by Nancy Carson
*
On the third Tuesday in March 1929, Donald Clark was called to the bedside of young Emmeline Bishop. She’d been suffering from a bout of influenza. Prior to his visit, May had not been feeling well either, and she reckoned that a hot bath would do her and her daughter the world of good. Accordingly, she fetched in the tin bath from the brewhouse and put it on the hearth. When she’d filled it with water she helped Emmie in first, telling her to have a good soak. May saw to it that they both had a stiff measure of brandy beforehand to make them feel better and, unfortunately, as a result, they both fell asleep, May in an armchair, Emmie in the bath. When May awoke two hours later, the bath water was as cold as if it had been drawn from the Dudley Canal, and Emmie was lying in it, comatose. The girl was overweight, but May, unable to wake her, managed to lift her out onto the rug and dry her off. She warmed her in front of the fire, and when Joe returned home they put her to bed and sent for Donald Clark.
‘Pneumonia, I’m afraid, May,’ Donald said. ‘Keep her warm, apply hot linseed poultices regularly to her chest and her back and, when she coughs anything up, don’t let her swallow it under any circumstances. Get her to spit it into a rag, then throw it in the fire straight away.’
‘D’you reckon as she’ll wake up soon, Donald?’ Joe asked. ‘It’s as if she’s had a bang over the yed and been knocked out. I don’t like seeing her like that.’
‘It’s my opinion, Joe, that she’ll wake when she’s warmed through thoroughly. She’s actually suffering the effects of shock from the cold right now.’
‘You’ll have to tell me, Donald,’ May cried, wringing her hands, ‘whether she’d already got the pneumonia afore she went in the bath, or whether the bath’s caused it. I feel that guilty I could break me heart. Tell me the truth, Donald. I want to know the truth.’
‘Oh, May, there’s no need to feel guilty. Pneumonia was present before she had the bath. It’s my opinion she’s had a bout of flu and it’s weakened her considerably. It’s hard to say how much she was weakened amidst all her other problems. And she can’t tell you either. Now it’s developed into this. Have you two been feeling ill as well?’
‘I’ve been off the hooks, Donald,’ May confessed. ‘It’s as if me legs have been kicked from under me, and I’ve had the headache summat vile.’
‘You’ve had the headache summat vile every night since our Emmie’s been born, May, to hear you talk. That’s nothing afresh.’
‘It strikes me you’ve had this flu as well, May. Look, I’ll call in tomorrow morning and have another look at Emmie. Till then, do as I’ve said.’
As Joe escorted Donald down the stairs and to the back door May remained with Emmie, sitting anxiously at her bedside. She’d never said anything to Joe, but she’d often wondered whether Emmie’s mental state might have been avoided in the first place. Deep in her heart she blamed Annie Soap and her lack of competence at being able to deliver a child into the world unless it was a straightforward birth. She recalled the animosity she’d felt towards Lizzie for insisting on having Donald Clark to each of her confinements, and saw now that Lizzie had been wise. If only she’d been as wise herself. If only she’d been less defiant to common sense, less eager to criticise her sister-in-law as over-cautious, less disparaging of the abilities of Donald Clark, her daughter might be well today, and normal. The more contact she had now with the alcoholic doctor, the more she admired his ability and his manner, and overlooked his drinking. Profound feelings of guilt would occupy her till her dying day because of Emmie’s condition, whether she recovered from the pneumonia or not.
Outside on the back yard, Joe and Donald were deep in conversation, their voices low. ‘What d’you reckon, Donald? I know pneumonia’s enough to frit you to death, but d’you think she’ll pull through?’
‘I can’t see into the future, Joe. You know as well as I do that as many people die from it as get over it. Sometimes the stronger ones die and the weaker ones survive. Look after her as best you can, and pray that she recovers. You can do no more. And convince May not to blame herself, whatever happens … And Joe … if you feel unwell yourself, get to bed and rest.’
‘Thanks, Donald. We’ll see you tomorrow, then. I’d better pop round our Lizzie’s and tell her the news.’
