The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘It’s just that I know Jude loves books, and I thought that if anything might help him, it’d be reading. He even ran a library for the troops in his section, you know, carried the books from place to place giving the chaps something to read when they weren’t fighting.’

  ‘Wow!’ Eileen looked surprised. ‘That’s admirable. Good old Jude. He’s made of strong stuff, an’ isn’t it just great that he’s talking again?’

  ‘It’s absolutely wonderful,’ Amy gushed. ‘There was a time when I thought the only words he’d ever say again were those awful swear words. It scared me.’

  They were outside the door of the room where they would find Jude. Eileen paused. ‘He still has a fair way to go, so don’t rush him. He’ll get there in his own good time.’

  ‘I know that now, thanks to you. I’ll just keep on with the reading and the talking. Last week he asked about Kezia – just said her name – and more than once he’s repeated a few words of what I’ve just read. We’ve yet to have a proper conversation, but it’s better than nothing.’

  Eileen pushed open the door. ‘Well, off you go an’ do your bit an I’ll do mine,’ she said with a grin. ‘Look, he’s seen you coming.’

  Amy hurried across the room to Jude. He was half in and half out of a chair that was nearer to the door than the one he used to sit in, his eyes riveted on her as she approached. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, reaching for his hands. He didn’t reply, but to her surprise and joy he pulled her close, holding her against his chest for a moment before almost pushing her into the chair next to his. In that moment, Amy breathed in his old familiar smell, the smell that she associated with Jude alone. The sour smell that had seeped from his pores during the past weeks had gone, as though it had been washed away along with the horrors that haunted his troubled mind. She held the scent in her nose, butterflies dancing in her heart.

  She reached into her bag for a book. Jude’s eyes lit up. During the past weeks they’d finished the Kipling and The Diary of a Nobody, and were now partway through Three Men in a Boat, Jude smiling wryly at the adventurers’ misfortunes. Amy opened the book where she had left off on her last visit and began to read. She had read no more than two pages when Jude stretched out his hand, taking the book from her hands then closing it.

  Amy stiffened. She looked anxiously up into his face, expecting to see it twist and the foul words to spurt out, but to her relief he was smiling a proper smile that reached his eyes and spoke of recognition, and love.

  ‘Amy, my lovely Amy,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. He repeated the words as though he was tunnelling through dense clouds of long forgotten memory. When he said the words for the third time, he sounded almost surprised, and this time he added, ‘It’s you. Amy.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, love. Your Amy,’ she replied, her voice no more than a whisper. Then, almost delirious with joy she leapt from her chair, its legs rattling against the floorboards as she threw her arms round him. He rose to meet her, his chair almost toppling as he hugged her in a fond embrace. They held onto each other, afraid to let go.

  Eileen, hearing the scrape of the chairs and seeing them desperately clinging to one another hurried over, wanting to ascertain that all was well. When she saw the joy on their faces she grinned, saying with a tinge of sarcasm, ‘Ah, I see you two have made up at last; an’ not before time.’ Amy giggled.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ Jude said in a shaky voice. He released his hold, stepping back and shaking his head in wonderment as he gazed at Amy. ‘I just knew you’d come to find me.’

  ‘And now I have, my love, and this time I’ll not lose you again,’ Amy said, feeling like a child whose birthdays had all come at once.

  18

  Barnborough

  October, 1914

  On a bright, blustery Friday morning in October 1914, Jude Leas and Bert Stitt joined a long, straggling line of men outside the Territorial Drill Hall in Barnborough. Men of all ages, shapes and sizes, creeds and classes gradually shuffled nearer the open door. Some chatted convivially, others waited silently, no doubt contemplating the wisdom of their actions. Every so often men exited the dark blue doors, some triumphantly waving a Bible and clutching the King’s shilling whilst others slunk off hands deep in trouser pockets, disconsolate or relieved at having failed to be recruited.

  The long wait unnerved Bert. Taking no part in the banter Jude was enjoying, he darted his eyes up and down the street as though looking for a means of escape.

  ‘Cheer up, Bert!’ Jude clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You look as though you’re at a funeral.’

