'This is Inspector Morris from Hexham, missis. I'm afraid we have bad news for you.'
She said nothing, but waited.
The policeman now looked at the Inspector and he, after clearing his throat, said, 'Your husband, Mrs Shaleman, died yesterday morning in South Shields Infirmary. He had been found near the waterfront, badly beaten and stripped of most of his clothing, right down to his boots. He was revived for a short time and was able to give his name and address. I understand his last words expressed the desire that he be taken home.'
Rose Shaleman now made a strange noise in her throat, then she said, 'South Shields? All that way?
Why? Why South Shields?'
Before either man could give her any answer Bruce put in quickly, 'We . . . we understood he was going to Norfolk.'
'Norfolk?' The Inspector raised his eyebrows. 'In that case, South Shields was somewhat out of his way.'
A long pause followed this remark before the policeman, turning to Bruce, said, 'The body's in the mortuary but it will have to be removed shortly. Will you make the necessary arrangements?'
After again casting a critical glance around the room, the Inspector continued, 'If it would be easier for you, arrangements could be made with an undertaker to bring the body directly to your nearest cemetery. This could save you a lot of journeying and trouble. Of course, it's up to you as to whether you make the arrangements yourself. Otherwise he would be buried in a general grave.' Out of politeness he had omitted the word 'pauper's'.
'Oh. Oh, thank you. Thank you, I'd be glad if an undertaker could deal with the matter,' Bruce replied.
'Well, that being so, we will take our leave.' And turning again to the bed and in a sympathetic tone, the Inspector said, 'We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs Shaleman. Good-day to you.'
She gave him no reply, nor to the policeman when he added his sympathetic comments.
Outside, the inspector brought up the matter of finance with Bruce. 'Of course,' he said, 'you understand it will cost more than an ordinary funeral: it's a long way and it'll need to come by train and there'll have to be pall-bearers too.'
'That's all right. The bill will be met, and on the day the undertaker finishes his job.'
'Oh well, that's good to hear. It will likely take three or four days to arrange but you will be notified when they are due to arrive.'
Without further words of farewell or commiseration the two men left.
As Bruce made to re-enter the cottage Jinnie came out of the scullery and hurried towards him, although she did not speak. It was he who said, 'You heard?'
and she nodded. He knew she couldn't say she was sorry, no more than could he.
'Go and hold Patsy for a minute, would you?' He indicated the horse, who had wandered and was nibbling at the grass. 'She'll get so full she won't want to move.'
He now went into the cottage and straight to the bed. His mother was sitting upright, her clasped hands beating the hap, and the expression on her face was one he hadn't seen for a long time. In fact, he didn't think he had ever seen her look so sad.
'Awful way to go,' she said.
'Yes; yes it was.' His own voice was low.
'You'll. . . you'll put him away decent?' It was a plea to which he responded quickly, 'Of course, Ma; yes, of course.'
'You . . . you can have what's under the tick.'
' Oh, Ma,' he said, shaking his head. 'Don't worry. Just leave that where it is; what has to be done I'll see to. If our belts get very tight later on, I can come to you.'
'Aye. Aye.' And then she added, 'They must have beaten him up. And what was he doing on the seafront in Shields? Shields is a long way off.' She was looking up at him appealingly now, and he answered her quietly,
'Not today, Ma; not with the trains running. And he's been gone, you know, for nearly a week.'
She was nodding again. 'I forget about the trains. He must have been badly knocked about to die like that.
And you know, Bruce' - now she gulped in her throat 'I've wished him dead for years. Oh aye, I've wished him dead for years; but not to go like that; I meant he should just go in his sleep, sort of. I've never been sorry for him in me life, but I'm sorry for him now. You . .. you know what I mean?' She put out her hand to him, and he took it and patted it as he said, 'Yes; yes, I do; and I feel the same, Ma. I too have wished him out of the way more than once but, as you say, not in that way. But don't worry; I'll see he has the best that can be bought.'
'You will, sure?'
'Sure. Oh yes, sure, Ma.' And he laid down her hand; then went out of the room.
