The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  Jude set aside the rifle he was cleaning and lit a cigarette, pensively drawing the smoke into his lungs and then letting it out slowly. Bert lolled at his feet. Jude gazed down at the sloppiest soldier in the Battalion according to the RSM, his feelings a mixture of overwhelming fondness and fear. ‘We’re getting close to the real thing now, Bert. It’ll not be like training so you make sure to do as you’re ordered. Don’t go playing silly buggers. I want us both to get back home in one piece,’ he said.

  Bert, recognising the sincerity of the sentiment didn’t, for once, crack a joke. Instead, he replied, ‘I know what you mean, Juddy, I’ll be careful. I don’t want to get killed so—’ he brightened visibly ‘—I’ll stick wi’ thee. Me an’ you make a good team.’

  *

  Rumours that the war was almost won filtered down to Doudelainville and Jude jokingly suggested that they might all be home in time for ‘Barnborough Feast,’ an annual holiday traditionally held the last week in August. His suggestion was met with ribald comments and serious doubts from the more pessimistic.

  ‘They told us it’d all be over by Christmas,’ Bert reminded Jude, ‘an’ that were in 1914. I’ll not believe it’s over until I’m standing in t’Miners Arms wi’ a pint in me fist.’

  Heavy rain and freezing temperatures made the troops even more discontented for by now they were weary of waiting to see some action. A gruelling march to Mailly Maillet helped satisfy the urge to be in the thick of battle. For the first time since leaving Barnborough the Battalion were within firing distance. Along the way they had billeted in abandoned houses and barns, in villages that were battered and broken, but each step of the way reinforced Jude’s reason for having enlisted in the first place. This was why he’d left the coalface, Amy, Kezia, and all he knew.

  *

  Amy watched the rain lashing against the kitchen window. It was mid-June and the summer of 1916 was turning out to be particularly wet, cold and miserable, though not as miserable for them as it was for Jude, she thought, recalling his last letter. In it he had complained about the tiring route marches and being soaked to the skin in torrential rain. He had also described the pretty villages and towns they had marched through, one with a bridge about which a song had been written. One of the officers sang it for them, Jude wrote, but she had no idea what the town was called because all the place names had been obliterated with thick, black ink so she still had no idea where he was although she studied the map in the atlas trying to picture him in unpronounceable places.

  ‘It looks like we’ll have to stay indoors again,’ Amy said to Kezia. Kezia glanced up from the picture she was crayoning, her smile saying she didn’t object; she enjoyed quiet pursuits. She scribbled a large splodge, pressing down on the bright pink crayon. ‘Is it a flower?’ Amy asked, and began peeling potatoes for the dinner.

  ‘No, a piggy,’ said Kezia, and carried on colouring, the tip of her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. Amy’s heart flipped; Jude did that when he was concentrating. The scuffling of feet and loud voices outside the door had them looking at one another, their faces falling.

  The door burst open and Beattie’s children tumbled in. ‘There’s nobody in our house so we’ve come here,’ Maggie announced loudly. She shot a warning glance at her siblings. Albert failed to interpret it.

  ‘There is,’ he said. ‘Me mam’s in wi’ that chap what goes round the doors selling stuff.’ Maggie kicked him sharply on the ankle.

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Albert before adding, ‘She’s up in t’bedroom wi’ him.’

  ‘She is,’ Fred corroborated. ‘He didn’t have his trousers on.’

  ‘Shurrup!’ yelled Maggie, then turning sheepishly to Amy she said, ‘Me mam told us we hadn’t to let you know she was in.’

  Amy’s heart sank. When she’d promised Bert Stitt that she would keep an eye on his children whilst he was away, she had truly meant it. What she hadn’t bargained for was the reality of the situation, and as she towelled their wet heads and hung their coats to dry, she couldn’t help thinking: keeping an eye on them, they’re hardly ever out of my sight.

  Albert and Fred began to squabble over a marble and Mary and Henry wailed.

  ‘They’re hungry, Auntie Amy,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Go into the parlour and play quietly, dinner won’t be long,’ said Amy, hastily adding, ‘and see they don’t break anything.’

  ‘I’ll watch ’em, Auntie Amy,’ Maggie replied fervently, for she above all of them knew they would go hungry if it wasn’t for Auntie Amy.

