The Collier’s Wife

by Chrissie Walsh

  Jenny had then lifted the child from the basket, and bidding Bessie to take a seat, she sat also, dandling the child on her knee. ‘Your Beatrice has a similar mark,’ she said, innocently enough, ‘and she come early as I remember, very early.’ Bessie had bristled but Jenny had not taken notice. Her brow had wrinkled thoughtfully and she’d gazed hard at the child. ‘He’s a proper little prince. Do you know, he not only puts me in mind of your Beatrice, he has a look of…’ Her eyes had brightened and she’d given Bessie a sly wink before whispering, ‘That lad at the fair, the one who… what was his name? The one who stole your virg—’

  Bessie’s blood had run cold. ‘Can’t say as I remember,’ she’d said, through gritted teeth. ‘And as for names, you can call this one whatever you choose, for he has no name as yet.’ Jenny had smiled at that, the smile fading when Bessie had rounded on her, telling her in no uncertain terms that Beatrice was Hadley’s, and that she took after his grandmother for her dark looks. Jenny hadn’t looked convinced. She’d shrugged apologetically, saying, ‘Must be my memory playing tricks again.’

  But Bessie hadn’t been appeased. ‘I got a good man when I married Hadley, one who’s given me four fine children,’ she’d said, the spiteful remark sharp as an arrow.

  It had taken some artful persuasion on her part, but in the end she had convinced her childless friend to keep the child. ‘It’s best you say nothing to anyone about how you came by the child. You don’t want to encourage gossip,’ she’d advised, ‘and I’ll not expect you to keep in touch.’ This last remark sounding rather like a threat, Bessie had left the Leas’ little cottage, and thankful for its remoteness, she had rattled merrily along the roads back to Barnborough and Intake farm.

  Now, as she drove into the centre of Barnborough and parked the trap in the inn yard, she wondered how much Jenny and Henry Leas had told their son about the true nature of his birth and how they had come by him.

  Still, I have no proof the lad’s the one I gave to Jenny, she thought, as she impatiently watched the grocer weigh out raisins and currants. But what if he is? said an insidious little voice inside her head. By now, she was sweating so profusely that the coins she had taken from her purse slipped from her fingers and scattered. Making no attempt to gather them up, Bessie grabbed her provisions and dashed out of the shop, leaving the grocer staring after her.

  Out on the street, Bessie paused to ease the thudding in her chest. Panicking like this wasn’t good for her, it could give her a heart attack, she told herself crossly, and to lessen the palpitations she took several deep breaths, trying to convince herself that her fears were unfounded. It was a chance in a million that Amy’s young man was Raffy Lovell’s son. That sort of coincidence only happened in the penny dreadfuls she sometimes read. Feeling foolish at allowing her imagination to get the better of her – it wasn’t one bit like her – Bessie stepped smartly along the pavement.

  Then she saw them.

  Amy and Jude were walking hand in hand towards her, laughing at something one or the other had said.

  Bessie came to a standstill.

  So did they, Jude swinging Amy into a loose embrace and pecking her cheek. They lingered for a moment and then resumed walking, not a care in the world or so it appeared.

  Bessie drew breath so sharply it pierced her throat, all the optimism she had fostered in the past few minutes snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Her brow and palms turned clammy again, fear mixed with burning anger bubbling in her chest.

  Now there was no escaping the fact. That same tall, rangy stature and the aquiline features were the mirror of Raffy Lovell’s, even the way the lad had caught Amy up in his arms made him his father’s son. Without a doubt he was the boy child she had handed over to her friend Jenny Leas, some twenty years before. Bessie thought to take flight, cross the street, avoid Amy and Jude’s path, but her feet refused to budge and before she knew it, they were face to face with her.

  ‘Mother!’ Amy’s cry was high with surprise. ‘I didn’t expect to see you in town.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Bessie replied acerbically. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been canoodling in the street for all the world to see.’ Her steely tones caused Jude to raise his brows, his comical expression making Amy giggle and then give an exasperated sigh before saying, ‘Oh, Mam, we were hardly doing that.’