*
A week and a half later, Henzey sat and recalled dreamily two hours she’d spent earlier that Wednesday afternoon in The Station Hotel’s lounge bar with a wealthy young man called Billy Witts. Ever since she’d met him Henzey cherished a dream that this would grow into something more than mere friendship. She’d had two glasses of Champagne today, celebrating her birthday a day early, and it made her feel so romantic. It made them both feel romantic. They’d talked and held hands, and she felt close to him. She imagined intimate evenings over candlelit dinners, visits to smart night-clubs in Birmingham, to theatres, art galleries. She imagined hot summer days with picnics in green meadows dotted with daisies and buttercups in the Worcestershire countryside; walks in parks among beautiful flowers and shrubs, and garden parties at the smart homes of his well-to-do friends. A whole new world could be opening up.
‘I’m just popping round to see Donald Clark, our Henzey,’ her mother said, interrupting her day-dream. ‘He’s next door.’
Henzey tried to gather her senses. ‘Oh. Is Beccy Crump bad then?’
‘Wake up, Henzey. How long has Emmie been poorly?’
‘Oh, ’course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. How’s she been today?’ She felt guilty that she hadn’t thought about poor Emmie once because of Billy.
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m going round.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No. Peel the potatoes for me, please.’
So as Henzey sat, euphoric, Lizzie went out, worried. She walked into the street and saw Donald Clark as he was getting into his car. She called him, and he leaned his elbows on the roof of the Morris and peered over the top with a pleasant smile.
‘Hello, Lizzie! Nice to see you. How are things?’
‘That’s what I want to see you about, Donald. How’s our Emmeline?’
He shook his head. His lank, grey hair ruffled in the breeze, and there was concern on his florid face. ‘Not good.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘There’s little I can do, and God knows, May and Joe are doing all they can.’
‘Oh, it’s a crying shame,’ Lizzie said. ‘Donald, d’you mind if we sit inside your motor for a minute? I won’t keep you.’
‘’Course I don’t mind.’ He walked round and opened the passenger door for her, and Lizzie sat inside. He got in beside her. ‘Normally the tenth day is critical, as you know. In Emmie’s case that’s tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Lord! Our Henzey’s birthday.’
‘Yes, of course. I ought never to forget it, had I? Your first confinement. Good God, Lizzie, how long’s it been?’
‘Well she’ll be seventeen, and quite the young lady now, as I daresay you’ve noticed.’
‘Oh, I’ve noticed all right. You can’t help but notice her. You must be proud of her, Lizzie.’
‘Oh, I am, I am. Our Henzey’s grown up too quick, though. I do worry about her.’
‘What worries you?’
‘Oh, that she’s ever likely to turn out like me. I see myself in her when I was a young madam. Breaking my neck to get at lads, I was. How I never got pregnant with Ben in the days before we got married I’ll never know. It was more by luck than common sense. We always intended to be careful, but you know how it is when you’re young and in love. Too often we’d get carried away. Lord, the shame I would’ve brought on my mother is nobody’s business.’
‘Well now, Lizzie, that’s quite a confession for a woman to make, even to her doctor. And you think that Henzey will be the same?’
‘Maybe not, Donald. I hope not, at any rate. I just worry in case she is. I don’t think she’s got a sweetheart even at the moment, but I don’t want her to turn out like me.’
‘She st
rikes me as being very level-headed, Lizzie – very sensible. I honestly don’t think you’ve got much to worry about. Besides, girls are so much more aware of the risks these days, and less inhibited about doing something about it – even talking about it to the likes of me. We live in a different world to when you were a young girl, Lizzie. There’s been a war, and times have changed. Moral values have changed. In any case, you’ve made certain she’s been brought up properly, despite the hardship and the handicaps.’
She smiled at Donald wistfully and nodded. ‘It’ll worry our Henzey to death about Emmie, specially it being her birthday. ’Tis to be hoped the poor soul gets better.’
‘’Tis to be hoped she does, Lizzie, but she’s losing ground. I’ve seen a fair few of these cases, but Emmie’s really poorly. She’s been weakened so much already.’
