A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Eliza gave praise, then sat down, beaming. ‘Well, my dears, tuck in.’

  Outside, taking hungry bites from his paper-thin jam sandwich, Joe said to the boys, ‘I suppose we’re brothers now.’

  ‘Not real brothers.’ Edwin was sullen. ‘Our surname’s different to yours.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ asked Maddie, chomping.

  ‘Crump,’ provided Doris.

  Joe gave an impish snigger and elbowed Beata. ‘Mrs Crump did a trump!’

  His own siblings fell about giggling. The others, having been teased many times like this, were unamused. Whilst Edwin merely scowled, George set about the older boy, grasping Joe’s neck under one arm and pummelling his head with the other. Though never an instigator of fights, Joe was quick to lash out in his own defence.

  Hearing the noise, Probyn marched out, grabbed a boy in each hand and shook them, telling both, ‘You haven’t been introduced two minutes ago and you’re fighting already!’

  ‘It was him!’ Dangling by his collar, George indicated Joe. ‘He called my mother names!’

  Joe glowered at such audacity. One never told tales.

  Probyn shook him. ‘Did you?’

  Joe could not lie. ‘I only made a rhyme of Mrs Crump’s name!’

  ‘You’re old enough to know better!’ Releasing George unharmed, Probyn administered three sharp whacks to his son’s buttocks, then warned him. ‘It’s Mrs Kilmaster now, but the only name you’ll call her is Mother, do I make myself clear?’

  Humiliated at being treated like an infant in front of these strangers, twelve-year-old Joe hung his head and swore to obey, privately instructing himself not to get on the wrong side of this tell-tale again.

  * * *

  However, after a few days the two families began to merge into one, and though the Kilmasters did not like addressing Eliza as Mother, they showed the respect that their father demanded. There was little alternative but to get on in this overcrowded dwelling.

  With their father taking up his new position at the colliery yard, and Clem at the office in Rotherham, the children settled down to a routine of education. There being no Catholic school at Denaby, the Kilmasters were obliged to attend the same one as everyone else but were occasionally segregated from the rest of their class and sent to another room where Father Flanagan would come to give them instruction. Saddened to learn of their mother’s death he was kindness itself and, though peeved that her widower had remarried a non-Catholic, was nevertheless mollified that his offspring would continue to receive the teachings of the True Church.

  This was to have disadvantages in a mainly Protestant school, ones with which they had had to contend before. On Ash Wednesday, the Kilmaster children arrived with sooty crosses smudged on their foreheads and were immediately set upon by the others who taunted them as, ‘Mucky devils!’ Whereupon the boys launched into a fight that had the whole school involved and which served to get both Joe and Duke a caning and another good hiding when their parents were informed. Then, there was Good Friday, which had nothing good about it for there was Mass in the morning, Easter Vigil between one and four in the afternoon and Mass again in the evening. Belonging to the Church of England, neither Doris, Edwin nor George stuck up for their stepbrothers and sisters. It seemed to Beata that to enjoy the spiritual benefit of the True Church one had to suffer.

  There were, however, compensations.

  Falling easily into old habits, the nine-year-old would wait until she saw Father Flanagan staggering along to the shop for his mints, then pelted by a different route to be there ahead of him, gazing wistfully into the window.

  The ploy working more often than not, she tested her luck again this morning.

  ‘And what will it be today, Beat?’ He leaned on the shop window frame to steady himself, pulled a handkerchief from his darned cassock and used it to dab at the dewdrop on his thin nose.

  She looked downhearted. ‘I haven’t any money, Father.’

  ‘Ah dear,’ he heaved a theatrical sigh, ‘isn’t that the very devil?’ To tease the child, he made as if to walk on, amused by the look of horror that crossed her face as she thought he was going to let her down. Then he paused. ‘Tell me, Beat, what would you buy if ye did have the funds?’

  ‘Maybe some fat ducks, peas and potatoes – no, a lucky stick.’

  ‘Lucky stick, eh? Will it help in picking a winner d’ye think?’

  Beata did not understand that he meant horse racing. ‘It might do.’

