by Val Wood
‘I’ve to go back in an hour,’ the boy said to his grandmother. ‘I just missed him.’
‘It’ll be too late,’ Mrs Walters muttered. She went into the room where Polly sat on the floor with her head bent to her knees. ‘Doctor’s been sent for, Polly,’ she said softly. ‘He’ll be here as soon as he can. He’d just gone off on another case.’
‘To somebody wi’ money, I expect,’ Polly muttered. She blinked and gazed at her mother, who was lying quite still. ‘Well, he needn’t bother,’ she choked. ‘We don’t need him now.’
CHAPTER TWO
Polly paced the floor, weeping and shivering, unwilling to believe what had happened. Why hadn’t her mother told her? They always shared everything. And why hadn’t she noticed that her mother was pregnant? She was so thin, she thought, but then they ate so little, and if Ma was only a few weeks gone she wouldn’t have been able to tell. She wondered who the father was. Had her mother really been with a man just so that they could eat?
She put an old shawl on the uncarpeted floor and lay down on it, putting her arms round her head, and as a thin sliver of dawn broke dimly through the uncurtained window she fell asleep. Mrs Walters woke her at nine o’clock.
‘I’ve sent for ’doctor again,’ she said. ‘He’ll have to issue a sustificate. Cause o’ death ’n’ that. It’s what he has to do,’ she added as Polly shuddered. ‘And then I’ll look after her.’
‘But it’s Christmas Eve,’ Polly muttered. ‘They won’t bury her at Christmas.’
‘No, they won’t,’ her neighbour agreed. ‘But they might on Boxing Day or ’day after.’
‘Where will I go?’ Polly whispered. ‘I can’t stay here.’
The thought of staying any longer in the same room as her mother, who was lying there covered with a sheet, sickened her. She felt heavy with grief, and now that she could no longer blame Sonny Blake for killing her mother she felt impotent with rage and sorrow.
‘Bless you, bairn, you can stay wi’ us. There’ll be no goose for Christmas dinner, onny a joint o’ pork, but you’re welcome to come ’n’ share it.’
‘I won’t be hungry,’ Polly muttered. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Ah! That’s shock. You come back wi’ me and I’ll make a cup o’ hot sweet tea. That’ll do ‘trick. We’ll have it as soon as ’doctor’s been and gone.’
But then what’ll I do, Polly thought. I have to live somewhere. I can’t afford ’rent on my own. My wage won’t cover it. It had been a struggle to find enough money for food and rent even with two of them working, but now it would be impossible. The rent was due the following week, and after that she could only look forward to being given notice to quit.
Dr James came at midday. ‘I’m sorry I was unable to come last night,’ he told Polly. ‘But I doubt that I could have saved your mother. Mrs Walters did what she could.’
‘You’ll have been to somebody wi’ money,’ Polly blurted out. ‘They’d have come first!’
Dr James viewed her gravely. ‘As a matter of fact yes,’ he said softly. ‘But they happened to send for me first.’ He shook his head as Polly grunted. ‘But I wasn’t able to save that mother either. She had a daughter about your age who is grieving just as you are. There was a good deal of sickness and death in the town last night and Christmas will be an unhappy time for many people.’
Polly swallowed. She was awash with tears. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘But I can onny feel sorrow for myself’
‘I realize that,’ Dr James said. ‘And I wish I could help you. But I can’t. Grief is not a sickness I can treat and there is no medication for it.’ He picked up his top hat. ‘I wish you good day, Polly. Be brave.’
Rosalie had sat by her mother’s side and held her hand and wondered how she could give comfort as the doctor had said when she needed it so badly herself. ‘Mama,’ she whispered. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No.’ Her mother licked her dry lips. ‘Not now. I was, but it’s over now.’
‘The child?’ Rosalie asked. ‘Was it—’
‘There is no child,’ her mother breathed. ‘It was ... too soon. Rosalie!’ Her breathing was shallow and Rosalie had to bend her head to hear her. ‘Send ... for your father. You must send for your father. Tell him to come. Tell him I am very ill. Tell him – tell him ...’
What else she should tell her father Rosalie never knew, for her mother closed her eyes, took a last breath and was gone, as Mrs Dawson said, to another life.