‘Maybe this isn’t the time to mention it, then, Donald, but I want to come and see you at your surgery one of the days, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, Lizzie. Whenever you want, you know that. What’s the problem?’
‘I think I’m pregnant again.’
Chapter 25
Emmeline Bishop died, aged fourteen, on Henzey’s seventeenth birthday. It was a bitter blow to Joe and May, who had nursed her and tended her with the utmost devotion throughout her restricted life. They loved their daughter dearly. The Kites, too, mourned her death and, according to the number of houses in Cromwell Street that had curtains drawn, so did many others.
The one person, though, whom Emmie’s death had clearly not yet touched, as everyone thought it would, was Henzey. Lizzie expected it to be particularly poignant for her since the death occurred on her birthday, but her eldest daughter seemed to have withdrawn to a world of her own. A happy world, too, by the looks of it, for she kept smiling – unaccountably, for such a sad occasion. The unexpected appearance of a beautiful pearl necklace, about which she’d said nothing, and a birthday card from somebody called Billy taking precedence over the rest on the mantelpiece, suggested her daughter must be in love. It was not difficult to recognise the signs.
Lizzie, perplexed with worry and disappointment at her own predicament, awaited her impending visit to Donald Clark’s surgery. At thirty-nine, with her youngest daughter now fourteen, she was unhappy that the whole world would sneer at what she and Jesse had been up to. Fancy being caught out at her age! The jokes and mockery would be unmerciful, however good-humoured, and it was certain that her son and daughters would be the innocent victims of plenty irreverent gossip. And all because of last Christmas Day; because she would have bet anything that that was when she caught. Jesse was to have his Christmas dinner with the Kites, but together they’d taken Ezme a meal and a glass of sherry. They’d already had a tipple with May and Joe, and were feeling frisky. It seemed as good a time as any. They were alone in the dairy house – the only time they were likely be alone for days – Ezme couldn’t hear, and she was safely in bed wolfing her Christmas dinner. Lord, if only it were possible to turn back the clock and undo it. It was almost as silly as being caught with Stanley Dando’s child.
Her biggest worry was how her children would take it. The shame of having to confess that she and Jesse would have to get married would be unbearable. Most of all she felt for young Herbert. He was coming sixteen, and she could imagine the sort of leg-pulling he would have to put up with, about his mother and the milkman. She tried not to think about it. The truth was, she didn’t want the responsibility of another child; not at her time of life, when her children were grown up and she was waiting for them to get wed in their turn and move on. She didn’t want another child when she was so looking forward to spending the rest of her life comfortably and quietly with Jesse. Maybe it was a selfish attitude, but the next child in her arms ought to be a grandchild, and not for a few years yet. At least a grandchild could be handed back. The thought of another grizzling baby at her breasts, restricting her for years, did not appeal. It did not appeal at all.
The situation was worsened by the grim prospect of having to care for old Ezme when they married. Jesse, to his credit, but also to his detriment, had tried to avoid that. He knew that in some ways it would be like the old days for Lizzie looking after Ben and the children. They had both assumed all that was behind her.
The following day, Friday, Lizzie called to see Donald Clark at his surgery. He agreed she was almost certainly pregnant and, with a roar of misplaced laughter, congratulated her. Lizzie wasn’t particularly amused, but she did not condemn Donald for seeing the funny side. He made a note in his diary of the likely date of her confinement and promised to be on hand. Next, Jesse had to be told. It was only fair that he should know when she did, so she walked from the doctor’s directly to the dairy house.
This could not have come at a worse time. Not only had it come to a head right on Emmie’s death, but Alice had brought bad news that the Bean factory might be shutting due to a lack of orders. She would be out of work. To cap it all, Henzey was mooning about like a lovelorn doe over this damned Billy and wanted to invite him home for tea on Sunday. Something told Lizzie that he, whoever he was, was going to be a source of concern … And all too soon she would be worrying about what Alice was getting up to.
