by Maggie Hope
They had reached the Register Office by this time, just as the clock on the Wesleyan Church down Newgate Street struck the hour. They sat in the drab, brown-painted waiting room, all four of them staring at the highly polished linoleum on the floor. The atmosphere was hushed, almost like the anteroom of a court, but thankfully they had not long to wait before a clerk ushered them into the office.
Karen handed over the paper from Australia House which proved she was a widow and the ceremony began. It was brief and very simple, almost impersonal. To Karen it was unreal, she couldn’t quite believe in it. But Patrick’s voice as he made his responses was firm and sure. In no time at all they were back outside on the pavement, the sun beating down on them.
Luke shook Patrick’s hand awkwardly and kissed Karen.
‘You be as happy as me and Kezia now,’ he said, and Karen’s eyes pricked with unshed tears.
‘We’d best be getting straight off,’ said Kezia briskly. ‘I don’t want to leave Mam for long, she’s having to see to the bairns.’
Karen nodded, she too was aware of work waiting on the farm – work which was too much for Gran even with Fred’s help. The place had to feed three of them now, not just Gran herself.
‘Let me know how things are with Mam and Da,’ Karen said as she kissed her sister at Station Approach. Kezia and Luke were travelling back on the new bus which now ran to Morton Main and the pit villages beyond and they had to go down to the market place to get it.
‘We will keep in touch, Kezia, won’t we?’
Karen looked suddenly lost and vulnerable as she appealed to her sister. Her face was pinched and her loose cloak clung closely to her in the slight breeze, emphasizing her swollen shape.
‘Why aye, Karen, don’t be so daft,’ said Kezia. ‘We’re family, aren’t we? An’ you let us know about the babby an’ all. Look after yourself, our Karen. An’ you look after her an’ all, do you hear me?’ This last was directed at Patrick. They were practically the only words Kezia had addressed to him during the morning. He nodded seriously and put an arm around Karen’s shoulders as they waved goodbye. Luke and Kezia walked off down Newgate Street and though they were not even touching, for Luke would have felt shame to hold his wife’s arm in a public street, yet there was something about them which proclaimed their closeness to each other.
Once they were seated on the train, Karen opened her dolly bag and gazed at the Certificate of Marriage. It was done, there was no going back for Patrick now. She felt as though a hidden burden was lifted from her. She watched his face against the greenery outside the window. His eyes, reflected in the glass, looked calm. She felt strange, the feeling of unreality came back to her. Can I really be married? she asked herself. Wed to a stranger, an Irishman, a Catholic? She didn’t know him, not really know him, yet here she was, tied to him for life. But at that moment he caught her eye in the window and smiled and her panic left her. It was going to be fine. He loved her and she loved him and that was all that mattered.
By the time they got back to the farm, the afternoon was almost gone. Patrick lost no time. He changed into an old shirt and trousers and hurried out into the hayfield. After all, Karen told herself, the weather might change tomorrow, then where would they be with the haymaking?
She felt empty, let down somehow, but occupied herself with transferring his things from the tiny attic room he had occupied since he arrived to her room on the floor below. The baby chose that moment to do a quick flip in her womb, making her feel nauseous and dizzy. She sat down on the high bed and closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them and gazed out of the window and saw the two men strewing the hay. She walked over to the window seat and sat down to watch.
There was Fred Bainbridge, a typical Weardale man, gnarled with hard work, economical in his movements, swift and sure. And Patrick, who obviously knew what he was doing. After all, hadn’t he been brought up in the west of Ireland? County Clare, Killinaboy, he had said, on a small farm. Though he had told her little else of his family or background. Surely that was farming country?
Patrick was built like an athlete, she mused, though she had to admit that his movements were less sure than Fred’s. He often checked with the older man too, as though for reassurance. Karen sat awhile and watched him as he raked the hay, his movements becoming surer as the day wore on. And soon she began to feel better, more content. Oh, yes, she knew why she had done what she had done, she thought. It was because she couldn’t help herself, she had been driven by her love.
