by Val Wood
‘I waited for you,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought your wages up to the day you left.’ She gazed severely at Jenny. ‘You should have told somebody you were leaving, Jenny. Cook or me. It would have been only right.’
Jenny was grateful for the money, which Mrs Judson handed over. She hadn’t expected it. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Judson. I know that I should, but –’ she shrugged. How could she possibly explain?
Mrs Judson nodded and her small eyes pierced into Jenny’s face. ‘There’ll be things you can’t tell, I expect,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And I don’t suppose it was all your doing. He was always a bit odd. Even when he was a child he had strange ideas. About life, and death.’
Jenny stared at her, then said, ‘It was kind of you to think about my wages, Mrs Judson. I’m surprised they were willing to pay me.’
‘They weren’t,’ Mrs Judson said. ‘At least, Mrs Ingram wasn’t. She’s convinced that you killed him. It was Mr Ingram who agreed when I asked him. I pointed out that it would be churlish not to. If you got off, that is. You’d not have got them if you’d gone to trial.’
‘No,’ Jenny hastily agreed. ‘Of course not. But’, she added impulsively, ‘it was an accident, Mrs Judson.’
‘Yes. I expect it was.’ The housekeeper took a deep breath and looked away from Jenny and down Register Square as if she was only interested in the people who were passing by. ‘But he’d sucked you into one of his mad schemes, I expect,’ she muttered. ‘I’d seen that gun cabinet had been opened before, and not by Mr Ingram either. I was feared that there might be an accident sooner or later.’
She shook her umbrella open. ‘You’re well out of it anyway. You’d be best leaving Beverley for a bit, like ’magistrate said. Just till folks have forgotten about it, which they will. Though the Ingrams won’t. Specially not her.’
‘Well, he was her son after all,’ Jenny said. ‘I do understand.’
‘And she heard you say that you loved him,’ Mrs Judson said. ‘When the constable came and accused you. She wouldn’t have liked that, not after all her plans for him.’
Jenny lifted her eyes to Mrs Judson’s face and, to her surprise, saw compassion, which she had never expected from her. She had always been so dour.
‘We all heard you say that,’ Mrs Judson said. ‘We were gathered on the stairs, listening. All of us. We’d heard the shot.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘We were all prepared to say that we loved him, Jenny. Cook, me, everybody. If you’d gone to trial, that is.’ She stepped out of the doorway and raised her umbrella. ‘But you didn’t. Truth will out in the end.’ She gave what might have passed for a smile and a nod and walked briskly down the street. Jenny stared after her until she turned the corner.
Did they know? Jenny pondered. Did they know that I really did love him? And that he loved me? She felt a lump in her throat. She had barely been able to grieve, yet she grieved now and was overwhelmed that the other servants had been prepared to stand up for her and say that they had all cared for Christy, that they had all loved him.
Did they think that my love for him would have appeared less than it was, if they had told that? If that was what they thought, then they didn’t understand. I loved him right from the start. Since I was thirteen years old. And now he’s gone. The loss, fear and grief, which had held her fast, and now the relief at her liberty, overcame her and swamped her dull mind. She put her head down, her shoulders shook uncontrollably and the tears poured unchecked. She stepped back into the doorway that Mrs Judson had vacated and slid down onto her heels.
Someone stood over her. ‘You all right, Jenny?’ It was Billy.
‘Hello, Billy,’ she choked. ‘Billy Brown, butcher boy.’
He looked solemnly at her. ‘Jenny kitchen-maid,’ he said in a low voice and she shuddered.
‘My father’s making me a partner,’ he said slowly. ‘We’re going to open another shop.’
His blue eyes held hers and it seemed as if he was asking her something, rather than making a statement, but she didn’t want to enquire what the question was. I’ve enough to think about for the moment, she thought. ‘I’m going away, Billy,’ she told him. ‘I’ve leaving Beverley for a bit. ’Magistrates want me to, anyway.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Where to?’
‘Don’t know.’ She blew her nose. She didn’t know. Where could she go? ‘Back to Hull, I suppose. Back to Ma and Da, if they’ll have me.’