  ‘Let’s go see!’ And, as she had hoped he would, Father Flanagan piloted her cheerfully into the sweet shop where he asked for, ‘A bag of my usual, Molly,’ whilst Beata went to a barrel for her purchase.

  She took ages, sorting through the sticks of rock, studying each closely as if trying to see through the wrapper.

  After a while, the priest turned and frowned, ‘Are they not all the same, Beat? I’ve another Confession to perform in three hours’ time.’

  Molly whispered in amused tone. ‘If there’s a black mark inside the wrapper you get a free stick.’

  He chuckled and indicated his purse. ‘She’s getting a free one already.’

  Having detected a winning lucky stick, Beata came forward and unwrapped it, announcing in false surprise. ‘Oh look, it’s got a black mark!’

  ‘Well, I never.’ Molly told her to run and claim her free stick, smiling at the priest. ‘I think we’ve both been had, Father – eh, madam, don’t be rummaging about looking for another winner!’ she warned the child. ‘There’s only so much luck in this world.’

  Laying his hand on Beata’s shoulder, a smiling Father Flanagan steered her from the shop. ‘I trust you’re going to share your good fortune with your brothers and sisters?’ Beata supposed she should. Naturally, upon discovering that she had sweets the others were all around her then, not just her siblings but the same children who had taunted her over her religion only days ago, all suddenly wanting to be her friend.

  And the generous Beata allowed them to be, even knowing that at the next Catholic ritual these same friends would chafe and mock her for her faith.

  The same thought was to occur at Whitsuntide when all the denominations marched together through town – Wesleyans, Anglicans and Salvation Army dressed in their new outfits, come together as one joyful band – and, marching happily alongside, Beata mused over the stupidity of it all: if they could merge today why couldn’t they get along the rest of the year?

  In such a climate of uncertainty it was comforting to have such a friend as Father Flanagan, plus other familiar faces such as Nurse Gentle, Mrs Rushton and the occasional visit from Augusta, for the children had quickly found their stepmother to be much stricter than their own. Owing to increased numbers there was more reason than ever for the household to be run along military lines and Eliza had quickly extended Probyn’s methods to every matter of domestic life. Regimentation was the order of the day, from bowels to bedtime. Hence, every morning began with a mad rush to be first in the queue for a dose of liquorice powder – not because any of them liked it, but because he who was first in line could also be first to the lavatory, the powder working faster than one could get one’s drawers down. Lacking aggression, Beata was always pushed to the back of the queue and would have to stand outside the closet, crossing her legs and begging the one inside to, ‘Please hurry!’

  With such a bad start, the rest of the day was bound not to get any easier, between mealtimes the children being banished from the house completely unless there were chores to be done, and of these there were many. On Monday they must clean their Sunday shoes and put them away for the rest of the week; Tuesday, mending and darning, the halfpenny card of wool being paid for out of their pocket money; Wednesday they tidied the bedrooms; Thursday, the girls blackleaded the range and the boys polished the fender; Friday, they rose at five cleaned the windows, washed the bricks beneath the sills and stoned the step – all of these tasks before school – yet, having helped around the house from an
early age, Probyn’s children did not consider themselves unduly hard done by.

  In fact, contrary to the austerity brought about by rising prices and unemployment elsewhere, life was rather good for the Kilmasters in those early months of 1920, Father’s allotment providing an abundance of food, their fuel supplied by the colliery.

  How Beata loved to watch the man who came every quarter to stack this for them, fascinated that he could sculpt such a work of art out of this mundane commodity – though this was no ordinary coal but large, top-quality stuff, clean and bright. Taking these slabs Elijah would erect a black polished wall, forming it in such a way that a space was left for them to get a shovel in. Totally absorbed, Beata would wait to pay him his sixpence, thinking his skill deserved much more.

  Yes, coal was one thing they would never be short of, even in summer there would be a fire in the grate, for this was the only way to obtain hot water, the doors and windows being flung wide open to get rid of the heat.

