A smell came from the top of the house, a smell I recognised. It was the horrible odour of sickness, like the one that had pervaded our house in those dreadful days when Father had been so ill.
“Mother!” I called, thinking that it would be better for her stay downstairs. “Mother!” But she took no notice and carried on. I can remember now how I dragged my feet on those stairs as I followed her up.
The Major lay on a sort of camp bed in a bare room. The bed clothes were tumbled and untidy and a cup on the little table beside him had fallen over, so whatever liquid had been in it, had dripped onto the floor. He was awake and staring at us, his eyes dark and his cheeks bright pink with fever. I thought he looked mad and backed away towards the door but Mother was made of sterner stuff. She leant over him and smoothed the grizzled hair away from his face. His thin face moved up to look at her and the eyes softened.
She looked over her shoulder. “Richard,” she said quickly, “run to the village and bring back Dr Guthrie. Tell him that the Major is very ill and needs him at the Gate House, and,” here she moved over to me and said for my ears only, “if he says anything about payment, tell him that Mrs Wilde from Manor Farm has made the request and will see him right.” She looked up into my eyes, for I had grown taller than her by then. “Make sure you say that.”
I hesitated, reluctant both to leave her and, truth be told, not keen on the run to the village on that cold afternoon, but she nodded firmly at me and there was no way that I could refuse. As I walked slowly down the stairs, I heard her speak again but knew it was not to me. “Oh, my dear,” she was saying, her voice breaking, “how have you come to this?”
I brought Dr Guthrie back to the Gate House and we reluctantly climbed the stairs together. The bed was neater now and the Major lay against plumped up pillows with a damp flannel over his brow. Mother had lit all the lamps downstairs and made a fire in the sitting room. She had brought a lamp upstairs and her trim figure in the blue dress and black shawl was illuminated as she sat on a chair beside the bed, spooning some liquid, I don’t know what, into the Major’s slack mouth. Every now and then she would wipe the dribble away with a clean handkerchief and encourage him to swallow. It put me in mind of how she’d been with Father. Such kindness and courage that you wouldn’t find nowadays.
Dr Guthrie was pessimistic after examining the patient. “He’ll not do,” he said gloomily in his Scottish accent that had remained with him all the years he lived in our Marcher village, “too many years of drink and neglect can’t fight the influenza.”
“You can do something, surely?” said Mother, standing up and staring at him with that look of scorn that most people recognised. My mother didn’t take to givers-up.
Dr Guthrie shook his head. “I’ve no treatment, lassie, other than nursing. This illness has nae cure.” He took out his stethoscope and pulling aside the Major’s soiled night-shirt, listened to his chest. While we waited for his opinion, Mother paced up and down, her long skirts swishing angrily against the oak floor boards.
“It’s in his lungs now. Best let him be,” was the doctors decision, given with a shrug of the shoulders as he packed way the stethoscope into his bag.
Mother took his arm. “Something for the fever, surely,” she begged, “and for the pain.”
I was surprised at her eagerness and passion, although I shouldn’t have been. Mother was well known in the district for espousing causes that others wouldn’t. I’ve known her go into the poorest houses in the village to help with illegitimate births, where other folks turned away. But the Major wasn’t exactly a poor person. Disregarded, yes, I supposed by the likes of Father and our Billy, but still someone of consequence who shouldn’t need a farmer’s wife pleading his cause.
Dr Guthrie sighed and opened his bag again. He brought out a small blue bottle with a cork stopper. “Give him a few drops of this, if you can get it down. It’ll ease his passing,” he said and picking up his hat, left the room.
“Damn him!” said Mother fiercely but quietly and turned back towards the Major. She uncorked the bottle and poured a little of the clear liquid into a spoon. “Take this,” she said softly, “it will help.”
I watched as he struggled to swallow and saw a little flicker of hope spark his tired eyes. He hadn’t entirely given up.
On the other hand, I had. “Mother,” I said, knowing instinctively that I should take her home now, “Mother. It’s getting dark. We must go back to the farm.”