He opened his mouth to say something and she said quickly before he could find his voice, ‘I don’t want to stay here in Beverley. Everybody’ll be pointing a finger and talking about me.’
‘Aye. That’s what my father said.’ He lowered his eyes and spoke quickly, but didn’t look at her. ‘But I’d have you, Jenny.’
‘Yes, Billy,’ she whispered. ‘But I can’t.’
‘It’s too soon, I know that. He wouldn’t have made you happy though,’ he said, lifting his eyes to her face. ‘He was a bit – you know, different.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘He was.’ But I would have made him happy, she thought. ‘Will you walk me to ’railway station? I’m going to try and get a train into Hull.’
‘Do you want some money for the fare?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you some.’
She shook her head and stood up. ‘Thank you, but I’d rather not. I’ve enough for third class. Single.’ She blinked away her tears as she gazed at him. ‘You’ve been a good friend, Billy. I’ll not forget that.’
They walked without further conversation towards the railway station where Billy waited as she purchased a ticket and then saw her onto the train. ‘Hold on tight, won’t you, Jenny?’ he said solemnly. ‘I heard of somebody falling out of a train and breaking his head.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ she assured him. ‘It’s not far.’ She cringed as a shrill whistle blew and the engine got up a head of steam and a cloud of black smoke enveloped them. ‘I’ll be in Hull in half an hour,’ she shouted. ‘Goodbye, Billy.’
He raised his hand. ‘Goodbye, Jenny. Good luck.’
‘I knew you’d be back!’ As Jenny opened the door, her mother glanced up and put a clenched fist against her bony hip. ‘Said to your father, I did. Mark my words, I said, she’ll be back when it’s all over. Where else would she go? I said.’
‘Can I stop?’ Jenny asked, and thought that her mother looked even thinner and more wrinkled than when she had last seen her. ‘What did Da say?’
‘He said she’s nowhere else to go. She’ll have to come here.’ Her mother sniffed and lifted the kettle onto the fire. Then she turned to Jenny and appraised her. ‘You’ll be expecting, I suppose?’
‘To stay?’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t know. It’s up to you.’
‘No, I meant expecting, as in expecting a babby. That’s what I meant.’
‘Oh.’ Jenny heaved a deep sigh. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘I knew it,’ her mother said. ‘I said, she’ll be expecting and will want to come back here.’ She folded her arms across her thin chest. ‘But I don’t think so. We’ve no room for a babby and besides, you’ll not be able to work. Nobody would employ you, not now.’
‘I could look after ’house like I did before I went to Beverley,’ Jenny said. ‘Can’t I?’
‘No.’ Her mother busied herself making tea. ‘You can go to your aunt Aggie. She’ll have you. She needs some help.’ She sat down at the table, poured two cups of tea and sipped hers before saying, ‘I’ve written to her already to tell her you might be coming.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jenny said. ‘Who is Aunt Aggie?’ Jenny was amazed that her mother would make arrangements for her, without knowing the outcome of the hearing. ‘And anyway,’ she said, ‘you can’t write!’
‘I can make out all right,’ her mother protested. ‘She’ll understand what I wrote.’
‘Who is she? I’ve never heard you mention her before. And how do you know she’ll have me?’
‘She’s my youngest sister. She left her husband when you were only a little
bairn, and went off with a young swell. Nobody mentioned her name in years. Then after her husband died, she wrote to say she’d married this fellow.’ Her mouth turned down disparagingly. ‘Made it legal, she said. He’s a countryman; they live ’other side of Beverley.’
‘So how do you know she’ll have me?’ Jenny asked again. ‘She doesn’t know me!’
‘She sent a letter some weeks ago – just after you were locked up. She asked if I had a spare daughter who could come. She’d got none of her own. She’s sick. Won’t get better, she says. She wants someone to do for her, clean ’house and that, and look after her husband.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Jenny didn’t like the idea of looking after a dying old woman or her husband.
‘You’ve no choice,’ her mother said calmly. ‘I’ve just told you. You can’t stop here.’
