by Maggie Hope
‘Private Wilson!’ he yelled.
The sound reverberated round the garden, bounced against the wall of the house. It was the loudest he had yelled since leading his men against the Turks at Gallipoli, up the hill, in a hopeless charge which had ended abruptly for him when he stepped with both feet on a hidden mine. It was the only time he had yelled since. ‘I am still alive then,’ Jack muttered as his missing feet and the half-healed scar on his face throbbed in unison, and he slid down from the window to the polished wooden boards beneath and on into a pain-filled blackness.
‘Captain Benson, what on earth are you doing?’ Nurse Turner exclaimed as she burst into the room in answer to the bell which had interrupted her tea. ‘Orderly, where are you?’ she called, and knelt on the floor to rest the captain’s head on her lap. His eyelids flickered and opened. She sighed with relief. Well, thank the Lord, for a minute there she had thought he had done for himself. They were always hearing of maimed young officers finishing themselves off one way or another, though so far none had at this place. She glanced suspiciously at the window. He hadn’t been trying to throw himself out, had he?
‘What were you doing?’ she demanded again.
‘Sorry, Nurse, I leaned too far forward, that was all. Trying to see more,’ said Jack meekly. The floor orderly came in and between them they heaved the captain back into his chair.
‘I see you’ve banged one of your stumps; now I’ll have to dress it again.’ Nurse Turner frowned. As though she had nothing else to do but re-dress wounds all day, was the unspoken reproof. Jack looked down at the stump he still couldn’t believe was on the end of his leg. There was blood on the bandage, not a lot but enough to cause concern.
‘Sorry, Nurse,’ he muttered.
‘Yes, well, I’m sure you are,’ she replied. She brought an enamel dressing tray and undid the bandage and removed the dressing. There was a red patch, angry-looking, on one end of the stump, but the seepage of blood was already drying up. ‘Doesn’t look too bad,’ she said grudgingly as she washed her hands in the basin in the corner. But her fingers, as she dressed and bandaged the wound again, were deft and soothing, she was a good nurse.
‘Send Private Wilson to me when you go down, orderly,’ said Jack as they were leaving the room. The man looked surprised. Nevertheless he agreed. Jack settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. But before he could doze he wanted a word or two with Private Wilson.
‘Where the heck have you been, lady?’ Mrs Poskett demanded as Elizabeth ran into the laundry room with the empty basket. Sweat was running down Mrs Poskett’s face as she stood at the table and ironed pillowcases, one after the other, and folded them lengthwise to air on the great clothes-horse.
‘I … I …’ Elizabeth felt like bursting into tears, sobbing the whole story out to the older woman, but she bit the words back. They would do no good, there was nothing Mrs Poskett could do for her. It was a hazard the young girls faced daily from a certain section of the soldiers and other men working in the place.
It was the general view in the kitchen that if a girl made it plain she wanted nothing to do with a fellow then he would leave her alone. Eventually. The thing was, Cook said, never let yourself get in a position where a man could take advantage. Never ‘ask for it’, as they said. Which was all very well for Cook, a comfortable fifty if she was a day, in age as well as round the hips.
‘Well, come on now, you’ll have to do without your tea. I’m fair clemmed for a cup,’ snapped Mrs Poskett. ‘Help me fold these sheets, will you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Poskett.’
The two women folded and smoothed the clean dry sheets and put them through the mangle to smooth them. Afterwards Elizabeth ironed the hems. It was well after eight when she finally finished and she went straight to her room as the thought of food made her feel nauseous. She was thankful that Joan was still working and she had the room to herself.
Lying on the bed, she thought about Private Wilson. By, he was a rotten, randy old sod, she reckoned. He had been after her for ages even though he bullied her whenever he got the chance. She always tried to make sure she was with Mrs Poskett or Joan when he was about the place. It was just bad luck he had been in the garden when the laundress went back inside.
