Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  ‘Certain.’ So he knew. And he was glad. I leaned my forehead against him.

  ‘Listen, Jane, we’ll go now. Get wed. We can do it straight away. It’ll be all right if we’re quick. If you don’t mind the hurry and the wagging tongues.’

  ‘No. There’s no need to hurry. The wedding’s soon enough.’ I stretched up to kiss him on the lips. ‘And anyway, ours won’t be the only baby born shy of ten moons.’

  ‘You should’ve told me sooner.’ He peered at the sky as the sun started to set. ‘Come on, duck egg. Let’s go and find something tasty to eat on the walk home.’

  ‘Tom! You’ve just eaten enough for three men. You can’t possibly be hungry again so soon. Still, a hot pie will keep us warm on the way back.’

  ‘You don’t need a pie for that when you’ve got me!’ He tickled me, making me laugh. ‘Come on, we’d best find the others, or we’ll be walking home on our own.’

  We found the other villagers at the pie barrow, everyone wanting a hand-warmer for the trip home. It was fifteen miles home, but the night was dry and still warm. The whole village would leave soon since we all stuck together, there being safety in numbers. And there was always banter and singing to pass the time.

  In the soft night, under a dark canopy scattered with silver stars, we shared a pork pie. I relished the crunch of the hot pastry, the sweet, melting jelly and the salted pork.

  We’d finished eating barely quarter of a mile from the Town Moor. Tom took the basket from me, put his arm around my shoulder and drew me close, and I slipped my arm around his waist. We walked, singing along with the others, happily bumping into each other and trying to match each other’s pace by way of me skipping to keep up and Tom shortening his stride.

  ‘Not long until our handfasting, my little wife.’

  I giggled. ‘Sh, someone might hear, and we must keep silent about the child.’

  ‘No one will hear – they’re thirty yards ahead of us. Perhaps we should just dawdle here awhile. After all, what harm can there possibly be–’

  Up ahead, the singing stopped and a commotion broke out. There was brawling and fighting, and it was hard to make things out in the dark. We ran to catch the others, but when we reached the women, Tom left the basket with me and peeled away.

  ‘I have to help, Jane. You stay with the women and keep safe.’

  He ran off into the knot of brawling men. There were shouts and bangs, and my stomach clenched. I dug my fingernails into my palms until they hurt. The Green bairn was bawling, and May and her mother were trying in vain to quiet him. In the dark, it was impossible to see what was going on. There were cracking sounds, which surely meant broken skulls and broken limbs. But who would do such a thing? The town barrow lads? I huddled with the women and children, straining my ears for Tom’s voice and crossing my fingers. The shouts seemed to die down then and there was a scattering sound of men moving away. I sighed when I heard familiar village voices coming back towards us. Mr Green appeared, groaning and clutching a useless arm, followed by others who stumbled about trying to find their sweethearts. But there was no sign of Tom. I ran forward a few yards, thinking Tom must be hanging back. Perhaps he was hurt and lying in a dark ditch. But I couldn’t see him anywhere. A cold feeling overtook me, and I ran back to the villagers.

  ‘Where’s Tom? Where’s Tom?’

  But no one replied, and Mr Green just stood there, slack-jawed and not saying anything to me.

  I could stand it no more, and I shook Mr Green.

  ‘Why is no one telling me anything? What’s going on? Where’s my Tom?’

  The man looked at me and shook his head. ‘Jane, pet, you must be strong. The hot press has taken the lads ahead of us, them from the Tyne and practised keelmen. It looks like they’ve ganged Tom with them.’

  I swallowed a couple of times, turned and retched. When I’d wiped my mouth, I faced Mr Green.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘There was too many of them, massive men with cudgels. They cracked our skulls and then it looks like they’ve carried off the biggest and strongest they could find. They weren’t interested in me beyond breaking my arm.’

  ‘But Tom’s just a lad, an apprentice too! They can’t take him. It’s not allowed.’

  ‘It’s the hot press, Jane, so no exceptions made. Not for apprentices, not for married men and not even for keelmen carrying protection papers.’

  ‘But my Tom’s never been to sea! What will they do with him?’ My voice rose.

