by Maggie Hope
‘What the hell’s the matter with you? Can you not leave a man alone when he has to go on shift in a few hours?’
‘It’s your mam, Wes, your mam. She’s …’ Meg halted, hardly knowing how to say it.
‘Me mam’s what? Have you two been fighting, like? Can you not hold your peace between the two of you?’
‘She’s passed out, Wes, I think she’s dead,’ Meg blurted. ‘You’ll have to get up and fetch the doctor.’ She watched him jump out of bed and pull on his trousers, the ache in her back deepening to a cramping pain which travelled down her thighs and threatened to cut her in half. Gasping, she collapsed on to the bed so recently vacated by her husband.
‘Dolly!’ she cried.
‘Pneumonia,’ declared Doctor Brown, ‘aggravated by malnutrition. Her heart failed too, couldn’t stand the strain.’
‘She was fed, there’s food in the house.’ Wesley glared at the doctor. How dare he say his mother hadn’t had enough to eat?
‘Hmm. Well, she hadn’t been feeding herself properly then,’ said Doctor Brown, and snapped his Gladstone bag firmly shut. ‘If you come up to the surgery I’ll give you the death certificate. You’ll be wanting it for the insurance.’ He did not ask why he had not been called earlier. He knew the answer. There was talk in the village of the miners clubbing together to pay a doctor to see to them and their families, but nothing had come of it yet. He looked hard at the young miner. On his own with his dead mother, Wesley looked very young and vulnerable, unsure what to do.
‘You can see to the undertaker at the same time,’ the doctor prompted, then gave a puzzled frown. ‘Is there not a neighbour to come in to lay – to see to your mother?’
Wesley was spared the need to answer this as a piercing scream rang out from the bedroom upstairs. Doctor Brown lifted startled eyes to the floor above.
‘The wife,’ said Wesley, dully. ‘She’s started the bairn.’
‘I’ll go up and see her.’ The doctor walked towards the staircase.
‘Aw, no, you won’t,’ Wesley sprang in front of him, his vulnerable expression disappearing. ‘She doesn’t need a doctor. The midwife’s coming and she has Dolly Bates up there with her.’
‘If it’s the money you’re worried about, I won’t send a bill,’ protested Doctor Brown, sounding frustrated. ‘You have enough to think about now, let me see to your wife.’
‘No.’ Wesley stuck out his chin. ‘What does she want with a man there? I tell you, the midwife is coming and Dolly can manage till she does. Meg’ll be fine.’
‘But—’
‘I’ve told you. What do you want to be messing about with women for? It’s not decent. Well, you’re not going to mess with my woman, I’m telling you. Now, I’ll be up for the death certificate as soon as the babby comes.’
Doctor Brown had no choice but to leave, cursing the ignorance of the pitmen as he went, the cries from upstairs, though muffled now, ringing in his ears.
Thomas Cornish, named for his mother’s Uncle Tot, was born two days later, 28 March 1893, after a long and protracted labour. The midwife, a superstitious old woman who was sure the trouble was caused because there was a corpse in the house, could do little to help. She had a long-standing feud with the doctor but even she had been about to give up and insist on his coming.
Not that she would have persuaded Wesley, Meg thought, when she was again capable of rational thinking. Wesley knew perfectly well that women didn’t need doctors to have babies. He’d told her so. Hadn’t they been born for centuries without doctors? Doctors were just carnal men who liked to get their hands on other men’s women. Wesley confidently asserted this as fact. Hadn’t other miners told him so?
In the end the baby came in a rush, bawling his defiance at being expelled from the warm security of the womb even before the midwife held him up by the heels to clear his lungs. She wrapped him in a bit of flannel and showed him to Meg who was lying so exhausted she could hardly open her eyes long enough to see him. She had a brief impression of a mop of coppery hair and a bloodstained face, twisted up in rage, before sinking into a deep, healing sleep.
‘I told you Meg didn’t need a doctor,’ said Wesley smugly when Dolly showed him his son, freshly bathed and only his red face showing between his flannel cap and shawl. ‘He’s a bit little like, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a grand bairn,’ declared Dolly Bates. ‘Now, I’ll leave him in his cradle. You’ll have to keep an eye to him and his mam, I’ve to go and see to me own.’