Rosalie stared at the midwife, who rose from the chair and looked down at her patient.
‘She’s gone, my dear,’ she said in a sorrowing tone and placed her hand over Mrs Kingston’s eyes. ‘Gone to a better life.’
‘How do you know?’ Rosalie asked woodenly.
Mrs Dawson looked startled. ‘Well of course she has! What’s ’point of this life on earth if there isn’t a better one waiting for us?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rosalie murmured. She was dry-eyed. The evening’s events had happened so swiftly that she hadn’t taken them in. She glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after midnight. ‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ she said blankly. ‘People will be preparing for Christmas.’
‘Yes, well, there’ll be no tree or celebration for you this year, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Dawson said rather sharply.
The tree was in the yard at the back of the house, Rosalie thought. It had been delivered only yesterday. I could dress it in black and purple, I suppose, she thought, and light just one candle in the window. But maybe that wouldn’t be considered proper. And shall I have to wear black? I’m not a child, after all.
She was persuaded to go to bed. Martha brought her a cup of hot milk with a shot of brandy in it. ‘It’ll help you sleep, Miss Rosalie, and then tomorrow I’ll bring you breakfast upstairs. There’s no need to rise early.’
No, Rosalie thought, for what is there to get up for? No one here but me and no presents to put under the tree. Mama and I would have dressed it this evening if – if she hadn’t ... It was then that she began to weep.
Martha brought her porridge, tea and toast at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve morning. She set the tray on the bedside table and opened the curtains. ‘It’s still snowing,’ she said. ‘Looks ever so pretty.’ She turned to Rosalie. ‘How do you feel this morning, miss?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rosalie answered, taking a sip from her cup. ‘Numb. As if everything is unreal. As if I’m trapped in a bubble and things are happening outside the bubble and I can’t control them.’
Martha looked at her oddly. ‘You’ll still be in shock, Miss Rosalie. It’s a lot for you to cope with, you being so young.’
Downstairs in the kitchen Martha confided in Cook. ‘Don’t know how she’ll manage. She’s acting a bit strange, but then you would, wouldn’t you? One minute you’ve got a mother and ’next you haven’t.’
Cook sat down on a chair by the table and wiped her brow with a white cloth. ‘What bothers me is what’ll happen next. I reckon her father will take her with him to his regiment and find somebody to look after her. Then in a couple o’ years he’ll marry her off.’
‘But where’s that leave us?’ Martha said in consternation. ‘He’ll sell ’house, won’t he?’
‘Aye, mebbe he will, but that’ll be for ’best, won’t it, cos he’ll give us a reference and we’ll be able to stay on wi’ new owners.’
Cook’s got it all worked out, Martha thought, but I’m not so sure. I think I might look for another position and ask ’master for a reference as soon as he comes home.
Dr James came to see Rosalie and said he would issue a death certificate. ‘I’m so very sorry,’ he said. ‘Your mother was advised against another pregnancy. She was not strong.’
After his visit, Rosalie spent the rest of the morning composing a letter to her father. She found it difficult to write and tore up several sheets of writing paper.
Dearest Papa, she wrote, and then changed it to Dear Father. It was distressing to put into words that her mother ha
d died in childbirth. It was as if she didn’t want to admit it, and if she wrote it down it would become reality. Yet I must, she thought, for how else will he know? Who else will tell him if I do not? She sat back and chewed on the end of her pen. What do I do next? Who will arrange the funeral? Who might I ask?
Her mother had a friend, Lucinda Fellowes, who lived in Anlaby on the outskirts of Hull. Rosalie liked her. She was a very friendly person, although Rosalie’s father thought her rather vulgar. It was true she had bizarre taste in clothing and a loud laugh, but nevertheless she sprang to mind as being someone who might help. Martha had asked her that morning what the staff should do about wearing mourning, and Mrs Dawson had returned to rearrange her mother’s room and decorate it with flowers ready for any visitors who might want to come and pay their respects.
Rosalie finished the letter to her father with an urgent plea for him to come home as soon as possible, and an expression of her regret that the funeral would have to be held in his absence. I must be advised of what I should do regarding this, she wrote, and have decided to ask Mrs Fellowes as I know of no one else apart from your lawyer who might guide me. She ended by apologizing for being the bearer of such devastating news and added that she felt bereft and very alone.
