‘Now that’d be telling.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s get the tatie pie down us and then you can give me a few more lessons.’
‘Joe Jackson, it’s still daylight and there’s thee talking about making love.’
‘Well it’s you who started it. You asked me if you’ve put on any weight. I can’t tell with that frock on so I’d best take it off.’ Alice ate her pie without answering, but he couldn’t help noticing how her eyes sparkled.
When Joe had married Alice he had thought companionship was all he craved. He had never been one for chasing the lasses, though there had been a girl before France. The lovemaking on that occasion had left a lot to be desired and he had decided he could do without a repeat performance, but by God Alice had changed his mind. The passion between them had transformed Joe’s whole existence, and now he was to be a father to top it all. And by gum – he finished his pie – she was a bloody good cook too. He grinned across the table, ‘Alice Jackson, did I ever tell you how much I love you?’
‘I’d rather tha showed me,’ she said, and led the way up the stairs.
Once Emily was persuaded to attend the wedding she pursued the preparations wholeheartedly. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement but if she was to be present she would make sure her daughter was given a good send-off. Beyond that she would not interfere.
Isaac footed the bill as usual, relieved that this would be the last do he would be responsible for. Ruth resembled a princess in the powder-blue dress, made up by Emily in the very latest style, and Isaac wished once again that he had hired a photographer. Unfortunately, that had been the last thing on his mind, and now it was too late. When Ruth smiled up at him as they entered the chapel he experienced a strong desire to hold her in his arms and protect her from the life he knew was to follow, to prevent her wasting her grace and beauty on the likes of Walter Wray. But Ruth smiled radiantly at Walter, and nobody could deny he made a handsome groom in his dark suit and stiff-collared shirt. Only Walter’s own father noticed the way his eyes roamed over the figure of Mary Hampshire as she took her place beside her best friend for the ceremony.
Nevertheless Walter behaved impeccably throughout the reception, probably because no drinks were allowed in the lecture room, and because this was the night Walter had been waiting for, when Ruth Stanford would become his own personal possession. Emily had the feeling that both families were putting on a brave face for Ruth’s sake and was relieved when the guests began to drift away. Only Lizzie and George seemed to be genuinely happy as they showed off their offspring with pride. It was as if nothing would be allowed to penetrate the circle of contentment they had formed around their family. It was only when her daughter had left for her new home that Emily finally gave way to the tears which had threatened all day, and nobody, not even Isaac, tried to comfort her. They were all just as dejected as she was.
‘Well, it’s all over, lass,’ Isaac remarked, merely for something to say.
‘No, Isaac, you’re wrong,’ she replied. ‘It’s only just beginning.’ Then they walked home together, silent in the darkness.
Initially Emily wondered if she had been wrong to condemn Walter. She had to admit Ruth seemed blissfully happy, despite the deprivation in which she lived. The family had rallied round and done the best they could with the house, and though it was by no means ideal Ruth kept the place as clean as possible considering the dust and soot which seemed to settle on everything from clothes to walls and windows. Alice had insisted on spending some of their grandmother’s money on a bed, a table and some chairs, which Ruth had refused at first, pointing out that her sister had earned every penny by putting up with the miserable old woman. Walter, however, said it would be throwing the kindness in her sister’s face if she didn’t accept. Ruth would have had more admiration for her husband had he followed the example of George, who had refused a similar offer when he had married Lizzie. Nevertheless, the furniture was gratefully received.
It was only after a couple of months, when he began gradually drifting back to the Rag, that Emily knew her original doubts were justified. Walter knew he had a prize in Ruth. Not only was she a worker when it came to running a home, but she had knocked him for six when it came to making love. She had a figure more desirable than any he had seen and he had to admit he had set eyes on a few. The love Ruth felt for her husband made her responsive in every way and it was only when she began complaining about the amount of money he was spending in the Rag that he began to regret his responsibilities.
‘Stop nagging, woman. I won’t be told what to do with my own money.’
