by Dawson, H A
Catherine stepped into the parlour.
‘Did I tell you that I am going to have my short stories published?’ Amelia said.
‘No. How did that happen?’
‘I met someone in London who has seen one of my articles on women’s rights. I am so excited Catherine. I am going to be a published writer, and I am going to have an income.’
She continued to chat about her work, and her eyes danced and her skin had a rosy glow. It seemed wrong that Amelia should be getting what she wanted when she struggled to attain even the simple pleasures in life. Nonetheless, Catherine refused to voice her opinion and kept her mouth shut.
‘More women should do what I do,’ Amelia continued, ‘there is a world out there and I intend to see it.’
Catherine scowled.
‘What's wrong? Are you not pleased for me?’
Of course. But it is not something I would choose for myself.’
‘Surely you want more. You are still young. You could have travelled for a couple of years and then had children.’
‘I love Jack and Edward. I would not want to be without them.’
Of course. I love Thomas and he is a modern free-thinking man, but I do not want him to restrict my decision-making.’
‘Mother thinks it's wrong that he does not marry you.’
‘Mother supports me!’
She shook her head. ‘I have seen her expressions when others talk of marriage. She is quite ashamed.’
Nonsense. Mother is proud of what I have achieved, and you should be also.’
Turning away, she avoided her sister’s frosty stare.
‘Just because your life hasn’t turned out the way you had hoped, doesn’t mean to say you have to make harsh comments about mine.’
Catherine gawped.
‘I am sorry. I did not mean to sound unsympathetic. Is Edward getting any better?’
She stood up and headed to the window. Voicing her concerns seemed such a futile waste of time. It would not make him better, nor would it relieve her pain.
‘Catherine?’
‘I am not sure. He has good days and then I feel immense positivity. Then he has bad days and I feel I am doing nothing to help him.’
‘He is a sick child, but you have to believe he will grow stronger.’
‘Jack blames me. When Edward is at his worst, he doesn’t speak and will not go near his child. He shows me little support.’
‘Men cannot handle family problems well.’
Catherine looked to her lap. Jack was no longer attentive or caring and sensitive to her needs, but he had massive mood swings and was often distant and unwilling to share his worries. She had tried to accept that this was how married life was, but when she saw other young men with their new wives, she reconsidered and her sadness accumulated.
‘I had hoped that the baby would bring us closer together,’ Catherine said, ‘instead it is making the situation worse. Jack is anxious and suffers more headaches now than ever before. The other day he complained that someone was watching him.’
‘Was anyone around?’
‘No, no one. It made no sense. I am worried, Amelia.’
‘It does sound strange.’
‘It is more than strange. He hears voices and insists people are watching him. I don’t know what to say to him.’
‘I think you worry too much. Men change when they marry. He is adjusting to his new life.’
‘I am too,’ she whispered.
Catherine tried to push away her melancholy, but each time she gazed at Amelia, she saw a vibrant young woman with an exciting full life. In comparison, her days were empty, dull, and fraught with difficulties. She had no one to relieve her of her daily battle with Edward, no one to comfort her at a day's end, and no one to fill her with the joy similar to that scribed on her sister’s face. She lived a monotonous life craving companionship.
‘Maybe you should allow yourself to dream a little,’ Amelia said. ‘Shut your eyes, and imagine you are sailing the ocean. Where would you go?’
Catherine closed her eyes and leaned into the armchair. Somewhere hot.’
‘Whom would you be with?’
‘Jack of course.’
‘What about Edward?’
Catherine jerked. Her eyes ripped open. Of course Edward. But he would be older, about five or six years and in good health.’
‘What would you do?’
Her anger dissolved and her eyes glazed. ‘We would walk until we reached a café, and then sit outside in the sunshine. Someone would try to sell us something, but Jack would turn him away.’
‘How would you feel?’
‘Oh, I would be happy Amelia. I would definitely be happy. We would laugh until we were sore.’ She turned to her sister. ‘I want the old Jack back . . . before we had Edward, and before he got sick.’
Amelia’s hand rested on her lap and she looked at her tired complexion. Catherine wondered if she was observing her ashen skin tone and yellowing eyes, as she was well aware that her vigour had evaporated with the birth of her child and her health had deteriorated. No longer was she curvaceous and attractive; instead, she looked gaunt and dulled and a shadow of her former self.
The dining room had a simple but stylish design and was with a rectangular dining table with cabriole legs and a set of chairs in a matching style. The fireplace had splayed sides and a projecting copper hood, floral wisteria wallpaper decorated the walls, and beneath Catherine’s feet was a large oriental rug. They ate supper in silence.
The meal consisted of large slabs of sliced meat, potatoes, and cabbage, all resting in thick flavoursome gravy. Catherine selected bite-sized portions, and whilst she ate, she observed Jack from her eye corner. His face expressed irritation and his movements were jerky and cumbersome. Experienced in his moods, she could sense his inner turmoil rumbling, but as usual, his reasons remained cloaked. Catherine wondered if his day at the copper mine had been stressful, or perhaps it was something she had done; either way, she decided to maintain her silence.
