The Collier’s Wife

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The Collier’s Wife Page 21

by Chrissie Walsh


  At first, she had lived in hope that copious tipples of gin might bring on a miscarriage but all they had done was make her drunk and depressed. Amy was furious – not because she knew about the pregnancy; she didn’t. She was angry and disappointed because after Larry Hamby’s vicious attack Amy had hoped that Beattie would mend her ways.

  Maggie, faithful as ever, ran the house and nursed her mother lovingly, even though Beattie showed scant appreciation for the girl’s efforts. Amy dropped by every day, more to support Maggie than to listen to Beattie’s grumbling and moaning. Her arm had healed but the black dog of depression hung over her like a shroud and she would sit for hours by the hearth smoking one cigarette after the other. Initially, Amy had suggested distractions that might please Beattie such as a shopping trip or a walk in the countryside, or the offer to cut and style her hair or freshen up the paint in the house. Nothing worked, and now her drunkenness wore Amy’s patience to a frazzle.

  Besides, she had other things to worry about. Jude had yet to reply to her last letter, and the newspapers were now full of the most horrific stories. In the first few days after what the papers referred to as the ‘Big Push’ Amy had smiled when she read ‘The Big Advance: All goes well for Britain and France’ and ‘only a few casualties’. This must be ‘the big dust up’ Jude had mentioned in his last letter. That only a few lives had been lost diminished her fears.

  However, within days, the same newspapers were telling a different story. Words such as ‘our losses have been severe’ and that ‘men were mown down like grass’ did little to boost her hopes. One paper reported that ‘when the men went over the top, they met with a hail of gun shot and rifle fire that wiped them out in hundreds’. Was Jude one of the hundreds? Was he now lying dead on foreign soil, his beautiful body broken and mouldering? The more she read, the more she was afraid to leave the house should a telegram boy make a fateful delivery in her absence.

  Telegram boys came to Wentworth Street at increasingly regular intervals. Amy went from one house to another offering comfort to the recipients of the dreaded yellow scraps of paper and all the while wondering if, in the next day or so, she would receive a telegram telling of her own loss? There were days when she couldn’t decide which was worse, to receive a telegram or live with the uncertainty of not knowing what had become of Jude. And as Amy scoured obituary columns and lists of dead, missing or wounded that now filled several pages in the newspapers, Maggie made a daily visit to Barnborough Town Hall to check the lists that were posted there. Each day, on her return, Maggie said, ‘No news is good news.’ Amy wanted to believe her.

  Then a letter came. Not from Jude, but from Bert’s commanding officer, telling them Bert had been injured and transferred to a hospital in London. He wished him a speedy recovery and told them that Bert would soon return to the bosom of his family.

  The bosom of his family… Beattie went into a flat spin. Where before she had brooded by the fire, she now paced restlessly from parlour to kitchen, kitchen to yard like a mad woman, settling to nothing.

  ‘Why are you acting like this, Beattie? You should be pleased. Bert’s injuries can’t be too bad if the officer says he’ll soon be back home.’

  Beattie couldn’t think of a reply. All she could think of was that Amy must never know about her condition and that she had to do something, anything, to alter it.

  The next day another letter arrived, this one from Bert.

  ‘Look, Auntie Amy!’ Maggie waved the single sheet of paper under Amy’s nose as soon as she arrived at the house in Grattan Row. ‘Me dad’s coming home an’ when he does, he’s going to start his own business driving a lorry.’

  Amy grabbed the letter and read it. ‘That’s marvellous,’ she cried, although deep down a snake of envy wormed its way into her thoughts. Why couldn’t it be Jude coming home? She hugged Maggie, and turning to Beattie she said, ‘Think of it, Beattie, Bert home and starting up on his own, isn’t that wonderful?’ She chuckled. ‘You’ll be a businessman’s wife, Beattie.’

  Beattie leapt out of her chair, and making a strange howling noise like that of a wounded animal, she grabbed her coat and handbag and dashed out of the house.

  Dumbfounded, Amy and Maggie watched her go.

