by Maggie Hope
Next morning there was a headline in the Durham Post and also in the Sunderland Echo. Man found drowned in the Wear at Chester-le-Street, it read.
The body of an unknown man who appeared to be a tramp has been found washed up in reeds by the side of the River Wear at Chester-le-Street. The coroner has been informed.
‘I know it is Thomas,’ said Eliza.
‘You do not know, how can you?’ Peter replied, trying to calm her down, for she sounded hysterical. She was at the end of her tether, he thought, so white and strained-looking. He tried to reason with her. ‘It could be any one of a number of tramps who go from workhouse to workhouse looking for a bed. You know they do.’
‘No, it’s Thomas. I can feel it in my bones. It says here he is in the mortuary at Chester-le-Street. I have to go and find out for myself.’
‘I’ll come with you if you insist on going,’ said Peter with a sigh.
‘No, you go to work. I’ll see Anne off to school and then I’ll go round for Lottie. I’m sure she’ll want to come.’
‘Well if it is him, she’s the next of kin. She’ll have to identify him.’
‘Aye, legally she is. But who could be closer to him than his mother?’
Wisely, Peter simply shrugged for an answer.
Eliza and Lottie drove to Chester-le-Street in the trap. They said little on the way, for all their thoughts were concentrated on what lay ahead. Lottie told herself that she hoped it was not Thomas lying in the mortuary, that he had recovered and gone off, left the country for ever, taken a berth on a ship going out of Seaham Harbour or Hartlepool or somewhere else along the coast. She did not want it to be Thomas lying dead on a slab in a mortuary. Of course she did not, she repeated to herself. Yet the bruises on her thighs and breast were in the colours of the rainbow now and she wore a high-necked shirtwaister to cover up the bruises on her neck. At least the throbbing inside her had quietened down.
‘Dear God, don’t let it be my Thomas, my little Tot,’ breathed Eliza as they stopped in front of the mortuary and climbed down from the trap, yet she was sure it was. She put the nosebag over the head of the pony and she began munching quietly, used to waiting outside a house for her mistress.
The mortuary was locked up but there was a small notice on the door indicating that the keyholder lived close by, and Lottie went in search of him.
‘He’s a tramp, missus,’ he said. ‘Still, you can look, make sure it’s not your man.’
‘It is my man, though,’ Lottie mumbled to herself as she stood and gazed down at the corpse on the table. His face was mottled a pale blue and yellow like a waxwork and totally expressionless. Behind her, Eliza stood in the doorway, dreading to come any closer and have her fears confirmed.
‘What? What do you say?’
Lottie was unable to speak or to answer Eliza for a moment or two. She could not even look up; her eyes were glued to Thomas’s face.
‘Tell me! Tell me, damn you!’ Eliza shouted and the mortuary attendant drew nearer.
‘Now, missus …’ he began and put a hand on her arm. She shrugged it off as she finally found the strength to move forward and look down on the face of her son.
‘Thomas,’ she said quietly, seeming to shrink into herself, swaying. Lottie had to grab her quickly before she slid to the ground.
‘Now then, Eliza,’ she said. ‘Hold up.’ But she had to take her mother-in-law’s whole weight for a minute or two.
The attendant led them to the outer office where there were chairs for them to sit down. Neither woman was crying.
‘It was because of his father,’ said Eliza. ‘My poor lad, if only his father had been different. Thomas didn’t deserve to die like this, though. He was such a good lad, Lottie, he was.’
‘I know, Eliza, I know,’ Lottie answered, though she was barely following what her mother-in-law was saying. In truth, Lottie felt quite numb. She desperately wanted to get out into the fresh air; she felt she could hardly breathe. But there were papers to sign and questions to answer before the two of them could get away. Then at last they were free to climb back into the trap to return to Durham City. Lottie took the reins, turning the pony around and setting off down the road while Eliza lapsed into a dumb misery.
It was only after Lottie had left Eliza with Peter and gone back to her own little house and closed the door behind her that she could give way to her own feelings and mourn for Thomas and what might have been. She wept for a while, then dried her eyes, heated water for a bath and sat in it before the fire, her knees drawn up to her chin. The fire flickered in the darkening day, then died to a steady red glow, which warmed her bare shoulders and back.
The water cooled and the fire died down and still she sat there. It was only when the crust of cinders fell into the ashes with a small crash that she started out of her reverie. She had not realized how cold she had become: she was shivering and her teeth chattered. Stiffly, she stood up and pulled the towel from the brass line above the fire, before stepping out of the tin bath and towelling herself dry. She pulled on her flannel nightgown and walked upstairs in her bare feet, then climbed into bed and curled herself into a ball.