Elizabeth shuddered, remembering the feel of his hands on her, the animal stink of him. He had hurt her too. There was a bruise on her thigh where he had tried to thrust himself into her most private place; one on her neck where he had held her. For a minute there she had thought it was all up for her, that he had won. A bell had rung somewhere but that meant nothing, all the patients had bells.
Elizabeth had stared at the blank windows of the house with the sun full on them. Why was there nobody looking out when she needed someone? She’d tried to bite Wilson’s hand but he was too wily for that, then she had seen a movement at a first-floor window, someone watching there. She’d struggled all the harder but Wilson was succeeding in pulling her behind the bush. Another minute and they would be out of sight.
Then she had heard it. The officer, Captain Benson, had got his head out of the window and yelled at Private Wilson. Suddenly she was dropped, painfully scratching her back on a broken twig; she could feel the place now. And Private Wilson was ducking away behind the raspberries, making for the gate.
Elizabeth had stood up. She’d gazed at the window where Captain Benson had been but it was as blank as the others. Shakily she’d picked up the laundry basket and hurried round to the laundry room. She’d felt bruised and dirty, just as she had done that time Uncle Ben … Uncle Ben … no, she wouldn’t think of that.
Chapter Four
‘WILL YOU GO with me, Jimmy?’
‘Go with you where?’ he replied, absently scuffing at the gravel on the path by the side of Newcomb Hall. It was Sunday morning and the staff of the Hall, those who could be spared, had just returned from church.
Elizabeth sighed. All the way back from the village she had been telling her brother how there was a train to Weardale at two o’clock and she was determined to travel on it up beyond Frosterley, as close to the address she had in her tin box of meagre private possessions as she could get. The address where Jenny was living. Elizabeth had hardly slept all night for excitement. The time had come when she was going to see her little sister again. Or not so little now, she reminded herself, Jenny must be ten. It had been a long six years. Now Elizabeth couldn’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t as excited as she was herself.
‘Jimmy, are you coming with me?’ she asked again, struggling to keep the impatience out of her voice.
‘I suppose,’ he said at last. ‘Though I was going down the bunny banks with the lads.’
Elizabeth bit back a retort. After all, he was only thirteen and he worked all week. ‘Come on then, we’ll go straight after dinner, we don’t want to miss the train,’ was all she said.
She had saved the fare and a bit to spare for extras over the last six months, never spending a penny without looking at it twice, putting cardboard in her boots to cover the holes as Mam used to do, patching her bloomers and petticoat. She smiled, thinking of it. She had even darned over the darns in the heels of her stockings, though it made for hard lumps which rubbed at her skin and caused calluses.
Jimmy was unnaturally quiet as she bought the tickets at Bishop Auckland station, only showing interest when the train came chugging in from the direction of Darlington, enveloped in steam and smoke. He followed her docilely into a third-class compartment and sat staring out of the window, leaving her to her own thoughts.
At the last minute a soldier backed into the compartment, carrying a large suitcase. He had a Red Cross armband on and for a minute Elizabeth’s heart fell to her boots, but no, it wasn’t Private Wilson, this soldier didn’t even work at the Hall.
She bit her lip. She’d had to face Wilson a couple of times since the incident in the garden and both times he had leered at her, a knowing leer which made her flesh crawl. She stared out
of the window at the green sides of the cut they were going through, seeing her own pale face reflected there. Why were men so horrible? she wondered miserably. She had a rotten feeling it must be something to do with her. She remembered Cook’s words about some girls giving men the ‘come on’. But she didn’t do that, she didn’t.
Shrugging, she determined to think no more of Private Wilson. And all men weren’t the same anyroad, she told herself. The captain now, Captain Benson, he wasn’t like that, he was a proper gentleman. It gave her a warm feeling to think how he had tried to help, shouting at Private Wilson from his window.
The train had pulled into Witton Park station. The soldier lugged his suitcase off there and she and Jimmy had the carriage to themselves again. Jimmy was blowing on the window until it misted over then drawing marks in it. He stopped as the train pulled away and there was a pit head close by and the straggle of colliery houses.