  ‘They’ll make him work for the navy. Maybe they mistook your lad for a seafarer. I don’t see what use a country verger will be aboard a warship.’

  ‘A warship?’ I swung my head wildly from side to side. ‘No, it can’t be. But he’ll come home, won’t he? It’s not forever …’

  * * *

  Reverend Foster, on hearing the news, looked past me and into the distance, as if seeking Tom on the far horizon.

  ‘You can say it, Reverend. Tales of the hot press abound. So many impressed men are never seen again. Lost at sea, killed at war or stranded on foreign shores. And so close to our handfasting.’

  ‘Jane, you must resign yourself to the fact that Tom may not return for many years. If at all.’

  Tears wobbled at the brink of my eyelids. ‘I’ll wait for as long as it takes. He’ll come back to me, I know it.’

  ‘Ah, Jane, my girl. I’m sorry, truly, I am.’

  I fled from the house and ran to the garden to sit amongst Mam’s lemon balm. But not even that could lift my spirits today. Tom was taken from me – for how long and to where, who knew? I buried my face in my arms and sobbed, grieving Tom’s absence as if it were his death, sure in my heart I’d never set eyes on him again.

  * * *

  The dock heaved with activity. Men in wool coats patrolled the quay and bare-chested men carted loads of wares and herds of livestock onto the ship. The air was fresh with brine and full of whistles, shouts and bleats. The ship’s masts were festooned with neatly furled sails and cobwebs of rigging, which tiny men scrambled up and down. It made me dizzy to look up and watch them against the blue sky, especially with the sun so bright in my eyes. A pale-blue flag rippled in the mild breeze. On the stern of the ship was her name, The Durham, and along the side were holes, through which poked the snouts of a dozen cannon.

  ‘Oh, Mam, it is a warship, after all, and my Tom’s being sent to war!’ I clutched Mam’s arm. ‘We must get him back.’

  ‘Jane, Jane, whisht, or you’ll make yourself bad.’

  ‘We must speak to someone, Mam. When they know Tom’s to be a father, they’ll surely set him free.’

  I ran towards an armed man, with Mam close behind me. He quickly turned and trained his gun on us. I drew to a halt, with both hands over my belly. He didn’t lower his gun, but used it to indicate that I should move away.

  ‘Please, sire, how long? How long will the ship be gone? Where is it bound?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Please, sire, my child’s father has been taken aboard this ship. His name is Tom Verger. He’s very tall, with red hair. He must come home, else we can’t survive.’

  ‘Plenty more in your boat. He’ll be back one day. If he lasts.’

  Mam stepped forward ‘What do you mean, sire, if he lasts?’

  ‘Young lad overboard this morning and ship not yet under sail. Cracked his head. Dead as a doornail.’

  My hands crept up to cover my mouth. ‘How young? What was he like?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘Long, skinny streak. Ginger–’

  ‘His name? What was his name?’

  He snorted. ‘No name. Not aboard long enough.’

  ‘Oh, but … Tom. That sounds like my Tom!’

  ‘Then your Tom will be buried at sea. Be off, else I must waste precious lead on you.’

  Ice-cold, despite the summer heat, I turned to face my mother. ‘Oh, Mam. He says Tom is dead. My Tom! Oh, I wish I could fall into the sea and be with him.’

>   My mother caught my hands. ‘Tom can’t be dead so soon. He’s a big, strong lad. The guard is most likely just trying to get a rise from you. Look! Look! There’s your Tom!’

  ‘Tom! Tom!’ I turned and made to run at the ship, but the guard held me back with his gun and Mam drew me away. But then a shout came from the ship. Tom waved at me and shouted to catch my attention. I cupped my hands to my ears, straining to hear his words, but the sea breeze took them. It was enough, though. It was enough to see my Tom alive and breathing, even if he was being taken away from me.

  ‘Oh, God, thank you, God.’ I hopped up and down trying to get a better glimpse of him. ‘Tom, Tom, I’ll wait for you. Come back to me!’

  A man with a stick hit Tom in the back of the knees and he crumpled before being hauled away out of sight. Tears pricked my eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mam, how can they treat him so cruelly? How will he bear it, my lovely Tom?’

