Miss Warren was one of the two teachers at the school, in charge of the senior class. Before she had even reached the classroom Agnes heard her voice ringing out from the other side of the door.
‘No!’ she boomed. ‘That simply will not do. Start again, if you please.’
Beside Agnes, Mr Hackett’s shoulders twitched nervously. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said, pushing open the door and ushering her inside. ‘Miss Warren will know what to do.’
‘But—’
Agnes looked round to protest but he was already scuttling back down the passageway. A moment later she heard the door to his office closing firmly.
She found herself at the back of a large, lofty room, smelling of chalk, old boots and damp wool, with rows of wooden desks lined up facing away from her. A map of the world adorned one wall, the countries of the British Empire proudly shaded in red. From the opposite wall, light streamed in through two tall windows, illuminating the tall, ramrod-straight figure of Miss Warren.
Agnes could see straight away she was a formidable character. Middle-aged, stern and unsmiling, her plain grey dress and her drawn-back hair did nothing to soften the severity of her features. Her hands were clasped around a slender cane, which she twitched as she listened to a child reciting a poem in a faltering voice.
The child fell silent when Agnes entered the room, and every pair of eyes turned in her direction, including the steely gaze of Miss Warren herself.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, suddenly, the teacher brought the cane down with a loud crack that made Agnes and all the children jump.
‘Turn around, class,’ she barked. ‘Did I give you permission to gawp at our visitor?’ In a slightly quieter voice, she added, ‘Daisy Carter, carry on reciting the poem while I am occupied. And don’t think I won’t be listening,’ she warned, pointing her cane at the child, who quailed in her seat. ‘Because I will hear every word.’
As the hapless Daisy stumbled to her feet and resumed reciting, Miss Warren made her way to where Agnes was standing.
‘You must be the new nurse,’ she said crisply, still unsmiling. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Have you?’ Agnes said. ‘I wasn’t sure. Mr Hackett seemed to think I wasn’t due until next week.’
Miss Warren sighed. ‘Fortunately, not all of us have to rely on the headmaster’s memory.’ She gave Agnes an appraising look. ‘I understand you are here to inspect the children’s general health?’ Without waiting for the nurse to reply, she went on, ‘Well, I must say, it’s about time something was done about them. Although I think you will have more to deal with than you bargained for.’
Agnes soon understood what the teacher had meant as she examined the children. They stood before her in a neat crocodile, stripped to their vests, each child stepping up in turn before taking a place at the back of the classroom, as orderly as soldiers under Miss Warren’s commanding gaze. They had been joined by the infants’ class, led by the other teacher, Miss Colley. She was the exact opposite of Miss Warren, a pleasant young woman with soft curves, a round, smiling face and gentle, whispering voice.
Agnes examined each child carefully, looking at their hair, their teeth, into their eyes and down their throats. She also checked their bones, and the way they were standing. As Miss Warren had predicted, there was barely a child who did not have something wrong with them, whether it was nits, a cold or cough, flat feet or the bowed legs of rickets.
Meanwhile, Miss Warren stood behind her, watching each child with a flinty expression and occasionally barking out an order.
‘No talking!’
‘Take your hands out of your pockets!’
‘Stop fidgeting. You there, I’m talking to you!’
The small boy in question paid no attention as he bent double, scratching behind his knees, which were bare under his short trousers.
‘Who is that?’ Agnes whispered to Miss Colley.
‘Billy Stanhope,’ she replied.
Agnes noted the name down, then beckoned him forward. ‘Let’s have a look at you, Billy.’ He stood quite straight, and his eyes were bright. His neck and nails were spotless, for a five-year-old boy, at least. But when Agnes inspected his hands, she immediately saw the problem. The soft skin between his fingers was a mass of raised spots and pinprick marks.
‘Have you been very itchy lately, Billy?’ she asked. The boy stared mutely back at her with wide, grey eyes.
The girl behind him poked him hard in the back. She had the same grey eyes and mop of black hair as the small boy, and wore the worried expression of an older sister.