  Not that the Kilmaster children had cause to complain about being too hot, for they were rarely indoors and even less so once the summer holidays came, for their stepmother found them additional chores to do. Now, on Mondays, there was washday to contend with. The copper, which normally stood by the fire, would be dragged out into the yard, balanced on two chairs and thence the weekly wash would commence, the possing and rinsing and mangling taking hours. Even at midday they were not permitted to sit down and with only a slice and a half of bread each and a bit of cheese to keep them going, they would have been too tired for play even had they been allowed. Thankfully, Eliza did the ironing, which gave them leave to wander over the Crags or the Ings, staying out all day with a bottle of water and jam sandwiches for lunch. But on Friday evening each had to work on the clipping rug and to complete a square of it before they were allowed out to play and as it was usually seven thirty before they finished they were forced to go straight to bed.

  Probyn was a believer in everyone pulling their weight, but upon coming home from early shift one Monday afternoon to witness his children’s load, even he deemed this too heavy for such youngsters.

  Questioned about it, Eliza looked put out. ‘Are you saying I’m treating yours differently from my own?’

  ‘No!’ He couldn’t accuse her of that.

  ‘Because if you want to run the house like two separate camps it isn’t going to work.’

  He spoke firmly. ‘No, I said at the outset you’d be the one to run the house. But maybe I’ll just go give them a hand with the mangling and—’

  ‘You’re acting as if I’m using them as slaves!’ She was really offended now.

  He looked dismayed. ‘Nay, I’m just—’

  ‘You were the one who said they were used to it!’

  ‘And so they are, but—’

  ‘You didn’t marry me just so’s I could run around after them, did you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then come and sit down and stop talking daft!’ With a good-natured expression she laid determined hands on his shoulders and guided him to the table. ‘You’ve done your shift for today. It’s not as if they’ve got school to go to, and I’m the one who has to keep them occupied to stop them getting into mischief.’

  Seeing that her latter words were true, Probyn nodded thoughtfully, and, everything being rather new between him and Eliza, and not wanting to cause friction so early in this marriage, he decided to go along with her.

  Hence, the children’s workload was to continue.

  * * *

  But on Saturday there was to be some light relief with an unexpected visit from Augusta who had cycled almost forty miles from York and arrived pink-cheeked with exertion, auburn hair clinging to her perspiring face.

  ‘My God, you must have set off at sparrowfart!’ Eliza brought her a glass of water.

  The children giggled, having come to appreciate these small vulgarities.

  ‘About three o’clock.’ Puffing and blowing, eyes shining, Augusta fought to catch her breath. The children crowded round her as she propped her bicycle against the wall of the yard, their excitation not just for the arrival of their sister but for the peeping sound that came from the box that was tied behind the seat.

  After several gulps of water, Augusta wiped her brow, then removed the lid from the box to reveal several fluffy little heads. ‘Brought you some ducklings, thought you could fatten them up. Shall I put them in Father’s allotment?’

  ‘No, something might kill them.’ Grinning, Eliza joined the children in stroking the fluffy little creatures, who struggled to escape. ‘They’d better stay in the yard till they’re bigger.’ And she tipped them gently out of their container, whereupon they scurried about in panic.

  With the novelty of the ducklings wearing off, Eliza invited Augusta in for a cup of tea. ‘I suppose you’d better come in as well,’ she told the children grudgingly. ‘You don’t often get to see your sister. But you’ll sit quietly, mind.’

  This prompted a thought in Joe’s mind. ‘When will Aunt Charlotte be coming to visit?’

  Eliza eyed him, giving a momentary glimpse of flint. Probyn, too, had had the audacity to ask if his ex-sweetheart would be welcome. She had given him the same short shrift as she now gave Joe. ‘She won’t!’

  Accepting the blunt response, though not liking it, all traipsed into the shade of the house.

  Despite the presence of her siblings, Augusta still felt like a stranger here, and perched self-consciously on the edge of a chair. She smoothed her hair and clothes. ‘Is Father at work?’

  ‘Aye, he’s on six to two. He’ll be pleased to see you. Clem’s gone camping for the weekend with his pal.’

