A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘All our chickens have died.’ Monty looked decidedly forlorn. ‘I can’t understand it.’

  Kit jumped in. ‘I’ll go buy some eggs from the farm now!’

  ‘Good!’ The doctor listed other commodities. ‘Eggs, milk, mutton, and fat bacon.’

  At the sight of her daughter near to vomiting, Sarah told him, ‘She can’t stand anything fatty, I’m afraid.’

  There was no pandering. ‘Make her eat it! Plenty of cocoa – and a glass of stout wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Monty and his wife shared a feeble joke that their daughter might become a drunkard. Beata was almost too weak to laugh, producing instead a sickly smile. Even that was wiped from her face by the sound of the continued prescription.

  ‘Cod liver oil or extract of malt, half a pint of cream a day.’ The doctor marked each off on his fingers. ‘I’ll give you a tonic too. As much fresh air as possible.’

  Immediately Kit sprang up to open the window.

  ‘For the pain in her chest, tincture of iodine must be painted over it. She must wear flannel – oh, she’s already wearing it, good. Right, well, I think that’s all I can do for the moment. Send for me if there’s no improvement.’ He was shown out by Owen, who left at the same time.

  Upon their exit, Sarah pinched her brow, wondering where the money was going to come from to buy all these necessities, muttering that he had no idea of how other people lived.

  ‘I don’t want to be a drain,’ tendered Beata.

  Sarah affected brusqueness and rolled up her sleeves. ‘If that’s your way of trying to get out of eating this, my girl, you can think again!’

  ‘Oh, please don’t mention food,’ came the barely audible request. ‘Me poor bum feels like it’s been passing nutmeg graters.’

  Trying to appear jolly, though she was extremely upset, Kit went off to buy some eggs. Returning with them, she delivered a fond kiss to Beata’s pale cheek, and said she would make an effort to get back to Ralph Royd as soon as possible. ‘And when I come again I expect to see you looking like Humpty Dumpty!’ But her joke hid an air of foreboding, and it was a wrench to leave, fearing Beata might not be here when she came again.

  * * *

  Noting Kit’s sombre mood on her return, and on ascertaining the reason, the housekeeper took pity and decreed that if the maid continued to show similar industry as she had during previous months then she could go home again on Whit Monday.

  Showing gratitude, and carrying a basket of eggs, butter and cream purchased out of her own reserves, Kit set off for Ralph Royd less than a week later to find the doctor there again.

  Far from the malady improving, Beata had been even more feverish, Sarah told her in the privacy of the scullery. They had even taken it in turns to maintain a night-time vigil, she had been so ill. Both women watched anxiously whilst the doctor attended the emaciated waif in the fireside bed. Beata’s face was almost grey and she had blue circles around her eyes.

  From outside came the sound of children playing, the shouts of glee somehow emphasized by the quietude in here.

  Upon completing his examination, the doctor was rather less cheerful than last time. ‘I’m going to prescribe belladonna for the night sweats —’

  A Welsh interjection: ‘Isn’t that dangerous, Doctor?’

  He beheld the mother with compassion and said they must do everything to make Beata comfortable – a glass of brandy would not go amiss.

  Even then, faced with the evidence in his eyes, Sarah would not allow herself to believe that her child was going to die. Little as she could afford the brandy she passed Kit a mug. ‘Go down to the Well and fetch some, will you?’

  The doctor made a joke to his patient. ‘I wish I had that sort of well.’

  From her pillow, Beata’s grey face performed the feeblest of grins.

  Anxious, Kit showed the physician out and afterwards set off for the Robin Hood’s Well, mug in hand.

  A procession was coming along the main street that was lined with villagers. The coal cart had been washed and scrubbed for Whitsuntide, its small occupants clad from head to toe in white, giddy with excitement. A batch of older boys and girls walked behind, clad in similar garb.

  ‘Aunt!’ Alice waved. ‘We’re off to sing an hymn for our Beata!’

  Kit waved back, yet the action lacked her normal enthusiasm and, upon observing her face, Alice and others broke free of the procession and ran up to her. ‘What’s up, Aunt?’

  She scolded herself for alarming them. ‘Nowt! I’m just running an errand for your mam – look out, they’re going without you.’

