Bill waited to see if Harry volunteered any more information but after muttering, ‘She wouldn’t even tell me her name,’ the lad lapsed into sullen silence. Bill was glad when he trudged away to join the group of men in front of them.
Over the next week, Bill made a point of chatting with Bob Heap. The chap seemed happy to talk and, before long, Bill discovered he’d been widowed for only six months and he’d had to get away from the place he’d lived with his wife and daughter.
‘Start fresh, like,’ Bob said, nodding towards where the slight figure of the girl waited by the gates of the mine. ‘Our Annie took it bad and she’s not so strong anyway. It mithers me sometimes, she’s so quiet.’ Ignoring the push of the miners around them they stopped by the manager’s office. ‘Look,’ Bob said, ‘I’ve got to go in there and give my weekly shift report in. Do you mind telling her I won’t be long?’ He studied the crowd of men passing his daughter.
Bill saw the stares, heard the coarse sounds and remarks and tightened his mouth. If he’d been Bob he’d have clobbered the lot of them. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked, lad, if I wasn’t sure you’d be respectful.’ The look in the man’s eyes was a warning. But then he smiled. ‘She could do with meeting people her own age. What are you? Fifteen, sixteen?’
‘I’ll be sixteen soon.’ Bill drew himself up, embarrassed.
‘Aye, well, go on then. Tell her.’
The mass of men had thinned out and Bill walked self-consciously across the yard towards her, knowing her eyes were on him.
‘Your father asked me to tell you he won’t be a minute.’ Bill spoke carefully, toning down his accent. When she acknowledged him in a soft voice he was relieved to notice her broad Yorkshire twang. ‘I’m Bill Howarth. I work with your dad.’
‘I can see you do.’ There was a hint of laughter in the words and Bill stiffened. But then she said, ‘I’m Annie and I’m pleased to meet you.’ She started to hold out her hand and then stopped.
‘Best not.’ Bill grinned, looking at his own hands, grimed with coal dust.
‘No.’ Her laughter turned into a bout of breathless coughing. ‘Sorry,’ she said eventually, her palm flat to her chest.
Bill had turned away, not wanting to embarrass her. ‘That’s okay, get a cough myself sometimes. Coal dust you know.’
‘Don’t think mine’s anything to do with coal dust. Or if it is I’ll have to blame Dad for bringing it home with him after a shift.’ She smiled. She had perfect teeth and the smile reached her brown eyes with the lovely long dark lashes.
As Bill later told himself, that was when he fell hook, line and sinker for her.
So that, when her father joined them and asked if he was going their way and would he like to join them, Bill said yes, even though he lived in the opposite direction. Although she said little, Annie would often smile at something he said. When she did speak it was only to her father. Bill began to think he would never get to know her properly.
Weeks later, after having to pretend to turn into a street and wait until they were out of sight before he retraced his steps to his house, he plucked up courage to ask Bob’s permission to walk out with Annie.
The man stopped, forcing Bill and Annie to stand still at the side of him. The rest of the shift streamed past them, one or two of the men staring with curiosity. ‘I don’t know, lad, Annie’s not too strong and her cough’s been worse lately. And you’re both a bit young.’ He paused, looked from Bill to his daughter. ‘Still, I suppose it really depends on Annie.’
Bill’s guts twisted in the pause that followed. He heard the scrape of his clogs on the cobbles as he moved from one foot to the other. He sensed the air, tainted by the smell of cigarettes, being drawn in and out of his nostrils, the pulsing of blood in his neck.
Until she said, ‘If you agree, Da, I’d like that.’
Bill forced himself not to do the jig he wanted to. And he bit his top lip to prevent the grin. ‘We could walk in the park? Take it slowly, like? Or along the canal–feed the ducks there? Sunday?’ He waved a hand over his face. ‘You’d see me then without all this.’
‘I’m used to Da being black as the ace of spades when he comes home from work.’ Annie threaded her hand through her father’s arm and laughed.
A lovely sound, Bill thought.
‘What do you think, Da?’ A crinkle of worry marred her smooth forehead.
