Beattie was in the kitchen cooking Bert’s tea. Amy dumped a large paper bag on the cluttered table. ‘Apples and ginger snaps for the kids,’ she said.
For once, Beattie was pleasantly welcoming. She smiled her thanks and offered Amy a cup of tea. ‘Let’s have a natter before Bert comes in,’ she said, this friendly gesture sneaking its way into Amy’s heart. Cups of tea in hand they lolled against the sink, gossiping.
When Amy reflected on what next took place, she was undecided as to whether it was finding Beattie in such a good mood or her own pensive feelings that made her say what she did – without thinking.
‘I’m in love, Beattie.’
Beattie raised her thick, black eyebrows, her face lighting up in surprise. ‘Who with?’ Before Amy could answer she said, ‘Don’t tell me it’s Albert Bloody Sissons. He’s awful.’
Amy grimaced. ‘No, it’s not him,’ she squealed. The grimace became a dreamy smile as she said, ‘His name’s Jude Leas and he’s absolutely wonderful. He works at the pit and lodges with Lily Tinker.’
The house door scraped open and Bert Stitt walked in. ‘How do, young’uns,’ he cried, fondling heads and patting bottoms as he made his way across the living room and into the kitchen. He beamed at his wife and sister-in-law. Bert was unfailingly cheerful despite having a cantankerous wife, too many mouths to feed, and empty pockets for most of the time.
‘Our Amy’s got a chap, Bert,’ Beattie blurted out, her delight apparent.
‘By bloody hell! It’s taken you long enough to find one.’
‘I think you know him,’ Beattie said. ‘Didn’t you tell me you work with a fellow called Jude?’
Bert grinned. ‘Aye, Jude Leas. He’s a grand lad is Jude. Right educated but not pushy wi’ it, if you know what I mean.’
Amy flushed with pleasure at his words. Then, her surprise showing, she said, ‘He mentioned working with a Bert and Seth, but I didn’t think of you.’ She didn’t add that the industrious, efficient and highly skilled Bert that Jude talked about bore no resemblance to the Bert she knew. Jude credited Bert with having taught him all he had learned about mining coal. He’d said it was thanks to Bert’s excellent tuition that he had been promoted to hewing coal rather than loading tubs. Amy looked at her feckless brother-in-law through new eyes.
Bert continued to sing Jude’s praises then sat down to his tea. Amy joined Beattie at the fireside. ‘What do that lot up there think about it?’ Beattie’s sour remark let Amy know she referred to just their parents and Samuel. Thomas didn’t think.
‘They don’t know I’m seeing him,’ she said miserably. ‘I’ve had to keep it a secret because of our Sammy.’ She told Beattie about the night of the dance and Samuel’s ongoing animosity.
‘And no doubt our dear mother agrees with our Sammy,’ Beattie said scornfully.
Amy clamped her lips together and nodded her head. ‘Dad’s being supportive but he doesn’t say much, and when he does, they shout him down,’ she said despairingly.
‘Take no notice of ’em. It’s always been the same in that house; Mam and our Sammy calling the tune and Dad letting them away with it.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ Bert called from the table. ‘When your Beattie married me, it got her away from that bloody lot up there. She couldn’t believe her luck. Now she’s got me an’ a nice little home an’ five bonny bairns to make her happy.’
Beattie gave him a look of utter disbelief. Then she burst out laughing, a bitter-sounding cackle that brought tears to her eyes. Amy went home wondering if Beattie’s enthusiasm for her romance with Jude was partly motivated by the notion that now she and Amy were more equal; they’d both earned Bessie’s disapproval.
*
‘Late again,’ Bessie said, as Amy hurried into the farmhouse kitchen. ‘I’ve kept this warming for over an hour.’ She slammed a plate of steak pie, potatoes and vegetables down on the table. ‘I don’t know why you can’t come straight home to eat with the rest of us.’
‘I do,’ snarled Samuel. ‘She’s been wi’ that collier I told you about; the one I gave a bloody good hiding that night of the dance.’
Amy widened her eyes at Samuel’s lie. ‘You did no such thing. You just made a fool of yourself. Jude’s too much of a gentleman to brawl with the likes of you.’
