by Val Wood
‘You think that Father would allow me to be head of the household whilst he is alive and still with his wits? How ridiculous. Of course he wouldn’t,’ Stephen admonished her. ‘He would never be party to that! I’m sorry, Bella. Father told me when I left to live with Agnes that he didn’t want to see me again, and the only time he did was when I came to Mother’s funeral, and then he barely spoke.’
He stared at her, hostility on his face. ‘I was never allowed to see Mother whilst she was alive, and my letters to her were returned unopened!’
‘I know,’ she said dejectedly. ‘Mama was very unhappy about it, but she could do nothing. She always said, though, that if you’d had a son, it might make a difference.’ Her eyes flickered between Stephen, Jenny and the door where they could hear Christina gurgling and letting out little shrieks. ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Stephen exclaimed, whilst Jenny drew in a breath.
‘She’s a girl,’ she declared. ‘And she’s mine, not Mr Laslett’s,’ and as she spoke she remembered that she hadn’t yet registered Christina’s birth.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I haven’t registered Christina’s birth,’ Jenny told Stephen, as they sat down for their midday meal. Arabella had declined the invitation to eat with them and had left. ‘I’d forgotten that was what had to be done. Do I have to go into Beverley?’
‘Oh!’ Stephen gave a gasp of exasperation. ‘Hill reminded me to notify Agnes’s death! He gave me a certificate. What did I do with it?’ He glanced vaguely up at the mantelshelf and over at the dresser.
‘I took a piece of paper from one of your shirt pockets before I washed it.’ Jenny got up from the table and fished in a jug on the dresser. ‘Weeks ago. I meant to tell you. Is this it?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ Stephen stared down at the crumpled certificate. Then he put his hand to his head and pressed his temples. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to think about it. I’ve put it to the back of my mind.’ He looked across at her. ‘But I can’t put it off for ever. We’ll take a trip into Beverley, Jenny, now that we’ve finished lambing. We can register both at the same time.’
Jenny hesitated. ‘I’m not supposed to go back to Beverley,’ she said.
‘Who says?’ he asked brusquely.
‘The magistrates said I should leave and go elsewhere until people had had ’chance to forget what happened to Christy.’
He grunted. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say, but I’m afraid people will have forgotten already. Apart from his family, of course; they won’t ever forget.’ He drummed on the table with his fingertips for a moment, and then began to eat again. ‘Anyway, you were acquitted, weren’t you? No-one has the right to say you shouldn’t go back. You were not banned, merely advised to stay away.’
She trusted him to be right and though she had misgivings, later in the week they took the waggon and drove into Beverley to register a birth and a death. They sat apart in the small office of the registrar, Jenny holding Christina and Stephen staring up at the ceiling. Jenny went into the inner office first.
‘Date of birth?’ The registrar glanced at Jenny. ‘Of the child.’
‘April the first 1860.’
‘Name of child?’
‘Christina April Ingram,’ Jenny said boldly.
‘First names only please,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Male or female?’
‘Christina April. Female.’ She suddenly felt intimidated by this sombre little man.
‘Name and surname of mother?’
‘Jenny Graham,’ she said, quietly but firmly.
‘Married or unmarried?’
She took a breath. ‘Unmarried.’
‘Occupation?’
‘Housekeeper – domestic.’
‘Informant?’ When she hesitated, he added, ‘Who gives the information?’
‘I do. The child’s mother.’
He asked where the child was born; dated and signed the certificate, blotted it and handed it to her. ‘Good day, Miss Graham.’ He looked over his spectacles at her. ‘I wish you and your daughter both well in your lives.’
‘Oh! Thank you,’ she said at this unexpected courtesy. ‘That’s very kind!’
He nodded and, opening the door, showed her out. Then he called, ‘Next, please.’
When Stephen came out, he seemed very low-spirited. He didn’t speak as they went out of the register office but ushered Jenny towards Saturday Market.
‘Are you all right, Mr Laslett?’ she asked. ‘Was it very bad for you?’
‘Yes,’ he said dully. ‘It was.’ He pressed his lips together and she let the moment pass, until he’d recovered enough to say, ‘I’m going across to see Akrill at the gun shop. I need some powder and shot. Go and look at the shops and I’ll meet you in half an hour. Do you need any money?’
‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some thread and darning wool. You’ve got holes in your socks.’
He took some coins out of his pocket and handed them to her, then gently pinched her, then the baby, on their cheeks. ‘We sound like an old married couple, Jenny,’ he said softly. ‘You should be making yourself a pretty dress, not darning socks for an old fellow like me!’
‘You’re not an old fellow.’ She smiled. ‘And I’m grateful to you, Mr L— Stephen. I can’t begin to tell you how much.’
She made her purchases at the haberdasher’s and was pleased that no-one seemed to recognize her. She gave a brief look into the butcher’s shop but only Billy’s father was there, and then, as she still had plenty of time before meeting Stephen, her feet took her down towards Toll Gavel. Just to look, she told herself, at the draper’s and the boot maker’s shops.
William Brown’s Son, the sign above the new butcher shop proclaimed, and as Jenny looked in she saw Billy serving a customer, and a woman whom she presumed to be his mother was stringing sausages.
She heard Billy wish his customer a good day and as he turned to the window to replace a tray of meat he looked up. He stared at her for a second, then wiping his hands on his apron he came outside, first saying something to the woman in the shop.
‘Jenny!’ He gazed at her as if lost for words. ‘Jenny, wh—’ He glanced at the child in her arms and then back at her. ‘Whose is ’babby?’
‘Mine,’ she said, knowing he was really asking was it Christy’s. ‘We’ve come to register her birth.’ She looked up at him and smiled. She’d almost forgotten how blue his eyes were. It was a year since she had last seen him. He seemed to have grown taller, broader and thicker-set than before, and although he was clean-shaven he had long sideburns, which suited him, she thought. He’s groomed and spruced up; I wonder if he’s courting a young lady?
‘Who’s we?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Are you still in ’same job of work?’
‘I went to work at my aunt’s house, Billy, out in ’country. You remember when I caught ’carrier?’
‘Aye, I do. Up Etton way, wasn’t it?’ He shuffled his feet as if he was embarrassed, just as he used to do. ‘I’ve often wondered about you, Jenny. Wondered if you’d been back.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t get much free time.’
‘They kept you on then, even after you had ’babby?’ He glanced down again at the sleeping infant.
‘My aunt died a few weeks back, Billy. I looked after her when she was ill. That’s why I went there in ’first place. Now her husband needs somebody to help him around ’farm. I look after the house and feed ’hens and milk ’cow. Mr Laslett doesn’t mind the baby.’ Loves her to bits, she thought, gazing tenderly at Christina as she stirred. He spoils her to death.
‘I see,’ Billy mumbled and sighed. ‘Well, I’m glad it’s worked out for you, Jenny. What have you called her?’ He peeked at the baby as she opened her eyes.
‘Christina,’ she said. ‘Christina April. She was born on ’first of April.’
‘Ah!’ He averted his eyes from her. ‘Aye, of course.’
‘What about you, Billy? Is ’shop doing well? I see
your ma’s still helping out!’
‘Aye.’ He sighed again. ‘She likes to keep an eye on me. Thinks I can’t manage on me own! She says when I wed and have a wife to help me, then she’ll leave.’
‘And have you got somebody in mind, Billy?’ she asked. ‘Have you met anybody?’
His eyes gazed into hers. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘At least – I’ve been meeting this lass, Annie Fisher, but there’s nowt to it.’
‘Be careful, Billy,’ Jenny said softly. ‘She might think there is. You could get caught.’
‘Like you did?’ he muttered.
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t get caught. I loved Christy then and he loved me.’ A sudden emotion made her shudder and she looked away, and as she did, she saw Stephen Laslett coming down the street towards them.
‘Aye, except –’ Billy began, but broke off as Jenny waved to Stephen.
‘I’ll have to go,’ Jenny said. ‘That’s Mr Laslett, my employer. He probably wants to get off home.’
Billy gazed towards the tall lanky figure coming their way. ‘He’s not an old fellow, then?’ he muttered. ‘Not old at all!’
‘Erm – I suppose not,’ she said, and pondered that although Stephen Laslett was wearing his rough cord breeches and old tweed jacket, with his felt hat on his long hair, his bearing proclaimed him the gentleman that he was.
