by Maggie Hope
If she expected any change in Peart’s manner the next day there was none. He came down to breakfast in the same filthy shirt and trousers, growled at Jenny, making her spill a drop of the tea she was pouring, glared at Elizabeth and muttered about the house being a home for waifs and strays now. Then he pulled on his filthy old coat and tied his muffler round and round his neck, pulled his cap over his eyes and shouted for Snuff.
‘I’m off,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘You, Jen, be careful with that wood. An’ there’s only a handful of coal in the coal house, mind, an’ the peat’s running low an’ all.’
He banged the door behind him and could be heard through the gaps, cursing as he tramped up the yard through the snow.
‘Where’s he gone, Jenny?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘I don’t know.’ She was tipping the last of the water from the pail into the kettle, putting the kettle on the fire. ‘I have to wash the pots and clean the floor before the fire goes out or there’ll be no hot water.’ She was wearing that same worried frown as she hurried about the chores.
‘But why should the fire go out?’
‘You heard Peart. He doesn’t want us to waste the fuel there is.’
‘Oh, Jenny, he didn’t mean we shouldn’t have a fire, surely?’
‘He did.’ Jenny was positive. Elizabeth gazed at her sister. Jenny had come out of her shell in the days since Elizabeth had been here. She spoke more often, ate at the table with them though carefully watched Peart when she took a piece of bread or a potato, just in case he should object. Elizabeth felt her old resentment of him stir at the thought of it.
‘We can’t let the fire go out, Jenny,’ she insisted. The girl didn’t reply. She was pouring water from the kettle into the enamel bowl, adding soda crystals and shaved soap, ready to wash the dishes. Elizabeth picked up the drying cloth to help her.
‘I thought I would try to go into Stanhope today,’ she said when the dishes were done and the room swept and tidied.
‘You’re coming back, though, aren’t you?’ Jenny asked, looking anxious.
‘I don’t think Peart wants me to stay here,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘But I’ll come back to see you.’
‘Take me with you.’
‘I can’t, I have nowhere to stay and no work either,’ replied Elizabeth, biting her lip.
‘Please,’ said Jenny. She didn’t cry, made no fuss, but she had her hands clasped together tightly in her lap and she was rocking slightly backwards and forwards.
‘Jenny, I can’t. I might have to go into the workhouse until I get a job. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’
‘If you were there …’
‘But we wouldn’t be together, you’d have to go in the children’s end. And anyway, I think they would send you back here.’
Jenny said no more. She went over to the corner where she had hidden the rag doll and picked it up, hugging it to her thin chest.
‘I’d best go now, while the light holds,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Go on then.’
‘I’ll come back for my box.’ She pulled on her coat, tied the scarf around her head. Then she went over to the little girl and hugged and kissed her.
‘There’s a sledge hanging on the wall in the barn,’ said Jenny. ‘Peart brings coal from Stanhope on it sometimes, when we haven’t plenty of peat.’
‘Is there? Why didn’t you tell me before? I might have got through yesterday.’
‘I didn’t want you to go,’ said Jenny.’
‘Ah, petal,’ said Elizabeth, and her heart ached for the little girl. ‘I’ll come back for you,’ she vowed. ‘I promise I will.’
Elizabeth sledged down the last bank to the frozen Tees at Stanhope. She crossed gingerly over the ice at the ford and halted on the other side to catch her breath. Her arms ached, her head throbbed and her fingers felt as though they would drop off at any minute. But she had reached the little town. All she had to do now was climb the bank to the main road which ran through it and find the workhouse. The workhouse … She could feel herself go cold inside at the thought of it. But there was nothing else for it. She certainly couldn’t stay out in this weather; she had no food, no work, no money. But she would get work, oh, yes, she would, she vowed. She would find a job and lodging and get out of the workhouse. Why, she wouldn’t be in it more than a day or two at most. She could work, she only had to have the chance. Besides there was Jenny to consider.
‘You look fit enough to work for yourself to me,’ said the Master. He surveyed Elizabeth from under huge bushy eyebrows which sprouted over his eyes and, she was sure, must obscure his vision. ‘Where did you say you were from?’