  But Alice, Merry and little Probyn insisted on tagging along, saying they would soon catch up with the procession, and all made their way to the whitewashed inn.

  Peggo was on hand to serve Kit as she pushed her mug across the bar, for once free of his painful limp. ‘Toothache, is it?’ His lips barely twitched, though his blue eyes twinkled.

  Kit found a smile and shook her head. ‘No, but it is medicinal – yes, it really is today.’

  Peggo continued to pretend disbelief, teasing the children who had accompanied Kit, until Alice piped up, ‘Our Beata’s badly.’

  The creviced face altered. ‘Eh, I’m reet sorry to hear that. Marion, fill this here cup wi’ brandy for these young lasses!’

  ‘I’m not a lass!’ objected Probyn.

  ‘I can see tha’s not!’ Peggo leaned over the bar to observe the child’s white garb. ‘Tha’s wearing lad’s breeks.’

  Whilst Marion did as she was bidden, Peggo made further enquiries as to Beata’s health. Kit formed a silent warning with her mouth, then bade the children run along or they would miss out on all the Whitsuntide fun. Only when they scampered out did she reveal to Peggo the true extent of Beata’s suffering, her eyes filling up with moisture as she recounted her niece’s appearance. He leaned on the counter, his coal-scarred hands clasped as if in prayer, periodically shaking his bald head and interjecting Kit’s dialogue with a genuine, ‘Eh dear, it’s a bad do,’ or other such sympathies.

  When Kit asked how much she owed for the brandy he told her, ‘Nay, it’s on t’house, love – and tell my sweetheart I hope she’s soon mended.’

  * * *

  As if his words were prophetic Beata did seem better when Kit was next permitted to visit, gabbling away to her aunt with great optimism about what she was going to do when she was fully recovered, saying she felt wonderful today.

  Kit observed her still bed-ridden niece. She had gained no weight and remained exceedingly frail, but her cheeks were indeed pink and there was a brightness to her eye that had not been there before. Moreover, she had attended to her hair, the mirror and brush still at her side.

  Kit gave a relieved exclamation. ‘Oh, I’m right glad to see you looking so well! You look radiant – doesn’t she, Sarah? Mindst, I don’t know why I’m so pleased. I won’t have any excuse to visit so often now.’ She grinned. ‘It must be Peggo’s brandy that did the trick.’

  Beata gave a weak chuckle. ‘He brought me some more, you know. Me mam says he’s trying to get me drunk so he can have his wicked way wi’ me.’ She shared a smile with Sarah, who stood at the table cutting up vegetables for tea. ‘I told her, you’ll have to put a bit more meat on me bones first.’

  ‘I’d gladly give you some of this.’ Kit jokingly indicated her own plump frame.

  With a trembling arm, Beata held up the mirror and criticized her appearance. ‘And I’d gladly swap this big conk – it looks even more like a beak with me face being so thin.’

  ‘At least you’re not the only one,’ comforted Sarah. As each had grown it had become clear that all her daughters would share this disfigurement.

  ‘Aye, it’s like living in an aviary what with all them beaks.’ But Beata’s witticism was suffixed by a genuine complaint. ‘The Lord must have an odd sense of humour, mun’t He? Why else would all us lasses have got me dad’s big sneck and the only lad among us has inherited me mam’s little ’un.’
Her mother said Probyn was too young for her to be able to tell yet. Asked where he was, she told Kit he now went to school with the others. He was in Baby Class.

  ‘Well, at least you know who to blame.’ Kit referred to her elder brother. ‘I’ve no memory of my parents at all. I don’t know which side your dad inherited his big nose from, nor Charity her thick hair.’ A smirk began to play around her lips. ‘Nor Gwen her thick neck.’

  ‘Nor Amelia her thick skull!’ Beata shook with laughter as she recalled some idiotic comment spouted by Amelia in the past. ‘Ooh, help me up, I’m gonna wet meself.’ She hauled herself out of the bed with Kit’s aid and stood facing her hand in hand, tottering and swaying.

  Sarah’s thin lips broke into a smile as the auburn heads came together in girlish merriment. ‘I’d hate to hear what you two say about me when my back’s turned!’