“Yes, we must.” Her voice echoed in the still room and resounded bleakly off the bare walls. She was leaning over the bed, refolding the cloth on the Major’s forehead and fastening the buttons on his nightshirt. It was intimate, too intimate for me and I turned away. I couldn’t bear to watch her touch another man. I wondered what Granny would say if she heard what Mother had done, but knew at once that I wouldn’t be the one to tell her.
“Richard.” Mother spoke again. “Richard, love, go home now and tell your brother that I will be a little while yet.”
“But…” I wanted to argue, knowing that it would be me who would get a tongue lashing from our Billy, but she turned round and gave me such a look of determination that I knew I had no choice.
“I’ll be along later,” she repeated and picked up the cup again. When I left the room she was holding the Major’s head to her breast and was spooning more liquid into his mouth. I could hear her making those gentle little crooning noises like she did with the newborn calves when she was persuading them to drink milk from the bucket.
She came home the next morning and said that the Major had died in the early hours. The fever had broken and he’d spoken a little and quite sensibly before lapsing in a coma. She never said what though.
Our Billy was furious with her for weeks after and with me for letting her stay, but she took no notice. “It would take a bigger man than you, William Wilde,” she told him one tea-time when he had another go, “to stop me doing what I think is right.”
Chapter 6
I’ve been on a little trip into Wales. It’s the first time I’ve been out of the house for months, except for going to the hospital and I don’t count that. No, this was a proper day out. Sharon took me.
She has a car, an old and battered one, but it goes and I was quite comfortable on the journey. She packed the back seat with cushions and pillows and put a thick blanket over me. Thomas sat on the front seat beside her. I gather that it is now illegal for small children to sit in the front, but there was no help for it. I had to sit in the back.
It is the first week in March and the weather, although blustery, is quite warm. Daffodils are coming up in the garden, only a few, but their brave yellow flowers are a tonic to look at. On St David’s Day, Sharon put a bowl of them on the desk beside me.
“I like them,” she said, “they make you think that good times are coming.”
I don’t know what she meant, but they certainly are cheerful looking things and if they make her happy then who am I to quibble over her silly remarks. She has moved into the house now. It seemed the only sensible thing to do after she was put out of her flat and had nowhere to go. Eddie Hyde’s grandson, I think his name is Jason, moved my bed down here into Mother’s little parlour, weeks ago and I spend most of my days in this room overlooking the garden. I can use the downstairs cloakroom which has a shower and I used to make my own meals in the kitchen. Sharon does that now.
She and Thomas had the choice of the bedrooms and she tells me that Thomas picked the little room above the front door. I liked that room always. Eddy Hyde had been put in there when he first arrived at our house, so it was never available for me but I did think about moving in, when he left. Billy persuaded me to stay in with him. He said he liked to talk at night after we had gone up. I think he was afraid of the dark and didn’t want to sleep on his own. He got over that later when he moved into the main bedroom. Maybe the memory of Father and Mother in there was comforting.
Later, of course, that little room over
the front door was Elizabeth’s and that holds precious memories for me too.
Sharon has chosen that same room that had been Mother and Father’s. I told her that I should have been born in that bed but came too quick, so opened my eyes to the world in the parlour. She laughed and shook her head. “Couldn’t wait to get at your books, was that it?” Silly, ignorant girl, I don’t know why I like her.
Anyway, the other day she suggested a drive into the country. “Maybe we’ll see some new lambs. Thomas will like that. It’ll do you good, too. Get some colour into your cheeks.”
I laughed. It would take more than a few hours out of the house to bring me back to health, but I agreed to the trip and am glad I did.
“Where would you like to go?” she said as we went out of the gate.
I thought for a moment and then ventured a suggestion. “Do you know how to get to Rhaeadr. To the waterfall?”
She shook her head but carried on driving. “I’ll ask at the garage. I need petrol.”
