by Ruth Sutton
The long list of things to do was downstairs, but most of it was fixed in her brain. The parade was arranged, starting at the school and down to the church. Lionel Leadbetter would do a brief service … at least I hope he does, she thought. The children were too excited to sit for long and he hated it when they fidgeted. Caroline had warned her he was threatening to say something about the sanctity of marriage. Surely not in the circumstances, but you never knew with Lionel. Personally, Jessie didn’t care whom the last king had chosen to marry, so long as no one had to call that American woman ‘Queen’. And now he’d abdicated and his brother had stepped in. What a farce it all was, but she would have to keep those views to herself on coronation day.
Back to the list. Children organised, band booked, Mrs Braithwaite and the Women’s Institute ladies in charge of teas, thank heavens. The bonfire and fireworks were someone else’s problem too. Probably Andrew Leadbetter. He hadn’t been back from Scotland for long but he seemed to be an asset to the village. Good-looking young man, too.
* * *
Several hours later, the procession wound up the lane from the church between hedges that had been growing for a thousand years, whitened with blossom, with pink campions and bluebells among their roots. On the fells cloud shadows swept fast across the land but in the shelter of the lane it was warm and almost windless. Jessie dropped back to encourage some straggling children and fell in beside Caroline who was clearly having trouble with her shoes.
‘Knew I shouldn’t have worn these today,’ said the vicar’s wife as she accepted Jessie’s proffered arm. ‘Never wear new shoes for more than a few minutes the first time, my dear.’
‘Not far now,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s gone well so far, don’t you think?’
‘For a moment back there I thought we’d have some trouble. Lionel does hate it when the children rustle sweet wrappers, but he didn’t need to stare at them for quite so long.’
‘No mention of the sanctity of marriage, though.’ Jessie knew that Caroline had urged her husband to keep it short.
‘No, thank heaven.’
‘And the tea will be good.’
‘Oh we can count on that,’ said Caroline. ‘Mrs Braithwaite’s got it down to a fine art, which is just as well, as I didn’t get any lunch.’
‘Nor me, and I was awake so early I really needed some.’
‘I had trouble sleeping, too. Not just today’s events, either. Did you notice anything, just now, at the church?’
‘No,’ said Jessie, ‘apart from one or two children I need a quiet word with. Why?’
‘What about Andrew? He’s my only son and he’s twenty-five years old, but sometimes I despair. Did you notice he wouldn’t go into the church? Sat outside on one of the gravestones through the whole thing, smoking those nasty cigarettes of his. They seem to smell even worse than the normal kind.’
‘Maybe he just doesn’t believe any more,’ said Jessie. ‘If he doesn’t, then he’s better off not pretending, surely.’
‘I think it’s more about him and his father. It was bad enough before he went off to Scotland, but it’s much worse now. If they hadn’t given him that house at the quarry when he got the manager’s job, well I think they’d have come to blows, really. What is it with men and their sons? Why can’t just accept their differences and have some respect for each other? Why does it have to be about who’s in charge?’
‘Is that what it is?’ Jessie was surprised to hear Caroline talk like this. ‘I was just thinking how useful Andrew will be to the village.’
‘Do you think so? Maybe he just needs to settle down. Shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone. Good job, good prospects, healthy, quite handsome in his own way. Agnes says he looks like, what’s that man’s name, on the films?’
‘Stan Laurel?’ Jessie squeezed her arm as they laughed.
‘No, no. In Mr Deeds … Gary Cooper.’
Jessie pictured Gary Cooper and thought about Andrew. ‘Well he’s tall, that’s a good start. I’ll have to sneak another look at him and let you know. Come on, we’re getting further behind.’
‘Wait a minute, dear,’ said Caroline, standing still. ‘Before we catch up with the others, did you hear about Alice Kitchin?’
Jessie said nothing for a moment, remembering.
