The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  Amy didn’t know which was worse. Everyone fussing over Jude and asking if he was all right, or doing as they were now by completely ignoring him. As she sat with Kezia on her lap, Kezia laughing giddily as they played a silly little game that involved clapping hands and tapping cheeks, chins and noses, Amy thanked God for her daughter. It was she who sustained her and calmed her when despair threatened to overwhelm her.

  *

  Later that night, Amy was in bed in the little house in Wentworth Street with Jude next to her. She fought back tears although her head ached with the effort. Jude lay flat on his back, wooden and still, just as he had each night since his homecoming. Now that he was beside her, she missed his questing fingers and his lovemaking more than she ever had in the years they were apart. She knew he wasn’t asleep, and that if she reached for him his body would arch and stiffen and then, as he had on the other nights, he’d get out of bed and go back downstairs. But she had to keep trying; she had to reach him.

  The moment he felt her hand on his cheek, he rolled to the edge of the bed and when she whispered, ‘Jude, love, tell me what it is that’s troubling you,’ he swung his legs to the floor and clumped from the room. Amy stayed where she was, her thoughts crashing uncomfortably inside her head. Then, concerned that she had driven him away, preventing him from getting the sleep he so desperately needed, she followed him.

  He was in the parlour, humped in a chair by the dead fire, the smoke from the cigarette clamped between his lips spiralling up into his glazed eyes. Afraid that it would burn his lips, Amy carefully removed it and threw it into the ashes. Jude lunged forward, the crash of mortars and the flare of lights playing in his head.

  ‘Bastard, bastard, bloody bastard war. Shoot you bugger, shoot.’

  ‘Jude, it’s me, Amy! It’s me, love!’

  Jude sagged and stared blankly at her for a second or two before shaking his head in bemusement. ‘S… s… sorry, lass, I… I thou… thought you… you were… Shit!’

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’ Amy made her voice sound as though nothing untoward had happened.

  ‘Aye, I could do with a cup.’ Jude sounded equally calm.

  The tea brewed, they sat and talked like other couples do late at night, Jude praising Bessie’s dinner and then Kezia for her cleverness at reading him a story before she went to bed. Anybody would think we were a perfectly happy family, thought Amy, but as they climbed the stairs yet again her mind still dwelt on that massive, impenetrable barrier she could not breach.

  *

  Days crawled by, Amy feeling as though she existed in a nightmare state where nothing seemed solid, not even the ground beneath her feet. She went about her daily business with as much spirit as she could muster, taking Kezia to school then collecting her in the afternoon, and in between she cleaned and cooked meals, all the while edging round her husband’s uncertain moods.

  On the day of Samuel and Freda’s wedding only she and Kezia attended the ceremony. It was a pleasant occasion, but not the joyful one Amy had hoped for, Jude having flatly refused to accompany them. During the service she recalled those first few blissful weeks of married life and wondered when, if ever, they would recapture the magic that had once been theirs.

  Jude spent long hours reading his way through the books Amy had collected. Only then did he seem at ease. However, with Kezia his temper was inconstant, Amy afraid to leave them alone in case he lost his reason and harmed their daughter.

  Jude was aware of this, and it only added to his problems. What sort of a man had he become that his wife considered him capable of hurting his beloved child? Yet he saw the way Kezia shied away from him, and he was hurt but at a loss as to how he could build the child’s confidence when his own was so fragile. He didn’t understand his own dark moods or sudden tempers, so why should she?

  *

  After several weeks of what, to Amy, felt like walking on eggshells she now dreaded each new day. When she wakened, she didn’t open her eyes, she just lay there steeling herself to get out of bed, shafts of panic lancing through her as though she was in some strange dark place where nowhere was safe. When she did open her eyes, she turned them on Jude.

  Today he was sleeping peacefully, although he had cried out twice during the night, his rambling shouts and thrashing arms disturbing her sleep. She gazed at his finely sculpted, handsome features thinking how sad it was that he looked the same but was not the same, and her heart felt heavy as lead as she slipped out of bed.

