Reach for Tomorrow

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘Zachariah?’ It was a whisper, and then louder, ‘Zachariah?’

  But there was no answering lift of his eyelashes to reveal those piercingly blue beautiful eyes, or the soft ‘Good mornin’, me darlin” that had characterized all the mornings since her marriage.

  He lay, a slight smile still curving his lips, as handsome in death as he had been in life, and even as she sank down and gathered him in her arms again, smothering his face in kisses as she frantically willed the breath back into his body, she already knew it was too late. He had gone, and nothing could bring him back.

  After the post mortem and other necessary legal technicalities they buried Zachariah on the morning of August 18th. This was the day the miners reopened negotiations with the government to end their three-month-old strike, but the bitterness of the soul-destroying dispute was pushed to the background as Wearsiders, young and old, lined the route the hearse took. The ornate, flower-covered carriage was drawn by two fine black-plumed horses and the cortège was a long one - Sunderland had been shocked by the facts that had emerged over the young husband’s death.

  It was widely acknowledged that Shane McLinnie had killed Zachariah - he might not have plunged a knife into his heart but the blow that had caused the massive bloodclot was murder, nonetheless - and the papers were full of it for a few days. Some folk thought it odd that the mother of the murderer should ride in the same carriage as the deceased’s wife and mother-in-law, and that two of his brothers should be among the six men who carried the coffin into the church. Rosie didn’t care what they thought. She had done what her heart had told her to do and she knew Zachariah would have approved of her actions.

  Zachariah. She couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to see him again. There had been times over the last few days when she had awoken with a start from one of the catnaps that were all her exhausted mind could take refuge in, and imagined she was hearing his distinctive-sounding footsteps; and others, especially when she was seeing to the child, when she’d thought she’d heard his voice calling her name. She hadn’t told anyone of this, fearing they would either assume she was going mad or start pressing her to take the medicine the doctor had prescribed. And she didn’t want to sleep all the time, she wanted to feel her agony and desolation, it was the last thing she could do for him.

  ‘I found myself thinking it would be worth dying to have you cry like that for me.’ The words he had spoken on their wedding night, and which had never left her, were at the forefront of her mind all the time now, and often when she paced the floor at night, stifling her sobs so she didn’t wake her mother and Hannah who were staying with her for the time being, she found herself ranting and raving at Zachariah through the pain.

  It was unreasonable, she knew that in the sensible part of her, in her brain, but her emotions were a different thing. She was so angry at him for leaving her, she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t wanted to cry for him, she had wanted to live for him. She had told him that, hadn’t she?

  Rosie could only manage cool politeness to Davey on the day of the funeral. She hadn’t realized until then that she was holding him partly responsible for Zachariah’s demise, and again she knew it was unfair but she was as angry with him as she was with Zachariah. Her son would grow up without ever really knowing the wonderful man who had given him life, and it could all have been prevented. It was the one thought that filled her mind night after lonely night.

  And yet with Annie she felt nothing but deep compassion. Shane had been buried a few days before Zachariah, and according to Jessie Annie had told her that only she and Arthur had been present at the graveside. Even Shane’s brothers had refused to attend. Rosie felt no satisfaction in this; her emotions were strangely numb and frozen regarding Shane.

  Rosie began to visit Annie fairly regularly in the days following the funerals - maybe it was their shared misery that drew her to her old friend’s side, she wasn’t sure; she only knew that in Annie’s little kitchen she felt the odd moment of respite from the constant pain of her loss. That Annie herself was suffering was obvious. She was now skin and bone and her clothes hung on her as if on a broomhandle, but although Rosie encouraged her to eat Annie seemed to get thinner with every week that passed.

  Sally and Mick left for Ireland four weeks after Zachariah had died, leaving behind scenes of riots and disturbances by striking miners, ever-increasing dole queues and a thick blanket of utter despair that had settled on Sunderland’s working class.