‘After this the ride gets prettier,’ Elizabeth offered. ‘You’ll like it up the dale, the hills and the fields and the river.’ She hadn’t been herself but she’d heard about it from Mrs Poskett whose grandmother lived in Wolsingham.
‘The river’s here,’ said Jimmy, and it was true, the Wear wound beneath them, they were going over a viaduct. But the banks weren’t pretty. There was the black of shale and coal, bricks and stones from old buildings. ‘There was an ironworks here,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘How do you know?’
He shrugged. ‘I know. And it’s a lot more interesting than old fields and trees and such.’ He sat back in the seat and stared at Elizabeth, an odd, defiant stare.
‘What’s the matter?’ she was stung into asking.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. I’m going to get a job down the pit. Me an’ me mates … we’re all going to get jobs down the pit.’
‘Jimmy, you can’t! You’re too young. And anyroad, you have a good job now.’
‘Call that a good job? I don’t know why they bother to pay us at the end of the week, I get nowt. Down the pit I could earn a fortune if I worked hard enough. I’m not too young neither. They’re taking lads on my age at Morton Main, an’ glad to get them an’ all. What wi’ the war.’
Elizabeth stared at him. ‘The guardians won’t let you,’ she said weakly.
He nodded his head vigorously. ‘Aye, they will. Tommy Gibson’s starting next week.’
There was nothing she could say, Elizabeth knew that. Jimmy had been working up to telling her something all day and it was this. And if the guardians said it was all right, no one was going to take any notice of her. She was only sixteen herself. Witton-le-Wear went past, they were coming into Wolsingham. Soon they would be in Frosterley.
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Please yourself but I’m doing it anyroad,’ he said, in the firm tones of a man. Well, lads were about grown-up when they started work, she told herself. And Jimmy had had to be more grown-up than most.
Brother and sister came out of the station at Frosterley and began to climb the hill behind the old lead-mining village. Elizabeth had the piece of paper in her hand with the address on it and the name of the farmer. Mr Peart it was. She had shown it to an old man in the street outside the station. ‘Peart? Up along o’ there,’ he had said, after holding it at arm’s length and peering at it. He had indicated with the back of his thumb in the direction they were to go.
‘How far do you think it is?’ Jimmy asked as they crested yet another hill only to find the path wound down and up again; more up than down, Elizabeth reckoned. They were both tired by now, they had been walking for at least an hour and her heart sank as she gazed around at the bleak moorland which, according to her piece of paper, was Bollihope Common. Though it was not in the least like any common land she had seen before. Not even sheep seemed to be about, though a curlew rose and shrieked mournfully. The wind had risen and moaned in ever-changing directions. Clouds were rushing across the sky before it.
‘We’ll have a rest,’ she decreed, spotting a hollow to one side of the track. It seemed fairly sheltered. She took a couple of apples from the deep pocket of her serge dress and handed one to Jimmy. Sinking down on the turf, which was surprisingly springy, she bit into her own. The climb had made her hungry.
The two of them munched their apples, saying nothing. Afterwards, Elizabeth got to her feet and walked up the slight rise to the path and gazed back down the valley. There was nothing to be seen of Frosterley though away to the west there were old quarries which she surmised had been where the black marble, which the area had been famous for in centuries gone by, had been won. She remembered that from a history lesson of long ago, how Weardale had been under water once and the marble had fossils of sea creatures in it. Or maybe it was a geography lesson? Anyroad, one day she would go to Durham Cathedral and see the marble pillars for herself. But today she had to find Jenny.
They set off again, walking in single file. The track here had degenerated into a stony path with clumps of heather jutting out on to it. It went on and on, winding about the desolate moor.
‘Are you sure you know where to go, our Elizabeth?’ asked Jimmy, looking sceptical. ‘Or are we going to be wandering up here all night an’ all?’
‘It’s not far now,’ she replied, though to be honest she had no idea, really. She’d been a fool to come when she didn’t know exactly where the farm where Jenny lived was. The very next farm they came to she would go and ask, she determined. Then, sticking out of a patch of dead, rank grass, there it was, a post with a name nailed to it: Peart. She stopped and turned to Jimmy, beaming with relief.
