by Maggie Hope
Taking a duster out of her pocket, she went to the headmistress’s study and began to dust and tidy the desk. Mr Cooper, the caretaker, popped his head round the door.
‘Nearly knocking-off time, lass, you about finished?’
‘Yes, Mr Cooper, I’ve just the dusting in here to do,’ she replied.
‘Well, when you’re ready you can get off home.’
He went off down the corridor, whistling tunelessly. He was a nice man, she thought. Oh, aye, a grand man. Always scrupulous about sharing the work out between the cleaners, always making sure they got off at the due time. He was a retired miner, a friend of her da’s. He’d been injured in the pit and walked with a limp yet he was always bright and cheerful and the bairns loved him. Hetty remembered the year before she herself had left school and Mr Cooper had taken over from the previous caretaker.
‘You’re a ray of sunshine,’ Miss High, the headmistress, used to say to him. Hetty finished her dusting and shook the duster outside in the school yard before putting it away. She stood for a moment, remembering the days when she herself had attended the school. In those days she’d had ambitions to be a head teacher herself. What a shock and disappointment it had been when she’d realised that the family couldn’t afford for her to go to the grammar school even though she had won a scholarship.
Hetty shook her head as though to rid herself of old memories. She was doing fine, wasn’t she? Of course she was. She had been lucky to get this job only a matter of yards from Office Street so she could help her mam during the day. By, she had been shocked to find how easily Mam tired these days. She would have to go and see Dr Richardson, maybe she needed a tonic. Da paid his fourpence a week to the panel for the doctor, didn’t he? And Dr Richardson was nice, though there had been some talk about his wife, she forgot what. But then, folks would talk about anybody if they had nothing better to do.
Walking home, Hetty reflected on how lucky she was. For Matthew hadn’t been near Morton Main. By, she was thankful for that! But there was the other … she hadn’t needed her clouts for almost two months. It was likely just the upset of the move, she told herself. But, oh, she wished it would come soon, for Mam was sure to notice the clouts were missing from the wash else.
She paused at the gate, her hand on the sneck. Maybe she should go and see Dr Richardson herself? But she quailed at the idea. No, she would wait a while. Likely it was too early to tell anyroad.
‘Howay in, our Hetty, an’ hurry up,’ said Frank as she closed the door after her. ‘Mam insists on waiting for you before she sets out the supper. An’ here am I, perished with hunger!’
‘“Rescue the perishing, care for the dying …”’ sang Hetty as she took off her coat. ‘Go on, Mam, feed the greedy brute or he might cry.’
‘Less of your lip, my lass,’ said Frank. ‘Or I won’t give you the message I have for you.’
Hetty’s heart missed a beat. Message? She didn’t know whether she had said it aloud or not. Dear God, not Matthew! He hadn’t found her, had he?
‘There was a letter in the afternoon post an’ all,’ Maggie observed. She was ladling out platefuls of panhaggalty from the dish she had taken out of the oven. The smell of the potatoes and onions cooked with strips of belly bacon wafted about the kitchen but Hetty had lost her appetite. She glanced sharply over to the sewing machine which stood by the window. Mam always propped letters there on top of the cover. The writing on the envelope was round and childish, however, certainly not Matthew’s. For a moment she forgot him as delight flooded through her. It was a letter from the bairns! Oh yes, it had to be, the stamp was franked Smuggler’s Cove. Well, at least the new Mrs Hutchins had allowed them to write to her.
‘It’s from Peter and Audrey. And look, even Charlie has printed his name. Oh, and there’s a picture, he’s done a drawing. Look, it’s the beach. Oh, he’s good he is, it looks just like the sands and the cliff.’
Hetty had opened the envelope and there was a letter written by Peter, and a little bit by Audrey who was just starting joined-up writing, and a row of kisses from Charlie, beside his printed name.
Tears sprang to Hetty’s eyes. For the last part, half printed by Audrey, read: ‘Charlie and me miss yu. Wen are yu cuming home?’ And underneath in Peter’s stronger hand, ‘Don’t tell my dad’s new wife about this letter.’
‘“My dad’s new wife”. Not “our mother”, not even “our stepmother”,’ Hetty said aloud.