  ‘I know you will, love,’ Amy said, saddened by the weight of responsibility Maggie carried on her young shoulders.

  Maggie shooed her siblings into the parlour, calling out, ‘Are you coming, Kezia?’

  Kezia stayed where she was.

  Kezia was not yet three, but Amy’s gentle nurturing and tutelage had made her a thoughtful, caring child with a lively mind that showed an understanding far beyond her years. She preferred books and crayons and ‘let’s pretend’ to the rough and tumble games Albert and Fred played, and she was no match for five-year-old Mary who fought selfishly over dolls and tea sets. Maggie and little Henry were Kezia’s favourites.

  Amy peeled more potatoes.

  *

  The dinner ready, Amy marched into the parlour. Her cheeks were alight with bright red blotches, not so much from the heat of the stove as from exasperation. ‘Stop that noise, right this minute or you’ll get no dinner,’ she bawled.

  This unexpected threat from one who was usually placid and gentle had the desired effect. Like chastened sheep they filed into the kitchen.

  Amy wiped the snot that ran from Mary’s and Henry’s permanently dirty noses and then, holding the pan aloft and fighting the urge to bang it off Fred and Albert’s heads, she spooned dollops of mash onto plates then drowned each pile with gravy. At her instruction to ‘sit properly and eat nicely’ they tucked in, gravy dribbling from the ends of their chins and mashed potato riding high up the handles of the spoons to form sticky blobs between their grubby fingers. Throughout the rumpus Kezia had been sitting quietly at the table. Now, her eyes meeting her mother’s, she gave her a complicit smile. Amy smiled back, giving a little nod to show she understood that her daughter was on her side.

  It was stuffy in the overcrowded, little kitchen so Amy opened the door and leaned against the doorframe gazing at the children. Nine months had passed since their fathers had gone to fight in France. What a difference a year makes, she thought. Jude would be amazed by how much Kezia had grown, and how clever she was. That’s if he ever gets to see her again, she reflected sadly. And Bert would be pleased to know she was feeding his children, but what would he think if he knew Beattie was neglecting them in such a shameful manner? She mulled over what Albert and Fred had said earlier about the man with no trousers. It left a distinctly unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Plates cleared and the rain off, the boys went out to play and Maggie took Kezia, Mary and Henry for a walk. As Amy washed up, she decided to go in search of the elusive Beattie, and when she found her she’d give her a piece of her mind. She’d tell her in no uncertain terms that she’d had enough: that Beattie was abusing her good nature and demoralising her children. However, the opportunity to do this arrived sooner than she expected.

  The kitchen door scraped open and Beattie tottered into the kitchen, the clatter of high heels on the flagged floor jarring Amy’s jangled nerves. Taken aback by the unexpected sight of her sister Amy dropped the dishcloth and stared. Beattie was dressed to the nines in what Amy took to be a new outfit, yet she still managed to look every inch a trollop. Her greasy hair was held in place with cheap, gaudy combs and her swarthy cheeks smeared with rouge.

  Amy eyed the new rig-out: a green dress with a wide, white collar and drop shoulders, the hem of the bell-shaped skirt cut well above the ankles. Where had Beattie got the money from to buy it, she wondered? She was always asking for handouts to pay the rent or buy food. Amy
’s heart thumped uncomfortably against her ribs.

  Beattie fumbled in her handbag for a packet of Woodbine and a box of matches. She had painted her lips in a bright, red cupid’s bow and as she placed the cigarette between them and then lit it, she reminded Amy of the gypsy fortune-teller she had once seen at Barnborough Fair. Beattie puffed nervously. ‘Can you do us a favour?’ she wheedled.

  Amy ignored the request, every muscle in her neck and shoulders aching with frustration. ‘Not before you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Beattie interrupted, ‘I was wondering if you’d keep the bairns for a few days till I get back.’

  Amy’s jaw dropped. Then gathering her wits, she asked tartly, ‘And where might you be going?’

  Beattie tried to look apologetic. ‘Scarborough,’ she simpered. ‘Me friend’s going to visit his brother what’s just come home from France and he’s taking me with him for a bit of a holiday.’

