articulate delivery valuable tools for fighting the cause. Whilst Amy wholeheartedly agreed that Jude’s stance against the mine owners was justified, she did not like the tough, argumentative attitude he adopted to deal with it. When she tried to talk about it, he pulled down the shutters refusing to meet her eyes or made jest that she was a woman and couldn’t possibly understand. That he should doubt her intelligence angered Amy.
When they paid their usual Sunday afternoon visit to Intake Farm, Samuel immediately aired his views. ‘I see you’re threatening to strike again, Jude,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You should try being a farmer; you’d soon know what hard work was.’
Jude clenched his fists and bit his tongue. For Amy’s sake he held himself in check whenever he was in his brother-in-law’s company.
‘I’d never accuse you of working hard, Sammy,’ Amy retorted, equally sarcastic.
Samuel eyed her malevolently. ‘Don’t get cocky wi’ me,’ he said, ‘because afore long when there’s no wages coming in to your house, whose will you be running to?’ He smiled pompously. ‘And I’ll tell you summat else. As long as you stick with him, you’ll never have owt. He’s not good enough for you.’
The spit in Jude’s mouth suddenly tasted sour and a frisson of anger burned his throat and chest. What gave Samuel Elliot the right to think that he, Jude Leas, wasn’t worthy of his sister? Jude leapt from his seat, clenched fists raised. Samuel cowered in his chair. Before the blow landed, Amy pushed between them, the bump straining at the front of her dress and the horrified expression on her pale face making Jude drop his fists. Breathing heavily, he clumped to the door. Amy ran after him and they walked down the lane in a silence so deep they felt bathed in it.
14
Amy bent over the crib, scrubbing brush in hand. She had bought it secondhand, just as she had promised, and was eradicating every trace of its previous occupant. Made from light oak, it would be perfect once she’d waxed and polished it. Upstairs, the smallest bedroom awaited its arrival. It would join the cupboard that Amy had painted white to match the prettily patterned yellow and white curtains and the cream rug.
The parlour also had a new rug, one that Amy had pegged out of an old blue coat of Bessie’s and a brown one of her own. The old couch kept company with a small table and an old bookcase Amy had refurbished, Jude grudgingly admitting that these new acquirements took the bare look off the place. Amy said that the shelves filled with books gave them their own little library and the table made it look more like a home fit for a new baby. With the purchase of every item, Jude saw his hopes and dreams slipping away.
*
Up at Intake Farm, Raffy was now more or less accepted as a permanent member of the family. In the months since Hadley’s death, the farm had teetered on the brink of bankruptcy so, for Bessie’s sake and his own security, Raffy toiled night and day. Chivvied by their mother, Hadley’s sons reluctantly worked alongside him.
Big, blond and blue-eyed, Samuel and Thomas were Hadley Elliot’s sons to the core in all but his work ethic, yet they knew the value of their inheritance and were covetous of the land. To this end they tolerated Raffy, grudgingly acknowledging his worth, and Raffy, to suit his own ends, turned his hand to any task without presuming any kind of authority or ownership. He left that to Bessie; she still held the purse strings.
It hadn’t taken long for Raffy to worm his way into Bessie’s bed, although neither of her sons was aware of this. Had they been, they most likely would have killed him. Bearing this in mind, every now and then and long after they were asleep, Raffy cautiously left his room behind the scullery and mounted the stairs to Bessie’s bedroom, leaving long before Samuel and Thomas woke. Bessie was a happy woman.
Each morning she counted her good fortune, her mirror telling her she looked younger than her years, no matter that she was somewhat plumper than the girl in the fairground almost thirty years before. She was the mistress of a fine farm and, to all intents and purposes, a respectable widow. Sure in the knowledge that she still captivated Raffy and confident he would never reveal the truth about Beatrice and Jude, Bessie buried her fears.
*
Raffy wa
s in Barnborough to buy flour and dried fruit so that Bessie could bake her Christmas loaves. It being a chill November day threatening snow, she had declined to accompany him. Deep in thought, Raffy strolled along the street to the grocery. He had no objections to being an errand boy but, of late, Bessie’s domineering manner had begun to irk. He could pack his bags and leave, but winter was a bad time to go travelling and, furthermore, roaming the roads no longer held any fascination. Besides, he had a son and a daughter in this town, and by rights they should know he was their father. He saw no reason to persist with the secret now that Hadley Elliot was dead. It would be grand to have kin of his own, mused Raffy, and Jude was a son to be proud of. As for Beatrice, he couldn’t say. He didn’t know her.
The flour and fruit stowed in the trap, Raffy was about to head back to Intake Farm when who should he see but Jude, walking past the yard behind the Red Lion. He called out to him. Jude came into the yard, and at Raffy’s suggestion he joined him for a pint before returning home.
Inside the pub, Raffy deliberately chose seats in a secluded corner of the bar. He perched on a low stool, his eyes and face mysteriously alight. Jude took the stool opposite and sipped at his pint. Raffy made small talk and Jude, intrigued, responded by asking him about his past life. Raffy reeled off the names of numerous places he had been. Jude was fascinated to be in the company of a man who, amongst many other journeys, had seen dawn rise at Stonehenge, dug for coal in the Rhondda Valley and crossed the Clifton suspension bridge.
Raffy called a second pint, and over it he turned the conversation to Jude’s earlier days in Bird’s Well. Jude was shocked to the core when Raffy, gazing enigmatically at him said, ‘Henry and Jenny? Not your natural parents, be they?’
The Collier’s Wife Page 11