‘As long as there would be other people around and you’d look after her…’ There was clear warning in Bob’s expression when he glanced at Bill before he looked at Annie. ‘And it would have to be in the afternoon; we’ve chapel in the morning.’
‘Bill could join us?’ Annie peeped past her father. ‘Unless he needs to go to his own chapel?’
She was assuming he went to a chapel rather than a church. For the first time Bill was ashamed for his lack of belief.
‘I don’t go anywhere.’ He heard the intake of breath and hurried on. ‘My mam was C of E and Dad was a Roman Catholic. When Mam were alive the priest used to come on Fridays to tell them they weren’t really married. Mam wouldn’t convert, yer see? I remember how upset she got. So I was never sent to church. Or chapel.’
Neither of them answered. Bill’s scalp prickled in panic, he needed to make them understand, it wasn’t his fault. ‘Then Dad got married again and I think the priest gave up.’
Bob sighed, lifted his head and gazed around. The sun was dipping behind the roofs of the houses, leaving one side of the street in gloom and reflecting a crimson and gold light in the upstairs windows on the other side. They were alone, the collective thump of footsteps had faded.
‘Are you up for coming to our chapel, lad?’
Bill answered without thinking. ‘Aye. Sure.’ Adding quickly, ‘I’d like that.’ He’d no best clothes, he’d have to go to the pawnshop, see what he could afford. But he wasn’t going to mess this up; one way or another he’d get to go out with Annie.
*
Bill lay down on Moira’s bed, his legs shaking. It had been a long time since he’d thought of Annie; he’d buried her memory deep inside him. He closed his eyes, scrunched them tight against the scald of the tears that threatened.
He heard the door downstairs open and close and the yapping of the two dogs in the front garden. A rattling of a poker in the fireplace. Moira was singing again, this time a different song. He listened as her voice rose up to him ‘…a beautiful sight to see…’ She was singing ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’. Bill folded his arms across his wet face, shutting out the light in the room. Annie’s song; something she sang all the time. He’d forgotten. Groaning Bill turned onto his stomach and pulled the pillow around his head but he could still hear the song, and the images of his long lost girl wouldn’t leave him.
Eventually the juddering breaths settled and he sat up, pushing his fingers through his hair. He stayed still, listening. No singing now, just the muffled clink of crockery and a sweet sugary smell drifting through the floorboards. As if in answer his belly rumbled again. What the hell was wrong with him? Bloody soft arse, shift yourself. He stood, stretched, forced away the old memories. Then he stood, pondering again on the lack of any men’s stuff in the bedroom.
On the landing he opened the two other doors. The beds in there had bare mattresses. There was no sign of a man’s stuff; nothing that showed Moira shared a home with a husband. Not that it bothered him but he’d have to go downstairs buck-naked.
Moira turned to smile at him when he stepped off the last stair and then laughed. ‘Your clothes are clean and dried there.’ She pointed to the fender around the fire.
He crossed the kitchen to get them. The two dogs gently wagged their tails but, warmed by the sun, didn’t move from their places on the doormat.
She lifted the saucepan in her hand. ‘Porridge?’
He nodded without speaking, fastening his trousers and tucking in his shirt.
Her forehead crinkled but she sai
d nothing, just busied herself spooning the porridge into two dishes, before sitting at the table.
‘Where’s yer husband?’
‘I told you, he’s away at the market in Bradlow.’
She was lying; she didn’t want him to know she lived alone. She’d opened her legs to him but still didn’t trust him with the truth.
Bill sat opposite her. ‘Taken all ’is stuff with ’im then,’as e?’ His voice sounded rough, coarse even to himself but, for some reason, he was angry. Hadn’t he tried to be a gent? Hadn’t he watched his manners, the way he spoke, to reassure the woman he was okay, and not some raging bloody axe-murderer on the loose to rape an’ pillage?
She put her spoon into the dish. He saw her hands were trembling.
Pushing his chair away from him, he stood. She had her head down, her hands folded in her lap. But he could tell from the quick way she was breathing she was scared.
It was as though the terriers could tell as well. They came to stand on each side of her, the hackles on their back disturbed.