‘I mean – not as old as my da?’
‘No. He was younger than my aunt. Mr Laslett,’ she said as he approached. ‘This is my friend, Billy Brown. I knew him when I worked in Beverley.’
‘How de do, Brown.’ Stephen put one hand out to Billy; with the other he held a parcel from the gun shop.
‘I’m a bit bloody, sir,’ Billy said, refusing his handshake. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
‘Is this your shop?’ Stephen said. ‘Are you Brown the butcher?’
Billy drew himself up. ‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘Billy Brown, butcher boy!’ Jenny murmured, a sadness washing over her.
Billy looked at her, and then muttered. ‘I’d better get back in.’ He glanced into the shop. ‘I’ve things to do. It’s been good seeing you again, Jenny.’
‘You too, Billy,’ she said softly, knowing that he still cared for her.
‘Jenny.’ Stephen took some money out of his pocket. ‘Shall we treat ourselves? What about some beefsteak? Make a change from rabbit pie?’
‘It would,’ she said. He gave her some more coins and took Christina from her. She followed Billy into the shop where he sliced up two thick pieces of beef. He wrapped them up and handed them to her. ‘With my compliments,’ he said, his voice expressionless. ‘It’s best beef, it’ll cook well.’
‘No, Billy. I must pay you!’ She was conscious of his mother turning round to look at her. ‘Mr Laslett will be cross. He doesn’t like favours.’
He shook his head. ‘Next time,’ he said.
‘It’s not what you think, Billy,’ she whispered. ‘Really it isn’t!’
‘Oh aye? Nowt to do wi’ me, anyway.’ His voice was controlled but with an undertone of pique. ‘Bye, Jenny. Be seeing you.’
She went outside to where Stephen was pacing up and down with Christina in his arms. ‘Shall we get back?’ she said, wanting to leave. She felt tearful and emotional but didn’t know why, except that she knew that Billy was upset, and she didn’t want him to be. ‘It’s almost time for Christina’s feed. Have we got everything?’
He was about to answer when a middle-aged woman dressed in black walked by. Stephen lifted his hat and murmured good day. She inclined her head, then her eyes turned to Jenny. It was Mrs Ingram. Christy’s mother.
Though it was only seconds that their eyes met, to Jenny it seemed an interminable time. Mrs Ingram stared with obvious hostility, then lifted her chin and walked on, scurried almost, past Billy’s shop. A small sob escaped Jenny’s throat and she wanted to chase after her and confront her, saying, look, this is your grandchild, your dead son’s daughter. She could bring you comfort as she has to me. But she wouldn’t want to hear it, Jenny thought miserably. Wouldn’t believe me anyway.
Billy’s mother came out of the shop and stared after Mrs Ingram’s retreating back. Billy followed her. Mrs Brown sniffed and muttered something and Jenny heard him say, ‘Leave it, Ma. There’s nowt to be done.’
Jenny put her hand to her mouth and swallowed away tears. Billy watched her. His manner changed to one of solicitude when he saw her distress. ‘Don’t expect owt from them, Jenny,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re in a bad way.’
They collected the horses and waggon from the hostelry where they had left them, and as soon as they left Beverley Jenny put Christina to her breast with her shawl covering her. Stephen stared straight ahead without speaking. The day had been a strange one.
‘We shan’t need to go again,’ Stephen said abruptly as he handed her down at the gate. ‘Not for a while, anyway.’ He looked up at the hillside to where the stone, set beside Agnes’s grave, gleamed white against the meadow grass. ‘We’ve everything here that we need.’
‘Yes.’ Jenny heaved a sigh. ‘It’s good to be back.’
Billy stood gazing out of the shop window after Jenny had left, looking at nothing but exceedingly preoccupied.
‘Who was that?’ His mother turned curiously towards him, pausing momentarily at the job in hand of stringing sausages.
‘Somebody,’ Billy muttered. ‘A friend.’
‘It was Jenny Graham, wasn’t it?’ He didn’t turn round to answer so she addressed the back of his head. ‘Did she do it?’
He turned abruptly to face her. ‘She was acquitted! You know very well.’
