The cold sweat made her shake. She bent forward and retched the watery contents of her stomach onto the rug by the side of the bed. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she straightened up, gritting her teeth to stop the wail of fear that threatened, trying to work out when she’d last… Rocking, she closed her eyes. It had been months.
Chapter 48
‘You don’t look a bit well, Winnie.’ Florence sat back in her armchair by the bedroom window. ‘Proper peaky, in fact.’
Winifred knew that her grandmother had seen her running to the outside lavvy to be sick. ‘I don’t feel so good, Granny, I think it must be the smell of the gas in the mantle.’ The vomiting had become worse. ‘Haven’t you noticed the gas seems stronger?’ Smiling, what she hoped was a bright smile she patted her cheeks in the hope to get colour into them. ‘I think I might go out and get some fresh air.’
She lived in dread of telling her mother and grandmother what was happening to her. It was Granny’s disappointment that she hated the thought of most.
Florence heaved herself out of her chair and held out her hand. ‘Here, give me your overall and I’ll put it to soak. Looks like you’ve got butter grease all down it.
Winifred clutched it to her. ‘No, don’t bother, I’ll take it downstairs myself on my way out.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Can’t think how I’ve been so careless.’
In her own bedroom she untied the overall and dropping it on the floor, studied herself in the long mirror. Even her navy woollen dress didn’t hide the thickening of her waist, despite having pulled the ties of her corset as tight as she could.
She glanced at her bed, wishing she could lie down; desperately tired. Most nights she lay sleepless, praying to a God she didn’t believe in anymore. Or staring into the darkness of the room and pressing down on her stomach, thinking she could bring her monthlies on. The thought that there might be a baby growing inside her horrified her. She knew little about childbirth other than what she had seen, or rather heard, one time when she was visiting her grandmother’s. The woman’s screams had echoed around Wellyhole Yard. Her grandmother had been reluctant to tell her what was happening, but Winifred was so frightened that Florence gave in. Even then she’d given only sketchy details, leaving the rest to Winifred’s imagination. Now that memory both haunted and terrified her.
I should tell Granny, she thought, half-turning to the door, she’ll tell me what to do. But the lurch of despair that followed stopped her. ‘You can’t,’ she murmured. ‘Not yet.’ But when? Both her grandmother and mother would have to know soon. She was being a coward.
She dragged a cardigan over her dress and picked up the overall.
Before going downstairs she tapped on Florence’s door. ‘Won’t be long, Granny.’
‘Just a minute.’
Winifred heard the scrape of the chair leg on the linoleum.
‘Can’t stop. Sorry.’ She ran down to the kitchen.
Her mother was standing in front of the fire, her skirt lifted up at the back to let the heat from the flames warm her. She turned her back on Winifred. Her legs were mottled with dark maroon patches from too many hours standing like that by the fireplace.
Winifred grabbed her coat from the stand and shoved her arms through the sleeves hoping to hide her figure. She crossed to the sink and dropped the overall into the bowl, filling it with warm water from the kettle.
‘Off again, then? Got a fancy man?’
Winifred ignored the sneer. ‘There are no customers waiting, are there?’ Winifred swished the overall around, glancing at her mother over her shoulder.
‘And why’s that then?’ Ethel snapped, rubbing her buttocks. ‘They’re taking their custom somewhere else, because of you and those damn women. That’s why.’
‘I haven’t been to the Suffragettes for ages.’ Not since that awful day. Winifred blinked away the tears. She had no fight left in her for that; she had a bigger struggle to face. ‘And just in case you haven’t noticed, Honora hasn’t been near the shop in months.’
Honora. If she hadn’t met the girl, if she hadn’t allowed herself to get involved with the Suffragettes, she wouldn’t be terrified of what was facing her now. Most days she veered from resenting Conal for deserting her, to the fear that he’d been killed by the police during the struggle at the protest march. Sometimes she had to stop herself from imagining that. The thought of him being beaten to death or trampled by a horse was horrific. But, somehow, she felt she would know, that word would get to her or she would have read it in the newspapers. She’d scoured every paper she could get hold of in those following weeks. There’d been nothing. And no letter from either brother or sister.
