Don’t Cry Alone

by Don’t Cry Alone (retail) (epub)

  Once downstairs, Meg followed Maisie’s instructions to the letter. First she collected the big coal-blackened pan from the hearth and filled it with water, just as Maisie had told her; but making sure it was not filled right to the brim, because didn’t Maisie say she didn’t want the fire put out? ‘That’s right,’ Meg said aloud as she brought the pan back to the hearth. ‘Maisie don’t want the fire put out.’ A frown creased her narrow face as she tried to remember what else Maisie had said. She shook her head, repeating her thoughts parrot fashion. ‘Water in the pan. Wedge it on the coals, and Maisie will fetch it soon as ever it’s ready. But she don’t want the fire put out.’ At this she smiled and nodded. ‘Maisie don’t want the fire put out.’ Glancing at the fire, she saw how low it had died. ‘Maisie don’t want the fire put out,’ she murmured again. She then looked at the coal scuttle and the black mound of coke inside, and noticed the slivers of kindling wood that were laid on a newspaper beside the fender.

  With great deliberation, she placed the half-filled pan on the shag rug before going to the coal scuttle where she took the small shovel that Maisie used to dig out the coke. Plunging it into the scuttle, she scooped up a heap of small coke pieces and threw them on to the dying embers; then another and another, and still the fire was lazy. Next, she gathered up a generous armful of kindling wood, which she carefully set over the pieces of coke. Almost instantly, tiny yellow flames and miniature plumes of smoke began to lick round the wood. ‘That’s it!’ she said with satisfaction, taking great pains to press the pan down flat on the heaped-up coals. That done, she went from the room and from the house, to take herself home as Maisie had suggested. And all the while she could be heard murmuring, ‘Maisie says I’ve done a good job… I’ve done a good job.’

  As she opened the front door, a gust of air travelled through the house, igniting and fanning the kindling wood with such ferocity that the ensuing sparks erupted into a silver crescent which then spilled on to the rug. Soon, it was smouldering, and the putrid stench of sulphur began to envelop the room.

  * * *

  Lying flat on her back, all of her energy drained, Beth followed Maisie’s movements with fascination. Having made Beth as comfortable as was possible following such a traumatic and hard birth, Maisie set about cleaning the infant. With practised skill and tenderness, she turned the small pink body in her capable hands, her fat gentle fingers plucking at the caked blood and skin that still clung to its tiny features. ‘By! He’s a real bonny lad,’ she told the smiling Beth. ‘I know it took a deal of torture to fetch the little sod into the world, but, oh, Beth lass… the good Lord’s blessed yer this day, an’ that’s a fact.’ Maisie took a moment to look into her tired smiling eyes, and thought how hard these long endless hours had been, and all through it Beth had shown only strength and courage. Remembering, she slowly shook her head from side to side as though in disbelief. ‘Aw, lass, me lovely lass,’ she said in a croaky voice, ‘if you’ve been blessed, then it’s ’cause yer deserve to be!’ Tucking the infant deeper into her lap, she reached out to take Beth’s pale hand into her own. ‘I love yer,’ she said simply, the tears brightening her eyes.

  ‘And I love you, Maisie,’ Beth told her softly. She might have said more. She might have told Maisie how she had been more of a mother to her than her own. She might have revealed how terrified she had been in the worst of her confusion and agony, and she could have confessed to Maisie how, in the darkest depths, she had longed with all her heart for Tyler to be with her; how even then, she would have forgiven him. She could have bared her soul to Maisie, told her things that she had a right to know. But she did not. It was still too entrenched inside her, too private and painful to share with anyone, even with Maisie. Instead she told the little woman, ‘The good Lord already blessed me when He brought me to your door.’ For a while there was was no need for words, only a brief span of quiet contemplation while these two reflected on their relationship; two women, each without a man, each lonely in a way few could understand. Now there had developed between them a deep undying bond. The birth of Beth’s son had drawn them closer still, firming a friendship that each would cherish for as long as she lived. In this world there was no stronger love than that which transcended sadness, and hardship, and loneliness; all the things that might otherwise break a body’s spirit.

