by Maggie Hope
Afterwards they lay together, glorying in each other, but of course it could not last, she knew in her heart it could not last. His grip on her slackened. Without speaking, he got to his feet and turned his back on her as he adjusted his clothing. Her heart beat fast as she watched him for a moment or two, then she began to straighten her skirt and shirtwaister, fiddling clumsily with the buttons. Suddenly he spoke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should not have let that happen.’
Lottie bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said. He was going to say he did not want to see her again, she knew he was. Anyone so upright as he was must be shocked out of his mind and of course he was simply being polite. He must blame her; it was always the woman’s fault wasn’t it? Ever since Adam. Her sense of loss was as great as that she had felt when Thomas first went. More.
‘I’ll go,’ he said and she nodded. She could not trust herself to look at him, let alone speak.
Jerry turned and looked at her. ‘Lottie,’ he said softly. ‘Lottie.’
She did not look up. ‘You were going,’ she said. He went to the door and opened it, went out and turned back. He had to see her again.
‘You will bring in your copy tomorrow?’ he asked, meaning only that she would come to the office and he would see her again, somehow make things right between them.
Lottie jumped up, her aroused feelings turning into a blind rage that shone from her eyes. She spluttered as she shouted at him, ‘Get out! Get out!’ When she heard the front door close behind him and she could almost hear the thick silence he left behind, she walked up and down the room, unable to keep still as her chaotic thoughts jumbled up in her mind.
Men! Flaming men! He was as bad as Thomas had been. He was worse, bloody Jeremiah the God-fearing Quaker! A married man and his wife up in Weardale in a sanatorium an’ all. And all he was worried about was his newspaper. That was all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lottie put off taking her copy into the newspaper office until the very last minute the following day. She shrank from facing Jeremiah. She had railed at him the day before but really she knew she had been as much at fault as he had, just as eager a lover. She had acted shamelessly, she had indeed, she told herself. Only … it had not felt shameless or wrong or anything but the most natural thing in the world to her at the time. No matter what the consequences, she could not be sorry it had happened. But still, she was aware that other people would frown on it. And Jeremiah, was he regretting it? So it was with some trepidation that she walked up North Road and entered the offices of the Durham Post.
Mr Scott was in the front office talking to Jackson. They both stopped talking and turned sober faces to her as she entered. For a panicky moment she thought Mr Scott knew what had happened between her and his son and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.
‘Lottie, my dear!’ said Mr Scott. ‘I’m afraid you have come at a bad time. Do you wish to see my son?’
Jackson nodded at her and retreated to the print room, closing the door behind him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Scott,’ said Lottie. ‘Yes, I do. I’ve brought in my copy for Mr Jeremiah.’
‘I’m afraid he is not here, my dear.’ He hesitated a moment, then went on, ‘Can I give it to him when he gets back? He has had to go into Weardale, a family matter.’
Lottie had keyed herself up to facing Jeremiah again. She had been dreading it but now she felt irrationally let down, an almost physical feeling.
‘You look a little unwell, Lottie.’ Mr Scott’s expression changed to one of concern. ‘Come along into my office and sit down.’ He took her arm and led her into the small room he used as an office since he had turned the paper over to his son. ‘Jackson!’ he called from the door. ‘Be so good as fetch tea, if you will.’ Closing the door, he sat her down on the scuffed leather armchair he had in there and often used for a nap in the afternoons as age began to take its toll.
‘Now then, Lottie, tell me what the matter is,’ he said. ‘I can see there is something wrong.’
‘No, nothing, really.’ She took a handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at her cheeks. ‘It’s just a little airless in here, don’t you think?’
Mr Scott crossed to the window and opened it. ‘Is that better?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied in a low voice.
He studied her for a moment and was about to speak, but fortunately there was a knock at the door and Jackson came in with a tray of tea. By the time he had gone back out Lottie had composed herself and Mr Scott must have decided to ask no more questions. They drank the tea and Lottie stood up to leave.
