by Pam Weaver
Her dreams were full of her child running through the house in her Fair Isle jumper and dungarees made from worn cord breeches.
Sylvia would never grow old or marry and have children, or roam the world and do as she pleased, and it was all their fault. Two men who should’ve known better than to mess about with engines when there was an excited child in the yard. The coroner said as much himself. She would never forgive Jack and Ben for her death.
They were named and blamed and shamed. It was an accident, one of those tragic things that can happen on any farm if people were careless. Farms were and always will be dangerous places for children. Sylvia died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is what Mirren’s head was saying: not drowned or killed on the road, lost on the fell or abducted, but in her own back yard where she should have been safe and something in her died alongside her child that day.
The tractor was just a machine and should not have been left like that with the key in the lock parked at an awkward angle. The yard was too busy. Sylvia was distracted but Mirren blamed them for the loss of the baby too.
Shock had brought on the labour too early. The little lad was too small to live and didn’t stand a chance, the doctor explained to her. She couldn’t feel anything. They had taken him away before she’d even seen him, taken him away like rubbish in the bin, not buried decently. It was cruel, he said, but for the best. How did he know, her heart cried out, but he was the doctor and they knew best, didn’t they?
The sheep, the lambs and the cows didn’t know what had happened. People took over while she recovered her strength, but Dalesmen knew that hard work and silence were the best solace. So they just got on with life as best they could through the slow procession of the seasons in turn. Dalesfolk made no show of grief, or they didn’t until now. No amount of repainting the barn doors would ever wipe the memory of that accursed day. Nothing would bring Sylvia back to Cragside.
Each morning Mirren took her hen bucket of grain and walked past that door. How she hated that tractor, but it wasn’t hers to destroy. It disappeared one morning, never to return. She hated herself and Jack for being alive when their child was dead.
Something between them died that afternoon.
Ben drove Florrie to the hospital near Scarperton in silence. None of them had slept for weeks. His dreams were filled with the noise of the engine, his feet trying to run to help but stuck in thick mud, trapping him, a helpless looker on at a needless tragedy.
He had never seen a young man collapse so quickly into a crumpled shell of humanity. Jack was in total shock, brought on by the sight of his little girl being killed by his own carelessness. His eyes were dead, gazing far from any words spoken to him. He had not uttered a coherent word. Florrie tried to bring him round but he retreated into such strange behaviour that they feared for his life.
The news of Mirren’s miscarriage tipped him over the edge to a point where Dr Murray wanted him off the farm–‘I can’t vouch for his safety after this.’ Now Jack was twenty miles away and poor Florrie was dreading seeing him locked up in an asylum.
Ben sat outside in the van, ashamed, but Jack’s mother wanted to see her son alone. Weakness like this was not for sharing outside immediate family. Ben hadn’t even time to visit his own parents.
Returning to Cragside, Ben watched Mirren’s anger grow but said nothing.
‘Jack’s not coming near this farm when he gets out of the loony bin,’ she shouted. ‘He killed his baby. You tell him he’s not coming back here,’ she snapped.
‘But he’s your husband,’ wept Auntie Florrie. ‘He’s been in hospital a month. He’s not himself. He knows what he did and it’s floored him. You have to make your peace with him. If he could turn the clock back, believe me he would. Don’t make it any worse than it is, love.’
Florrie and Tom were in a losing battle with their daughter-in-law, thought Ben. Mirren was lost in her own guilt and loss. She wanted to lash out at all of them, and most of all at him. Her eyes were hard as steel when she barked orders to Umberto. There was no reasoning with her. This stalemate couldn’t go on. It was affecting everyone on the farm.
‘If you’re going to be hard on someone, blame me,’ he butted in. ‘It was me as brought Jack up from the village. If only I’d left well alone but I thought…You must go and see him. He needs your help.’
‘I know what you thought: better get me laddo home before he drinks too much. We all know what Jack’s like when he’s blathered. He can’t keep away from an engine.’
‘But he’s sick and weary, Mirren. Have some pity. Don’t do this to him. Blame me, but go and see him…Make your peace.’
‘I do blame you. I blame everyone, but most of all myself,’ she snapped back. Her eyes flashed, hard, flinty. ‘How can we live here after this?’
‘There must be a way,’ he replied, thinking of his long-ago promise to Gran to see them both right. How he wished he could pack up and go back to Leeds, away from the bitterness, but that was the coward’s way out.
There was no reaching the woman when she was in this mood. They were all hurting, going through the motions of daily routine like automatons.
It was high summer but the sun couldn’t lighten the gloom over Cragside. They all needed to spread out and find some peace away from prying eyes.
Mirren was needed on the farm, but her living here every day was agony for all of them, and a cottage in Windebank was too public. What she and Jack needed was a private place to grieve and he knew just the place.
Ben looked to the heavens for the first time in weeks. ‘Don’t worry, Gran,’ he whispered. ‘I know just the place to set them right again…’
13
The hospital outside Scarperton stood like a fortress, set high on the moor overlooking the River Wharfe; a world of its own with high forbidding gates, a palace with tall windows with bars across them. It had taken two trains to get here. Why was she coming?
