by Val Wood
‘The child is very still,’ the doctor continued. ‘I can’t find any sign of life. I may be wrong, we can’t always tell, but it is very still.’
So what will happen then? Rosa sat down on a mounting block in the yard and pondered. Will Delia stay here if she loses her child? Will she be able to live under her father’s uncharitable gaze? And if she does, can I?
‘What is it, Rosa? What’s up?’ Matthew came out of the fold yard leading two waggon horses.
‘Doctor says that Delia’s baby is very still.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’s bothered about it.’ She looked up at him. ‘What’s going to happen to her, Matthew? Will your da let her stay? Will she want to?’
He looked across the yard to where Harry was coming in through the open gate, and signalled to him to take the horses. ‘Hitch them to ’waggon, Harry,’ he said. ‘We’ll shift some muck into ’top field. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
He turned to Rosa. ‘I don’t know what will happen.’ He looked down at his feet and scuffed the dust, making long lines with the side of his boots and then crossing them to make squares. ‘How would I know? Da never tells us anything, Jim never tells me anything; so how would I know about Delia? She isn’t the young girl I knew as my sister.’ He looked up at her and she saw misery on his face. ‘I don’t know anything about anybody, not even you.’
She gave a half laugh. ‘Of course you know about me! You know that you do.’
‘No. No, I don’t.’ He took a step towards her. ‘I’m always here and yet you never see me. I’m just part of the landscape, a wall, a hedge, a chair, and if I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t even notice that I’d gone.’
She took in a short sharp breath. Surely he understood? ‘That isn’t true and you said that you didn’t know me,’ she said, ‘and yet you are talking about you.’
Mrs Jennings knocked from an upstairs window and called her urgently.
Matthew turned away. ‘It comes to ’same thing,’ he muttered.
‘Be quick!’ Mrs Jennings called again. ‘I need you, Rosa. She’s going off her head!’
Delia did seem to have a madness on her and she struggled against Mrs Jennings and Rosa as they tried to give her the tincture which the doctor had left for her. She spat it out at Rosa and clutched Mrs Jennings’s arm in an iron grip as she tried to administer more.
‘I don’t want this babby,’ she screamed. ‘I never wanted it. How will I live with a bairn to bring up? What’ll I do for money?’
‘Whether you want it or not, miss, makes no odds.’ Mrs Jennings forced the spoon into Delia’s clenched lips. ‘It’ll not go away.’
‘It’s your fault,’ Delia bellowed at Rosa. ‘If you hadn’t come here, I needn’t have gone to work in Hornsea and this wouldn’t have happened. I’d have stayed with my da and Jim and Matthew.’
‘That’s enough, that’s enough!’ Mrs Jennings pushed her onto the bed. ‘Tek no notice,’ she murmured to Rosa. ‘It’s pain that’s addled her brain. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
Delia’s eyes started to close and her fingers loosened their grip on Mrs Jennings. ‘By!’ she said, rubbing her bruised arm. ‘He’s given her a strong dose of summat, but she should settle for an hour or two. Come on.’ She rose from the side of the bed. ‘Morning’s getting on. We’ve dinner to see to or else he’ll have summat to say.’
Rosa looked down at Delia who, even though drugged, tossed her head and murmured incoherently.
‘Why does she hate me so, Gran? None of the others resented me, not Maggie or Flo or any of them.’
‘Jealous,’ her grandmother said, ‘though why she should be, I don’t know. You were never treated any different, were you?’
‘No.’ Rosa continued to stare down at Delia. ‘Why should she be jealous? There was no favouritism. I got ’strap more often than Delia ever did.’
She sighed and followed her grandmother out of the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘But whatever she says doesn’t matter to you, does it, Rosa?’ Her grandmother looked at her keenly.
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I hear her, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t know why.’
‘I do.’ The old lady gently patted Rosa’s arm. ‘I’ve onny just realized. You’ve grown a shell around you so nothing touches you. You don’t cry. I’ve never seen or heard you cry since you were a bairn.’
Rosa didn’t answer but poured potatoes from a bucket into the sink and started to scrub them. That’s so that nothing can hurt me, she thought. I won’t let it.
‘But then it’s just as well.’ Her grandmother was still talking. ‘Some folks are allus wailing and moaning about summat and it doesn’t do a bit of good. You’ve just got to get on wi’ life.’