So we set off, along the main road and then turning into smaller roads, winding our way through the hills. Thomas saw his lambs. Plenty of them, jumping around in the meadows and gathering in little gangs like naughty school children.
I remembered coming along this road as a lad, sitting in the back of the float with Peter the gelding speeding along at a smart trot. We were going with Mother and Father into Wales to buy a bull.
That would have been in the first year of the Great War when the prices were still high but that didn’t matter to Father. He was particular about the quality of our bulls. We had neighbours who would keep the odd bull calf and raise it to service the herd. These were what they called scrub bulls and no good they were too. It led to the herd being interbred and getting progressively weaker and useless. It was a cheap method of farming and that was never Father’s way. We used to have the best that we could afford.
“I’ve been this way before,” I said looking out of the window at the fields and mountains, “but a long time ago and never in a car.”
“Did you walk?” Thomas turned round in his seat and stared inquisitively at me. He is a nice little chap, with bright red hair and big blue eyes. He has a gentle innocence about him that I haven’t noticed much in the other local children. When I was still getting about, I used to be a little afraid of them.
“Did you walk, Mr Wilde?” he said again.
“No, I went in the carriage,” I said. “We didn’t have a car in those days so we used to go out in a horse and carriage.” His eyes stared at me, disbelieving, I expect. These children nowadays know nothing of a world without motor transport. Cars have been around for eighty years and more. But, fair play, he’s only a little lad, so how could he possibly imagine how it was. I smiled at him and thought that when we got home I’d get out some of the old photographs. I know I have some of the horses and I think I remember one of Peter harnessed to the milk wagon.
It was a Sunday, the day we went into Wales all those years ago. Father had met the farmer, Mr Pugh, at Market on the Monday previous and they had fallen into discussing stock. Mr Pugh was looking for some good dairy cattle and he had heard of Father’s name. Manor Farm was famous in its small way.
“I’ve got a couple of right good Shorthorn milkers,” said Father, “I’m changing to Friesians and getting rid of all the others, so we could come to some understanding there.”
“Ooh!” We learned later that Mr Pugh started all his conversations with “Ooh” “Friesians? That’s modern I’d say. Well, well, Mr Wilde, very modern.” He shook his head and looked at Father as though he had announced that we were getting our milk from camels or something outrageous like that. The Friesian cattle were actually getting quite popular then amongst dairy men because of the large quantities of milk they produced, but Father was the first farmer in the district to go over entirely. They weren’t cheap, mind.
Mr Pugh took off his cap and scratched the sparse grey hairs that covered his old head. He had a funny eye, which had muddled colours and never moved. I think now that it must have been blind but nobody ever mentioned it except our Billy who used to call him ‘old cod eye’ behind his back. Billy didn’t like anyone, man or beast who was defective or disabled. He said it made him sick.
“Ooh, we swear by our Shorthorns for milk. Make lovely butter and cheese. Mrs Pugh will tell you that, any day.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Welsh blacks for beef, though.” He came to the house that evening and the deal was done. The deal included a possible cheap price for a young Shorthorn bull that Mr Pugh was keen to sell. At that time, Father still favoured them over the Friesians, especially for beef calves, although later we had a fine Friesian bull that served the herd well for years. Two days later, Mr Pugh and his lad came for the beasts, driving into the yard in a small donkey cart. The lad had been brought so that he could drive the cows all the way home. It would take him all day but that was how it was done then.
We often drove the cattle to market, Father and Herbert and even Billy and I when we got older, getting a day off school. One would walk in front, with a bale of hay to tempt the lead cow and the rest of us, armed with switches cut from the hedge, would follow on, pushing the herd ahead of us towards the town and the cattle pens. It was a job, I can tell you, to make sure that our cows didn’t stray up the wrong roads or into people’s gardens. But what a brave sight they were in the centre of the town with the small amount of traffic coming to a halt and people turning to watch. It was also wonderful sport. On those days I was proud to be a farmer’s son.