‘Eeh, the poor bairns,’ Maggie said softly. ‘Them poor, poor bairns.’
‘Maggie,’ said Thomas, ‘they’re not the only bairns to have to get used to a stepmother.’
But Hetty’s appetite was gone. She went up to bed as soon as she could and lay in the dark, staring out of the gap between the thin curtains. There was moonlight but clouds scudded across the dark sky so that the light came and went, came and went. She would have to find a place nearer Smuggler’s Cove, she told herself, so that she could at least watch out for the bairns. By, she knew what that woman was like, she might even bray them. Not that she had ever seen Anne hit them but then, when she was in the house on her own with them, well, it certainly looked as though she might.
That’s your imagination running riot, she told herself, you really don’t know that Anne is cruel to them. There was no evidence, as the detectives in the pictures would say. Hetty turned on her side and closed her eyes, trying to sleep. From below she could hear the murmur of voices as the family finished supper and no doubt speculated about that other household in Smuggler’s Cove.
There were footsteps on the stairs and a tap on the bedroom door.
‘Hetty? Are you awake? Make yourself decent and I’ll come in. I forgot to give you that message.’
Aye, I’m decent,’ said Hetty, pulling the sheet up under her chin as Frank opened the door and came in. He didn’t bother to turn up the gas jet on the wall but walked over to her bed and sat down on the end of it. She looked at him, resigned to more bad news. Somehow, she had a feeling that was what it was.
‘I was in Bishop at the football match this tea-time. You know, it was a replay from last Saturday’s that was a draw,’ Frank began. ‘There was this fellow – Richard, he said his name was.’
‘Richard?’ Hetty sat up in surprise, pulling the sheet modestly after her. ‘You said Richard? Richard Fortune?’
‘Well, he never told me his surname. You see, the Bishops were playing Skelton and he was a supporter. I don’t know how he knew who I was. Anyway, he said for you to meet him tomorrow at the King’s Hall cafe. He’s staying over like. Business, he said.’
‘Richard said for me to meet him?’ Hetty was still unbelieving.
‘Now, our Hetty, you’re not going deaf as well as daft, are you?’
‘But why? I mean, why didn’t he just come here? Mam said he came before.’
‘Aye, so she told me. I don’t know, Hetty. Mebbe he hasn’t the time. Me, I’m just a pitman, I don’t know what these businessmen do.’
‘He’s not a businessman, he’s a student—’ Hetty stopped. Of course, Richard was leaving university this summer.
‘Well, I’ve told you, now I’ll leave you in peace.’ Frank rose from the bed and went to the door, pausing before he opened it. ‘He’s sweet on you, I think, Hetty,’ he said.
‘Hadaway!’ she exclaimed in disbelief. Well, she thought, she could meet him at the King’s Hall all right, it was Saturday tomorrow. A thought struck her as her brother began to close the door after him. ‘Frank? What time did he say?’
‘Eeh, I’m a fool, I am. Fancy forgetting to tell you the time! Four o’clock, that was it. After he got his business finished.’ A shaft of moonlight illuminated his face and Hetty saw he was grinning. ‘Well, I think he’s sweet on you, a gent an’ all he is. You be careful, our Hetty, I’m not sure I like toffs coming after you. Don’t worry, though, I won’t tell me mam.’ And before she could retort, he was clattering down the oilcloth-covered stairs.
Hetty took the quarte
r to four bus into Bishop Auckland the next day. It was almost empty for most of the miners’ wives would have been in much earlier in the day. All day she had waited for it and now at last it was time to go.
‘You look very bonny today, lass,’ the conductor commented as he took her tuppence and handed her a ticket. ‘Got a date, have you?’ He smiled and moved on, to show that he was just being pleasant, not really prying.
Not a date, not really, Hetty mused as she looked at her reflection in the grimy window. But she did look nice, she knew it. She was wearing a soft pale green dress, linen, with a nipped-in waist and short sleeves.
‘Carry a cardigan, just in case,’ Mam had insisted so she had a white cardigan over her arm which she had no intention of wearing even if the temperature dropped to zero for it was past its best, the ribbing on it sagging. But still, it was grand to have her mam fussing over her like she did, Hetty had quite got out of the way of it.