‘Bishop Auckland, sir.’
‘You haven’t come from Auckland today,’ he said sharply and looked at her as though he’d caught her out in a lie.
‘No, I was on Bollihope Common, got caught out in the blizzard.’
‘Bollihope Common? A pretty daft place to be, wasn’t it, with a blizzard coming?’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I was going to visit my sister, sir,’ she began, and told him the story of losing her purse, getting caught in the storm and sheltering at Stand Alone Farm. ‘I was a nurse’s aide before that, sir,’ she finished.
‘Why didn’t you say so? You can work in the old people’s ward, earn a living, not battening on the guardians of this parish.’
‘Oh! Yes, I will, sir!’ Elizabeth was filled with hope. If she had a proper job in the hospital end, she could find lodgings outside, maybe even have Jenny to live with her. For she was confident that if only she had the room, she could get her sister away from Peart.
‘Right, you can start now. We’ve lost most of the staff with any experience at all in this damned war,’ said the workhouse Master. ‘Just give me the name of your previous employer.’
Elizabeth’s heart sank. Would Miss Rowland give her a reference? She had said she would not. But surely she wouldn’t be so cruel? The Matron had known Elizabeth for most of her life, how could she believe Private Wilson before her? No, she would not.
An hour later, wearing an overall and cap which were far too big for her, Elizabeth was working on a ward which seemed to be almost exclusively for aged pauper women. She fetched bedpans, which were usually too late, and cleaned up beds and gave bedbaths, with the help of an inmate only a year or two younger than the patients. She had been tired by the effort of getting down from the moor into Stanhope. Now her arms ached from lifting and carrying.
It was very different from the hall where the patients had been wounded officers, mostly housed in separate rooms. Here the patients were truly infirm and kept all together, with little space between the beds. But they didn’t complain, just lay quietly for the most part, only speaking when the need for a bedpan became urgent. Elizabeth’s sensitive nature had been sorely bruised by what she saw at the hall; here it was bruised just as badly by the plight of the old women.
It was two o’clock and she was almost faint with hunger when Sister came out of her office and beckoned imperiously to her.
‘Nelson!’
Elizabeth sped down the ward to her. ‘Yes, Sister?’ It must be dinner time, she thought with relief.
‘You’re to go to the office,’ said Sister, looking grim.
An hour later Elizabeth was working in the laundry, scrubbing stained sheets. She had been unable to eat her dinner of potatoes and pease pudding, being too upset and humiliated. Miss Rowland had refused to give her a reference when the Master had telephoned her.
‘Immoral character,’ he had said as Elizabeth stood before him. ‘You will find that no good comes of lying to me. I don’t think you should be allowed on the wards, no indeed. You will pay for your bed and board by working in the laundry.’
She scrubbed away for the rest of the day then sat down to supper with the rest of the paupers. In the narrow, uncomfortable bed that night she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. And so it went on for a fortnight, every day working herself into a stupor so that
she didn’t have to think; every night falling into bed bone-weary. And still she couldn’t think of a way to get out, not with ‘an immoral character’. She barely noticed the snow melting away, the signs of budding trees, the birds beginning to sing. She was permanently weary, in despair. She didn’t write to Jimmy or Jenny, all she wanted to do was hide away.
It was a Sunday morning, before the paupers went to church in a long crocodile of grey-dressed women and shuffling, bent old men. Elizabeth sat on her bed thinking of nothing, glad of the respite Sunday brought from the hard, unremitting work, when a woman called to her.
‘Elizabeth Nelson? You’re wanted at the door. There’s a chap wants to speak to you.’
‘Eeh, go on, lass. Mebbe he wants to take you away from all this, eh? Ask him if he has a friend for me, will ye?’
There were chuckles, ribald laughter going round the room, but Elizabeth didn’t hear. She was filled with a sudden wild hope. It was Jack, it had to be, he had been looking for her all along and now he’d found her! She sped down the stairs and into the front entrance, to the open door where sunlight streamed in, highlighting the drab paintwork.