‘I’ll call later in the week,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the tea and for being so kind.’
‘I’ll tell my son you called,’ said Mr Scott. ‘If he has any queries about the copy I’m sure he will be in touch.’ He paused for a moment, studying her expressive face before continuing. ‘Lottie, are you all right? I sense there is something wrong.’
Lottie forced a smile. ‘There’s nothing wrong, really,’ she assured him.
Mr Scott hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Of course my dear, you are still mourning your husband. How could I be so insensitive?’
Lottie murmured something non-committal and left the office. Mr Scott watched her progress down North Road before turning back to the work he was doing. Sometimes he thought his son looked at her with a certain expression he didn’t care to analyse. Perhaps it was just as well Jeremiah had been out somewhere when she called. The lad had enough complications in his life with Harriet, his poor wife. He did not need more. But perhaps he was worrying about nothing. Jeremiah was an upright, honest man.
Jeremiah was in Weardale, in a nursing home high on the moors above the town. It had been a hunting lodge initially, but had been given over to the treatment of lung disease because the air there was pure and untainted, for there was no industry near it. He sat beside his wife’s bed, watching her sleep. She was propped up on pillows and a backrest but still her breathing was shallow and laboured, her skin white and translucent except for the hectic patches of colour on her cheeks. Jeremiah held her hand loosely, for the bones felt fragile; they showed through the thin skin.
It was just a matter of time, he knew that, for Dr James had called him on the new telephone in the office of the newspaper. Of course he had come immediately, travelling on the train. But Harriet hardly seemed to be aware that he was there. Her hand lay passively in his. Sometimes her eyes opened partly and she looked at him but with no recognition. Indeed, he realized she was not really looking at him at all, but gazing at something not of this world. The rise and fall of the bedclothes was so slight as to be easily missed altogether. A nurse stood quietly by, watching. He barely noticed when she moved to the door and went out.
Jeremiah was so lost in his own thoughts that he started when the door opened and the nurse returned with Dr James.
‘Ah, Matron said you were here, Mr Scott,’ he said. ‘I hoped you would get here in time.’
‘In time?’
For a second or two Jeremiah couldn’t think what the doctor meant. In time for what? Of course! He meant before Harriet slipped away altogether. This time she really was dying. The good doctor had rung him up at the office and was very pessimistic about Harriet’s chances of pulling through this latest relapse. But he had been gravely concerned before and she had rallied. Somehow in the back of his mind, Jeremiah had found it hard to believe.
‘I mean … you think … this is the end?’
‘I do.’
Jeremiah gazed at Harriet; she seemed little different to him than she had that morning. There was still a slight flush on her cheeks, her eyes were still half-closed. Was she breathing? He rose to his feet and leaned over her, loosed a hand from hers and leaned closer to see.
Dr James put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come, Mr Scott,’ he said. ‘Sit down in my office. I’m afraid she’s gone. I’m very sorry.’ He nodded to the nurse and led Jeremiah away as she
pulled the sheet up over Harriet’s face.
Jeremiah felt numb when he finally left the grounds of the hospital. He wondered why he felt nothing. Surely he should be grieving? So he turned on to the road over the high moor that led to Stanhope and strode along it, with the wind freshening the higher he climbed, until he had to bend into it to make any progress. Gradually, as the day began to fade, memories of his wife as she had been – the girl he had fallen in love with, the woman who had spent all of her adult life looking after him and loving him – came back to him, and images of those days flashed through his thoughts. Grief overwhelmed him. He sat down on a stone road marker and cried.
Eventually he rose, dried his eyes, and carried on his way to Stanhope railway station. There were things to be done, Harriet’s sisters and brothers to be informed of her death, arrangements for the funeral to be made.
‘Lottie, I’ve been waiting for you to tell me you’re having a bairn,’ said Eliza. She and Lottie were in the marketplace in Durham, having bumped into each other while shopping. It was market day and there were covered stalls selling vegetables and meat and boots and shoes and miner’s boots hanging by leather laces, with steel toecaps and studs glinting in the sunlight.