They heard a thump from upstairs and Mrs Jennings sighed. ‘She’ll have to wait. I’ll put ’taties on to boil when you’ve finished ’em. ’Meat’s almost ready.’
A leg of pork was sizzling on a spit over the fire and Mrs Jennings stirred a pan of apples and added a scraping of nutmeg. ‘There, sauce is ready. He likes it cold, doesn’t he?’
Rosa nodded. How quickly her grandmother had picked up Mr Drew’s idiosyncrasies. Hot rabbit pie with carrots. Cold apple sauce with pork. She occasionally put in some of her own favourites and Mr Drew never commented, but she was careful to prepare other recipes in the same manner as Mrs Drew had always done them.
‘I’ll go up, Gran.’ Rosa put the potatoes into a heavy pan as her grandmother lowered the pork over the flame to crisp it. ‘And Mr Drew’ll have to be content with cabbage today.’
‘Aye, go on then. I think I can hear her moaning. Mebbe poor lass has started up wi’ pains again.’
Rosa ran upstairs to Delia’s room and quietly opened the door. Delia was lying half on, half off the bed and Rosa gasped. ‘Gran! Gran! Come quickly,’ she shouted. ‘Babby’s coming. It’s coming now!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MATTHEW HEARD DELIA’S cries and came running into the house. ‘Shall I fetch ’doctor?’ he called up the stairs.
‘Tell him no,’ Mrs Jennings said to Rosa. ‘It’s too late, but ask him to put pan o’ water back onto ’fire.’ She turned back to Delia, who had taken a deep breath and was about to shriek again. ‘Now that’s enough! Just concentrate on what I’m saying and it’ll all be over.’
‘You stupid old woman,’ Delia railed. ‘What do you know about it? And tell her to get out!’ She turned a flushed tormented face to Rosa, who was standing near the door.
‘Fetch a bowl o’ warm water, Rosa. Now push, girl!’ Mrs Jennings urged Delia. ‘Come on, it’s nearly here.’
Matthew was hovering by the kitchen fire and Rosa went to fetch a bowl and a clean towel from the linen cupboard. Jim came in. ‘No use asking if there’s a cup o’ tea going? I’ve never heard such a row! You can hear her right across ’farm.’
‘It must be terrible.’ Matthew was ashen-faced.
‘I don’t remember Ma making such a fuss,’ Jim commented. ‘I can remember ’twins being born and you and Delia, and not a murmur from Ma.’
‘Mebbe it’s worse with ’first one.’ Matthew lifted the pan from the fire shelf and poured the water into the bowl which Rosa brought in. ‘How would we know?’ His face tensed. ‘I’d like to horsewhip ’fellow who brought her to this. Pass me ’teapot,’ he said to Jim. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
His father strode into the room. His face was livid. ‘Tell Mrs Jennings to shut ’window upstairs,’ he commanded Rosa. ‘That girl is letting ’whole of Sunk Island know of her wicked sins and retribution.’
‘Best that they all know,’ Jim muttered. ‘Better than letting a sin be hidden. Better that than a canker consuming you day by day.’
Matthew glanced from his brother to his father, and then to Rosa. She turned away and went upstairs carrying the bowl of water. ‘What you talking about?’ Matthew asked, his voice raised. ‘She’s having a babby and isn
’t wed! She was tempted and fell. She’s not killed anybody, for God’s sake!’
Jim’s face drained of colour and his father stared at him, breathing heavily, his mouth working.
‘What’s going on?’ Matthew asked, but neither answered, and after a pause he pressed further. ‘Is there summat I should know?’
‘No.’ Jim’s voice was strained. ‘There isn’t. Are you going to make that tea or not?’
Matthew brought out the cake tin and placed it in the middle of the table, but no-one took any cake. They sat at the table and drank the tea in silence, Matthew staring in the direction of the stairs and Jim and his father towards the window. It was quiet now above them, until they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Mr Drew rose hurriedly from his chair and headed towards the door as Mrs Jennings came panting into the room. Her face was flushed and hot and her hairline beneath her cotton cap was wet. ‘Don’t you want to know about your daughter, Mr Drew?’ she asked, detaining him.