  *

  The woman in Carcroft wouldn’t do it; she said Beattie was ‘too far gone’. The foreign doctor that the woman had recommended wanted twenty pounds, no questions asked. Where was she likely to find twenty pounds, Beattie fumed, as she boarded the bus back to Barnborough? On the bus, she pondered on what to do. She had to get rid of it. Bert might be lackadaisical but he’d not rear another man’s child – not Bert the businessman. Tears stung her eyes. She pictured a yard full of lorries bearing Bert’s name and a nice house and a wardrobe full of glamorous dresses; maybe they’d even have had weekends in Scarborough. She’d have liked being a businessman’s wife, show all them toffee-nosed buggers like Amy Leas a thing or two.

  Alighting from the bus in Barnborough, Beattie went to the tobacconists and the pub. Trudging back to Grattan Row, she walked straight past her own house and up to Connie Spratt’s, a bottle of gin and ten Park Drive in her bag. Connie would know how to help her – hadn’t she aborted her own daughter’s unwanted pregnancy last year?

  ‘Ooh, ta very much,’ said Connie, accepting the bait and immediately lighting up a Park Drive and unscrewing the cap on the gin bottle. An hour later Beattie hurried back home, the instructions rattling inside her brain and the knitting needles and a long-handled spoon rattling inside her bag.

  *

  Amy had stayed with Maggie for almost two hours after Beattie’s hasty departure. Then, tiring of waiting for her return and thinking she was drowning her sorrows in the pub, she had gone back home to soak dried peas to go with the small piece of boiling bacon for tomorrow’s dinner. As she was opening the packet of peas the knocker on the front door rattled. Amy’s heart missed a beat; what if it was the telegram boy? She squeezed the bag tightly; peas shot out, pit-pattering across the flagged stone floor.

  Kezia laughed out loud, and as she chased the peas Amy ran into the parlour. On the mat was a letter. She snatched it up, the sight of the familiar handwriting sending her breath whooshing from her lungs. Only then did she realise she had been holding her breath from the moment she had heard the knock. Feeling somewhat lightheaded, she went back into the kitchen, scattering peas even further as she danced Kezia across the floor. ‘Your daddy’s sent us some news,’ she cried, ‘now leave those peas alone and let’s sit down and read it.’

  Out loud she read: ‘My Dearest Amy and Kezia, it is the middle of the night and for the moment all is quiet where we are. It’s a warm night, the moon is shining and the stars are big and bright. It’s times like this when I miss you most of all. I feel very far away from you and Kezia and the distance lets me know what a lucky man I am to have you thinking about me and waiting for me at home.’

  Amy paused to scan the next few lines, then smiling at Kezia she said, ‘There, isn’t that nice? Daddy’s safe and well and thinking about us.’ Kezia’s warm brown eyes were shining as she nodded her agreement. Amy’s heart swelled with love. ‘Now you pick up the peas for me like a good girl, whilst I read what else Daddy has to say.’

  Kezia rattled peas into a pan as Amy silently read, ‘The fighting here is still intense and every day I find myself seeing or doing things I never thought I’d see or do. I was with young John Cooper, Mary’s boy, when he lost his life and although I did not see Freddie, the Howards’ lad, die, I helped carry his body to where we buried him. Tell Fred and Clara we marked his grave with a cross bearing his name and number on it and prayed for his soul. Give them and Mary my condolences.’

  Again, Amy stopped reading, her heart heavy. Earlier in the week, she had commiserated with both neighbouring families, and as she forced herself to read on, she prayed that the letter contained no more sad news. Her prayer was answered.

  ‘I’ve not seen or heard anything of Bert. I hope he
is safe and well and that I will stay the same in the coming days. So far, I’ve escaped trench foot and dodged the bullets, and I’m still lending out books to the lads whenever we have rest periods. It seems like I’ve taken over your old job.’ Amy gave a watery smile. Trust Jude to say something to amuse her; poor, brave Jude.

  At the end of the letter he had written, ‘I’m not sorry I joined up because I know I did the right thing, but I am sorry that it took me away from you. Take care of yourselves. You are very precious to me and I love you both very much.’

  Choking back tears, for she never let Kezia see her crying, Amy made tea and later that evening she called with the Coopers and the Howards. Perhaps Mary would take some comfort from knowing that Jude had been with John at the end, that her son had died with a friend close by. At the Howards she showed them what Jude had written, the devastated couple’s sorrows somewhat eased to learn that Fred had been buried with honour and respect.