Despite her reservations about Henzey and her likely carryings on, Lizzie sensibly believed that condoning her having a boyfriend was more likely to achieve conventionality and good moral behaviour than would prohibiting it. Any constraint would only fuel their ardour, and she had no wish to induce wilful stupidity. Lizzie knew that if Henzey was going to be wayward it was already within her, and she would be so with or without her mother’s blessing. The consequences of having one wayward woman in the family was soon to be made manifest to them all, and she sadly realised she would not have set them a good example.
When Lizzie arrived at the dairy house, Jesse was putting shelves up in the brewhouse.
‘Come in the sitting room, Jesse. I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said calmly. He duly placed the screwdriver he was holding on top of the wash boiler and followed her. ‘I should sit down first, if I were you.’ Her level tone made him apprehensive, and he sat down uneasily in the armchair facing the grate, where a coal fire was burning untroubled. ‘I’ve just come from Donald Clark’s surgery, Jesse.’
‘Why, what’s up, my darling? Are you poorly?’
‘No, I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh, Christ! You’re what?’ He stirred as if to stand.
Lizzie gently put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You heard. I’m pregnant.’
He gave nothing away in his expression. He did not know whether to show happiness or sorrow. He did not really know how Lizzie felt about it. It did not seem feasible that she should be pregnant, and they had never discussed the possibility in any depth. He’d considered the prospect many times, though, and he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry at all. In fact he was relieved, for this was less of a trauma than he might have expected from Lizzie’s ominous tone. The thought of a child of his own, presented by the woman he loved, did not appal him. Rather, it appealed.
‘Well thank the Lord for that. It means we can get wed straight off. But you don’t look very pleased, Lizzie. Don’t you want the child?’
‘I can do without it, Jesse.’ She sat on the arm of his chair, her hand still on his shoulder. ‘I hadn’t exactly counted on having any more. No, Jesse, I don’t want it, but if you’re happy about it, I reckon I can accept it. What really bothers me is what folks’ll say. We shall come in for a lot of sarcasm, and I certainly don’t want my kids upset.’
‘I reckon the kids’ll be pleased. The three girls will bring up this baby. We won’t get a look in. All young madams are as soft as tuppence when it comes to babies.’
‘Well let’s hope you’re right. They say the Lord works in mysterious ways. He takes one away with one hand, and gives back with another. It’s only a pity it isn’t May who’s having it. It’d take her mind off Emmie a bit. I feel that sorry for her and Joe.’
/>
‘Its a crying shame, Lizzie, and no two ways.’ He paused, allowing time for this great news to sink in. ‘When shall we tell everybody we’re about to get wed?’
‘We could’ve told them tomorrow night at our Henzey’s birthday party, but we’d best postpone that till after the funeral now. Let’s tell your mother first … But I don’t want my kids to know yet that I’m pregnant. I’ll tell them that when I feel ready.’
He said, ‘In the meantime I’d better sort it out with the vicar. The sooner the better, eh?’ He tapped her right knee and winked boyishly at her, and his huge moustache stretched across his handsome face as he grinned.
‘The sooner the better.’ Her expression was less intense now. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done getting this house ready before we can move in. I mean, look at this room. It’s hardly homely, is it? It’s bare, hardly any furniture in it, bar this old three piece. Look at the curtains as well. Mind you, at least it’s clean now.’
‘Well, I ain’t short of a bob or two, Lizzie. We can soon remedy all this. Do with it as you will. The kids can muck in, and all. I’ll get Bert Foxall to come an’ pipe running water into the scullery, save going to the brewhouse for it. We’ll have a new gas stove put in, and while we’re at it, we might as well have a new water geyser over the sink.’
‘Is there any chance of having one of them inside lavatories, Jesse? Or even a proper bathroom like Sylvia’s got? We could turn one of the bedrooms into a bathroom, couldn’t we? It’s enough to freeze your backside numb having to sit on a cold plank of wood outside in the privy … What are you laughing at?’
‘You! The thought of you with your frock up round your back and the wind whistling under the door, ruffling your drawers. My God, we don’t want your drawers billowing out like a spinnaker and blowing you to the top o’ Cromwell Street, do we? Like a ship in full sail.’