Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  Lucy was surprised at the question. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A calf. Only a week old,’ he said. ‘On the bottle. I’ll give you the milk. Much as you need. It’s just we can’t manage it.’

  Lucy wasn’t sure.

  ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll kill it. Just thought I’d ask.’

  ‘I’ve raised a lamb on a bottle, but never a calf. You say you can’t manage. Is it a problem?’

  ‘Calf’s no trouble, it’s just we can’t spare the time messing about with it. There’s only me and me daughter, Grace, these days.’

  ‘But I remember Edward telling me you and your wife had two grown boys.’

  The farmer rubbed his hand across his thinning hair. ‘We lost both boys in Flanders in 1917. Not more than two months apart. That was when my wife took to her bed. Doctor said it was women’s troubles but I think it was all tied up with the shock and grief. Same ailment as got to your boy – only worse and she ain’t never got over it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘She wouldn’t let me tell anyone. Said she didn’t want folk knowing her business. Trouble is now at times she can hardly breathe and I think she’s proper sick. That’s what made me think about a nurse for her.’

  ‘Shall I speak to Alice when I see her? Ask her if she can spare a bit of time.’

  ‘I don’t know what my missus will say. She only lets Grace tend to her these days. Doesn’t even like me going into her room.’

  He wiped the tea from his whiskers. ‘It’s hard on the lass though, helping me with the milking and trying to look after her mother and the house as well. She’s turned twenty years old and says she don’t intend to be tied to the farm for the rest of her days. It was all right when she were young but now she grown she says had enough of mucking out sheds. She wants to go to the city to work. What can I do?’

  Lucy shook her head.

  ‘Can’t really blame her, can you? She’s a good lass, but I worry. I don’t know what she’ll do if she leaves. She’s got no learning. We paid for the boys to go to high school, but we couldn’t afford it with her. Didn’t seem necessary at the time. She left school at twelve to help the missus. Now I wish—’

  ‘I’d be happy to take the calf,’ said Lucy.

  ‘That’s good. I didn’t really want to knock it on the head. Nice little heifer calf. If she grows all right, we’ll put her to the bull when she’s big enough. You can start your own herd.’

  Lucy laughed. She felt sorry for the farmer. He was a nice man.

  James asked Alice to marry him three or four times during the summer of 1920. And both Lucy and Pansy tried to encourage her to accept James’s proposal.

  ‘You can get a job in the village,’ said Pansy. ‘Or work as a private nurse in one of them big houses, if you really want to work.’

  ‘Serving cups of tea and bathing some rich old biddy every time she wets herself! No thank you!’ Alice was not going to be persuaded.

  Even James’s new car made no difference.

  It was the latest model, a 1920 Morris Tourer - brand spanking new. The metal trim gleamed, even the leather upholstery shone. It seated four or five comfortably and had a concertina top which could be pulled up when it rained. It was one of the few cars in the Horsforth district and certainly the newest one for miles around. Lucy and Pansy felt like royalty when they travelled in the back. Timothy always took pride of place in the front passenger seat.

  Much to James’s chagrin and disappointment, Alice was indifferent to the motor car, almost averse to it. She complained about the petrol fumes. Said the car was noisy and cold to ride in. And when James suggested he drive her back to the hospital and carry her bike in the back seat, she objected saying she preferred to ride her bike. It was good exercise, she said, and asked him what people would think if they saw her being driven to the nurses’ home by a toff in a fancy car.

  James managed to hide his disappointment.

  ‘I thought of taking Goldie for a walk,’ he said casually, after lunch on one of her visits. ‘Would you like to join me?’

  He was surprised when she accepted, especially as she sounded quite enthusiastic. Perhaps she had spent too much time that morning talking with her mother and Lucy. Perhaps, because it was a fine day, she wanted to get out in the fresh air. James didn’t care; he was just pleased she had agreed.