Pulling herself up by the bedpost, she laboriously made her way down to the kitchen and set about preparing the evening meal. The men, and Gran even, would work until the daylight faded, she knew, in case the weather broke and the crop was spoiled. And that was a disaster to be feared for hay was the only crop on the little farm. It was most important to the holdings on the moor where the winter was long and hard. They could not afford to buy feed. Such a course would be ruinous.
Karen checked the pan on the fire, it was simmering nicely. She was making a special meal, both to mark their wedding day and also because the men would be hungry after the long hours of work.
‘Got the ham on to boil, have you?’ Gran came in through the scullery. ‘I’ve cut some salad greens. By, I’m fair whacked! Maybe I am getting old. I couldn’t do another stroke.’
She plumped down on the rocker with a cushion at her back and watched Karen as she prepared the meal. She felt somehow sorry for her granddaughter even though she was married now. What a difference there would have been if she’d married that nice Doctor Richardson, she thought.
‘I hope you’ve done the right thing, Karen,’ she said. ‘It’s been a right to-do and no mistake. Still, I’ll say no more.’ She folded her arms and stared at the bubbling pot. Interfering would do no good at all. Not now, with the bairn on the way.
‘How did it go then? Everything all right?’ she asked belatedly.
‘Oh, yes, all right.’ Karen gave a wry smile. ‘It was a bit quiet, something of a let down, I suppose. It was good of Kezia and Luke to come.’ She paused for a moment before continuing, ‘I’d have liked to see Da there though, even if Mam wasn’t well enough to come.’
‘They’ll come round, pet, once the babby’s here and the fuss has died down. But Kezia is your sister after all, she did right to go to your wedding. What’s done can’t be undone, we have to make the best of it. I’ll not be having a feud in the family, it’s not Christian. If you’re happy that’s everything.’ This string of trite remarks brought a smile even to her own face. She was tired and getting to an age when she realized things would settle down anyway, given time.
‘I am happy, Gran. I don’t think I could live without him, not now.’ With this rare confidence Karen pushed aside her own doubts and fears for the future. Today they were happy, both she and Patrick, of course they were. Restlessly, she went to the door.
‘I’ll go and lock up the hens, shall I?’
‘That’s a good girl.’ Gran settled herself more comfortably on her chair as the shadows lengthened and the fire began to cast strange shapes on the wall. She closed her eyes and dozed for a while before Karen called her to the table for supper.
Later, in the old double bed under the patchwork quilt, Karen lay in Patrick’s arms. He kissed her gently on the lips, cupped her swollen breasts and rounded belly. And then he fell asleep, exhausted. He had not yet grown accustomed to the hard physical labour needed for hay-making and it had drained him utterly, but Karen was content. She savoured the warm masculine feel of him lying beside her, she felt safe and secure as though nothing could touch them here in their own little world. They were hidden away in this remote place, safe from any threatened danger.
‘I love you,’ she whispered, ‘I love you.’ And as if responding in his sleep, his arms tightened around her. Patrick had seldom put his feelings into words but the intensity of the way he felt towards Karen was obvious always in the touch of his hands, in his eyes, even somehow in the way he
held her now, in his sleep.
The baby moved inside her and she placed one of his hands on her stomach, gently, so as not to waken him. They were together and they would stay together, she, Patrick and the baby. Slowly she drifted off to sleep.
Briefly she dreamed of a horde of men, all dressed in black and all holding out their arms to Patrick, calling to him. She looked into the face of one of them and it was Sean.
‘No!’ she cried in her dream and woke, hot and sweaty. The bedclothes felt too heavy and she tried to push them away but it wasn’t a blanket or quilt that was heavy on her, it was Patrick’s arm.
‘I’m just not used to sleeping with anyone else,’ she whispered and snuggled down under his arm in spite of the heat, going back to sleep immediately.