  Amy tugged at Jude’s hand, drawing him forward. ‘Allow me to introduce you,’ she said, mockingly formal. ‘Mrs Bessie Elliot, meet Mr Jude Leas.’ Bessie heard the pride in her voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Elliot, pleased to make your acquaintance at last.’ Jude proffered his hand. Bessie ignored it. Was there implication in the way he had said ‘at last’ or was it just her imagination, she wondered? Had Jenny told him about her? Had he remembered the name and made a connection? Jude met her gaze, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Mother!’ Amy cried, annoyed by Bessie’s rudeness. Then, attempting to dispel the unpleasantness she said, ‘I’ve told Jude that you’ve invited him for tea on Sunday.’

  ‘And I’m more than pleased to accept,’ said Jude, giving Bessie a warm smile.

  Unappeased, Bessie looked sour.

  ‘Mother!’ Amy’s cry bit the air. ‘Why are you being so unpleasant?’

  Bessie had neither the desire nor the integrity to divulge the reason for her unseemly behaviour. ‘I’m late. I have to get home,’ she said, and looking pointedly at Amy she added, ‘and you’d better come with me.’

  ‘I’m going back to work. This is my dinner break.’ Amy linked her arm through Jude’s. ‘Come on, I don’t want to be late.’

  Bessie swung on her heel and strutted down the street.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Elliot,’ Jude called cheerily at Bessie’s rigid back. He gave Amy a rueful smile. ‘That didn’t go too well, did it?’

  ‘Our Sammy’s to blame for that,’ Amy said, her cheeks flaming. ‘He’s turned her against you even before she met you.’

  Jude pulled her close. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll win her round. Nothing and nobody will come between us.’ He dropped a kiss on Amy’s drooping head. Amy leaned her head on his chest, felt the thud of his heart and told herself that she loved Jude Leas with every breath in her body. He let her go. ‘Now, let’s get you back to the library and me to bed so I can catch some sleep before I go on the night shift.’

  *

  Deep in thought, Bessie walked to where she had left the trap. In the yard behind the Red Lion public house, she saw a dishevelled young thug leaning against the wall. She didn’t know him personally but she knew all about him, and the very sight of him set her thoughts and her pulses racing. Deliberately fiddling with her shopping as she set it in the trap, and giving herself time to think things through, she decided he might be the solution to her problem. Hopeful that he was sober, she walked over to him.

  ‘Is your brother out of prison?’ she asked. ‘Because if he is, I’ve a bit of business to put his way. Yours too, if you want the job.’

  After a few brief, whispered words, Bessie drove out of Barnborough assured that the thug and his brother knew exactly what to do, and to whom they should do it. Her purse was several shillings lighter but she felt rather pleased with herself. She had always made it her business to know everybody else’s, and even though she would have denied it, she knew who did what in Barnborough. Now it was paying off.

  Unfortunately, her euphoria was short lived. What if her plan failed? What if she was found out? Bessie drove on in a state of morbid confusion, oblivious to the road and the speed at which she travelled, panic rising with every covered mile. It’s well this pony knows its way home, she thought, as the little horse clattered into the yard at Intake Farm.

  *

  Late that same day, Jude picked up his snap tin and headed for the door; he was going on the nightshift.

  ‘Don’t work too hard,’ Lily quipped, ‘you’ll need all your strength for dealing with Amy’s mother now that you’ve been invited to tea
on Sunday.’

  Jude paused, his hand on the latch. ‘I’ll give her some of me old charm. It works on you so why not her?’

  ‘Because Bessie Elliot’s a stuck-up piece of work. Ever since she married Hadley, she’s given herself airs and graces – and why I don’t know. She was three months gone when she got wed – he had to marry her.’

  Jude raised his eyebrows, surprised by this piece of information about his prospective mother-in-law, but having no time to linger and learn more he stepped outside. A chill wind had brought a touch of frost to the pavement, the slabs glistening in the light from the streetlamp outside the pub on the corner. Under it he spotted two lads. Although he had only lived in Barnborough a short while he knew them from the pub, and knew also of their reputations. Bob and Jed Benson were petty criminals: a couple of brawlers. Paying them no heed he took the short cut up a back lane to the colliery, his warm breath pluming into clouds of vapour in front of his face.