  Her daughter burst into fresh laughter, indicating guilt. Then, as if surprised, she drew back and half-coughed, half-vomited, and an array of bright scarlet drops peppered Kit’s bodice. Brushing aside the voiceless, wide-eyed apology Kit lunged forth with a cry as the front of her niece’s dress grew a crimson rose and Beata, missing the bed, fell to the floor. Sarah too came running to alleviate her daughter’s suffering, praying that it would not last. It did not. Within moments Beata’s eighteen years came to an end.

  Whilst Sarah panicked, called out and grasped at lifeless limbs, Kit was rooted to the spot by shock, not knowing what to do. For the first time in her life she saw her brother’s wife as a vulnerable human being. After the initial frenzy, the dreadful realization that there was nothing she could do, Sarah just kneeled on the floor at Beata’s side, totally lost.

  Kit began to sob. Deeply distressed, she wanted someone to hold and comfort her but Sarah had never been given to such displays, and Kit felt unable to offer succour in return now.

  Pale with shock, she mopped her face, then, weaving her handkerchief in and out of her fingers, drew breath and muttered tearfully, ‘I’d best fetch t’doctor.’ The thought produced fresh sobs.

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ Her mouth a bitter gash, her eyes black holes, Sarah stared at Beata, who remained sprawled upon the floor, her dead-weight impossible to lift even for the hefty Kit.

  Incapable of answering at first, Kit shuddered and took a deep inhalation. ‘I think you have to have someone qualified to tell you a person’s … dead.’ Her face crumpled again.

  ‘I don’t need a bloody quack for that,’ spat the bereaved mother.

  Oh, such bitterness! Hands clasped to her breast, Kit said she would go for Mrs Allen, and rushed to the neighbouring house. Her knocks and calls went unanswered, but aroused the neighbour on the other side.

  ‘She’s not in, pet!’ Mrs Kelly’s eyes took in Kit’s distressed features. ‘I just seen her pass my window.’ On ascertaining what was amiss the Irishwoman became immensely kind, saying she would send her daughter for the doctor whilst she herself went back with Kit to wait with Sarah.

  Even now her sister-in-law’s emotions remained in limbo. How can she be so hard? Kit asked herself, her own eyes sore from tears.

  Mrs Kelly had lost children of her own. At the sight of the forlorn figure kneeling by the body, she laid a hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

  ‘Would ye like me to help you shift her upstairs, darlin’?’

  Sarah lifted blank eyes to the inquisitor.

  ‘For the laying out,’ came Mrs Kelly’s soft explanation. ‘She’ll be better up there.’

  Sarah appeared to have been hit with a sledgehammer. For a second she did not speak, then the look of horror was replaced by a tone of authority. ‘Yes, yes, we can’t expect the rest of the children to come home to a … with …’ There was a long gap that signified acceptance, then she broke down sobbing and howling. Kit joined her grief, but at a distance.

  Mrs Kelly put one arm around the bereaved mother and took charge of the situation. ‘I can take two of the weans. They can spend the night at our house and I’ll arrange for someone else to take the rest. I’ll arrange the laying out too – you’ll not be wanting to do it yourself, pet.’ There was wisdom in her tone.

  Sarah gulped. ‘No, no! I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Then I’ll whip out now and fetch Mrs Feather so’s we can get your little girl more comfortable, and then I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Without speaking, Kit sniffed and indicated that she would do this, moving across to the range to attend the kettle. Before the tea was brewed, however, a grim-faced Mrs Feather and her team arrived carrying a board. Upon seeing it Sarah broke down again and, with Kit in tow, Mrs Kelly led the way to her own house.

  ‘Come along, dear. Let the ladies get on with their task. It’ll be a bit easier on you.’

  After they had spent a period of time – Kit was unsure just how long – in Mrs Kelly’s surprisingly clean house, being attended by this extremely kind and understanding woman, the doctor looked in.

  Refusing the offer of tea, he seemed anxious to be on his way, just hovered awkwardly to deliver his opinion. ‘Her heart gave out – I know what a dreadful shock it must have been for you, but, believe me, you must count it a blessing.’ He had witnessed many an agonizing death from consumption, had watched the suffocation go on for days. ‘It has spared her much pain.’