*
Next morning broke very cloudy and close. At five o’clock Patrick and Karen were out of bed and snatching a quick breakfast before he went out into the hayfield, the need to get the crop in before the weather broke being imperative. Early as it was, Fred was already there. He had yoked both Galloways to the reaper and was already cutting the hay which was left standing, mowing without a break and not finishing until three o’clock in the afternoon. Then he went back to his own place, leaving Gran and Patrick to rake and strew.
Karen took cold pie and a can of tea out to the field at noon, worrying to herself as she saw Patrick’s strained face and blistered hands. He seemed to know the general way of doing things but it was glaringly obvious that he was out of practice.
‘I wish I could do more!’ she said fretfully as they sat down to eat.
‘Well, you can’t,’ came the flat answer from Patrick, unsmiling, and he looked away from her dismissively.
‘There’s not much you can do is there?’ interposed Gran quickly. ‘You might as well just settle yourself. Anyroad, you can see to the meals, I’m grateful for that.’
Karen sat down heavily after pulling hay together for a cushion. She brushed the midges away from her face impatiently. The dratted things got everywhere. She watched Patrick. He seemed absorbed in eating, taking swift swallows of the cold, sweet tea, every few moments swatting the flies away from his food. Sensing her eyes on him, he looked up, pausing for a moment. The faraway look left his face and he smiled at her, understanding, and held up the remains of his pie.
‘Just what I needed to put new life into me,’ he said, his tone warm and intimate, making her feel better immediately. ‘I’m getting the hang of it. We’ll get it all in, don’t worry.’
‘Not if we sit here much longer.’ Gran was getting to her feet and brushing crumbs from her apron. Patrick followed suit. Striding over to Karen, he helped her rise. Gran watched for a moment as the young couple were oblivious to her and everything else in their closeness. They were so vulnerable, she thought, there were so many things against them. Then the moment was over and Karen turned back to the house.
‘When Fred comes tomorrow the hay from backside rigg can be sledded in,’ said Gran, picking up the wooden rake. She was tired. If Patrick had not come she would have had to try to get extra help, not an easy thing at this time of the year, what with the war and all. That was one good thing about the situation, she thought, a man about the place. Patrick would get better at it, he just needed practice.
The following Sunday Karen decided to accompany Gran to Chapel for the evening service. She had not been since Patrick came to the farm, and shrank from seeing the neighbours. But they would know about her marriage by now, there were few secrets in the dale, and they had to be faced sometime.
Patrick sat before the fire in the kitchen, watching her put on her hat. His expression was unreadable. He had not mentioned anything in connection with his own church and Karen felt abysmally ignorant about it, though hesitating to bring it up. When Gran went upstairs to get her Sunday coat she decided that this was as good a time as ever.
‘Why don’t you go to your own church?’ It came out baldly, and she felt embarrassed.
‘Leave it now, Karen. I don’t want to talk about it at all.’
‘But –’
‘Leave it alone!’ his voice thundered out, stopping Gran in her tracks halfway down the stairs. It was the first time Patrick had spoken in anything but a low tone. Abruptly he got to his feet and brushed past Karen, stalking out of the house and up the field to the fell.
‘Fred’s waiting for us at the gate.’ Gran looked at Karen’s troubled face. ‘Well, come on, lass, never mind now. You’d better leave it like he says, he’ll be better off on his own for a while.’
Karen hesitated but decided there was nothing else she could do so she followed Gran out to join the Bainbridges.
The service in the Chapel and the gathering afterwards passed over quickly enough. Fortuitously the preacher was talking about brotherly love and the congregation came out in a mellow mood.
There was only one searching question and Gran fielded it adroitly.
‘Your man not Chapel then?’
The question was innocuous enough but it came from Betty Best, an inquisitive little woman who lived on her own further up the common.
‘No, he’s Irish,’ Gran said quickly, before Karen could answer. ‘I was meaning to ask you, Betty, have you got that recipe I wanted for your rowan berry jelly? Yours always tastes better than mine somehow and I’ve a fine crop of berries coming on.’
