Anna had a letter tucked in her pocket. On impulse, she took it out and smoothed the creases. ‘My nephew sent me this. He tells me his mother is not well enough to write, but I am not to worry!’
‘Of course you are,’ Cook prompted.
‘Yes – and more so because she doesn’t want me to visit her either, as I had intended. I feel she must be really ill. I – I can guess what the trouble might be . . . so near the river.’
‘Aah . . .’ Cook nodded her head. ‘She is thinking of you, my dear – the white plague shows no mercy.’ This was just one of the names given to consumption by those who feared it. ‘We’ll put a box together for her: a bottle of beef tea, calves-foot jelly, nourishing things, and some of my cherry cake for her children. Oh, is that the doorbell? Must be the grocer with those quails’ eggs for madam.’ She bustled out, as Anna dabbed at her eyes.
White plague, Anna thought. Am I to lose my dear Isabella again – this time forever?
*
Sister Ursula had come prepared with an armful of towels and sheeting. She knelt by the stained mattress on the floor and waited for the next painful heave of the chest, as she covered the patient’s open mouth with the last wad of clean cloth. Robbie had taken Mary to Dorrie but returned to keep vigil with TF. They wanted to help, but the nurse indicated for them to stay back. Irish Tom was there, too, head resting on his folded arms on the tabletop, an empty bottle on the floor beside him. His shoulders shook with sobs he was unable to suppress.
Sister Ursula, tired and pale, closed her eyes and murmured a prayer. ‘Oh Lord, take this thy daughter and release her from her suffering.’ The sister’s apron bore the same ominous marks as the discarded linen. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Isabella had drawn her last breath. She rose with difficulty, for her knees were stiff, and said simply, ‘Dear Isabella is at peace, at last.’
On her death certificate was written ‘From Inflammation of the Lungs.’ She was thirty-seven years old.
Charlie arrived home in Newcastle from his latest voyage a few days later to find Anna in his apartment. After giving him the sad news, she told him she had already arranged the funeral at the local church. ‘It seemed the best thing, as she was not a Catholic.’
Charlie agreed. ‘I will share all the expenses. Your employer was good to give you time off.’
‘I would like to buy the children some new clothes and I hope you don’t mind, but I looked in Pa’s wardrobe and saw a suit which might fit Tom. But we will be the only ones from our side.’
‘How is Tom? Is his brother in Malta?’ Patrick was there to advise the military on armaments. His career had flourished at the Arsenal. Having lost his wife, he’d remarried and had a second family.
‘Patrick cannot come. Tom is drowning his sorrows; you’ll have to watch him at the church.’
*
On a bitterly cold day, TF and Robbie joined their father and uncle as pall-bearers. After the brief service, Mary, in her new woollen cape and bonnet, walked hand in hand between her brothers, following Irish Tom and Charlie to the graveside. In the church porch, Anna cradled Ann Eliza, swaddled like a baby, in her arms, to keep her out of the cruel wind. She wept as she said a quiet ‘goodbye’. How could the children survive with Tom in that dreadful squalor, she wondered.
She was right to be worried, for within a few months little Ann Eliza was laid to rest beside her mother. She was two years old.
SEVEN
Emma
Wymondham, 1850
Martha was rising fourteen, and it was time for her to go to her first job. The ladies of the church had been looking out for a place for her, not too far from home, and Martha’s chosen employer was a gentleman farmer who rode with the local hunt. She was very proud of her under-housemaid’s uniform, and happy she had a small bedroom to herself under the eaves. There were many stairs to climb at bedtime, but she was up and down the main stairs all day long and used to hard work.
There was now a Sunday school at church, and Emma was chosen to help with the instruction – her class included her younger sisters. When she told them the parable of the prodigal son, Rebecca said innocently, ‘Is Samuel our prodigal son?’ Emma whispered, ‘Shush!’ for their father was in earshot, and she knew it upset him that her half-brother did not get in touch with him. Sophie too seemed to have cut herself off from the family, though when he heard that she was now training as a nurse at the new Norfolk and Norwich Hospital, William had promised Tobias he would try to contact her. However, Lizzie, raised as part of the second family, wrote home monthly and when she was earning more, generously contributed towards her siblings’ school fees. This was much appreciated as Jerusha and Keturah had joined Emma at school and Rebecca would be starting soon.