‘Me?’ Wesley was alarmed. ‘I cannot do nothing, man, I don’t know what to do. Any road, I’m going on shift soon.’
‘You’re not going on shift the day, Wes. It’s a four-day week, man, you’ve finished for the week.’
He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Oh, aye, I forgot,’ he muttered. ‘Can you not take the bairn upstairs to Meg? She’ll see to him.’
Dolly had no choice in the end, she had to do just that, and when she returned downstairs, Wesley had taken off. She shook her head. Well, she’d done her best. Now she had to get back to her own bairns, even if it did mean leaving Meg lying upstairs with the baby and that poor dead woman in the coffin in the front room. Maybe she would call in to see the wife next door but one. She was getting on a bit but she was a canny body, and would likely give a hand if she was asked.
‘Meg?’
Dolly Bates smiled her relief as the door opened and there was Meg’s sister. She wouldn’t have to bother anybody else now.
‘By, Alice, I’m that glad to see you,’ she said. ‘Did you not hear that Wesley’s mother had gone and Meg’s babby had come? It’s been two days since it all started. I thought the news would be all over the rows long since. It’s the funeral on Monday.’
Alice’s mouth dropped open. ‘Eeh, no, I didn’t know about the baby, Mrs Bates. I’ve been washing and cleaning all day, I haven’t seen a soul.’
‘It’s a wonder if that auntie of yours doesn’t know about it,’ commented Dolly, rather sharply. ‘Phoebe Lowther’s name for being the first with any news is being dented a bit here like, isn’t it? And you would think that young lass upstairs would have her family looking out for her at a time like this an’ all. Not that I mind lending a hand, but I have to see to my own now.’
‘Aye, Mrs Bates, of course.’ Alice bit her lip and blushed. ‘Auntie Phoebe’s badly like, she’s in bed with a cold on her chest, and what with seeing to her an’ all, you know what it’s like. Is Meg upstairs then? You go on home, I’ll check on her.’
‘Aye, that’s right. And don’t forget her in the front room.’
Dolly nodded her head in the direction of the connecting door.
‘No, I won’t. Thank you, Mrs Bates. Thank you for all you’ve done.’
Alice was dying to ask where Wesley was. She had indeed heard that Jane Cornish had died but hadn’t dared come over to George Row to see her sister. Wesley could be so nasty and she just knew he took it out on Meg afterwards if he knew she’d had any family round to see her. Usually the sisters met up at the store if he was about.
Mrs Bates finally got off home and Alice raced up the stairs.
‘Eeh, Meg, I’m sorry, pet, I didn’t know, I didn’t. And with Auntie Phoebe being poorly …’ She broke off when she saw Meg’s usually rosy face so pale and wan on the pillow.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked tentatively. Alice was only fourteen and a half and was awed at the sight of her sister laid so low. A sharp cry came from the bundle in Meg’s arms and Alice gave it an anxious glance.
Meg smiled. ‘Aye, I’m fine, just a bit tired, you know? Howay, come and have a look at your new nephew.’
Alice moved over to the bed and gazed down at the baby’s face. She didn’t know what to say. It was red and angry-looking and one fist had escaped the flannel wrapping and was waving in the air furiously. He opened his eyes wide and his mouth even wider and bawled loud and long. Alice stepped back in surprise. She could remember Bella as a baby, but surely Be
lla hadn’t made a noise like that?
‘He’s grand,’ she said politely, gingerly pulling the shawl further down so that the baby’s fist waved freely in the air. ‘A bit noisy, like. Is he hungry?’
Meg laughed fondly. ‘We’ll have to find out, eh, Alice?’
She unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and offered the baby the breast. He groped about blindly, his mouth wide open, but with a little guidance from his mother finally managed to get the nipple into his mouth, and at last the crying stopped. Alice was fascinated. She came closer to see better.
‘Eeh, Meg, what’s that mark? Have you bumped it?’
Meg flushed and swiftly drew the sheet over the tell-tale mark on the side of her swollen breast. The finger marks from the night before had almost merged into one now purpling bruise.
‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbled, ‘I fell against the bed post.’
Alice looked puzzled but let it go at that. She watched mother and baby quietly for a while.
‘He’s a bit greedy, isn’t he?’
‘A good trencherman, like his da,’ Meg answered. She was tiring again, her eyelids already drooping in sleep. ‘I wonder where Wesley is?’