  It was not yet seven, the kitchen cold and bleak as she raked the embers in the stove and set the kettle to boil. Tomorrow was the first day of spring; a day that Amy had always welcomed for this was the time of year that the earth was reborn: coltsfoot and celandines in the hedgerows, birds making nests, and the sun’s brightening rays banishing winter gloom. But, as the day stretched in front of her, she couldn’t help wondering if her life would ever bloom again.

  She dropped a blob of lard into the pan ready to fry slices of stale bread to go with the last two rashers of streaky bacon. Food was scarce, but money was scarcer. The small pension that Jude received did no more than cover the rent and groceries. Had it not been for Bessie’s generosity things would have been much worse; eggs, potatoes and the occasional chicken made a world of difference. But as Amy watched the bacon sizzle she knew that if they were to improve their living standards and provide Kezia with anything other than the most meagre childhood then one or the other of them must go to work.

  ‘I’m going to the Saturday market,’ Amy said, when Jude slouched into the kitchen, his hangdog expression making her want to put distance between them.

  He didn’t answer. Hooking a chair with the toe of his boot, he pulled it out from under the table and then sat down reaching for the book he had left there the night before. Amy set the plate of bacon in front of him. If he didn’t want to talk then neither did she.

  Upstairs, she went into Kezia and Maggie’s bedroom. ‘I’m off to the market. Mind Kezia for me until I get back, there’s a good lass,’ she said to her niece.

  Maggie nodded her tousled head and then asked, ‘What about me Uncle Jude?’ She asked this warily because, like Kezia, she found his uncertain temperament disturbing.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Amy said wearily. ‘Just keep out of his way. I won’t be long.’

  *

  The market was busy, a stiff breeze flapping the canvas awnings on the stalls set out in rows on a large piece of waste ground behind Barnborough Town Hall. The Saturday market attracted a variety of vendors and customers on the lookout for bargains. Holding on to her hat and glad to be out of the house, Amy strolled past stalls selling clothes, footwear, household linens, crockery, ironmongery and a host of other things, stopping to make purchases at the dried goods and vegetable stall. She would have liked to buy towels or the blue vase on a bric-a-brac stall but she had barely enough money for essentials.

  About to go home, she passed by an old woman whose stall was nothing more than an old bit of tarpaulin spread out on the ground. On it were a few odd cups and plates, mostly chipped, a worn pair of slippers, a battered teddy bear, a dented brass jug and a few books with faded covers and pages curled up at the corners. Amy wondered who on earth would buy such rubbish? If the stallholder were to sell every bit of it would it even cover the rental on the plot? But now she came to think of it, this old woman came week after week, so it must be worthwhile. Amy retraced her steps.

  ‘How much for this?’ She picked up a plate patterned with a country scene. Amy bought it and asked a few more questions about running a market stall. The old woman, more than willing to chat, gave her the ins and outs of it. ‘Hail, rain or shine, I allus goes home wi’ a profit,’ she concluded.

  Amy walked back to Wentworth Street deep in thought. If people bought the shabby books the old woman was selling, what would they pay for books in good condition? The shelves in the bedroom and parlour were crammed with clean, interesting volumes, most of which she and Jude had read,
and wasn’t it rather fanciful to have your own library when you could barely feed and clothe your family? Maggie needed new shoes and Kezia a coat, and whilst she might once have felt guilty at selling books that had been given to her, surely nobody would object now that Jude was unable to work. Furthermore, it would give him an interest, something positive to do in the same way as his lending library had during the years with his regiment; he enjoyed encouraging others to read.

  Her step lighter, she entered the house only to find Kezia in the kitchen in tears and Maggie trying to pacify her.

  Maggie jerked a thumb. ‘He had one of his fits. He’s hiding under t’stairs.’

  Amy hurried into the parlour. Jude cowered under the overhang clutching his head in his hands. Her gentle persuasion making no impression on him, Amy went back into the kitchen and lifted Kezia into her lap. ‘What happened, Maggie?’

  ‘A big gust of wind blew t’dustbins down t’yard. They’d just been emptied an’ they were clanging and clattering on t’flags. He let out a roar an’ ran under t’stairs.’