In May, the children were given seeds in Sunday school to plant and nurture at home and told to present the biggest and best of their produce at the Harvest Festival in the autumn. Emma rushed home to show her mother the fat seeds wrapped in her handkerchief and asked Sophia if she could plant them in her vegetable patch.
‘If you can wait until after I have dished up the dinner,’ Sophia said, smiling, ‘I will show you the perfect place for growing marrows.’
The younger children clustered round as Emma dug over a patch of earth which Sophia told them was sheltered from the north wind by the barn and soaked up the sun. Emma sowed the seeds one inch deep in the damp soil and then carefully placed a glass jar over them. ‘Now, you must leave them to germinate for two weeks,’ Sophia advised. ‘Then you can thin the seedlings out and raise the stronger ones.’
Emma watched over the marrows diligently, and by September there were two huge striped ones and some smaller ones, which were picked off one by one and cooked in their vegetable pot. William dubbed the biggest marrow ‘Goliath’ and this one was selected for the Harvest Festival service. ‘That will feed quite a family,’ he observed.
When they sang all the harvest hymns, Emma glanced proudly at her contribution, which topped a pyramid of other colourful vegetables and fruit.
However, the vegetable they all preferred was the Swedish turnip, known as a swede. There was a plot of land set aside for growing these as this crop was vital for the cattle feed in winter. The cows did their bit by providing rich manure for the soil. Emma and her sisters loved to sit on the farm step and scrape the flesh from a juicy swede with a teaspoon, which Sophia had peeled and quartered for them. When Emma said it was much tastier than marrow, Sophia smiled. The other large marrow would be stuffed with forcemeat and onion, tied up with string and steamed in a pot. With new potatoes and carrots, that was a feast too, as they discovered.
In later years, Emma would say, ‘Mother taught us everything we know, how lucky we were.’
*
Sophia’s prayers had been answered, meanwhile, and the girls had two baby brothers: Jonathan and Joseph, born in 1848 and 1849 respectively. They were now active toddlers and Emma and Jerusha kept an eye on them before and after school.
One day, Tobias told Emma, ‘Your mother is not too well, Emma. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you will hev to leave school. Us need your support.’
Emma was shocked. She was ten years old and had hoped she would be able to continue her studies for another two years, when she might be considered as a future pupil teacher.
But Tobias was worried about Sophia. He had confided in William that she had a ‘look about her’ that reminded him of his first wife, who had succumbed to ‘bronchitis’ at around the same age. Most patients guessed it meant consumption.
William searched the bookshelf at home, trying to find more information. He told Sarah, ‘This old book says this terrible disease spreads like the plague did long ago. You would think us would be free of it, due to the fresh air in the country, good food and plenty of milk. That is a puzzle which must be solved. But I hope to be an engineer one day, not a doctor, so it won’t be me who finds the answer.’
Isabella and Sophia never knew of the other’s existe
nce, but Isabella, living in Tyne Street where the disease was rife, had no resistance to the illness. Sophia always had good food on her table, including dairy products and unlimited milk. It was indeed a puzzle.1
*
Life on the farm was not too hard for Emma at first. Her mother was still up and about, although not able to work as she had done before. Emma’s friends at church, keen for her to continue her education at home, lent her books and passed on what they considered to be suitable magazines, and William saved his weekly newspaper for her, so that she would be aware of what was going on in Norfolk and in the wider world. Sarah, with two small children in tow, helped in the dairy and on washing day. Emma cooked meals under Sophia’s direction, while Jerusha kept an eye on her sisters before and after school. She was also a devoted part-time nursemaid to her small brothers.
Emma would, throughout her life, recall two ‘magical moments’ on the farm at this time. The first was before breakfast on a misty autumn morning when, jug in hand, Emma went to see William in the milking parlour to ask for milk. As she approached the door she saw smoke drifting from the direction of the small orchard where William had already picked the fruit. She set down the jug and went to investigate. It was only just past dawn, and as she drew near the trees, she heard a strange sound – a tinkling, as of bells – and then she saw that the smoke was curling from a small fire in a clearing. Beyond the fire was a high-wheeled cart, partly covered with horse blankets, which was an indication that the driver slept under cover. The shafts of the cart were empty, and Emma spotted an old horse standing under a tree with a nosebag of oats. She was startled by a loud braying from a small donkey tethered to the tailboard of the pedlar’s cart. The tinkling intensified, and she realised it was indeed a bell, fastened to the donkey’s head collar.