‘He had to go out, Mrs Bates said. Do you want me to do anything, Meg? I can get some tea ready for Wesley, and when you’ve finished I’ll settle Thomas in his cradle so you can get some sleep. I have time, Da’s on shift and I’ve done the tea for the lads.’
‘Could you, Alice? I’d be grateful. I did think I’d be all right with Wesley’s mam living here, but now … Look, if you get it ready, I’m sure Dolly Bates will give it to him.’
Alice frowned. It was the funeral in a couple of days and that would be a lot of extra work and Meg should stay in bed. And it wasn’t fair to expect Mrs Bates to do everything. But there was Da, and Wesley an’ all, he didn’t like her in the house. Still, she had to do something.
‘I’ll wait and see Wesley, Meg,’ she said decisively, sounding more like an old woman than a young girl.
But Meg didn’t answer. She had fallen asleep, the baby too. The nipple had slipped out of the baby’s mouth and his little fist had stopped waving about in the air and was still. Carefully, Alice picked him up so as not to disturb her exhausted sister and placed him in his wooden rocking cradle.
‘Thomas Tucker, that’s who you are,’ she whispered, before turning back to the bed and covering Meg. She began to tiptoe to the door and then thought again; turning back, she picked up the cradle and carried it down the stairs to the kitchen. If he woke up he was less likely to disturb Meg there.
Downstairs, Alice raked fresh coal on to the fire and filled the water buckets from the tap at the end of the row. Then she sorted through the provisions Meg had in the pantry. There was some stock from boiled bacon and a few scraps of meat on a bone. Soon she had a pan of broth thickened with vegetables bubbling on the fire.
The baby stirred, snuffling and opening his mouth ready to cry, but he quietened down when Alice gently rocked the cradle with her foot.
‘Whisht, babby. Whisht, babby,’ she crooned, as she had seen Meg do with Miles and Bella. Then she lit the lamp and sat down on the rocking-chair by the fire to wait for Wesley. Not once did she look at the connecting door between the kitchen and the front room wherein lay the body of Jane Cornish. It was getting dark and the row was quiet and Alice felt that if she resolutely refused to acknowledge there was a body there, no ghosts would walk.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ demanded Wesley as he banged the outside door shut behind him. Truculently he strode across the kitchen and glared at Alice. But she was not going to be intimidated, not this time.
‘Somebody had to see to Meg and the bairn while you were gallivanting,’ she replied with some spirit. The baby stirred and she put her foot back on the rocker, moving it up and down gently.
‘Well, I never asked you to come, did I? Where’s Dolly Bates, then?’
‘She’s her own family to see to, hasn’t she?’ Alice puffed her lips out in disgust as she caught a whiff of beery breath. ‘Do you not want this broth then, since I made it?’
Wesley peered in the pan. ‘We can’t let good food go to waste,’ he conceded, almost as if he were doing her a favour.
Alice took the pan from the fire and spooned some into the bowl she had ready. She brought the loaf from the pantry and cut a couple of slices. After a moment, Wesley sat at the table and began eating. She watched him, wondering how on earth Meg could have got mixed up with such a lad. Seeing her sister in this pickle was enough to put Alice off men for life. She would make sure it didn’t happen to her, she surely would.
‘Meg’s sleeping now, she’ll feel better after a good sleep,’ Alice said dryly for a moment. ‘I’m sure you must have been worried.’
‘Eh?’
Wesley looked up in surprise, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
‘Well, have you been up to see her yet?’
‘I’ve been busy, haven’t I?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the front room. ‘I had to see the minister.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Alice, her tone a copy of Auntie Phoebe’s when she was censoring a man. ‘An’ of course you had to pass the Black Boy on your way?’
‘What business is it of yours what I do?’ demanded Wesley, his face purpling.
‘Somebody has to see to your wife and bairn,’ retorted Alice, unintimidated.
For a minute she thought Wesley would get out of his chair and hit her. She even stepped back a pace. But though he gave her a ferocious look, he ate another spoonful of broth before he spoke.
‘You’re an impittent bit of a lass, aren’t you? You want to watch your tongue, you do.’
‘And another thing,’ Alice was emboldened to say, ‘You’ll have to get someone in to help for a few days. I’ll do what I can and so will Mrs Bates, I daresay, but you’ll have to get someone else, especially on the day of the funeral. Now I’ll have to leave you to it, I have the lads to see to.’