  Mam hugged me and pulled me away from the ship. ‘He’ll bear it because he knows he has you to come home to. Come, the ship is readying to go and Tom with it. You must be strong, for the sake of Tom and your bairn.’

  17

  John

  In God’s Hands

  Lucy woke me up and I was still thick-tongued with whisky and sleep.

  ‘What’s that? What are you yammering on about?’

  ‘John! John! Get Dora, it’s time.’

  ‘It can’t be. Barely six moons have passed.’

  ‘Six moons or no, he’s coming; my birthing pain has started.’

  ‘Go to sleep, there’ll be hours yet – the first ones always take their time. So let me rest and cut your greeting.’

  ‘But, John … I’m scared, the birthing pains are … very close together … and that pain in my head is much worse. Please, fetch Dora.’

  With a sigh, I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Such a selfish wee bitch. ‘Could you not wait until morning?’

  I took a draught of whisky from my flask.

  ‘John, please!’

  ‘At least grant me time for some warming whisky since it’s not you who must go out in the night.’ I wiped my mouth and stared at my wife. She was sweating, the whites of her eyes showed and her colour was very high. ‘You can have the barber-surgeon, but that hag isn’t coming in my home again.’

  Lucy forced herself up on her elbows. Aye, the woman could find wind aplenty when she fancied.

  ‘But, John, MacBain knows nothing of birthing–’

  ‘He’s a practised surgeon and he’ll more than do for you.’

  She clutched her belly, panting like a sick dog, and I looked into her glittering eyes. She sank back onto the pallet, her hands pressed to her head.

  ‘Please … get Dora, there’s so little time. It’s a woman I need. Please go. There’s no more time … for whisky.’

  ‘Time must be made. It’s a wet night – not that you’d care – you who gets to stay in your warm pit while I walk three miles there and back to the barber-surgeon.’

  I meant to help her back to her senses, but a surge of bloody liquid from between her thighs stayed my hand. She let out a mighty groan that left her unable to speak for a time. Her belly went rigid and then it softened again.

  ‘There’s my waters broken. I beg you. Please get Dora. She can be here in no time.’

  ‘Stop your yammering. That woman is not getting her killing hands near my bairn.’

  ‘Something’s wrong, John. My heart pounds in my ears and my head throbs in time with it.’

  ‘Ach, away with you, all women suffer the same, as decreed by God.’

  ‘No, John, there are white stars in my eyes.’

  I looked at her eyes. ‘Your eyes look fine to me. The whites are a bit red, but that’s no doubt caused by all your crying. It’s just the trials of childbirth.’

  ‘Not these exploding stars in my eyes … and not this headache.’

  I looked at her again. She did look in a bad way, but childbirth was something that women bore and surely without all this fuss.

  ‘Please, John, it’s as if my heart has moved into my head – my entire body pounds to its beat.’

  Was this usual? My uncle never referred to pains in the head. ‘But it’s the pains in your lower body that will bring out the baby. How are they?’

  ‘Much outweighed by those in my head, which must burst at any time.’

  I peered more closely and laid a hand on her. Lucy’s forehead was hot. I put a finger into her mouth, where it seemed so dry that it was a wonder her tongue hadn’t stuck to the roof of her mouth. I thought of my mother. And Dora Shaw accusing my father of not fetching help in time.

  ‘All right. You shall have your way. Or some of it. If you must have a woman, I’ll fetch Kirstie Slater.’

  My uncle would surely be less angered at an apprentice than at a full-blown witch.

  Her belly turned rigid once more, her purple face deepened its hue and she wailed and clutched at herself, so I took my cloak and left, hunching over against the driving rain. I looked to the wood where Dora’s shack was. For a second, I considered fetching her. It would save the soaking walk, if nothing else. The hag might bide with Lucy until I got back with MacBain or Kirstie. But Uncle James had convinced me that there was no way Dora Shaw and her wicked ways could be in the room when my child was born. Her presence alone would contaminate his clean soul at his most vulnerable hour. So I set away, stamping through the night air to fetch Kirstie. She was nearer than MacBain and would have to do. Lucy was making an unnecessary fuss when these things always took hours. Even so, I lengthened my stride.

