She laughed and patted his cheek. ‘You think it all happens in a few minutes, don’t you? My Mam said she took two days to have me. I’ll walk to Camptounfoot when I feel the first twinge. Walking’s good for you when it’s starting. It hurries it up.’
‘Hannah, don’t argue, just do what I tell you for once. Go to your Mam’s,’ he said, but he had no conviction that she would obey. Hannah was like that: she did as she pleased.
That meant all the time he was at work, he was on tenterhooks expecting to be summoned by Hannah’s mother, but when evening came and he hurried home, his wife was always there, sitting in the sun by their door with her eyes closed and her huge belly resting on her knees. He liked to pause for a second to take a good look at her before he woke her up for she looked so wonderful, so peaceful and full of burgeoning promise.
One night Naughten-The-Image-Taker was sitting beside Hannah, drawing her, when Tim came home. She sat very still with her chin raised and her eyes fixed dreamily on the hills behind the camp as he sketched away. ‘I’m doing a likeness of your lady, Black Ace,’ said Naughten. ‘She’s got a lovely profile so I want to do her sideways on. You’ll like it. It’ll be her to the life, just wait and see.’
Tim looked over the crouching man’s shoulder. Though Naughten was not skilful enough to give his drawing life, it was unmistakeably Hannah with her mass of curling red-gold hair and her proud high-bridged nose. ‘Don’t forget the pretty way her mouth curves – don’t forget that,’ he said, and Naughten cast a cheeky glance at him.
‘If you’re so critical, maybe you should draw her yourself, Black Ace.’
Tim grinned. ‘I can do lots of things but not that. Make a good job of it and I’ll pay you two florins.’ Naughten’s normal rate for a likeness was one florin, though he always started by asking for more. ‘Done, two florins,’ he said, and scribbled more colour into Hannah’s cloud of hair.
When the drawing was finished and Naughten had been paid, he skipped off happily. Hannah held her likeness on her hand, staring at it intently. ‘Do I really look like that?’ she asked, and Tim leant his chin on her shoulder to scrutinise Naughten’s work.
‘In a way he has got you. He’s got your hair and your lovely dreamy eyes and your mouth… but he’s not got your soul, Hannah. It’s not possible to draw that,’ he told her.
She turned and put an arm round his neck. ‘You’ve got my soul, Tim, and my heart too. Don’t ever forget it.’
While the sun blazed down with ever-increasing force, even the most enthusiastic sun-worshippers tired of its relentlessness. On a day when the temperature rose to over one hundred degrees at noon, Christopher Wylie felt very faint and tired and told Tim that he was going back to the Jessups’ to put his feet up.
‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Tim, who was worried by the wan look in his boss’s eyes but Wylie shook his head.
‘No, stay here. Make sure the men on the sixth pier keep the line straight. I’ll be all right – I won’t walk fast, I’ll take my time.’
The sun was beating down on his back like a relentless flail as he toiled up the hill that seemed steeper than ever before. The muscles of his calves ached strangely and he had pins and needles in his hands. All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes. The jutting-out wall of the Jessups’ house reared into his sight at last and he headed for it with the feeling that once inside he would be safe. Through the gate into the shady garden he staggered and leaned panting against the garden wall. Miss Jessup was sitting beneath one of her apple trees playing with a kitten and she looked up in surprise at the sight of him.
‘Oh Mr Wylie, what a colour you are. Come in and sit down. I’ll fetch you some port. My brother’s out but he’ll be back directly,’ she cried, jumping to her feet.
Wylie could only gasp through blue lips, ‘Help me up the stairs, please, Miss Jessup. I must lie down.’
She was a simple soul who operated best when told exactly what to do, so he headed her for the house and leaned on her arm as they progressed slowly up the stairs. It seemed to take a very long time till they reached the top, but once there she held the door open for him to go through into his cool bedroom. He fell on to the coverlet and she bent over him to whisper, ‘Would you like tea? I’ll bring you tea.’
His voice sounded strange and faraway as he whispered, ‘No, no. Just take my boots off, please.’ She untied the laces and slipped them from his feet. ‘Now leave me to sleep,’ were his last words, telling her to tiptoe away.