  ‘I might be afore too long. Me own. I’m beginning to think that I’m not cut out for soldiering.’

  ‘You’ll be right enough. Stick by me and we’ll soon show Jerry what Barnborough colliers can do. They’ll not know what’s hit ’em once we get over there.’

  The queue shuffled forward and Bert and Jude entered the Drill Hall. Inside, they were each guided to a different table behind which sat a recruiting officer. Jude’s was an elderly chap who had seen service in the Boer War. One look at Jude and he told himself this man was just what the British Army needed; a finer, fitter-looking chap you couldn’t hope to meet. However, he was a collier. Coal was vital to the war effort. About to return Jude to his labours underground, he looked up into the dark eyes and recognised desire when he saw it, the need to be in the fray. Writing with a flourish and stamping with alacrity, he handed Jude his papers.

  Over at another table Bert drooped miserably in front of the officer who, tired of vetting a continuous stream of men, barely raised his eyes as he signed and stamped Bert’s papers.

  ‘Well, we’ve been and gone and done it,’ Jude remarked cheerfully, as they waited to be sworn in. Bibles in hand, they listened to and repeated the Padre’s words that sealed their allegiance to king and country.

  They left the Drill Hall, one marching proudly, the other dazed and stumbling. As they paused outside for Bert to get his bearings, a poster on the wall caught Jude’s eye. Lord Kitchener’s defiant eyes stared back at him. ‘Join Your Country’s Army’ he commanded.

  Jude was convinced he’d done the right thing.

  *

  In the days leading up to Jude’s call to arms the atmosphere in the little house in Wentworth Street fluctuated between cold resentment and passionate nurturing. Resigned to the fact that her husband would soon be gone, Amy cooked his favourite meals and calmly discussed how she would manage in his absence. They made love, often. At times it sparked with the passion that had filled those heady first months of marriage, and at others it gently burned with a new maturity that made the bond between them ever stronger. However, there were days when Amy’s heart hardened towards what she still thought of as an unnecessary need for his departure and she could neither bring herself to speak nor look at him. Jude weathered her moods patiently, knowing that their love would stand the test.

  ‘I’m sorry for being so prickly this morning,’ Amy told Jude, as they walked through the woods one afternoon in late October, three days before Jude reported for training. Jude brought Kezia’s pram to a halt, and taking Amy in his arms, he buried his face in her hair. It smelled of the woody scents of autumn.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I understand how you feel. It’s a big step for both of us.’

  Amy took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been unfair,’ she said, ‘I was letting my own needs obscure the bigger picture. You’re right to go, and I was wrong to try and deter you.’ She pulled away to gaze up into his face. ‘I fell in love with you because you had ideals, because you want this world to be a better place. I also want that, and if letting you go is the price I have to pay then I’ll do it proudly. You’re a good, brave man, Jude, and every day we’re apart I want you to know I love you and admire your courage. However,’ her voice lightened, ‘you’d better come back safe and sound ’cos if you don’t, you’ll have me and Kezia to answer to. We girls won’t let you off that easy.’ Amy slapped his chest playfully, Jude c
atching her round the waist and swinging her high into the air. Kezia chuckled, her gummy smiles wrenching at the hearts of her adoring parents.

  *

  In the Stitt house, chaos reigned. To show how much he loved them, Bert played rumbustious games with his children from dawn till dusk, Maggie, Albert and Fred revelling in the fun yet dreading his departure, and little Mary and Henry unaware they were about to lose their father. The high jinks frayed Beattie’s nerves and she ranted and raved, and Raffy took himself off to stay with Kitty Rose.

  The night before Bert was due to leave for training Beattie watched as Bert, down on all fours buried beneath his children, yelled at the top of his lungs for mercy. Mary and Fred slid off his back, Maggie roughly tickling his ribs before he rolled over, laughing up at them.

  Beattie’s mouth was turned down at the corners, petulant and spiteful-looking. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you,’ she said.

  Bert curled up like a foetus. There were times when crouching in the trenches in France seemed preferable to living with Beattie.

  *

  Jude had been gone no more than a week when Amy received his first letter. Having missed him more than she had thought possible, her fingers quivered as she opened the envelope. It seemed strange to receive a letter from the man with whom she’d traded thoughts and feelings simply by speaking whenever they were together.

