‘Listen to her!’ accused one of the gossips. ‘The cold-hearted cat. Can’t even wait till the poor little mite’s buried and she’s gallivanting with fellas.’
‘It’s plain to see why t’poor bairn died! Her mother – if you can call her a mother – were too bothered about getting dolled up and enjoying herself to feed it. She wants hanging!’
There were further such comments as Kit and Popplewell returned later, having walked for miles. Again, he looked up to try and measure the effect they had on her, but Kit appeared to be in a daze.
She was to remain in such a stupor throughout the day, refusing all efforts to feed her, but existing on copious amounts of tea. At mid-afternoon, Mr Popplewell said he would have to go and prepare his ingredients for this evening’s dinner party, but he would be back in order to see she did not spend the night alone.
Monty looked in on his way home from the pit and asked if she would like to come and eat tea with his family. Kit refused.
When darkness fell around five o’clock, she summoned enough energy to draw her curtains, then returned to her chair by the fire.
For hours there was only silence, and the occasional hiss of gas from a lump of coal.
Then came a voice from outside. At first Kit assumed it was Mr Popplewell and did not move from her chair.
‘Come out, bitch!’
Her skin prickled. She cocked her head to listen, but still did not rise.
‘Out! Out! Out!’
Stumbling from her chair she pulled aside the curtains and peered out into the darkness. There was no streetlamp nearby. Initially she could see nothing but the glow of a lantern, but eventually she could just make out the shape of several figures. Immediately she dropped the curtain in fear. What did they want of her?
‘Come out here!’ A series of bangs on her door made her jump.
Stricken with anger as well as fear, she hurried to open it. There were about a dozen men and women present, one of them holding a straw effigy on a pole.
‘What do you want? Go away!’
A lump of ice hit her in the face. Thinking it was glass, for it hurt as much, Kit gave a cry and examined her hands for signs of blood.
‘That’s for the babby!’
‘Burn her!’
With this, someone set light to the effigy. Kit saw to her horror that it was meant to represent her, its hair fashioned from red wool and its chest puffed out like her own bosom. Terrified, she slammed the door and pulled the bolt across, leaning against it, fearing they might try to break it down. A roar went up from outside, the glare from the fire visible through her curtains. There was chanting, people marching up and down outside her door, hurling insults through her letterbox. Pressing her hands over her ears Kit sank to the floor, cowering.
Then came the sound of a horse and trap and another voice – Mr Popplewell!
‘Leave her alone! You frigging bastards, I’ll—’
Kit heard his voice cut off by a blow. There were scuffles and thuds and grunts of pain.
Jumping up, Kit looked out of the window to see her friend being attacked from several fronts. Without thought, she hauled back the bolt and dashed outside to help him – but immediately someone grabbed her hair and pulled her back and forth, hands groped her body, nipping, ripping, scratching, a man grasped her round the waist and pretended to copulate with her. In a hail of blows Popplewell dropped to the floor and fell victim to his attackers’ boots. In the flickering light of the burning effigy Kit saw the vicious kick being aimed at him and let out a scream as it made sickening contact. She screamed and screamed.
Then, amid the pandemonium, others came running, dragging the attackers aside and raining blows upon them. Kit saw Peggo’s crutch make impact with someone’s head and fell him like an ox before, in the confusion, she was knocked over, still screaming and crying as the attackers were routed and those still conscious disappeared into the night.
Kinder hands took charge then, steered Kit into her cottage, carried the bleeding Popplewell in after her. Deeply distressed and sobbing, Kit could hardly catch her breath.
‘’Sall right, flower, it’s all right!’ came Marion’s deep voice. ‘They’ve gone, the buggers.’ She grabbed a dishcloth and went to tend Popplewell, who was just coming round, though his face was discoloured and gashed. ‘Look, your friend’s waking up. He’ll soon mend.’