  Mrs Feather popped her head in then to say all was done, giving the doctor the chance to escape. With obvious trepidation Sarah and Kit went home.

  The living room was empty. Someone had been kind enough to remove the bloodstains too. Both steeling themselves against the ordeal, the bereaved women went upstairs. The children’s room had been rearranged, a bed dragged into the middle with a gap to either side of it. Upon it lay Beata, washed and wrapped in a white sheet, a white lace-edged handkerchief covering her face, and a pillow on either side of her head. Hesitantly, Sarah ventured further to lift a corner of the handkerchief. Beata’s jaw had been tied up with bandages which almost matched the whiteness of her skin. Little pads of damp cottonwool covered her eyes. All trace of blood had been washed away, but it would linger in Kit’s memory for ever. She did not want to be here. Beata was gone.

  ‘What about our Monty?’ Her trembling voice seemed an intrusion in this place of rest.

  ‘What about him?’ Sarah knew it sounded callous but did not care.

  Kit answered softly. ‘Shall I go and meet him, let him know?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Kit pondered, the inside of her skull feeling one throbbing salty mass of mucus. ‘Maybe I should go collect t’little uns from school first. If they find out from somebody else – aye, I will, then we’ll go meet t’lasses from work and wait for our Monty.’

  At Sarah’s lack of interest she hovered for a while, feeling excluded, overwhelmed by grief and shock over the suddenness of it all. Then she grabbed her shawl and left. Not until she was outside did she realize that for the second time today she had omitted to count to five. Ever after, she would never feel the need to do it again.

  * * *

  Owen had spent his entire day sloshing around in water. His boots were drenched, his whole body ached. He had added half an hour to his day by standing at the pithead after work trying to get men to join the union and he was now ready for his tea. But when he reached the end of Pit Lane and saw the long-faced group awaiting his brother who walked alongside him, all thoughts of his own discomfort vanished. It could only signify one thing.

  Instead of going home, he joined the sad procession, one coal-black hand on a child’s auburn head. At his brother’s abode, both he and Kit showed surprise that Monty underwent his usual ritual, stripping off his jacket and shirt and bending over the enamel bowl in the yard. Catching the accusation on their faces, Monty challenged them, his eyes red and anguished. ‘Beata’s not going anywhere, is she? The least I can do for her is wash myself.’ He plunged his hands time and again into the water, sluicing it over his head, experiencing an impotent rage at not being able to prevent hi
s daughter’s death, thinking that this was all his life would ever amount to, and that however hard he worked it would never restore that brief loving relationship he had once shared with Sarah. Their only bond was the children. And now the sweetest of those was gone.

  Inside, the clock had been stopped, the mirror and pictures covered, the curtains drawn. From that moment until their child was buried they dwelled in darkness. With their bedroom a chapel of rest and no space downstairs, the younger children stayed with neighbours, their siblings taking turns to maintain the vigil whilst their parents dozed. A mundane consideration shortened the viewing period: the weather was hot, speeding up decomposition, the funeral must take place within the next day or so. Throughout the duration there was a constant flow of friends and neighbours come to view the departed, though no one came from Wales; it was too far.

  In death as well as life, Mrs Feather saw to all the arrangements, organizing the food and the women who would serve it. A photographer came too. Sarah had never been one for likenesses but now in her grief she realized that the lock of Beata’s hair encased in a brooch was insufficient memento and bade him capture her daughter’s spirit.

  Kit thought it macabre. How could he portray Beata as she had been in life?

  As if affected by this same thought, on this, the day of the funeral, Sarah clutched the deathbed photo in her hand, deeming it unsuitable. ‘I’m going to use it to have a portrait made of her, but the artist will need to know her colouring.’ Her voice came out of the gloom, surrounded by a tide of ebony crepe. Lined up on a bench, her daughters with their prominent beaks and black garb looked like little crows upon a branch. Holding the face of each of her children in turn, she sought similarities. ‘Alice’s eyes are the nearest in colour to Beata’s – the shape of Rhoda’s face – Ethel’s chin—’

  Wanting desperately to give part of herself to Beata, Kit said, ‘My ears are just like Beat’s.’

  Sarah beheld her witheringly, as if Kit were trying to be amusing. ‘I hardly think you’ve anything to contribute that her sisters can’t.’