Ruth would retaliate by turning away from him. ‘I’ll not make love when you smell like a brewery,’ she said. At first he would merely grunt and turn over to sleep off the booze, but then suddenly he began to show another side, a side only his parents had witnessed and they preferred to forget. The first time he came home in a rage brought on by the beer Ruth chose to ignore him, put on her hat and coat and went on a visit to Lizzie’s. By the time she returned Walter had gone to bed, but not before he had thrown the dinner Ruth had prepared for him at the newly whitened wall, shattering the plate into a dozen pieces. Ruth had cleaned up the mess, and for the first time acknowledged that Walter wasn’t quite the man she had expected.
Chapter Three
Alice’s child was born on Shrove Tuesday. A fine son, who Old Mother said was the biggest babby she had ever delivered. Old Mother stayed with Alice throughout the two-day labour and for the two days following, alongside Emily, who feared for her daughter after a long and arduous confinement. Joe was all for fetching a doctor when Alice’s temperature suddenly rose. ‘She needs medical care,’ he told Emily, but his mother-in-law had every faith in Old Mother who had supervised all three of her own daughters’ births.
‘She’s in good hands, Joe. Old Mother will see her through, better than any doctor,’ Emily consoled him as she rocked her new grandson in his wooden cradle.
Alice was in the cold stage of fever, brought on by weakness, according to Old Mother. Her nails were blue and her trembling alarmed Joe, who was torn between going for Dr Swinbourne and staying by his wife’s side. The chamber pot was continually being taken to be emptied by Emily, as Alice was violently sick. Old Mother felt Alice’s pulse as her face became more shrivelled and her eyes more sunken. She left the bedside only once, and when she returned proceeded to administer a tea to her patient, little by little.
‘What is it?’ Joe demanded.
‘Naught but sage and senna,’ Old Mother answered. Gradually the colour returned to Alice’s skin, and once more the old woman felt for her pulse. ‘That’s better,’ she said.
‘I don’t feel better.’ Alice’s voice was weak. ‘I feel as if I’ve been pummelled all over.’ Old Mother bathed her head with vinegar water. ‘I need a drink.’ Emily reached for the glass on the window ledge.
‘Not yet if she doesn’t want to be sick again! Well, maybe just a little drop of watter,’ Old Mother allowed. Emily let her daughter sip a little of the liquid. Alice couldn’t rest, throwing off the sheets and writhing about the bed. ‘Let’s see thi tongue, my dear.’ Alice was too restless to comply. Old Mother opened her patient’s mouth to reveal a thick, yellow-coated organ. ‘What a sight.’
‘What’s happening? Is she worse?’ Joe enquired anxiously.
‘No worse, no better. Give her time, lad. She’ll be sweating before the day’s out. Go get tea ready for her mother, it must be teatime.’
Emily worried about the baby. ‘I can’t put him to her breast and he won’t take cow’s milk.’ Her words were drowned by the infant’s lusty cry.
‘What about Lizzie? If you axe me she’ll have enough milk to feed a dozen.’
Emily laid the crying child in his cradle, ‘I’ll fetch her,’ she said.
By the time the baby was fed and sleeping, Alice’s skin looked softer and more natural, her pulse was almost normal and her breathing easier, and a fine film of sweat coated her brow. Old Mother left
the sickbed once more.
‘What is it?’ Joe left his task of washing the dishes immediately Old Mother entered the kitchen.
‘Naught that can’t be put right.’ She brought out another mysterious bag from the large pocket in her pinafore. ‘Have you a jug? And some boiling watter?’
‘What are you making?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Naught but spearmint and pumpkin seeds, the finest thing for her if you axe me.’
Joe looked dubious but Emily had every faith in Old Mother’s remedies.
‘Get yerself to bed, lad. She’ll be as right as rain in a day or so. Weak as a kitten, but right as rain,’ the old woman said.
‘I’ll take the baby and keep him until our Alice can care for him. By the way, what’s he to be called?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Joseph. It’s Alice’s choice.’ Joe gazed down fondly at the child.
‘He’s a grand baby.’ Lizzie cuddled the child and wrapped him snugly in a hand-crocheted shawl. She knew Alice’s son would be dressed in nothing but the finest garments, but she felt no envy. George provided for her and their family as well as he was able and Lizzie wouldn’t have exchanged her lot for anyone’s, not even Alice’s.