The boy shrugged her off and remained silent.
‘Please, miss, he never stops scratching,’ the girl finally burst out. ‘Our aunt’s been putting sulphur ointment on him. Stinks the house out, it does, but it in’t doing no good.’
‘Did anyone ask you to speak, Elsie Stanhope?’ Miss Warren snapped. The girl instantly fell silent. ‘Well?’ The teacher turned to Agnes. ‘Is there something wrong with the child, Miss Sheridan?’
‘I believe he has scabies,’ Agnes said.
‘Oh, dear, that sounds rather serious.’ Miss Warren looked accusingly at Miss Colley, as if it were somehow her fault.
‘It can be cured, but it is very infectious.’ Agnes made a note next to Billy’s name.
‘Infectious?’ Miss Warren stiffened, her gaze hardening on the junior teacher. The younger woman bit her lip and looked close to tears. ‘Just what we need. You should have noticed this before, Miss Colley.’
‘I haven’t seen it in any of the other children, so you should be all right,’ Agnes said. ‘Where do you live, Billy?’ she asked the boy, who stared mutely back at her.
‘Well?’ Miss Warren snapped. ‘Speak up, lad. And take your hands out of your pockets!’
Behind him, his sister cleared her throat.
‘Please, miss, we live on Railway Row,’ she said, earning herself another stern look from Miss Warren.
‘Tell your mother I will be round to talk to her,’ Agnes said to the girl.
‘We in’t got a mother.’ Elsie spoke up again.
‘She’s dead.’ Billy found his voice helpfully.
‘Oh. I see. Well, who takes care of you?’
‘Our dad and our aunt, miss,’ Elsie said.
‘In that case, tell your aunt I will be visiting her,’ Agnes said.
Behind her, Miss Warren stifled what might have been a cough but sounded suspiciously like laughter. By the time Agnes glanced over her shoulder, the teacher was straight-faced again.
It took over an hour for Agnes to finish her inspection.
‘What did I tell you?’ Miss Warren said with grim satisfaction, as she watched Agnes making her notes against each child’s name. ‘Their parents do their best, but the children are in very poor health. May I ask, Miss Sheridan, what you intend to do with all this information now you have collected it?’
Agnes considered the list. ‘I will be calling on the parents to offer treatment and advice, if I can.’
‘Including Billy Stanhope’s family?’ Agnes glanced at Miss Warren. There it was again, the slightest suspicion of a twitch at the corners of her mouth. It was the first time she had seen the older woman smile all day.
‘Is there something I should know about this family, Miss Warren?’ she asked.
The teacher shook her head. Her face was as straight as a poker but unmistakable mirth lit up her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Miss Sheridan. I have always found Mr Stanhope to be very civil, in his own way.’ She paused, then said, ‘But the aunt … Well, let’s just say you may have some trouble convincing her of your good intentions!’
Agnes had visited some poor places during the three weeks she had been in Bowden Main village, but her rounds had never before brought her to Railway Row.
She hadn’t even realised there were cottages so close to the pit, until she found the narrow lane nestling up against the goods yard, so close the ground shook under her feet with the rattle o
f the trains on the track. The air felt oily against her skin. It was a thoroughly unpleasant place.
Agnes quickly found the Stanhopes’ cottage in the middle of the row. She knocked, but there was no answer. She cautiously pushed at the door and it yielded, opening slowly.
‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Is anyone at home? It’s the nurse.’
She had stepped into the room before she spotted the man taking a bath in a galvanised tub in front of the fire.
Agnes stopped dead at the sight of him. She wanted to run away but for a moment she could only stand and stare, transfixed by the sight of the rivulets of water that ran over his broad shoulders, making tracks in his gleaming, blackened skin. An ugly scar ran down the length of his back, parallel to his spine. As Agnes stared, he reached out one thickly muscled arm to run the soap along it, the muscles and tendons like ropes under his skin, flexing and contracting.
