‘That’s because it did matter, Beattie; it mattered very much. She loved Raffy – still does – but he left her pregnant and she panicked. Think what you’d have done if Bert hadn’t married you.’ Beattie’s lips wobbled and Amy, seeing she had struck a nerve, said ‘sit down and let me tell you how it was.’
Amy made a pot of tea then told Beattie all that Raffy and Bessie had told her.
When she had finished, Beattie said, ‘Poor bugger, living wi’ all that guilt. She never looked as though she were suffering.’ Her lip curled and she growled, ‘But by bloody hell, she made up for it by making me suffer.’
‘She was wrong; she knows that now. If you can find it in your heart to forgive her, I think you’ll feel better about yourself, Beattie. You were never to blame, you’ve nothing to be sorry for, so don’t let it ruin your life.’
Beattie shrugged. ‘I suppose I can try.’ She grinned wryly. ‘An’ if it all comes to nowt, at least she might give me a few bob an’ the kids’ll get a decent Christmas dinner.’
Amy gave a lopsided grin. Trust Beattie to think of it that way, but at least it was a start. On the way home, she dwelt on the tangled web that was her family. Was it destiny that had led Bessie to the fair, and for Raffy to father both Beatrice and Jude, and she herself to fall in love with the motherless boy her own mother had hidden away in Bird’s Well? Amy didn’t know, and she decided she didn’t care. She had a loving husband whom she adored and a daughter who was the love of her life. Bessie and Raffy were reunited. Her dad, Hadley, had gone to his rest never knowing he’d been cuckolded, and Beattie might yet be saved.
*
Kezia Leas and the Stitt brood sat round the Christmas tree playing with the gifts Bessie had bought them: dolls for Maggie, Mary and Kezia, trucks for Albert and Fred, and a spinning top for Henry. The tree had been Raffy’s idea, and Amy had decorated it the day before. In this festive atmosphere the adults sat convivially, everyone replete after a splendid Christmas dinner and Samuel and Thomas mollified with strong drink.
‘Have you seen how fat our Thomas has got?’ Beattie whispered. Amy nodded, Beattie adding, ‘He looks fit to burst.’
Amy glanced at her youngest brother and frowned. He glugged on a tankard of ale, his huge, flabby face resembling a blood moon and the rolls of fat beneath his chin a plough horse’s collar. When he set the tankard down, he had to stretch his arm to reach the table, his enormous belly denying him closer access. Amy hoped the children wouldn’t remark on it.
After a while, Samuel and Thomas lurched off to find more drink. The minute they were out of earshot, Maggie piped, ‘You know that one you said we’d to call Uncle Thomas, well, I think he must be the fattest man in the whole wide world.’
‘Shush, don’t be rude.’ Beattie glanced nervously in Bessie’s direction. To her surprise, Bessie laughed. So did everyone else.
*
‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ Amy said, as they made their way home, Raffy driving the trap and the sleepy children lolling on their mother’s knees.
‘It were grand,’ Beattie replied, ‘but I’m still not sure how to take her. She can be sweetness and light one minute and the next she’s a bloody harridan.’
Amy didn’t argue. Hopeful that the bridges built that day would not collapse, she contented herself by mentally composing her next letter to Jude and puzzling over how she might acquire more books to send without having to buy them from a bookshop. Perhaps she should approach Dr Hargreaves or Mr Lionel Grey, the retired schoolmaster, gentlemen like them were sure to have books they had read and no longer wanted. Back in her own house, with Maggie who was staying overnight and Kezia in bed, Amy sat down to write to Jude. Close to midnight, she doused the lamps and climbed the stairs to bed. She fell into a deeply satisfying sleep.
A furious knocking on the street door wakened her. Who could it be at this time? It was barely daylight. Pulling on a robe she dashed downstairs. When she opened the door Raffy almost fell inside.
‘You’m better come quick,’ he gasped. ‘It’s Thomas! The doctor be going ahead o’ me but I be thinkin’ there’s little he can do for him.’
Oh my God, thought Amy, what now? After we had such a lovely day. Out loud she cried, ‘What happened to him?’ She grabbed her coat from where she had left it on the chair the night before and dashed to the foot of the stairs. ‘Maggie, are you awake?’