Old Mother had settled once more in the bedside chair. ‘It’s you who should be in bed,’ Joe told her. ‘You must be all in. I don’t think you’ve slept for four days or nights. Besides, I’d like to lie beside Alice, if I may.’
‘Lie beside her, lad. The closeness’ll comfort her if she wakes, but I’ll stay where I am. I’ll sleep with one eye open, so I’ll know if I’m needed.’ She let out a cackle of laughter, showing a wide, open gap where her teeth had once been. ‘I’ll be keeping my eye on thee, Joe, so don’t be going misbehaving yerself when the lamp’s turned low.’ Despite Joe’s anxiety he couldn’t help but smile at Old Mother’s attempt to cheer him up.
Once Emily knew her daughter would recover she went home to Isaac, who was waiting worriedly for his wife’s return. ‘How is she, lass?’
‘Old Mother says she’s going to be fine.’
‘Thank God,’ Isaac breathed.
‘I think it’s Old Mother we should be thanking, Isaac.’
‘Aye, maybe,’ Isaac agreed, ‘but the way I’ve prayed this last few days I think God may have had something to do with it, so we’ll thank Him just the same.’
Emily kissed her husband gently. ‘Let’s get to bed, Isaac,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you these last few days.’
‘I’ve missed thee and all, Emily. I don’t know what I’d do without thee, lass.’
‘Oh, I dare say you’d manage, and maybe you’d get a bit of peace and quiet.’ Emily smiled. Isaac put out the lamp and climbed the stairs, Emily ahead of him, to the bed they’d been sharing for nigh on twenty-five years, and God willing they would share for another twenty-five.
The general strike came and passed, supported wholeheartedly by Isaac. As a member of the Railway Workers’ Union he had expected the militancy to precipitate strike action long before it did. Now it seemed the fire of the working classes had burned itself out. There was very little to see for the hardship, of which the miners suffered the most with eight times as many striking days as other trade unionists. In Cottenly it was the industrial giants who complained the loudest, whilst the lower workers, who were ill prepared for financial loss and terrified that they would not be reinstated, knew all they could do was stand with the majority. Nevertheless a sigh of relief was heard in most households when the strike finally ended. Lizzie Crossman, heeding her father’s advice, had prepared herself for any loss of income by finding a cleaning job at one of the houses belonging to the posh folk.
Desiree Rubeck was the wife of a travelling man, known to the likes of Lizzie as the tallyman. Mr Rubeck was a well-known visitor to many of the households in Cottenly and Warrentickle, where he had called on George’s mother every Saturday morning for many years. During that time the family had bought everything from linoleum to sideboards from him, and wedding suits to prams. Goods would be paid for at a shilling in the pound, per week, and the family would gather excitedly to see what he had to offer over a pot of tea and a slice of Mrs Crossman’s fruit cake. Lizzie was relieved when the strike came to think she had always resisted the temptation to put things on the book, following Emily’s sound advice to do without anything that couldn’t be paid for. Even so, she was grateful to the Rubecks for offering her the two mornings’ work a week. Unfortunately Mrs Rubeck was nowhere near as nice a person as her husband and George didn’t much care to have his wife scrubbing floors on her hands and knees whilst the mistress of the house was dolling herself up and acting all la-di-da, as he put it, for her afternoon callers. As a matter of fact Lizzie wasn’t too keen either. The tall windows had to be cleaned, the range in the kitchen blackleaded, the bellows and fender scoured until they shone and the carpet squares taken out on to the line and beaten. Any outside work had to be done first, before any neighbouring posh folk condescended to leave their beds, as it wouldn’t do for Lizzie to be seen by them in her pinafore and her worn down shoes. But Mrs Rubeck grudgingly handed over her wages each Tuesday and Friday and the strike was weathered without any mounting debts. Afterwards Lizzie wondered how she could leave without seeming ungrateful, and was thankful when the problem was solved by her becoming pregnant again. On the day she told Mrs Rubeck, she was feeling nauseous and looked as bad as she felt.
