Mary's Child

by Irene Carr

  ‘My mam said I might see rabbits – or a fox.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not in this garden. But there are some just over the field. Higgins showed me where.’ Higgins was the gardener, and a poacher on the side. But now Jack turned to more important business: ‘I’m hungry.’

  On that they agreed. Chrissie admitted, ‘So am I.’

  ‘You go in and fetch some food out. There’s lots and they probably won’t see you.’

  She stared at him, shocked. ‘That’s stealing!’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s mine.’

  Chrissie saw his point. If this was his house . . . But in that case: ‘You go, then.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m not allowed in the kitchen. Besides, I’m supposed to be in bed.’ Jack was becoming impatient, his mouth watering as he saw the big kitchen table, already crowded, now being loaded with the dishes of half-used jellies and other desserts. He challenged, ‘You’re scared again!’

  Chrissie lied, ‘No, I’m not!’ But she was hungry, watching as he was, and her mother had said they would have their supper in the kitchen, as much as they wanted. So it wouldn’t really be stealing . . .

  Jack wheedled, ‘I’ll take you to see the rabbits afterwards.’

  Chrissie hesitated, tempted, but still shook her head. ‘No.’

  Jack had seen that hesitation and realised she was wavering. Then he heard the music strike up inside the house and he guessed what might appeal to a girl: ‘I’ll take you where you can see the dancing.’

  Chrissie took a breath, then: ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll wait here.’ Jack urged her towards the door in case she changed her mind and almost pushed her through the gap as she opened it.

  Chrissie drifted up to the table, heart thumping and furtive, but no one noticed. Mrs Tyndall was busy at the kitchen range. Amy Jenkinson was talking to her, the backs of both turned to Chrissie. Maids were coming and going but none questioned her; Mary Carter was on duty at the front of the house. Chrissie stretched on her toes to reach up to the table and took a dish that held half of a jelly. She added a random selection of carved meats then topped it with a handful of roast potatoes. Holding it in both hands, she scurried across to the door.

  It was opened by Jack who had watched her, peeping in at a corner of the window. As she passed through he closed the door behind her and breathed, ‘Bravo!’

  Chrissie beamed at the praise and apologised, ‘I could only carry the one dish. Sorry.’

  ‘You did jolly well. Come on!’

  Their heads bent over the dish. Chrissie had briefly forgotten her hunger but now it reminded her. Jack had never lost his. They ate with their fingers, companiably, working through the potatoes to the meat then sideways into the jelly. They both paused, mouths full, as they heard the faint sound of carriage wheels crunching on the drive at the front of the house. Then that ceased and they grinned at each other and went on with the feast.

  They cleaned the bowl, licked their fingers and Chrissie said, ‘The dancing, you promised to let me see it.’

  ‘Righto!’ Jack led her to the tree and pointed to the branch: ‘Up there.’

  Chrissie put down the bowl and climbed, Jack behind her, hissing, ‘Put your foot there – no, there!’ And his hand guided her boot into place, until they both sat astride the branch. Chrissie caught her breath, then held it, awed, as she stared through the gap in the curtains.

  The table had been pushed back against one wall and now a string ensemble played at one end of the long room. Chrissie did not know the name of the piece they played – ‘The Blue Danube’ – but she would always remember the lilt of the music. The light from the huge glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling reflected from the polished floor.

  The men in their black and white, the officers in scarlet, dark blue and gold, the women in their silken gowns that reached the floor but barely covered their breasts, all flowed and swirled. The stately dancers circled the room, spinning and sweeping gracefully in time to the music. The light glinted on jewels; flowers in head-dresses and corsages added to the blaze of colour.

  Chrissie held Jack’s hand in hers and watched open mouthed. She had never seen a sight like this before, would never forget it to the end of her days.

  In the kitchen Mary Carter put down a loaded tray and looked around her, saw Chrissie had gone from the stool and looked again, anxious, demanding loudly, ‘Where’s Chrissie? My little lass?’

  Betty Simpson said, ‘I saw her go out about ten minutes back. I thought you knew.’