Half an hour later, she returned and peeped round the door to see if he needed anything. His head was turned towards her and his blue eyes were wide open and staring but he did not reply when she spoke to him. Frightened, she closed the door quickly and went back to the garden where she stood wringing her hands and wondering what to do. Her brother took every decision in their lives and he was in Rosewell giving a music lesson. She did not even know which house he was visiting. Frantic, she opened the big gate and hurried into the street in search of someone to advise her. The first person she saw was Tibbie Mather, who was returning from visiting Hannah in the navvy camp.
Tibbie brushed the hair from her damp brow and paused when she saw Miss Jessup dithering about in the middle of the cobbles. She was obviously trying to block Tibbie’s passage and something was bothering her but she couldn’t get the words out. Sensing her confusion Tibbie said gently, ‘It’s a hot day, isn’t it?’
Miss Jessup gulped before she replied. ‘Yes, it’s very hot. I’m awfully worried about Mr Wylie. I don’t think the heat’s suiting him either.’
Tibbie put her basket on the ground. ‘Is something the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure, Mrs Mather. He’s lying in his bed with his eyes open but he’s not speaking. Maybe you could have a look at him. My brother’s out, you see…’
Something in the woman’s voice warned Tibbie that this was serious. She tried to sound calm and reassuring as she said, ‘I’ll come in and speak to him if you like.’
Miss Jessup led the way, talking all the time. ‘He’s up in the big bedroom. It’s a bonny room with a window looking into the garden. He likes that. He sits up there in the evening and smokes his pipe, poor man. He’s fond of his pipe.’
The nervous flow of talk went on till they reached the bedroom door, where Miss Jessup paused and looked at the handle as if to touch it would burn her. It was obvious she meant her companion to open it but Tibbie rapped on the wood with a bent forefinger and called out softly, ‘Mr Wylie, sir, are you all right?’ When there was no reply, she called again, ‘Can we come in?’ Still no reply so she turned the brass handle and peeped inside. It only took one quick look before she closed the door again and took Miss Jessup’s arm gently, saying, ‘Come on back downstairs, my dear. There’s not much we can do for him.’
‘Is he still asleep?’ asked Miss Jessup.
‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that,’ Tibbie told her. ‘The poor man’s dead. I’ll go and fetch Jo. Now you sit down here under the tree and keep calm.’
As she hurried out into the street again and ran towards the opening of St James’ Wynd, the hot spell suddenly ended – for the first drops of rain began to fall, splashing in huge drops on to the dry, dusty cobbles.
Chapter Twelve
For several weeks, since the beginning of the good weather, Arabella Wylie had been improving in health and spirits. Every afternoon she was helped downstairs by Mrs Haggerty and Emma Jane to the garden, where she lay in the shade of leafy trees on a long wickerwork chair. She hated to be left alone, and if Emma Jane rose to fetch a book or tried to take a turn around the lawn, her mother would cry out, ‘Stay with me, my dear.’ She was not a querulous or ill-natured patient, for she was unfailingly grateful for everything that was done for her and frequently told Emma Jane how good she was. Patting her hand she would whisper, ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you during this terrible time, my dear child. This illness would almost certainly have
killed me if it wasn’t for you…’
The doctor still came every day, and Emma Jane tried periodically to find out exactly what ailed her mother – but he remained very vague in his diagnosis. ‘Hysterical… neurasthenic… highly emotional,’ were his usual phrases. When Emma Jane asked directly, ‘Will she ever get better?’ he replied in a bright tone of voice, speaking loudly and clearly as if addressing someone of limited intelligence. ‘Of course she will, my dear Miss Wylie. You must not worry about that, but it could take time.’ His attitude infuriated Emma Jane and made her deeply depressed. ‘What do you mean by “time”?’ she wondered as she stared after his well-tailored back. ‘Do you mean my mother will be like this until I, too, am old?’