‘I wont be coming any more,’ she said, ‘unless you want me to stay another week until you find a replacement.’ She sighed. ‘I’m pregnant again, and not feeling too well this time.’
‘No wonder. How many is that?’
‘This’ll be the third,’ Lizzie answered proudly.
‘Oh, well. I suppose it’s only to be expected from you people who don’t know any better.’
Lizzie could feel the heat in her cheeks, ‘What do you mean by “you people”?’ she asked.
The woman looked embarrassed by the question. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s much for the lower classes to do with themselves except breed like animals.’
Lizzie had just finished scrubbing the flagged floor and had dried it as thoroughly as she could. The bucket of dirty water stood by her side waiting to be emptied. She looked up at the woman’s smarmy face and was tempted to remind her that it was the lower classes who were keeping her in luxurious idleness. Her eyes travelled down the immaculate white lace-trimmed blouse, the ankle-length poplin skirt and shiny black shoes, then she picked up the bucket of grey, sludgy water and flung it across the almost dry kitchen floor. Mrs Rubeck’s eyes widened and she spluttered as she searched for words that wouldn’t somehow form.
Lizzie walked to the door. She felt terribly sick but exhilarated by her action. She turned to her ex-employer. ‘Being of the working class, like you said, I can’t be expected to know any better.’ She walked out of the house, leaving Mrs Rubeck standing, gaping at the flooded floor, the hem of her skirt dripping with dirty water. She paddled towards the door, intending to call Lizzie back, even to plead with the girl to clear up the mess. She was just in time to see Lizzie, who could contain her morning sickness not a moment longer, vomit her elevenses all over the newly whitened step.
Lizzie felt better by the time she arrived home, and better still as she and Emily laughed and agreed it was well worth the forfeiture of her morning’s pay just to think of Mrs Rubeck attempting to clean up the kitchen.
Winnie Armitage watched Walter Wray go off to the Rag at opening time, knowing he should have been at work. Still, it was nothing unusual for him to knock a shift out once or twice a week. The Lord only knew how he hadn’t been sacked before now, or how young Ruth put up with the obnoxious sod.
Winnie had been born in Wire Mill Place, was used to the grime, but because her house was not actually joined on to the others was quite content. According to Emily, Mrs Wray, and everybody else who knew her, Winnie was a grand woman. The reasons for these opinions varied. Walter’s mother said
she had no edge on her and considered everybody, even the unfortunates in her immediate neighbourhood, to be every bit as good as she was. Emily knew that she had not only nursed both her parents through long illnesses, but had also married a man who was suffering from a disabling lung complaint, although he had a heart every bit as large as Winnie’s.
Winnie could see Ruth hanging out the coloureds on the clothes line. No doubt the house would be cluttered with the whites, steaming and drying on the rack over the fire, the clothes horse and everywhere else she could find to hang the never-ending laundry she did for the posh folk. None of it could be hung out no matter how suitable the weather, because of the soot from the works chimneys.
Winnie called out to Ruth. ‘Are yer popping over, lass? I’m just about to mash.’
‘Thanks. Just give me time to change the twins – I won’t be five minutes.’ Winnie nodded and went in to brew the tea. She lifted a date and rhubarb pie from the oven and moved another one from the top shelf to take its place. Then she riddled the fire to make it draw better and tested the large bowl of rising dough in the hearth. Ruth popped her head round the door, a baby in each arm.
‘Come in and close the door gently, lass.’
‘Mmm! Something smells good.’
‘Aye. You must take a pie with yer when yer go.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. You’re always giving me something. I never go home empty-handed, yet I never give you anything in return.’
‘Well, nor would I expect owt. With a bugger like him, love, you’ve all on to feed yerselves.’ Ruth blushed but didn’t deny it. Mrs Armitage had no time for Walter and Ruth knew it. Come to think of it, Walter knew it too. Mrs Armitage had been shown the door by him on numerous occasions, and one time a frying pan had followed, missing her by inches, but it hadn’t stopped her from standing up for Ruth and even threatening him with a huge butcher’s cleaver if he didn’t leave his wife alone. Ruth had no doubt she would have used it, too, if he hadn’t staggered up the stairs to his bed.
The Stanford Lasses Page 7