  ‘Taking you with him on a holiday.’ Amy’s incredibility was patent. The cheek of the woman: had she no decency? ‘You’re a married woman, Beattie Stitt! And in case you forgot, you’ve five children who need you.’

  ‘I know that,’ whined Beattie, ‘that’s why I’m asking you to mind ’em till I get back. Our Maggie can’t manage ’em on her own.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have to. You’ve no right to even consider leaving them whilst you go gallivanting off with…’

  Amy had no idea as to the identity of Beattie’s holiday partner. It could be any one of a number of colliers who regularly visited Grattan Row. Gossip amongst the neighbours was rife and Amy had heard Beattie’s name linked to three or four since Bert’s departure. Distastefully, she looked Beattie up and down, realisation dawning.

  ‘Is it the travelling salesman? Did he give you the fancy clothes?’

  Oblivious to Amy’s disgust, Beattie said, ‘Aye, he wants me to look nice for the visit.’

  ‘Nice! There’s nothing nice about you, Beattie.’ Amy’s voice was harsh with condemnation. ‘Poor Bert doesn’t deserve this. He’s far away from home, fighting for his life and you’re behaving like a trollop in front of your children.’

  ‘Aw, don’t be so bloody stuck up,’ retorted Beattie. ‘It wa’ Bert’s choice to go off and leave me on me own. I didn’t make him go. I’m just having a bit o’ fun, and for all I know he’ll be having his own bit o’ fun wi’ some French women over there.’ She smirked at her own wit.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. There are no women where they are, just men up to their knees in muck and mud, dodging bullets and choking on gas. You’re a hateful bugger and I want nothing more to do with you. As for your children, you can stay at home and mind them your bloody self.’

  Shocked by the use of words that rarely passed Amy’s lips, Beattie blinked then raised her eyebrows, and lighting another cigarette, she drew deeply on it before drawling, ‘Eeh, you’ve got your bloody hackles up today, lady.’ She walked out, her back rigid with disdain. Shrouded in failure, Amy watched her go.

  *

  Beattie went to Scarborough and Amy dutifully looked after the children. What else could she do? Five days later, a disillusioned and dishevelled Beattie returned. She slunk into Amy’s kitchen and flopped down on a chair at the table, her woebegone expression pleading for sympathy. She received none from Amy who listened to her sorry tale with grim satisfaction.

  ‘He buggered off an’ left me to pay the bill,’ Beattie moaned. ‘When I told the woman that kept the boarding house that I had nowt, the bitch said she’d call the police if I didn’t settle up wi’ her. I’ve spent the last two days washing and ironing, me hands are fair rubbed off me, an’ if ever I set eyes on that bugger of a tally man again, I’ll make him pay, see if I don’t.’

  Amy told her she had got what she deserved. ‘And in future, Beattie, I won’t be free to mind your children. I’ve joined Mrs Hargreaves’ comfort group. I’ll be there every afternoon knitting socks or packing parcels to send to men like my Jude or your Bert.’ She looked pointedly at Beattie. ‘They need all the comfort they can get and I’ll be more use there than doing your job which, in case you’ve forgotten, is caring for your children. Now, take them with you and go.’

  Although Amy spoke firmly, she knew in her heart that she would continue to look out for Beattie’s children. She wouldn’t break her promise to Bert.

  22

  Bright sunlight shone through the trees dappling the vegetable patch in Dr Hargreaves’ garden. Down on her knees, Amy prised out clumps of chickweed and newly sprouted dandelions from in between rows of cabbages. The vegetable plot had been her idea, as well as the plan to distribute the fresh produce to needy families in Barnborough. Mrs Hargreaves was delighted to add yet another strand to the good works she oversaw at the comfort meetings, leaving Amy and the gardener to tend the plot.

  At Amy’s side, wielding a small trowel, Kezia turned over the rich soil looking for worms. Unearthing a particularly lengthy specimen, she picked it up with her thumb and forefinger, dangling it teasingly close to her mother’s right ear. Amy sat back on her heels and laughed. ‘You cheeky little madam,’ she chuckled, ‘are you trying to frighten me?’