  Jude hadn’t walked far when he sensed someone behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see a fellow miner also making his way to the pit. The figure that ran at him wielded a short, stout length of wood. It connected with Jude’s shoulder. He leapt back, and then righting himself he charged forwards, fists raised. As he lashed out, his assailant swung the piece of wood again. It clouted Jude’s cheekbone at the same time as he felt soft flesh under his knuckles and heard the satisfying crunch of bones. Bob dropped his weapon, his hands clutching at his broken nose as he slumped to his knees. Then Jed barrelled forward, Jude instinctively raising his right foot and kicking out, his heavy pit boot catching the lad between his legs. Howling, Jed staggered backwards, frantic hands groping his injured manhood as he turned and tottered into the darkness.

  By now, Bob was back on his feet but there was no fight left in him. As he turned to follow his brother, he gasped, ‘You’re to keep away from Amy Elliot if you know what’s good for you.’ This so incensed Jude that he considered going after them but, common sense telling him there was little to be gained by prolonging the fight, and that he was already late for his shift, he hurried to the pit.

  ‘Eeh! Somebody’s not happy wi’ you.’ Bert pointed to Jude’s swollen cheek and blackened eye. ‘I hope you gave ’em as good as you got.’

  ‘I think I did better than that,’ growled Jude. He told Bert what had happened, and then said, ‘If you ask me why, I’d say it smells like some of Samuel’s dirty work.’

  *

  Bessie woke next morning with a headache. Beside her, in the huge double bed with its iron and brass ends, Hadley’s rumbling snores reverberated in the darkened room. Outside, a moaning wind shivered against the windowpanes. Its sound made Bessie tremble. She had slept intermittently, the face of the young man she had met in town the previous day haunting every waking moment. Jude Leas – Raffy’s son.

  Now, sweat moistening her brow and armpits, she watched the first lights of dawn peek through the gap in the curtains as she mulled over what she had done. Whatever had she been thinking of? She must have been crazy to pay those thugs to give him a beating. That was all she had wanted them to do, to frighten him off, but supposing they had killed him?

  Her head thumped mercilessly at the dreadful thought, tears seeping from her eye corners and trickling into her ears. She’d been a fool, and it was all Raffy Lovell’s fault. He’d brought her to this, him and his wily ways. She wished she’d never met him. But then, she sadly told herself, she would never have known what it was to really be in love – and it had been wonderful whilst it lasted. She could never love Hadley like she loved Raffy.

  Almost as though he knew he was in her thoughts Hadley heaved his bulk towards her and broke wind. Bessie rolled to the edge of the bed, the foul smell wafting from beneath the loosened bedclothes breaking her last reserve. She leapt out of bed and went downstairs.

  In the cold light of morning, pottering about the kitchen, Bessie looked back on her madness as though she had been some other woman when she had planned the attack. And what for, she asked herself? If Jude knew anything about his birth, he’d have told Amy, and surely she would have mentioned it. Consoled by this thought, Bessie sliced rashers of bacon and put them in a pan.

  Bessie’s head still ached, and as the bacon began to sizzle so did her brain. But what if, when Jenny had told Jude she wasn’t his natural mother she had then told him the detail of how her old friend, Bessie Elliot from Barnborough, had brought him to Bird’s Well? Furthermore – Bessie shuddered at the thought – had Jenny gossiped about Raffy Lovell and Beatrice’s birth? Bessie’s heart missed a beat. God forbid Jude told Hadley.

  The smell of burning fat brought her back to the present, and flinging the burned rashers into the slop bucket she replenished the pan whilst firmly telling herself to gain control of her emotions before she gave the game away. After all, tomorrow afternoon Jude Leas would be here in her kitchen. What then?

  *

  ‘Oh, my dear God, what happened to you?’ cried Lily Tinker, as Jude entered his lodgings the next morning. ‘Did you get in t’way of a flying lump o’ coal?’

  ‘Aye, summat like that,’ replied Jude, shedding his jacket and then dumping it outside the open kitchen door for Lily to beat against the wall. Knocking the dust out of a collier’s pit clothes was usually a wife’s job but, Jude being single, Lily insisted on performing the task in the same way she did for her own son, Tommy.

  When Lily went outside, Jude stripped and stepped into the tin bath in front of the fire. He’d let Lily believe the lie. Accidents happened down the pit all the time, and he didn’t want her gossiping to her neighbours about his altercation with the thugs. Lily came back inside, and fishing his trousers from the floor, she went out again to beat them also. As Jude washed away layers of coal dust and towelled himself dry, he decided to tell the same lie to Amy; he didn’t want her worrying over what Samuel might do next.