She even welcomed the iciness of the sheets as she lay there full of guilt for she knew not what. Some of what had happened must have been her fault. She could have done something to help Thomas, to save him from himself.
Eventually the bed warmed and Lottie’s shivering stopped. It was quite dark as her eyes closed and she fell into an exhausted sleep, too deep for dreams.
The funeral was a low-key affair held at the Methodist Chapel in Old Elvet. It was a large church and the few mourners occupied only the front two pews. Five minutes into the service a couple entered the church quietly and sat down at the back. It was only as the people were following the coffin out of the church that Lottie lifted her head and saw that Mr and Mrs Snape were standing quietly to one side. She felt a rush of gratitude that they had come all the way from Newcastle to Thomas’s funeral in spite of the fact that he had besmirched the reputation of the firm.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Lottie said to Alice and her husband quietly as they moved away from the open grave later, after the interment. She nodded towards Eliza and Peter, walking with Anne between them a short distance in front. ‘His parents will appreciate it, as I do.’
‘Oh, Lottie, we are so sorry for your trouble,’ said Alice.
‘I know, Alice,’ Lottie replied. ‘You were a good friend to me when I needed a friend. I am grateful to you.’ She paused and glanced at Mr Snape. ‘Won’t you both come to the funeral tea? It’s just in the chapel schoolroom. I dare say you could do with some tea.’
Alice glanced at her husband, who shook his head imperceptibly. ‘If you don’t mind, Lottie, we won’t,’ she said. ‘We must get back.’
Lottie nodded, understanding that it would have been just a step too far after what Thomas had done to the firm.
‘Do come up and see us soon, Lottie,’ Alice said as their carriage approached. Lottie did not miss the look of alarm on Mr Snape’s face nor the obvious relief when she murmured a non-committal reply. She waited until the carriage moved away, then turned to where Bertha and Charlie Carr were standing with Peter and Eliza. She doubted if she would want to go back to Newcastle for a very long time.
It took quite a time for Lottie to settle down to the routine she had just begun to establish since she had returned to Durham from Newcastle. She had nightmares; dreadful terrifying nightmares, all involving Thomas returning from the grave and climbing into her bed. She would wake, screaming, as she visualized him reaching out to her, forcing her to do what he wanted, raping her again. There was no one she could talk to. Eliza was her confidante, and how could she tell such things to Thomas’s mother?
Eventually, she began to work again. She resumed the ‘Home Notes’ page for the Durham Post and took her turn at reporting cases at the magistrates’ court and even at the assizes.
‘Lottie? What are you doing still here
?’
Jeremiah Scott put his head around the door of the small room where she was typing up her notes one evening. Lottie had had a busy day. Not only had she attended court but she had had to finish off her ‘Home Notes’ page, for tomorrow was Friday and the paper would be going to press.
‘Oh! I’m just about finished now,’ she replied, pulling the foolscap sheet from the typewriter and putting it on the growing pile by the side. She rose from her chair, feeling a little flustered, and promptly staggered and would have fallen were it not for the fact that Jerry stepped forward quickly and caught hold of her.
‘Are you not well, Lottie?’
He looked down at her, his concern evident in his expression. He was still holding her; she could feel his arms around her warm and comforting. She felt she could have stayed there for ever. If only … Lottie shocked herself by the turn her thoughts were taking. She pulled herself up quickly and backed away from Jeremiah.
His expression changed and his hands dropped to his sides.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding stilted. ‘I did not mean to be too familiar.’
‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘Please don’t apologize! You were being kind, you are always kind to me.’
Lottie could still feel where his arms had been on her; she blushed like a schoolgirl and looked down at her work in an effort to hide it. With agitated hands, she picked up the pile of typescript and began to straighten it on the surface of the desk, in the process dropping half of the pages on the floor.
‘Oh, Lottie,’ Jerry exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees just as she did the same, and beginning to help her pick up the scattered pages. ‘For heaven’s sake!’
His fingers brushed hers and suddenly he took hold of her hand and pulled her to him. The carefully typed pages dropped yet again, but they were forgotten as he drew Lottie to him and smothered her with kisses.
Lottie forgot everything but the overwhelming feelings he was arousing in her. She sank to the floor with him and let herself drown in them. In fact, she was incapable of doing anything else. It was the most natural thing in the world and not at all wrong or sinful.
‘My love,’ he whispered and exhilaration swept through her. He lifted her and carried her to the couch before the fire. It was narrow and meant only to accommodate one lying down, but somehow it did not seem too narrow for them both but perfectly comfortable.
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.
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 w
as 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.