As he moved, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her. The soap fell into the water with a splash.
‘What the …’
She recognised him as she found herself staring into those flinty grey eyes. Of course. Stanhope … The name suddenly came back to her. How could she have forgotten?
Seth Stanhope recognised her at the same moment.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ His mouth hardened. ‘Do you always barge into folks’ houses without knocking?’
‘I – I did knock, but …’ As he twisted around, Agnes caught a glimpse of his broad chest, smattered with dark hair. She quickly averted her eyes, just as the door opened behind her.
‘What’s going on?’
Agnes swung round. A woman stood in the doorway, carrying a large stew pot in her hands. She was at least a head taller than Agnes, and as broad-shouldered and muscular as a man.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice shocked Agnes. It was soft and girlish, and completely at odds with her appearance.
‘I called to see Mr Stanhope.’ Agnes straightened her shoulders and forced herself to regain her composure. ‘I’m Miss Sheridan, the new—’
‘Oh, I know who you are, all right.’ The woman stared at her with unblinking dark eyes.
Agnes cleared her throat. ‘You must be Billy’s aunt?’
‘That’s right.’ The woman sneered. ‘Happen you’ve heard of me, too? I’m Hannah Arkwright.’
Chapter Ten
Agnes wasn’t surprised everyone was afraid of Hannah Arkwright. She was an intimidating presence, tall and solid, with a square, strong-featured face framed by a thick curtain of flaming red hair. She dressed like a man, in old work boots and a heavy overcoat.
Agnes looked up at her. ‘You’re Billy Stanhope’s aunt?’
‘That’s right.’ The reply came back, fiercely defiant. ‘What about him?’
From the bathtub behind them came an exaggerated sigh. ‘For pity’s sake! Can’t a working man have a bath in peace?’
‘I’ll sort this out, Seth, don’t worry.’ Hannah’s voice sounded ominous as she set the stew pot down on the table and ushered Agnes out of the cottage, half closing the door behind her.
She stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. ‘What’s all this about?’ she wanted to know. ‘What’s our Billy done now?’
‘Nothing,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m concerned about him, that’s all. I went up to the school to carry out a health inspection earlier –’ she ignored the roll of Hannah’s eyes ‘– and I noticed Billy was suffering from scabies.’
‘Oh, that. Aye, I know,’ Hannah muttered. ‘I’m taking care of it.’
‘Your niece mentioned you were using sulphur ointment. May I suggest benyl benzoate emulsion might be more effective? I’ve brought some with me.’
Agnes opened her bag and took out the brown glass bottle. ‘It needs to be painted on after a bath. From head to foot, not just the affected—’
But Hannah was already shaking her head. ‘We don’t need your medicine,’ she cut Agnes off.
‘It isn’t medicine. It’s—’
‘I’m not bothered what it is. I told you, I don’t need it. I’m taking care of Billy in my own way.’
‘Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s obviously not working!’ Agnes snapped back.
Hannah stared at her. ‘Now you listen to me, Miss Sheridan. My mother and I have been tending to the people of this village for years. You ask anyone and they’ll tell you. So we don’t need the likes of you coming along with your fancy bottles, laying down the law and telling everyone what to do!’
‘Well, now I’m here they can start receiving proper care,’ Agnes replied primly.
Hannah’s eyes widened in shock, as if Agnes had slapped her. ‘Proper care, is it? Well, from what I hear, no one’s interested in your proper care, are they, Miss High and Mighty!’
Agnes looked past Hannah’s shoulder towards the cottage. ‘Perhaps I should have a word with the boy’s father.’
‘You heard him. He in’t interested in talking to you,’ Hannah said. ‘I look after the bairns and their ailments. Their father trusts me.’
Then perhaps you should take better care of them. Agnes pressed her lips together to stop the words coming out. Antagonising Hannah Arkwright would get her nowhere.
‘I really think this would help.’ She proffered the bottle again, but Hannah pushed it away.