Betty flushed with pleasure and began an animated discussion of her recipe. The moment was over. The people near by who had been listening for an answer turned away. So many of the young men had been killed that even in this remote dale there were young widows thinking of remarriage. There were speculative glances at Karen’s obvious pregnancy but nothing was said. After all, the baby could just as easily be her dead husband’s, Betty confided to her friend after Karen had gone.
Back at the farm Patrick was still missing from the kitchen, though the kettle was simmering on the bar. Karen left her coat and hat on the settee and washed her hands quickly before setting out the cold meat and pickles for supper.
Tidying her hair before the glass on the wall, she carried her outdoor things upstairs to the bedroom. Patrick was sitting on the window seat, gazing out over the shadowy fell.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he said, his voice quietly normal. ‘Is supper ready?’
Despite his mild tone she could see he wanted no questions about his attitude earlier in the evening. Perhaps they would discuss the way things were someday but that time was not yet, she thought sadly. She nodded and busied herself hanging up her cloak and hat, unsure what to think. Tonight was the first time he had raised his voice to her and she hadn’t liked it at all. But at least he was calm enough now.
Patrick stood patiently waiting for her, his grey eyes showing no trace of the trouble they had held earlier in the evening. He touched her hand softly and the usual warm feeling ran through her.
‘We’ll go down then.’ He shepherded her out and down the stairs. Gran was pouring tea.
‘By, I’m glad we got the hay in,’ she said with satisfaction while cutting thick slices of bread and coating them liberally with butter. She chatted on during the meal, taking Patrick at face value, never looking deeper, very matter-of-fact. She was a treasure, was Gran, thought Karen.
The evening passed pleasantly as they relaxed after the week’s work and Gran told stories of when she was young and the farmhouse was full of brothers and sisters and the fine time they’d had together. And the hard, gruelling work.
‘Of course, the dale was busy with lead miners then,’ she said, ‘and fierce, independent chaps they were an’ all. Considered themselves better than “outsiders”, Teesdale men and such like.’
Slowly Patrick relaxed further, giving Gran a smile of encouragement when she paused, challenging them to deny some of her wilder stories. Karen was in a happy mood as she climbed into bed where Patrick put his arms around her in spite of the warm night, holding her gently as though she might break.
*
; The last few weeks of Karen’s pregnancy went quickly and quietly. Patrick was slowly hardening to the work though he would never be like the other men of their dale. He was not quite so deft and economical in his movements though he was never clumsy or inept. His hands had hardened and no longer blistered so easily but they were still the hands of a ‘gentleman’ with long tapering fingers and well-shaped nails, even though he came from a working family himself. He tanned, but his skin had not the leathery look of those who had spent all their lives out of doors. Sometimes Karen thought about how deft he had been with the wounded soldiers. The thought brought a niggling doubt, he had been more sure of himself then.
‘At least the baby won’t starve if your milk fails,’ commented Gran to Karen one day. She was admiring the two new milking stools Patrick had made to replace the ancient ones which were falling to bits. In August the red cow had calved and there were now two cows to milk.
‘Our baby won’t starve,’ said Patrick, smiling at his wife. And if hard work counted for anything that was true. He never stinted, mused Karen. He mowed down the nettles in the pasture bottom, carted lime and manure to improve the land in-bye, and sledded down bedding for the moor in readiness for the winter when the stock would be brought in. There was always something to do.
One afternoon Patrick was up on the fell cutting bedding. It was early September and a fair, sunny afternoon, though with a touch of autumn in the wind. Karen fed the hens and afterwards walked over to the rowan tree, bowl in hand, and rested for a moment with her back against the tree, gazing out over the fell. With one hand she rubbed the small of her back, where it ached a little.
It was then she noticed the trap coming up the track. Strange, she thought, it wasn’t the carrier’s day and she couldn’t think of anyone else who could be visiting at this time.
Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun she tried to make out who the visitors were, but couldn’t recognize the two men at that distance. Recollecting herself, she turned and went back into the house to tidy up and get rid of the feed bowl. She was back at the door as the trap entered the yard and the first thing which struck her was the clerical dress of the men.