Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Doesn’t everything? But not yet. Please – not yet.’

  ‘All right.’ She crept from the room and lay between Dora’s lavender-scented sheets, tossing and turning as she planned a new beginning for herself. Her life in this house was not over, for she had not the courage to carry out her threat. But she would find some release. Release, freedom and peace. Yes, her idea of heaven had changed already. And she knew that it would carry on altering for many years to come.

  Daubhill Junior Mixed and Infants was a hideous school, a Victorian monstrosity of the worst kind, draughty in winter and boiling in summer, flagged floors in the basement where Kate was to teach, the luxury of boards to higher floors. Although she had studied for junior teaching, the real shortages existed with nursery and infant classes, so she was condemned to the depths with forty-eight five-year-olds. But they were an easy generation, a group of triers and workers whose parents were keen for good results, so the task was not a difficult one.

  The real difficulty lay in the staffroom, where Kate was to learn quickly that she was the lowest in a very rigid pecking order. First, there was Mr Partridge, deputy-head and teacher of the scholarship class. He held forth from the top of the long table. To his right sat Miss Gibbons, head of infants, while various other teachers were graded according to responsibility, leaving Kate’s chair right at the other end, away from any ‘real business’. The friendliest was Maureen Carter, who had taught at Daubhill School through two pregnancies, abandoning her children to her own mother as soon as they were born. With Maureen, Kate felt a degree of empathy, because the tiny blonde had fought her accountant husband to the last ditch in order to retain some independence.

  At the other side of some lockers and filing cabinets there was another long table where sat the staff from the senior school which took up the third level of the building. No-one from the junior mixed and infants ever spoke to the senior staff except for the odd ‘good morning’. Kate could not understand this. ‘Why?’ she asked her new friend. ‘Why don’t we all sit together?’

  ‘They’re higher than us,’ whispered Maureen. ‘They teach subjects and they blame us when the kids can’t read. It’s a sort of armed truce, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! There should be some kind of liaison – after all, they get all Mr Partridge’s eleven-year-olds who fail the scholarship exam. I know they have elevens to fifteens up there, and I realize that everyone upstairs ought to be able to read, but don’t they ever ask us for a scheme of work for an illiterate child?’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘I’m not joking. Anyway, I shall speak to them. I’m not working in the same building as another crowd of adults without trying to be civilized.’

  ‘You’ll get no answers. Fortunately, only the lunchtimes coincide completely. The playtimes are staggered, so we don’t see a great deal of the enemy.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be the enemy. We’re supposed to be here to educate children, not to fight among ourselves!’ Her voice had risen and eight pairs of eyes were suddenly fixed on her. Boldly, she addressed Mr Partridge himself. ‘Why can’t we all work together? Some of the seniors might benefit from repeating a year and no-one needs to know; they could do their work upstairs in a remedial department.’

  Mr Partridge sighed, shook his grizzled head, then looked knowingly at his near colleagues and allies. ‘It doesn’t work that way, Mrs Saunders.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He tapped the table with an irritated hand. ‘Because I’ve forty-three in my class. I can’t be running up and down stairs doing that lot’s job for them. We get enough flak without new members of staff telling us how to run the school. Probationers!’ He took a noisy sip of coffee. ‘Always know it all, don’t they?’

  Miss Gibbons nodded sagely.

  Maureen dug Kate in the ribs. ‘Shut up,’ she mumbled.

  But Kate did not shut up. ‘It’s a very narrow viewpoint, Mr Partridge. The idea should be to produce as extended a child as possible. Obviously, the system is wrong.’

  ‘And there speaks a future Min of Ed if ever I heard one.’ His tone was sarcastic. ‘Get through the first year, child. If and when you’ve done that, perhaps you’ll see things differently.’

  She rose from the table. ‘I’ve a class to teach, Mr Partridge. But if I can help any boy or girl upstairs – even in my lunch hour – then I shall. That won’t change. I’m here to educate children, not to drink coffee.’ With this final statement, she flounced from the room.