And now, here I was back on the summer road to Wales, remembering a day from seventy years ago. The Pugh’s farm was a few miles before Pistyll Rhaeadr, the highest waterfall in Wales and Father agreed that we could make a diversion to see it. “I believe it’s a wonderful sight,” said Mother, and so it was. Even on that hot day at the end of a hot month, it leapt, full and sparkling down the steep hillside, gushing freezing water into the little river below. I told the rhyme we had learned in school:
Pistyll Rhaeadr and Wrexham steeple,
Snowdon’s mountain without its people,
Overton yew trees, St Winifred’s Wells,
Llangollen Bridge and Gresford bells.
These were the seven wonders of Wales, according to Mr Cutts, who had drilled them into us. I think he liked it because he had been born in Gresford. Mother loved that poem and made me repeat it a couple of times and then said we must go sometime and see the other wonders.
“Yes, well,” said Father helping Mother back into the trap and clicking to Peter, “that’s for another occasion. Now we must get on.”
Mother had packed some bread and cheese and a couple of bottles of pop. “We’ll stop somewhere nice for a bite,” she said, but we made good time and even though we had stopped at the waterfall for about half an hour, we were at the Pugh’s farm well before dinnertime.
It was a pretty place, an old stone and slate farm house, surrounded by ancient barns and set in the lea of a green hill and it was just as well that we hadn’t eaten, for Mrs Pugh had laid on a feast of heroic proportions. We were led into a dim low-ceilinged dining room and sat round an old and marked mahogany table. A huge platter carried a couple of their own chickens roasted to a pale gold succulence and she served them with quantities of vegetables and gravy, prepared to such perfection that I can truly say her cooking rivalled Mother’s. We tucked in with relish and even the sound of Mr Pugh “oohing,” and “well, welling,” before and after everything that was said, didn’t put us off.
The Pugh’s had a granddaughter, whose name I can’t remember now, living with them. Her mother was in service in one of the big houses in Cheshire, so she stayed with the old couple. Nothing was said about the father. The girl was about the same age as me, a little fat girl with yellow ringlets and creamy pink cheeks. She was very quiet and when she did speak it was to her grandmother and in Welsh. I didn’t think she had any English. Mother said something to her in Welsh, only a li
ttle remark, the few words Mother knew and the girl smiled but didn’t reply.
After home-picked raspberries and cream, Father and Mr Pugh went to examine the bull. Mother helped Mrs Pugh with the clearing up, although the old lady kept refusing and saying that Mother should go into the parlour and have a rest. “I’d rather help you,” Mother said. “I don’t agree with too much resting.”
We children went outside to play, Billy leading the way, as usual and me trailing behind. The girl followed us and watched as Billy and I ran about the yard, kicking the football that Billy had brought with him. I pushed the ball towards her and she shyly put out her little booted foot and kicked it back. We three played happily for a while but Billy got bored and went off in search of Father. He wanted to see the bull.
I’ve remembered the girl’s name now. It was Kate Ann. I wonder whatever happened to her? She and I played on with the ball until she beckoned to me and I went with her to one of the barns. It was dark and cool inside and I wondered what she wanted me to do. She pointed into one of the stalls and I saw a cardboard box full of sheepdog puppies. They were about four weeks old, warm and smooth with wagging tails that felt like little slippery eels. I fell onto my knees in front of the box and put my hands in amongst them. They loved that and squeaked and tumbled over each other, licking me and giving little play bites. Kate Ann sat down beside me in the straw as we stroked and cuddled the puppies and laughed at their funny antics.
Suddenly, our Billy appeared at the barn door looking bored and bad tempered. “What have you got here?” he demanded, his voice rough and impatient as he bent over to look at the pups.
Kate Ann looked worried and putting the puppy she’d been holding back in the box she draped her arm over the litter in a protective way. But Billy wasn’t going to be put off. “Let’s have a look, then,” he said and pushed her arm aside so that he could delve in and grab a couple of the little dogs. He wasn’t too gentle about it either and he must have pinched one of them because it let out a terrified squeal.
The Love of a Lifetime Page 6