  It was a long time since she had been in the saddle and a long time since Goldie had been ridden and at first both seemed a little nervous. Holding the bridle, James led the old horse out of the gate beside Pansy’s cottage and into the lane. It was the way he had led her many times when she was a little girl. How could he forget those times? How happy she had been then, full of fun and excitement, chattering non-stop while riding confidently, one hand on the horse’s mane, the other wrapped around Constance, her doll. Walking beside her, James looked up, but Alice was staring straight ahead and did not return his glance.

  Skirting around the field on the back lane, he led Goldie along the narrow path into the pocket of woodland overlooking the meadow. Mr Fothergill’s small herd of cows was camped by the marshy ground at the far end of the field, cudding contentedly. In the distance, the three Honeysuckle Cottages were half-hidden by the old horse chestnut tree.

  Alice sighed, as she held out her arms for James to help her dismount. ‘Being here reminds me of when I was a girl,’ she said, and when she slid from the saddle her body brushed against his, her hands slipping loosely around his neck.

  James held her for a moment. ‘Shall we sit for a while?’

  Alice agreed and with the horse blanket beneath them, they reminisced.

  ‘I remember the thrush’s nest’ Alice mused. ‘I used to lie here and watch you climb, looking for eggs. And we used to catch butterflies and take them to show Edward, and remember, if your mother called, we would pretend we didn’t hear her.’

  He smiled.

  ‘And sometimes we would fall asleep in the sun,’ she said, lying back on the rug.

  James laid down beside her and watched as she closed her eyes. The sun, filtering through the branches, flickered across her face. ‘And you looked just as you do today, lovely,’ he sighed. ‘You cannot imagine how many times I have longed for a moment like this.’ Closing his eyes, he touched her. Her skin was soft and warm. His hands trembled.

  A dragonfly hovering over the grass nearby ignored them. Above their heads the new season’s acorns decorated the tree’s branches like candles on a Christmas tree. A bird flitted between the leaves. The old horse flicked flies with its tail and grazed amongst the wildflowers whose seedpods were firm and full and almost ready to burst and cast their crop on the late summer breeze. Goldie didn’t wander far. The cows never stirred. The sun continued flickering and it was almost two hours before Alice decided it was time she should leave.

  ‘Perhaps you’d reconsider what I’ve been asking,’ James said, as he touched her cheek.

  ‘Don’t ask me now,’ she said. ‘Please, not now.’

  Chapter 16

  Bad Times

  Lucy and Alice sat next to each other at the pine table in the farmhouse kitchen. Mr Fothergill, perched on a stool near the fireplace, spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Her mother never made it easy for her,’ he said. ‘Always picking on the lass.’ He sighed deeply. ‘The two lads were always her favourites. And I suppose, if I was honest, I’d say Grace was always mine.’

  From outside the window, a dog barked. Grace Fothergill kicked off her boots before popping her head around the kitchen door. Plump and freckle-faced, she wore her long ginger hair woven into two plaits. Her impish grin belied her twenty two years. Wearing dungarees, hand-knitted socks and an old jumper which had obviously belonged to her father, a look of embarrassment flashed across her face when she saw how smartly Alice was dressed, but it quickly disappeared. She smiled. ‘Have you been to see Mam yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘We waited for you. Did you tell her I was b
ringing Alice?’

  ‘I told her you might call in just to say hello.’ Grace turned to Alice, her expression serious. ‘At first she said you were not to bother, then she asked if you was a real nurse. When I told her you were, I think she was pleased because she kept asking when you were coming.’

  Mr Fothergill fed the fire from the pile of chopped wood heaped beside it. A kitten wandered over to Lucy and rubbed itself against her leg. Grace shooed it out of the door and then beckoned the two women to follow her down the passage which led through the house. The door to the end room was closed. Grace knocked on it gently before ushering the two ladies inside.

  As she opened the bedroom door, Lucy was struck by the unsavoury smell of sickness. It was always the same – the smell of sickness in a house – only this time it was worse.