  Amy blinked back tears, her vision blurring as she read that Jude was stationed in the Arcade Hall in Barnsley. Less than twelve miles away, it seemed like a million.

  Amy chuckled at the part where Jude had written ‘we sleep on the draughty floor, one blanket each, and if anyone had told me I’d be cuddling up to Bert like I cuddle up to you in bed, I wouldn’t have believed them. (By the way, they let us smoke in bed, something you don’t allow.)’ He went on to tell her how interesting it was to meet men from all walks of life, shopkeepers, solicitors, Boer War veterans and landed gentry, but that the training was repetitive and tedious. It warmed her heart when she read ‘the food’s not bad but I miss your brown stew and meat and potato pie. Some of the lads say they’ve never been better fed. All I can say is they mustn’t be used to much.’

  He described his uniform as navy blue stuff with brass buttons like Post Office workers wear. Amy formed a mental image of him; he looked particularly handsome. In conclusion he wrote tenderly and poetically of how much he loved and missed her and Kezia, Amy’s tears smudging the ink and sobs turning to giggles at the postscript: ‘P.S. Don’t let Beattie borrow any money – keep her sober.’

  Amy sat for some time with the letter in her lap, thinking how much she missed Jude. Now, there was nobody with whom to share the plot of the latest book or exchange opinions on the latest news. Neither was there any urgency to keep to a task. Jude wouldn’t come clattering down the street looking for a hot bath and a tasty meal shortly after the pit hooter signalled the end of a shift. Waking hours seemed somewhat empty, and at night she yearned to feel his hard, warm body next to hers. Kezia’s cries reminding her there were still tasks to attend to, Amy put the letter behind the clock on the mantelshelf. She’d share some of it later with Raffy.

  *

  Raffy called every day to lend a hand or sit and gossip. He’d dance to and fro in the kitchen with Kezia in his arms, the tap of his boots on the flags accompanying the strange ditties he sang to keep her amused. Amy was glad of his company, and grateful for the tasks he undertook that would normally have been Jude’s.

  ‘That tap’s leaking again, Raffy,’ said Amy, setting a steaming mug of tea at his elbow shortly after he’d arrived one chilly Wednesday morning in December. Raffy dandled Kezia on his knee for a minute or two longer before handing her to Amy.

  ‘She be bonnier by the day,’ he said, his warm, brown eyes glowing with admiration.

  Amy sat Kezia in her highchair and gave her a ball of dough to play with. ‘She stood on her own two feet this morning. She’ll be walking in no time,’ Amy said proudly, her smile clouding as she added, ‘It’s such a pity Jude wasn’t here for her first birthday.’ She crossed to the hearth, sweeping it unnecessarily to hide her sadness. As she swept, she heard the flap of the letterbox in the parlour. Dropping the brush, she hurried to lift the letter. It had to be from Jude. She stayed in the parlour to read it.

  Raffy was sprawled on the flags, his head underneath the sink when Amy went back into the kitchen. ‘Jude’s got leave. He’ll be home this Friday and stay till Sunday evening. Bert’s coming too,’ she cried, sounding girlish and giddy. Lifting Kezia she performed an impromptu jig across the floor, Raffy cheering and waving a spanner triumphantly from under the sink.

  ‘I’d better let Beattie know.’ Amy’s purposeful tone changed to one of reproach as she said, ‘Jude says she never answered Bert’s letter so he said he wasn’t going to write again.’ Amy sounded rather self-righteous.

  ‘She’m not be much at letter writing, do our Beattie,’ came the reply from under the sink. ‘She don’t have the time.’

  ‘Time!’ Amy snorted. ‘She doesn’t spend it cleaning – the house is a tip. And you do all the cooking and minding the children.’

  Raffy scuttled from under the sink, squirming his way upright with the help of the draining board. ‘She be an unhappy woman do Beattie. I blames Bessie for that,’ he said sombrely. ‘Beattie don’t know how to be happy. Nobody ever showed her.’ The penetrating look in his dark eyes made Amy feel guilty.