It was not Jack and her heart dropped to her boots, the disappointment cut so deep. Peart stepped forward, cap in hand, face shining from soap and water and his hair brushed carefully to each side with a parting in the middle. She stared at him, he was so different, and for a moment or two she couldn’t think what it was. Then she knew: the smell was gone. Not altogether: there was still a slight whiff about him, but that awful goatlike stink was gone. Peart had had a bath. His clothes were clean too.
‘Hello, lass,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d call and see how you were doing. Jen was crying for you.’
Elizabeth stared at him, disappointment blurring her vision. It was a minute before what he was saying penetrated.
‘Jenny crying for me? Since when do you care if she cries?’
‘Aw, howay, lass. Don’t be like that. I’ve come down here to see ye, haven’t I?’
Elizabeth felt like crying herself. She gazed at him, his face screwed into an ingratiating smile. Absently she rubbed the fingers of her right hand with her left. The constant use of washing soda was taking its toll, even on her work-accustomed skin.
‘Nelson, who told you you could leave your work? Get back to the laundry at once, do you hear? And you, sir, you’re an intruder. No visitors allowed during working hours. No visitors, I say.’
Elizabeth spun around. The workhouse Master was standing outside his office, legs astride, a thunderous expression on his face.
‘I came to see her about her sister …’ Peart began.
‘I’ll have no followers here, do you understand me? None of your lewd ways here!’ the Master shouted at Elizabeth, ignoring Peart.
Indignation boiled up in Elizabeth and she turned on him. ‘What do you mean? What do you think we’re going to do? Don’t you call me lewd!’ she replied, her voice rising to match his. Doors around the hall opened, faces peeped out. Nothing much out of the ordinary happened in the workhouse, a scene like this was great entertainment.
‘Now, hold yer hosses!’ said Peart, his speech broadening, ‘I’m here to offer the lass a job as me housekeeper. I thought you’d be glad to be rid of her?’
The Master stepped back, calming down. ‘Oh! Well, you know, the proper procedure is to ask me first. But step into my office, Mr … er …’
‘Peart.’
‘Yes, Mr Peart. There are a few formalities to be gone through.’
Half an hour later, Elizabeth was walking across the frozen Tees towards the steep bankside which led up to Bollihope Common, pulling the sledge behind her, laden with a couple of bags of coal.
‘An’ don’t you take that again without asking first,’ said Peart, turning to watch her struggle up to the path from the river behind him.
Chapter Nineteen
‘I HAVE A proposal for you, Jimmy.’
Jack Benson sat in Mrs Wearmouth’s front room on the edge of a horsehair sofa. The horsehair penetrated the fine wool of his trousers, irritating the skin at the back of his knees. He shifted his position and crossed his legs, swinging one foot across in its polished leather shoe. Jimmy glanced at it and away, blushing slightly, and Jack put it back on the floor.
‘Yes, sir?’ Jimmy asked politely. He was wearing his good suit, his Sunday suit, and his hair was brushed back from his forehead, still wet from his bath. It was the middle of the afternoon, a warm day in May. Sun slanted through the narrow window of the room, the light patterned by Mrs Wearmouth’s lace, dolly-dyed curtains. Jimmy was on fore shift, the afternoon lay before him and he had hoped to spend it out in the sunshine. Asking around the district for his sister, it was true, he was still out in the sunshine. But here was Captain Benson, the mine owner, and Jimmy must be properly respectful.
He had heard Mr Dunne, the gaffer, lamenting the fact that Captain Benson had taken over from Mr Jones, the former agent. ‘He pokes his nose into far too much, if you ask me,’ Dunne had said to the under-manager. ‘The government shouting for more and more production to help the war effort and him – an owner, mind you – going on about safety.’
But what did Captain Benson want with a putter lad like himself? Jimmy didn’t believe the owner was on the side of him and his marras. It wasn’t natural, was it? If he thought Jimmy was going to spy on his mates for the bosses, he was wrong. And if he wanted to ask about their Elizabeth again, well, Jimmy had told him all he knew last time. Still, best be polite.
Jack watched the expressions chase across Jimmy’s face, wondering what he was really thinking. Surely the lad must hold a clue as to Elizabeth’s whereabouts? A girl just didn’t disappear into thin air, not in County Durham she didn’t.