‘He was here once, you know,’ Mam had told her after she had badgered Hetty to say whom she was meeting. ‘A canny lad.’ But there had been a concerned look in her eyes nevertheless.
The bus arrived in the small town and Hetty alighted and walked to Newgate Street. The clock on the Wesleyan Church tower said three minutes to four, right time to walk to the King’s Hall cafe for four o’clock.
He wasn’t there, she couldn’t see him among the few people sitting drinking tea and eating toasted teacakes and fancies. Hetty hesitated in the doorway.
‘A table for one, madam?’
She turned to the waitress standing there in her black dress and frilly white apron and cap. Oh, it was a posh cafe all right.
‘No, for two,’ she said. By, she hoped he wouldn’t be long! She didn’t like the idea of sitting on her own while folk cast curious glances in her direction. She picked up the menu and studied it. A pot of tea and fancies, one and sixpence. Toasted buttered teacakes, fourpence each. Mind, it wasn’t cheap. No wonder the waitresses got to wear smart uniforms.
She was sitting with her back to the door so the shock was all the greater when a hand landed on her shoulder, a firm hand which held her in her seat. She would have jumped up and run out of the cafe if it hadn’t.
‘Hello, Hetty,’ said Matthew.
She was dumb as she stared at him, her mind wouldn’t work somehow. ‘Where’s Richard? Frank said it was Richard wanted to meet me!’
The disappointment crushed Hetty. Matthew’s face swam before her in a black mist and she closed her eyes for a second. Please God, it’s my mind playing tricks, she thought frantically, the face, so like Richard’s, was Matthew’s all right. Irrationally she felt Frank had misled her deliberately, how could he?
‘Frank said it was Richard!’ she said again.
‘Did he?’ Matthew sat down in the chair beside her rather than the chair opposite, his hand slid down her arm and held her hand. He dropped a featherlight kiss on her cheek. To the other diners it must look as though they were lovers, Hetty thought dully.
‘Waitress!’
With his easy manner, ever the gentleman, Matthew had simply to hold up his other hand and the waitress scurried to his command.
‘Tea for two, I think, don’t you, darling?’ He smiled from the waitress to Hetty. ‘And you can bring your tray of fancies, just in case my friend would like one.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The waitress rushed away; the other diners turned their attention to their own business.
‘Why did you tell Frank you were Richard?’ she whispered furiously. ‘And leave go of my hand, leave go or I’ll … I’ll show you up before everybody here, I will! I’ll … I’ll call the polis!’
Matthew laughed fondly. ‘No, no, darling,’ he said, then leaned forward and lowered his voice to match hers. ‘You won’t. For one thing, if you believe I care what these people think you’re sadly mistaken. And as for the “polis”, as you call them, what am I doing wrong exactly? Apart from having tea with my girl on a Saturday afternoon. It’s you with your working-class mentality who doesn’t want to be shown up. I couldn’t care less, I assure you.’
Hetty stared at him, defeated. ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.
‘Don’t be silly, Hetty, your home address is in Father’s desk along with details of all the other maids we’ve ever had. Besides, there’s Sally Dunn.’
Oh yes, she rued the day she had brought Sally Dunn to Fortune Hall, Hetty thought bitterly.
The waitress returned with the tray of tea and fancy cakes and Matthew made a show of helping Hetty choose one. He let go of her hand but she could still feel the pressure of his fingers there.
‘Shall I pour, dear?’ asked Matthew. He was enjoying himself, she could tell he was, there was a triumphant expression in his eyes. She looked down at the custard slice on her plate, feeling sick.
‘Always put the milk in afterwards, Hetty, only the lower classes put it in first,’ he was saying as he poured the tea and handed her her cup and saucer.
‘I’ll have to go,’ she said suddenly, and rushed across the cafe to the ladies’ room.
‘Wait!’
But she was beyond waiting, the bile was rising in her throat. In the lavatory, Hetty retched and retched though there was nothing in her stomach but bile.