  Mary hurried to the door and flung it open, stepped outside. A pathway of light swept out from beneath her feet, reaching into the darkness. She peered, eyes searching and head turning from left to right. Then she saw another, thinner strip of light escaping from the gap in the curtains of the long room. It lit, though dimly, her daughter and a small boy. They sat astride the branch of a tree and at its foot lay an empty dish.

  Mary ran to the tree and saw that the two small faces turned down to her were smeared with jelly. She demanded, ‘Come down!’

  Chrissie, startled, swayed and almost fell, but Jack’s hand in hers steadied her. They descended from the tree as they had climbed it, Jack showing the way.

  Mary grabbed Chrissie with one hand, the dish with the other. ‘How dare you? Who said you could take this?’

  The boy answered, ‘I did.’

  Mary flared at him, ‘And who the hell d’you think you are?’

  And Amy Jenkinson said behind her, ‘Oh, my God! It’s Master Jack!’

  Amy took him up the back stairs, berating him all the way. ‘What your grandad will say, I daren’t think. I reckon it will be the strap for you, my lad, and no treats for a long time. Suppose you’d fallen out o’ that tree and split your heid?’ She had got his account of that out of him. ‘You could ha’ laid there all night.’

  Jack lied, ‘I don’t care.’ He was not going to plead for mercy. That little girl had not, nor had she blamed him.

  They came to the landing. The door to the nursery was open and now a man came hurrying out of it. He was just thirty years old, tall like George Ballantyne but sandy haired and brown eyed. He took after his mother rather than George. He still wore his overcoat open over a well-cut tweed suit. It had been his carriage the children had heard while eating outside the kitchen. Richard Ballantyne said with relief, ‘There you are! When I found your bed empty—’

  Jack broke away from Amy Jenkinson and ran into his arms, shouted with surprise and delight, ‘Papa!’

  Mary warned Chrissie, ‘I expect you’ll get a hiding off your dad.’ They had caught the last tram with the rest of the girls brought into the Ballantyne house only for the evening. ‘And so should that other little divil. His father’s expected home tonight.’

  Chrissie said, barely heard above the tram’s clangour and grinding, ‘I liked him.’

  Mary hissed, voice lowered so the other passengers would not hear, ‘You want to have nothing to do wi’ that sort! They use you, like he did, then toss you away.’ Chrissie had heard it often before and sat in silence as Mary went on, now in a normal tone but still forceful, ‘You want to learn all you can while you’re at school, so you can get a good job, like a teacher, maybe. Then you won’t have to go out waiting on or take in somebody else’s washing or gut fish on the quay.’ She had done all of them. ‘A good job and a place of your own, that’s what you want.’ Chrissie could recite it word for word, like an article of faith.

  They walked up the passage wearily. Harry Carter had gone to bed because he was working the next day, but he woke when they entered and asked, ‘How did you get on?’ Mary opened her mouth to tell him of Chrissie’s wrongdoing, but the girl was looking up at her solemnly, mouth turned down at the corners, and Mary thought that Harry needed his rest. So she just answered, ‘Fine.’ She stooped and kissed Chrissie. ‘Bed now.’

  Mary put out the light and undressed by the glow from the fire in the kitchen next door. She asked Harry, ‘What di
d you do while we were out?’

  He mumbled, ‘Went down to the Pear Tree for a pint and a game o’ dominoes.’

  Mary saw that Chrissie was in bed and crawled in beside Harry. She asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘Aye.’ His arm wrapped around her and, conscious of the child in her own small bed in the corner, he whispered in his wife’s ear, ‘There was a feller in there, off one o’ the ships that runs down to London. He said Vesta Nightingale is doing well on the halls down there. Always dressed to the nines and on the arm o’ some flash feller.’

  Mary tensed and whispered back, ‘The bairn’s better off here with us.’

  He agreed, mumbling, ‘Oh, aye.’

  Mary felt his arm loosen with sleep and began to relax herself. But the events of the evening worried her. Chrissie had always had the looks of her mother, the wide-mouthed, fine-boned face, dark hair and eyes. Mary wondered if this was the first sign that Chrissie was going to follow in the footsteps of Martha Tate, known as Vesta Nightingale? She would have to watch the girl until she was grown. Mary lay awake a long time thinking of the years ahead. Soon she was no longer worried but still caring. She was determined she would make the most of those years.