They’d left her. She didn’t understand; Honora was dedicated to the Suffragettes, she’d seen that for herself. And Conal had said he loved her. Bitterness and grief gathered in her throat.
She swallowed. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Leaving me with her.’ Ethel jerked her head upwards.
‘Granny’s having her afternoon nap.’ Winifred pulled her gloves over her wrists and adjusted her sleeves. She needed to get out, get away from her mother. ‘It’s only for an hour, Mother. It’s only ever for an hour.’
The park was busy, couples strolling arm in arm, nannies pushing perambulators, children running on the grass. Winifred stood on the bandstand steps and watched. In her heart she knew she had to accept that Conal and Honora had gone for good. But there was always hope that she would see one of their friends, get a message to them somehow.
A vague hope.
‘Is it Winifred? Conal O’Reilly’s girl?’
Winifred whirled round. She didn’t recognise the man.
He tipped his hat. ‘Denny. Denny Logan.’ He waited for her to respond but when she didn’t he offered, ‘Conal and Honora’s friend. We met once or twice. I’m…was Sophie’s fiancé?’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Has she–did she…?’
‘She died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He lowered his head, accepting her condolence with a slight movement of his lips.
Winifred pulled her handkerchief from her packet and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’ She gulped. ‘I’m looking for them. For Conal and Honora. Do you know where he– they are? Please…’
His forehead furrowed. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Please, it’s important.’
‘I haven’t seen them since that day.’ He held out his hands. ‘That day knocked the wind out of everybody’s sails; the old crowd just scattered. The house on Gilpin Street was empty last time I went around, which was ages ago.’ He gave her a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry. Anything I can do?’
‘No. Thanks. I just need to find him.’ Winifred started to turn away, then stopped. Should she say why? On impulse she rushed on. ‘I, we, were going to get married.’ It was a lie but there was no other way she would tell this man. ‘I’m having his baby.’ She saw the instant dismay on his face. ‘I need him to know. There’s no way he would have left me if he’d known…’
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t know what happened to them. I asked around for weeks afterwards but nothing. If there is anything else I can do?’
‘No. Thank you, but no.’ There was nothing else to say.
‘Well then…’ He flushed, looked around and then back at her. ‘Take care of yourself. Er, good luck…’
She watched him walked away. So that was it; she was on her own.
And then, for the first time she felt a movement inside her, a rippling inside her womb.
Chapter 49
March 1912
‘It’ll be dark before long.’ Bill rested on the handle of the spade and studied the pale mauve sky scudded over by dark clouds. It had been a good day’s work, and he was looking forward to one of Mrs Appleby’s stews.
It was a long time since he’d felt so well. Even slept well, except for the reoccurring nightmare: seeing John Duffy slump to the floor and waking, sweating, in the mi
ddle of the night knowing he’d actually killed a man. Bill was content, and his waistline was showing the evidence. In fact, every morning when he woke up in the tiny back room he now called his own, he became more used to the idea of staying in this backwater. He and Sid only left Blossom Farm to go to Hebbing Bridge, the nearest village seven miles away, twice a week to sell eggs, and sometimes a chicken or two that had stopped laying. Bill knew he was safer here than wandering the country. And if he ever wanted a woman he could go to the one that Sid used occasionally in Hebbing Bridge. Other times he ignored the image of Winifred Duffy, pushed away the ache her memory brought, and settled himself down to some hard task on the small farm.
‘Aye…that’ll do for the day.’ Sid threw his shovel into the wheelbarrow and lifted the handles.
Lost in his thoughts, the rattle of the spade made Bill jump.
‘Right! Let’s get rid of this lot.’ Sid’s strange way of halting in his sentences had become less when he was with Bill. And he smiled more often.
Bill followed him across the yard towards the large pile of hen dung that made their eyes water. Even with their kerchiefs over the noses the smell reeked.