Peggo went outside to pick up his crutch on the floor, having only brought it to use as a weapon. ‘The drunken sods, I heard ’em chuntering about thee earlier. If I’d known what they were up to … !’ He hovered over Kit, looking disturbed, for she was obviously in no fit state to be left.
Popplewell was sitting up now, wavy hair awry. Suddenly aware who it was that was tending him, he took the cloth from Marion and held it to his own head whilst at the same time enquiring after his friend.
Well equipped to cope with physical violence but not a woman’s grief, the three faces adopted a look of uncertainty over the banshee wails that now rent the air. Kit had just come to realize that her baby was truly dead.
* * *
How ironic thought Kit, when indeed she was capable of any rational thought, that the agony of grief was just like that of giving birth; swamping her in great uncontrollable waves, pushing her to the very brink of the precipice, before mercifully subsiding into a bearable numbness.
After the inquest at the Robin Hood’s Well, the village gossips had been silenced by the awful truth and were ashamed, though it was inevitable that a few of the groundless rumours would persist, the more wicked among them holding the view that Kit had brought it on herself. Paradoxically, the family that had gathered round to shield her from these calumnies were now driving her insane with their own well-meant platitudes – not to mention their squabbles. Owen had turned up at the funeral, but all attempts at conciliation between the two brothers failed. Kit was angered that they extended such childish nonsense to her child’s entombment, was seized by the urgent need to get away – but where? Wherever she went, nothing could take her mind off this terrible sadness. The mere glimpse of a baby drew tears, and to hear its cry was veritable torture. She who had always derived joy from the news that another great-nephew or -niece was expected, now received it like a slap in the face upon hearing about Rhoda’s latest addition. Never a slave to melancholy, Kit found her grief so intense that it threatened to destroy her. Finally she understood how Mrs Dolphin could try to kill herself.
Irony was everywhere, in the way that the same mob who attacked her could tolerate being served their ale by a man in a dress; in the new-born lambs that were dug unharmed from twenty feet of snow. She must get away.
Swept up on another wave of desolation, and temporarily robbed of her wits, Kit found herself on a late-night train to London. Though quite how she had got there she was not sure. She had no luggage, not even a brush and comb, and carried only one thought: Valentine should be told that their baby had died.
The train journeyed through darkness. By the time Kit arrived in the metropolis it was morning. Wandering out of the station into a cold and filthy mist, she stared at the row of cabs. Through the fog of grief, a moment of sentience prevailed. What foolhardiness had brought her here? It had been a stupid notion to think that he would care.
But what was she to do now? Overwhelmed by heartache, she rearranged her black fur boa under her chin, ignored the offered transport and wandered along the damp road.
Never had she seen London so quiet, just the swish of bristles from a street-cleaner’s brush and the sporadic call of ‘Milko!’ Few others were about, and most of them vagrants. One of the forlorn creatures approached her, the fingers of his outstretched hand blue with cold, as was his nose. Frightened, Kit reached into her pocket and gave him threepence, then walked on.
There was another call of ‘Milko!’ A man in a shabby coat, scuffed boots and a felt hat emerged from a side street pushing a handcart with two large wheels at the back, a small one at the front and his name emblazo
ned on the side. Balanced on the cart was a big metal churn with a scoop dangling from the side of it, that clanked as he jarred over the cobbles.
Wandering aimlessly, Kit felt a rush of acid burn her stomach, and for the first time made a conscious effort to take care of herself. Wishing she had stopped the milkman, she made do with a cup of tea from a shabby cafe, warming her hands around the steaming vessel and gazing out of the window as the streets slowly began to come alive.
She would have sat there all day had the owner not broken her trance by attempting to make friendly conversation. Then, reluctant to answer questions, Kit drained her cup and went out into the cold.
Shop shutters came up in a clattering of iron bars. The traffic began to increase, with cabs and carriages, omnibuses taking folk to work. Porters rushed to and fro with loaded barrows. Kit had no idea where her feet were taking her. Sometimes, upon recognizing her surroundings, she would make a detour, wandering in and out of shops, before becoming lost again.