Samuel looked abashed then blustered, ‘Jude, is it? I should have wiped the bloody floor with him, what with him traipsing you outside to do God knows what once he got you on your own in the graveyard.’
‘Keep your dirty insinuations to yourself, Sammy. Not all men are like you.’
‘Now, now,’ Bessie reprimanded, ‘don’t speak to our Samuel in that tone. He was only looking out for you.’
‘No he wasn’t, he was doing what he always does; ruling the roost.’ Amy pushed the plate of dried-up food aside. ‘I don’t want any dinner,’ she said, storming to the foot of the stairs, ‘nor do I want him telling me who I can or cannot be friends with.’
Just then, Hadley came in from the yard. Hearing Amy’s angry words, he asked, ‘What’s to do?’
‘Ask him!’ cried Amy. ‘Our Sammy seems to think he has the right to tell us all what to do, and I’ve had enough of it.’ She looked beseechingly at Hadley. ‘Dad, I’ve met the most wonderful young man and I’d like bring him home to meet you, but our Sammy’s decided he isn’t good enough for me – even though he doesn’t know him.’ She stood tall, her clasped hands pressed against her chest as she spoke, her heart thudding and her expression begging understanding and approval.
Hadley’s eyes found hers, his half-smile conveying love and sympathy. ‘If you think he’s the one, I’d be happy to meet him.’ His smile broadened, and he had a twinkle in his eye as he asked, ‘Go on then, let’s be knowing. What’s he called and where does he hail from?’
Amy blushed, and directing her words purely for her father’s hearing, she said, ‘He’s called Jude Leas. He comes from Bird’s Well. His parents had a smallholding but they’re both dead so he came to work in Barnborough. He’s working down the pit at the moment to earn enough money to put himself through college.’ Her voice was tinged with pride.
Hadley nodded, pleased, but Bessie’s insides froze. Leas! Bird’s Well! Surely not! It couldn’t be – it mustn’t be. Cold sweat trickled down her spine and her hands shook so violently that the tealeaves she was spooning into the teapot scattered onto the countertop. She thought she might be sick.
‘He sounds like a grand chap,’ said Hadley. ‘Bring him, and welcome.’
‘Bring him here an’ I’ll give him another bloody good hiding,’ Samuel growled.
In another mood Amy might have fought back, but she had got her dad’s approval, and that was what mattered.
‘Our Samuel knows what he’s talking about,’ Bessie piped defensively, ‘so you think on, Amy…’
But Amy, sickened by the argument didn’t stay to listen. She ran upstairs to her bedroom, raging at her mother for always taking Samuel’s part.
7
Bessie didn’t sleep well after her confrontation with Amy and Hadley. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the thoughts that whirled round inside her head although, as yet, she had no proof of their validity. Her fears could be totally unfounded, she told herself, as she lay staring at the ceiling. There could be any number of young lads called Leas from Bird’s Well – a nephew of Henry’s perhaps, or maybe Leas was a surname common to that area; she just didn’t know.
She dozed, but when she wakened her thoughts returned to the same problem, and a day some twenty years before. She’d been out collecting eggs from the chicken coops when a man carrying a bundle close to his chest came into the farmyard. Now, as she tried to find a cool place on her pillow to rest her aching head, she recalled how she’d stopped dead, her heart thudding wildly, and a flush of blood springing to her cheeks; she had thought it was Raffy Lovell. What the devil was he doing here after all this time, she’d asked herself. What did he want?
Then, a sudden
gust of wind catching the man’s long cloak and swinging it wide, she’d puffed out her cheeks, her breath whistling through her teeth. Relief mixed with disappointment as she’d realised it wasn’t him; this man wasn’t as lean as Raffy.
The man had raised his free arm and waved, white teeth flashing a broad smile. ‘Bessie, my love, my beautiful Bessie,’ he’d called across the distance. The lilting tones achingly familiar, she’d dropped the egg basket, her hands flying to her face as she’d struggled to control pleasure and panic.
