A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘I wonder what sort of wedding dress she’ll choose.’ Kit hid a titter behind her hand, as did Beata in her reply.

  Knowing whom they were discussing, Alice wanted to share the fun but even when standing on tiptoe could not see over the bar. ‘Will you lift me up, Aunt?’ Her request ignored, she repeated it again and again.

  ‘Behave yourself!’ Her sister grabbed the cup off her and continued to share the whispered joke with Kit, careful not to let the subject of their amusement witness their fun, for it was not their intention to be hurtful.

  There was a strip of panelling along the lower half of the bar. Somehow Alice managed to achieve a foothold on its inch-wide platform, hauled her upper body over the counter and propped herself up on her elbows.

  From here one could catch a narrow glimpse into each section of the public house – the taproom with its sawdust and spittoon, bare boards and iron tables, its ceiling brown with tobacco smoke; the best room to the left where sat the junior colliery officials in their suits, collars and ties, reading newspapers in leather-bound comfort; the snug to their immediate right where women – definitely not ladies, accused Sarah – sat gossiping and knitting over glasses of stout. And there was Maid Marion serving on! Alice grinned and fixed the barmaid with her fascinated gaze whilst her aunt and sister continued to share their private joke.

  Marion was not the barmaid’s chosen name, but folk being what they are and the pub being called Robin Hood’s Well, it was a label that had stuck. Though not as tall as Kit, she lacked her feminine roundness. Her build was angular, with long arms and long knuckly fingers. The fact that she had wound her dark hair into a bun and arranged a dainty little fringe of curls upon her brow and around her ears could do nothing to convince folk that she was anything other than a man in a dress, for twixt the dainty curls and the frilly lace collar protruded a huge Adam’s apple.

  Far from inviting discrimination, Marion had been eagerly hired by the brewery officials, not from any altruistic motive but because they saw her as an attraction for the curious and hence good for custom. Marion recognized this – hated it but accepted it. With strangers her communication was limited to a nod and a fleeting smile, her eyes never meeting theirs, for to unleash one word was to confirm the newcomer’s suspicions. Only amongst her own did Marion feel free to enjoy the conversation, no one batting an eyelid at her deep voice. The publican’s wife accepted her at face value and even swapped knitting patterns with her. There was similar acceptance from the rest of this community. Strange as it might seem, despite the odd sly nudge, no one in this overtly masculine environment, not even the most hard-bitten, foulest-mouthed, ignorant labourer, had ever laid the accusation at Marion’s size twelve feet that ‘she’ was a big fraudulent jessy. Indeed, the miners treated her with the same respect accorded to their wives. Only the young could not curb their fascination.

  Alice continued to give vent to hers until the much rowdier bunch in the taproom erupted into bouts of swearing. Bright-eyed, the little girl exclaimed, ‘Eh, they’re having a spitting contest!’

  Beata gave a sound of disgust and craned her head over the bar for a glimpse into the taproom, but drew back immediately at the shower of tobacco-coloured spittle that arched across the room in her direction. That it was not aimed at her but at the spittoon at the foot of the bar mattered not one jot. Beata yanked the straps of Alice’s pinafore and pulled her back below counter-level.

  ‘Mother’d have a fit if she thought you were learning such things!’

  Alice pulled her clothes back into position and waited, hopefully to be served by Marion, but to her disappointment it was the publican who arrived to take their order. Jim Wilcox – Peggo, to close friends – had once been a miner until the loss of his right leg had elevated him to a brighter world. By aid of a crutch, he limped towards them. The artificial leg that had earned him his nickname was missing today, its chafing having caused great painful ulcers to appear on his stump and had subsequently been tossed out of the window in a moment of agonized rage. He would go and retrieve it in a week or so when the ulcers had subsided. Until then he was forced to rely on the wooden crutch that was tucked under his armpit.

  ‘Nah then.’ The voice was deep but quietly respectful, the blue eyes twinkling despite his pain. ‘What can I get for you young ladies?’

  Kit pushed the cup across the counter and said she would like a measure of brandy.

  Peggo, aware of tomorrow’s wedding, observed, ‘Tha’ll not have much of a celebration on that.’