To make himself less intimidating he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets.
‘I have my pride, Moira. I’m down on my luck now.’ The last time he’d said it was at Blossom Farm and he frowned at the immediate recollection. Look what happened there. If this woman had done her husband in as well and disposed of the body in the bloody pigsty, he wanted none of it.
‘But I’ve always had my pride, and I’ve always worked for a living.’ He sighed. ‘An’ I’ve never been in trouble with the Bobbies.’ Because he’d never been caught, the sentence ran on in his mind. ‘So, I’ll thank you for your food, yesterday. And I hope you don’t think I took advantage of you, last night. I’ll be on my way.’
He waited but she said nothing. ‘I can see you don’t trust me. After all you don’t know me, I just turned up on your doorstep. And your business is your business. I didn’t ask where your husband was, you told me he’d gone to a market. You wanted me to think you had a husband because you didn’t want me to think I could stay. Well I don’t stay where I’m not wanted. I paid for my food by mending yon pigsty. I’d say we’re straight.’
He reached the door and was pretending to struggle with the handle before he heard her speak. It was a relief when she did.
‘No, please.’ Moira rose from her chair and came to stand in front of him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a widow. Jake, my husband…’ First time she’d mentioned his name. It made him real somehow to Bill. ‘Jake died last year, he was older than me. His heart failed him digging in the garden. I’m on my own. I need to be careful. Please, Bill?’
Now he felt a bit bad for upsetting her but, if he was going to stay, he couldn’t afford to show any weakness. He held his hand to her face, slowly moving his thumb across her cheek. ‘It’s okay, love. I do understand. But I still have to go.’
‘No! Please. Stay. I’m lonely.’ She’d closed her eyes at his touch but now opened them wide. ‘It’s awful. Nobody comes here. Nobody has since the funeral…’
Nobody? For the first time in weeks the tension Bill had been carrying slipped away. Was it possible he could live here and feel easy?
‘No. Except for the farmer who calls on his way to the market once a month to take one of the pigs or bring provisions for me. I’m lonely, Bill.’ She took his hand and held it to her breast. ‘Please stay.’
Bill wasn’t a religious man. He was the first to acknowledge that. But there was many a time over the next two years that he thanked God he’d stood that day under the blackthorn tree and spotted Moira’s cottage.
Chapter 54
June 1912
Winifred opened her eyes wide; something was wrong. What was it? She waited. The grinding pain began as a low ache deep inside her pelvis, rolling in waves down her inner thighs and around her stomach. The agony was pounding in her blood, filling every inch of her.
She took in a sobbing breath. So this was how it happened.
But it was too soon, she wasn’t ready, she hadn’t told her mother. She needed her grandmother. Opening her mouth Winifred shouted, ‘Granny?’ But the word was only a rasping croak that ending in a low gasp when the next roll of torture began and the only thing she could do was to clutch the sides of the mattress and grit her teeth.
And then it was over. Kicking the bedclothes onto the floor, she dragged in a long breath, wiping her arm across her forehead. Her hair was wet, her skin slimy with sweat. The room was already stifling with the heat of the early morning filtering through the half-drawn curtain. Particles of dust floated, settling on the dark wood of the tallboy.
The agony began again. Drawing up her knees she wrapped her arms around them and groaned. It was happening, the baby was going to be born whatever she did. How long did it last? Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. It was unbearable.
A knife was stabbing her belly time after time and she was helpless to stop it. She could taste the blood as she bit down on her lip to stop herself screaming at each overwhelming surge of pain.
‘Granny…’ She clenched and unclenched her fists. All she wanted was for it to stop.
And then the torture increased; one long unbearable contraction that filled her whole body.
Winifred yelled, let her legs flop open and arched her back. With a last agonizing drawn-out push the baby suddenly left her body. The surge of relief was rapidly followed by terror. Pushing herself up on her elbow she looked down on the bed, sobbing. Her thighs were covered in blood; the sheet underneath her was the same. Between her knees the baby lay still, a grey wet cord tying her to it.