Mirren gulped. Was it to see Jack suffer? One look at the place and she sensed it was like a prison. Her husband was under lock and key and she must face him for the first time since Sylvia died. How could she look on his eyes and hair and not see the image of her own child? How could she face the murderer of her unborn baby? She would soon know.
The pills that Dr Murray forced upon her were long flushed down the pan. They had done nothing to dull her pain. They made her woozy and dry in the mouth, but she couldn’t face this journey without some strength from somewhere.
In her bag was a cake in a tin from Florrie, a copy of the local Gazette and a little package from Tom that looked like a bottle, a bit of comfort to help him. There was no point in giving him that, she sneered. It had done enough damage. She would chuck it in the nearest dustbin.
Anger rose like bile in her throat. What was the point in giving him liquor to drown his sorrows when she couldn’t drown hers with anything stronger than tea?
There was a small crowd gathered at the door for visiting time. She wished she’d asked Ben to come for support, but he was too busy, and Florrie came when she could. The visitors made a row of anxious faces as they were ushered down tiled corridors to the wards, hearts beating faster at the thought of what they must face and the smell of mopped floors and bed pans.
It was a strange subdued meeting. Jack sat there staring out the window, not even looking up when she came. His eyes were like dead fish on a slab, cold and glassy and drugged. He was in a borrowed dressing gown that was too big for him, his cheeks were sunken and he looked like an old man. She wondered if he had even recognised her. The sight of him overwhelmed her.
‘Jack! It’s me, I’ve come to see you,’ she offered.
He turned, looked at her unsmiling, nodded his head and she sat down. He didn’t speak so she filled the gaps by telling him she’d lost the baby and had to have a scrape-out and wasn’t up to visiting before, making excuses why she had put off this moment.
He listened, his face blank as if he was a stranger, fiddli
ng with his dressing gown cord, not looking at her. She didn’t understand.
‘I thought you’d be glad I’d made the effort to come and clear the air,’ she offered. This was hard work and it was making her angry. ‘Look, speak to me or not, but we’ve got to have this out,’ she nagged. Where had this fishwife voice come from? ‘I blame you and Ben and I blame me. It never should’ve happened. If only you’d kept out of that blessed pub, but, oh no, you have to have your nips. Ben should have let you get sozzled and stay put, but he was interfering, as usual. Sylvie would’ve been with us and none of this…’ She was yelling at him now.
Jack turned away and blanked her out as she wagged her finger at him.
‘And you can stop all this funny business, shutting me out. You heard what I said. No use hiding away in the madhouse, getting folks sorry for you. It’s not fair. Face what you’ve done like a man, fair and square on. You killed our beautiful little girl!’
‘Mrs Sowerby! A moment, please,’ said a man in a white coat with a foreign accent.
‘I’ve not finished yet, Doctor. I need to get this off my chest but he won’t listen.’
‘Not here, not now, Mrs Sowerby. Be patient. Jack’s not well, he can’t listen to you. He can’t think straight yet but he will, given time and rest. I’m Dr Kaplinsky.’ He held out his hand but she ignored it.
‘But he killed our child,’ she screamed, and everyone in the ward stood listening to her.
‘It was a terrible accident. Your child ran into the tractor,’ said the doctor with the soft voice.
‘How do you know? You weren’t there. I was! He did it,’ she said, pulling on Jack’s sleeve to try to wake him out of his torpor.
‘Come,’ the doctor insisted, ‘let’s talk in private. Jack is not listening. The war has left him with many problems. He needs time and treatment. Peace and quiet to heal his spirit.’
‘But what about me? Don’t I get time to recover? This nightmare will never end as long as we live. I haven’t gone doolally. Someone has to get up and see to the cows, no matter how bad it gets,’ she snapped at him.
‘And that is the best way, Mrs Sowerby Keep busy and keep going from day to day. Push the pain away. It’s hard but I see you are strong. Jack is different,’ he added. His eyes were dark and kindly enough, but what did he know of her pain?
‘What is it to you?’ she sneered.
‘Believe me, I know,’ said the young man with the beard. ‘Come, sit down and rest. Just hold his hand for a while. It is good you have come.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. He’ll have to get over it on his own. I’ve a bus and two trains to catch. I came to see how he was and, now I’ve seen for myself, he can rot in here for all I care.’ Mirren stood up, put on her coat and made for the door.
‘Please, wait…It has to be unlocked.’ She stood politely while the keys turned, shuddering at the sound.
‘Pull yourself together, Jack, or I’ll not be coming again,’ she shouted, and then stormed down the corridor, fuming at the injustice of it all. How dare he be mollycoddled and she told just to get on with it? The anger was bubbling like a kettle on the boil inside and she was that thirsty and chilled through.
She sat on a bench outside in the garden to calm down. It wasn’t fair. No one cared about her and she felt in her bag for a hanky and found the bottle of whisky. What a waste of money and coupons. This was the cause of all their troubles. Wait until she saw Uncle Tom.
She lifted the glass bottle. The golden amber liquid glinted in the sun. So what does the water of life taste like? She smiled, unscrewing the top out of interest; she sniffed the fumes and saw her dad. She made to pour it away and then stopped, swallowed, and tasted some. It burned its way down her throat.