  Augusta was disappointed not to see her elder brother but his absence might simplify matters. ‘In that case could I have his bed for the night?’ Clem was the only one who did not have to share.

  Hanging on their stepmother’s permission, the children looked delighted when this was granted.

  ‘If you’re going to stop you might as well make yourself useful and do the shopping,’ said Eliza, reaching for a scrap of paper on which to write a list, and while the tea was being consumed she handed over money with instructions to go to Mexborough market, and also to purchase a joint. ‘I think we’ll have a bit of Pope’s Eye this week.’ Gathering her brothers and sisters, and also the three stepsiblings, Augusta set off. To Beata and the others it did not matter that they were off on yet another of Eliza’s errands, for here was dear Gussie to take charge and to let them look in the toy shop window and produce butterscotch as if by magic from her pocket.

  After visiting the market their last call was to the butcher’s shop for sausages, brawn and the Sunday joint, Augusta referring to the piece of beef by its real name.

  Rolling a piece of butterscotch between her palms to make it soft, Maddie frowned up at her sister. ‘Didn’t Mother ask for Pope’s Eye?’

  Augusta shushed her sternly. True, the cut end of the bone did look like an eye but this devout Catholic was not about to offend the Holy Father by employing Eliza’s nickname.

  But the butcher was not to know this. ‘There you are, my dear,’ he cried upon handing it over. ‘As grand a piece of Pope’s Eye as you’ll get anywhere!’

  Augusta compressed her lips, but forced them into a smile before leaving the shop.

  When they got home Father was eating his dinner. This was good, for his presence might make it easier for Augusta to put her query.

  But first came fond conversation with Probyn, who wanted to know all the news from York. Only when this was exhausted did his daughter turn to Eliza. ‘Would you mind if I take the children for a picnic?’

  ‘Mind?’ Eliza laughed. ‘I’d almost pay you. Well, if you’re staying out for tea you can take some of that brawn.’

  So, armed with sandwiches and a bottle of water, Augusta set off with the children, ostensibly for the enjoyment of the latter but in reality she hoped to benefit too.

  ‘Where we o
ff on our picnic?’ Never still, Joe leaped and tumbled beside her.

  ‘Just to Ivanhoe Castle.’ She headed for the limestone Crags.

  ‘I want to go to the Pastures,’ announced stepbrother Edwin.

  ‘You can’t. I’ve promised to meet somebody at the castle.’ Basket over her arm, Augusta strode out.

  ‘Who?’ all of them wanted to know.

  There was awkward deliberation. If she did not let them into the secret they might inform on her to Father. ‘No one you know. He’s called Vincent.’

  The girls fired questions at her. ‘Who is he? How long have you known him?’

  She tried to sound casual. ‘Just a young man. I met him last time I was here.’ In fact she had thought of no one else since that first meeting a month ago, hence her reason for travelling the thirty-seven miles again so soon. Augusta was besotted.

  Edwin showed disgust. ‘I don’t want to hang round while them sloppy devils are spooning.’

  Ignoring Augusta’s outraged gasp, George decided to be obstructive too. ‘Neither do I. Give us our sandwiches and me and Ed will go on our own. I’ll tell if you don’t let me.’

  ‘He will.’ Joe knew this for a fact.

  There was a brief argument before Doris sighed, ‘Oh, let them go!’

  ‘In that case, can we go an’ all?’ asked Joe on behalf of his brother Duke.

  Augusta sighed, but knowing the males would only be bored and perhaps would spoil her liaison she felt they would be happier in their own company. After a fumbling division of the sandwiches, the two groups parted company.

  Arriving at Conisbrough Castle, they saw a lone figure amongst the ruins. He was smoking a cigarette and looking ill at ease, though catching sight of Augusta he waved and came to meet them.

  ‘Is this him?’ Doris, Maddie and Beata looked keen.

  Augusta nodded with pleasure.

  ‘He’s right good-looking!’

  Little Mims saw past the dark curly hair and twinkling blue eyes. ‘Why has he got crooked legs?’ It was an innocent utterance but earned her a ticking off.