  Kit laughed and said it was not for the wedding but was purely medicinal.

  Peggo winked knowingly. ‘Oh yes, we’ve had a lot of folk in here wi’ toothache today.’

  A roar went up from the taproom as one of the contestants completely mis-aimed and defaced the whitewashed wall with tobacco juice. Peggo seemed oblivious, continuing to lean on the bar and chat to the young women. Like most people in the village, Peggo was friendly with Kit but she could not help noticing that he concentrated most of his attention on Beata, for whom he obviously had a particular fondness. Had he been a younger man Kit would have said he was in love with her, but that was mere fantasy for one could almost see one’s reflection in the expanse of baldness between the two strips of dark hair, and the smiling creases upon his face gave him the air of an indulgent grandfather.

  ‘I’ll have a jar when you’re ready, Peggo!’

  Kit noticed the barest alteration in Peggo’s calm expression, though he made no detour from his conversation.

  ‘So, how’s that baby brother of yours?’ Momentarily, he tore his eyes away from Beata’s pleasant face to address Alice, who once again was balanced atop the counter attempting to see into the taproom.

  At her sister’s lack of interest, Beata supplied the answer. ‘He’s grand – well, we think so, don’t we, Kit? Me mam isn’t so sure.’

  Wincing at the pain in his stump, Peggo rolled his eyes and leaned on the counter. ‘Ooh, a bit of a lad, is he? I saw him out with your mam t’other day. He doesn’t look like collier material to me.’

  Kit laughed and said, ‘Perhaps not this week.’

  Peggo explained. ‘Nay, but he’s such a dainty little—’

  ‘Oy, Peggo! Is tha deef? I’m gaggin’ o’ thust here.’

  With barely a hint that he had heard, Peggo nodded mildly and continued – ‘dainty little thing. My lad had hands like shovels as soon as he were bor—’

  ‘Oy!’

  Peggo formed a most dignified apology. ‘Would you young ladies please excuse me one moment?’ Reaching for the crutch that leaned against the counter, he pivoted slowly and deliberately to face the taproom, fixed the oafish face across the bar with an artificial smile, then with one expert and frequently practised movement brought the wooden crosspiece of the crutch down on the other man’s head like a mallet, felling him instantly and rendering him semi-conscious and bleeding into the spittoon.

  Without losing one iota of equilibrium, Peggo turned back to the astonished girls and spoke as if without interruption, ‘—as soon as he were born. I can pick ’em straightaway. I doubt very much your Probyn’ll make his way down t’pit.’

  Not knowing quite how to react, Kit nodded and smiled and, paying for the brandy as quickly as she could, almost fell out of the public house whence she and Beata broke into peals of laughter.

  Alice danced alongside of them, full of admiration for Peggo. ‘That were right good, weren’t it? Eh, is Mr Wilcox coming to Aunt Amelia’s wedding? I hope he bashes somebody there – it’d be a right lark.’

  Eyes watering, Kit spluttered. ‘I could have done with his help in dealing with a few people at Cragthorpe Hall!’

  Alice wanted to know who, but Beata ignored her to ask Kit, ‘Are they still troubling you?’

  ‘Who?’ repeated Alice.

  ‘Nobody you know,’ Kit told the child and muttering to Beata that little pigs have big ears, said she would tell her all about it when they could grab a few moments al
one.

  * * *

  There was no chance of such intimacy that day nor the next, for the wedding preparations took up every waking hour. There were baths to be taken, hair to be coiffed, flowers to be carried to the chapel, vegetables to be dug up, food to be cooked, baked, roasted and transported to the Sunday school room – all this to be undertaken in a buffeting September wind.

  The guests, all dandified in their wedding attire and eager to escape from the elements, jostled their way through the entrance porch, only to discover as they filed down the aisle and slipped into their wooden pews beside the rest of the congregation that it was as cold within, the chill travelling up from the floor and permeating flimsy wedding slippers. Yet at least, Kit was glad to observe, the usual austerity was relieved by brilliant splashes of colour from rows of fruit and vegetables, deposited here for harvest thanksgiving, and the vases of gold and ivory chrysanthemums whose scent mingled with wax polish and Flora’s liberally applied lavender water. Uplifted by the occasion – as much out of thought for her own wedding as out of happiness for her sister – Kit almost drowned out the piano with her rendition of ‘Rock of Ages’ and had to be nudged by a disapproving Gwen for trying to outshine everyone else.