‘Hell’s bells, and they pay good money for this?’ She swallowed some more to warm her through. Popping it back in her bag, she took nips all the way home.
By the time she arrived at Windebank halt, she was feeling calmer and pink with satisfaction. She’d gone and made her peace with Jack. Everyone would be pleased, Ben most of all. He was being very secretive of late. Perhaps he was out courting again but why he needed his tool bag with him was a mystery. Not that she cared. For the first time in weeks she didn’t care about much at all and slept like a log.
Maybe a day out to visit Jack was just the time out she needed away from this accursed place.
The visits to see Jack seemed to be doing Mirren good, thought Ben as he began the long job of repairing the roof at World’s End. Down came the last of the rotten timbers and he hauled up some old but sound timbers from a barn on the sled. He had laid out all the sandstone slabs in order to put them back on the roof and sworn Tom to secrecy when he helped him out. They would fix up the cottage as a surprise for Jack and Mirren.
There was a new POW, yet to be repatriated, called Dieter Klose, who was helping out down at Cragside. He was of farming stock and useful.
Florrie said Jack still wasn’t speaking, but he recognised his wife and mother when they came. Mirren came back full of good cheer and went about her work with gusto. It was hard to put what was different about her; she was full of vim and vigour but then got tired and crotchety again as the strain of the past months took its toll.
Florrie whispered that Jack was to have some newfangled electric-shock treatment to jolt him out of his lethargy, they hoped. He would have pads put on his head and a current run through, which would give him a fit. The doctor assured them it was safe and it might just get him back on his feet again. It sounded awful to Ben.
Mirren didn’t talk about her trips much. She sometimes stayed late and went to the pictures. No one begrudged her a day off, but she didn’t seem that interested in the stock. Lately she overslept and was groggy first thing until she had her brew and perked up ready to start the day.
No one had ever seen her walking up to World’s End and she had no idea of the surprise they had in store. Dieter was told to ward her off the track with an excuse if he saw her going in that direction.
Now the war was over there seemed to be even more regulations and rationing as the shortage of manpower and foodstuffs began to kick in. Ben put his own plans to move away on hold. This was no time to be heading out of the dale.
He was still involved with the Young Farmers, and drifted back under the wing of the ever-faithful Lorna, who was teaching at the village school. They went for walks together and dances. She helped him show some sheep at the Ribblehead Show, grooming their coats when Mirren forgot to turn up on time. She was good company and Ben could forget his worries when she was chattering away.
The whole dale knew about their recent tragellies and asked about Jack. What was there to say but that progress was slow? Ben must see more improvement in the family’s spirits before he departed and there was his secret project to finish. He didn’t visit Jack himself. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome.
Over the weeks World’s End was shaping up well; one big living room with store room and kitchen off, some proper stairs to two bedrooms above. All the upper floor was boarded with timber they had scrounged. Materials were now in short supply so it was a matter of make do and mend, and don’t ask too many questions.
There was water from the sunken well and a little stone WC to the side. Mirren would soon make a home of it out of everyone’s way. Somehow he couldn’t see Jack being too suited but it was a start and it was better than living with his parents.
Tom and Florrie were thinking of letting Cragside as holiday lodgings in the summer. It was too big for the family now and ought to be sold off but who would want this cold barn of a house? Better to let it earn its keep.
Mirren assumed everyone would be living at Scar Head farm but she showed little interest in the plans. This indifference was a habit hard to get out of, Ben thought. Sometimes she was like her old self, busy in the kitchen and garden, going to market. Other times she was weepy and retired to her bedroom. They were all pleased she was visiting Jack but her absence when she went g
ot longer and longer, and her timekeeping unpredictable. Funny, her being such a stickler for punctuality.
It was all part of losing Sylvia, Ben sighed. Cragside would never be the same again. He was glad Gran and Grandpa weren’t around to see this change of fortune. Ben trusted that his surprise would stir Mirren and Jack back to life and give them hope for the future. The rest was up to them after that.
Mirren made sure she had the eggs hidden in her basket, safely wrapped in Jack’s change of pyjamas. Fresh eggs were like gold in the town, and butter too; all strictly rationed and under the counter but her supplies were much appreciated, with customers willing to pay over the odds for farm produce. No one missed a few eggs in season. She always packed a few sweets and buns to take to Jack as a treat but he had no appetite. Her visits were getting shorter and shorter and she tried to avoid that awful doctor if he came in view. At least she did put her head round the door before skiving off for the day.
Jack deserved everything that was coming to him. She wanted him to be stunned back into remembering everything so he could feel the pain she was feeling and more, the guilt and anger in full measure. That thought made these weary visits worthwhile.
She was getting used to being back in a town, part of a crowd and anonymous. No one knew her history here in Scarperton. She could saunter through the streets staring at half-empty shop windows, putting off the evil hour when she must face the big iron gates and locked doors.
For that she needed some comfort and it was there waiting round the corner in the back door of Brennan’s licensed grocery store: her usual bottle of amber nectar, the medicine, if taken in small doses, that would see her through the coming visit.