‘She’s no daughter of mine,’ he muttered, his hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ve said afore I want nothing to do with her or her child.’
‘Her son,’ Mrs Jennings butted in. ‘She’s had a son.’
Matthew and Jim both gave an audible sigh and their father stared at the old lady.
‘Will it live?’ His question was terse and without emotion.
‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Jennings sat down in his vacated chair. ‘He looks sickly, he’s not breathing properly. Will one of you fetch ’doctor back?’ She turned to Jim and Matthew.
‘I’ll go.’ Jim got up, and Matthew asked, ‘What about Delia? Is she all right?’
‘Aye. Exhausted, but she’ll recover. My,’ she exclaimed, ‘but she’s got an ill temper on her.’
Jim and his father left the room without speaking and Mrs Jennings reached for the teapot. ‘Is this fresh?’
Matthew said that it was. ‘Who made it?’ She lifted the lid and peered into the teapot.
‘I did.’
‘And was ’water in kettle boiling when you poured it onto ’leaves?’
Matthew nodded. ‘I used it from the pan after Rosa had finished with it.’
‘You never made tea from warm water!’ Mrs Jennings pulled herself up from the chair and swung the kettle back onto the fire. ‘Did nobody ever tell you that water has to be boiling!’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never made it before. I thought I’d done well,’ he grinned.
‘Useless,’ Mrs Jennings grumbled. ‘Men can plough and sow and bring harvest home, but they’re not much good at owt else; except mekking babbies,’ she added. ‘Aye,’ she gave a great sigh. ‘They can do that all right.’
Jim hadn’t got back from Patrington, but at midday Rosa dished up the meal for Mr Drew and Matthew and urged her grandmother to sit down and eat also. ‘Delia’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘Take a rest now.’ She didn’t mention the child in front of Mr Drew, for he had a dark sullen expression about him.
‘We usually have turnip with pork,’ James Drew muttered. ‘Not cabbage.’
‘Cabbage was quicker,’ Rosa said sharply. ‘Turnip takes too long and I didn’t want to keep you waiting. I knew how busy you were.’
‘We’ll have it tomorrow with cold pork and stuffing,’ Mrs Jennings attempted to pacify, ‘and a plum duff to follow.’
‘Why should we always have to humour him?’ Rosa said after Mr Drew and Matthew had finished their meal and gone out again. ‘Why should it matter so much whether he always has the same as before?’
‘It’s his house,’ her grandmother said patiently. ‘He makes the rules. It’s not our place to change them. Well, not mine anyway.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Your grandfer allus said I cooked just like his mother did. But I didn’t, onny when we were first wed, then little by little I did things the way I wanted and he never noticed ’change.’
She nibbled on a piece of apple-pie crust as she cleared away. ‘But yon fellow is too set in his ways to change. He’s got a rod of iron in his backbone and a stone for his heart.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘But he must have a weakness somewhere. He wouldn’t be human if he hadn’t.’
They were about to take a few minutes’ rest by the fire when they heard the sound of horses in the yard. ‘That’ll be Jim with the doctor.’ Rosa got up from her chair. ‘Will you go up with him, Gran, and I’ll give Jim his dinner? He won’t want to waste any more time, they’re repairing ’dairy roof and cow byre, and want to finish before dark.’
‘Aye.’ Mrs Jennings nodded and, as the doctor came in, she asked, ‘Will you tek a look at babby, Doctor? He’s small and not a good colour and his breathing isn’t regular.’
‘And the young mother?’ the doctor asked. ‘Has she recovered? Her brother refers to her labour as sounding like a wildcats’ concert!’
‘It’s true she didn’t suffer silently.’ Mrs Jennings glared disapprovingly at Jim, who had the grace to look abashed. ‘But population would soon die out if roles were reversed and men had to give birth! But she’s well enough now, or will be when she’s rested.’
She led the doctor upstairs and Rosa raised her eyebrows at Jim as she served him his meal. ‘Didn’t mean owt,’ he started to say, when they heard a muted cry from Delia’s room.