She sealed the letter and addressed it to her father’s headquarters in Aldershot. Then she asked Martha to order her a cab, and returned to her room to change into a dark skirt and bodice and her best wool coat, which was a deep burgundy with a beaver collar. She went into her mother’s room and tiptoed past the bed as if afraid of waking her to open the wardrobe and choose one of her mother’s hats. She decided on a grey felt with a black spotted veil and, glancing at the still form beneath the sheet, said tearfully, ‘Sorry, Mama. I hope you don’t mind.’
It was so cold that the cab driver was stamping his feet to keep warm as he waited for her and vapour was issuing from the horse’s nostrils. She asked to be taken first to the post office, where she requested that the letter should be sent with all urgency.
‘No post tomorrow, miss,’ the counter clerk said. ‘It won’t get to the destination until after Boxing Day.’
She nodded and thanked him and thought that if her father was out of the country he might not receive the letter for weeks.
She settled back into the cab and asked the driver to take her to Mrs Fellowes’ address in Anlaby.
‘Do you want me to wait, miss?’ he asked when they arrived. ‘Weather’s closing in and my missus likes me home early on Christmas Eve. I’ve to help hide ’presents from ‘bairns. Not that there’s many,’ he added. ‘Bin a bad year this year.’
‘Do you have a Christmas tree?’ she asked as she stepped out of the cab.
He gave a rueful grunt. ‘Not us,’ he said. ‘No money for such nonsense.’
‘If you’ll wait for me and take me home, I’ll give you a tree,’ she said. ‘I won’t be wanting it.’
He expressed astonishment that she should be so generous.
‘I’ve just lost my mother,’ she told him. ‘I’m in mourning.’
The cabby tipped his hat. ‘Sorry, miss. I’ll wait.’
Mrs Fellowes greeted her warmly. ‘Well, my dear, how nice to see you. Have you brought news of your mother? She was in a fragile state when I last saw her but there will be a celebration soon, I do declare.’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Fellowes,’ Rosalie said, and then asked if she might sit down. She felt suddenly faint. ‘I’ve brought bad news and have come to ask your advice. I don’t know who else to ask.’
‘Oh, dear. Of course, of course,’ Mrs Fellowes fussed. ‘Forgive me. Would you like a drop of brandy or sal volatile?’
‘No, thank you. A glass of water.’ She waited until Mrs Fellowes had rung the bell and then cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Fellowes,’ she said, ‘my mother is dead. She had a miscarriage and died last night.’
Mrs Fellowes put one hand to her throat and with the other reached for the back of a chair. ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Surely not! I saw her only last week. She was a little unwell, as was to be expected, but oh dear! I cannot believe it.’ She reached for the handbell again and rang it vigorously.
‘Fetch brandy,’ she told the startled maid who answered. ‘And water. And ask Mr Fellowes to come immediately. This is a time when gentlemen have their uses,’ she said to Rosalie. ‘It just so happens that he is home today, since it is Christmas Eve. Oh, you poor child! We must write to inform your father, if you know where he is. Let us pray that he is in this country and has not gone gallivanting off to foreign fields.’
‘I’ve just now posted a letter to his regimental headquarters and marked it urgent,’ Rosalie said, and wondered if her hostess was going to be of any help to her. ‘But I don’t know what to do about the funeral.’
‘Goodness, neither do I,’ Mrs Fellowes exclaimed. She reached for her fan, flipped it open and fanned herself furiously. ‘Mr Fellowes will know. It isn’t something a lady would deal with, is it?’
‘But I will have to, Mrs Fellowes,’ Rosalie said. ‘For who else will?’
‘The parson, my dear. I’m sure he’ll be able to advise you.’
Mr Fellowes arrived and Rosalie heaved a sigh of relief. He was as calm as his wife was flustered, and after expressing his condolences he suggested that he go with her to the vicarage to make the funeral arrangements.
‘I suppose that, erm ... the doctor and so on ...’ He was obviously trying not to upset her, and she told him that Mrs Dawson had everything in hand and would arrange for someone to sit with her mother, and that Dr James would issue a death certificate.