A figure emerged from the cart and a man lowered himself to the ground. He was holding a long-handled blackened pan in one hand, and Emma flinched involuntarily. Was she about to be bashed with this? Without appearing to notice he had a visitor, the pedlar, a stout fellow in a canvas smock which came past his knees, balanced the pan on the fire before he returned to the cart for the bacon to fry. The fatty slice soon began to spit and caused the fire to spark.
Emma felt rooted to the spot. Had he been given permission to stay here overnight? At last she spoke. ‘Who are you? Does my father know you’re here?’
He looked directly at her, his white hair and enormous beard illuminated by the flaring fire. He took a clay pipe from his pocket and lit it, before he answered. ‘They call me the donkey man. I don’t need a dawg, cos he warn me when someone is here.’ One of his eyes was blue, the other white and blank. Emma felt a little shiver of nervousness. She looked down and saw the soles of his shoes were gaping, revealing his knobbly toes.
Then she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. ‘I wondered where you were when I found the jug,’ William said. ‘If you’d come in, I would’ve told you Seth is an old friend. He hev been travellin’ the country, us hev not seen him in years . . . He come after you were all abed last night.’
‘I shall be off again after me breakfast,’ the pedlar said. ‘I want to git to Yarmouth. Hev a look at the sea. Wash me feet. ’Tis where I was born. Where I will end up, I reckon.’
‘I like the donkey’s bell,’ Emma said. Seth felt in his pocket. ‘Got a spare one, you hev it.’
‘Let’s take the milk back to the farmhouse now, eh?’ William suggested.
‘Goodbye, it was nice to meet you. Thank you for the bell,’ she said to the pedlar. There was a muffled tinkling sound in her pocket as they walked away, which made her smile.
‘Us should’ve have given him sixpence for the bell,’ William said, ‘He look on his uppers . . .’
‘What did he mean about ending up in Yarmouth, Will?’
‘Us all git drawn back to where us come from, however far we roam—’
‘I’ll never leave Wymondham!’ she said firmly as they went into the farmhouse with the milk.
*
The following spring, Emma experienced her second ‘magic moment’. She had been up since the early hours helping her father settle her mother after a feverish night. Jerusha came yawning into the kitchen as Emma was stirring up the coals in the fire. ‘Wondered where you were, Emma,’ Jerusha said. ‘Can I help you get the breakfast?’
‘What about the boys? You are usually chivvying them to get up and making sure they have clean socks when they need them,’ Emma replied. They both had their own morning jobs.
‘They are supposed to be washing themselves at this moment,’ Jerusha said. ‘They aren’t babies any more, Emma. They have to be able to do things for themselves’. She stirred the porridge bubbling in the pan on the stove.
Just then, William appeared with an urgent request for Emma. ‘I need some help with poor old Buttercup – she’s about to calve and it seems the calf is acomin’ hoof-first. Will you come, my dear? Buttercup do need a steady hand to hold her, while I help Father to git the calf born.’
Emma looked at Jerusha, who waved her away. ‘Emma, you go – I can manage here, and will get the young ones off to school!’
‘Put on your overalls,’ William said, ‘and your rubber boots. And a woolly hat, or you’ll need to wash your hair, it’s a mucky business – hev you ever seen a calf born, Emma?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Father said it weren’t a sight for little girls to see. And Mother didn’t want us in the room when the boys were born, did she?’
‘You were too young then, but Father told me to fetch you, he’s worn out looking after Sophia all night.’
Emma felt weary too, but she swiftly changed and followed William out of the door.
The expectant mother was a Norfolk-and-Suffolk Red Poll cow. She was a lovely dark-rust colour with a touch of white on her switch, as the tail was called. This breed didn’t have horns and were friendly creatures. Buttercup had been moved to a stall on her own, and plenty of fresh straw had been scattered on the ground to make her feel comfortable and secure. She was obviously feeling the strain of attempting to give birth and tossed her head impatiently when Emma attempted to give her head a stroke.