‘No,’ she said, as brightly as she could muster. ‘What’s Alice been up to?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Caroline, ‘Nobody knows. No one’s seen her for a few days apparently. One of her friends at the Hall sent a message to Alice’s mother, and Bill Kitchin went storming up to the Hall claiming that they’d sent her away somewhere, demanding to see Sir John. He made quite a scene apparently. Sir John mentioned it to Lionel.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Jessie. ‘Have they sent her away?’
‘No, that’s just it, they haven’t. So we’re wondering whether she’s just taken herself off, with a young man maybe, or to find a better job. She’s a bit of a madam, I understand.’
Jessie was determined to give nothing away. ‘I’d say she knows how to look after herself,’ she said. ‘Let’s not worry about it yet.’ They walked on, and Jessie struggled with her feelings about the girl and her future.
In the village hall the coronation celebrations drew to a close. The prize for the best costume was awarded to ten-year-old Mary Capp dressed as Britannia. Caroline gave each of the children a commemorative mug engraved with the date and a picture of the new king and queen. After that, mercifully, the noise level dropped as most of the children were taken home to change out of their costumes or their Sunday best clothes, ready for the bonfire and fireworks at the Hall. A small gang of the most boisterous escaped to the river to play more games of their own.
Jessie went back to the schoolhouse, glad of a break from conversation and supervision. The freshening breeze from the sea carried the sound of a train crossing the viaduct. As she put down her basket to open the front door a young man emerged from the village hall carrying a stack of chairs. He put them down by the side of the road and smiled at her.
‘Glad that’s over,’ he said. ‘Hopefully this new king doesn’t run off with another woman and we won’t have to do it all again for a while.’
Jessie laughed. ‘Not much chance of that I think, Mr Leadbetter. They look like the soul of respectability to me. Thanks for your help today by the way. And you’re looking after the bonfire as well, I hear.’
‘All we have to do now is light it and stand back. I love a good fire.’
‘Me too.’
‘You going to the dance on Friday, at Ganthwaite?’ he asked. ‘Band’s coming from Whitehaven.’ He lowered his voice and his face towards hers. ‘Better than that crowd today, I hope.’
‘They did very well,’ she said, ‘Scotland was more lively for you, I’m sure, but living here brings its own pleasures.’
‘Aye, it does,’ he said, looking at her. ‘Well, I’ll get these chairs back to the Farriers.’
Jessie watched him as he turned the corner towards the pub.
A child’s voice, shrill, rang out behind her.
‘Miss! Miss!’
She turned. Down the hill a small gang of children was running, not in the usual carefree way of children but anxiously, straining, crying out to each other, wild and tense. The boy who was shouting was ahead of them.
‘What is it, Peter?’ said Jessie, in her calmest teacher voice. The boy stood in front of her, gasping for breath. She held his thin shoulders and bent down to look into his face.
‘It’s alright, Peter. I’m here. Just take a breath and tell me.’
‘I can tell you, miss,’ said a smaller boy who had caught up to them.
‘That’s alright, thank you Frank,’ said Jessie. ‘I’m sure Peter can manage now.’
Peter settled himself, planting his feet squarely on the ground.
‘It’s Alice, miss, we saw her.’
‘Alice Kitchin?’
‘Yes miss, she’s down there.’
&nbs
p; ‘Down where, Peter? Start at the beginning, pet, and tell me the story.’
‘It’s not a story, miss,’ Frank piped up quickly. ‘It’s true, honest.’
Peter took a deep breath. ‘We went down to t’river, miss, after us tea.’
‘Yes, and?’
‘Tide were coming in, miss, under t’bridge, running fast like. We saw something in t’river, miss.’
‘That was me, I saw it first,’ said Frank.
‘No, I did,’ said one of the girls.
‘That’s enough thank you, children. Carry on, Peter, you’re doing very well.’
‘We saw this thing in the river, miss, like an old sack or summat. So I went in, to see what it was, like. And the tide turned it over, miss. And the face was there. It were Alice, miss. In the water. She’s drownded.’