  ‘Are you decent?’ Lily popped her head round the door and found Jude sitting at the table dressed in the clean underwear and shirt she had left out for him. Two minutes later, she set a plate of meat and potato pie, cabbage and gravy in front of him. ‘Tuck into that, and when you’ve finished, I’ll put some salve on them,’ she said, pointing to Jude’s grazed cheek and his blackened eye. ‘You’ve got a right shiner, lad. You need to be more careful.’

  ‘I will be, next time,’ Jude grunted, wondering if and when the next time might be.

  *

  On Saturday afternoon, Jude waited for Amy outside the library. She was shocked when she saw his battered face and, like Lily, believed he had sustained the injuries at work. Jude didn’t disabuse her. ‘You poor darling,’ she said, tenderly stroking his bruised eye and then lightly kissing his grazed jaw.

  They walked to Jude’s lodgings, Jude keeping a sharp eye out for the Benson brothers should they strike again. He didn’t think they would, but it did no harm to be vigilant. Seated by the fire in Lily’s cosy parlour, he asked Amy if Samuel was friendly with them, dropping it casually into a made-up story about something that had happened in the pub.

  ‘Good Lord, no! Our Sammy wouldn’t go within a mile of them.’ She giggled before adding, ‘that’s because when they were at school together, they bullied him. Besides, our Sammy thinks he’s far too good to bother with the likes of the Bensons.’

  Deeply puzzled, Jude dropped the subject but, for the rest of the evening, his thoughts kept toying with the fact that the Bensons had been hired to attack him – and that the reason was this lovely girl nestled in his arms. If it wasn’t Samuel Elliot, then who the hell was it?

  8

  Beckett’s Park Hospital

  September, 1918

  Throughout the month of September, Amy made her twice-weekly visits to Jude. By now, she no longer found the train journeys daunting but whenever she entered the hospital she felt as though her heart was in her mouth. Never knowing quite what to expect she had, for two interminable hours every Wednesday and Sunday, sat beside
him praying for him to acknowledge her presence, say her name, or give her a smile. More often than not he sat quietly gazing out of the window, his eyes like two pits of empty blackness and his mouth twisted in a sardonic sneer.

  Not one to give in without a fight, Amy talked and talked, her voice gentle as she told him about Kezia’s progress and what she herself had done since she last saw him. Jude sat with his hands clamped to the arms of his chair, and as she talked Amy stroked the back of the nearest one. He gave no indication that he felt her fingers caressing his skin. One day, when his hands were rested in his lap she had reached out and held them. Then, he had looked directly at her. His mouth had twitched and she thought he was about to speak, but just as her spirits soared, he had tugged his hands free. She’d held his hands again on the next visit and he hadn’t resisted, but since then she had had to be content with stroking. Nurse Brennan had told her it was a good sign; he was improving. But then, from somewhere deep inside, the growls and yells and blaspheming would pour in torrents, outbursts of such extreme anger that had Amy fearing for her own sanity, let alone Jude’s. On those days, she had gone home feeling as though there was no hope.

  Now, on the last Sunday in September, she sat with her chair angled towards him, almost forcing him to look at her as she talked. The afternoon was drawing to a close, almost time for her to leave to catch her train. She had been talking and stroking the back of his hand for almost two hours without any response from Jude. Her mouth was dry and her fingers ached but she still battled on. ‘Kezia says to tell you that she’s been helping Granny Bessie feed the chickens and milk the goats. She loves spending time on the farm whilst I’m here with you,’ she said, keeping up a steady patter of the one-way conversation. ‘Oh, and by the way, Mrs Hargreaves gave me some more books to add to your collection. Our bedroom’s coming down with books, books, and more books, everywhere you look.’

  Jude blinked. He leaned forward, his face close enough for her to smell his breath; it was sour. He blinked again, and it was as if someone had drawn back the curtain from a window in a darkened room. His eyes gleamed as they searched her face. Amy let the silence swell and grow. Then, tentatively loosening his grip on the chair’s arm, she lifted the hand that she had been stroking and wrapped both her own round it. It felt like a dead fish between her warm palms. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Jude continued to stare at her, his eyes troubled, as though they were fixed on a puzzle he could not solve.