  ‘I’ll see to him. He’ll be right as rain in a minute.’

  Amy set Kezia down and went back into the parlour. Squeezing into the tight space under the stairs she embraced Jude, whispering what she hoped were comforting, encouraging words. He gazed at her sorrowfully and she could see that he was embarrassed, and when she gently led him into the centre of the room he became surly and unreasonable.

  ‘I’m a coward – that’s what they call men like me. If they hadn’t sent me home they’d have shot me. That’s what they did to chaps who couldn’t fight anymore.’

  Amy knew this to be true and she shuddered; the Presbyterian minister’s son had suffered that fate. ‘You’re not a coward, love, you fought and did your best.’

  Jude flopped onto the settee, and in the next second he appeared to have forgotten she was there. But he hadn’t forgotten. The crazy feelings just wouldn’t go away. He had been glad to leave the hospital and come home, but now that he was there, he felt helpless and a nuisance. At least, in Beckett’s Park he’d felt safe: no responsibilities, nothing much asked of him, and now here was, expected to provide for his family and build for the future. He wasn’t sure he could do it.

  Back in the kitchen, Amy lifted her snivelling daughter. ‘Daddy didn’t mean to frighten you, love. He’s just not himself yet, and loud noises frighten him but—’ she chucked Kezia under the chin and then kissed the tip of her nose ‘—we’ll make him better, see if we don’t.’

  Kezia blinked away her tears and nodded.

  *

  ‘Why?’ Jude asked, when later that evening Amy told him of her idea to open a market stall selling books. He turned his dark eyes on her, his expression troubled.

  ‘We barely manage on your pension,’ she said, her voice gentle as she took his hands in her own. ‘I have to choose whether to pay the rent or buy new shoes for the girls, and we never have any money to spare for luxuries.’

  ‘And that’s my fault, I suppose.’

  ‘No, love; you’re not to blame. It’s just the way it is. Think about it, you’ll be working at something you enjoy, telling people that reading good books can change their lives. We’ve far too many, most of which we’ve read and some we’ll never read. You can keep your favourites and I’ll keep mine, but the rest we’ll sell and let others have the pleasure of owning them.’

  ‘And when you’ve sold ’em all, what then? Will you sell me?’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ She chuckled and then pecked his cheek. ‘I can’t do this without you, just like I could never feel whole if you weren’t by my side. I love you, Jude Leas, and I’m doing this for us and our family.’

  ‘I disappoint you, don’t I?’ he said, turning his back and walking into the parlour.

  ‘No, Jude, you don’t disappoint me, you disappoint yourself,’ she called after him, her patience worn thin.

  29

  ‘That’s the last of ’em,’ said Samuel, carrying a box filled with books out to the landing. ‘I’ll load these and then we’ll be off.’ He went downstairs leaving Amy and Jude in the bedroom. It was a Saturday morning, two weeks after Amy had first mooted her idea of renting a market stall. She had grown independent during Jude’s absence; now she was putting it to use.

  ‘Are you coming with us?’ Amy looked at Jude who was sitting on the bed gazing dismally at the depleted bookshelves. During the past week, he had made no mention of selling the books but Amy had, each time meeting with a negative response. Now, when he didn’t answer, she went out to the landing and into the small bedroom.

  ‘Come on you two, we’re ready for off.’ Maggie and Kezia excited at the prospect of selling books at the market, rushed out onto the landing.

  ‘Come on, Dad, get your coat! We’re going,’ chirped Kezia.

  Jude stayed where he was.

  Out on the street the girls jigged up and down on the pavement whilst Samuel rearranged the boxes in the back of his new truck. When Amy had told him about her new venture, he had offered to transport her and the books to and from the market. Bessie had sniffed at the idea of Amy running a stall on the market. ‘I think it’s demeaning,’ she had said, ‘and anyway, there’s a book shop in Barnborough.’

