Grateful! The word was like cannon fire blasting the silent roar, throwing the shards of it from Callista’s mind. She should be grateful her mother was relieved of half a lifetime of unhappiness! Of a poverty that had taken her health until she had coughed that life away… was that a cause for gratitude!
Teeth clenched on resentment rapidly turning to ice within her she spoke quietly. ‘Thank you for calling, Mrs Povey… I will tell Mother—’
‘Your mother be beyond talkin’ to,’ Ada Povey interrupted. Her words had been a shock but the wench had to be made to understand the truth of them, to accept what were said to her. ‘Her last words was for you,’ she went on quietly, feeling the tremble of a shoulder beneath her touch. ‘It was like her knowed you wouldn’t be ’ere in time. God rest her… her asked you be told you was the most precious thing her life held, you were the gift of love, the love shared atwixt herself and your father; her said to tell you that so long as you remembers that, keeps it in your ’eart, then the two of them will always be with you.’
Her mother was dead! The cold had grown, encasing mind and body, wrapping her in a shroud of ice trapping thoughts inside. Her mother was dead and she had not been here to hold her, to tell her she loved her. There had been no goodbye.
‘I’ll hot that cup o’ tea, it’ll ’elp tek the chill from your bones.’
Ada moved methodically between fireplace and table. She had done these same things many times over, comforting folk left behind, and doubtless would do them many times more. It were never an easy task; death were like a scorpion, it always had a sting in its tail striking it deep into the heart of them who loved. Looking at the girl sitting motionless and white faced as a statue she felt the twist of sympathy in her chest. Life was hard for every family in Trowes Court but for this wench and her mother it had been harder yet. They had both tried, scrubbing the house daily, the mother sewing until her eyes were swollen and red from strain, the girl tramping the town looking for work wherever it might be found… Ar, heaven had been kind tekin’ Ruth Sanford from her pain but where had that kindness been while her lived… where was heaven’s kindness for any soul findin’ theirselves in Trowes Court?
‘Drink that down, you be needin’ the warmth o’ it.’ The wench needed more than a cup of tea so weak it needed ’elp to come from the pot, and more nourishment than were to be got from the waste leaves o’ cabbage. Taking the poker from the hearth she rapped it several times on the wall joining this house to her own and when a tousle-haired lad came running in told him to fetch the dish of broth she had placed in the oven. Her eldest would not object to losing his supper seeing the circumstances.
But tea and broth went untouched. Isolated in her own frozen world, Callista was oblivious of sound or smell, insensible to the kindness of her neighbour, mindful of nothing but the stab of those words, ‘Your mother be passed on.’
Hands folding across her stomach Ada stood. The wench were given to a pain no hands could heal nor could sympathy quench; words spoken now might find no place in her brain but the mind would hold them and bring them forth when sorrow seemed it could be borne no longer.
‘Callista, wench,’ she said softly, ‘there be a special tie atwixt a mother and ’er child. It can’t be seen nor can it be touched; it don’t be med of steel nor yet of iron but it be of a strength death itself can’t break. You no longer sees your mother but her be near, her will be along of you every day you walk this earth and be standin’ with hand outstretched when you steps into the next. There be too much sorrow in you now for my words to mek a mark but I be goin’ to say ’em just the same. When days be so heavy, so full of worry and fears, then speak in your mind, speak to your mother and listen in your ’eart for her answer. It will come, wench… it will come.’
*
‘Pneumonia!’
So short his balding head appeared almost on a level with an ornate walnut desk the man squinted through owl like spectacles at Callista.
‘Was the woman attended by the Parish doctor?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Behind the spectacles the eyes stared like gobstoppers. ‘But this certificate is signed by him.’
‘My… my mother passed away sooner than… than expected.’ Fingers twisted tight into the folds of her shawl, Callista used the pain of them to concentrate her mind, to hold back the tears trembling on the brink of every word. There had been no money to pay a doctor to certify her mother’s death, to issue the necessary certificate; the only way open to her had been the Parish. Now she was asking the same body to provide burial.