  At length Maisie drew her hand from Beth’s in order to attend to the struggling infant. ‘The little bugger’s after its titty,’ she told Beth with a chuckle. ‘Here, you’d best take him.’ She gave the small bundle into Beth’s outstretched arms. ‘I don’t expect you’ll have much milk yet, lass,’ she remarked, ‘but let him try anyroad, eh?’ She chucked the infant under the chin, then brushed her fingers over his generous head of hair which was already rich and dark. ‘I was wrong, me beauty,’ she confessed to Beth. ‘He ain’t got hair like yourn, has he?’

  Beth suspected Maisie was fishing for information about his father. All she gave away was, ‘No, Maisie, he hasn’t got hair like mine. His hair is just like his father’s.’ She gazed down on that small face and a well of love flooded her sorry heart when he looked up at her with eyes that might have been Tyler’s. ‘I think he’ll have green eyes too like…’ She didn’t know whether it was emotional and physical relief that the ordeal was over or the deep knowledge that now she would never know a day when Tyler was not with her; he was here now, in this tiny boy, who had brought meaning to her life. But suddenly she wanted to cry, to release all that painful emotion that she had bottled up inside her for too long now.

  ‘Go on, lass,’ Maisie urged. ‘Say it. Say his name, and be done with it… He’s like his daddy. Like Tyler.’ She paused a moment before going on in a quiet loving voice, ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of why your fella ain’t here today, and I’m not prying. No doubt you’ll tell me if and when yer want to. But I do know this much, lass… whatever it was that took place atween the two of yer, well, I can see that it’s a painful thing. If yer ask me, there’s only one way to deal with some’at painful, an’ that’s to get rid of it. Spit it out. Yer son’s like his daddy… like Tyler. Ain’t that right, lass?’

  Beth had not wanted to cry. Not now. Not when she was holding the most precious thing in the world here in her arms. Her son! She was holding her son! Now, though, when Maisie spoke those wise kind words, her heart opened. The tears that came were tears of joy, and with them came a strange sense of healing. ‘You’re right, Maisie,’ she confessed, ‘I know you’re right. And, yes, my son is like Tyler.’ For the first time in many months, she had spoken his name out loud. It was a tingling shock on her lips, but, just as Maisie had predicted, once it was spilled out, the hurt inside her was somehow eased.

  The regret was still there, and the anger. But it wasn’t so sharp, nor so unbearable. She wasn’t alone anymore either. She had her own dear son, and Maisie, and Cissie, and Matthew; though Beth had long felt the boy’s deep-seated resentment of her. Matthew would not be so easily won over, because of the way his father’s untimely death had effectively forced him to be the head of the family. He saw Beth as a cuckoo in his nest. She sensed that, and though she had never mentioned it to Maisie, Beth had lately wondered whether she shouldn’t be making plans to move out once the baby was born. Maybe that was what she should do.

  Suddenly, her mind was made up. As soon as she was up and about, she would ask David Miller whether he had a small dwelling place, not so far away that she couldn’t keep in close touch with her new family, but far enough away for Matthew not to feel threatened. Beth pulled her thoughts up sharply. How would she pay the rent? How would she ever furnish a house, however small? On top of that, how on earth would she feed herself and the child? But then she reminded herself that, even if she were to stay here in this house, which would not really be fair in view of Matthew’s feelings, she would still need to find a weekly income. She realised the whole thing would need a great deal of careful consideration. But right now, she was bone-weary and her brain was fudged wi
th recent events. There was a tiredness on her that dragged her down. Later, though, she would think it through.

  ‘Right then!’ Maisie saw how Beth was unconsciously sinking deeper into the bed, desperate for much-needed sleep. At once she was easing the bundle from her arms and arranging both mother and child into a more comfortable position. ‘Like I said, yer ain’t got no milk yet, and the little bugger’s wore himself out sucking at nothing,’ she declared. ‘The pair on yer can rest a minute while I go downstairs.’ She tapped the child on its dimpled hand. ‘So, yer little rascal, yer can’t go nodding off for long, ’cause though we had enough hot water to wash yer mammy, we need to fetch the pan o’ water from downstairs afore we can clean the day’s journey off you.’ Here, she chuckled and pulled a wry face. ‘That’s if Meg Piper had the good sense to put the bloody pan on the coals in the first place.’ As she struggled to rise from the old bed whose mattress springs had long ago collapsed, she looked towards the window.