‘There, I told you, didn’t I?’
He was trailing behind. He walked up to her and gazed at the sign. ‘Doesn’t look much, does it?’ he asked. ‘I’d forgotten it.’
There was a branch off the main path, an even narrower path it was, leading away down a hillside, curving into the heather. On this path they actually had to push the wiry branches out of the way; once or twice their booted feet sank into a patch of swampy ground. Elizabeth’s heart sank too with every step.
‘Let’s go back, sis, eh? Our Jenny cannot be living down here, nobody is,’ said Jimmy. ‘That sign’s an old one, man. They must have flitted.’
It must be getting on for five o’clock, Elizabeth thought. The last train went at nine and they had to get back for it, that would take about two hours. But they had time to press on further. ‘Just a little,’ she urged.
They trudged on. Once, her foot sank into a boggy bit of ground almost to the boot tops; she had to wipe it as best she could on a heather bush. Jimmy went ahead as she balanced on one foot and scraped away at her boot.
‘Hey, look here,’ he suddenly exclaimed. He had rounded a slight bend and she ran to where he stood, her boot squelching, splashes of mud uncomfortable on her stockings and petticoat.
There was a house of sorts, tucked into a fold of the moor; even an old rowan tree by the grey, lichen-covered gate. Her heart jumped. They were there, this was where Jenny was. But Jimmy shook his head. ‘No, they can’t be here, look, the place is derelict.’
Indeed, it looked as though no one could be living there. There was no sign of any activity, no hens clucking in the yard, the stable door hung open. The gate was intact but the fence in which it was set was broken down, overgrown with bracken. Elizabeth gazed at the blank window by the door. The top half of the house was windowless with rough old stone, crumbling mortar in between. No one could be living there, she thought, then she saw a wisp of black smoke coming from the chimney.
‘It’s not derelict,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jimmy.’ Without looking to see if he was following she led the way around the gate and over the filthy cobbles to the bare, unpainted back door. She stood for a moment or two, startled. There was a sound coming from inside, a girl humming a tune Elizabeth had never heard before. Lifting her hand, she knocked hard. The humming stopped immediately. It was very quiet. A bird flew up from the rowan tree with an al
armed, clicking whistle; another followed.
Jimmy had caught up. He stepped forward and banged on the door with the flat of his hand.
‘A rum do, this,’ he said in an undertone, frowning at Elizabeth.
‘Hey, what the hell are you doing here? Get out of it, the pair of you!’
Elizabeth whirled round. There was a man tramping over the grass towards them, a gun, broken open, over his arm. At his feet was a cur, baring its fangs and growling low in its throat. Suddenly it darted ahead of its master, rushing at Elizabeth and barking loudly. Jimmy stepped in front of her and yelled at it.
‘Gerraway, you stupid mongrel, or I’ll boot you in t’ribs!’
The dog stayed and sank to its belly, still growling. Jimmy grinned, pleased with his success.
‘I said, what are you doing here?’
Elizabeth gazed at the man. He was wearing an old pair of corduroy trousers tied round the knees with twine. His shirt had once been striped blue and white but was faded and stained to a murky brown. Over it he wore a leather jerkin. The cap on his head sported a couple of holes and his grey-speckled beard bristled as he glared back at her.
‘Mr Peart?’ she asked. ‘I’m Elizabeth Nelson and this is my brother, Jimmy, remember him? We’ve come to see our sister. I’m afraid she won’t open the door.’
‘I’m Peart. Your sister, is it? Nobody told me Jenny had any family but for the lad. It was us that brought the lass up. And fine thanks we got for it an’ all. She’s a lazy little bitch.’
‘She’s only a bairn, don’t you be saying that about her,’ said Jimmy, his fists doubling up, and the dog jumped to his feet and barked again until he was cuffed across the ear by Peart and subsided with a yelp. The cur was ignored by Jimmy. ‘Why hasn’t she opened the door anyroad?’ he demanded.