  There followed a prayer by the circuit minister, during which children fidgeted and others offered blunt comment.

  ‘Nowt much of a preacher, is he? I’m glad I don’t have to rely on him to get me a place in Heaven, he’d bore the Lord to tears.’ Owen did not usually attend the same chapel as his brother, deeming its congregation of pit manager, deputies and tradespeople too bourgeois. His own primitive rantings taking place in a basic wooden mission hall, he held the opinion that Sarah only dragged her family here out of snobbery.

  After a final hymn and a prayer, the congregation began to file out, some openly weeping their happiness, others stoical, but all smiling in approval of the band of singers who rendered the ‘Wedding Anthem’ – until it was realized that the choir sought payment of ten shillings for the performance and an argument ensued between the circuit minister and the groom, both of whom refused to cough up.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Albert said for the third time, ‘but I didn’t hire them.’

  ‘And neither did I,’ retorted the minister.

  ‘Yes, but they’re part of your congregation,’ the groom reminded him.

  ‘In the capacity of pledging their hearts to God,’ said the minister. ‘Not in the form of entertainment. These men are perfectly aware of my views on the subject.’

  ‘But I weren’t!’ objected Albert.

  ‘Thou enjoyed our singing, didn’t tha?’ demanded the spokesman for the choir.

  ‘Thoroughly.’ Albert turned to him calmly. ‘I just didn’t realize it was costing me two bob a verse.’

  ‘Look, never mind that!’ butted in a member of the choir. ‘Who’s gonna pay us?’

  ‘Not I!’ The minister and Albert spoke in unison.

  There was angry grumbling. Amelia was growing flustered and embarrassed. Seeing this, an annoyed Kit delved into her purse and thrust a coin at the leader of the choir. ‘Here, take it and clear off!’ Then she herded the guests towards the Sunday school room, only to be chivvied by Sarah, who deemed her to have more money than sense.

  Amelia, however, thanked Kit for saving the day and upon greeting her guests at the door of the schoolroom conducted them all to view the splendid gift that Kit had bought her, displayed amongst the sheets, towels, pillowcases, tablecloths, dusters, pots and pans. Not wishing folk to think she had bought the gift in order to outdo anyone, a modest Kit directed them instead to look at the canteen of cutlery donated by Mr and Mrs Dolphin.

  ‘They must have a bob or two,’ commented Charity in her leisurely drawl. ‘Very generous with it, an’ all.’ She went on to ask for Kit’s opinion on her employers.

  ‘She’s all right,’ conceded Kit. ‘I don’t care for him, though – he’s got slack lips.’

  The female listeners gave murmured understanding. The men merely looked at each other quizzically, wondering if they too were in possession of this obviously repellent feature.

  The guests’ attention was drawn back to Amelia and her groom, who were posing for the photographer. ‘Albert’s parents have come from Lancashire,’ said Flora, in a tone that conveyed admiration.

  ‘Never mind, we won’t hold that against them.’ Peggo winked at Beata, who grinned back. Alice watched him closely, hoping that someone would provoke him into using his crutch as a weapon.

  There were further quips from Owen about the groom’s parents having the surname Groom and, now that Amelia had married into them, the bride was now a Groom. Charity deemed Albert to be a good-looking chap even if he did have short legs and his fair hair was rather thin. He had kind blue eyes, she said.

  ‘Oh, don’t our Amelia look splendid?’ Gazing upon the bride in her head-dress of autumn flowers, Gwen’s waxen features had become rather tearful. ‘And she’s awfully like Mother, don’t you think? Apart from her ginger hair, that is.’

  Whilst Monty, Flora and Charity agreed, Kit experienced a pang of jealousy that her elder siblings had enjoyed more time with their parents and thus knew more about them. To Kit they were simply shadows.