  In spite of this, Sally hadn’t wanted to go; she had been all for cancelling the arrangements and staying in Sunderland for as long as she felt Rosie needed her, but Rosie had added her weight to Mick’s arguments that they had to leave. This was a wonderful opportunity for the pair of them - a once-in-a-lifetime chance - and they must grab it with both hands, Rosie had told a tearful Sally. She owed it to Mick to go, she knew she did at heart, and Rosie would visit them as soon as she felt able to. She promised.

  Rosie had meant every word, but once the boat had sailed she felt quite bereft and terribly alone. Her mother and Hannah and Joseph were now a family unit, and that was fine and how it should be. Jessie and Joseph were planning to marry at the end of the year and move into Joseph’s neat little house and Rosie was glad for them. And Flora had Davey. There were no marriage plans as yet but it was only a matter of time, Rosie told herself quite frequently. She rarely saw Davey now but Flora called in regularly and spent time with Erik as his favourite honorary aunty.

  Rosie had hoped his real aunty would make an appearance at the funeral, or at least write - something - but there had been no word from Molly and Rosie felt it keenly. Molly was always there, in the back of her mind, and when Valentino - Molly’s idol - died just five days after they buried Zachariah, Molly was the first person she thought of on hearing the news.

  A week after Sally and Mick’s boat sailed Zachariah’s solicitor called at the house. He took tea with her in the sitting room and sat and talked to her as though she was little more than a child, but she didn’t mind. He was a kind man and Zachariah had liked him. Her husband’s will had been very simple, he informed her gently. Everything was left to her. This house, the one her mother was presently occupying, some more properties in another part of the town she had only been vaguely aware of, it was all hers, along with a considerable amount of money and other funds tied up in bonds and such.

  Zachariah had been something of a speculator - Rosie got the impression at this point that the solicitor had privately disapproved of such foolhardiness - but he’d had something of the Midas touch. Did she realize she was a very wealthy young woman? No, she had replied, she didn’t, and if she was being truthful she didn’t much care at this moment either. And he had patted her on the hand, clucked into his tea and told her he would write a full report so she could peruse it at her leisure when she was feeling a little better. For the moment he would arrange for a substantial sum to be paid to her each month for household expenses and so on, and she must contact him if there was anything she required, anything at all. He was totally at her disposal. And then he had drunk his tea and left.

  When Rosie looked back on the weeks following Zachariah’s passing she realized for most of that period she had been working on automatic and had little recollection of them. She had visited the Maritime Almshouses to assure them of her continuing patronage, knowing that was what Zachariah would have wanted, and dealt with other necessary duties, but most of her days seemed to have vanished into a shadowy never-never land where dark confusion reigned.

  And then, at the beginning of November, when the approach of the harsh northern winter was already beginning to make itself felt in hard white frosts and frozen pipes, Rosie received an urgent message one morning that Annie had collapsed and was asking for her. She flew to Annie’s bedside, arriving just as the doctor was insisting Annie be taken to the Sunderland Infirmary. Rosie knew Annie’s abiding fear of any sort of institution - to Annie every one smacked of the workhouse - and once she had Dr
Meadows alone in the kitchen she spoke frankly. ‘What’s wrong with her, doctor? Is it serious?’

  Dr Meadows knew Rosie; he had watched her grow up and had admired the way she had fought back against circumstances that might have ground another young lassie into the ground, so now his voice was quiet and he answered candidly. ‘Annie is a very ill woman, Rosie, and has been for some time. When she started to lose weight a few months ago I suggested a specialist but she wasn’t having any of it. I think she knew then what she’d got.’

  ‘But . . . but she will get better?’

  He looked at her, a long look, and as her hand went to her throat he said, ‘There now, don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘How - how long?’

  ‘A month, maybe two, but she will need round-the-clock nursing sooner or later and the best place for her is in hospital. It’s in the stomach and that can be pretty unpleasant towards the end. Perhaps you’d have a word with her, she’s got a soft spot for you, and you might be able to persuade her to see sense. Arthur and the lads mean well but the sort of nursing she’ll need is beyond them even if they felt inclined to attempt it, which I doubt greatly.’