When her father came home, he said she didn’t have to go to Aunt Aggie’s, that she could stay with them if she wanted to, but then her sister Emma came in from work and later two of her brothers, and Jenny saw how crowded it would be when everyone was at home. She also noticed the hostile glare from her sister.
‘Is it his babby?’ Emma asked. ‘Him that was shot, I mean?’
‘It’s nothing to do with anybody else whose child it is,’ Jenny said sharply.
Her sister shrugged. ‘I onny thought you might claim some money from his folks, that’s all. They’ll have plenty, I expect?’
Jenny didn’t answer, and thought that at one time she would have assumed that the Ingrams were rich. But that was before Christy had told her about the possibility of his father’s bankruptcy. They wouldn’t have been destitute, of course. Someone, friends or family, would have helped them out. Still, all the same, she thought, it would have been a disgrace for people such as them.
Another brother came into the house. He was carrying a young child. A heavily pregnant woman, unknown to Jenny, followed him and sat down unbidden on the only unoccupied chair. She sighed deeply and looked across at Jenny. ‘Are you that lass that was in ’papers?’
‘Probably.’ Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen any newspapers.’
‘Don’t they let you read ’em when you’re locked up?’ the woman asked.
‘Who are you?’ Jenny asked.
‘Hey.’ Her brother, who hadn’t acknowledged her presence, suddenly spoke up. ‘This is Nance. She’s wi’ me. If you’d stopped at home you’d know who she was.’
‘Well, I didn’t, did I?’ she replied. ‘I found work and left.’
‘Aye and it went wrong and now you’re back wi’ your tail between your legs.’ He stared hard at her.
‘Had summat else there as well by ’look of her,’ Nance said coarsely.
Jenny turned to her mother. ‘I’ll leave in ’morning. Where did you say Aunt Aggie lived?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘You’ve to go to Beverley on Saturday, day after tomorrow,’ her mother said later after Jenny’s brother and Nance had left. ‘Get ’carrier from ’Green Dragon and ask to be dropped off at a place called Etton.’
‘I can’t!’ Jenny said. ‘’Magistrates said I should leave Beverley.’
‘You can pass through,’ her mother argued. ‘They can’t stop you from doing that!’
‘Besides, it’s market day,’ Jenny insisted. ‘I might see somebody I know.’
‘Well, that’s what she said.’ Her mother pushed Emma out of the way whilst she put more coal on the fire. ‘She said it was ’onny day he could pick you up.’
‘Who?’ Jenny asked.
‘Him. Aggie’s husband. He’ll collect you and take you up to their place.’
‘Does he have a name?’ Jenny said tartly. ‘Or do I just hang around waiting for ’first fellow to suggest I go with him?’
‘You should be grateful there’s somebody willing to take you on,’ Emma interrupted. ‘Specially when you’re in ’pudding club.’
‘Ah, well –’ Her mother hesitated. ‘They don’t know about that yet. Well I didn’t know, did I?’ she retaliated at Jenny’s groan. ‘I didn’t even know if you’d get off ’charge and come home, let alone know what state you were in!’
‘So when did you write to say I would go? How many Saturdays has he been waiting?’
‘Two,’ her mother answered. ‘That’s why you’ll have to go this Saturday. He might not wait much longer.’
Jenny spent the following day wandering around Hull. She’d hardly been back since going to work in Beverley, as she only came home for the occasional visit. She walked the length of Whitefriargate and looked in the shops, then crossed over and cut down the old streets towards the river. She stood pondering for a moment as she watched the barges. Some of them will be going to Beverley, I bet, she thought. I could mebbe have gone by barge. I’d have liked that, sailing along the river and going through the lock into the beck.
She continued her walk along the waterway, cutting through the narrow staithes when her way was blocked by merchandise, until at last she came to where the river Hull flowed into the Humber estuary. She crossed over towards the pier now named Victoria Pier, in honour of the Queen who had graced the town by a visit in 1854. Jenny vividly remembered the celebrations, which had been in October, the year before she had taken the daring step towards independence and gone to Beverley.