  Chapter 4

  January 1901

  Harry Carter lifted his suit out of the wardrobe. It was the same navy blue serge he had worn for his marriage to Mary fifteen years before and it smelt of camphor. She had sewn a thick band of black crêpe around one sleeve and bought him a black tie. Mary had not bought a black dress but had a dark blue one dyed. She had to wait some days for that to be done because a lot of women were practising the same economy. The old queen, Victoria, had died six days ago, on 22nd January, 1901.

  Now on this dark winter evening the table had been cleared after tea and the washing-up done. Mary handed the last wet plate to Chrissie to dry and said, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Collins if Chrissie can stay with her for an hour or so tonight.’

  Harry took his best boots from where they were tucked under the wardrobe and came into the kitchen, asking, ‘That auld witch?’

  ‘She’s not a witch, Dad.’ Chrissie, big eyed and solemn, reproved him.

  He grinned at her. ‘Just a bit o’ fun, lass.’ It was a year since the old woman came to live in the rooms next door and now they were used to her.

  Mary told Chrissie, ‘We need some water. Go and fill the jug, there’s a good lass. And put your shawl on: it’s cold out.’

  It was a device to get rid of the girl. When Chrissie went out to the tap in the yard, Mary said, ‘I’ll not leave her with them upstairs. I don’t mind her playing with the two boys – Ted and Frank are all right, though it’s a miracle they are with him for a father.’ She was talking of Reuben Ward. ‘Did you see his wife’s face this morning? He’s been knocking her about again.’

  ‘Aye.’ Harry had dug out the tin of boot polish and asked, ‘What boots are you wearing?’

  Mary fetched her best pair – like Harry, she only had two pairs – and gave them to him. ‘There you are.’

  Harry began brushing the boots clean before smoothing on polish. He said, ‘She was out in the back yard this morning. Tried to hide the bruise by turning her back but she wasn’t quick enough. So we don’t want our Chrissie up there. See if the auld woman’ll take her.’

  Mrs Collins opened the door to Mary Carter’s knocking, invited her into the little kitchen with its fire and heard her request. ‘We always go ower the watter to the market on Monday nights but Chrissie’s got a cold and I don’t want to take her tonight, the weather being the way it is.’ Mary’s gaze flicked around the room then returned to Mrs Collins. ‘And we don’t want to leave her on her own, so I wondered if you could take her for an hour or two.’

  The old woman answered, ‘She’s welcome to stop wi’ me. She’ll be a bit o’ company for me.’

  Mary, relieved, said, ‘I’ll bring her round.’

  On her return Mary reported to her husband, ‘That’s all right. I’ll take her later on when we’re ready.’

  ‘Good.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘You should see the state of that place, though. There’s dust all over. But she’s just too old to keep it clean. To tell you the truth, I don’t think she can see the dirt.’ She was silent a moment then added, ‘I’ll have to try to get in there and do a bit of dusting and scrubbing for her.’

  Harry warned, ‘Don’t take on too much.’

  Mary sniffed. ‘I think it’ll be hard enough getting her to let me do anything. You know what these old people are like.’

  ‘And I know what you are like. You can’t do everything for everybody. Anyway, it’s time we got ready. We should just catch the ferry if we hurry.’

  Old Mrs Collins had one armchair by the fire and one straight-backed chair set at the table. She sat in the armchair so Chrissie dragged the other one around to face the fire and perched on it. The old lady watched her and asked, ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘It’s my reading book. Dad bought it for me for my birthday. Mam said I should bring it in case . . .’ Chrissie’s voice tailed off then.

  The old woman asked, ‘In case of what?’

  Mary Carter had said, ‘In case Mrs Collins falls asleep,’ but Chrissie improvised, ‘She thought you might want to hear me read.’

  Mrs Collins shook her head. ‘It seems nearly all you little ’uns can read now. I often wish I’d gone to school.’ She sighed, then asked, ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Just gone seven this month, Mrs Collins.’