Then he was by her side, his boots trammelling the shells and splattered yolks at her feet. She’d felt his closeness, the heat from his body and the musky scent she remembered so well. Craving for him to hold her, she’d felt her pulse quickening and her stomach clenching. He’d reached out to touch her. Like a frightened hare she’d leapt away, springing back even further as the bundle against his shoulder writhed and bawled. The burlap had fallen away to reveal an angry, red face, eyes tight shut and the mouth an ugly shouting ‘O’ – it was a baby.
Bessie inched her way to the edge of the bed, Hadley rolling into the space warmed by her body and then noisily breaking wind. She swung her legs from under the covers and planted her feet on the floor, urged on by the noxious smell wafting from under the covers as much as the need to drink a strong cup of tea, and think. Could that baby now be the young man her daughter had fallen for? The baby boy she had given away to her friend Jenny? If so, she had to put a stop to Amy’s romance before it went any further.
Downstairs in the kitchen she sat at the table, tea scalding her trembling lips. A poor, motherless boyo, Raffy had called him, his son by a poor dead Welsh girl. She’d been jealous then, thinking of him giving himself to someone else. On cue, the baby had squalled, as though he understood the parlous state of his short life. She had begged Raffy to leave immediately, before the children arrived home from school but, too late, they had caught her in the yard, Bessie arguing for him to go, he prevaricating and begging for a place to rest for the night.
The children had stared, goggle-eyed, and she had pretended he was selling pegs. Raffy had greeted the children cheerily, laughing when they enquired as to why he had an earring in his ear. ‘Cos I’s a king,’ he had said, his black eyes twinkling wickedly. Then he’d looked closely at the little girl with swarthy skin and black hair, so unlike her pink-skinned, fair-haired brothers.
He’d crossed the yard, Bessie at his heels telling him to be gone, and when they were out of the children’s earshot he’d said, ‘The little missy – she’s mine, isn’t she? ’Twas like looking in a mirror, looking at her.’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ Bessie had warned. ‘Say nothing. I’ve too much to lose.’
‘And what if I don’t?’ he’d replied mischievously.
She’d hidden Raffy and the baby in a disused pig crib, telling him he could stay there for the night. Later, she’d taken milk for the child and food for Raffy, giving him strict orders to leave before Hadley wakened and learned of his presence. She had intended to walk away smartly but Raffy had smiled endearingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, just how she remembered. Blood singing in her ears, she had stayed until daybreak.
When she had wakened, Raffy was sleeping, his long, greasy locks snaking the straw under his head, and his long black lashes, pretty as any girl’s, fanning the hollows beneath his almond-shaped eyes. He looked like an Asian prince from some exotic land far across the sea. His face was more lined than she remembered it, his hair not so lustrous, yet he was still the handsomest man she’d ever known. Oh, but she had loved the boy he had been when first they met, still did if she were honest. Hadn’t he filled her dreams often enough, and how many nights in the bed she shared with Hadley had she pretended that it were Raffy making love to her. But that was the past, and rising quickly to her feet, Bessie did as she had always done and dealt with the present.
Then she’d glanced down at the sleeping child, her blue eyes glinting spitefully. Raffy had left his mark. Below the child’s left ear was the same bluish heart-shaped patch as was on Raffy’s neck. Her daughter also bore it, but Bessie hadn’t told him that. As far as she was concerned Beatrice was Hadley’s, and Raffy must never be allowed to think he had any claim on her. Not now, not ever.
She had wakened him with a kick. ‘Take yourself off,’ she’d flared, running as fast as she could back to the farmhouse.
By now, her tea grown cold, Bessie glanced at the clock on the dresser. Hadley would wake anytime soon. She stood, and stirring the embers in the range she tried to clear her head, but the secrets she had buried in the deeper regions of her mind refused to shift, the memories still rising to the surface, sharp and clear.
She sliced strips of bacon, whisked eggs and plopped a blob of lard into the frying pan. As it melted and began to spit, she stiffened, recalling Hadley’s stern expression of the night before. Was he, after all this time, letting her know he wasn’t the fool she’d played him for? She shuddered.