Lottie bit her lip. ‘I wanted to be absolutely sure,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want you to get your hopes up and then be disappointed.’
‘It’s my grandchild, too,’ Eliza continued.
Lottie couldn’t think what to say. ‘I’m sorry, Eliza,’ she mumbled.
‘Well then,’ Eliza said in reply. ‘Let’s away home now. I could do with a nice cup of tea.’
Lottie followed her mother-in-law to where the trap was parked in a side street, with the pony still munching on the hay in the nosebag. Eliza took the bag from him and put it on the floor in the trap and climbed up on to the driving seat. Lottie sat down beside her. Eliza glanced at her as she picked up the reins.
‘Move on,’ she said softly and clicked her tongue at the pony, and they set off.
‘You’ll stay and have some tea, won’t you, Lottie?’
It was the last thing Lottie wanted to do but she couldn’t say that to Eliza. Eliza, who was still mourning her son. ‘I will,’ she replied. ‘But I can’t stay very long after that. I have work to do for the paper. Writing up notes …’ Her voice faded away as they went into the familiar kitchen. She simply couldn’t think of anything more to say.
‘Oh, what are they on?’
Eliza had her back to Lottie as she mended the fire and settled the kettle on the coals. Lottie looked at the clippie mat laid before the fire.
‘Oh, just the usual,’ she said.
Luckily Eliza was setting the table, reaching cups and saucers down from the dresser. By the time she was sitting down at the table beside her daughter-in-law, she had lost interest in Lottie’s work.
‘When do you reckon the baby is due?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Lottie mumbled.
‘Well, I reckon it must be soon after Christmas. After all, my Thomas was only home for a short while, wasn’t he? It doesn’t leave much leeway. Oh, Lottie, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to go on, I know you must be hurting as much as I am myself!’
Eliza made herself busy pouring tea and adding milk and sugar, but her hand trembled and the spoon hit the side of the cup and a little spilt into the saucer.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Oh, Eliza, don’t apologize to me!’ exclaimed Lottie. She took the cup and saucer and blotted the few drops in the saucer with her handkerchief. ‘Come and sit down, do. Drink your tea and you’ll feel better.’
‘But how are you managing? Do you feel all right? No morning sickness or anything like that?’
‘No, I feel fine. Very well in myself, in fact.’
As Lottie said it, she realized it was true. She did feel very well, despite her recent unhappiness and her preoccupation with Jeremiah. And as she thought this, the child within her moved. She had felt slight tremors over the last week or two but this time it was a definite move, though perhaps not quite a kick.
‘Eliza!’ she cried. ‘He moved, really he did! Give me your hand, quick.’
She took hold of her mother-in-law’s hand and laid it on her belly and, obligingly, the baby moved once again.
Eliza laughed. ‘It’s a fit one, that’s for sure, and strong an’ all. Oh, Lottie, thank you for this. My little Tot’s bairn! Though maybe it’s a girl; you seem very sure it’s a lad.’
‘I don’t know, I just think it is,’ replied Lottie. Her eyes took on a faraway look, which Eliza had seen in so many mothers at a time like this.
‘It must be four and a half months, Lottie,’ she said softly. ‘You’re halfway there.’
‘Yes, that’s true and past the time of losing it, aren’t I, Eliza?’
‘I think so, I hope so, pet.’
The child could not be Jeremiah’s then, thought Lottie. Was she pleased or sorry? Pleased, of course, she admonished herself silently. In her imagination she had thought he just might be; sometimes she ached that he should be. By, she was a stupid, foolish girl. She finished her tea, before standing and reaching for her jacket, which she had hung over a chair.
‘I must go now, Eliza,’ she said and bent to kiss her. ‘I like to get home before dark and besides, I have things to do. Tomorrow I want to get a start on my new book. Give my love to Peter, will you?’