  ‘Our Matthew won’t be long afore he’s home.’ She hadn’t forgotten the talk she and the boy had promised each other. And she hadn’t forgotten how he’d kept such unhappy thoughts to himself these past months. But she would put his mind at rest, that she would, or perish in the attempt! ‘Gawd knows where our Cissie is!’ she said frustratedly. ‘Singing outside the railway station, I shouldn’t wonder… trying ter scratch a few pennies together. But she’ll cop it from me when she does get home, I’m telling yer.’ She glanced at Beth and the child, both sleeping, both utterly worn out. ‘God love and bless the pair on yer,’ she murmured.

  As Maisie opened the bedroom door, the smile lingered on her face. In a minute though her whole expression was changed to one of horror when the acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! There’s some’at afire!’ she exclaimed, going more hurriedly down the narrow staircase. At the foot of the stairs she paused, her instincts warning against opening the stair door. Normally, because there were no windows to lighten the enclosed stairway, the stair door was always left open. Obviously, Meg had closed it behind her.

  Lowering her gaze in the half-light, Maisie was alarmed to see dark puffs of smoke drifting through the gap at the bottom of the door. The air was stifling, and even as she stood there frantically working out her next move, which was to get Beth and the infant safely out, the smoke intensified. ‘Christ Almighty, Meg, what have yer done? What in God’s name have yer done?’ she gasped. ‘Dear Lord above, what am I to do? There ain’t no other way out but through this door,’ she told herself. When she put her fist to the doorknob, the searing heat made her swiftly recoil.

  On trembling legs, she began her way back up the stairs, all the while forcing down the rising panic inside her, and muttering her way through a plan of escape. ‘Happen we can somehow get outta the window… attract the neighbours… lower Beth and the babby down?’ The smoke was stinging her eyes and causing her to cough and splutter. ‘Don’t let yerself panic, Maisie Armstrong,’ she told herself firmly. ‘There’s not only yerself to think of here.’

  Rushing into the bedroom she slammed the door shut behind her, momentarily leaning on it to gather her breath and to say a small prayer. ‘Thank God the childer ain’t here. But, oh, if Maisie ever wanted yer help, Lord… she wants it now!’ Still spluttering from the smoke that had found its way into her lungs, she scurried across the room, calling, ‘Beth! Rouse yerself, lass.’ In spite of her determination not to panic, she could not altogether disguise the terror in her voice. ‘We’ve got to get out. We’ve got to get out quick!’

  Beth had not slept. In the few minutes that Maisie was gone from the room, she had drifted in and out of a strange lethargy, disturbed by the unusual heat in the room and what she imagined to be sulphur emitted from the coal in the fireplace. She could hear Maisie calling her. ‘Got to get out, lass… there’s a fire… ain’t got much time.’ And though she struggled to respond to Maisie’s hands pulling her from the bed, something else pulled her back. But when an attempt was made to take her son, she resisted, clinging to him and pressing him into her body. ‘That’s right, lass,’ she heard Maisie say, ‘keep his face covered… the smoke… the smoke!’

  She was vaguely aware of Maisie tearing a segment of sheet and dipping it into the soiled water in the bowl; she understood when the wet cloth was thrust into her hands, and straight away held it close to the child’s face. Now another piece for her and one for Maisie, then Beth felt herself being ushered across the room; her legs were like jelly beneath her, and the child was a dead weight in her arms, but when Maisie tried again to prise him from her, she cried out: ‘No! He’s safe, Maisie. He’s safe!’ And Maisie must have realised that Beth would never let go the precious bundle for she made no other attempt to take it from her.

  Peering through the gathering smoke, Beth realised what Maisie had in mind. The window! Maisie was desperately trying to thrust the window up in its frame, but it wouldn’t budge. Beth could have told her the window was prone to jamming. All of Maisie’s stout efforts came to nothing. Down below in the street, the neighbours were congregating.

  ‘Smash it!’ came the shout as they saw the women struggling to release it. ‘For Christ’s sake, smash the bloody thing!’ came a frantic scream. ‘Stand back! Protect yerself!’ Almost instantly the missile broke through one of the panes, but it was impossible for any man, woman or child to squeeze themselves out of such a small opening; let alone a body of Maisie Armstrong’s size, and a woman who had only just been through a terrible childbirth, and whose lifeblood was even now slowly trickling away.