  * * *

  I knocked Kirstie out of bed. She threw on her cloak and snatched a satchel from next to the door. I took this load from her to speed the journey. But for all her stoutness and shortness, she was a sturdy maid and fleet of foot. While we huffed our way up the hill, heads down against the rain, Kirstie questioned me.

  ‘How did your wife seem?’

  ‘Like a great sow groaning on her pallet.’

  ‘I see. And her waters, have they broken yet?’

  ‘Aye, she lies in the wetness that fluxed from her.’ I thought of the ruined straw, which would need replacing.

  ‘And how is her heat?’

  ‘Sweat runs from her and her mouth is hot and very dry.’

  Kirstie nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She’s complaining of lights in her eyes and pains in her head. Is that usual?’

  The young hag frowned at this. ‘No, it’s not usual at all. How are your wife’s hands and feet?’

  I glared at the girl. ‘What of it? Her hands and feet looked tight and swollen.’

  ‘Come, John, we must run. I don’t like the sound of this. It sounds like Lucy is set for birthing fits. You must fetch Dora quickly. I’ll go to your wife and do what I can till she gets there. Quick, go.’

  ‘You stupid wee whore. Call yourself a midwife?’

  ‘This is no time for name calling! Just fetch Dora and I’ll go to your wife.’

  I ran into the dripping woods, cursing as my feet tripped on roots and my cloak snagged on branches. As I approached Dora’s shack, I sent up a prayer to God. Uncle James must surely understand my need in such a dark hour. I hammered on the door with both fists, before bursting in on the old hag in her bed.

  ‘Dora, you must come. Kirstie Slater thinks Lucy is set for birthing fits. You’ve got your own way, but be quick about it.’

  I stayed long enough to make sure the old woman was stirred from her sleep. Then I ran out, leaving the door open in case she had any ideas of returning to sleep. I ran on to my own cottage, but the light was out. Once inside, I was met with cold air, so I started to bank the fire.

  Kirstie was feeling my wife’s brow. ‘Is Dora coming?’

  ‘Aye, I shook her from her bed.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can until then. Get me some light and some water.’

  I lit the lantern and then passed the pitcher, wishing only to return to the bles
sed sanctity of the night while the young hag ministered to my wife.

  ‘Come, Lucy, let’s try and cool your blood.’

  Kirstie pulled muslin strips from her pouch, soaked them in cold water and laid them across Lucy’s forehead. Before I could stop her, she lifted up my wife’s shift and gaped at the scars on her swollen breasts. Even I was shocked, for the rapid growth of Lucy’s breasts had stretched and distorted the bite marks. And the leaping flames of the lantern made them flicker and move. Quietly, Kirstie began laying strips of wet cloth across my naked wife. Then she dripped water into the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Lucy, take some water from the cloth. You’re burning hot and your skin is red and shining as if your own blood would cause you to burst. I must keep laying cold cloths on you.’

  Kirstie replaced the dried-out strips with newly wetted ones and then turned to glare at me.

  ‘Your wife has a terrible fever and a pounding heart. I’ll use hawthorn and mugwort to ease her blood and soothe her. But she may need to be bled before she has apoplexy.’

  ‘You damned slattern, you know nothing. Keep your nasty knives to yourself. And none of that witch poison, for that is what finished my own mother.’

  But before she could reply, Dora Shaw entered and came to Lucy’s side. She laid her hands on Lucy before speaking.

  ‘You did well to send for me, Kirstie. She’s in a bad way, John. We’ll do whatever we can. But your wife has the same condition as your mother. Both Lucy and the child are in God’s hands. You’d do well to start praying.’

  I reared as if to strike one or both women, but the will left me and I knelt by Lucy. I’d pray for my child. That, I could do. I was a godly man. The Lord would show mercy and spare my child. While I prayed, Dora and Kirstie spoke in hushed voices, the older woman asking the younger one what she’d tried so far and nodding at her replies.

  ‘Well done, Kirstie, there’s no more I could have done myself. All we have left is to bleed the lass.’

  My eyes flew open and I stopped praying ‘No, I forbid it, bleeding is the work of the devil and it’ll kill the bairn.’