She glanced about her. She had been only one in a crowd of thousands who had gathered here to see Her Majesty and Prince Albert, the Prince of Wales, the Princess Royal and the other members of the royal family and their entourage. There had been grumbling from some people over the great expense entailed by the visit, but the majority of the public were thrilled and excited to be seeing the Queen for the first time.
Jenny had lost sight of her father and mother in the crush of people who had gathered on the pier to see the Queen depart on the royal yacht, the Fairy. Many thousands more had waited at the station the day before to watch the Queen’s arrival and hear the singing of the choirs which greeted her. There had been flags and bunting from every private window and corporation building and it was said that the playing of the national anthem couldn’t be heard for the cheering of the crowds.
She remembered trudging home alone that evening, thrilled to have seen the Queen in person, knighting the mayor of the town, right here on the pier. Jenny had pushed her way through the mass, bending down and crawling between legs until she got to the front and was rewarded by seeing the Queen beckon the mayor to kneel. Taking the sword from her officer, she had laid it upon the mayor’s left and right shoulders, then commanded him to rise as Sir Henry Cooper.
Still on her knees, Jenny had stared open-mouthed at the ceremony and her ears were deafened by the cheers of the crowd. Glancing from the Queen to the rest of the royal party, she saw that the young Prince of Wales was looking down at her with a droll smile and raised eyebrows. She’d grinned back and thought that he would find it amusing to see someone’s head poking out from between the trousered legs and flowing skirts.
She hadn’t been back to the pier since then, having left for Beverley the following spring, but she looked around now and recalled the thick carpet laid out on the planking for her majesty to walk on, the sun shining, and the estuary crowded with steamers, barges and yachts. She ran her hand over her abdomen. I never told Christy about that day, she thought. I must remember to tell his son.
The next morning she took a train to Beverley. No-one offered to see her off or asked her to write. ‘Shall I let you know about ’babby?’ she ventured to her mother as she picked up her bag ready to depart.
‘If you like,’ her mother replied indifferently. ‘Let me know about Aggie anyway. If she dies, I mean. Not that I’d go to ’funeral. But I’d like to know.’
Can’t think why, Jenny thought as she walked away towards the railway station. She’s not been interested in her life, why would she want to know about her death? And then she considered her own sisters and brothers and thought that they were not interested in h
er, any more than she was in them. I’m fond of young Joe, she pondered, thinking of her youngest brother. But as for the others, there were so many of us. We hardly knew each other.
Saturday Market was packed with stalls and carriers’ carts and thronging with both town and country folk when Jenny walked from Beverley railway station into the town. Villagers from miles around the district came in by cart, trap or waggon, to sell or buy. She made one or two purchases, bought a block of writing paper, pen and ink and pencils, needle and thread, and a new pair of stockings, for her only pair were well darned, and as she was counting out her money realized that there had been no mention of whether or not she would be paid for being with Aunt Aggie, or if she was expected to work for her bed and board.
And what will happen when I give birth? she wondered. Who will help me then? Is Aunt Aggie so sick that she won’t be there? Well, Jenny, she thought stoically. It’s into the unknown again. But there’s one thing certain and that is that I won’t find another like Christy. She took a deep breath as the events of the last few weeks overcame her. I’ll only have his memory; and when his child is born, well – she glanced around Saturday Market – we’ll see. They said I had to leave Beverley but they didn’t say I couldn’t come back; and my child’s heritage is here.
Across the street she saw Billy come out of his father’s shop, and catching sight of her he came over. ‘Jenny,’ he said. ‘You’ve come back!’ There was a ray of expectant hope in his face, which she quickly quashed.
‘I have,’ she said. ‘But I’m only passing through. I’m on my way somewhere. I’ve to get a lift with a carrier and get down in Etton. I don’t know how far it is.’
‘It’s not far. Four or five miles, mebbe.’ He bit anxiously on his lip. ‘Why are you going there? There’s nowt much doing in Etton, not at ’moment anyway. They might be having a railway line. Have you got a job of work?’ He spoke quickly and urgently.