She could talk to no one about her deep unhappiness, of the feeling she had of being a prisoner inside Wyvern Villa, condemned to a sentence from which there was no release. In the evenings, she sometimes walked to the gate and watched couples strolling past arm in arm and envied them with a deep burning envy, which she felt was selfish and something of which she ought to be ashamed. Day after day she struggled against the terror that her life was passing without being lived, running out like an emptying basin, a relentless flowing away that she could neither channel nor stop. It was worst at night, when she lay sleepless in bed shuddering over nameless fears with tears sliding down her cheeks and soaking her pillow for no reason that she could pinpoint, only her conviction that she had to go on living in a long dark tunnel that had no way out, an unremitting trudge to the bitter end. The memories of how happy and carefree she had been at Camptounfoot and at Amelia’s wedding were so cruel that she did not allow herself to dwell on them.
In August, Amelia came down from Hexham with Arbelle and the new baby – a fat, pink-cheeked little boy called Alfred. Emma Jane’s mother managed to summon up some energy during their stay and delighted in the little girl who was, amazingly, growing into a sweet- natured and well-mannered child. ‘Sit by Grandmama,’ she coaxed Arbelle in the afternoons, and while the two of them were taken up with each other, Emma Jane was allowed a little freedom to take short walks with Amelia and the baby. On the last day of their stay, Amelia paused in the middle of a leafy path and, hoisting her sleepy baby up on her shoulder, she turned to face Emma Jane and say, ‘You’re miserable, aren’t you?’
‘Of course not. Mama’s getting better every day. I mustn’t be selfish…’
‘Don’t be silly. What sort of life is this for you? Who do you ever see?’
‘I don’t want to—’
‘Don’t you tell me no lies, Emma Jane Wylie. I saw you at my wedding dance. When are you going to tell your father to hire a nurse for your mother so that you can have a life of your own?’
‘Mama wouldn’t like a nurse.’
Amelia shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose she would. No nurse would do for her what you do. She’s well enough to be left with Mrs Haggerty for a few days. I’m going home tomorrow. Come back with me for a bit – it’ll do you good.’
Emma Jane protested, ‘Oh no, she’s not ready for that yet. We mustn’t rush things.’
‘I’ll ask her if you like.’ Amelia could tell from Emma Jane’s expression that the thought of getting away even for two days appealed to her, so when they walked back to the garden, she said to her mother-in-law, ‘I’ll leave Arbelle with you for a few days if you like.’
Arabella looked up with a smile. ‘That would be delightful! She’s such a joy to me. I miss her so much now that you’re not living here any more.’
Amelia smiled back. ‘And I’ll take Emma Jane in place of her.’
Mrs Wylie’s eyes went to her daughter. ‘But what will I do without Emma Jane?’ Her voice sounded quavery and scared.
Amelia was matter of fact, however. ‘You’ll manage very well, like you did when she went to Scotland. The maids will look after you and Arbelle, and it’ll only be for two or three days.’
Amazingly, Mrs Wylie stopped protesting and agreed. ‘Of course. Emma Jane deserves to get away from my sickbed for a bit. Arbelle will keep me company, won’t you, darling?’
The child put out a hand and took her grandmother’s. They looked very like each other as they sat in the dappled shade, and watching them, Emma Jane felt sure that when Arbelle’s day came, she too would be the Belle of Newcastle.
The arrangements were easily made. Emma Jane packed a little bag and went to bed early so that she could waken and be ready when Dan arrived with his big cart to take his wife home, but during the night, a frantic Mrs Haggerty came banging on Emma Jane’s bedroom door. She was crying out, ‘Miss, Miss! Your Mama’s bell’s been ringing. She’s not well. I’ve sent Haggerty for the doctor.’ When the doctor had been and a gasping Mrs Wylie was settled in bed, Emma Jane told Mrs Haggerty, ‘He says Mama has a mild heart murmur. It’s not serious, but it’s worrying for her. I won’t be going to Hexham with Amelia after all.’
The maid looked at her with a sagacious expression but all she said was, ‘I’m sorry, Miss.’ She did not explain what exactly it was that she felt sorry about, though later in the kitchen she told her husband and the other two maids, ‘It’s a terrible pity that the mistress relies on Miss Emma so much. She can’t seem to see how unfair it is to keep her stuck at home like this.’
Haggerty shrugged. ‘The mistress has always been spoiled. When Chris comes back, things should get better, though. Miss Emma needs a bit of freedom. She was a different girl when she came back from Scotland.’