  She glanced at Ivy, who was accompanied by her sweetheart. Kit thought it had been rather a nerve of her to ask if she might bring him. In the few months that the couple had known each other they had only met three or four times to Kit’s knowledge, and it wasn’t as if they were engaged. But the bride had not seemed to regard this as impudence. Indeed, Amelia had voiced much eagerness to help the relationship towards the path of happiness. Which was more than she had ever offered to do for Kit, came the sad thought.

  Following Kit’s gaze, Charity noticed that Ivy and her beau looked rather excluded, and sought to involve them in the conversation, asking when would their happy day be. Ivy looked coy and replied that he hadn’t asked her yet, upon which Gwen tried to bully the poor boy into making a proposal, though he smilingly refused to buckle.

  ‘Can I be your bridesmaid?’ asked six-year-old Wyn.

  Ivy, fearing that her beau would be scared off, stammered that she would like nothing more but she did not know if she would be able to afford the material for so many dresses, for to have one was to have all. Wyn bemoaned having so many sisters; she could never hope to be bridesmaid when every bride made the same complaint.

  Fondling the child’s bony shoulder, Kit made a promise. ‘Come what may, you’ll all be attendants at my wedding.’

  Gwen quashed the child’s hopes. ‘Wyn’ll probably be wed before you are.’

  Beata thought it mean to single Kit out. ‘Before me too.’ Always a rather sickly individual, she felt it was unlikely that anyone would want her either. In this she and Kit shared a bond.

  Peggo fought the nagging pain in his leg to portray chivalry. ‘Nay, they’ll be queuing up to court these two. If I wasn’t spoken for meself I wouldn’t know which of’em to choose.’ Both young women smiled their gratitude.

  The photographer finished his business and went back to his studio in Castleford. The guests were summoned to the tables, being waited upon by Mrs Feather, who presided at every birth, marriage and funeral in the village, and her select band of helpers, amongst them Marion from the pub.

  ‘Here, you can’t enjoy yourself properly with that encumbrance.’ Kit divested a grateful Sarah of the baby and made a joke at her own expense. ‘With Probyn on one arm I won’t be able to eat as much.’

  She seated herself at the largest of the tables, which also accommodated the bride and groom, Albert’s parents, Sarah, Monty, his siblings and their spouses. The score of chattersome children sat at a table of their own, as did other guests of lesser status. Squeezed between Owen and his wife, Meg, Kit eyed Flora, opposite, who was sniffing suspiciously at a forkful of ham. The bride noticed too and looked apprehensive – surely, today of all days her sister could withhold this bad habit. Nothing passed this fussy eate
r’s lips without being examined for at least ten seconds.

  Others had obviously noticed too. Amelia could bear it no longer. ‘It’s not manky, you know!’

  Flora, realizing what she was doing, blushed and stuttered that of course it wasn’t, and somewhat reluctantly inserted the forkful of ham between her lips, whilst her husband’s expression told that he wished he were somewhere else.

  Trying to divert Amelia’s attention from the annoyance, Kit delved on to her own plate and made appetizing noises, chewing happily and smiling down at the sleeping Probyn. ‘That brandy certainly did the trick.’ A teaspoonful of milk laced with a drop of liquor had been dribbled on to Probyn’s tongue before the service, guaranteeing them an undisturbed afternoon.

  Albert’s mother looked shocked and asked if this was wise, which offended Sarah, but once again Kit smoothed things over by drawing notice to the brooch at Amelia’s throat and gushing how pretty it was and how kind it had been of Sarah to lend it to her, as the ‘something borrowed’.

  Albert’s father seemed to be enjoying his meal, his knife and fork in constant motion, though his brow wore a puzzled frown. Once again, Amelia showed anxiety. ‘Is everything to your taste, Mr – I mean, Father-in-law?’

  Mr Groom raised his eyebrows but lowered his voice, leaning confidentially towards Sarah on his right. ‘I don’t want to alarm anybody but that woman there, I don’t think she’s really a woman.’

  Everyone automatically turned to look at Marion. Sarah explained to Mr Groom that all were acquainted with Marion’s foibles and ‘she’ was accepted by everyone in the village. ‘It’s a crying shame really, she’s a lovely man.’

  Beata and Kit tittered at the slip.

  Mrs Groom senior was aghast, hardly able to tear her eyes from the man in the dress. ‘I wonder what his parents make of him.’