  ‘We can’t get out this way, lass,’ Maisie said breathlessly. ‘Can yer make it downstairs? There’s no other way… we shall have to brave it, God help us.’ When Beth quickly nodded and took hold of Maisie with her free hand, she smiled bravely, saying, ‘All right, lass. Keep right behind me, and hold that wet rag across yer mouth. Mind yer do the same for the young ’un, and God willing, we’ll come out all right.’

  Beth gave no reply other than to look at Maisie with a world of love and gratitude showing in her dark eyes. There was little strength left in her now, but she would not let Maisie down. Nor would she let this tiny boy lose his life when he had only just tasted it. ‘Good gal,’ Maisie whispered. She had seen how Beth was bleeding from below, and she knew why the girl had said nothing, and loved her all the more for it.

  In a minute, they were at the door. Maisie slowly opened it; smoke poured in, but not flames, thank God, not flames. Down the stairs they went, feeling their way, silently praying. At the bottom of the stairs, Maisie hesitated, reluctant to open the door but knowing it was their only chance to escape a dreadful inferno; these houses were rich in timber and would go up like so much matchwood. On the other side of the door could be heard the ominous sound of crackling wood, and beyond that the sound of men’s voices, shouting, desperate; although it was unclear what they were shouting, both Maisie and Beth realised they were willing them on, and help was not too far away. In her heart Beth wondered if it would be too late for her, and so she prayed for her son, and for Maisie.

  ‘Press yerself against the wall, lass,’ Maisie ordered as she wrapped a piece of wet rag round her chubby fists and prepared to open the door. Without question, Beth did as she was told, folding the child close to her body. She could feel the hairs on her arms being singed. The air was almost black now. It was hard to breathe and the heat was intense. Suddenly, the door was flung back and black clouds exploded over them.

  The last thing Beth heard was a terrible scream, followed by a multitude of shouting voices, and another horrendous sound that could have been an outer door being wrenched from its hinges or the whole house coming down on top of them. All of Beth’s instincts told her to crush the child to her… keep him safe… keep him safe. Keep him safe. When the darkness and heat washed over her it was like a haven, so quiet and peaceful, lulling her away, carrying her sore aching body as though it was a feather, drifting, drifting.

  *
* *

  The afternoon sky was like a black inferno, with every street for half a mile swallowed up in putrid smoke. It rained down in grimy droplets that stuck to the rooftops and darkened the pavements below. Cries went up on every street corner and the sound of running footsteps echoed across the cobbles as people rushed to the scene of mayhem on Larkhill. ‘Where did it start?’ they cried. ‘How many dead?’ Nobody knew. They only knew what they saw with their own eyes: the awful black smoke, and the tonguelike flames that leaped above the chimneys from Larkhill, and threatened to engulf their own tiny hovels.

  ‘What did you say?’ David Miller had been on his usual weekly round, collecting rent from his stepfather’s houses, when it became evident that a terrible tragedy was underway only two streets from where he was standing. Grasping the arm of a man who would have fled straight by him, he yelled above the din, ‘The fire? Did you say it was on Larkhill?’ Uppermost in his mind was the Armstrong family, and Beth. He could not keep the fear from his voice.

  ‘That’s right, matey,’ the fellow replied, struggling to release himself from the iron grip that held him. ‘They reckon the whole o’ Larkhill’s on fire… people trapped… dying!’ When his words visibly stunned the other man, he took the opportunity to wrench himself free. Without a backward look he went away at a run and was soon lost in the rush of bodies all heading for Larkhill. David Miller followed, running until he thought his heart would burst; he could see all his hopes dying before his eyes.

  Thrusting his way through the mob, he emerged to a scene of carnage. The fire was still raging, though the hoses were now playing on it, spewing water into the heart of the flames and causing the smoke to billow like huge clouds to blot out the daylight. At least three houses were completely gutted by the fierce fire, and another half dozen badly damaged. Higher up on the pavement, far enough away from the devastation, a number of people were gathered; some obviously in authority, some possessed by morbid curiosity, and others openly weeping. ‘Three dead,’ someone whispered, and to David Miller the news was like a hammer to his heart. He began walking towards those pitiful misshapen bundles that lay beneath the blankets. ‘Three dead,’ someone had said. ‘Three dead.’ But who? Who?