He walked until he came to an outcrop of rock, and there he sat down.
Yesterday, the man he had assumed for many years to have been his father was still the man who had run off six days ago with the earnings of six months' hard graft, his hard graft, and he only had to call up the image of him to feel his fingers clutching his throat. He knew too that his mother would have done the same then, had she the strength; yet here, today, both he and she were consumed with pity for him. From the very beginning, she had apparently resented the nearness of his body yet now her pity was oozing from her like a soft mantle and enwrapping him almost in love.
Such were the effects of death.
Jinnie stood before her mistress. She was wearing a long grey coat, her polished boots and her flat straw hat. Rose Shaleman looked her up and down before she said, flatly, 'You look tidy enough.' There was no censure in the remark, yet neither was there a trace of kindness. It was a tone that expressed indifference.
Yet when Jinnie said softly, 'I won't go if you think it shows disrespect, missis, with the Mister not being buried yet,' she was told, 'Oh, you needn't worry your head about that; your visiting won't make any difference one way or t'other,' only for a note of interest to show itself in Rose Shaleman's voice when she asked,
'You've got the locket for her?'
' Oh yes. Yes, missis.' Jinnie put her hand in the pocket of her coat and brought out the small cardboard box, saying, 'I'll have to tell her I'll get the chain for it later.'
'Aye, well, mind how you go, and mind your manners.'
Jinnie stared at her mistress for a moment before saying, 'Goodbye then, missis. I'll not stay all that long.'
She felt obliged to say this, because for the first time in days Rose Shaleman had spoken civilly to her. And so she added, 'I've laid your tea and Mister Bruce's and I've wrapped up the oven-bottom bread so it won't get. . .'
'All right. All right. Now get yourself away. Go on.
Go on.'
Jinnie took two steps backwards saying again, 'Goodbye, missis.'
Rose Shaleman gave no further farewell but watched her until she had passed through the doorway when she lay back on her pillows, muttering to herself. . .
Jinnie hurried in the direction of the barn, but as she passed the boiler-house Bruce's voice hailed her. 'You're off, then?'
Laughing, she turned and went into the steamy room, where the pig food was cooking in an iron boiler. The walls were covered with odd pieces of harness. In the middle of the room was a bench like a butcher's block, and Bruce was seated there. He had been about to press the large curved needle through a thick leather strap.
She watched what he was doing for a moment before she asked, 'The leather's dried, hasn't it?'
'Yes, you could say that, Jinnie; it's dried all right.'
And he withdrew the needle from the hole it had made and he looked her up and down, as his mother had done; although what he said was, 'You look bonny; and you're excited, aren't you? Well, it's something being invited to a birthday party.'
'Oh, it won't be a party; just a cup of tea and a piece of cake. The Miss Duckworths are very old, you know.'
'Yes, I know.' He laughed now. 'But they weren't always old. I remember them chasing me when I was a lad.'
'Did they?'
'They did indeed. I was scrumping their apples. I remember one collared me and said, "You must come and ask if you want an
y."'
'And did you?'
'No; there was no fun in asking.'
She looked at him intently now before she asked, 'You still feeling tired.'
'No, no; I'm fine.'
' 'Twas a long day yesterday, going all the way into Hexham.'
He smiled at her, saying, 'I was on the cart.'
'Yes, I know; but it can be long, with having to wait about an' that. Did they bring him to Hexham in a glass coach?'
'No; in the guard's van. Now, forget the funeral and get yourself away.'
She smiled now, as she backed from him, saying, 'I wish you were coming with me;' then, biting on her lip, she turned and ran from the room. He stood up and, through the murky window, he watched her as she ran for some distance before stopping to straighten her hat, then walk sedately on. He continued to watch her until she disappeared beyond the ridge. It was as if she had floated into the air like the ethereal creature she sometimes appeared to be. But what was he thinking?
Ethereal? Practical would be a more apt word . . .
Yet, he didn't know. She was a gentle creature, until she was provoked. And he had seen the result of that, when rather than anything ethereal, she was more like a gale of wind creating havoc.