‘Are you all right in there? ’Cos I’m waiting. There’s only one lavvy, you know, and I’ve got a little lass here wetting her britches.’
Hetty flushed the bowl and opened the door from the lavatory cubicle to the slightly larger one with the washbasin. The woman waiting with the little girl hopping from foot to foot rushed past her.
‘Sorry, pet,’ she said, as she sat the toddler on the seat, ‘When bairns have to go, they have to go.’ She left the door of the cubicle open and came out and leaned against the wall, watching Hetty as she ran cold water in the basin and splashed it on her overheated face.
‘Eeh,’ said the woman, ‘never mind me. I know what it’s like. How far are you on? Two months, is it? Well, like I always say, the first three months is the worst.’
Hetty managed to smile weakly but her thoughts were in an uproar. Dear God, no! Dear God, it couldn’t be. Yet hadn’t this been the dark fear at the back of her mind for what seemed long enough? The woman and the little girl went out and Hetty was on her own. But the door had not closed properly and she could hear Matthew’s voice. She moved closer to the door and heard him asking the woman if she was still inside.
‘Aye, she is,’ was the reply. ‘Spewing her tea up again, a waste of money it’s been. But that’s what it’s like when you start a bairn.’
Oh dear God, thought Hetty. She caught hold of the roller towel to wipe her hands but the next minute she was seized and spun round to face Matthew.
‘It’s mine, isn’t it? It’s not that miner fellow’s – what’s his name, Hutchins? For if it is, I’ll swing for you both, I swear it!’
‘Matthew, let go! You can’t come in here, they’ll throw you out of the place,’ she cried.
‘Can I not, then? I’d like to see them try! Now tell me, tell me!’
‘I’m not having a bairn, Matthew. I’m not, honest I’m not. Something disagreed with me, that’s all.’
‘Mine or his?’ demanded Matthew implacably. ‘If it’s his, I’ll kick it out of you, I promise you that.’
‘Here now, this is the ladies’, you can’t stay in here,’ said a scandalised voice from the doorway. An elderly lady stood there looking shocked to the core. Matthew swore again and dragged Hetty out with an iron grip on her upper arm, pushing the old lady out of the way, throwing a ten-shilling note at the manager when he tried to stop them going. All Hetty saw was a sea of upturned faces as the whole cafe stopped eating and talking, and watched open-mouthed. She was drowning in embarrassment and mortification. All of Bishop and the pit villages would be talking about her tomorrow.
Matthew dragged her outside and up the alleyway to Kingsway. There were few people about and he pushed her against the wall of the Labour Exchange and held
her there.
‘Well?’ he demanded again.
‘I’m not having a baby,’ Hetty insisted, then quailed at the terrible look in his eyes. ‘But if I am,’ she added hastily, ‘then it can only be yours, Matthew. Nobody else has touched me. Nobody.’
He stared hard at her, holding her gaze. Then, apparently satisfied, his manner relaxed. He loosed his hold of her and took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.
‘A bloody good job for you too,’ he said, but quietly now. ‘Now, come on, is there anywhere in this godforsaken town where we can talk without folks gawping at us?’
‘Matthew, I want to go home,’ she said. She fought for composure and began to feel better, her stomach settled, her racing pulse slowed. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, I just want you to leave me alone.’
‘A shame that, for I’m not going to,’ he said grimly, and taking hold of her arm, set off towards the market place. She had no choice but to follow. ‘If you can’t think of anywhere we’ll take the car, it’s up by the market stalls. We can go up the dale. I remember Teesdale from when I was at school in Barnard Castle.’
‘No, Matthew, we can go down to the park, the bishop’s park. I don’t want—’
‘Stop telling me what you don’t want to do!’ said Matthew. But he carried on past his car and went over Durham Road to the Norman arch, which was the entrance to the bishop’s palace. The long drive stretched ahead of them, the battlements of the castle showing above the high walls to their left, the formal flower beds to one side until they got to the ancient iron cattle gate which led into the park proper. He led her to a seat away from the main paths and sat her down, seating himself beside her.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do …’
Chapter 21
The notice of the forthcoming wedding was in the Yorkshire Post, just a week after the fateful dinner party at the Hunters’ house.