‘Of course I will. What is this book going to be about?’
‘Oh, I have a few ideas,’ Lottie replied. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve sorted them out in my mind.’
‘Well, give me some warning if you write about bossy mothers-in-law, won’t you? Otherwise I’ll sue you,’ Eliza said lightly. She also rose to her feet and walked out to the street with Lottie. ‘You will come back soon, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘I couldn’t bear to lose touch with you now.’
‘I will, of course I will,’ Lottie assured her.
She walked quickly off down the street, turning at the corner to wave, but Eliza had already gone in and closed the door. She walked on to her little house by Prebends Bridge and let herself in, closing the door behind her. It was cold indoors; the fire in the grate had died out. She shivered as she went through to the yard and collected kindling and filled the coal scuttle, ready to mend the fire. Once it was ablaze she sat before it in the gathering dusk and stared into the flames. Oh, she was tired – tired and lonely. The house was incredibly quiet, with no sounds penetrating from the outside. She put an arm across her stomach. Was it swelling now with the new life she carried? She waited, barely breathing, for the baby to kick or make any sort of movement, but he did not. For the moment she almost thought she had imagined his presence there inside her. But of course she had not. In four or five months he would be a living, breathing reality, her very own, and she would never be lonely again.
Lottie lit the lamp on her desk and closed the curtains so that she was enclosed in a little world focused on her desk. She opened her notebook and inserted a sheet of foolscap into her typewriter and, after a moment’s thought, started to type. She had only a few pages before the end of the chapter she was on and she was determined to get them finished. To do that she had to forget about everything else – the baby, Jeremiah, her mother-in-law – everything and everybody, and she succeeded in doing just that.
It was almost ten o’clock when she finally took the last sheet out of the typewriter and laid it on top of the others. She sat back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head and yawned largely. Immediately thoughts of Jeremiah crowded in on her. Oh, he was a lovely man, he was indeed. A lovely married man and there was no way of getting over that fact.
Jeremiah was also sitting by himself in his office, his lamp being the only one lit in the building. He felt enormous guilt as he thought of poor Harriet. She was his wife and he had let her down. Thank the Lord she would never know how badly he had let her down.
The office was cold; the fire in the small grate had gon
e out while he was editing the weekend’s edition of the paper. His eyes ached and he felt deathly tired. He should have done as his father had advised and gone home long since. He would, but first he would close his eyes for a short while.
It was almost eleven o’clock when he woke up, shivering and absolutely freezing cold and feeling even more guilty, for he had been dreaming of Lottie. How she was, the feel of her in his arms. It had to stop.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lottie plucked the sheet of foolscap from the typewriter, read it through and frowned. What was she thinking of? The words sounded stilted in her head. No one reading them would want to read on to find out what came next, nobody at all. She crumpled the page in her hand, rolled it into a ball and threw it on the back of the fire.
What she needed was a break and a breath of fresh air – maybe that would stimulate her ideas. Maybe she was writing the wrong book. The doubt plagued her. Her story was loosely based on the story of her own mother: Minnie her name had been. Not that Lottie knew much about her mother or where she had come from, but what she knew of her she had used her imagination to add to. Mainly it was the stories she had made up as a little girl about her mother: how she was really from a well-to-do family, landed gentry perhaps, and how she had run away with a penniless orphan and what had happened to her as a consequence. A story of melodrama and tragedy.
Now she could see it was silly and worthless and she had been wasting her time on it. Readers wanted happy endings, not tales full of woe. She would have to change it. Not now, though. She would have to think it out properly and just now she was finding it hard to think about anything but Jeremiah, even though she had not seen him for months.
She had read all about his wife’s death of course; her funeral too. She had thought about sending a note of sympathy but agonized over what to write, and in the end wrote nothing. As time went by the opportunity slipped away, until it was just too late. The weeks turned into months, until it was almost time for her baby to be born and she was occupied with her new novel and preparations for the birth. Eliza was her mainstay.