No reply, Amy hared upstairs to the small bedroom. Awake now, Maggie sat up in the bed, her copper curls tossed and her eyes fearful. ‘What is it, Auntie Amy?’
‘It’s Uncle Thomas. He’s been taken bad.’
‘Did he burst?’
Amy’s stern expression let her know this was no time for jokes. Maggie listened carefully to her aunt’s instructions.
‘You mind Kezia, and when you get up, go home and take her with you. I’m going back to Intake with Granda Raffy. Tell your mam the doctor’s been called. Tell her Thomas is very sick.’ Or worse, she thought, recalling Raffy’s words.
Her voice wobbling fearfully, Maggie said, ‘I’ll do that, Auntie Amy.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry for what I said about Uncle Thomas.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Amy, fondling Maggie’s tatty head and hoping it was. ‘You’re a good girl, Maggie, and so is Kezia.’ Curled up against her cousin’s back Kezia slept soundly, her dreams undisturbed.
Outside, a light covering of snow fallen during the night muffled the swishing of the trap’s wheels and the thud of hooves as Raffy urged the little pony into a canter. Huddled beside Raffy, Amy tracked the lingering stars in the murky dawn light as he recounted what had happened.
‘They two boyos were still carousing when me an’ Bessie went to our beds. The next thing I hears is a mighty crash, and Samuel roaring like a bull. I goes down to find the big fellow lying on the floor, a chair in bits against the stove. I be thinking they’d been fighting but Samuel said no, and when I took a look at Thomas, I’d say he were dead afore he hit the ground.’
Stunned into silence, Amy pictured a young Thomas. His sweet, vacuous smile and innocent blue eyes that always seemed to be trying to make sense of what went on round him. When she spoke it was merely a whisper. ‘Dead? Are you sure?’
‘Sure as sure, but Bessie wouldn’t have it. Screamed for me to get the doctor, so I did.’
They heard Bessie wails before they stepped inside. Thomas lay where he had fallen. Dr Hargreaves was assuring Bessie he hadn’t suffered any pain, and when he saw Amy and Raffy he turned to include them. ‘A massive heart attack. He wouldn’t have felt a thing. He was dead before he hit the floor.’
Raffy gave Amy a ‘I told you so’ look. Amy went and knelt beside Thomas gazing sorrowfully at his monstrous bulk; Maggie’s jest had proved true. Gently, she stroked pale strands of hair from his forehead. Purple patches mottled his flabby face. Other than that, he looked quite peaceful, the corners of his mouth quirked as if he had been caught by surprise. His eyelids were closed but Amy imagined his bulbous, blue eyes struggling to make sense of wherever it was he had gone, and his lips curving in a slow, simple smile when he thought he understood. Her tears wetting his cheeks she bent to kiss him and then, her legs wobbling, she went to embrace her mother.
Samuel sat at the table, his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved as guttural sobs escaped his chest. Amy had never seen him so desolate. Long after the undertaker had been and Bessie gone to her bed, Samuel sat on. Not a word passed his lips, and when Raffy announced he was going to bring the cows down for milking, Samuel followed him.
Later, after calling at Beattie’s to collect Kezia and tell her sister the news, Amy sat in her own home hugging the fire, the chill in her bones too deep to ignore. Was Thomas’s death the culmination of the bad omen she had foreseen on her wedding day? Had fate played its hand in the all-too-soon pregnancy that prevented Jude from taking his college course, and this terrible war that had stolen him from her? Her friend, Freda, often said that trouble strikes in threes. Was the awfu
l, unnecessary loss of her youngest brother the last part of the trilogy, or was there worse to come? Amy just didn’t know. On that sad note she turned out the lights and went up to bed.
*
Thomas’s funeral was all the more poignant for being in the festive season, the rest of the world still celebrating Christmas and waiting for the New Year that would, so they were led to believe, see an end to the war. Bessie was distraught, her skin grey and her blue eyes like Thomas’s as she struggled to make sense of his death. Supported between Samuel and Amy, she seemed incapable of putting one foot in front of the other.