  ‘There is, but not like mine,’ Amy had replied tartly. ‘I’ll cater for ordinary folks, those who’d never darken the doors of Metcalfe’s bookshop with its snooty assistants and overpriced books. I’ll give everybody the opportunity to buy books cheaply so that they can read marvellous stories and travel in their minds to different times and places. They’ll not be frightened to come to me because they’ll know I sell books they can afford.’

  Now, with her coat on and the sandwiches she had made earlier in her bag, Amy went into the parlour, and finding Jude there, she made one last attempt.

  ‘Are you coming or not?’

  ‘Why on earth would you need someone as useless as me to help you?’

  ‘Because I always need you, Jude. Always have, always will.’ Without waiting for a reply Amy marched out to the street, surprised to see Raffy there.

  ‘I thought I’d come along for the ride, lend a hand so to speak,’ said Raffy.

  Amy gave him a warm smile, suppressing the urge to say: it’s more than your son is willing to do.

  ‘Can I get in?’ Kezia squealed, jigging excitedly by the truck’s door.

  Samuel strutted proudly round the truck and handed Kezia into the passenger seat. Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’s a bit smelly,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because I’ve been carting animal feed in it.’ Unabashed, Samuel refused to let the fetid stink detract from the thrill of ownership. ‘Now, ladies up front wi’ me, and you hop in the back, Raffy. They all piled aboard, and Samuel climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  He drove to the bottom of Wentworth Street and, it being a dead-end, he turned the truck and was just level with Amy’s front door when Jude darted out carrying his coat over one arm and using the other to flag them down. He had watched Amy march out, her head high and her back straight, and guilt had cloaked him. She was so beautiful and brave she was, so why was he sitting here? He jumped up and ran to get his coat.

  Samuel stopped the truck and Jude climbed in beside Raffy. Amy twisted in her seat so that Jude could see her face, her broad smile and sparkling eyes letting him know he’d done the right thing. He sat with his back against the truck’s side, a warm feeling washing over him.

  *

  ‘This is your pitch.’ The market manager pointed to a stall at the end of a row on the edge of the market. Trying to hide her disappointment, Amy paid her dues; she would have preferred a pitch in the heart of the market. Leaving the others standing forlornly round the bare stall she went to guide Samuel to the appointed spot so that they could unload the truck.

  ‘I’ll call back when I’ve done my errands and see how you’re getting on,’ Samuel said, when the last box had been offloaded. Amy gave him
a shaky smile. A few hours in which to succeed or fail. She lifted a handful of books from one of the boxes.

  ‘Set them out like this,’ she said to Maggie and Kezia, placing the books flat and in a neat row with their front covers showing. Feeling awfully important, the girls applied themselves to the task and Raffy joined in. Jude lit a cigarette and stood, cold and aloof, gazing into the distance. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to participate, but the clamour of the traders as they set-up their stalls was unnerving him.

  Soon, shoppers thronged the walkways, examining, haggling and purchasing: meat, vegetables, clothes, household linens and utensils. The bookstall earned no more than cursory glances.

  By midday Amy had sold four paperback thrillers, a bundle of comics and a battered copy of Heart of Darkness to a deranged-looking young man. Shortly after, she sold several women’s magazines that Mrs Hargreaves had collected from the comfort group. Raffy was doing his hearty thing, smiling at passers-by and calling out for them to look at the books, and though they sometimes looked they didn’t always buy. Jude had wandered off taking Maggie and Kezia with him, to where Amy didn’t know.

  Her feet and heart aching, Amy jealously eyed the shoppers clustered round the next pitch. Transfixed, and eyes wide with amazement they watched plates soar skyward, releasing pent breath with gusto when the juggling stallholder deliberately let some smash to the ground, his glib, raucous patter gulling housewives into buying not one, not two but six plates, cups or dishes.

  ‘Maybe if I throw a few books up in the air we might sell some of ’em,’ Amy said despairingly.

  Raffy gave her a forced a smile. ‘It be early days. Don’t expect miracles.’

  Jude and the girls returned, disappointed to see the stall still covered in books. A gloomy silence fell over the afternoon no one pretending to make an effort. When Samuel arrived with the truck, Amy almost cheered. They all began packing books into boxes.