He smiled to himself as he went back to the block.
He picked up the needle and continued to mend the worn-out harness, and as he sat there he wondered how they were now going to survive the winter after having paid fifteen pounds for conveying Pug's body to Hexham; and this would be only the beginning.
An hour later he had finished his mending and went indoors, where he put the kettle on and brewed a pot of tea. He did not, however, speak to his mother, nor she to him until he handed her the mug and then, as if she had picked up his thoughts from the swill-room, she said, 'Fifteen pounds! Daylight robbery.'
"Twas a double journey, Ma.'
'Double journey or not, fifteen pounds!' Then, as an afterthought, she said, 'How are you feeling?' to which he answered, 'Not so bad. But don't worry, everything'll be all right.'
'.Ml right, you say--' She took a drink from her mug, then she continued, 'All right, you say. You don't look fit enough to walk the flat, never mind the hills.'
He picked up his mug of tea and went to the door, which he had just opened when his mother demanded,
'Where are you going now?'
'I'm going nowhere, Ma; I was just going to stand here and drink my tea.'
After a short silence her voice came again: 'You never sit with me now. I hardly ever see you, except when you come in to eat or to go to bed.'
He looked towards her and said, 'Ma, you want it all ways: you want me up the hills to see to our living, you want me outside, and in the kitchen here; not to talk, no, or discuss anything, no, just to moan. And you're never alone for long, anyway. Jinnie spends most of her life in this damn kitchen or the scullery, and a big slice of that time is taken up attending to you. So there you have it.'
He did not walk away from the door but stood looking out over the plain. Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he spotted two figures far away in the distance but coming his way.
He took two quick steps back into the kitchen, placed the mug on the table, then hurried out, ignoring his mother's querulous enquiry, 'What is it now?'
He went some little distance before his shortened breathing caused him to stop, when his eyes stretched wide and he muttered,' 'Tis her and the big fellow. Well, well; what now?'
Jinnie was still some distance from him when she called: 'Hello, Mister Bruce; I've brought Max to see you,' and after hurrying towards him, she continued breathlessly, 'He . . . he's got something to tell you . . .
to ask you. Haven't you, Max?'
'Y-y-yes, Mister Bruce.'
Somewhat puzzled, Bruce looked from one to the other, then started to laugh, and he said, 'Well, if it's good news I'd like to hear it. Come on back to the house.' But even as they made their way towards the cottage he was telling himself he'd better not take the fellow in there or he'd have his mother screaming; and so, he led the way to the barn, and there said, 'We can talk here;' but even as he said the words his mind took a wild turn and thought, Surely he's not come to tell me he's going to take her away, and that with Miss Caplin's approval!
He waited for Max to speak, but Max was looking about him and to no-one in particular he said, 'Nnnice barn.'
'Well, will you tell him or will I?' said Jinnie now.
'You st-st-start. I say lllater.'
'Well' - she had now turned to Bruce - 'it's like this. You know I told you Max had got this job on a farm? Well, he doesn't start until the New Year.
There's a cottage and the man won't be out until then; I mean, the other man. And so, as Miss Caplin says, at the moment, Max is as good as his own master, at least until then. Well, he can leave the house, the workhouse, any time. The farmer there has been very
good to him and he put in a good word to the guardians for him.'
At this Max said, 'Yes, to the guardians. They all ...
right to me.' He grinned now, a wide toothful grin as he added, 'Not always ... all right . . . guardians.'
Bruce nodded understandingly; then he looked at Jinnie again and said, 'Well, go on.'
'Well, then, that's it, you see; he's got nearly two months and he wants to come and help you.'
'Oh dear.' Bruce now shook his head, then to Max he said, 'That's very kind of you, Max; but I'm sorry to say I can't afford to employ anyone at present.'
'Not em-ploy. No money... just eat and ... sleeping,'
and saying this, he flung his arms wide to take in the barn and on a deep laugh he said, 'Best bed . . . hay bed.'
'It's very kind of you, Max, but . . .'