‘I will do all I can, Miss Kingston,’ he said gently. ‘This will be a very difficult time for you. Perhaps,’ he glanced at his wife who was still briskly fanning herself, ‘perhaps you’d care to stay with us over the Christmas holiday?’
‘Yes, indeed you must!’ Mrs Fellowes raised herself from her chair. ‘You must not stay alone. We shall be quite a jolly party. Our son and his wife and their three children, such dear little things though sometimes tiresomely noisy, will be with us, and my husband’s maiden aunt and her friend. You will be very welcome. Very welcome indeed.’
‘You are very kind to suggest it,’ Rosalie responded. ‘Thank you, but I think I had better be at home. There are letters to write and an announcement to prepare for the newspaper.’
‘We understand,’ Mr Fellowes replied before his wife could press her, ‘but please remember to send for us if need be. Now, I’ll just get my coat and hat. There’s a cab waiting, I notice. Is it for you?’
‘Yes,’ Rosalie said. ‘The driver agreed to take me home. Perhaps you would be kind enough to speak to the parson on my behalf? I don’t want to keep the cab waiting any longer than I must.’
The cabby stood patiently whilst Martha unlocked the yard gate so he could collect the Christmas tree. ‘We could’ve put it up in ’hall,’ she grumbled, ‘or in ’kitchen. It’ll be a dowly Christmas without a tree.’
‘Thought that young miss said she’d just lost her ma?’ the cabby said.
‘So she has.’
‘Well for shame then, you thinking of enjoying Christmas when she’s in mourning.’ He hoisted the tree on to his shoulder. ‘My bairns’ll be over ’moon. First time in their lives that they’ve had a tree. God bless ’young lady, that’s what I say.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘I’ll get somebody to sit wi’ your ma,’ Mrs Walters said to Polly. ‘It ain’t decent to leave her alone.’
‘Will it cost?’ Polly asked. ‘I’ve no money.’
‘I’ll see if I can get a whip-round wi’ neighbours. She was a good sort was your ma, and folks’ll be generous seeing as it’s Christmas.’
‘But who’ll come to sit wi’ a dead woman?’ Polly wept. ‘Especially at Christmas.’
‘There’ll be somebody so down on their luck that they’ll be glad to earn a copper or two,’ Mrs Walters said. ‘Don’t you worry.’
Polly went out afte
r her neighbour had left, putting on her mother’s shawl as well as her own. She couldn’t stay in the room a minute longer. ‘I’m sorry, Ma.’ Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she glanced back. ‘But I just can’t bear it. It’s not you under that sheet. You were allus singing and laughing, not lying so quiet and still.’
She snuffled into her shawl and went out into the court. The snow was wet and slushy underfoot, making walking precarious. She made her way down the High Street towards the seed mill. She should have been at work and knew that she would lose money by not being there. I’d best go and see ’foreman, she thought. He’ll perhaps not dock my wages if I explain what’s happened.
But the foreman was abrupt. ‘You should have sent word,’ he said. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock. You’ve lost nearly five hours.’ Then he appeared to relent. ‘All right. Get started now and you can have half a day’s wages. Boss says we can finish at six seeing as it’s Christmas Eve.’
Very generous I’m sure, Polly sneered beneath her breath. Bet he’s not here working. He’ll be packing up ‘Christmas presents in fancy paper, or inspecting ’goose.
She thought of Mrs Walters’ invitation to Christmas dinner. They were a big loud family with not much money and she knew that she would be welcome to join them. Indeed, they probably wouldn’t even notice her. I’ll go, I think, even though I’d rather be on my own. I can’t possibly eat and sleep in that room with Ma lying there.
She had had no breakfast and by one o’clock she was faint with hunger. ‘Have you got a bit o’ bread to spare, Angie?’ she asked one of the other girls. ‘I’m famished.’
Angie shook her head. ‘Eaten mine already. I hope Ma’s got summat on ’stove when I get home.’
A tear trickled down Polly’s cheek. The foreman was hovering near, so Angie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘What’s up, Poll?’
Polly shook her head. ‘My ma died during ’night.’