His movements were so sudden that Catherine jerked as Jack rushed away from the table with his hand to his mouth. Leaning forward, he advanced through the hallway with a desperate urgency and ripped open the outer door. Cold air rushed towards her. She rose to her feet, listening to the sounds of Jack vomiting under the darkened evening sky, and crept to the doorway. Doubled over, he crouched near the ground. With her arms close to her body, she made small hesitant steps forward. Jack turned and glared. He motioned her away.
With both her husband and son ill, her anxiety was constant. Was there a connection? Maybe Jack was prudent to stay away from Edward when her little son was at his worst. Yet, she needed his reassurance and wisdom during those desperate times. However, as the thoughts ran through her head, she could hear Amelia’s castigation. ‘Jack is no wiser than you in such matters,’ she would say, ‘you are Edward’s mother. You have natural instincts.’ Trying to calm herself, she could feel no instincts begin to surface at all.
Restlessly, Catherine finished her meal whilst Jack remained outside, retching and struggling with his sickness. Then, she glimpsed through the open door and watched as he paced back and forth, tormented and in agony. It was difficult to withhold her desire to rush to his side, yet she knew, as was always the case, he would push her aside. Jack was a private man, and more than anything despised her witnessing his illness being. So Catherine waited. In the meantime, she decided to check on Edward.
She had only just reached his crib when Jack’s temper surfaced. Nervously, Catherine peered down the staircase and observed her husband’s heated face, prominent neck veins, and bulging eyes. In front of him stood Annie, their maid, and her head was low and her arms motionless. Jack was accusing her of trying to poison him, and whilst Annie offered her profuse apologies, it was not enough. After a few moments, he dismissed her from service.
Jack’s preposterous decision, astounded, and despite the words of disapproval hovering on Catherine�
�s lips, she said nothing and hid her horrified expression. She wondered how she would ever cope without her, especially given that she had a sick baby to tend. Never before had she had to do household chores, and wondered if she would know what to do. However, her reputation was her greatest concern. What would her family and friends think, and what would happen to the smoothness on her hands?
Panic stricken, she perched on a chair and gazed at her baby, searching for an answer. His skin had a yellow tone, his eyes were no longer crisp and clear, and he lay immobile, unresponsive to her gentle whispers. Catherine sensed Edward’s life slipping away, and her heart tightened and her body tensed.
There was a sound of footsteps. Without expression, she turned her head. Jack peered into the nursery.
‘How is he?’ he asked.
Much the same.’
‘Annie has gone. She could not be trusted.’
‘I thought she was a good worker.’
‘You thought wrong! You have no experience in such matters.’
She reached into the crib for Edward’s hand. His arm was floppy and his grip weak.
‘I need someone Jack,’ she said without turning her head. ‘I cannot look after the house and Edward, it is too much.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Do not question my authority. Annie was lazy and her work shoddy. You will manage.’
Too tired to argue, she picked up her child and prayed for his good health.
‘She will get another job,’ Jack continued, ‘the copper mine is always looking for women.’
‘I am not sure she is suited to such work. Please reconsider Jack. I like Annie. She was efficient.’
‘No I will not, and I do not wish to hear any more about it.’
She perched onto an armchair and propped Edward against the side. ‘What is the work like for the women at the mine?’
‘It is hard and not suitable for someone like you.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Some women smash large pieces of rock with sledgehammers. Others chip off bits of ore using shorter hammers.’
‘Do they work outside?’
‘Of course they do, although the most skilled work is in a shed. They smash the ore on anvils. It is noisy . . . and dangerous for women such as you.’
She imagined the camaraderie as the women sang in unison day after day, and thought of the joy the independence would bring. But her pleasure was short-lived; there was shame associated with doing such rough, unfeminine work. Her hands would be sore, her clothes stained, and sweat would coat the skin. It was not for her, Jack was right. Perhaps he understood her better than she realised.
She glanced to her lap. Edward lay in her arms, unresponsive and weak. She looked up searching for reassurance and wisdom, but none came. Her husband was hovering near the window, staring into the darkness and avoiding her pleading glance. She knew it was difficult for him to convey sympathy and understanding; it was also too much for him to look his dying son in the eye.
After a few moments, he caught her gaze and smiled. It was a slight smile and one that barely left his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless, and one Catherine appreciated. Despite everything, she loved Jack and wished she could do more to ease his burden. He should be presenting his healthy son to the world and displaying his pride. The situation was not his fault.
Maybe if she had been able to breastfeed Edward this would not have happened. She should have acted upon his weakness shortly after his birth. She should have nourished him more often. She should have paid him more attention. Now, it was too late. As horrendous as it was to admit, they were living each torturous day waiting for the inevitable.
‘Jack, can you please pass me his medicine?’
He gazed, blindly.
‘It’s the herbal one . . . in dark glass bottle on the top shelf.’
He passed it across.
‘Thank you.’
She gave it a shake and poured a small amount onto a spoon. Edward was passively resistant, and he kept his mouth closed and his head to one side, making her task all the more difficult.
‘Edward,’ she whispered, ‘please take it.’
With persuasion from her finger, he obeyed, and his tiny mouth opened and she spilled the contents inside. Out of her eye corner, she could see Jack’s persistent glare. Tensing, she wiped the dribbles from her baby’s pallid face and eased him back into his crib.