'Oh, Mister Bruce, he'd love it. And . . . and he'd be such a help. He can do all kinds of things. The farm at the house is quite big, with pigs, chickens, ducks, cows and sheep.'
' Sheep?' Bruce looked down at her now.
'Well, not as many like you've got, but there were a good few dozen.'
Bruce now looked at Max and asked, 'You've dealt with sheep?' and Max nodded, then said, 'N-n-not on hill; on fells. And I l-l-lambed and clipped.'
'You can shear sheep?'
'Huh! Huh!' The big head bounced. 'Frederick show me.'
Bruce now looked to Jinnie for confirmation, and she said, 'Frederick was the man who came to shear the sheep, and he showed Max how.'
Turning fully to Bruce now and lowering her voice as if Max were some distance away, she said, 'He can turn his hand to most things. Miss Caplin said the Master didn't want to let him go, but the farmer put a good word in to the guardians, as he said, and they can't keep him because they haven't got a paper on him.
Well, you know what I mean.'
No, he didn't know exactly what she meant, except perhaps that he wasn't certified.
The two men now stared at each other and one part of Bruce's mind was saying: Yes, he is ugly but he's a splendid creature, nevertheless, and should be as strong as a horse. I really shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. But the other part was saying, But there's Ma.
Just think what she'll say. She's never forgotten the last time she saw him. But then she needn't see him: he wouldn't be in the house at all. She would have to be told, though. Oh yes; she'd have to be told. What was he saying? Was he saying that he had already decided?
Yes, he supposed he was. This was a gift from the gods; a man who didn't want paying and could turn his hand to anything; even if it was only for the next couple of months until he got on his feet again and before the winter really set in. He glanced from Max to Jinnie. They were both staring at him, a plea in both faces. That was another thing: she loved this man; he was like a father to her. His presence would make her happy, if nothing else did.
'All right; we can but give him a try.'
'Oh! Mister Bruce.' She had hold of his hands now, her face reaching up to his, and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. But then she turned a
nd flung her arms around the big fellow; and he held her; and as Bruce watched the embrace he knew a moment of aloneness that he had never experienced before. It was as if he had never known either Richard or her, or, worse still, having known them, had lost them. And then the big fellow was standing in front of him, his hand extended.
When his own hand became lost within the tough palm and was shaken vigorously, yet without a hurtful grip, and the stilted voice came to him saying, 'Nnnot sorry. Regret no,' he found himself responding warmly, answering: 'No, I'm sure I'll not be sorry, Max. When can you start?'
'Wednesday.'
'Wednesday? Good.'
Bruce watched his new assistant turn and look about the barn as if he were viewing a new house, and when he said, 'Must go. Miss Caplin . . . back before dark.'
'Yes, yes of course.' And Bruce looked at Jinnie and said, 'Are you going down again?' and she answered,
'No. No, we had tea and birthday cake, and Miss Caplin was so pleased with her locket.'
'So she should be; it was a lovely locket.'
Jinnie said, 'I'll. . . I'll set Max on his way, just a little bit, and then I'll come back and see to the missis.'
'But there's another good two hours yet before dark.'
'I know. I know, but it doesn't matter.' Then again lowering her voice, she said, 'It's so kind of you, Mister Bruce, 'cos I know you'll have to face the missis, and she won't be for it. But she needn't see him, need she?'
They both turned and watched Max as he walked well outside the barn entrance and looked about him, and he answered her, also quietly, 'No, she needn't see him; but, as you say, Jinnie, she's still got to be faced . . .'
Fifteen minutes later he faced his mother with the news, and the yell she let out caused him to screw his eyes and turn his head away as he listened to her tirade:
'You mad? D'you want us to be murdered in our beds?
He's not safe. He'll do for you first chance he gets.'
He rounded on her then, crying almost as loudly as she had done, 'The only thing he'll do for me, Ma, is to help me over a very, very bad patch. I'm not yet fit to shepherd the hills; I'm not even fit enough, let me tell you, to keep walking about here. I'm aching from head to foot; all I want to do is to lie down . . . somewhere
The Tinker's Girl Page 19