  Maureen caught up with her in the infant hall. ‘Be careful. He writes a crit for your assessment.’

  ‘I’d love to write one for his. Don’t worry, I’ll pass. In the next few weeks, I shall turn this hall into an Aladdin’s cave with my artwork.’

  ‘Good. I’ll help. A nice display does wonders when the examiner comes round. There’s an epidiascope in the projector room, we can copy some fairy tales . . .’

  ‘No need. I work freehand, then collage the kids’ work on top of mine.’

  ‘You can draw?’

  ‘I can.’

  Maureen giggled. ‘What with your drawing and my piano playing, we shall have Miss Gibbons redundant. They’re . . . having an affair, you know.’

  ‘What? The Gibbon and old Partridge? Can you imagine it? Where do they do it? Is it Partridge in a pear tree or Gibbon in a monkey puzzle?’

  ‘They stay behind and lurk in stock-cupboards.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘There have been rumours about certain stains on gym mats . . .’

  ‘Oh, Maureen! Shut up! That’s awful.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Then he goes home to his insipid little wife and acts the big man.’

  ‘Does Miss Ashe know?’

  ‘Our dear headmistress knows everything, my dear. Do not be taken in by that injured spaniel look. I’m just waiting for her to catch them actually at it in her office.’

  That afternoon at dismissal assembly, Kate had a terrible job keeping a straight face. Gibbons and Partridge exchanged several meaningful glances across the heads of four hundred children, while Maureen kept turning from the piano to wink at Kate. In the end, poor Mrs Saunders simply developed a ‘bad cough’ and left them all to get on with it while she hid in the cloakroom. Miss Gibbons found her there after all the children had gone. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Saunders?’

  ‘Much better, thanks.’

  ‘You may go home now if you wish. Mr Partridge and I will hand over to the caretaker. Of course, Miss Ashe has already left to see to her mother – on her own all day, dear old soul.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Oh, if only she would go away! Kate was plagued by pictures in her mind, vivid images of Partridge and Gibbons in the most impossible of poses; across the head teacher’s desk, swinging from the ropes in the junior hall, behind the projection screen, in the caretaker’s mop cupboard. A laugh rumbled ominously near to the surface and she changed it to a cough.

  ‘Honey and lemon,’ said Miss Gibbons sweetly. ‘And an inhalation of menthol. Anyway, I must go and help poor Mr Partridge. Good afternoon, dear.’ She left, only to be replaced almost immediately by Maureen.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ gasped Kate. ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve been through this last few minutes!’

  Maureen grinned. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Crompton Way.’

  ‘I hail from Edgeford. It’s on my way, come on.’

  ‘You have a car?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t think I do this job for fun, do you? I do it for extras. I’ll pick you up every day if you like.’

  ‘OK. But I’m still going to kill you . . .’

  From that day on, they were firm friends.

  Most lunchtimes, Kate went home to see her mother who was doing just mornings at the mill now. The school was almost at the bottom of View Street, so it was only a few strides from classroom to fireside. She found Rachel very quiet these days, with
drawn to the point of near-silence. Drawing her out was hard work, but Kate was of a persistent nature. ‘What is it, Mother?’ she asked for days on end.

  ‘Nowt much. Just a bit on the tired side, that’s all.’ The reply would vary slightly, but on the whole, Rachel stuck to her tale of exhaustion. One April noon, Kate decided that enough was enough. ‘Tell me. Tell me or I’ll stay here all day.’

  ‘You’ll lose your job.’

  ‘So? Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  Rachel drew a hand across her brow. ‘You’ve enough of your own, Katherine. What with him not liking you working and that there mother of his creating all the while. It’s not fair for me to burden you.’

  ‘The biggest burden is not knowing. Or knowing that there’s something wrong and not knowing what the something is. So you’d better tell me before I start losing sleep. You see, I didn’t know you till lately, Mam. He was the noisy one, he was the one I noticed. You’ve been just . . .’

  ‘A shadow?’