‘Never think of selling this lot, Sid, once it’s rotted down?’ he asked.
Sid frowned, but before he could answer they heard the clank of hooves approaching on the lane.
‘Mr…Buckley,’ Sid muttered, lowering his kerchief. ‘Landlord.’
The horse was a large bay with black mane and tail that swished at the flies when the man pulled on the reins a few feet away.
He lifted his chin above the high shirt collar, his face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Over here, Appleby,’ he ordered, trying to keep the restless horse from turning in circles. ‘And get your father.’
Bill looked in surprise at Sid. From what he’d gathered over the last two months the father had been dead quite a while. Sid glared at him.
‘Father’s… gone…to Liverpool for…a few days,’ he stuttered. ‘Get…some lads off the…ferry from Ireland…to collect.’ He ran both palms on the outside of his trousers, rubbing them up and down. ‘Ready…for next month.’
‘Yes, well, that’s what I wanted to speak to him about.’ Mr Buckley exhaled impatiently.
Looking at him from the corner of his eye, Bill thought he looked furious. But he kept his head averted; he didn’t want to come to the attention of this bloke.
‘I need to know he’s got everything in hand for moving the sheep back up in April.’
‘It’s all…sorted, Mr Buckley. Got…some lads coming from up North to…to help. Everything…here…’ Sid swept his arm around in a clumsy gesture. The horse tossed its head, clattered backwards. ‘Everything’s in order.’
The landlord ignored him, pulling on the reins. He nodded towards Bill who’d tried to keep his kerchief partly over his mouth. ‘Who’s this? I didn’t know you’d taken on anyone. Your father didn’t inform me.’
‘Cousin…Mr Buckley.’ Sid shot Bill a warning glance. ‘Cousin…from a farm near Harrogate. Helping…us out…’ His large Adam’s apple moved rapidly up and down his throat. ‘For a while. He’ll be…he’ll be…here to help to…help…with the sheep.’
‘Hmm.’ Buckley yanked on the reins, pulling the horse around. ‘Well, it’s not good enough. Tell your father to come to the house. Tell him I need to talk to him. He should report to me each month.’ He dug his heels into its flanks. ‘He hasn’t been since November,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘And it’s not good enough. There are plenty others looking for tenancies.’
Both Bill and Sid stared into the shadowing darkness of the lane long after he’d gone.
Sid was the first to move. Going back to the wheelbarrow he dug the shovel into it and violently threw the fresh hen manure onto the rotting pile, his face dark with the rage Bill had seen the first day he’d arrived at the farm. ‘Getting bloody late now.’
‘Sid, I thought your father was dead.’ He scraped the muck off the top of the stone wall where the man had missed the heap. ‘Passed away?’
For a minute or two the only sound was Sid’s heavy breathing. When the barrow was empty he lifted the handles and stood still. ‘No, still here.’
They were close enough for Bill to see his face. There was an odd look about him, Bill thought. And then he knew. There hadn’t been much in his life that had made him fearful; his father’s temper when he was a child, the accident in the mine, once facing a gang of drunks, mocking the size of him, when he was on the streets. But that fear ran through him now.
‘Where?’ he said.
Sid looked at the pile of hen manure. The top of it was on a level with Bill’s head. He looked from it to Sid. He didn’t know whether to believe the man.
‘Course it’ll be hot under there.’ Sid grinned abruptly. ‘Might not be much left of the old bastard by now.’ There was no faltering in his voice.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘Hit Ma. Shouldn’t have hit Ma. Won’t have Ma upset.’ He spoke as a matter of fact. ‘Come on, food’ll be ready. Don’t like to keep Ma waiting. Yon bugger’s made us late.’
By the time Bill had washed and changed his clothes ready to sit at the table for supper, Sid had relayed what had happened in his own way.
Mrs Appleby ladled the stew into his dish, her voice quiet when she spoke. ‘So now you know.’
‘Yeah.’ He stared into the food, knew they were both studying him. How could he judge Sid? Hadn’t he done worse, killed for greed? At least Sid had done it to save his mother.