Chapter 4
Eight days later a report appeared on page four of the Whitehaven News, with details of the coroner’s findings:
The Whitehaven coroner Mr Samuel Armstrong recorded a verdict of accidental death in the case of Miss Alice Kitchin, aged seventeen, who was found drowned in the River Esk near Newton Church on May 12th, after the Coronation Day celebrations. She had been last seen leaving Ganthwaite village hall late on Saturday May 8th. Police Sergeant Arthur Partridge reported that he had consulted the coastguard and the local tide tables before concluding that Miss Kitchin had fallen or slipped into the river on her way home from Ganthwaite and that the body had been washed to the other side of the river by the unusual wind and tides of the following days. Evidence was also heard from Miss Phyllis Monck, a friend of the deceased, that Miss Kitchin had insisted on walking home alone on the night in question. There was no moon and it had been very dark. Miss Kitchin had said that she had walked that path many times before and was sure she could find her way.
Evidence was heard from Miss Jessie Whelan to whom a local child had reported his discovery of a body in the river. Dr Michael Harding had examined the body at Whitehaven Hospital. This examination indicated that the girl had unfortunately drowned, possibly impeded by the long dress that she had been wearing for the dance. Sergeant Partridge had checked the path where it runs close to the river, and had spoken to all the parties involved. He was of the view that Miss Kitchin’s death had been an accident and had occurred shortly after her departure from Ganthwaite. The jury accepted the medical and police evidence and recommended a verdict of accidental death by drowning. The coroner extended the condolences of the court to the girl’s family. He warned that paths close to the river could be treacherous after rain and in profound darkness.
Jessie Whelan put down the newspaper and closed her eyes for a few minutes. They didn’t know. She’d thought that the autopsy would have revealed Alice’s pregnancy but they must have been looking only for the cause of death, nothing more. She made herself another cup of tea and tried to think.
It was nearly a month since Alice had turned up on her doorstep that Sunday afternoon. Why couldn’t she have talked to someone her own age, or the doctor, or even her own mother? Now Jessie was burdened with knowledge she had not wanted then and certainly didn’t want now. The wretched girl seemed to be bent on unsettling her, even from her grave. Jessie put down her cup as the shame of her selfishness washed over her. She’d been surprised to see Alice at her door that day but she couldn’t just send her away. Years before she’d tried hard to get Alice’s parents to agree to send her to the grammar school in Whitehaven, but to no avail. Mr Kitchin had been downright rude to her in the shop when she’d tried to talk to him about it. He’d raised his voice, just to make sure that everyone knew that the off-comer schoolteacher was poking her nose in where it didn’t belong.
‘Stay at school?’ he sneered at Jessie. ‘Waste o’ time, waste o’ money. She’ll be married soon enough. Needs to ’elp her mam with the little ’uns instead of filling ’er ’ead with books.’
Alice had left school at the first opportunity and gone to work at the Hall. The Skeffingtons were well pleased with her by all accounts. It would have been the ‘downstairs’ people who might have tired of Alice’s prattle. As a child, Alice’s pose as the star of her own drama had been forgivable, given the chaos at home, but as she grew it became so tedious that Jessie had been quite relieved when she left school. The emotional temperature dropped perceptibly in her absence. And then there she was, sitting at Jessie’s table, tears welling in her eyes, whispering that she thought she was pregnant. ‘At first I thought I’d just missed one, by accident, like’ she’d said, ‘but then the next one didn’t come either and I didn’t know what to do. Now I’ve missed three, miss, but I dursen’t go to t’ doctor or tell me mam.’
‘Do you know who the father is?’ asked Jessie, dreading the questions that were yet to come.
‘I think so, miss,’ the child replied.
Jessie looked at her. ‘You think so?’ Her voice sounded louder than she expected. ‘Are you saying that you’ve, you know, been … intimate with more than one person?’
‘Intimate?’ The girl hung her head. ‘Cannut say, miss, honest. I just want you to help me.’
Jessie felt sick. She got up and fussed with the fire to give herself time to think.
‘You’ll have to tell your mother, Alice. It’s no good telling me. I can’t help you, not with this.’
‘But, miss,’ wailed the child, ‘I cannut. She’ll tell me dad, and he’ll kill me.’