Pneumonia. The man peered through thick glass lenses. Judging by the look of this one the doctor had been generous in stating the cause of death; most like it had been tuberculosis hastened by pneumonia. But it was no surprise to him; he saw paupers many times, all asking relief of some sort or another, though this one was prettier than most.
‘You have no money at all… no means of providing for the deceased?’
Would she be here if she had? Callista wanted to scream the words but knew she must not. She was asking charity of the Board this man represented; it could be granted or refused on his recommendation. Letting a shake of her head prove her answer she stared at the well polished floor of the room which was the office of the Clerk to the Parish.
‘But you are in reasonable health.’ The bald head bobbed, taking owl eyes the length of her body before returning them to Callista’s downturned face. ‘You are able to earn money. You must use that to inter the deceased, the Parish cannot be held to ransom.’
Callista’s head jerked upwards. This man thought her no more than a thief, a liar out to entice the Board to take on an expense she could pay herself. The heartbreak of the night before, the pain of seeing her mother lying dead in her bed, gelled into a terrible anger. Fingers releasing the shawl, she snatched up a pen from the desk. Eyes glittering like liquid stone, breath squeezing through taut nostrils, she stared directly into those condemning her from behind their protection of glass.
‘Sir!’ It snapped hard and brittle, bouncing across the neatly ordered desk. ‘Though your manner tells me you find this hard to believe, I would not be requesting assistance either from the Parish or anyone else had I been able to find work. I have walked the length and breadth of this town willing to accept any employment, however menial, but there has been none; but I will continue to search and when I do secure that employment I will repay the Parish every penny it has spent on my mother’s burial. Draw up the bill now… write out the note of obligation and I will sign it!’
The Board would provide burial. Sitting in the tiny house darkened by curtains drawn close against the daylight, Callista breathed deeply trying to still the tremors rippling her nerves. There had been no note of obligation to repay, but somehow, God willing, she would return whatever was spent. Whatever was spent! She glanced at the rough unplaned deal box in which her mother’s body lay. No mahogany and brass would shelter Ruth Sanford, no satin lined casket would cradle her beloved mother. She had never asked a farthing from anyone in her life, never asked any man’s charity, yet now… in the quiet gloom of the darkened house memories hurled themselves forward.
‘The benevolence of the Board… she should be grateful…’ The owl eyes had held a slightly more respectful look, the Clerk withdrawing in the face of her anger, but still he had not resisted the opportunity of showing her her place. She was the suppliant, the beggar seeking charity, and as such must be reminded of her position.
‘The men be ’ere, say your last goodbyes, wench, an’ come away while they does what has to be done.’
She had not seen Ada come to her side; now at the quiet words Callista rose to stand beside the rough rectangular box. The face was so cold, its colour that of marble, but in its peace it held the beauty of youth. The lines of stress were smoothed from the forehead, the dark circles disappeared from beneath the closed eyes, the marks of suffering gone from a mouth which seemed to wear a faint smile, a first hint of welc
ome. It was a face such as she had so often seen on the statues displayed in Joseph Glaze’s antique shop; those exquisite figures carved of white marble, their serene features frozen in eternal youth, faces which would be forever beautiful. But that would not be the picture of her mother she would keep in her heart, a woman of stone. The mother that would live in her memory would be warm, the laughing vibrant woman who had walked with her husband and child.
With Ada Povey’s arm supporting her, Callista let herself be led to wait in the communal yard, feeling every sound of nails being driven into wood as though into her own body.
‘The little ’uns med these, got the pieces from Miss Hagget the milliner from up along Lower High Street. We all be sorry they couldn’t ’ave been real all the way through; the lads, they did search but there be nothin’ in field or hedge, weather’s been too ’arsh for ’em I reckons. I ’opes you don’t be offended, wench, they wanted to show respect but…’
The thin ragged woman come to stand beside Ada in the yard blushed with embarrassment. Much as folk had all liked Ruth Sanford, even respect cost money and that was almost non-existent in Trowes Court. Glancing at Ada with troubled eyes she whispered, ‘I shouldn’t ’ave brought it. The little ’uns meant no ’arm but still I shouldn’t ’ave brought it; the wench will see it as mockery and… God forbid… I d’ain’t want that.’