The sun broke through the pall. By late morning the temperature had risen considerably, though it did nothing to clear the fog in Kit’s mind. Travelling in and out of awareness, she meandered along Regent Street amid bakers, stationers, opticians, grocers, music shops, shawl shops, jewellers, French glove shops, perfumiers, confectioners, milliners and parasol makers. Shaken momentarily from her trance by the sight of a funeral warehouse all draped in black, the accompanying monument shop displaying urns and marble tablets and obelisks, she turned away and hurried into a drapers, adhering to this less upsetting route for a while, finally to emerge into Piccadilly.
The clock above Fortnum and Mason struck twelve, the mechanical Mr Fortnum turning to perform a bow to his partner. Outside a bookshop, footmen and carriages waited for their masters. Crossing the road, Kit walked on.
Along the railings of Green Park a lone artist exhibited his paintings. Behind him, dirty sheep grazed, intermingling with knots of unemployed men. Kit entered the park and wandered along a path lined with black cast-iron lamp standards. Eventually, though, having reached the other side, she became conscious that she was drifting too far and made a conscious decision to follow the road back round into Piccadilly.
The artist was still there, seated on a piece of matting on the pavement, his back against the railings. Kit stood for a moment gazing at his exhibits.
‘Weather’s pickin’ up,’ he said, in an accent that was familiar.
‘Beautiful Barnsley,’ murmured Kit, unsmiling.
‘It is indeed.’ The shabby young man nodded and squinted up at her from beneath a lock of dark hair. ‘From there yourself, are you?’
She shook her head.
Intrigued by this tall and rather hefty but splendidly attired woman, the artist’s eyes ran her entire length. Her sable toque bore three erect feathers of a similar hue, adding to her statuesque appearance. Her disconsolate blue eyes and the black mourning garb forbade the need to ask what was amiss, yet he felt the urge to know more. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Kit hoisted her shoulders.
He studied the woman for a moment longer, then, still curious, he stood with an announcement: ‘I’m off for some dinner – do you want to join me? That’s if you’ve nowt better to do.’
Kit sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I came to see someone, but it was a mistake.’
‘Then come home wi’ me!’ He started to gather his paintings. ‘I’ve had enough for today. I’m Philip, by the way.’
Ignoring the fact that he was a total stranger, Kit went with him.
He took her to a red-brick tenement, six storeys high and one of four such buildings that enclosed a square of grass. Despite it being not far from Mayfair, there was a working class atmosphere about the area, though the construction was modern.
Noticing a lavatory at the end of the hallway, Kit asked if she could use it. Philip told her he would go ahead and gave her the number of his flat on the third floor.
When, moments later, she tapped at his door, Kit noticed the one across the hallway was ajar and a middle-aged woman was scowling at her.
‘Take no notice of her,’ said Philip as he let her in. ‘She just likes to keep tally – now, give us your hat and coat. There’s some bread and cheese, sit yourself down and tuck in.’
The room smelled of artist’s materials. It might have spoiled Kit’s appetite had she possessed one in the first place. Forcing herself to eat, she asked how long he had been in London and in turn gave information about herself, though nothing too personal.
‘Were you thinking of staying?’ he enquired.
Kit found it hard to answer. ‘I don’t know.’
His dark brown eyes showed concern. ‘Have you got anywhere to stay?’
Kit shook her head. It was a lie. Any one of a dozen people would have put her up – Frances would have welcomed her with open arms. But she did not want to see any of them. She had come here to lose herself.
At this point, a woman entered without knocking. Crust in hand, Kit blushed and looked at her companion, hoping that he could explain her presence to his wife.
‘You’re early,’ was all he said.
The woman – now obviously not his wife after all – apologized for spoiling his lunch.
‘That’s all right.’ Philip polished off the last of his bread and cheese, washing it down with a mouthful of tea. ‘You get ready and I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Turning to Kit, he asked, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Bewildered, Kit shook her head, not knowing what it was that she was meant to be granting permission to.