‘He was a brutal man. I should never have married him. Didn’t want to but my father made me. I was one of twelve and the eldest girl still at home. Four of my sisters had gone into service and Sally, my sister younger than me, was better around the house than I was, he said. Jim, Sid’s father, my husband, was a bad man.’ The words came out smoothly as though rehearsed. She poured stew into her own dish and sat down. ‘You do understand, Bill?’ She put her hand over his where it lay flat on the table.
‘I do.’ And he did, there’d been many a time he’d wanted to kill his own father for being too handy with his fists.
‘What you don’t know, Bill, is that Mr Buckley could evict us if he finds out Jim’s… gone.’
‘Sid could be hung, an all.’ As soon as Bill said it, it brought the fear back; if he was caught the same thing would happen to him.
Bessie gave a low moan. When Bill glanced at her, she was holding her hand to her mouth, her face drained of colour.
Sid rose from his chair with a roar, his huge fist clenched. Only his mother’s hand on his arm stopped him from reaching across the table to Bill.
‘Go and lock the hens in, Sid, there’s a good lad.’ She waited until, with another glare, the man slammed out of the house. ‘I know he could hang. I won’t let that happen to my son.’ Facing Bill and looking straight at him she continued, ‘But you don’t know how awful the years were with his dad.’
Bessie wiped her face and blew her nose on the edge of her apron. ‘We have what’s called an hereditary tenancy, a right to stay here for life. As a father Jim could have passed the farm on to Sid. But he hated Sid – hated what he is – slow, bit backward like. So, one day, just before Christmas, he came home – he’d been drinking in a neighbour’s house. He said he’d met Mr Buckley on the lane. He said he’d told him that after his death he didn’t care what happened, Mr Buckley could have the tenancy back; he’d sign anything to that fact so, as landlord, he could chuck us out, even though it should be Sid’s right to take over the farm.
‘We had a row, he hit me. Sid saw it and went for him. Jim didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t stop it.’
Bill kept his eyes on the stew; an oily film was covering the surface. The thought of a corpse rotting under all that hen shit made him feel a bit sick. He picked up his spoon and stirred the grease in before choosing a large lump of beef. Chewing slowly he relished the tenderness of the meat; Mrs Appleby certainly knew how to make
a good stew.
‘I won’t say owt,’ he said. He knew which side his bread was buttered on. And what had happened before he landed at the farm had nowt to do with him. Just as much as what had happened in Lydford was nothing to do with Mrs Appleby or Sid.
The latch on the door rattled.
‘Just one thing,’ Bessie whispered. ‘Before Sid comes in. Don’t talk about it again, especially in front of him. It scared him when you talked about, you know and he won’t forgive you for upsetting me.’
‘I know.’ Bill pushed another spoonful of food into his mouth. ‘I’ll watch my back.’
Chapter 50
The landlord threw the eviction notice at Bessie’s feet. ‘I warned your son four days ago, Mrs Appleby. I’ve been waiting for Appleby to come and report to me on this farm for the last five months. Five months! He’s had more than enough leeway.’ He stood up in the stirrups, slapping his whip against his boot and glaring around the yard. ‘And still no sign of him. Well, that’s it. I want you off my land in a week’s time.’
‘Please, Mr Buckley, I can explain.’ Bessie looked back towards Sid who was standing in the doorway, his mouth set in stubborn silence, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Jim’s not been well—’
‘For five months?’ he exploded. ‘Five months? And I wasn’t told?’ He swung himself off his horse and walked towards the farmhouse. ‘If the man isn’t well enough to look after my land he’s no use to me. Those sheep should be rounded up and moved by now. And where are the men he was supposed to be hiring?’
Bill watched from inside the barn; he had no intention of facing Buckley again. He saw Sid plant his feet more firmly on the step; he was obviously not going to move.
‘Out of the way, man.’ The landlord looked up at Sid who stared past him into the distance. ‘I said move, you dolt.’
‘Mr Buckley.’ Bessie held her hand to her throat. ‘Please—’
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