‘I have a proposition for you, Jimmy,’ he said.
‘Aye?’
‘How would you like to go back to school?’
Jimmy stared at him. The man had taken leave of his senses. ‘I cannot go back to school, man, I’m over the age,’ he pointed out reasonably.
‘I mean, you could go to the grammar school at Bishop Auckland. King James’s.’
Jimmy stared at him. The gaffer was definitely crackers. How could he go to the grammar school? He had no scholarship, hadn’t even sat for one, and even if he had he couldn’t pay for the uniform. And how could a putter lad pay fees?
It was as if Captain Benson could read his mind. ‘I would be willing to pay the fees and give you a living allowance.’
‘But why?’
Jack had thought this question might be asked and had worked out his answer. ‘You’re an intelligent boy, if you had an education you could go far. Be a credit to Morton Main and the colliery too. Haven’t you ever dreamed of doing something better than mining?’
‘There’s nowt wrong with working in the pit,’ Jimmy said flatly.
‘No, I didn’t say there was,’ Jack said hastily. He well knew the miners’ pride. Then he had a sudden inspiration. ‘But you could train as a mining surveyor, couldn’t you? If you had the education. So what do you say?’
‘There’s no catch?’
‘No catch.’
Jimmy stared out of the window for a few minutes then turned back to face Jack. ‘This has nothing to do with our Elizabeth, has it? I mean, you’re not doing this because you feel guilty about her, are you, sir?’
Jack sighed. ‘No, I don’t feel guilty about her, except that I wish I’d kept an eye on her, stopped what happened to her. She was a good nurse, Jimmy, and I hope to heaven she has found another place somewhere, in some hospital where she can train properly. But, no, I want to do this for you. In fact, I was thinking of starting a fund. If you do well, I will sponsor another boy after you.’ God, listen to me, he thought. What do I sound like? A Victorian do-gooder. I never thought of myself like that until this minute. He thought of what Elizabeth would think if she heard him. She’d look straight at him with those fabulous violet eyes, so like Jimmy’s, and see straight
through him.
When he had first thought of doing this, in the middle of a sleepless night when his body ached for her, when his arms felt empty and useless without her, he hadn’t thought beyond how much he wanted to have her there so he could give her the world – but he couldn’t and it was his own fault. He’d lost her because he hadn’t seized her when he had the chance, made her marry him. But he could do something for her brother. Jack cast about in his mind and realised what it was. He could get Jimmy out of the pit; at the very least, lift him above the hard, poorly paid life of the miner.
In the morning he hadn’t been so sure, but had watched the boy for a while, asked discreet questions of the manager. Jimmy was intelligent. He could do well, given the chance.
‘Well, what do you say?’ asked Jack. ‘You’ll have to sit some tests, show what you’re made of first, of course.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘But not today. There’s one or two folk I want to see. Mebbe they know where our Elizabeth went.’
Hope flared in Jack, showed in his eyes. He stepped forward, opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by the boy.
‘I’ll let you know if there’s anything,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll just have to tell Mrs Wearmouth there’ll be no more pit clothes to wash. Not for a long time anyroad.’
Jimmy strode along the field path which had once been a trail for the donkeys, taking coal in panniers from the bell pits of the area to the coast. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky. There was May blossom out in the hedges, smelling sweet and fresh, and birds were singing sweeter than ever the canaries did in the pit.
Jimmy moodily kicked a stone in front of him as he walked. Everything would be grand if only he knew where Elizabeth was. He was coming to the path which led off to Coundon. He’d had this idea that she might, just might, have gone to see his sister, Alice, before she went wherever she was going. He turned on to the path, strode up the hill and there was the village. Alice didn’t live in the pit rows, the family she had gone to were tradesmen. They had a substantial detached house in the main street, next to the haberdasher’s they owned and ran. This spring afternoon the door was closed, the windows shrouded in lace. In the small front garden there was not a blade of grass out of place on the squares of lawn to either side of the path. A regimented row of rose bushes were in bud under the windows.