  ‘I’ll go and tell her Bert’s coming on Friday,’ she said, reaching for her coat behind the door. ‘I’ll stay a while and help her tidy round,’ she added contritely, thinking how different things might have been had her mother not been so cruel and she herself so uncaring when they were young. She took a warm romper suit off the clotheshorse. ‘I’ll take Kezia with me. You finish off here.’

  Dejectedly, Amy walked to Grattan Row wondering what she could do to boost Beattie’s morale; for that’s what was needed, she told herself. Any self-esteem her sister might have had when she was young had been eroded by Bessie’s constant criticism and Samuel’s sneering disregard. But how could she undo a lifetime of misery? Amy asked herself, lifting Kezia from the pram then opening Beattie’s door.

  ‘Bert’s coming home for the weekend, Beattie,’ she called cheerily, though she felt anything but as she eyed the filth and clutter. ‘Your daddy’s coming home,’ Amy told Mary who then toddled over to Henry in his pram. ‘Daddy coming home,’ she lisped.

  Beattie was sitting by the hearth puffing on a cigarette. Smoke billowed from her curled lips as she acknowledged Amy’s presence.

  ‘Did you not hear me, Beattie? Bert’s coming on leave.’

  Beattie shrugged. ‘Aye, I heard you all right. What do you want me to do about it?’ She flicked the butt of her cigarette into the fire. ‘I’ll not be doing owt special to welcome him back, I’m skint.’

  Amy’s hackles rose. ‘You could at least try to look pleased,’ she snapped, ‘and as for having no money, you always seem to find it for cigarettes and gin.’ She could have bitten off the end of her tongue. Where was the compassion she’d felt on her way to the house? She tried again. ‘Sorry Beattie, that was unkind. Let’s not fight.’

  Beattie was about to make a stinging reply when Raffy walked in.

  Quick to sense the tension between the two women, he said, ‘Put the two young’uns in Kezia’s pram an’ me an’ Mary will take ’em for a walk.’

  Amy shot him a grateful smile and then did as he suggested.

  ‘Me come, Granda Raffy.’ Mary hurried to the door.

  ‘You can go an’ all,’ Beattie said, ungraciously thumbing Amy. But Amy wasn’t giving in without a fight. She set the kettle to boil, lifted cast-off clothing and swept the floors, and as she cleaned, she had an idea.

  ‘I know what we’ll do, Beattie,’ Amy cried enthusiastically, ‘we’ll have an early Christmas, give Bert and Jude something to remember before they go too far away to come home.’ Amy warmed to the theme. �
��I’ll bake and get a chicken or a duck from Intake. We’ll invite a few friends, make a night of it.’ Amy’s cheeks were pink with excitement.

  ‘Have you finished?’ Beattie lit another cigarette, sneering at Amy through the cloud of smoke escaping her lips. Feeling deflated yet unwilling to admit defeat, Amy began mopping the floor. Beattie watched, petulantly dismissive and then cloaked in shame. ‘Why are you being nice to me when I’m such a bitch?’ she asked, her voice wobbling.

  ‘I do it because I care,’ Amy replied, the uncertainty in Beattie’s question tugging at her heart. How vulnerable she is, thought Amy. Beneath that rough exterior there’s a woman crying out for help. Amy knitted her brow, gathering words that didn’t sound patronising or condemning. ‘When we were young, I was the one that got all the favours and you got the brickbats. You fought back in the only way you knew how by being sullen and cheeky, and I don’t blame you for that, but it didn’t help matters.’ Beattie’s eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to intervene but Amy pressed on. ‘I can’t undo or excuse our mother’s nastiness but you mustn’t let it poison your life. Mother couldn’t love you because she felt guilty at betraying my dad, but there are others who do. There’s Bert, the kids, me and Jude; even Raffy in his funny old way. Let us make it up to you, Beattie. Just accept that you’re not the worst in the world.’

  By now, Beattie’s cheeks were wet with silent tears. ‘I bloody nearly am when I get going,’ she croaked, essaying a quivering grin.

  Amy grinned back. ‘Oh, Beattie, what would I do without you? I’d have nobody to clean up after or give off to when I feel like it,’ she chuckled.