At the breakfast table Hadley was still wearing that same authoritative face he had worn the night before, and as Bessie served him with bacon, eggs and fried bread he neither thanked nor engaged her in his usual early morning banter. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably as, every now and then, she caught him looking at her in a strange, thoughtful way.
Samuel shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and surly. He slumped into his chair at the table, and as Bessie set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him, Hadley said, ‘Don’t take all morning over it. That barn roof needs fixing. I want it done. Today.’
Samuel’s eyes boggled, not so much at the order but at Hadley’s curt delivery. His eyes slid to meet Bessie’s, as if to say: what’s eating him? Bessie shook her head. She needed to get away, sort out her problems and clear her head.
‘I’m going into town. We’re out of dried fruit and flour. I’ll bake your favourite fruit loaf when I come back, Hadley,’ she said, trying to sound cheery. She threw her husband an endearing smile.
Hadley responded with a brief nod, and pushing back his chair he bent and began to lace his boots. Thomas blundered into the kitchen, smiling stupidly as though surprised to see his family there. ‘Is me breakfast ready?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ said Hadley, ‘and when you’ve had it, get out there and help Samuel fix that barn roof.’ He stamped towards the outside door and then paused, his hand on the latch. ‘And if you’re thinking of baking, Bessie, make something nice for when our Amy brings her young man for his tea on Sunday.’ He slammed the door behind him.
Samuel’s eyes boggled for the second time that morning. ‘Is our Amy bringing that collier here?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ snapped Bessie.
*
It was a bright, crisp morning and the fields and trees were bathed in autumn’s final glow, but Bessie saw none of this as she drove the trap into Barnborough. Amy’s romance had opened up a can of worms and if she, Bessie, was to prevent them snaking into Hadley’s mind she had to put a lid on it, and soon.
Now, as the pony clip-clopped along the road at a steady pace with Bessie at the reins, she recalled another day and another journey she had made twenty years before, not to Barnborough, but to Bird’s Well.
That day, she had risen at first light and rushed out to the pig crib to make sure Raffy had done as she had ordered. When she saw that he and his pack were gone, she’d sagged with relief. Then she’d screamed. The baby screamed too.
Panicked as to how she would explain the baby’s presence, she’d hared back to the farmhouse, and as she warmed a pan of milk and sought out some clean rags, she did what she had done before: she hatched a plan to save her reputation.
Within the hour she was on the road to Bird’s Well, with the baby – now fed and his soiled nappy hidden in the straw in the pig crib – sleeping in a clothesbasket in the bottom of the trap. It was ten years since she had last visited her old friend, Jenny Leas, but local gossip had kept her privy to the fact that
Jenny was still childless.
‘I thought of you straight off,’ she’d said, as soon as she had arrived at the remote smallholding that Jenny now lived in with her husband Henry. As Bessie explained the reason for her visit, she had gazed at the woman some two years her senior, thinking that time had not been kind. Whereas her own hair was still bright as summer corn and her plump cheeks smooth as a peach, Jenny’s hair was streaked with grey, her face lined and drawn. These thoughts in mind, Bessie said, ‘He’ll put new life in you; make you feel young again. He’s a blessing from heaven, Jenny, someone to care of you in your old age.’
To Bessie’s distress, Jenny had prevaricated. ‘But what about his own kinfolk? Surely he…’ Jenny got no further.
‘It’s like I’ve already said; the poor girl fell for the child with a travelling man. An orphan she was, with not a soul to care for her. I did what I could but she died on me when this mite was but two months old.’ The lies had tripped off Bessie’s tongue.
Jenny had stroked the baby’s swarthy cheek, her forefinger sliding into the folds of his neck, gently pushing aside a straggle of black, greasy curls. ‘Oh, look, he’s been kissed by an angel,’ she’d gasped, tracing the purple, heart-shaped mark below the child’s left ear. ‘Motherless he might be but that’s a sign of good luck if ever I saw one,’ she’d said, the words coming out on her breath.
Bessie had inwardly rejoiced. ‘So you’ll keep him then?’
‘Henry will have the final word.’
Bessie’s heart sank. She was itching to be on the road home.
The Collier’s Wife Page 6