Perhaps it was the quietness of it, the hush of a whisper trying to remain hidden in the mouth or the soft regret in the woman’s words. Callista couldn’t say which of those things broke the barrier that had erected itself about her, closing off her mind to all except her misery, but somehow the words rang clear.
‘I am so very glad you did bring it. Please thank the children and tell them I will never forget their kindness.’
‘I’ll say that, wench.’ The thin woman smiled her sympathy, wooden clogs clattering on the cobbles as she hurried away.
‘They looked for real flowers like Kate said, but it be too soon in the year; still her ought not to ’ave fetched it to the ’ouse, it don’t be a proper offerin’, I’ll get rid of it.’
‘It is a beautiful offering, Mrs Povey, one my mother would have been proud to wear on her dress.’ Tears clouding her vision, Callista looked at the tiny handmade posy of yellow silk roses nestling among deep green velvet leaves. Each petal had been separately cut from scraps of cloth, then sewn together with almost invisible stitches. The tiny flowers peeped from between the lush velvet leaves, cascading like a spray of sunbeams gathered together and tied with a narrow band of purple. ‘It is beautiful,’ she whispered, ‘my mother would have been so happy to have received such a gift and I will be proud to have it placed on the coffin.’
*
‘She said what?’ Phineas Westley’s aristocratic features wore a definite smile.
‘She said I showed an appalling breach of good manners but then I would probably not appreciate the difference between good and bad in anything.’
‘Good for her.’ Phineas laughed. ‘The girl showed spirit… so what happened next?’
‘She told me to do what I had set my mind upon so she could be on her way.’
‘Did she, by George! And what had you set your mind upon?’
Michael Farron’s eyes hid their concern in his wineglass. His uncle was showing more than a passing interest in the girl he had talked with in the town; in fact it might be said he was showing definite interest bringing the conversation around to include her whenever opportunity presented itself, and if it did not occur of its own accord then he manoeuvred it.
‘Well, it was not robbery.’ The moment of silence following the answer seemed to weigh heavily. What was the shrewd mind of Phineas Westley making of that? Michael waited.
‘Did the young woman deduce that for herself or did you inform her so?’
Eyes lifting to a face which had lost its smile, Michael’s thoughts remained concealed. ‘I didn’t have to, she was way ahead of me. She said the evening was not so dark I could not see her clothing and thus deduce the fact she had no money and therefore doubted my intention was one of robbery. I told her that was correct.’
‘Was that when she left?’
‘Not quite.’ Michael sipped the claret, savouring its bouquet on his tongue. ‘She said she had to get to the market place… it was then I reminded her that only a minute ago she had declared she had no money and asked so why the hurry to go there? Was it in the hope of earning a shilling or two in one of the establishments plagued by ladies of the night?’
He had not been mistaken in thinking his uncle was interested in that girl; his mistake had been in gauging that interest too thinly! Michael Farron watched the fine mouth harden, the eyes take on the texture of flint. Only a few times in the years of his upbringing had he seen the cold disapproval now registered on that kind face. But unlike as in childhood he felt no regret for his words. Phineas was a lonely man, liable in that loneliness to see friendship where none existed, to misconstrue the false for the genuine and sincerity where there was only treachery… to hear on a young woman’s glib tongue the promise of affection when that affection was centred not upon the man but upon his wealth.
‘You accused her of being a prostitute? Then you are a fool!’ Phineas’s lips hardly parted. ‘That was ungentlemanly of you… you disappoint me, Michael, I would have thought I’d taught you better than that.’