Rosa went to the bottom of the stairs and listened, then slowly climbed the steps and opened the bedroom door. Delia was standing by the window with her back to the room, whilst the doctor had his ear over the baby’s chest, listening intently. Then he straightened up and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’
Delia didn’t move, but Mrs Jennings, who was sitting on the side of the bed, put her hand to her mouth and stifled a sob. ‘But he was all right,’ she gasped. ‘He was wheezy as if his tubes were blocked, but—’
She stopped as Delia turned towards them. Her face was white and her eyes glittered. ‘It wasn’t meant to be, then, was it?’ she breathed. ‘He wasn’t meant to have a life. I’ll dig a little grave for him at ’bottom of ’garden.’
‘No, no,’ the doctor said soothingly. ‘That will be taken care of. Come back to bed, my dear. You really shouldn’t be on your feet yet.’
‘He’ll have to have a proper burial in ’churchyard,’ Mrs Jennings told her. ‘With a service and everything.’
‘No,’ Delia said. ‘Da won’t allow that. If we bury him here on ’farm, nobody will know.’ Her words were whispered as if she was confiding a secret. ‘Matthew will make him a little box.’ She glanced towards Rosa as she spoke and Rosa had the distinct impression that Delia was goading her, but then she immediately dismissed the notion. Why would Delia do that? She was upset, bound to be, having lost her baby, perhaps her mind was distracted.
‘Let me help you back into bed, Delia,’ she said, as Mrs Jennings took the still form of the child and wrapped a sheet around him.
‘I can manage on my own,’ Delia snapped. ‘I don’t need you to help me.’
Rosa exchanged a look with her grandmother, who indicated with a slight movement of her head that she should go. ‘See ’doctor out, Rosa, and then put ’kettle on ’fire.’ She sighed. ‘And is there any brandy? I reckon a drop in hot water wouldn’t do any of us any harm.’
As Rosa took the brandy bottle from the cupboard downstairs she suddenly thought of Henry, who had imbibed too much brandy and drowned in the ditch. She leant her head against the cupboard door and blinked away hot tears. A picture of her mother came into her mind and she wondered how she had felt when giving birth to her, not knowing where Rosa’s father had gone, or if she would ever see him again. Did her mind turn? Was that why she eventually went down to Spurn and didn’t come back? She thought of Delia and how her eyes had glittered with a kind of madness.
‘Rosa?’
She hadn’t heard the door open and when she turned, she saw Matthew standing there. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ He came towards her. ‘Who’s having brandy?’
She put out
her hand to him. ‘It’s for Delia, I think – or for Gran – I don’t know. Oh, Matthew!’ She stifled a sob. ‘It’s the baby. He was such a sweet little mite. And he’s gone! He’s dead.’
Matthew put his arms around her and held her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he mumbled into her hair. ‘I thought everything was all right.’
‘It was,’ she whispered, and thought how steady and strong he was. ‘Or seemed to be. But he stopped breathing.’ She drew away reluctantly and lowered her eyes as he gazed down at her. ‘Delia wants you to make a casket for him.’
‘Me?’ he said. ‘Jim’s the carpenter! He’ll do it better.’
She shook her head. ‘She said you. You’d better go up and see her, she was talking nonsense – about burying him in the garden, so that no-one would know about him.’
‘I’ll not have that.’ There was anger on his face and in his voice. ‘That’s because of Da! But he’s an innocent child, he’ll have a decent burial.’
James Drew made no comment when told of the child’s death, but simply left the room and sat alone in the parlour for an hour. Then he came out, went up the stairs and, after rapping sharply on Delia’s door, opened it. Standing in the doorway, he announced that the parson wouldn’t bury the child in the churchyard as he had been conceived in sin, hadn’t been baptized and had no father’s name.
‘Nay, Mr Drew,’ Mrs Jennings, who was in the room with Delia, objected. ‘That wouldn’t be Christian! He’s a good parson. He’d not deny an innocent bairn.’
Mr Drew didn’t answer but turned around and went down the stairs again.
Delia lay awake until the early hours, her eyes wide open. It was not yet dawn, the skies dark and grey. She ran her hands over her breasts, which were tender and swollen, and then down to her navel. Nobody else need know, she pondered, only those of us here at home. She forgot about Harry and the farm lad, she forgot about John Byrne: they had all known. She forgot too about her sisters, who had also known and who might have spread the news. Except that she hadn’t actually forgotten, she simply pushed them to the back of her mind as being irrelevant to the present situation.