Afterwards, back at the farm, Amy couldn’t help noticing how close Samuel and Freda appeared to be. Yet again, she was puzzled as to why her friend was attracted to Samuel. Freda’s pale face oozed compassion as she held Samuel’s meaty paws in a comforting way. He leaned in, his head almost resting on her bosom as he quietly poured his heart out. As Amy watched them, it occurred to her that Samuel must have loved Thomas deeply. The thought took her by surprise, and she felt guilty at not realising it before now. Silently, she acknowledged that Thomas’s death had changed Samuel, and that she found the now shrunken, morose Sammy far more tolerable than the bombastic bullyboy she had so disliked.
20
Barnborough: autumn 1915
Maggie Stitt put down the book she was reading and attended to Kezia’s demands. ‘Lid, Maggie, find lid,’ she chanted, holding up a miniature teapot.
Maggie scanned the toys scattered on the rug. Spying the tiny porcelain lid in amongst a clutter of doll’s clothes she handed it to her cousin then eagerly returned to Anne of Green Gables. The opportunity to read wonderful books in the haven that was Auntie Amy’s house was one she never had in her own chaotic home. Therefore, Maggie sought sanctuary whenever possible.
Amy joined the girls in the parlour. Perched on the couch next to Maggie, she divided her attention between the two girls.
‘Can I have a cup of tea, please?’
Kezia solemnly poured non-existent tea into a tiny porcelain cup. ‘Maggie find lid for me,’ she lisped.
Amy smiled at Maggie. ‘How’s Anne getting on?’
‘She’s just fallen out with Gilbert because he called her “carrots”,’ Maggie replied, her freckled nose just visible over the top of the book. She flicked at her copper mane. ‘I hate it when the boys at school call me that.’
‘Take no notice, your hair’s beautiful,’ said Amy, patting Maggie’s head and thinking that lovely as Maggie’s hair was, it could do with washing. She sighed inwardly. Beattie was letting things slide again – her own appearance unkempt, the children neglected and the house filthy.
No wonder Maggie prefers to be here, Amy thought, half-wishing Maggie lived with her. She was a bright, big-hearted girl, wise for her ten years. Amy enjoyed introducing her to good literature then answering the intelligent questions she posed. As for Kezia, she was like a bottomless bucket ready to be filled with stories, rhymes and pretend games. Spending time with both girls gave Amy immense pleasure and helped ease the loneliness in Jude’s absence.
‘Is there any cake to go with this tea, Kezia?’ Her daughter proudly handed Amy a brightly coloured Plasticine confection. Amy pretended to munch.
‘When you’ve finished with Anne, I think we’ll try Oliver Twist; you’ll love him Maggie,’ said Amy, lifting Kezia into her lap. ‘As for you, young lady, it’s bedtime, so choose a story and then it’s up the wooden hill you go.’
When Kezia was sleeping, Amy went downstairs and said, ‘It’s time you went home, Maggie.’ She hated having to say it, but Beattie objected to Maggie spending time at Amy’s, and she didn’t want to burden her niece with yet more unpleasantness; Maggie suffered enough of that already. To Amy’s sorrow, Beattie’s attitude to Maggie was a replication of Bessie’s to Beattie, poor Maggie left too often to care for her siblings and do household chores instead of enjoying the freedom a child should expect.
Reluctantly, Maggie put the book back on the shelf – she wouldn’t take it home for fear her brothers might tear it to shreds. ‘Thanks, Auntie Amy,’ she said, pulling on her coat and then hugging Amy and adding, ‘I love you. Night-night.’ She slouched out, a sorry figure in a coat far too small for her and shoes broken down at the heel. From the doorway Amy watched her go, an immense sadness coupled with anger at Beattie’s fecklessness burning in her chest.
Dusk had fallen, the autumnal evening air fragrant with the sweet, musty smell of fallen leaves. It was warm for October, the sort of evening Amy and Jude would have put Kezia in her pram and walked along the riverbank beside the church.
Yearningly, Amy recalled the walks she had taken with Jude when first they met. How long would it be before they walked together again, she wondered?
It seemed a lifetime since she’d last seen him, and whilst his letters brought him close, it wasn’t close enough. Pieces of paper covered in loving words were a poor replacement for warm lips, gentle hands and lively conversation. That he was still in England was some consolation, but for how much longer? She tried to put France out of mind but it kept sidling back, unbidden. Already the local newspaper’s obituary column carried the names of husbands and sons of families she knew. Only last week her neighbour, Betty Briggs, had lost her husband, Amy paying her condolences and wondering how long it might be before Betty reciprocated. The thought had made her blood run cold.