  ‘Something like that. Till I grew up, anyway. Only now, we’ve an idea of each other, haven’t we? A bit of one, at least. Can’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s him. Your dad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t pretend to understand him completely, lass, but I do know when there’s summat up. Same as you know now with me, I suppose. I think . . . Oh God! I think, no I know, we’re losing him, love.’

  Kate swallowed hard. ‘He’s . . . dying?’

  Rachel nodded quickly. ‘The doctor told me it’s more than likely. Peter knows nowt for definite, and don’t you be telling him either. It’s cancer. I don’t know how I shall cope when it comes to the finish.’

  The younger woman reached out and gripped her mother’s hand. ‘Without him, you mean?’

  ‘No. The going. When he knows, when he realizes that there’s no hope. See, it’s not too bad yet. He still gets into work and goes for a drink, still manages to get his bets on. But when he had them there X-rays down the infirmary, they knew there was no hope. And the doctor decided to tell me instead of your dad. He looks at me, Katie. I’ll swear he knows something. Not all of it. He just knows he’s not right. He must have lost two stone these last weeks. What’ll I do? When the real pain comes? Eh?’

  ‘Get help. Nurses, doctors, the hospital . . .’

  ‘No! He had enough of that in the Army. It’ll have to be here. It’s the last thing I’ll ever do for him and I don’t even know how to do that right. I feel so guilty!’

  ‘So do I. I’ve never liked him, but I don’t want him dead.’

  They held hands tightly, each staring silently into the grate. After a few moments, Rachel pulled away to dry her eyes. ‘I did love him once, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he loves you, our Katherine. He loves you more than anything in this world.’

  ‘I know. He loves me and hates me. I feel the same way about him. Do you want me to come home for a while?’

  ‘No. He’d guess right away, wouldn’t he? But . . . well . . . I’d be grateful if you’d . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Be here at the end?’

  ‘Aye, lass. When he realizes. When he takes to his bed.’

  ‘I will. I’ll be here, Mam.’

  Rachel looked at her favourite daughter and smiled sadly. ‘I thought my heart would break when you married yon feller. He’s not right for you, girl, and I should know better than most. But we stick with it, don’t we? We go on like blinking carthorses, head down, pull the load even when the cobbles are icy. One step forward and two back it was for me. Most days, any road. He . . . he wanted a lad. He sets store by education, see, and he wanted a lad. We can’t blame him for that, can we?’

  ‘He shouldn’t have blamed us.’

  ‘No. No, he shouldn’t. But I mind the times he’s sat up in bed talking about you. “She’s different,” he said. “She could be a lawyer or summat,” stuff like that. I agreed with him. They told me at school that you were gifted . . .’

  ‘I’m talented, Mam. It’s all in my hands and in my head. It’s not something I can improve with books.’

  ‘What’ll you do with it? Can you tell him, before he . . . he goes?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know myself what I’ll do with whatever it is.’

  ‘Don’t hate him, Katherine. Please?’

  ‘Even I can’t hate the dying, Mam. Now put the kettle on or I’ll be back at school without a drink.’

  Rachel went through to the kitchen while Kate sat and stared through the small window. Her mother’s life had been so awful, so narrowed by a difficult husband. Would her own be the same? Would she carry on like that carthorse? And Dad, poor Dad . . . No! She must not think of him, even now. Thinking of him in the past had only led to confusion and anger . . . ‘Mam?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Would you marry again if you knew what was in store for you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The broken voice floated though the two small rooms. ‘I got my daughters out of it, didn’t I?’

  ‘What else did you get?’

  The only reply was the clink of cup on saucer, the hollow rattle of a spoon against the sides of the tin teapot. Kate sighed. There was no other answer. Often, actions did speak louder than words.

  ‘He’s dying. I have to go. I can carry on teaching, it’s only round the corner. But I have to sleep there, Geoff. She’s up all hours of the day and night with him, so I’ll try to get some unpaid compassionate leave.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ His voice was strained.

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘That your nerves will stand it. Remember what the doctor said about getting tired.’