  ‘She’ll hate going into hospital.’

  ‘It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What if . . . Dr Meadows, I’ve room for her at my house. Why can’t she come and stay with me? I can nurse her.’

  ‘Rosie.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully as he said, ‘You’ve no idea what you would be taking on, my dear. It’s beyond one person’s capabilities and you have a child, haven’t you? It really isn’t possible. You have to be sensible.’

  ‘I can pay for a nurse, two if necessary, whatever’s needed. I would like to do that for her, really.’

  ‘But why would you want to do that?’ Like most people in the district Dr Meadows was aware of the circumstances of Rosie’s husband’s death, and although very little surprised him after forty years of working as a doctor, he was finding this young woman’s concern for the mother of the man who had effectively made her child fatherless was beyond his understanding. Not that it wasn’t commendable of course; it was, very, but not bearing a grudge was one thing, this was something else.

  Rosie looked at him, and then she said, very simply, ‘I can’t bear the thought of her going into hospital knowing how she’ll feel about it,’ her calm countenance belying the fierce beating of her heart. ‘Please, Dr Meadows.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It will be expensive.’ ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘And there is no way a nurse could stay here, you understand that? There simply isn’t the room.’

  ‘I’ve said I’ve plenty of space in my home.’

  Dr Meadows opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. Looking after a terminally sick patient was the last thing he would recommend for someone who had only recently been bereaved in such appalling circumstances as this young lass, but one thing life had taught him was that everyone was different. What crippled some folks made Samsons of others, and maybe this was just what was needed for this particular situation. But if he was wrong . . .

  His mind was made up and the thing settled when Rosie said, her eyes holding his and her voice resolute, ‘Please, doctor. Please agree to this. She needs me.’

  ‘All right. If Annie wants to come to you and Arthur has no objection I won’t stand in your way, but if at any time it gets too much for you you must promise me now that you will ask for help.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And if she gets difficult, awkward - and they can you know, this thing affects the mind as well as the body - you must be prepared to let her go to the hospital. It’s a matter of a few weeks at most.’

  Annie didn’t die in a few weeks, and at Christmas, when Rosie had her mother and Hannah to stay, Annie was still very much in the land of the living. She slept a great deal of the time, mainly due to the high quantities of morphine necessary to control the increasing pain, but when she was awake she was quite lucid and always, in spite of the circumstances, amazingly cheerful.

  Rosie had one nurse living in and another who came during the day, and it was they who did all the heavy work involved in turning and washing their patient and other such necessary duties. Rosie cooked the meals for them all and dealt with the mountainous pile of dirty bedding every twenty-four hours produced, along with the normal running of the house and caring for Erik.

  Arthur and the lads visited Annie every day, often having a bite to eat in the kitchen and invariably going home laden with fresh bread and cakes and other tasty morsels. The routine was very strenuous and life was hectic, but in spite of that there was the odd time when it was just Rosie and Annie in the pretty double bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the garden, and even with the prevailing situation the sound of laughter could occasionally be heard.

  ‘You’re a grand lass, Rosie. You know that, don’t you?’ Rosie was sitting by the side of Annie’s bed, a roaring coal fire in the basket-style grate across the other side of the room casting a cosy glow over the furnishings. It was six o’clock on Christmas Eve.

  After a word with her mother Rosie had decided she and Jessie could cope without the services of the live-in nurse over the Christmas weekend, although her associate would still be calling each day as usual, and Rosie had given the grateful woman the time off to see her elderly parents in Newcastle. Now Rosie had just finished washing Annie after giving her a few mouthfuls of soup which was all her grossly distended stomach could take. There were carol singers in the street a few doors away, their voices pure and clear in the cold frosty air, and the two women had been sitting listening to the strains of ‘While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night’ before Annie spoke.