The balmy air making her feel restless, and her annoyance at Beattie niggling, Amy couldn’t settle. Beattie was out of control. Amy had heard the rumours that a young collier called Larry Hamby had been seen making late-night visits to Beattie’s. Maggie had denied it, her eyes unable to meet Amy’s and her words no more than a whisper. Amy suspecting that she had been threatened into not mentioning it now wondered if, later, she should slip up to Beattie’s and find out for herself but, with Kezia in bed, she dismissed the idea and went inside to write to Jude. It always made her feel better.
*
The next night, as Amy sat by the fire knitting a pair of thick woollen socks for Jude, Beattie dropped in. ‘I just thought I’d pop down and keep you company for a bit,’ she said, her fawning tone making Amy suspicious of her real reason for calling. She never called unless it was to borrow something.
‘That’s kind of you.’ Amy put aside her knitting and then set the kettle to boil.
‘Don’t bother making tea for me,’ Beattie said, ‘I’m not stopping that long.’
Amy sat back down and picked up her knitting. Beattie fidgeted restlessly and attempted to make small talk. When Amy could bear it no longer, she said, ‘What did you really come for, Beattie?’
‘Can you lend us half-a-crown?’
‘That’s the second time this week.’
‘I’ll pay you back when I get me separation money.’
‘No you won’t because I’m not lending it. You want it to buy drink, don’t you?’ Amy sounded disappointed rather than accusing.
‘It’s none of your bloody business what I want it for,’ bawled Beattie, jumping up ready to leave. Amy also stood, her face creased with concern. She put out a staying hand but Beattie shook it off, crying, ‘And don’t go giving me that holier than thou look. I’ll do as I please.’ She made for the door.
‘And does doing as you please involve Larry Hamby?’ Amy spoke calmly but deep inside she burned with frustration and disgust.
Beattie’s step faltered. She swung round and glared at Amy. ‘And what if it does?’ she sneered. ‘Aren’t I entitled to a bit of pleasure?’
‘Pleasure! You should be ashamed of yourself,’ cried Amy. And before she could contain herself, her hurt and annoyance spilled over like boiling porridge. ‘You have the morals of an alley cat, you neglect your children, and your house is muckier than the pit bottom. If you had one ounce of decency, you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself and think about your children and Bert.’
For an instant Beattie looked shocked. Then giving a careless shrug she said, ‘So you’
re not going to lend me owt then? I suppose you don’t care if my kids go without bread and milk for their breakfast.’
Amy reached for her purse on the mantelpiece. She tossed a florin into the air.
Beattie lunged and caught it. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and without a backward glance she left. Feeling utterly defeated, Amy stared at the closed door.
*
The next morning Amy called with Lionel Grey, as much to take her mind off Beattie and the previous evening’s unpleasantness as to beg for books to send to Jude. Burnished copper and golden leaves rustled underfoot and twirled upwards as she and Kezia walked along the country lane leading to the retired headmaster’s house.
Lionel was in the garden, deadheading late roses and dahlias. He greeted her request with interest. After a pleasant walk round the beautiful garden, Amy admiring his herb parterre and Kezia fascinated by the fishpond, he took them into his study. The delightful interlude restored Amy’s spirits, and she came away with her faith in human nature and the beauty of God’s world renewed. Later that day she posted two volumes of the popular Sexton Blake detective stories along with the letter she had finished writing after Beattie’s visit. She’d keep the other three books to send later.
Back in the house, she debated whether or not to visit Beattie, try to reason with her and heal the rift. The more she thought about it, the less inclined she felt. She’d leave time for Beattie to cool down, and to get her own opinions under control. Flying off the handle like she had done last night served no purpose.
Her mind made up to stay indoors, Amy lit the parlour fire, a little luxury during the week. She sat with Kezia on the couch, a large bright picture book between them, Amy linking the characters to the illustrations as she told the story. The kitchen door scraped open. Amy waited for one of Beattie’s children to call out, for that’s whom she expected. When she heard nothing but a dull thud she got to her feet, her curiosity aroused.
The Collier’s Wife Page 16