She was about to reply but her words were held in check by the appearance of a young woman, with her bonnet askew, dashing in at the shop doorway. Billy could always tell his mother’s humour by the tone of her voice, but mostly by her facial expressions, which she was never able to hide. Now her nose wrinkled distastefully and her pinched lips turned down, a feat she had perfected to make her own; he would have known even without turning his head who was the cause of her disapproval.
‘Billy! Guess who I’ve just seen!’
‘How do, Annie,’ Billy answered morosely.
‘Guess who I’ve seen!’ Annie looked triumphantly at Billy and then more cautiously at Mrs Brown. ‘I’ve just seen that lass, Jenny Graham, that was up for ’murder of Christopher Ingram.’
‘She was acquitted,’ Billy said sourly.
‘Oh, aye!’ Annie gave a wry disbelieving smirk. ‘She was carrying a babby. Bet it was his!’
Mrs Brown moved to the counter. ‘Can I get you summat, Annie?’
‘No, thanks. I was just passing ’time of day.’ She looked from one to the other and her mouth drooped. ‘I’ll be off. Shall you be at ’Green Dragon tonight, Billy?’
‘Mebbe,’ he said. ‘Depends.’
She sniffed and turned for the door. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Like I was saying,’ Billy’s mother continued as Annie Fisher scurried past the window. ‘Did she do it?’
Billy gazed at her unblinkingly. ‘I just said. She was acquitted.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jenny drew the lamp nearer to her and began to write. ‘When I look back I realize how little time I have had for writing about my life. The days, weeks and months have passed so quickly since we visited Beverley, and neither Mr Laslett nor myself have expressed any wish to go back. I had been very happy there, but it was also the place where I had known much pain, fear and sorrow, and it is that thought which throws such a dark shadow over me that I cannot bring myself to return.
‘Mr Laslett told me on the evening after our visit that whilst he was waiting in Akrill’s gun shop, he had met someone he knew, a mere casual acquaintance. This man chatted and asked if he had heard about the proposed railway line from Beverley to Market Weighton; then in almost the same breath asked if he had heard the news of Mr John Ingram, who was well known in the town. When Mr Laslett
professed that he knew of the railway proposal but not of Mr Ingram, the gentleman proceeded to tell him that Mr Ingram was on the verge of bankruptcy and that he owed money all over Beverley. He owed the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker, according to this man, and various friends and benefactors who had lent him money. It needs but one creditor to call in his debt, the man said, and he is bust. Those were his very words.
‘It seems, this fellow gossiped, that Ingram had been expecting an inheritance after his son’s death, but it had gone instead to some other relative.
‘Mr Laslett said wasn’t it odd that we had seen Mrs Ingram that very same day, and he wondered if she knew how bad things were. I could make no answer to that, for I had felt very dismal after seeing her and feeling her hatred towards me.
‘We have few visitors here, apart from the occasional itinerant workers and tramps who come to help on the land, and none have expressed any surprise at seeing me here instead of Agnes. Apart, that is, from a young gypsy woman who had come with her husband. She came to the door one hot afternoon and asked if she might have some milk for her children. She had two with her, a boy and a girl of about four or five.
‘We had plenty of milk, the cow was yielding more than I could cope with and I seemed to be for ever in the dairy at the back of the house, churning butter and making cheese, and I’m not very good at either I’ve decided, for there is definitely an art to getting it right. I gave the children a cupful there and then and filled a jug for her to take back to their camp, asking her to return the empty jug when she had finished with it.
‘“Where’s the other manushi?” she asked. “The other wife?”
‘I told her that Agnes had died; she nodded and said she had expected it. She had read Agnes’s palm and seen it coming. She also told me that Agnes was watching over us, and I knew that to be true, knowing that she is lying peacefully up on the grassy hillside.
‘A parson came to visit. He had somehow heard of Agnes’s death and came to offer his belated commiserations. Mr Laslett wasn’t in, but this man of God expressed great displeasure when he found that I, a young woman with a child, was living with a man who wasn’t my husband. No matter that I explained that I was Mr Laslett’s housekeeper, he demanded to know where the child’s father was. When I said that he was dead, he stormed off immediately to find Mr Laslett and remind him of his moral duties. When Mr Laslett came in for his supper, he said that he had sent the parson off with a flea in his ear, and threatened him with his shotgun if he should come near again.