A knife blade could not have cut so sharp as the stab of those words. Michael watched the tall figure of his uncle lean heavily on a cane as he left the room. The old man was annoyed at his behaviour, disgusted at the way he had spoken to Callista Sanford. Staring into the dark red wine Michael Farron smiled grimly to himself. Phineas Westley was vexed at his behaviour, unhappy with what his nephew had said to a young woman. Taking a mouthful of wine Michael swallowed hard. Strangely enough his nephew felt exactly the same way.
9
It was over! Sitting in the tiny living room, Callista felt the silence crushing in on her. She had walked alone along Holyhead Road. Women, shopping in the only hour they could spare from the nailmaking shared with their husbands, flitting like dark birds in the overcast street, had crossed their breasts, lips moving in silent prayer; men going to and from their shift at colliery or iron works had doffed flat caps, holding them against the chest until the cart had passed. She had felt their sympathy, it had flowed from each of them reaching her in some unspoken silent wave. The people of Wednesbury were no strangers to a pauper’s burying.
There had been no church service. Tears like chips of ice lay on Callista’s cheeks in the freezing fireless room but their coldness was no match for the ice in her heart. Ada’s husband had wheeled the cart into the cemetery of St James’s church, pushed it to where a dark hole marked a spot in the further comer, then with an apology he could not leave his work for longer had left. It had been a kindness wheeling the cart for her. Callista had thanked him; she had known every minute away from his labours meant a little less food for his family, for children such as those who had made the tiny imitation posy. Closing her eyes she saw again the tiny flowers nestled like silken jewels on a bed of velvet. The coffin, no more than a crudely shaped box, the services of the gravedigger, these had been given grudgingly yet that tiny offering had been given from respect and love, and it would have meant more to her mother than would the most elaborate wreath of lilies.
But what parting gift had her daughter given? Lying in her lap Callista’s fingers twisted into each other. She had given nothing, she had not even been at her mother’s side to take her hand or to speak a word of love; she had failed, failed the one she loved more than anything else in life: and what was that life without her, where was the use in living it!
‘I’ve just popped in to see you be all right… eh, wench, you never drunk the tea I fetched you in.’
Hardly aware of Ada Povey’s presence, Callista stared at her fingers twining in her lap.
‘I knows how you feels, ain’t a woman in Trowes Court as don’t k
now the pain you be feeling now. We’ve all felt it before buryin’ child or husband, layin’ a mother or father to their rest; it feels the heart be broke inside of you and I’ll mek no pretence… you’ll carry the hurt of it for many a year to come, but time places a salve on all hurts, and gradually the sting is drawn, the pain eases and though the mark of it never fades complete you finds you can live with it.’
Moving to the window, so small and narrow it admitted little daylight at any time, Ada twitched the closed curtains, pulling them aside two or three inches, a gap which would be widened a little each day until they were drawn fully open.
‘It don’t serve no purpose you just sittin’.’ Ada glanced at the motionless girl. She had spoken no word since coming from that churchyard, made no attempt to move but just sat staring at nothing. It was a wonder the poor wench were not frozen to the bone sitting with not a spark of fire. But there was nothing to make a fire with, the bucket in the yard were empty as the food cupboard. Lord, if the wench didn’t find work soon her would be lying alongside of her mother six foot under the sod.
‘This don’t be what your mother would ’ave asked.’ Ada felt the tremble of the thin shoulder beneath her touch. ‘Her would want you to be strong, to lift your ’ead and be a credit to her; her wouldn’t be happy to think of you givin’ in. I ain’t sayin’ to forget your sorrow but to live you must walk alongside it.’
‘I don’t want to live, Mrs Povey… I don’t want to live!’
Her own tears trembling on her lashes Ada held the girl who turned to press her face against her. How many times had she heard that same cry, those same words? How many women had she held while their hearts broke? Nobody in Trowes Court had an easy life and Callista Sanford was no different from the rest, but in every house except this one there was kin to share the sorrow. Yes, life had treated this wench hard and chance was it would treat her harder yet.
Pauper's Child Page 9