‘I told you, we don’t need your help,’ she said. ‘So I’d be obliged if you didn’t come round here again, sticking your nose in where it in’t wanted.’
Agnes straightened her shoulders, determined not to be intimidated. ‘I’ll certainly call round again if I feel I—’ she started to say.
But Hannah had already gone inside, slamming the door in her face.
Seth Stanhope was out of the bathtub, dried and half dressed, when Hannah went back inside.
‘What did she want?’ he asked, buckling his belt.
‘Nothing to trouble thysen about.’ Hannah moved past him to put the pot down on the stove.
‘I heard her mention our Billy. What’s wrong with him?’
‘Nowt. She were just poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.’
‘She’d best not come poking it in my house.’
‘Oh, she won’t, don’t worry about that. I sent her packing.’
As Seth turned away from her, buttoning up his shirt, Hannah paused, allowing herself the luxury of watching him for a moment, then remembered herself and averted her eyes.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got home from your shift,’ she said. ‘I meant to be here to do your bath, but I had to see to Mrs Wilmslow’s bad back.’
‘It’s good of you to come at all,’ Seth said. ‘I don’t know how we would have managed without you these past few months.’
‘It’s no trouble.’ Hannah turned away so Seth wouldn’t see her blushing face. The truth was, she enjoyed it. Bustling about in the kitchen, she could almost pretend it was her own cottage, and that she was preparing a meal for her family. ‘I’m taking care of my sister’s bairns. It’s what she would have wanted.’
She saw Seth’s face cloud over, and wished she hadn’t said it. Six months after Sarah had died, and he could still hardly bear to hear her name mentioned.
Hannah changed the subject quickly. ‘I’ve made you some stew for your tea. I’ll just put it on to heat, shall I?’
‘Aye. Thank you.’
‘As I said, it’s no trouble.’
She busied herself at the stove, wondering if now was the right time to say what was on her mind. ‘You know, I was thinking …’ she said slowly ‘… I could always stop here, if that would help you?’
He frowned. ‘Move in, d’you mean?’
‘If it would help?’ She kept her voice deliberately casual. ‘I could cook and clean and keep house for you. You wouldn’t have to worry about the children or owt like that.’ She risked a glance over her shoulder at him. ‘What d’you think?’
Seth shook his head. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘You’ve already put thysen out more
than enough for us. I couldn’t ask you to do more.’
‘But you’re not asking me. I’m offering.’ She heard the desperation in her voice, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘You might not mind, but I would,’ he said. ‘Besides, I reckon your mother would have something to say about it!’
‘She won’t,’ Hannah said. ‘Mother likes you.’
Seth’s mouth twisted in a rare smile. ‘Now we both know that’s not true.’
‘Well, I could look after you both. You need help, Seth.’
More than he cared to admit, Hannah thought, seeing his desolate face. Seth was used to being the man of the house, the breadwinner. But then Sarah had died and he had suddenly found himself having to be mother and father to his children. He was out of his depth, anyone could see that.
‘We’ll be all right,’ he muttered.
‘Will you?’
He looked at her. Before he could reply, the door opened and Elsie came in, ushering Billy ahead of her. She had a book tucked under her arm as usual.
‘Dad! Guess what? We played football in the playground today, and …’ Billy started to run to his father, but Elsie grabbed him by the hand and drew him back.
‘Get your hands washed, Billy,’ she said, her wary gaze on her father. ‘You’re filthy.’
‘But I wanted to tell—’
‘You heard your sister, Billy.’ Seth turned his shoulder to his son as he pulled on his boots.
‘Come here, lad, I’ll help you.’ Hannah drew off some water from the jug on the windowsill and helped the little boy wash his hands. Billy looked bewildered as he kept glancing over at his father. Hannah guessed what was going through his mind. There was a time when Seth might have welcomed his son with open arms, but now he could barely bring himself to look at his children.
At least Elsie seemed to understand. The girl retreated quickly to a corner of the settle to read her book without a word to her father.
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