  Mrs Fothergill was propped up in the bed with a pile of cushions behind her. While draped around her shoulders was a faded blue bed jacket, in her hands she was gripping a towel pulled up under her chin. The once silver hair was dull and matted and she looked much older than her fifty years.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Fothergill, I’m Alice.’

  The woman smiled weakly. ‘I’d never have recognized you,’ she said, fighting for breath with every word. ‘Last time I saw you, you were only a girl.’ Her words drifted into a bout of wheezing.

  ‘Mam can’t talk for long,’ Grace said quietly, as she offered Lucy the only chair in the room. ‘She gets tired easily.’

  Lucy and Alice exchanged glances, before Alice sat on the edge of the bed and took Mrs Fothergill’s hand. ‘How are you?’ she said gently, not expecting an answer. It was obviously hard work for the woman to speak so Grace answered most of the questions for her.

  ‘Is there anything you can do for her?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I’d like to help,’ said Alice, ‘but I think your mother needs a doctor.’

  ‘No!’ the woman breathed emphatically. She tried to repeat it but her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘No! No doctor!’

  Alice turned back to Grace.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’

  ‘A few months now,’ said Grace, tucking in the sheet at the side of the bed. She whispered to Alice. ‘She’s got this horrible boil on her chest and it’s getting worse. I’ve tried poultices but they don’t help. Trouble is she doesn’t like me touching it. Doesn’t even like me seeing it.’ Leaning forward she said softly, ‘Mam, let Alice have a look at your chest’

  The invalid murmured something to her daughter, but, as she was speaking, Alice put her hand on the towel covering her torso. Instinctively the woman held it to her chin, but Alice pulled it gently from her fingers and peeled the cloth back.

  Lucy had never seen anything like it. A purple ulcer had puckered the skin of her right breast. At the top edge a pale cauliflower-like growth was protruding from it. The matter weeping from it, smelled foul.

  ‘That’s a bit of a mess, Mrs Fothergill,’ Alice said in a kind but pragmatic tone.

  ‘No, doctors, luv,’ the woman begged, allowing a tear to slip sideways across her temple.

  Alice squeezed her hand, talking quietly as she replaced the piece of towelling. ‘Perhaps I can get something from the hospital to help you sleep,’ she said.

  Mrs Fothergill nodded. Her eyes closed and within seconds her breathing indicated she was asleep. The visitors left quietly without saying goodbye. Grace closed the door behind them.

  The expression on Lucy’s face answered the question Mr Fothergill was about to ask.

  ‘Isn’t there anything you can do for Mam?’ Grace asked.

  Alice shook her head. ‘You should call the doctor.’

  ‘No point. She’ll not let the doctor near her. I’m surprised she let you look.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Fothergill,’ said Alice. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Sleep is probably the best thing for her. A little brandy might help, if she’ll take it.’

  ‘Teetotal, all her life. Even before the pledge. Won’t allow a drop past her lips. Always been a stubborn woman.’

  Lucy needed to get outside into the fresh air. She excused herself by asking Grace if she could look around the garden while she and her father spoke with Alice. Outside it was cold and damp. A black dog sniffed at her boots before flopping down in a makeshift kennel it was sharing with the family of kittens.

  At the side of the farmhouse was an untended vegetable patch overgrown by weeds. The only evidence of recent digging had been done by the hens. She could hear cows and geese but was unable to see them from the side of the house and was relieved when Alice emerged from the kitchen.

  As they walked home, Alice was quiet.

  ‘She’s not long for this world, is she?’

  ‘No, not long.’

  Lucy visited the farm twice a week for the next three weeks but Alice only managed one more visit before Mrs Fothergill passed away. The funeral was a quiet affair. Lucy, Pansy and Alice went. Timothy wasn’t feeling well and was allowed to stay home alone. James gave his apologies saying he would wait in the car outside the chapel.

  ‘You must go in for the service!’ Lucy said. ‘People will think you are rude!’

  ‘I don’t care what they think,’ he said. ‘I’m not going.’