  Rosie now looked at her old friend, the once plump face skeletal from the illness which had ravaged Annie’s flesh, her eyes dark and sunk back in their sockets, and she smiled as she said, ‘Go on with you. You just want your Christmas box early, I know you. You think a bit of flannel will work wonders.’

  Annie smiled back. ‘There’s one who can’t wait for her stockin’, that’s for sure. You’d think the bairn was three instead of twelve years old. She’s bin on the go all day long an’ she still can’t sit still. She’ll be straight back up once she’s done her cookin’, you mark my words.’

  Hannah was downstairs with her mother, the pair of them making Hannah and Erik’s Yul-doos - baby figures made from Christmas dough with the arms folded across and two currants for eyes. There had certainly been no possibility of anyone in the house brooding over Christmas with Hannah about. The young girl had been dizzy with excitement when she and Rosie had decorated the downstairs of the house and Annie’s bedroom earlier, hanging paper chains and honeycombed paper bells from the ceilings and placing berry-encrusted holly over the mirrors and pictures. She and Rosie had built a snowman that afternoon in the sparkling crisp snow, Erik - muffled and cocooned in his pram like a baby Eskimo - looking on, and talking away to them in baby gibberish to which they had replied perfectly seriously.

  ‘I want to thank you, lass, for all you’ve done.’ Annie reached out and took Rosie’s hand in her two frail ones, her eyes soft. ‘I’ve always looked on you as a daughter, right from when you was born, I couldn’t help it, an’ no daughter could’ve bin better. It might sound daft, lass, but these last eight weeks or so have bin the happiest of me life.’

  ‘Oh, Annie.’

  ‘No, I mean it, lass.’ Annie lay back on the heaped cushions. She had been sitting forward and any slight exertion exhausted her. ‘You don’t know, you see, no one knows, but I want to tell you if you’ll listen? It might help you understand about . . . about Shane.’

  In all the weeks since the tragedy neither of them had mentioned him by name, and now, as Annie felt Rosie’s fingers jerk in hers, she said, ‘I don’t want to upset you, lass, that’s the last thing I want, but if you understand it might help in the future. Not now, it’s too early now, but later. I’m ready to meet me Maker w
hen He calls me, there’s nothin’ atween me an’ Him that I knows of, but bein’ here the last few weeks it’s bin like He’s tellin’ me to get it off me chest. Will you listen, lass?’

  The last thing in all the world that Rosie wanted to talk about was anything connected with the events of the summer, and especially Shane McLinnie, but as she glanced down at the feeble hands holding hers she knew she couldn’t refuse Annie anything. And later, when Annie had unburdened herself about her suffering at the hands of her brother and the terrible night Shane had been conceived, both their faces were wet.

  ‘It’s strange how things work out you know, lass.’ Annie was tired, her voice slurred from her last heavy dose of morphine. ‘He was gettin’ near the truth an’ he’d have bin like a terrier with a bone, he wouldn’t have let go. He’d have seen his day with me all right an’ it’d have destroyed Arthur, findin’ out he weren’t Shane’s da. An’ Shane knew, that night in the kitchen; he clicked on he wasn’t Arthur’s, an’ he wanted to do for me then. But I found the strength, and the good Lord only knows how, to hold him off - persuade him he might be wrong.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Annie, none of it. You do know that, don’t you? You do see?’

  ‘I dunno, lass. If I’m bein’ truthful, I dunno, but I’m content to leave it in the hands of the Almighty now. He’ll judge aright. I just wish . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, lass, I shouldn’t be sayin’ it to you, not after what he did to your man.’

  ‘Go on, Annie, it’s all right.’ Rosie held the terribly frail body close as though her old friend was a little girl. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t mind.’

  ‘I just wish I could take him in me arms one more time, like I did when he was nowt but a bairn, an’ tell him I love him. An’ I did you know, bad as he was.’