‘Just hold the halter firmly and talk to her, she know you,’ William advised. ‘Stand firm, feet apart to keep your balance if she try to push you away. Poor old gal is in pain, she’s usually so placid.’
Tobias handed a stout rope to William. ‘We’ll haul on it in turn, Will, and be at the back end,’ he said, adding to his daughter, ‘Do you hold tight, my dear girl, and keep talking to her, take her mind off what we’re adoin’ trying to turn the feet, and getting her calf born.’
‘I’ll try, Father,’ Emma managed. She was thankful she didn’t have to look at what was going on with the rope. ‘Don’t worry, Buttercup,’ she said to the cow. ‘Father and Will know what they’re doing.’ The cow blinked her eyes and emitted a pained ‘Moo.’ She couldn’t swish her tail, for that was firmly tied too.
Emma found herself telling Buttercup a story, just as she did when she was sitting by a sick brother or sister to take their minds off pain from toothache or itchy chicken pox blisters; Buttercup’s long eyelashes flickered, she relaxed a little and allowed Emma to caress her large domed forehead. ‘Once upon a time,’ Emma began, ‘there was a beautiful cow called Buttercup, who was worried because her new calf hadn’t come yet. Last year’s calf, Daisy, was peeping into the pen where her mother was and wondering why she had been taken away from the rest of the herd.’ She looked over into the big pen and saw the young heifer munching on a bundle of hay. ‘Daisy is waiting, and so are the other cows, they know what is happening, I think.’ She continued, ‘Two strong men are doing all they can to help you, Buttercup.’
Just then, there was a shout from William. ‘Pull on the rope, Father – turn the calf a bit more – watch out, here it come!’ Buttercup gave a great heave, and the calf was born. Tobias fell back on the straw, then pulled himself up to remove the rope. The ca
lf lay there, motionless. William began to rub its body with straw to clean it and stimulate its breathing. Emma was spellbound; it was the first birth she had witnessed.
‘She needed help to give birth,’ she told Jerusha later. ‘Like our mother did from the midwife. Now I know what I am going to do when I grow up – I’ll be a nurse and bring lots of babies safely into the world . . .’
‘It won’t surprise me if you do,’ Jerusha said, making a new pot of tea for the men who were cleaning up in the scullery. She had bacon sizzling in the pan, and there were eggs to add, for this was a celebration. The new arrival was a heifer, not a bull calf, which, because this was a dairy farm, would have been sent to market, and Cowslip, as they had already named the calf, would join the herd with her mother.
*
The highlight of each week was the Friday market, where Emma now accompanied William in the cart loaded with farm produce to sell. From the dairy there were boxes of butter which she had ‘knocked into shape’ with wooden pats, a big round of yellow cheese, with a knife to cut the required pieces, a tray of brown and speckled eggs, cabbages and carrots, sacks of earthy potatoes, freshly dug, a churn of fresh milk with a measuring jug, and a smaller container of cream – folk brought their own jugs and bowls to be filled. Emma enjoyed all the hustle and bustle, even though she twitched her nose at the smell of the piglets and lambs in their pens, and a scruffy dog or two on the lookout for scraps to scavenge. It was a day which started at dawn and ended late afternoon, when she was despatched to look for bargains on neighbouring stalls, like Norfolk crab and shrimps, for teatime treats.
The big event of the year was the annual fair in September. When she was twelve years old Emma was trusted to take her three sisters, Jerusha, nine, Keturah, seven, and Rebecca, six, to marvel at what was going on. They were instantly recognisable as sisters in their matching cotton smocks, sewn by their mother, with their dark hair in ringlets restrained tightly by wide ribbons. Their bonnets were tied primly under the chin. Each one had a precious sixpence knotted into a corner of the handkerchief in their pocket. ‘Hold Rebecca’s hand,’ Sophia cautioned. She didn’t have to say why; all the girls knew there would be some shady folk at the fair not above dipping into others’ pockets. There was a local lock-up for those caught in the act and Wymondham now had an organised police presence.
The Forget-Me-Not Girl Page 6