  When it was over, Lucy and Pansy chose to walk home, while Alice decided to catch the bus back to the hospital. Having an empty vehicle, James offered the farmer and his daughter a lift back to the farm. Mr Fothergill was grateful. He had found the service exhausting and was grateful to sit in the car and relax.

  ‘Can I get your advice sometime, sir?’ James said, as they drove up the hill.

  Mr Fothergill was surprised. ‘Anytime lad. You know where we live. You’re welcome to call in.’

  In the back seat, Grace sat bolt upright, her fingers gripping the seat in front. At first, James thought she was nervous, then he realized her expression was one of sheer excitement. She took no notice of the men’s conversation, and as the car sped up, she soaked up the new experiences – the wind on her face, the sound of the engine, the vibrations thrumming through her body and the movement of the car twisting around the country lanes. For the farmer’s daughter, the ride home was the most thrilling experience she had ever had.

  ‘Would you let me take you out again sometime?’ James said, opening the car door and offering her his hand. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mr Fothergill,’ he added.

  Grace looked at her father, her eyes wide and smiling. ‘Can I, Dad?’

  ‘About time you had a bit of fun, lass,’ he said. ‘And that goes for you too, young man! Go out and enjoy yourself, the pair of you.’

  Alice stopped playing, closed the piano lid and turned to James. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  James glanced up from his book. Through the window he could see it was still raining. He really must finish building the garage for the car.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

  James turned around. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Don’t worry it’s not yours.’

  He shook his head. ‘Whose then?’

  ‘Someone from work.’

  ‘Bertie Bottomley?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  James shook his head. ‘Have you told your mother?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want to tell her. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘But what about the hospital? They will know soon enough.’

  ‘I’ll have to leave,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘I’m stupid, aren’t I?’

  James looked at her. She was verging on tears. He knew if he put his arms around her she would cry. He wanted to say he was sorry, say he wished it had not happened. He wanted to ask her why on earth she had allowed herself to get into such a situation. Ask her about Bottomley. He wondered how long she had been going out with him and why she hadn’t mentioned him. Wondered what it was that made her love Bottomley and not love him. But James kept the questions to himself. Yes, you are stupid, he thought.

 
; ‘Is Bottomley going to marry you?’

  ‘Yes. We are getting married at the Register Office in three weeks.’

  ‘And where will you live?’

  ‘I don’t know, James,’ she sobbed. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Have you time to come in and rest your legs?’ Lucy enquired.

  The constable took off his helmet. ‘Don’t mind if I do, Mrs Oldfield. They won’t miss me at the station.’

  Lucy cleared a chair and invited the policeman to sit down. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I don’t like to worry you but I thought I better bring it to your attention. There’s been a bit of funny business going on over the other side of the valley.’

  Lucy listened as she offered him a cup of tea.

  ‘Man by the name of Wilkinson, Stanley Wilkinson, been bothering one of the spinster ladies. I haven’t seen him myself but from the description he sounds awfully like that Stan Crowther who was bothering your neighbour, Mrs Pugh.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong, Constable.’

  ‘I hope so too, because this man has a nasty streak. Poor woman had taken quite a beating and was found wandering the streets. She didn’t know who she was or where she was. When they brought her into the station, I called the doctor and he took her to the hospital himself. I didn’t get the man’s description till yesterday.’ The policeman sipped his tea. ‘I hope I’m wrong but I think Crowther’s back. I wanted to warn you and Mrs Pugh to watch out. Will you pass the message on when she comes home?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’

  Lucy wondered what Pansy would say when she told her. And wondered what would happen if Crowther started coming around again.

  That night, though the front door was locked and bolted, Lucy checked it several times before going to bed. Unable to sleep, she was vigilant to the sounds of darkness; mice skittering in the ceiling, tree branches scraping along the eaves and the gate creaking on its rusty hinges. But even by closing her eyes, she could not shut out the image of the man which haunted her. She knew if he returned to seek revenge, it might be more than a rock that would come through the window next time.