  Kezia swung the worm closer to Amy’s face. Magnified by a shaft of sunlight, its reddish-brown segments glistened moistly. The worm wriggled, attempting to escape. Amy watched it, a mental image of the worm’s natural habitat conjuring a different image of Jude underground sweating and straining beneath the fields of France. His letter, received that morning, had told her he was tunnelling under a hill near the German lines. ‘No matter where I am, I spend my life underground. Please God send me a bit of sunshine, or a handful of stars,’ he had written.

  Amy shuddered and shook her head to expel the comparison. ‘Put it back on the soil. You don’t want to hurt it, do you? Worms are good for the garden,’ she said, lightly catching hold of Kezia’s wrist.

  Kezia puckered her face, but when Amy insisted a second time, she set the worm down. Hastily, it slithered into its earthy lair. Amy continued weeding, but the image of Jude scrabbling like a subterranean creature amidst the muck and mud of endless narrow passageways troubled her and the pleasure was gone from the task.

  Setting aside the fork she shifted her weight, her hands flat on the grass behind her hips and her legs stretched out. Tilting her face upwards she peered through the leafy shade of a beech tree that deflected the sun’s glare and then closed her eyes. ‘Please God, send him home safe,’ she prayed.

  A warm, soft yet solid weight plopped across Amy’s thighs. She opened her eyes. Kezia wrapped her arms about Amy’s neck and Amy hugged the wiry, little body tight. ‘Stop moping,’ she silently advised herself, ‘don’t let silly imaginings spoil the day.’ Playfully, Amy pushed the little girl off her knee so that she rolled onto the grass squawking with glee when Amy reached out and tickled her. As Kezia wriggled and rolled away out of reach, Amy stood and dusted bits of grass from the knees and hem of her old navy-blue skirt.

  ‘Ah, I thought I’d find you here.’ Mrs Hargreaves walked across the lawn to Amy, a brown paper carrier bag in her hand. She cast an inspecting eye over the vegetable plot. ‘Splendid, quite splendid,’ she boomed, handing Amy the bag. ‘Just a few books for you to send to Mr Leas. How is he, by the way? Bearing up, one would hope.’

  Amy assured her that Jude was doing just that. On the way home, the string handles of the carrier bag biting her fingers, Amy wondered about the books. Ever since she had asked Dr Hargreaves if he had any books she could send to Jude, his wife had taken it upon herself to ask her friends and acquaintances for their unwanted books. Amy sent only those that weighed the least and that she thought Jude and his fellow soldiers might find interesting. Heavy religious, historical or political volumes she kept on the shelves in her bedroom, awaiting his return; the room was coming down with books.

  ‘We’ll have to ask Uncle Sammy to build more shelves,’ she said to Kezia, as they walked down Wentworth Stree
t. ‘We’ll ask him tomorrow.’

  *

  Early next morning, Amy and Kezia walked to Intake Farm. These days Amy looked forward to visiting her family. There had been a time when she dreaded Samuel’s company but, since Thomas’s untimely death, her brother had changed beyond recognition. He no longer drank heavily and much to Bessie’s delight he worked willingly with Raffy, the farm thriving.

  ‘Who have we here then?’ Samuel said, as Kezia trotted into the kitchen. His niece ran to him, eager to be picked up and swung in his beefy arms. To Amy he said, ‘You must be able to smell the kettle boiling. Mam’s just about to make a pot o’ tea.’

  Amy grinned. She had deliberately timed her arrival to coincide with Samuel and Raffy’s tea break. ‘I hoped I’d find you in from the fields,’ she said, ‘I need more shelves. I’ve more books than I know what to do with.’

  ‘You should sell ’em,’ said Raffy, ‘take a stall on the market.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. They’re for Jude when he comes home. Besides, I had them given. It wouldn’t seem right.’

  ‘No daughter of mine is working on a market stall,’ said Bessie, bustling to the table with the teapot. ‘Amy has enough to do with her war work and minding Kezia.’ The mention of her granddaughter reminded her of her other grandchildren and their mother. ‘What’s Beattie up to these days? Still playing the trollop, is she?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Amy replied. ‘I still spend half my time looking after her children even though I told her I wouldn’t, but I can’t see them go hungry or shut out when it’s raining.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘They’re not to blame for whatever it is that eats away at Beattie.’