  After Kezia had gone to bed, Amy went out into the yard for a breath of air and taking the letter from her apron pocket she read it again by the light of the moon. Gazing up at the stars she selected the brightest, hopeful that Jude was watching the same star and if he wasn’t then that, at least, the same bright star was shining down on him. With a heart full of love and longing she went indoors and to bed.

  *

  In the house in Grattan Row, Beattie Stitt gazed at her reflection in the mottled, greasy mirror hanging above the fireplace. She didn’t like what she saw; she was getting old. Her cheeks were sallow and deep wrinkles framed her lacklustre eyes. Sadly she recalled the days when her eyes had flashed mischievously back at her, eyes that had attracted men looking for a good time. She prodded the puffed bags beneath each eye with her index fingers then moved them back to her hairline, tightening the loose skin. There, that looked better but it didn’t matter anymore what she looked like, did it? She let her hands fall to her side and in an instance the bags reappeared, uglier than before.

  All the bitter disappointments that life had doled out reared up in front of her. She had never fit in. She was like the wrong thread in the wrong colour, woven into a pattern that had gone badly wrong. From the very start she’d been a misfit. Hadley Elliot had wanted a son, and failing that a plump, fair daughter. Instead he’d had to make do with a skinny creature with swarthy skin and hair so black he likened it to boot polish. Not that it mattered now; he wasn’t her dad, she was Raffy’s daughter. But why if her mother loved Raffy had she never loved her, Beattie?

  She turned away from the hearth, and resting her hands on her belly she thought of the life inside her. Poor bugger, it would have no more luck in life than she had. Heaving a gusty sigh, Beattie lifted her bag from the table and plodded upstairs, the clink and rattle of the knitting needles against the long-handled spoon causing her to shudder so violently that she had difficulty maintaining her balance.

  *

  Bright, early morning sunshine filtered through the window above the sink, glinting on the pan in Amy’s hands. She had been up since six, the restless energy that had coursed her veins ever since she had read Jude’s letter making it impossible to stay in bed. Oh, but it was a beautiful morning; Jude was alive and well, and Bert was coming home soon.

  Pouring milk into the pan for the morning’s porridge, she planned her day. She’d call with Maggie, try and talk some sense into Beattie and then go up to Dr Hargreaves’ garden and harvest the broad beans and cabbages. She took great pride in the flourishing vegetable garden, pleased to know that as Mrs Hargreaves distributed the produce to the needy families in Barnborough, she herself was doing something to make their lot easier. And now there are more needy families than ever, she thought, the shattered faces of Mary Cooper and Clara Howard springing to mind. This horrible war has a lot to answer for, she silently told the bubbling porridge. She shared it out between two bowls, and leaving it on the table to cool, she went upstairs.

  Kezia was bouncing on her bed, a favourite nursery rhyme book open at her feet. ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a…’ she chimed. One bounce too many, and Amy dived closer, Kezia toppling into her mother’s arms and Amy gasping her relief.

  ‘Silly Humpty, you could have hurt yourself,’ said Amy, hugging the warm, little body tight and speaking sharply. ‘Jumping up and down on the bed’s dangerous, don’t do it again.’ She set Kezia down. ‘Keep your nightie on and come and get your breakfast.’

  They were at the top of the stairs when they heard the kitchen door crash open. ‘Auntie Amy, Auntie Amy!’ Maggie sounded frantic. Amy ran downstairs and through to the kitchen, Kezia at her heels.

  Maggie, dressed only in her shift and her hair on end grabbed Amy by the arm, dragging her to the open door and crying, ‘I can’t waken me Mam an’ there’s blood everywhere.’

  At the word ‘blood’, Amy’s own blood ran cold. What had Beattie done now? Had she arrived home drunk and fallen and cracked her head? Without waiting to ask, she threw a shawl round Kezia and then grabbed her own coat. Maggie streaked ahead as they ran to Grattan Row.

  Mary and Henry huddled in a chair by the dead fire, their eyes wide with fear.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ yelled Maggie, charging up the narrow stairwell. Amy plonked Kezia in the other armchair and followed Maggie. As she climbed, she had a strong presentiment that what she was about to see was far worse than she had imagined.

  At the open bedroom door, she paused to gather her courage. The room was almost in darkness, a guttering lamp casting Maggie’s shadow and that of the dark hump on the bed grotesquely across the wall. Amy stepped inside.