Solemnly they sat at the kitchen table and talked about how they had hardly recognised Emma Jane after she returned from Camptounfoot, but one and all agreed that her flowering burst of youth and high spirits had been short-lived. Once more she was the old shy, self-effacing Emma Jane. They felt sorry for her.
The heat intensified. No one could sleep at night and Emma Jane got into the habit of sitting up in her nightgown at the open bedroom window till the small hours of the morning, when a misty coolness crept over the garden. Then, happy to be shivering slightly, she crawled into bed and fell asleep. When morning came she often slept on because of those late-night vigils, and the maids did not disturb her till after nine o’clock.
She was sound asleep on the morning a telegraph message was delivered to Wyvern Villa while dew still sparkled on the grass of the lawn. Slowly drifting into consciousness, her feeling of peace was cruelly ripped apart by a long wail like the howling of a banshee which rang through the silence of the house. She sat bolt upright and felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck at the terrible sound. Leaping from the sheets she ran, still in her nightgown, out on to the landing, where she found Mrs Haggerty standing outside Mrs Wylie’s bedroom door with both hands over her mouth and her eyes round in horror. From the other side of the door came hysterical weeping, the same wails and sobs as had echoed through the house on the awful day that James was killed. Emma Jane felt that time had turned back. They were living through that nightmare all over again. She stared at Mrs Haggerty, whose face was crumpled up like crunched paper and from whose open mouth no sounds came. Then she heard her mother’s voice calling out, ‘Oh Christopher, my darling, my darling, what will I do without you? Oh Christopher, oh Christopher.’ Emma Jane swayed and leaned against the wall for in that instant she knew that her father was dead.
Then, as soon as she collected herself, she ran into the big bedroom and cradled her sobbing mother in her arms. One by one people came. She sent for Amelia; she despatched messengers to their lawyer and her mother’s doctor; she wrote letters to her Aunt Louisa and her father’s sister. The friends who came to commiserate or help were met by Emma Jane, whose eyes looked enormous and seemed to burn like golden lamps in her peaky face. She was unnervingly calm as she told them. ‘A message came to say that Papa’s dead.’ She was too shocked for tears. Amelia came that afternoon and burst into the house like a whirlwind, but Emma Jane greeted her with the same calmness and the same words she had used to greet everyone else. She only began weeping when her sister-in-
law put both hands over her face and sobbed, ‘Oh no, oh no, not him. He’s such a good man – not him, it’s not possible.’
It was as if her open grief was permission for Emma Jane to grieve, too, for she had been staying strong to help her mother who was inarticulate with weeping. The two young women clung together and cried as if their hearts would break until Amelia lifted her head at last and asked, ‘How did it happen? How did you find out?’
‘We got this,’ said Emma Jane, bringing out of her pocket the paper with the awful news that had fallen from her mother’s bed on to the floor that morning. Amelia puzzled over it. ‘But it doesn’t say what happened. Do you think it was an accident?’ she asked, but the message was stark and uninformative. It only said:
Regret to inform you that Christopher Wylie died today. Await instructions. John Jessup.
‘Instructions – have you sent any? What are you going to do?’ were Amelia’s next questions.
Emma Jane stuck out her chin and said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come so that I can go to Camptounfoot.’
Amelia shook her head. ‘Oh no, you can’t do that. It has to be a man. I’ll send Dan.’
Emma Jane argued quietly, ‘But Dan doesn’t know Father. They’ve never met, have they? It wouldn’t be right for him to go. I’m going – I’ll leave now. There’s a late train that’ll take me to Maddiston. Haggerty’s harnessing the horses to carry me to the station. I’ve been to Camptounfoot before – I know the village and I know the Jessups. It’s my place to go.’
‘But – but – someone must go with you. If you wait till one of my sisters comes from Hexham to take care of the children, I’ll go too,’ protested Amelia but Emma Jane was not even listening to her.
‘You must stay here with Mama and try to calm her a little. I’m going now and I’m going alone because I can’t waste time waiting for someone to escort me. Please don’t argue, Amelia. Try to help instead. Stay here till I come back with… with Father.’
A Bridge in Time Page 33