  ‘You’re small for your age, but don’t worry about that. Good stuff comes in little bundles. How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks, Mrs Collins.’

  The old woman leaned closer, peering. ‘Your mother said you had a cold.’

  ‘I have, but I feel all right.’

  Mrs Collins laughed, showing toothless gums. ‘You look well enough to me. I think your mother worries too much about you.’

  Chrissie’s parents walked rapidly past St Peter’s church and down the hill towards the river. The thin sea-mist of the day had clamped down as a fog with the coming of night. It coiled dense and dirty yellow with the smoke and dust it carried. The gas lamps glowed fuzzy-edged through it and it clung damply to the faces of the hurrying couple, thickened their breathing.

  Mary Carter panted, ‘I wonder if she will be all right there. She’s never stayed with that old woman before.’

  Harry stopped that: ‘She’s there now and she’ll be fine. We’ve got to get this ferry or wait till the next one.’

  ‘I want to catch this one. I don’t like leaving Chrissie there too long.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ And he hurried her along, her arm tucked through his.

  But they heard the clang! clang! of the bell as they turned the last corner, the warning that the ferry was about to pull away. They started to run down the bank towards it but already there was a gap of churned white water between the side of the ferry and the steps leading down from the quay. They halted, panting, as the broad-beamed little steamer turned and started on its curved passage across the river against the current, to be swallowed up by the fog.

  Harry swore and Mary rebuked him: ‘That will be enough of that, thank you.’

  They stared out at the river, flowing swift and silvery-black in the night. The salt wind from the sea that stirred the fog was bitterly cold. It flattened Mary’s skirts against her legs and snatched at Harry’s cap, which he held on to with one hand. Upriver a ship’s siren blared as it got under way and there was the mournful bass lowing of a foghorn.

  A public house stood on a corner a few yards away. Now its door swung open briefly, letting out a babel of talk and a beam of light that ran across the road to the edge of the quay and then was snuffed out as the door closed. The man who had come out crossed to the ferry steps, paused to strike a match and light his pipe and saw Harry and Mary. He smelt of beer and tobacco and asked around the pipe gripped in his teeth, ‘Missed the
ferry?’

  Harry said shortly, ‘Aye.’

  The man puffed smoke, shook out the flaring match and offered, ‘I’ll tak ye ower.’ When Harry looked the question at him, he pointed to a pulling boat tied up by the ferry steps. ‘That’s mine. I came ower to see my sister. I’m on my way home now. You can have a lift wi’ me and save the fare.’

  Mary accepted quickly, ‘Thanks very much. We’re late already without waiting about here. It’s very kind o’ you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Billy Younger.’

  ‘Harry Carter. This is my wife, Mary. We’re going to the market.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Billy hauled in on the painter and drew the boat in to the foot of the steps. He held it there while Harry climbed in then held out a steadying hand to Mary as she followed him. The boat rocked but then they were sitting in the sternsheets and it settled on an even keel. Billy Younger stepped aboard with the painter, took his seat on a thwart and shoved off with one of the oars. He turned the boat and then bent forward to pull at the oars.

  Harry squeezed Mary’s arm. ‘We’ll be in the market in a few minutes.’

  She smiled at him. She was with her man, had a few shillings in her purse to spend and now she was sure the bairn would be all right while she was away. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world now.’

  Billy puffed, ‘A sad business, the auld queen dying.’

  Harry agreed, nodding. ‘She was a good age, mind, eighty-odd.’

  They were out in midstream now with neither bank of the river in sight, the boat isolated in a small world of its own in the fog.

  Billy grumbled lugubriously, ‘I’ll be lucky if I live to be forty-odd, working on this bloody river. I wonder what sort of a king Teddy will make?’ ‘Teddy’ was Victoria’s eldest son, soon to be crowned Edward VII. He had a reputation as a playboy.

  Mary put in primly, ‘He’ll have to behave himself now.’

  Billy grinned. ‘He never did before.’ They all laughed.

  Only then did Harry chance to look around. He saw the ship loom out of the fog, steaming downriver in the centre of the stream. The boat was crossing its path. He yelled, ‘Look out!’ pointing with an outflung arm.