‘You can sit and talk to me while I work.’ He went to the window where stood an easel and began to prepare his palette. Only then did Kit understand that he was going to paint the woman and, cup in hand, changed her seat for one that gave a better vantage point of the artist.
‘Kit, this is Julia.’ Philip introduced the sitter, who had just emerged from the bedroom wearing a robe.
The two women exchanged smiling nods, then Julia took off her robe and lay naked on a couch. At one time Kit would have been shocked, now she simply watched dispassionately.
For the next couple of hours she sat in quiet observation, responding to the occasional question from artist or sitter, but otherwise volunteering nothing. The sadness ebbed and flowed.
Eventually Julia put on her clothes and went home. Philip told Kit to put the kettle on whilst he cleaned his brushes.
‘I got you here under false pretences. I were going to ask you before Julia came in. Will you let me paint you?’
Kit dealt him a quick glance. ‘Oh, no.’
‘I don’t mean with nowt on.’ He smiled and rubbed a pungent-smelling rag up and down his fingers. ‘It’s just – well, I’ve never in me life seen anybody look as sad as you do.’
Her lips parted – but just then a banging came at the door, making her start.
Philip went to answer it.
It was the caretaker. ‘I’ve got a complaint from the lady across the landing!’
‘Well, that’s what you get from consorting with loose women,’ said Philip. ‘I hear there’s ointment that’ll clear it up.’
‘Don’t get clever! She says there’s funny goings-on here – lots of women rolling up at all times of the day. I just thought to warn you I’m going to report it to the landlord.’ He stalked off.
‘The nosy old witch, what’s it got to do with her?’ Philip noticed the woman’s door was open a crack and shouted at her. ‘Mind your own business!’
The woman scuttled like a spider across the landing, glimpsed Kit through the open door and shouted down the stairs to the caretaker, ‘He’s got one in there now!’
‘If I have twenty in here it’s nowt to do with thee! I pay my rent.’
‘From immoral earnings!’ screeched the woman.
‘I’m not standing for this!’ Philip grabbed a pot containing paint and before the woman could run away he upturned it over her h
ead.
Kit broke into hysterical laughter – then almost instantaneously burst into tears. Slamming the door, Philip hurried over to console her, knowing that something terrible must have happened to this woman.
Finally, the awful sobbing stopped. Philip would have let her go, but Kit held fast to him, pressing him more tightly than ever to her aching bosom. How could he deny her the comfort she sought?
26
‘She hasn’t long to go, God love her,’ said Mrs Kelly, walking up the street alongside another neighbour towards Sarah, who sat outside her front door, imbibing the sunshine. After the long harsh winter Yorkshire was enjoying a heat wave.
‘Aye, she looks like death warmed up,’ came the muttered agreement. ‘Hasn’t cleaned her step for ages.’
Upon drawing closer, their mouths converted to smiles. ‘Lovely day, Mrs Kilmaster! You’re looking better.’
Handkerchief in hand, Sarah replied that she wasn’t so bad and passed a few moments in conversation until Mrs Kelly went inside her own house and the other woman walked on, allowing her to return to her thoughts.
Sarah had found herself thinking a lot about Kit lately. It wasn’t simply because she had disappeared four months ago without telling anyone where she was going. She thought about her all the time, even in her sleep. No morning dawned without a nightmare going before it – not that her waking moments were any easier – filled with images of Kit as a little girl who had just lost her parents, yearning affection from her brother’s wife who dealt her naught but unkindness.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Mrs Kelly’s youngest came out to play in the street. The infant crouched in the gutter and began to gather tiny stones which he meticulously inserted one by one through a hole in a drain cover. Sarah watched him play, comparing him to her own youngest. With a shock she realized that Probyn was almost a man. A rush of mortality overcame her. What had happened to her own youth? She was forty-seven, she was dying, and she had never had a youth. Tears pricked her eyes.
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