She wrapped her shawl round her shoulders and walked to the door. Wesley watched her, saying nothing. He couldn’t think of anything to say. For the first time in his life he had to make domestic decisions himself and he just didn’t know what to do.
In the cradle at his feet the baby stirred, whimpering softly at first but soon setting up such a screaming that Wesley was convinced there must be something seriously wrong. Gingerly, he bent down and picked up the cradle, placing it on the table by his supper things. He rocked it with one hand, peering under the blanket at the red face all twisted up with rage. With some hesitation, he caught hold of the tiny, tightly closed fist waving in the air.
‘Now then, little ‘un, what’s up?’ he mumbled, but the squalling continued unabated. Panic-stricken, Wesley moved the blanket and picked up the flannel-wrapped bundle. He felt stiff and awkward and didn’t know what else to do when the baby went on crying. He was just considering knocking on the wall for Mrs Bates when he heard Meg’s voice, weakly calling down the stairs.
‘Fetch him here to his mam, Alice,’ she called, and with some relief Wesley made for the stairs with the decidedly damp and howling baby.
‘You’re back, then,’ Meg commented as she held out her arms and took the child. She eased herself up against the pillows and proceeded to take off the wet clout wound round Thomas’s bottom. ‘Howay, then, fetch us a clean clout from the dresser.’
Wesley did as he was told and then stood silently by as Meg made the baby comfortable before opening her nightdress and offering him her breast. With the baby quiet now apart from an occasional snuffle, Meg looked up at her husband.
‘How’re you managing, lad?’
Wesley shuffled his feet. ‘I’m all right. I’ve seen to the undertaker and the minister. Dolly’s been good an’ all.’
‘Did she get you some tea?’
Wesley shuffled his feet. ‘No, it was Alice. And an impittent bit she is an’ all! She made us some broth, like.’
‘She’s all
right, our Alice. It’s a wonder she comes near after the way you speak to her. You want to think. I’ll need somebody now your mam’s gone, for a few days, any road.’
Wesley opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it and sat down on the bed beside her instead. He gazed at his son, so firmly attached to Meg’s breast.
‘He’s a proper little Tommy Tucker, isn’t he?’ he said softly and grinned at Meg. She looked from him to the baby and back to Wesley, her eyes full of wonder and love. And for the first time in their short courtship and marriage, they were at one with each other. Wesley reached out one finger and stroked the baby’s cheek. He nodded his head with satisfaction.
‘I did well there, didn’t I? he said. ‘He’s a grand babby.’
Chapter Eighteen
Meg glanced at her reflection in the overmantel mirror, smiling in satisfaction as she noted her waist, slim once again after so many months. Why, it was almost two years. She looked down at Tucker who was cautiously standing on her feet and hanging on to his mother’s skirts to steady his perilous swaying. Bending down, she picked him up and swung him in the air, laughing and chuckling along with him.
‘Mam, mam, mam,’ he crowed, his hazel eyes, so like Wesley’s, shining with excitement.
‘Howay, me lad, we’re off for a walk, and blow the work,’ she said. The sun was streaming in the front room window, and though it was February there was an unseasonable warmth in the air, a touch of spring.
‘Now,’ said Meg, putting Tucker down on the clippie mat, ‘you sit there, pet robin, while I get your little brother ready.’ Tucker frowned and his bottom lip stuck out pettishly in his rosy, chubby face, but he didn’t protest.
Meg lifted the new baby from the cot. He was not yet a month old but already she could see the difference in personality between her two sons. Robert cried little, slept most of the time, and didn’t even protest when he was bathed.
The past few months had been tranquil enough for Meg, Robert’s birth had been easy and swift, and even Wesley had been more considerate to her. She hummed as she changed the baby’s clout and dressed him in the little woollen shawl Auntie Phoebe had knitted for him. Her aunt often came to see her now, and Alice too, though Meg’s heart ached for Da and the lads who still kept away. Da didn’t even want to see his grandsons. When Meg had met him by accident in the village one day, he had walked past her, not even looking at her or little Tucker who was with her. And that night, with Wesley away down the pit on shift so that she had the bed to herself, Meg had wept into her pillow for her father.