  ‘Oh, stop it! If my mother can cope, then so can I.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ He dropped his head and stared into his coffee cup. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘What of? Cancer’s not catching.’

  ‘You . . . you may never come back.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘This may be your first step towards leaving me. Kate, I don’t want you to leave.’

  She raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Good God! I’m going to stay with my mother until my father dies – did I say anything about leaving? Do you think I’d go off and abandon a fourteen-month-old baby? Look. You’ll be well looked after. Dora will stay here, see to the baby, make your meals . . .’

  ‘And I’ll sleep alone.’

  She bit her tongue; this was not the moment to bring up his extra-curricular activities. ‘You’ll manage. How do you think I manage when you go away on business? Can’t you be the fixture for a change? Do I have to provide the permanence in the house all the time? Be fair, Geoff.’

  ‘I’m trying to be fair. It just doesn’t seem right for you to go off and leave Melanie while you nurse a man who never treated you properly.’

  ‘He’s my father. More to the point, she’s my mother. Now, just settle down and accept it. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.’

  But it didn’t work out that way. Peter Murray lingered for months, his temper shortened even further by the realization that he was not long for this world. He took it out on Kate, on Rachel, on doctors and nurses – he even turned on Judith when she paid a brief visit before setting off for Moscow. ‘Bloody Commie,’ he spat viciously. ‘Anybody who’ll visit that country has to be a stinking Red.’

  Judith glanced across the bed to where her sister sat knitting. ‘Is he always like this?’

  Kate changed needles. ‘Except when he’s asleep.’

  ‘You don’t give a damn, either of you. Neither does your flaming mother. Look at this one!’ He waved a thin hand towards his elder daughter. ‘She knows I’m dying, she knows she’ll never see me again. And all she can go on about is getting her blinking visa for foreign parts!’

  ‘Calm yourself.’ Judith, as always, seemed very unruffled. ‘I’m only going for three months.’

  ‘Aye, and I’ll not be here when you
get back.’ He glanced at Kate. ‘Look at her. She’s like one of them that sat by the guillotine while heads got cut off. I suppose she never put my bet on today.’

  ‘I did!’ Kate struggled with a dropped stitch. ‘Sparkling Sam in the three thirty. I put it on in my lunch hour and I hope none of the parents saw me. I called back after school to see if you’d won, but they all laughed and said the horse was still running. That’s another five shillings down the plug hole. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No. I want to go out.’

  The sisters glanced at one another. ‘Where to?’ asked Judith eventually.

  ‘I want to go to the memorial.’

  ‘Middle of Bolton?’ Kate’s eyebrows shot upward. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To say a last ta-ra to my mates. Do you know how many Lancashire Fusiliers never came back? Bloody thousands. Well, I want to say ta-ra in this world before I say hello in the next. Tomorrow, you can shove me down in that there wheelchair.’

  Judith scratched her head. ‘It’s not the pushing you down, Dad. That’ll be easy enough. But it’s uphill all the way back . . .’

  ‘You’re strong enough, the pair of you. Is it too much to ask for you to respect the wish of a dying man? And don’t start with all that stuff about chronic bronchitis, Katherine. I know what I’ve got.’

  Rachel came in with his bowl of broth. ‘Shall I feed you?’ she asked, her voice trembling slightly at the sight of the three of them together. This was how it should have been all their lives, not just now. Not just at the end, when one life was almost over.

  ‘Judith can give it me,’ he said breathlessly. ‘She’s the only one of you that can get the spoon in my gob without spilling half down the bed.’

  Rachel and Kate left the room together. ‘Nothing changes,’ muttered the latter. ‘She got the Sunday outings and the best coat, now she’s given the praise.’

  ‘Stop it. He’s got days, that’s what the doctor said. Just a few days now.’

  ‘If he’d take the morphine . . . ah . . . I don’t know . . .’ Kate’s words tailed away to nothing.

  ‘If he took the morphine, he’d be no trouble.’

  ‘He’d have less pain. He wants us to wheel him out tomorrow.’