Alice sniffed and sipped her tea. ‘I could get him to marry me, I suppose. I bet me dad would make him.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Alexander, up at th’ Hall.’
‘Alexander Skeffington?’
‘Yes, miss. He’s powerful fond of me. We could be married and I could keep the baby.’
‘Mr Skeffington is the father?’
‘Well, he could be, miss,’ said Alice, smiling shyly. ‘I don’t know what Sir John would say, though. Don’t think he’d want his precious son marrying the kitchen maid.’ And she laughed. ‘Have you got a biscuit or a bit of bread, miss? I’m starving.’
Jessie wanted so badly to hit her that she stood up too quickly and the chair fell backwards onto the flagged floor with a crash. Memories of her own shame and loss clashed and collided in her mind, making her hold onto the table for a moment to steady herself. Alice looked up.
‘You alreet, miss?’
Jessie took a deep breath. ‘Just felt a bit dizzy,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘I’ll be fine. A biscuit, you said? I’ve only got scones, I’m afraid.’
‘That’d be grand, miss. Anything, really. Must be the baby making me so ’ungry.’ Alice smiled brightly again and Jessie turned away towards the cupboard to fetch the child her food. Alice ate as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.
Watching Alice loading a second scone with butter and jam was too much for Jessie. She had to speak, to break the silence.
‘I’ve told you I can’t help, Alice. Would you like to me to come with you and you can tell your mother what you’ve told me?’
‘Oh, nay, miss, that’d just make it worse. Mam wouldn’t want anyone else to know. She mustn’t know I’ve talked to you about it. She’d be shamed.’
In another gust of memory Jessie heard her own mother’s voice, loud with anger and fear. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go anyway,’ she said to Alice, turning away from her again. ‘I really can’t help until you’ve told your family.’ Jessie almost pushed the girl towards the door and out into the lane. As she turned back into the kitchen a sob bubbled up from her stomach, and she held her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.
It was early in the evening, but she drew the heavy curtains in her bedroom against the light and lay face down on her bed. For so long she had managed to block it out, but now the memory of being pregnant and alone descended on her like fog, unavoidable, rancid. Her strong rational self knew, still, that she had done the right thing, for herself and for the child, but her strong rational self was not strong enough. She pressed he
r hands to her head and lay still. When she woke a little later, pain was pounding behind her eyes. She drew back one of the curtains and looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror. Even in the half light she could see that her eyes were puffy. She looked so old, more like her mother. She touched her mouth and neck, looking for signs of age and decay.
The following morning at school she felt wretched, but who would notice? The children couldn’t guess at the nagging pain that shredded her peace of mind. She had made her choice all those years ago and she had lived with it ever since. She had built a wall around herself, brick by brick, to protect herself from further hurt, and now this scheming child had torn it down.
At Alice’s funeral, Jessie prayed with more than usual intensity, for forgiveness, and for peace. She remembered the pale green of the walls in the hot room where her son had been born and the sweet smell of his tiny body. Tears squeezed through the fingers she held tightly over her eyes. She hoped anyone who noticed would assume that her grief was for Alice, not for a different child lost twenty years before.
Sitting next to her in the pew, Agnes Plane surmised that her friend had something more on her mind than the tragic death of a former pupil. She wanted to put her arm around Jessie, but stopped herself. When the congregation followed the small coffin out into the churchyard, the wind was raw from the east, and Jessie shivered as they watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. From where they stood, at the outer edge of the group clustered at the graveside, Reverend Leadbetter’s voice was snatched away by the wind and scattered onto the incoming tide behind him. Just out of sight, behind the church, was the muddy tidal pool where Alice’s body had been found only a few days before.
Agnes expected that Jessie would say something to the family, or to the vicar, or suggest they went back to the Farriers, but instead she went back inside the porch and sat on the bench while people drifted down the churchyard to the gate. Agnes sat beside her. ‘Let’s go back to my house for tea, and not bother with the Farriers,’ she said quietly, and Jessie nodded. ‘I’m so cold,’ was all she said.