  Beattie was sprawled in a pool of dark blood and fetid matter, her legs at a peculiar angle. Scattered on the bed were a pair of knitting needles, a long-handled spoon and an empty bottle of gin. Amy swayed on her feet, her shadow cavorting wildly on the whitewashed wall. She reached for the bedpost to steady herself, and with her free hand she felt for the pulse in Beattie’s neck, her fingers trembling so much they were useless. She stooped so that her cheek touched Beattie’s mouth, hopeful she might feel a warm breath, but her sister’s lips were cold. Coming upright and swallowing noisily she gently closed Beattie’s eyelids, shutting in the crazed, demonic stare.

  ‘Shall I get t’doctor, Auntie Amy?’

  Amy nodded dumbly, although she knew it was hopeless. Maggie clattered down the stairs and out into Grattan Row.

  Amy stayed, staring at Beattie and blaming herself for not doing more to prevent this tragic waste of life. She had been too harsh. Instead of criticizing Beattie’s drunkenness and dark moods she should have been seeking medical help. She gazed at the needles and the spoon. She had heard enough gossip to know what Beattie had done even if poor Maggie didn’t. What was more, she thought she knew why; Beattie hadn’t wanted Bert to know.

  After Dr Hargreaves had examined the body, he drew Amy out onto the landing away from Maggie who was kneeling by the bed stroking Beattie’s hair. Lowering his voice, he confirmed that Beattie had attempted an abortion and bled to death. He would inform the police, so that foul play could be ruled out.

  The next two days passed by in a blur, Amy comforting Maggie and her siblings and at the same time arranging a funeral and attempting to get word to Bert. Raffy and Samuel helped where they could but Amy ached for Jude’s presence: calm, loving Jude who knew what to do in a crisis.

  On the morning of the funeral, a policeman came to the house again. Amy presumed it was to do with Beattie’s death. She didn’t invite him inside to where Maggie, Samuel, Raffy, Bessie and the children were waiting for the undertakers to arrive with the coffin in the hearse. The policeman, whom Amy knew well having gone to school with him, gazed at her sombrely and mumbled his apologies before taking his notebook from his pocket.

  ‘It is my duty to inform you that a Mr Herbert Stitt, known to reside at number two, Grattan Row, Barnborough was declared dead at Southwood Hospital in London on the 13th of August,’ he read woodenly. ‘His remains can b
e collected by arrangement. The constabulary offers Mr Stitt’s family our deepest sympathy.’ The policeman took a deep breath and then said, ‘Sorry to bring you more trouble, lass.’

  Amy’s mind reeled. Beattie had died needlessly. Bert would never have known about the baby. She flopped onto the window ledge. How could she go back inside and tell Maggie and her brothers and sister that they had also lost their father? Too shocked for tears, she looked up into a sky as clean as a freshly laundered blue sheet. I kept my promise, Bert, and I’ll go on keeping it, she silently told it. Then forcing her feet to move, she walked to the door saying, ‘Thank you. I’ll let Bert’s family know.’

  But not just yet, she thought, not until we’ve buried poor Beattie.

  *

  Miserable though they were, the family set about making arrangements for the future. Albert and Fred would live at Intake Farm with Samuel, Bessie and Raffy, and Maggie, Mary and Henry with Amy. ‘It’s bad doing that Jude didn’t make it home in time for the funeral,’ Raffy said, as he dismantled the bed that was Mary and Henry’s to take to Amy’s house. ‘Maybe he’ll be here in time for Bert’s.’

  Sighing heavily, Amy dumped a pile of children’s clothing into a bag. ‘His letter didn’t say when he’d arrive, but at least we know he’s been granted compassionate leave,’ she passed a hand over her eyes, ‘and he’s on his way home not knowing poor Bert’s dead as well.’ She did not disclose that he had written, ‘I might not have loved Beattie as a brother should, but coming to it the way we did left it too late to form a bond. Too much had gone before and she was already damaged goods, God rest her soul.’ She saw no purpose in adding to the guilt that Raffy and Bessie still carried for having kept the truth from him and Beattie.

  ‘It’s a bad business all round,’ said Bessie. ‘That lad should be coming home for a bit of happiness with his family and a rest from all that fighting instead of having to deal with all this.’

 

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