She manoeuvred her feet and pulled it towards her until she could reach to lift its slippery body into her arms. It was a boy. A tiny boy. Leaning sideways, she felt around on the floor until she found the top cotton sheet and pulled it over the two of them. Instinctively she opened the front of her nightdress and placed him next to her. He lay still, his quick breaths moved in time with her own trembling.
The bedroom door crashed open. ‘What the hell is going on in here?’ Ethel shouted. ‘All this racket…’ Her face slackened in shock. ‘What…?’ She gasped, swayed in the doorway, her knuckles white with her grip on the handle. ‘What. Is. That?’ Winifred stared back at her and then down at the baby, still bloodied and attached to her by the umbilical cord.
‘I knew it.’ Her mother spat the words out, her face distorted with disgust. ‘I knew there was something.’ She flew across the room her hand raised and slapped Winifred across the face. ‘Trollop! Trash.’
The blow jerked Winifred’s head back against the iron rail of the headboard. A burst of sharp pain shot through her. Her mother was still hitting her, a torrent of vile recriminations pouring out.
‘Mother, stop it. Stop it.’ She bent over the baby, protecting him from her mother’s fury, wincing against each blow. Raising one arm she hit out, trying to catch hold of her mother’s hands. She felt her knuckles against her mother’s lips; she heard the sudden gasp, the increase of the force of the blows.
But all at once, the shock of another pain starting, swept over her, the urge to push again was irresistible; something else was happening. She screamed. ‘Get off me!’ She crouched lower in the bed, unable to ward off the blows; only able to clench her teeth as the rush of pain peaked and ended in a warmth of blood between her thighs. ‘Granny!’
Ethel dropped to the floor next to the bed, gasping for breath.
‘Please. I need help, Mother. Get Granny. The doctor—’
‘I’m paying for no doctor.’ Her face was inches away from Winifred’s. The hatred was frightening. ‘Whose is it? Who’ve you been given your favours to?’ Her voice now was strangely flat.
‘No-one you know,’ Winifred whispered. ‘Please, Mother, get the doctor… I’ll pay, I have my own money. Something’s wrong.’
‘I’m having no doctor here. Spreading your shame all over the village.’ Her mother clung onto the bed and hauled herself to her feet, pushing her face even closer to Winifr
ed. The baby’s whimpers rose into a wail. ‘You asked for it.’ Spittle hit Winifred’s cheek. ‘You deal with it.’ She staggered to the door.
‘I’m here.’ Florence pushed past her daughter-in-law, her voluminous nightgown swirling around her in her haste.
‘Granny. Help me. Please.’ Tears of shame and relief flooded through Winifred, her sobs mingled with those of her baby’s.
‘Oh, good Lord.’ She bent over Winifred, her hand over her heart. ‘I didn’t realise how close to your time you were.’
‘You knew?’ Ethel hissed the accusation.
Neither answered her.
Her grandmother stroked Winifred’s sweat-soaked hair from her forehead, her face tight with anxiety. There was a cut above Winifred’s eye where her mother’s wedding ring had caught her. Florence pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her nightdress and wiped at the blood trickling down the side of Winifred’s face. She glanced around to glare at Ethel.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? She needs help, not this. Look at the state of her.’
Ethel returned her gaze, unflinching.
Florence shook her head in disgust and looked back at Winifred. ‘I’m sorry, I tried to get here sooner; I couldn’t get out of bed, my legs wouldn’t work.’
‘You’re here now.’ Winifred couldn’t stop crying. ‘I’m sorry, Granny.’
They were talking as though Ethel wasn’t in the room but Winifred heard the snort of disgust.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Florence said. ‘Now, lie still, we’ll get the doctor.’
‘Thank you, Granny.’ Winifred held the baby closer. ‘I’m frightened, Granny. Something else happened, after the baby was born.’ She couldn’t stop the tears. ‘I think something’s wrong.’
Florence lifted the sheet. ‘Don’t worry, ducks, it’s normal. It’s what the baby fed on when he was inside you. It’s called the placenta. He, and you, don’t need it anymore. Ethel, get the doctor.’
‘I’m going for no doctor.’ Ethel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her mouth twisted.
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