‘I’ll watch over him for a while,’ Jack said. ‘Why don’t you clean up downstairs?’
Catherine nodded, grateful for the escape, and within moments, she was heating water for the washing up, an unfamiliar task. Afraid of doing the wrong thing, she gazed around the kitchen at the cupboards and drawers, unaware of what each contained, and unaware of what was to become her new routine. Without the assistance of supervision, learning Annie’s regular chores was going to be a difficult task. In addition, she had no time to waste, and felt tense and anxious.
Once the water was warm, she poured the water into a bowl and dipped in her hands. The foamy warmth was soothing on her skin, a wonderful sensation and a rare treat, and she circulated it with her fingers. Then she slipped in a piece of crockery, scrubbed it clean and placed it onto the draining board. She reached for another and another. The soapsuds trickled down the plates, moving at different rates. Intrigued and revelling in this new activity, she considered it a chore she could enjoy. Her mood did not last.
Her baby’s bottle caught her eye, and her panic grasped the forefront of her mind as she wondered how he had responded to his medicine. Hurrying to the base of the stairs, she strained to listen for his soft whimpers. There was silence. She could not hear her baby cry, nor could she hear her husband’s dulled footsteps, and her pulse pounded her throat. Battling her desire to check upon her child, she told herself his father was with him and that he would all right. Nonetheless, it was difficult notion to believe.
With an increasing urgency, Catherine continued with the washing up, and then, whilst the cutlery and crockery dripped, she wiped away the grime from the surfaces. Every so often, she craned her neck to listen to the stillness upstairs. The silence did nothing to alleviate her anxiety, and her feeling of dread refused to subside. Only a mother could understand the needs of a baby, and she wasn’t with him. She swallowed her desperation.
Needing to complete her task in double-quick time, she searched the cupboards and drawers and looked for the appropriate resting place of the cutlery and crockery. Having determined the location of each, she slid the cloth across each item and thrust them into the cupboards. Many had damp patches; many lay skewed.
‘Catherine.’
There was desperation in his voice. With wide-eyes and a racing heart, she rushed up the stairs to Jack. In the nursery, kneeling next to the crib was her husband, and on the soft mattress lay her dead baby.
‘No!’
Her wail resonated and her body trembled. She ran towards his cot. Jack forced her backward. She bit her lip and she scrunched her heated face.
‘Edward!’
Her voice was quivering and her legs buckled. She could feel Jack’s arms around her middle and her body slumped. She wanted to shake life into her son’s body, and she wanted to scream. She couldn’t; she was limp, voiceless and suffering agonising pain.
‘What did you give him?’ Jack asked in a quiet, assertive tone.
Catherine heard Jack’s accusation in his tone, but her mind was fuzzy with overwhelming grief and the words would not form. Inside her head, she screamed out her innocence, but Jack could not hear her words, and with a disgusted look on his face, he departed from the room. Alone, she reached for Edward’s tiny, floppy body and pressed him tight to her chest. She slumped to the ground. She rocked back and forth. She willed him to return.
Chapter 15
Present Day
A small jet aircraft roared overhead as Sam placed his strip of wood upon the table next to the chop saw. Fleetingly, he glanced towards the partially cloudy sky, but he could see n
either the aircraft nor the vapour trail, despite the sound continuing to drill into his head. Disregarding it, he checked his notes on a clipboard, scanned the already prepared lengths of wood, and began marking out another strip.
He was constructing a wooden framework for dry lining an internal room wall, as he suspected that without insulation the house, come winter, it would be draughty and cold. The task was proving to be more difficult than he expected. Many of the lengths of wood were bowed and the room was not a consistent shape. In addition, when he had started fixing the pieces to the wall he had discovered that the minute variations in the brick caused difficulties when inserting the screws. Everything, it seemed, was against him.
The work was tedious as well as frustrating, but until either Joe was available to complete the electrical work or he could source a plumber, Sam could not progress with the other jobs. The existing kitchen, in particular, was proving to be burdensome. He longed for hygienic work surfaces and sturdy cupboards and shelves, yet he dared not complain, especially considering Michaela’s growing impatience.
Her occasional mutterings were enough to inform him of her displeasure, and even though he had told her that the work would take a couple of years, he had hoped to complete it sooner and believed he was letting her down. More than anything, he wanted to provide Michaela with a workable home. He did not want to have to tell her things she did not want to hear.
Persisting with his task, he considered facing his wife’s interrogation. Without a doubt, she would soon comment upon his slow progress, and when she did, he wasn’t sure how he’d reply. Should he avoid answering her questions and risk facing her anger, or should he provide her with unrealistic optimism? Given her recent loss, he didn’t feel able to burden her with negative news, but neither could he lie. He was in a difficult position; one way or another, she would be annoyed.
Mulling over the prospect of the imminent conversation, he carried his pieces of prepared wood to the house and propped them up inside the room. The walls were without plaster, the ceiling cleaned and restored and the filthy tattered carpet removed. In the centre, upon a small square table with metal legs, his tools shimmered in a streak of sunlight.